Yes, you have anticipated my occupation. Chuzzlewit be d----d. High
comedy and five hundred pounds are the only matters I can think of. I
call it "The One Thing Needful; or, A Part is Better than the Whole."
Here are the characters:
Old Febrile Mr. FARREN.
Young Febrile (his Son) Mr. HOWE.
Jack Hessians (his Friend) Mr. W. LACY.
Chalks (a Landlord) Mr. GOUGH.
Hon. Harry Staggers Mr. MELLON.
Sir Thomas Tip Mr. BUCKSTONE.
Swig Mr. WEBSTER.
The Duke of Leeds Mr. COUTTS.
Sir Smivin Growler Mr. MACREADY.
Servants, Gamblers, Visitors, etc.
Mrs. Febrile Mrs. GALLOT.
Lady Tip Mrs. HUMBY.
Mrs. Sour Mrs. W. CLIFFORD.
Fanny Miss A. SMITH.
One scene, where Old Febrile tickles Lady Tip in the ribs, and
afterwards dances out with his hat behind him, his stick before, and his
eye on the pit, I expect will bring the house down. There is also
another point, where Old Febrile, at the conclusion of his disclosure to
Swig, rises and says: "And now, Swig, tell me, have I acted well?" And
Swig says: "Well, Mr. Febrile, have you ever acted ill?" which will
carry off the piece.
Herne Bay. Hum. I suppose it's no worse than any other place in this
weather, but it is watery rather--isn't it? In my mind's eye, I have the
sea in a perpetual state of smallpox; and the chalk running downhill
like town milk. But I know the comfort of getting to work in a fresh
place, and proposing pious projects to one's self, and having the more
substantial advantage of going to bed early and getting up ditto, and
walking about alone. I should like to deprive you of the last-named
happiness, and to take a good long stroll, terminating in a
public-house, and whatever they chanced to have in it. But fine days are
over, I think. The horrible misery of London in this weather, with not
even a fire to make it cheerful, is hideous.
But I have my comedy to fly to. My only comfort! I walk up and down
the street at the back of the theatre every night, and peep in at
the green-room window, thinking of the time when "Dick--ins" will be
called for by excited hundreds, and won't come till Mr. Webster
(half Swig and half himself) shall enter from his dressing-room,
and quelling the tempest with a smile, beseech that wizard, if he be
in the house (here he looks up at my box), to accept the congratulations
of the audience, and indulge them with a sight of the man who has got
five hundred pounds in money, and it's impossible to say how much in
laurel. Then I shall come forward, and bow once--twice--thrice--roars of
approbation--Brayvo--brarvo--hooray--hoorar--hooroar--one cheer more;
and asking Webster home to supper, shall declare eternal friendship for
that public-spirited individual.
They have not sent me the "Illustrated Magazine." What do they mean by
that? You don't say your daughter is better, so I hope you mean that she
is quite well. My wife desires her best regards.
I am always, my dear Jerrold,
Faithfully your Friend,
THE CONGREVE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
(which I mean to be called in the Sunday papers).
P.S.--I shall dedicate it to Webster, beginning: "My dear Sir,--When you
first proposed to stimulate the slumbering dramatic talent of England, I
assure you I had not the least idea"--etc. etc. etc.
[Sidenote: Mr. Clarkson Stanfield.]