great deal that you and I should sit beside each other to see him play
Virginius, Lear, or Werner, which I take to be, every way, the greatest
piece of exquisite perfection that his lofty art is capable of
attaining. His Macbeth, especially the last act, is a tremendous
reality; but so indeed is almost everything he does. You recollect,
perhaps, that he was the guardian of our children while we were away. I
love him dearly. . . .

You asked me, long ago, about Maclise. He is such a wayward fellow in
his subjects, that it would be next to impossible to write such an
article as you were thinking of about him. I wish you could form an idea
of his genius. One of these days a book will come out, "Moore's Irish
Melodies," entirely illustrated by him, on every page. _When_ it comes,
I'll send it to you. You will have some notion of him then. He is in
great favour with the Queen, and paints secret pictures for her to put
upon her husband's table on the morning of his birthday, and the like.
But if he has a care, he will leave his mark on more enduring things
than palace walls.

And so L---- is married. I remember _her_ well, and could draw her
portrait, in words, to the life. A very beautiful and gentle creature,
and a proper love for a poet. My cordial remembrances and
congratulations. Do they live in the house where we breakfasted? . . .

I very often dream I am in America again; but, strange to say, I never
dream of you. I am always endeavouring to get home in disguise, and have
a dreary sense of the distance. _A propos_ of dreams, is it not a
strange thing if writers of fiction never dream of their own creations;
recollecting, I suppose, even in their dreams, that they have no real
existence? _I_ never dreamed of any of my own characters, and I feel it
so impossible that I would wager Scott never did of his, real as they
are. I had a good piece of absurdity in my head a night or two ago. I
dreamed that somebody was dead. I don't know who, but it's not to the
purpose. It was a private gentleman, and a particular friend; and I was
greatly overcome when the news was broken to me (very delicately) by a
gentleman in a cocked hat, top boots, and a sheet. Nothing else. "Good
God!" I said, "is he dead?" "He is as dead, sir," rejoined the
gentleman, "as a door-nail. But we must all die, Mr. Dickens, sooner or
later, my dear sir." "Ah!" I said. "Yes, to be sure. Very true. But what
did he die of?" The gentleman burst into a flood