ever changed at all." We came
back to town, and my friend went out to dinner. Next morning he came to
me in great excitement, and said: "It is written that you were to have
that house at Gad's Hill. The lady I had allotted to me to take down to
dinner yesterday began to speak of that neighbourhood. 'You know it?' I
said; 'I have been there to-day.' 'O yes,' said she, 'I know it very
well. I was a child there, in the house they call Gad's Hill Place. My
father was the rector, and lived there many years. He has just died, has
left it to me, and I want to sell it.' 'So,' says the sub-editor, 'you
must buy it. Now or never!'" I did, and hope to pass next summer there,
though I may, perhaps, let it afterwards, furnished, from time to time.

All about myself I find, and the little sheet nearly full! But I know,
my dear Cerjat, the subject will have its interest for you, so I give it
its swing. Mrs. Watson was to have been at the play, but most
unfortunately had three children sick of gastric fever, and could not
leave them. She was here some three weeks before, looking extremely well
in the face, but rather thin. I have not heard of your friend Mr.
Percival Skelton, but I much misdoubt an amateur artist's success in
this vast place. I hope you detected a remembrance of our happy visit to
the Great St. Bernard in a certain number of "Little Dorrit"? Tell Mrs.
Cerjat, with my love, that the opinions I have expressed to her on the
subject of cows have become matured in my mind by experience and
venerable age; and that I denounce the race as humbugs, who have been
getting into poetry and all sorts of places without the smallest reason.
Haldimand's housekeeper is an awful woman to consider. Pray give him our
kindest regards and remembrances, if you ever find him in a mood to take
it. "Our" means Mrs. Dickens's, Georgie's, and mine. We often, often
talk of our old days at Lausanne, and send loving regard to Mrs. Cerjat
and all your house.

Adieu, my dear fellow; ever cordially yours.

[Sidenote: Mr. W. C. Macready.]

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, _January 28th, 1857._

MY DEAREST MACREADY,

Your friend and servant is as calm as Pecksniff, saving for his knitted
brows now turning into cordage over Little Dorrit. The theatre has
disappeared, the house is restored to its usual conditions of order, the
family are tranquil and domestic, dove-eyed peace is enthroned in this
study, fire