in a voice broken by emotion:  “He christened his youngest child, sir, with a toasting-fork.”  I never in my life was so affected as at his having fallen a victim to this complaint.  It carried a conviction to my mind that he never could have recovered.  I knew that it was the most interesting and fatal malady in the world; and I wrung the gentleman’s hand in a convulsion of respectful admiration, for I felt that this explanation did equal honor to his head and heart!

What do you think of Mrs. Gamp?  And how do you like the undertaker?  I have a fancy that they are in your way.  O heaven! such green woods as I was rambling among down in Yorkshire, when I was getting that done last July!  For days and weeks we never saw the sky but through green boughs; and all day long I cantered over such soft moss and turf, that the horse’s feet scarcely made a sound upon it.  We have some friends in that part of the country (close to Castle Howard, where Lord Morpeth’s father dwells in state, in his park indeed), who are the jolliest of the jolly, keeping a big old country house, with an ale cellar something larger than a reasonable church, and everything like Goldsmith’s bear dances, “in a concatenation accordingly.”  Just the place for you, Felton!  We performed some madnesses there in the way of forfeits, picnics, rustic games, inspections of ancient monasteries at midnight, when the moon was shining, that would have gone to your heart, and, as Mr. Weller says, “come out on the other side.” ...

    Write soon, my dear Felton; and if I write to you less often than I
    would, believe that my affectionate heart is with you always.  Loves
    and regards to all friends, from yours ever and ever,

    CHARLES DICKENS.

These letters grow better and better as we get on.  Ah me! and to think we shall have no more from that delightful pen!

    Devonshire Terrace, London, January 2, 1844.

My Very Dear Felton:  You are a prophet, and had best retire from business straightway.  Yesterday morning, New Year’s day, when I walked into my little workroom after breakfast, and was looking out of window at the snow in the garden,—­not seeing it particularly well in consequence of some staggering suggestions of last night, whereby I was beset,—­the postman came to the door with a knock, for which I denounced him from my heart.  Seeing your hand upon the cover of a letter which he brought, I immediately blessed him, presented him with a glass of whiskey, inquired after his family (they are all well), and opened the despatch with a moist and oystery twinkle in my eye.  And on the very day from which the new year dates, I read your New Year congratulations as punctually as if you lived in the next house.  Why don’t you?

Now, if instantly on the receipt of this you will send a free and independent citizen down to the Cunard wharf at Boston, you will find