been obliged to go away.  However, we went into a little parlor where the funeral party was, and God knows it was miserable enough, for the widow and children were crying bitterly in one corner, and the other mourners—­mere people of ceremony, who cared no more for the dead man than the hearse did—­were talking quite coolly and carelessly together in another; and the contrast was as painful and distressing as anything I ever saw.  There was an independent clergyman present, with his bands on and a Bible under his arm, who, as soon as we were seated, addressed ——­ thus, in a loud, emphatic voice:  “Mr. C——­, have you seen a paragraph respecting our departed friend, which has gone the round of the morning papers?” “Yes, sir,” says C——­, “I have,” looking very hard at me the while, for he had told me with some pride coming down that it was his composition.  “Oh!” said the clergyman.  “Then you will agree with me, Mr. C——­, that it is not only an insult to me, who am the servant of the Almighty, but an insult to the Almighty, whose servant I am.”  “How is that, sir?” said C——.  “It is stated, Mr. C——­, in that paragraph,” says the minister, “that when Mr. H——­ failed in business as a bookseller, he was persuaded by me to try the pulpit, which is false, incorrect, unchristian, in a manner blasphemous, and in all respects contemptible.  Let us pray.”  With which, my dear Felton, and in the same breath, I give you my word, he knelt down, as we all did, and began a very miserable jumble of an extemporary prayer.  I was really penetrated with sorrow for the family, but when C——­ (upon his knees, and sobbing for the loss of an old friend) whispered me, “that if that wasn’t a clergyman, and it wasn’t a funeral, he’d have punched his head,” I felt as if nothing but convulsions could possibly relieve me.....

    Faithfully always, my dear Felton,

    C.D.

Was there ever such a genial, jovial creature as this master of humor!  When we read his friendly epistles, we cannot help wishing he had written letters only, as when we read his novels we grudge the time he employed on anything else.

    Broadstairs, Kent, 1st September, 1843.

My Dear Felton:  If I thought it in the nature of things that you and I could ever agree on paper, touching a certain Chuzzlewitian question whereupon F——­ tells me you have remarks to make, I should immediately walk into the same, tooth and nail.  But as I don’t, I won’t.  Contenting myself with this prediction, that one of these years and days, you will write or say to me, “My dear Dickens, you were right, though rough, and did a world of good, though you got most thoroughly hated for it.”  To which I shall reply, “My dear Felton, I looked a long way off and not immediately under my nose.” ...  At which sentiment you will laugh, and I shall laugh; and then (for I foresee this will all happen in my land) we shall call for another pot of porter and two or three dozen of oysters.