never 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. He was alternately a rattling lawyer of the
Middle Temple, a boots, an eccentric pedestrian and cold-water drinker,
a deaf sexton, an invalid captain, and an old woman. What fun it was, to
be sure, and how we roared over the performance! Here is the playbill
which I held in my hand nineteen years ago, while the great writer was
proving himself to be as pre-eminent an actor as he was an author. One
can see by reading the bill that Dickens was manager of the company,