aspirant with faint hopes of future excellence,—­with these conditions observed, the daring mind may scale the heights of sugar and contemplate the depths of lemon.  Otherwise not.

Dolby is at Washington, and will return in the night. ——­ is on guard.  He made a most brilliant appearance before the Philadelphia public, and looked hard at them.  The mastery of his eye diverted their attention from his boots:  charming in themselves, but (unfortunately) two left ones.

    I send my hearty and enduring love.  Your kindness to the British
    Wanderer is deeply inscribed in his heart.

    When I think of L——­’s story about Dr. Webster, I feel like the
    lady in Nickleby who “has had a sensation of alternate cold and
    biling water running down her back ever since.”

    Ever, my dear Fields, your affectionate friend,

    C.D.

His birthday, 7th of February, was spent in Washington, and on the 9th of the month he sent this little note from Baltimore:—­

    Baltimore, Sunday, February 9, 1868.

My Dear Fields:  I thank you heartily for your pleasant note (I can scarcely tell you how pleasant it was to receive the same) and for the beautiful flowers that you sent me on my birthday.  For which—­and much more—­my loving thanks to both.

In consequence of the Washington papers having referred to the august 7th of this month, my room was on that day a blooming garden.  Nor were flowers alone represented there.  The silversmith, the goldsmith, the landscape-painter, all sent in their contributions.  After the reading was done at night, the whole audience rose; and it was spontaneous, hearty, and affecting.

I was very much surprised by the President’s face and manner.  It is, in its way, one of the most remarkable faces I have ever seen.  Not imaginative, but very powerful in its firmness (or perhaps obstinacy), strength of will, and steadiness of purpose.  There is a reticence in it too, curiously at variance with that first unfortunate speech of his.  A man not to be turned or trifled with.  A man (I should say) who must be killed to be got out of the way.  His manners, perfectly composed.  We looked at one another pretty hard.  There was an air of chronic anxiety upon him.  But not a crease or a ruffle in his dress, and his papers were as composed as himself.  (Mr. Thornton was going in to deliver his credentials, immediately afterwards.)

    This day fortnight will find me, please God, in my “native Boston.” 
    I wish I were there to-day.

    Ever, my dear Fields, your affectionate friend,

    CHARLES DICKENS, Chairman Missionary Society.

When he returned to Boston in the latter part of the month, after his fatiguing campaign in New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, he seemed far from well, and one afternoon sent round from the Parker House to me this little note, explaining why he could not go out on our accustomed walk.