I picture every little trait and circumstance
of our arrival to myself, down to the very colour 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 the Third 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 flavour 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.

[Sidenote: The same.]

1, DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, YORK GATE, REGENT'S PARK,
LONDON, _Sunday, July 31st, 1842._

MY DEAR FELTON,

Of all the monstrous and incalculable amount of occupation that ever
beset one unfortunate man, mine has been the most stupendous since I
came home. The dinners I have had to eat, the places I have had to go
to, the letters I have had to answer, the sea of business and of
pleasure in which I have been plunged, not even the genius of an ---- or
the pen of a ---- could describe.