failure of strength, notwithstanding fatigue, his native gaiety and good spirits smile like a gleam of winter sunlight over the narrative.  As he had been the brightest and most genial of companions in the old holiday days when strolling about the country with his actor-troupe, so now he was occasionally as frolic as a boy, dancing a hornpipe in the 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 his night’s engagement.  He was constantly so exhausted at the conclusion of the reading, that he had to lie down for twenty minutes or half an hour, “before