I believe I had proceeded as far as Wolverton, when the guard (who, by the way, was a friend of mine) threw open the door, with the air of a Master of the Ceremonies, and said to me: “This is Mr Charles Dickens, who is enquiring for Miss Boyle!” A hand was held out to help me from the carriage, a hand that for twenty successive years was ever held out to help me in joy or sorrow, that was ever ready to grasp mine in tender friendship or cordial companionship, and whose pressure still thrills my memory. I got into the carriage whence he had descended, where I found his wife and her sister, Georgina Hogarth—alas! the only one of the three who will read this record of our first meeting, and of those delightful days which I passed at Rockingham, in London, and at Gad’s Hill, in the company of one whose loss we still devoutly mourn—having the chief part of the whole civilised world to share our grief. It was difficult for two such lovers of the Drama as Charles Dickens and myself to meet under the same roof, without some dramatic plotting; and so, during that visit, we trod for the first time the same boards together in a hastily-concocted scene from “Nicholas Nickleby”—that in which the mad neighbour, from the top of the garden wall, makes a passionate declaration to Mrs Nickleby. My shabby-genteel costume, with the widow’s cap of the period, attracted universal admiration from its appropriate fitness, while the amorous outbursts of my adorer were given in a manner worthy of the actor-author. How well I remember going into a cheap shop in Oxford Street to buy that identical widow’s cap, of the close, stiff form then in vogue, and purposely selecting one of the commonest, I enquired the price. “Tenpence,” said the man, with a tinge of indignation in his tone, which conveyed an undoubted reproach. “I think, ma’am,” he said, “that if you are going to make a present of the cap, we have some at eighteenpence that will be more suitable.” I so entirely sympathised with his view of the case, or should have done so in ordinary circumstances, that I condescended to explain my professional reasons for selecting so common an article. This short and impromptu entertainment was only the prelude to theatrical performances on a larger and grander scale. I may truly say, and I think be forgiven for so saying that the 20th of September, 1850, was a very proud day in my small annals. The morning’s post brought me the subjoined letter from the great novelist of the day:— “Sir E. Bulwer Lytton presents his compliments to Miss Boyle, and hears with great delight from Mr Dickens, that she is kind enough to take a part in the Theatricals at Knebworth, which it is at present proposed should take place October 30th. “Sir Edward therefore requests to know on what previous day he may calculate on the honour of receiving Miss Boyle’s obliging visit. “KNEBWORTH, STEVENAGE, “HERTS, _16th September 1850_.”