ey_.

I never exchanged a word with Dickens in my life; but at this period, by
some extraordinary chance, I met him twice. I knew his personal aspect
well, for I had heard him read his own works in Birmingham. I was,
indeed, a unit in the packed audience which greeted his very first
professional appearance as a platform exponent of his own pages. That
event took place at the old Broad Street Music Hall in Birmingham, a
building which was superseded by the Prince of Wales' Theatre. It was
not easy to mistake so characteristic a figure for that of any other man
living.

There used to be in Cheapside, at the time of which I write, a window
in which the Stereoscopic Company exhibited the latest achievements in
photography; and it was my custom, in the dinner hour, to spend some
odd minutes in front of this display. I was impressed one day by a new
life-sized portrait of Dickens, an enlargement by a process then quite
novel. The hair and beard, I remember, had a look of being made out of
telegraph wire; but the features were quite natural and unexaggerated.
I had taken a good look at the picture, and had, indeed, so firmly fixed
it in my mind that I can positively see it now, and could, if I were
artist enough, reproduce it; when, having an unoccupied quarter of an
hour still on my hands, I turned to stroll towards St Paul's Churchyard,
and there, at my elbow, stood the original of the picture. He was
looking at it with his head a little thrown back, and somewhat set on
one side, and his look was very keen and critical. I gave a start which
attracted his attention, and, in the extremity of my surprise, I
am afraid that I stared at him rather rudely. I looked back at the
photograph, and I looked back at the living face of the great master of
tears and laughter, who was then my reigning deity. I can only suppose
that my face was full of a foolish wonder and worship, for when I had
looked from Dickens to the portrait again, and then back to Dickens, the
great man laughed, and gave me a little comic affirmative nod, as much
as to say: "It is so, my young friend." With that he turned briskly, and
walked away along Cheapside, leaving me wonder-stricken at what was not,
perhaps, so very wonderful an adventure after all.

I rubbed shoulders with the great man again, within a month or two, on
a coach which travelled from Thame to Oxford. I climbed that coach
on purpose to enjoy the privilege of sitting next to him. He had a
travel