the hidden lights above and below, and the stiff little table with the
water-bottle, are familiar. But as we all sat looking at them, and at
the variously splendid toilets that rustled in, and fluttered, and
finally settled, it was not possible to escape the great thought that
in a few moments we should see at that queer, stiff table the creator
of Sam Weller, and Oliver Twist, and Micawber, and Dick Swiveller, and
the rest of the endless, marvellous company--the greatest story-teller
since Scott, one of the most famous names in literature since
Fielding. When he was here before Carlyle growled in _Past and
Present_ about "Schnauspiel, the distinguished novelist," and there
were some who laughed. But the laugh has passed by.--Look! There is a
man, who looks like somebody's "own man," who scuffles across the
stage and turns up a burner or two; and he is scarcely out of the way
when--there he comes, rapidly, in full evening dress, with a heavy
watch-chain, and a nosegay in his button-hole, the world's own man.

His reception was sober. The whole audience clapped its gloved hands.
Not a heel, not a cane, mingled with the sound, not a solitary voice.
It was a very muffled cordiality, an enthusiasm in kid gloves. The
Easy Chair, for one, longed to rise and shout. Heaven has given us
voices, brethren, with which to welcome and salute our friends, and if
ever a long, long cheer should have rung from the heart, it was when
the man who has done so much for all of us stood before us. But it was
useless. The steady clapping was prolonged, and Dickers stood calmly,
bowing easily once or twice, and waiting with the air of one ready to
begin business.

The instant there was silence he did begin: "Ladies and gentlemen, I
am to have the honor of reading to you this evening the trial-scene
from Pickwick, and a Christmas Carol in a prelude and three scenes.