the then St. Martin's Hall, now the Queen's
Theatre, in Long Acre. The occasion was one, in many respects, of
peculiar interest. As recently as on the 8th of that month, Douglas
Jerrold had breathed his last, quite unexpectedly. Dying in the fulness
of his powers, and at little more than fifty years of age, he had passed
away, it was felt, prematurely. As a tribute of affection to his memory,
and of sympathy towards his widow and orphan children, those among his
brother authors who had been more intimately associated with him in his
literary career, organised, in the interests of his bereaved family, a
series of entertainments. And in the ordering of the programme it was so
arranged that this earliest metropolitan reading of one of his smaller
works by Charles Dickens should be the second of these entertainments.
Densely crowded in every part, St. Martin's Hall upon this occasion was
the scene of as remarkable a reception and of as brilliant a success as
was in any way possible. It was a wonderful success financially. As an
elocutionary--or, rather, as a dramatic--display, it was looked forward
to with the liveliest curiosity. The author's welcome when he
appeared upon the platform was of itself a striking attestation of his
popularity.

Upwards of fourteen years have elapsed since the occasion referred to,
yet we have still as vividly in our remembrance, as though it were but
an incident of yesterday, the enthusiasm of the reception then accorded
to the great novelist by an audience composed, for the most part,
of representative Londoners. The applause with which he was greeted,
immediately upon his entrance, was so earnestly prolonged and sustained,
that it threatened to postpone the Reading indefinitely. Silence having
at last been restored, however, the Reader's voice became audible in the
utterance of these few and simple words, by way of preliminary:--

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to read
"to you 'A Christmas Carol,' in four staves. Stave
"one, 'Marley's Ghost.'"

The effect, by the way, becoming upon the instant rather incongruous,
as the writer of this very well remembers, when, through a sudden and
jarring recollection of what the occasion was that had brought us all
together, the Reader began, with a serio-comic inflection, "Marley was
dead: to begin with. There's no doubt whatever about that. The register
of his burial was signed." And so on through those familiar introductory