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.

Now don't you in your own heart and soul quarrel with me for this
long silence? Not half so much as I quarrel with myself, I know; but
if you could read half the letters I write to you in imagination,
you would swear by me for the best of correspondents. The truth is,
that when I have done my morning's work, down goes my pen, and from
tha