[While Mr. DICKENS was on his first visit to this country, the writer had not the pleasure of his acquaintance.  He put up in Philadelphia, at a well-known and fashionable boarding-house then kept by an aunt of mine, at the corner of Second and Thirteenth streets.  He never said anything while there, until he came to pay his board bill, when bidding my aunt farewell, he observed:  "Mrs. SAGOE, for terseness and brevity, your steaks surpass any I have ever met with." Aunt Sarah had these words neatly framed, and they have hung in her back parlor to this day.

Before he came again, the country had made wonderful progress.  A new generation had been born, including myself.]

When the steamer was signalled, I went down on the wharf.  DICKENS was standing near the rail, and wore a coat, vest, pants, and a hat.  I couldn’t make out through the glass how much they cost, and I forgot to ask him afterward.  Shortly after she had hauled into the dock, I went on board.  We shook hands.  Mr. DICKENS had a peculiar way of reserving his right hand for this process, though on great occasions he would use both.  We employed all four, with the understanding that a more formal demonstration should be made at PARKER’S.  I offered to carry his valise.  Graciously declining my services, he betokened his appreciation of my delicate attention by presenting me on the spot with a complete set of his works—­Author’s Edition.

“My dear fellow,” he whispered, “there’s a Boston man down below, blacking my other pair of boots, who’d feel hurt if I should let anybody else take that bag.”

I called upon him as soon as he was fairly settled, and found him in his shirt-sleeves, writing vigorously.  Mr. DICKENS’S intimate friends are aware that he indulged in the habit, while writing, of occasionally dipping his pen in the inkstand.  I don’t remember much about the room except that there were several chairs (good chairs) and a table in it.  The distinguished occupant was sitting about nine and a half feet from the door facing the Southwest, his hair well brushed, head a little inclined to the right, except his eyes, which, were inclined to twinkle as though he had just hit upon something particularly bright and happy.  The carpet was green with a red figure.  You could see in a moment that he was a man of genius.  The room was lighted with gas.  Was it possible that the immortal author of “DICKENS’S Works” was before me? [Upon the table was a cigar, half consumed, an inkstand, three pen-holders, a bundle of envelopes, a brass key, several bouquets, a paper-cutter, a stick of sealing-wax, a quantity of writing-paper, a table-cloth (spread), a newspaper (the date has escaped me), and such other things as are usually on such tables.]

DICKENS, as soon as he saw me, stopped writing, wiped his pen, ran his fingers through his hair, took out his watch and wound it up, brushed his coat and put it on (not forgetting to place a rose in the button-hole), and then, waving his hands very gracefully (he wore high-priced studs and a pair of elaborately built sleeve-buttons), addressed me as follows:—­