I _did_ write it for you; and I hoped in writing it, that you would
think so. All those remembrances are fresh in my mind, as they often
are, and gave me an extraordinary interest in recalling the past. I
should have been grievously disappointed if you had not been pleased,
for I took aim at you with a most determined intention.
Let me congratulate you most heartily on your handsome Eddy having
passed his examination with such credit. I am sure there is a spirit
shining out of his eyes, which will do well in that manly and generous
pursuit. You will naturally feel his departure very much, and so will
he; but I have always observed within my experience, that the men who
have left home young have, many long years afterwards, had the tenderest
love for it, and for all associated with it. That's a pleasant thing to
think of, as one of the wise and benevolent adjustments in these lives
of ours.
I have been so hard at work (and shall be for the next eight or nine
months), that sometimes I fancy I have a digestion, or a head, or
nerves, or some odd encumbrance of that kind, to which I am altogether
unaccustomed, and am obliged to rush at some other object for relief; at
present the house is in a state of tremendous excitement, on account of
Mr. Collins having nearly finished the new play we are to act at
Christmas, which is very interesting and extremely clever. I hope this
time you will come and see it. We purpose producing it on Charley's
birthday, Twelfth Night; but we shall probably play four nights
altogether--"The Lighthouse" on the last occasion--so that if you could
come for the two last nights, you would see both the pieces. I am going
to try and do better than ever, and already the school-room is in the
hands of carpenters; men from underground habitations in theatres, who
look as if they lived entirely upon smoke and gas, meet me at unheard-of
hours. Mr. Stanfield is perpetually measuring the boards with a chalked
piece of string and an umbrella, and all the elder children are wildly
punctual and business-like to attract managerial commendation. If you
don't come, I shall do something antagonistic--try to unwrite No. 11, I
think. I should particularly like you to see a new and serious piece so
done. Because I don't think you know, without seeing, how good it is!!!
None of the children suffered, thank God, from the Boulogne risk. The
three little boys have gone back to school there, and are all well.
Katey came away ill, but it turned out that she had the whooping-cough
for the second time. She has been to Brighton, and comes home to-day. I
hear great accounts of her, and hope to find her quite well when she
arrives presently. I am afraid Mary Boyle has been praising the Boulogne
life too highly. Not that I deny, however, our having passed some very
pleasant days together, and our having had great pleasure in her visit.
You will object to me dreadfully, I know, with a beard (though not a
great one); but if you come and see the play, you will find it necessary
there, and will perhaps be more tolerant of the fearful object
afterwards. I need not tell you how delighted we should be to see
George, if you would come together. Pray tell him so, with my kind
regards. I like the notion of Wentworth and his philosophy of all
things. I remember a philosophical gravity upon him, a state of
suspended opinion as to myself, it struck me, when we last met, in which
I thought there was a great deal of oddity and character.
Charley is doing very well at Baring's, and attracting praise and reward
to himself. Within this fortnight there turned up from the West Indies,
where he is now a chief justice, an old friend of mine, of my own age,
who lived with me in lodgings in the Adelphi, when I was just Charley's
age. He had a great affection for me at that time, and always supposed I
was to do some sort of wonders. It was a very pleasant meeting indeed,
and he seemed to think it so odd that I shouldn't be Charley!
This is every atom of no-news that will come out of my head, and I
firmly believe it is all I have in it--except that a cobbler at
Boulogne, who had the nicest of little dogs, that always sat in his
sunny window watching him at work, asked me if I would bring the dog
home, as he couldn't afford to pay the tax for him. The cobbler and the
dog being both my particular friends, I complied. The cobbler parted
with the dog heart-broken. When the dog got home here, my man, like an
idiot as he is, tied him up and then untied him. The moment the gate was
open, the dog (on the very day after his arrival) ran out. Next day,
Georgy and I saw him lying, all covered with mud, dead, outside the
neighbouring church. How am I ever to tell the cobbler? He is too poor
to come to England, so I feel that I must lie to him for life, and say
that the dog is fat and happy. Mr. Plornish, much affected by this
tragedy, said: "I s'pose, pa, I shall meet the cobbler's dog" (in
heaven).
Georgy and Catherine send their best love, and I send mine. Pray write
to me again some day, and I can't be too busy to be happy in the sight
of your familiar hand, associated in my mind with so much that I love
and honour.
Ever, my dear Mr. Watson, most faithfully yours.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Horne.]