er beheld anything like the personal
affection which they poured out upon me at the end. It was really a very
remarkable sight, and I shall always look back upon it with pleasure.

Last night here was not so bright. There are quarrels of the strangest
kind between the Plymouth people and the Stonehouse people. The room is
at Stonehouse (Tracy says the wrong room; there being a Plymouth room in
this hotel, and he being a Plymouthite). We had a fair house, but not at
all a great one. All the notabilities come this morning to "Little
Dombey," for which we have let one hundred and thirty stalls, which
local admiration of local greatness considers very large. For "Mrs. Gamp
and the Boots," to-night, we have also a very promising let. But the
races are on, and there are two public balls to-night, and the yacht
squadron are all at Cherbourg to boot. Arthur is of opinion that "Two
Sixties" will do very well for us. I doubt the "Two Sixties" myself.
_Mais nous verrons._

The room is a very handsome one, but it is on the top of a windy and
muddy hill, leading (literally) to nowhere; and it looks (except that it
is new and _mortary_) as if the subsidence of the waters after the
Deluge might have left it where it is. I have to go right through the
company to get to the platform. Big doors slam and resound when anybody
comes in; and all the company seem afraid of one another. Nevertheless
they were a sensible audience last night, and much impressed and
pleased.

Tracy is in the room (wandering about, and never finishing a sentence),
and sends all manner of sea-loves to you and the dear girls. I send all
manner of land-loves to you from myself, out of my heart of hearts, and
also to my dear Plorn and the boys.

Arthur sends his kindest love. He knows only two characters. He is
either always corresponding, like a Secretary of State, or he is
transformed into a rout-furniture dealer of Rathbone Place, and drags
forms about with the greatest violence, without his coat.

I have no time to add another word.

Ever, dearest Georgy, your most affectionate.

[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]

LONDON, _Saturday, Aug. 7th, 1858._

MY DEAREST MAMEY,

The closing night at Plymouth was a very great scene, and the morning
there was exceedingly good too. You will be glad to hear that at Clifton
last night, a torrent of five hundred shillings bore Arthur away,
pounded him against the w