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.
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