sting occupation. He describes his reading:--"A vast
intelligent assemblage, and the success was most wonderful and
prodigious--perfectly overwhelming and astounding altogether." No wonder
that he was tempted to continue such a triumph! A passage in a letter to
Cerjat shows how celebrated he already was:--"He embarked at Calais for
Dover, and the 'Fact of distinguished Author's being abroad, was
telegraphed to Dover; thereupon authorities of Dover Railway detained
train to London for distinguished author's arrival, rather to the
exasperation of British public.'"

In November 1854 he speaks of being "used up" after writing _Hard Times_.
He had intended to take a long rest, "when the idea [of that book] laid
hold of me by the throat, in a very violent manner, and because the
compression and close condensation necessary for that disjointed form of
publication gave me perpetual trouble. But I really was tired, which is
a result so very incomprehensible that I can't forget it."

Dickens took pains with his style even in his letters, and it gives one a
shock to find him writing that Adelaide Proctor "_don't_ live at the
place to which her letters are addressed," where I should write
"doesn't."

In 1855 he began _Little Dorrit_ in Paris, a book he originally
christened _Nobody's Fault_, and the change was certainly a wise one.

In this year we find him assisting at the birth of an admirable
book:--"Sydney Smith's daughter {219} has privately printed the life of
her father with selections from his letters, which has great merit and
often presents him exactly as he used to be. I have strongly urged her
to publish it" (i., p. 390).

In planning his public readings about this time, he writes (29th January
1855, in regard to _David Copperfield_):--"I never can approach the book
with perfect composure (it had such perfect possession of me when I wrote
it)."

One of the many instances of his scrupulous honesty is his refusal of an
invitation to a Lord Mayor's dinner. "I do not think it consistent with
my respect for myself, or for the art I profess, to blow hot and cold in
the same breath; and to laugh at an institution in print, and accept the
hospitality of its representative while the ink is staring us all in the
face."

In returning from reading at Sheffield, "a tremendous success," he
describes his experiences: "At two or three o'clock in the morning I
stopped at Peterboro' again, and thought of you all disconsolat