eneral
disappointment. "But we have this brave electric telegraph, my friends,"
says the marquis. "Give me your little messages, and I'll send them
off." General rush round the marquis. Exclamations: "How's Henri?" "My
love to Georges;" "Has Guillaume forgotten Elise?" "Is my son wounded?"
"Is my brother promoted?" etc. etc. Marquis composes tumult. Sends
message--such a regiment, such a company--"Elise's love to Georges."
Little bell rings, slip of paper handed out--"Georges in ten minutes
will embrace his Elise. Sends her a thousand kisses." Marquis sends
message--such a regiment, such a company--"Is my son wounded?" Little
bell rings. Slip of paper handed out--"No. He has not yet upon him those
marks of bravery in the glorious service of his country which his dear
old father bears" (father being lamed and invalided). Last of all, the
widowed mother. Marquis sends message--such a regiment, such a
company--"Is my only son safe?" Little bell rings. Slip of paper handed
out--"He was first upon the heights of Alma." General cheer. Bell rings
again, another slip of paper handed out. "He was made a sergeant at
Inkermann." Another cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper
handed out. "He was made colour-sergeant at Sebastopol." Another cheer.
Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out. "He was the first
man who leaped with the French banner on the Malakhoff tower."
Tremendous cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out.
"But he was struck down there by a musket-ball, and----Troops have
proceeded. Will arrive in half a minute after this." Mother abandons all
hope; general commiseration; troops rush in, down a platform; son only
wounded, and embraces her.

As I have said, and as you will see, this is available for any purpose.
But done with equal distinction and rapidity, it is a tremendous effect,
and got by the simplest means in the world. There is nothing in the
piece, but it was impossible not to be moved and excited by the
telegraph part of it.

I hope you have seen something of Stanny, and have been to pantomimes
with him, and have drunk to the absent Dick. I miss you, my dear old
boy, at the play, woefully, and miss the walk home, and the partings at
the corner of Tavistock Square. And when I go by myself, I come home
stewing "Little Dorrit" in my head; and the best part of _my_ play is
(or ought to be) in Gordon Street.

I have written to Beaucourt about taking that breezy house--a little