d me; and because one bright day in
Rome, I walked about with him for some hours when he was dying fast, and
all the old faults had faded out of him, and the now ghost of the
handsome man I had first known when Scott's daughter was at the head of
his house, had little more to do with this world than she in her grave,
or Scott in his, or small Hugh Littlejohn in his. Lockhart had been
anxious to see me all the previous day (when I was away on the
Campagna), and as we walked about I knew very well that _he_ knew very
well why. He talked of getting better, but I never saw him again. This
makes me stay Mrs. Linton's hand, gentle as it is.

Mrs. Lirriper is indeed a most brilliant old lady. God bless her.

I am glad to hear of your being "haunted," and hope to increase your
stock of such ghosts pretty liberally.

Ever faithfully.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Alluding to a translation of a play by M. Maquet, which M. Fechter
was then preparing for his theatre.

[9] Now Mrs. Dallas Glyn.

[10] Formerly Miss Talfourd.

[11] His travelling journal.

[12] Answer to letter from Jewish lady, remonstrating with him on
injustice to the Jews, shown in the character of Fagin, and asking for
subscription for the benefit of the Jewish poor.

1864.

NARRATIVE.

Charles Dickens was, as usual, at Gad's Hill, with a family and friendly
party, at the opening of this year, and had been much shocked and
distressed by the news of the sudden death of Mr. Thackeray, brought to
him by friends arriving from London on the Christmas Eve of 1863, the
day on which the sad event happened. He writes of it, in the first
letter of the year, to Mr. Wilkie Collins, who was passing the winter in
Italy. He tells him, also, of his having got well to work upon a new
serial story, the first number of which ("Our Mutual Friend") was
published on the 1st of May.

The year began very sadly for Charles Dickens. On the 7th of February
(his own birthday) he received the mournful announcement of the death of
his second son, Walter Landor (a lieutenant in the 42nd Royal
Highlanders), who had died quite suddenly at Calcutta, on the last night
of the year of 1863, at the age of twenty-three. His third son, Francis
Jeffrey, had started for India at the end of January.

His annual letter to M. de Cerjat contains an allusion to "another
generation beginning to peep above the table"--the children of his son
Ch