towards having it well done. The story is an
extraordinary success here, and I think the end of it is certain to make
a still greater sensation.

Don't trouble yourself to write to me, _mon ami_, until you shall have
had time to read the proofs. Remember, they are _proofs_, and _private_;
the latter chapters will not be before the public for five or six weeks
to come.

With kind regards to Madame Regnier, in which my daughters and their
aunt unite,

Believe me, ever faithfully yours.

P.S.--The story (I daresay you have not seen any of it yet) is called
"A Tale of Two Cities."

[Sidenote: Mr. Frank Stone, A.R.A.]

PETERBOROUGH, _Wednesday Evening, Oct. 19th, 1859._

MY DEAR STONE,

We had a splendid rush last night--exactly as we supposed, with the
pressure on the two shillings, of whom we turned a crowd away. They were
a far finer audience than on the previous night; I think the finest I
have ever read to. They took every word of the "Dombey" in quite an
amazing manner, and after the child's death, paused a little, and then
set up a shout that it did one good to hear. Mrs. Gamp then set in with
a roar, which lasted until I had done. I think everybody for the time
forgot everything but the matter in hand. It was as fine an instance of
thorough absorption in a fiction as any of us are likely to see ever
again.

---- (in an exquisite red mantle), accompanied by her sister (in another
exquisite red mantle) and by the deaf lady, (who leaned a black
head-dress, exactly like an old-fashioned tea-urn without the top,
against the wall), was charming. HE couldn't get at her on account of
the pressure. HE tried to peep at her from the side door, but she (ha,
ha, ha!) was unconscious of his presence. I read to her, and goaded him
to madness. He is just sane enough to send his kindest regards.

This is a place which--except the cathedral, with the loveliest front I
ever saw--is like the back door to some other place. It is, I should
hope, the deadest and most utterly inert little town in the British
dominions. The magnates have taken places, and the bookseller is of
opinion that "such is the determination to do honour to Mr. Dickens,
that the doors _must_ be opened half an hour before the appointed time."
You will picture to yourself Arthur's quiet indignation at this, and the
manner in which he remarked to me at dinner, "that he turned away twice
Peterborough l