I take the earliest opportunity, after finishing my number--ahem!--to
write you a line, and to report myself (thank God) brown, well, robust,
vigorous, open to fight any man in England of my weight, and growing a
moustache. Any person of undoubted pluck, in want of a customer, may
hear of me at the bar of Bleak House, where my money is down.
I think there is an abundance of places here that would suit you well
enough; and Georgina is ready to launch on voyages of discovery and
observation with you. But it is necessary that you should consider for
how long a time you want it, as the folks here let much more
advantageously for the tenant when they know the term--don't like to let
without. It seems to me that the best thing you can do is to get a paper
of the South Eastern tidal trains, fix your day for coming over here in
five hours (when you will pay through to Boulogne at London Bridge), let
me know the day, and come and see how you like the place. _I_ like it
better than ever. We can give you a bed (two to spare, at a pinch
three), and show you a garden and a view or so. The town is not so cheap
as places farther off, but you get a great deal for your money, and by
far the best wine at tenpence a bottle that I have ever drank anywhere.
I really desire no better.
I may mention for your guidance (for I count upon your coming to
overhaul the general aspect of things), that you have nothing on earth
to do with your luggage when it is once in the boat, _until after you
have walked ashore_. That you will be filtered with the rest of the
passengers through a hideous, whitewashed, quarantine-looking
custom-house, where a stern man of a military aspect will demand your
passport. That you will have nothing of the sort, but will produce your
card with this addition: "Restant a Boulogne, chez M. Charles Dickens,
Chateau des Moulineaux." That you will then be passed out at a little
door, like one of the ill-starred prisoners on the bloody September
night, into a yelling and shrieking crowd, cleaving the air with the
names of the different hotels, exactly seven thousand six hundred and
fifty-four in number. And that your heart will be on the point of
sinking with dread, then you will find yourself in the arms of the
Sparkler of Albion. All unite in kindest regards.
Ever affectionately.
P.S.--I thought you might like to see the flourish again.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. H. Wills.]