You will not be much surprised to hear that I have done nothing yet
(except for H. W.), and have only just settled down into a corner of the
school-room. The extent to which John and I wallowed in dust for four
hours yesterday morning, getting things neat and comfortable about us,
you may faintly imagine. At four in the afternoon came Stanfield, to
whom I no sooner described the notion of the new play, than he
immediately upset all my new arrangements by making a proscenium of the
chairs, and planning the scenery with walking-sticks. One of the least
things he did was getting on the top of the long table, and hanging over
the bar in the middle window where that top sash opens, as if he had got
a hinge in the middle of his body. He is immensely excited on the
subject. Mark had a farce ready for the managerial perusal, but it won't
do.
I went to the Dover theatre on Friday night, which was a miserable
spectacle. The pit is boarded over, and it is a drinking and smoking
place. It was "for the benefit of Mrs. ----," and the town had been very
extensively placarded with "Don't forget Friday." I made out four and
ninepence (I am serious) in the house, when I went in. We may have
warmed up in the course of the evening to twelve shillings. A Jew played
the grand piano; Mrs. ---- sang no end of songs (with not a bad voice,
poor creature); Mr. ---- sang comic songs fearfully, and danced clog
hornpipes capitally; and a miserable woman, shivering in a shawl and
bonnet, sat in the side-boxes all the evening, nursing Master ----, aged
seven months. It was a most forlorn business, and I should have
contributed a sovereign to the treasury, if I had known how.
I walked to Deal and back that day, and on the previous day walked over
the downs towards Canterbury in a gale of wind. It was better than still
weather after all, being wonderfully fresh and free.
If the Plorn were sitting at this school-room window in the corner, he
would see more cats in an hour than he ever saw in his life. _I_ never
saw so many, I think, as I have seen since yesterday morning.
There is a painful picture of a great deal of merit (Egg has bought it)
in the exhibition, painted by the man who did those little interiors of
Forster's. It is called "The Death of Chatterton." The dead figure is a
good deal like Arthur Stone; and I was touched on Saturday to see that
tender old file standing before it, crying under his spectacles at the
idea of seeing his son dead. It was a very tender manifestation of his
gentle old heart.
This sums up my news, which is no news at all. Kiss the Plorn for me,
and expound to him that I am always looking forward to meeting him
again, among the birds and flowers in the garden on the side of the hill
at Boulogne.
Ever affectionately.
[Sidenote: The Duke of Devonshire.]