of an introduction, and he passed from group to group in a most kind and pleasant way. It was here that I received my own introduction, and I remember that after Mr. Dickens had passed around the room, he came again to me and exchanged some pleasant words about my name, slightly referring to the American hero of the Revolution who had borne it.
"The crowd waited till the sitting was over, and saw him back again to the Tremont; and this was repeated every morning while he was sitting for his picture.
"The engravings in his books which had then been issued either in England or America were very little like him. Alexander chose an attitude highly original, but very characteristic. Dickens is represented at his table writing. His left hand rests upon the paper. The pen in his right hand seems to have been stopped for a moment, while he looks up at you as if you had just addressed him. His long brown hair, slightly curling, sweeps his shoulder, the bright eyes glance, and that inexpressible look of kindly mirth plays around his mouth and shows itself in the arched brow. Alexander caught much of that singular lighting up of the face, which Dickens had, beyond any one I ever saw, and the picture is very like the original, and will convey to those who wish to know how ' Boz ' looked at thirty years of age, an excellent idea of the man.
"I saw the picture daily as it progressed, and, being in the artist's room on the Thursday following the first sitting, Mr. Alexander told me that he had ' just made a disposal of my services.' I did not know what he meant. He then told me that Mr. Dickens and his wife had been at his house that forenoon, and Mr. Dickens said —
" ' Mr. Alexander, I have been in the country but a few days, and my table is already heaped high with unanswered letters! I have a great number of engagements already. I did not expect a correspondence like this, and I must have a secretary. Can you find me one? ' And Mr. Alexander at once mentioned me. I felt very diffident in regard to it, for I did not feel qualified for such a position, with such a man, however great the pleasure I knew I should derive from it. But my friend would take no excuses, insisted that I was the man for the place, and while we were talking a note came from Mr. Dickens, requesting that he would bring me to the Tremont House. So I went with Mr. Alexander, and was received with great cordiality and kindness by Mr. Dickens and his wife, and made an appointment to commence my duties on the following morning.
"On Friday morning I was there at nine o'clock, the time appointed. Mr. and Mrs. Dickens had their meals in their own rooms and the table was spread for breakfast. Soon they came in and, after a cheerful greeting, I took my place at a side table and wrote as he ate breakfast, and meanwhile conversed with Mrs. Dickens, opened his letters and dictated the answers to me.
"In one corner of the room, Dexter the sculptor was earnestly at work modelling a bust of Mr. Dickens. Several others of the most eminent artists of our country had urgently requested Mr. Dickens to sit to them for his picture and bust, but, having consented to do so to Alexander and Dexter, he was obliged to refuse all others for want of time.
"While Mr. Dickens ate his breakfast, read his letters and dictated the answers, Dexter was watching with the utmost earnestness the play of every feature, and comparing his model with the original. Often during the meal he would come to Dickens with a solemn, businesslike air, stoop down and look at him sideways, pass around and take a look at the other side of his face and then go back to his model and work away for a few minutes; then come again and take another look and go back to his model; soon he would come again with his calipers and measure Dickens's nose, and go and try it on the nose of the model; then come again with the calipers and try the width of the temples, or the distance from the nose to the chin, and back again to his work, eagerly shaping and correcting his model. The whole soul of the artist was engaged in his task, and the result was a splendid bust of the great author. Mr. Dickens was highly pleased with it, and repeatedly alluded to it during his stay, as a very successful work of art."
One friend and admirer whom Dickens made during this first visit to the United States, and who later became his American publisher and friend, and whose friendship lasted till the day of Dickens's death, was Mr. James T. Fields, of the firm of Ticknor & Fields, proprietors of the "Old Corner Bookstore," now no longer standing. Mr. Fields, in Yesterdays with Authors, wrote —
"How well I recall the bleak winter evening in 1842 when I first saw the handsome glowing face of the young man who was even then famous over half of the globe. He came bounding into the Tremont House, fresh from the steamer that had brought him to our shores, and his cheery voice rang through the hall, as he gave a quick glance at the new scenes opening upon him in a strange land at a Transatlantic hotel. ' Here we are! ' he shouted, as the lights burst upon the merry party just entering the hotel, and several gentlemen came forward to meet him. Ah! How happy and buoyant he was then! Young, handsome, almost worshipped for his genius, belted round by such troops of friends as rarely ever man had, coming to a new country to make new conquests of fame and honour — surely it was a sight long to be remembered and never wholly to be forgotten! "
Fields wrote further .concerning Dickens's first night in Boston —
" About midnight on that eventful landing, ' Boz ' — everybody called him ' Boz ' in those days — having finished his supper, came down into the office of the hotel, and joining the young Earl of M(ulgrave), his fellow voyager, sallied out for his first look at Boston Streets. It was a stinging night and the moon was at its full. Every object stood out sharp and glittering, and ' Boz,' muffled up in a shaggy fur coat, ran over the shining frozen snow, wisely keeping the middle of the street, for the most part. We boys followed cautiously behind, but near enough not to lose any of the fun. Of course the two gentlemen soon lost their way on emerging into Washington from Tremont Street. Dickens kept up one continual shout of uproarious laughter as he went rapidly forward, reading the signs on the shops and observing the architecture of the new country into which he had dropped as if from the clouds. When the two arrived opposite the ' Old South Church ' Dickens screamed. To this day I cannot tell why. Was it because of its fancied resemblance to St. Paul's or the Abbey? I declare firmly, the mystery of that shout is still a mystery to me."
In the Boston Transcript of Monday, January 24, there appeared the following —
"We are requested to state that Charles Dickens will be at the Tremont Theatre this evening. The desire to see this popular young author will, no doubt, attract a large audience. We had an hour's conversation with him last evening, and found him one of the most frank, sociable, noble-hearted gentlemen we ever met with, perfectly free from any haughtiness or apparent self-importance. In fact, he is just such a person as we had supposed him to be, judging from his writings, which have acquired a popularity unprecedented in this country. His lady, too, is most beautiful and accomplished, and appears worthy to be the partner of her distinguished husband."
The New York Tribune, commenting on this notice, perhaps from a feeling of jealousy, due to the fact that Dickens had landed at Boston, rather than at the "Commercial Emporium," said in their issue of January 26 —
"Charles Dickens, our country's well-beloved visitor, will remain at Boston about a fortnight and then proceed southward. He will, of course, give us a call of two or three weeks here in the commercial emporium, if he is not beslavered and lionized into loathing us. We hope to get a look at him, but begin to despair of it, if he is to be disgusted with such licorice doses as the Boston Transcript is giving him."
A Boston correspondent of the New York Commercial wrote —
"I conversed with Dickens about half-an-hour. He was exceedingly affable — totally free from any haughtiness or self-importance — but full of life and sociability."
The Tribune, commenting on this opinion of the Boston correspondent, said —
"Such compliments to the author of Pickwick and Master Humphrey's Clock! We would give a trifle for a casual remark thereon from the Junior Mr. Weller.
