Coming out of "Copperfield" into a condition of temporary and partial
consciousness, I plunge into histrionic duties, and hold enormous
correspondence with Miss Boyle, between whom and myself the most
portentous packets are continually passing. I send you a piece we
purpose playing last at Rockingham, which "my company" played in London,
Scotland, Manchester, Liverpool, and I don't know where else. It is one
of the most ridiculous things ever done. We purpose, as I have said,
playing it last. Why do I send it to you? Because there is an excellent
part (played in my troupe by George Cruikshank) for your brother in
it--Jeffrey; with a black patch on his eye, and a lame leg, he would be
charming--noble! If he is come home, give him my love and tell him so.
If he is not come home, do me that favour when he does come. And add
that I have a wig for him belonging to the part, which I have an idea of
sending to the Exposition of '51, as a triumph of human ingenuity.
I am the Doctor; Miss Boyle, Lisette; Georgy, the other little woman. We
have nearly arranged our "bill" for Rockingham. We shall want one more
reasonably good actor, besides your brother and Miss Boyle's, to play
the Marquis in this piece. Do you know a being endowed by nature with
the requisite qualities?
There are some things in the next "Copperfield" that I think better than
any that have gone before. After I have been believing such things with
all my heart and soul, two results always ensue: first, I can't write
plainly to the eye; secondly, I can't write sensibly to the mind. So
"Copperfield" is to blame, and I am not, for this wandering note; and if
you like it, you'll forgive me. With my affectionate remembrances to
Watson,
Ever, my dear Mrs. Watson,
Very faithfully yours.
P.S.--I find I am not equal to the flourish.
[Sidenote: Miss Mary Boyle.]