autiful back road, and I remember one day when we were driving
that way he showed me the exact spot where "Mr. Pickwick" called out:
"Whoa, I have dropped my whip!" After his marriage he took his wife for
the honeymoon to a village called Chalk, between Gravesend and Rochester.

Many years after, when he was living with his family in a villa near
Lausanne, he wrote to a friend: "The green woods and green shades about
here are more like Cobham, in Kent, than anything we dream of at the foot
of the Alpine passes." And again, in still later years, one of his
favorite walks from "Gad's Hill" was to a village called Shorne, where
there was a quaint old church and graveyard. He often said that he would
like to be buried there, the peace and quiet of the homely little place
having a tender fascination for him. So we see that his heart was always
in Kent.

But let this single reference to his earlier years suffice, so that I may
write of him during those years when I remember him among us and around
us in our home.

From his earliest childhood, throughout his earliest married life to the
day of his death, his nature was home-loving. He was a "home man" in
every respect. When he became celebrated at a very early age, as we
know, all his joys and sorrows were taken home; and he found there
sympathy and the companionship of his "own familiar friends." In his
letters to these latter, in his letters to my mother, to my aunt, and,
later on, to us his children, he never forgot anything that he knew would
be of interest about his work, his successes, his hopes or fears. And
there was a sweet simplicity in his belief that such news would most
certainly be acceptable to all, that is wonderfully touching and
child-like coming from a man of genius.

His care and thoughtfulness about home matters, nothing being deemed too
small or trivial to claim his attention and consideration, were really
marvellous when we remember his active, eager, restless, working brain.
No man was so inclined naturally to derive his happiness from home
affairs. He was full of the kind of interest in a house which is
commonly confined to women, and his care of and for us as wee children
did most certainly "pass the love of women!" His was a tender and most
affectionate nature.

For many consecutive summers we used to be taken to Broadstairs. This
little place became a great favorite with my father. He was always very
happy there, and delighted in wan