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rests a pencil drawing of the same subject by Val Prinsep, R.A. The etchings are numerous—that of "Old Marlow Ferry," after Fred Walker, is a gem, and serves to remind its owners of the summer months which are invariably spent up the river. The drawing-room, whilst finding a place for many treasured works of art, is particularly noticeable for its many fine éditions de luxе of popular writers. In a fine old Chippendale cabinet one may turn over the pages of Thackeray, George Eliot, Fielding, and, of course, Dickens. There are some exquisite screens in this apartment, and the china and porcelain knickknacks are scattered about in delightfully negligent profusion.
The dining-room looks out on to the lawn. It is a room which savours of hospitality and excellent company. Huge boxes of ivy fill the windows, and the birds come and provide the music at lunch whilst they trip to their own tunes on the twigs and branches. A large portrait of Mr. Yates's father is over the mantel-board, and the walls are hung with engravings after Briton Riviere, Birket Birket Foster, MacWhirter, A. Ludovici, jun., Poynter, Rosa Bonheur, Edwin Long, S. E. Waller, Heffner, and others.
Up to now our walk through the house has been rather suggestive of the host, but the opening of a door leading from the dining-room immediately gives the first clue to the past work-a-day associations of the brilliant writer. It is a small, square apartment, and a carved ebony tablet is set against the wall on which is written: "The Gad's Hill Hogarths, from the collection of C. D., 1879." These Hogarths—which many connoisseurs consider the finest specimens existing—used to hang on the staircase at Gad's Hill, and after Dickens's death they found a place in the billiard room. Eventually Mr. Yates bought them.
The Hogarth room.
From a Picture by Elliott & Fry.
"One moment," says Mr. Yates. He returned quickly with a handsomely-bound volume, and quietly opening the book the fly-leaf revealed the following inscription:—
A Selection from the Letters of Charles Dickens to Edmund Yates. 1854-1870.
A void where heart on heart reposed;
And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
Silence, till I be silent too.
An awful thought, a life removed,
The human-hearted man I loved,
A spirit, not a breathing voice.
—In Memoriam.
We went through the book together. How characteristic was every single letter! His first letter to Mr. Yates began, "My dear sir," and then came the gradual growth of friendship's greeting with "My dear Mr. Yates," "My dear Yates," "My dear Edmund," and the last note but one commencing, "Dear E. Y."
"Dickens was godfather to one of my boys, who was a twin," said Mr. Yates. "Isn't this note thoroughly characteristic of him? It came in response to mine asking him to be godfather."
The note ran:—
"Paris, 49, Avenue des Champs Elysées,
"Wednesday, Second January, 1856.
"My Dear Yates,—Supposing both Corsican Brothers to be available, I think I should prefer being godfather to the one who isn't Kean. With this solitary stipula-