ass the other dog, free."

What is expressed in these letters, of a still active, hopeful,
enjoying, energetic spirit, able to assert itself against illness of the
body and in some sort to overmaster it, was also so strongly impressed
upon those who were with him, that, seeing his sufferings as they did,
they yet found it difficult to understand the extent of them. The
sadness thus ever underlying his triumph makes it all very tragical.
"That afternoon of my birthday," he wrote from Baltimore on the 11th,
"my catarrh was in such a state that Charles Sumner, coming in at five
o'clock, and finding me covered with mustard poultice, and apparently
voiceless, turned to Dolby and said: 'Surely, Mr. Dolby, it is
impossible that he can read to-night!' Says Dolby: 'Sir, I have told Mr.
Dickens so, four times to-day, and I have been very anxious. But you
have no idea how he will change, when he gets to the little table.'
After five minutes of the little table I was not (for the time) even
hoarse. The frequent experience of this return of force when it is
wanted, saves me a vast amount of anxiety; but I am not at times without
the nervous dread that I may some day sink altogether." To the same
effect in another letter he adds: "Dolby and Osgood" (the latter
represented the publishing firm of Mr. Fields and was one of the
travelling staff), "who do the most ridiculous things to keep me in
spirits[277] (I am often very heavy, and rarely sleep much), are
determined to have a walking match at Boston on the last day of February
to celebrate the arrival of the day when I can say '_next_ month!' for
home." The match ended in the Englishman's defeat; which Dickens doubly
commemorated, by a narrative of the American victory in
sporting-newspaper style, and by a dinner in Boston to a party of dear
friends there.

After Baltimore he was reading again at Philadelphia, from which he
wrote to his sister-in-law on the 13th as to a characteristic trait
observed in both places. "Nothing will induce the people to believe in
the farewells. At Baltimore on Tuesday night (a very brilliant night
indeed), they asked as they came out: 'When will Mr. Dickens read here
again?' 'Never.' 'Nonsense! Not come back, after such houses as these?
Come. Say when he'll read again.' Just the same here. We could as soon
persuade them that I am the President, as that to-morrow night I am
going to read here for the last time. . . . There is a child in this
house--a li