The book I was to have given Longfellow for you is not worth sending by itself, being only a Barnaby.  But I will look up some manuscript for you (I think I have that of the American Notes complete), and will try to make the parcel better worth its long conveyance.  With regard to Maclise’s pictures, you certainly are quite right in your impression of them; but he is “such a discursive devil” (as he says about himself), and flies off at such odd tangents, that I feel it difficult to convey to you any general notion of his purpose.  I will try to do so when I write again.  I want very much to know about ——­ and that charming girl.....  Give me full particulars.  Will you remember me cordially to Sumner, and say I thank him for his welcome letter?  The like to Hillard, with many regards to himself and his wife, with whom I had one night a little conversation which I shall not readily forget.  The like to Washington Allston, and all friends who care for me and have outlived my book....  Always, my dear Felton,

    With true regard and affection, yours,

    CHARLES DICKENS.

Here is a letter that seems to me something tremendous in its fun and pathos:—­

    1 Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent’s Park, London, 2d March,
    1843.

    My Dear Felton:  I don’t know where to begin, but plunge headlong
    with a terrible splash into this letter, on the chance of turning up
    somewhere.

Hurrah!  Up like a cork again, with the “North American Review” in my hand.  Like you, my dear ——­, and I can say no more in praise of it, though I go on to the end of the sheet.  You cannot think how much notice it has attracted here.  Brougham called the other day, with the number (thinking I might not have seen it), and I being out at the time, he left a note, speaking of it, and of the writer, in terms that warmed my heart.  Lord Ashburton (one of whose people wrote a notice in the “Edinburgh,” which they have since publicly contradicted) also wrote to me about it in just the same strain.  And many others have done the like.

I am in great health and spirits and powdering away at Chuzzlewit, with all manner of facetiousness rising up before me as I go on.  As to news, I have really none, saving that ——­ (who never took any exercise in his life) has been laid up with rheumatism for weeks past, but is now, I hope, getting better.  My little captain, as I call him,—­he who took me out, I mean, and with whom I had that adventure of the cork soles,—­has been in London too, and seeing all the lions under my escort.  Good heavens!  I wish you could have seen certain other mahogany-faced men (also captains) who used to call here for him in the morning, and bear him off to docks and rivers and all sorts of queer places, whence he always returned late at night,