Mr. DICKENS (with tender embrace) SARSFIELD!!!!

Mr. YOUNG (representing American Literature) CHARLES!!!!

The remainder of our conversation was devoted to minor topics.

Early one morning we started from the Parker House, and walking rapidly over West Boston bridge, passed through Cambridge, by the Colleges, and kept on travelling, without speaking a word, the best part of a couple of days, I should judge, though I didn’t have my watch with me.  Suddenly he asked the name of the town we were rapidly approaching.

“Great Harrington,” said I.

“Is it possible?” said he.  And we turned and walked home again.

His first reading in America was a private one to me.  We had come in from a thirty-mile walk, and I was somewhat tired.  Taking up the second volume of his History of England, he began in an easy, careless way.  So did I. I went to sleep.  Just as he was finishing the book I woke up; and when he asked me how I liked it, I told him frankly that, in my opinion, it never would do in the world—­the plot was too eccentric.

He was a kind man.  Frequently he would ride for days together up and down a railroad, for no other purpose than to help take cinders out of people’s eyes.

He was fond of oysters, of children, dogs, and an international copyright.  I remember his meeting me once on Broadway and he didn’t recognize me.  He never mentioned the incident afterward.  It has been said that he was also fond of dress.  I regret that I never asked him about this, though I recall the circumstance of my inquiring where he had his vests made.  Said he; “My waistcoats were made abroad.”

He never liked to sit for his photograph; consequently, he generally stood up.

It pleased him to receive letters requesting his autograph and a lock of his hair.  The articles were invariably sent by return mail.  He was also gratified at the privilege of shaking hands with people whom he was never to see again.  I once humored him by introducing in a body two fire companies and a Sunday school.

As we parted he gave me excellent advice:  “Write with vigor,” said he, “with sincerity, and blue ink; but don’t write novels.  It might injure the sale of my books.”  I promised him I would not, and we saw each other no more.

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

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