hour or more, adjourned to tavern, glass of whiskey, read at �Punch�,
and then we quit. Walked to Jersey Ferry with Mr Hart, and
parted with him at 10, he going for a day to Stanhope on the morrow.
Returning to Mr Abbots room. Young Hall there, and the rest playing
20. Monday. Writing to my mother and to Naomi during the
better part of the day. Waud ailing. Doctored him with egg pip at
night. Kept scribbling till past 1. all alone.
21. Tuesday. Drawing. Went down town with Waud. To the
Era Office, and the Post Office. Walk on the Battery, return by the
North River to dinner. Drawing head-gear in the afternoon and
night till 11. Charley and Waud present, the former re-reading
aloud snatches of Copperfield. A right pleasant evening, the very
nature of the book suggestive of intellectual converse. All and more than
the humor of Fielding and Smollett, illumitable variety of character, the purest
thought, the holiest love of home and good ever inculcated, quaint wit
and glorious powers of description, whether of man, thought of Nature; all
these and more Charles Dickens render thy name a pleasant House hold Word.
How linked with days past are the memories of his earlier works, school-day
with Master Humphrey, boy loving days with Nickelby and Martin Chuzzlewit.
A honored and happy man should Dickens be, a dear friend to thousand
who have never seen him, nor will. A wise man, a good man is he.
No hasty writer, no ponder to trick of time or whim, his is art in
the highest sense. The light God has given him he uses not as an
Ignis fatuus to lead others to a moral quagmire. What a divine
creature is the heroine of this, his last gift to the world, what a
very halo of purity surrounds her, what a blessed calm beauty in her
nature. You love, and wander and worship, so real is it. And