(first printed in the biography)--"Very many works having just the
same scope and range have been already published. But I think that
these two volumes stand in need of no apology on that account. The
interest of such productions, if they have any, lies in the varying
impressions made by the same novel things on different minds, and not
in new discoveries or extraordinary adventures."

At Florence Dickens made a pilgrimage to Landor's villa, the owner
being then absent in England, and gathered a leaf of ivy from Fiesole
to carry back to the veteran poet, as narrated by Mr. Forster. Dickens
is as accurate as a topographer in his description of the villa, as
looked down on from Fiesole. How often--ah, _how_ often!--have I
looked down from that same dwarf wall over the matchless view where
Florence shows the wealth of villas that Ariosto declares made it
equivalent to two Romes!

Dickens was only thirty-three when I first saw him, being just two
years my junior. I have said what he appeared to me then. As I knew
him afterwards, and to the end of his days, he was a strikingly manly
man, not only in appearance but in bearing. The lustrous brilliancy of
his eyes was very striking. And I do not think that I have ever seen
it noticed, that those wonderful eyes which saw so much and so keenly,
were appreciably, though to a very slight degree, near-sighted eyes.
Very few persons, even among those who knew him well, were aware of
this, for Dickens never used a glass. But he continually exercised his
vision by looking at distant objects, and making them out as well as
he could without any artificial assistance. It was an instance of that
force of will in him, which compelled a naturally somewhat delicate
frame to comport itself like that of an athlete. Mr. Forster somewhere
says of him, "Dickens's habits were robust, but his health was not."
This is entirely true as far as my observation extends.

Of the general charm of his manner I despair of giving any idea to
those who have not seen or known him. This was a charm by no means
dependent on his genius. He might have been the great writer he was
and yet not have warmed the social atmosphere wherever he appeared
with that summer glow which seemed to attend him. His laugh was
brimful of enjoyment. There was a peculiar humorous protest in it when
recounting or hearing anything specially absurd, as who should say
"'Pon my soul this is _too_ ridiculous! This passes all bounds!" and