dear Felton, because I promised it, nor because I have a natural tendency to correspond (which is far from being the case), nor because I am truly grateful to you for, and have been made truly proud by, that affectionate and elegant tribute which ——­ sent me, but because you are a man after my own heart, and I love you well.  And for the love I bear you, and the pleasure with which I shall always think of you, and the glow I shall feel when I see your handwriting in my own home, I hereby enter into a solemn league, and covenant to write as many letters to you as you write to me, at least.  Amen.

Come to England!  Come to England!  Our oysters are small I know; they are said by Americans to be coppery, but our hearts are of the largest size.  We are thought to excel in shrimps, to be far from despicable in point of lobsters, and in periwinkles are considered to challenge the universe.  Our oysters, small though they be, are not devoid of the refreshing influence which that species of fish is supposed to exercise in these latitudes.  Try them and compare.

    Affectionately yours,

    CHARLES DICKENS.

His next letter is dated from Niagara, and I know every one will relish his allusion to oysters with wet feet, and his reference to the squeezing of a Quaker.

    Clifton House, Niagara Falls, 29th April, 1842.

My Dear Felton:  Before I go any farther, let me explain to you what these great enclosures portend, lest—­supposing them part and parcel of my letter, and asking to be read—­you shall fall into fits, from which recovery might be doubtful.

They are, as you will see, four copies of the same thing.  The nature of the document you will discover at a glance.  As I hoped and believed, the best of the British brotherhood took fire at my being attacked because I spoke my mind and theirs on the subject of an international copyright; and with all good speed, and hearty private letters, transmitted to me this small parcel of gauntlets for immediate casting down.

Now my first idea was, publicity being the object, to send one copy to you for a Boston newspaper, another to Bryant for his paper, a third to the New York Herald (because of its large circulation), and a fourth to a highly respectable journal at Washington (the property of a gentleman, and a fine fellow named Seaton, whom I knew there), which I think is called the Intelligencer.  Then the Knickerbocker stepped into my mind, and then it occurred to me that possibly the North American Review might be the best organ after all, because indisputably the most respectable and honorable, and the most concerned in the rights of literature.

Whether to limit its publication to one journal, or to extend it to several, is a question so very difficult of decision to a stranger, that I have finally resolved to send these papers to you, and ask you (mindful of the conversation