rushing into Forster’s study (he is my great friend, and writes at the bottom of all his letters, “My love to Felton"), and into Maclise’s painting-room, and into Macready’s managerial ditto, without a moment’s warning, and how I picture every little trait and circumstance of our arrival to myself, down to the very color of the bow on the cook’s cap, you would almost think I had changed places with my eldest son, and was still in pantaloons of the thinnest texture.  I left all these things—­God only knows what a love I have for them—­as coolly and calmly as any animated cucumber; but when I come upon them again I shall have lost all power of self-restraint, and shall as certainly make a fool of myself (in the popular meaning of that expression) as ever Grimaldi did in his way, or George III. in his.

And not the less so, dear Felton, for having found some warm hearts, and left some instalments of earnest and sincere affection, behind me on this continent.  And whenever I turn my mental telescope hitherward, trust me that one of the first figures it will descry will wear spectacles so like yours that the maker couldn’t tell the difference, and shall address a Greek class in such an exact imitation of your voice, that the very students hearing it should cry, “That’s he!  Three cheers.  Hoo-ray-ay-ay-ay-ay!”

About those joints of yours, I think you are mistaken.  They can’t be stiff.  At the worst they merely want the air of New York, which, being impregnated with the flavor of last year’s oysters, has a surprising effect in rendering the human frame supple and flexible in all cases of rust.

A terrible idea occurred to me as I wrote those words.  The oyster-cellars,—­what do they do when oysters are not in season?  Is pickled salmon vended there?  Do they sell crabs, shrimps, winkles, herrings?  The oyster-openers,—­what do they do?  Do they commit suicide in despair, or wrench open tight drawers and cupboards and hermetically sealed bottles for practice?  Perhaps they are dentists out of the oyster season.  Who knows?

    Affectionately yours,

    CHARLES DICKENS.

Dickens always greatly rejoiced in the theatre; and, having seen him act with the Amateur Company of the Guild of Literature and Art, I can well imagine the delight his impersonations in Montreal must have occasioned.  I have seen him play Sir Charles Coldstream, in the comedy of Used Up, with such perfection that all other performers in the same part have seemed dull by comparison.  Even Matthews, superb artist as he is, could not rival Dickens in the character of Sir Charles.  Once I saw Dickens, Mark Lemon, and Wilkie Collins on the stage together.  The play was called Mrs. Nightingale’s Diary (a farce in one act, the joint production of Dickens and Mark Lemon), and Dickens played six characters in the piece.  Never have I seen such wonderful changes of face and form as he gave us that night.