that the kindest feelings towards him existed everywhere put him in great spirits, and he seemed happy to be among us.  On Sunday he visited the School Ship and said a few words of encouragement and counsel to the boys.  He began his long walks at once, and girded himself up for the hard winter’s work before him.  Steadily refusing all invitations to go out during the weeks he was reading, he only went into one other house besides the Parker, habitually, during his stay in Boston.  Every one who was present remembers the delighted crowds that assembled nightly in the Tremont Temple, and no one who heard Dickens, during that eventful month of December, will forget the sensation produced by the great author, actor, and reader.  Hazlitt says of Kean’s Othello, “The tone of voice in which he delivered the beautiful apostrophe ‘Then, O, farewell,’ struck on the heart like the swelling notes of some divine music, like the sound of years of departed happiness.”  There were thrills of pathos in Dickens’s readings (of David Copperfield, for instance) which Kean himself never surpassed in dramatic effect.

He went from Boston to New York, carrying with him a severe catarrh contracted in our climate.  In reality much of the time during his reading in Boston he was quite ill from the effects of the disease, but he fought courageously against its effects, and always came up, on the night of the reading, all right.  Several times I feared he would be obliged to postpone the readings, and I am sure almost any one else would have felt compelled to do so; but he declared no man had a right to break an engagement with the public, if he were able to be out of bed.  His spirit was wonderful, and, although he lost all appetite and could partake of very little food, he was always cheerful and ready for his work when the evening came round.  Every morning his table was covered with invitations to dinners and all sorts of entertainments, but he said, “I came for hard work, and I must try to fulfil the expectations of the American public.”  He did accept a dinner which was tendered to him by some of his literary friends in Boston; but the day before it was to come off he was so ill he felt obliged to ask that the banquet might be given up.  The strain upon his strength and nerves was very great during all the months he remained in the country, and only a man of iron will could have accomplished all he did.  And here let me say, that although he was accustomed to talk and write a great deal about eating and drinking, I have rarely seen a man eat and drink less.  He liked to dilate in imagination over the brewing of a bowl of punch, but I always noticed that when the punch was ready, he drank less of it than any one who might be present.  It was the sentiment of the thing and not the thing itself that engaged his attention.  He liked to have a little supper every night after a reading, and have three or four friends round the table with him, but he only pecked at the viands as a bird might do, and