TAVISTOCK HOUSE, LONDON, W.C., _Thursday, Feb. 11th, 1858._
I want you to read the enclosed little play. You will see that it is in one act--about the length of "La Joie fait Pour." It is now acting at the Lyceum Theatre here, with very great success. The author is Mr. Westland Marston, a dramatic writer of reputation, who wrote a very well-known tragedy called "The Patrician's Daughter," in which Macready and Miss Faucit acted (under Macready's management at Drury Lane) some years ago.
This little piece is so very powerful on the stage, its interest is so simple and natural, and the part of Reuben is such a very fine one, that I cannot help thinking you might make one grand _coup_ with it, if with your skilful hand you arranged it for the Français. I have communicated this idea of mine to the author, "_et là-dessus je vous écris_." I am anxious to know your opinion, and shall expect with much interest to receive a little letter from you at your convenience.
Mrs. Dickens, Miss Hogarth, and all the house send a thousand kind loves and regards to Madame Regnier and the dear little boys. You will bring them to London when you come, with all the force of the Français--will you not?
Ever, my dear Regnier, faithfully your Friend.
TAVISTOCK HOUSE, _Saturday, Feb. 20th, 1858._
Let me thank you with all my heart for your most patient and kind letter. I made its contents known to Mr. Marston, and I enclose you his reply. You will see that he cheerfully leaves the matter in your hands, and abides by your opinion and discretion.
You need not return his letter, my friend. There is great excitement here this morning, in consequence of the failure of the Ministry last night to carry the bill they brought in to please your Emperor and his troops. _I_, for one, am extremely glad of their defeat.
"Le vieux P----," I have no doubt, will go staggering down the Rue de la Paix to-day, with his stick in his hand and his hat on one side, predicting the downfall of everything, in consequence of this event. His handwriting shakes more and more every quarter, and I think he mixes a great deal of cognac with his ink. He always gives me some astonishing piece of news (which is never true), or some suspicious public prophecy (which is never verified), and he always tells me he is dying (which he never is).