“Herne Bay. Hum! I suppose it’s no worse than any other place in
this weather, but it _is_ watery, rather, isn’t it? In my mind’s
eye, I have the sea in a perpetual state of small-pox, and the chalk
running down hill like town milk. But I know the comfort of getting
to work ‘in a fresh place,’ and proposing pious projects to one’s
self, and having the more substantial advantage of going to bed
early, and getting up ditto, and walking about alone. If there were
a fine day, I should like to deprive you of the last-named happiness,
and to take a good long stroll.”
* * * * *
In the summer of 1844, “Come,” wrote Mr. Dickens temptingly, “come and
see me in Italy. Let us smoke a pipe among the vines. I have taken a
little house surrounded by them, and no man in the world should be more
welcome to it than you.”
* * * * *