A little lull in the whirl of excitement in which my brain has nearly
lost its balance affords me an opportunity to write to you. It would
be difficult to explain the many little annoyances I have been
subjected to in the production of "Richelieu," but when I tell you
that it far surpasses "Hamlet," and exceeds all my expectations, you
may suppose that I have not been very idle all this while. I wish you
could see it.
Professor Peirce[2] has been here, and he will tell you of it. It
really seems that the dreams of my past life--so far as my profession
is concerned--are being realised. What Mary and I used to plan for my
future, what Richard and I used laughingly to promise ourselves in
"our model theatre," seems to be realised--in these two plays, at
least. As history says of the great cardinal, I am "too fortunate a
man not to be superstitious," and as I find my hopes being fulfilled,
I cannot help but believe that there is a sufficient importance in my
art to interest them still; that to a higher influence than the world
believes I am moved by I owe the success I have achieved. Assured
that all I do in this advance carries, even beyond the range of my
little world (the theatre), an elevating and refining influence, while
in it the effect is good, I begin to feel really happy in my once
uneasy sphere of action. I dare say I shall soon be contented with my
lot. I will tell you this much: I have been offered the means to a
speedy and an ample fortune, from all parts of the country, but prefer
the limit I have set, wherein I have the power to carry out my wishes,
though "on half pay," as it were....
Ever your friend,