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.
Wherefore I indite a monstrously short and wildly uninteresting
epistle to the American Dando, but perhaps you don't know who Dando
was. He was an oyster-eater, my dear Felton. He used to go into
oyster-shops, without a farthing of money, and stand at the counter
eating natives, until the man who opened them grew pale, cast down
his knife, staggered backward, struck his white forehead with his
open hand, and cried, "You are Dando!!!" He has been known to eat
twenty dozen at one sitting, and would have eaten forty, if the
truth had not flashed upon the shopkeeper. For these offences he was
constantly committed to the House of Correction. During his last
imprisonment he was taken ill, got worse and worse, and at last
began knocking violent double-knocks at Death's door. The doctor
stood beside his bed, with his fingers on his pulse. "He is going,"
says the doctor. "I see it in his eye. There is only one thing that
would keep life in him for another hour, and that is--oysters.
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