ultitude of such places, we had hardly noticed
before, and which bore the legend, "The Sir John Falstaff," a
distinction earned by being the identical place where Shakespeare
located some of the pranks of his ridiculous hero. The inn-keeper was
well posted on the literary traditions of the locality. "Yes," said he,
"this is Gad's Hill Place, where Dickens lived and where he died just
thirty-six years ago today, on June 9th, 1870; but the house is shown
only on Wednesdays of each week and the proprietor doesn't fancy being
troubled on other days. But perhaps, since you are Americans and have
come a long way, he may admit you on this special anniversary. Anyway,
it will do no harm for you to try."

[Illustration: DICKENS' HOME, GAD'S HILL, NEAR ROCHESTER.]

Personally, I could not blame the proprietor for his disinclination to
admit visitors on other than the regular days, and it was impressed on
me more than once during our trip that living in the home of some famous
man carries quite a penalty, especially if the present owner happens to
be a considerate gentleman who dislikes to deprive visitors of a glimpse
of the place. Such owners are often wealthy and the small fees which
they fix for admittance are only required as evidence of good faith and
usually devoted to charity. With a full appreciation of the
situation, it was not always easy to ask for the suspension of a
plainly stated rule, yet we did this in many instances before our tour
was over and almost invariably with success. In the present case we were
fortunate, for the gentleman who owned Gad's Hill was away and the neat
maid who responded to the bell at the gateway seemed glad to show us the
place, regardless of rules. It is a comfortable, old-fashioned house,
built about 1775, and was much admired by Dickens as a boy when he lived
with his parents in Rochester. His father used to bring him to look at
the house and told him that if he grew up a clever man, he might
possibly own it some time.

We were first shown into the library, which is much the same as the
great writer left it at his death, and the chair and desk which he used
still stand in their accustomed places. The most curious feature of the
library is the rows of dummy books that occupy some of the shelves, and
even the doors are lined with these sham leather backs glued to boards,
a whim of Dickens carefully respected by the present owner. We were also
accorded a view of the large dining room whe