th, 1869._

Writing to-morrow morning would be all but impracticable for me; would
be quite so for Dolby, who has to go to the agents and "settle up" in
the midst of his breakfast. So I write to-day, in reply to your note
received at Glasgow this morning.

The foot conducts itself splendidly. We had a most enormous cram at
Glasgow. Syme saw me again yesterday (before I left here for Glasgow),
and repeated "Gout!" with the greatest indignation and contempt, several
times. The aching is going off as the day goes on, if it be worth
mentioning again. The ride from Glasgow was charming this morning; the
sun shining brilliantly, and the country looking beautiful.

I told you what the Nortons were. Mabel Lowell is a charming little
thing, and very retiring in manner and expression.

We shall have a scene here to-night, no doubt. The night before last,
Ballantyne, unable to get in, had a seat behind the screen, and was
nearly frightened off it by the "Murder." Every vestige of colour had
left his face when I came off, and he sat staring over a glass of
champagne in the wildest way. I have utterly left off _my_ champagne,
and, I think, with good results. Nothing during the readings but a very
little weak iced brandy-and-water.

I hope you will find me greatly improved on Tuesday.

[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]

BIRMINGHAM, _Friday, March 5th, 1869._

This is to send you my best love, and to wish you many and many happy
returns of to-morrow, which I miraculously remember to be your
birthday.

I saw this morning a very pretty fan here. I was going to buy it as a
remembrance of the occasion, when I was checked by a dim misgiving that
you had a fan not long ago from Chorley. Tell me what you would like
better, and consider me your debtor in that article, whatever it may be.

I have had my usual left boot on this morning, and have had an hour's
walk. It was in a gale of wind and a simoom of dust, but I greatly
enjoyed it. Immense enthusiasm at Wolverhampton last night over
"Marigold." Scott made a most amazing ass of himself yesterday. He
reported that he had left behind somewhere three books--"Boots,"
"Murder," and "Gamp." We immediately telegraphed to the office. Answer,
no books there. As my impression was that he must have left them at St.
James's Hall, we then arranged to send him up to London at seven this
morning. Meanwhile (though not reproached), he wept copiously and
audibly. I had