he train for the amusement of his companions,
compounding bowls of punch in which he shared but sparingly--for he
was really convivial only in idea--and always considerate and kindly
towards his companions and dependents. And mingled pathetically with
all this are confessions of pain, weariness, illness, faintness,
sleeplessness, internal bleeding,--all bravely borne, and never for an
instant suffered to interfere with any business arrangement.

But if the strain of the readings was too heavy here at home, what was
it likely to be during a winter in America? Nevertheless he
determined, against all remonstrances, to go thither. It would almost
seem as if he felt that the day of his life was waning, and that it
was his duty to gather in a golden harvest for those he loved ere the
night came on. So he sailed for Boston once more on the 9th of
November, 1867. The Americans, it must be said, behaved nobly. All the
old grudges connected with "The American Notes," and "Martin
Chuzzlewit," sank into oblivion. The reception was everywhere
enthusiastic, the success of the readings immense. Again and again
people waited all night, amid the rigours of an almost arctic winter,
in order to secure an opportunity of purchasing tickets as soon as the
ticket office opened. There were enormous and intelligent audiences at
Boston, New York, Washington, Philadelphia--everywhere. The sum which
Dickens realized by the tour, amounted to the splendid total of nearly
L19,000. Nor, in this money triumph, did he fail to excite his usual
charm of personal fascination, though the public affection and
admiration were manifested in forms less objectionable and offensive
than of old. On his birthday, the 7th of February, 1868, he says, "I
couldn't help laughing at myself ...; it was observed so much as
though I were a little boy." Flowers, garlands were set about his
room; there were presents on his dinner-table, and in the evening the
hall where he read was decorated by kindly unknown hands. Of public
and private entertainment he might have had just as much as he chose.

But to this medal there was a terrible reverse. Travelling from New
York to Boston just before Christmas, he took a most disastrous cold,
which never left him so long as he remained in the country. He was
constantly faint. He ate scarcely anything. He slept very little.
Latterly he was so lame, as scarcely to be able to walk. Again and
again it seemed impossible that he should fulfil