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ruffians in the country parts of Kent, whilst the small bogus King has a
gilded and worshipped and dreary and restrained and cussed time of it on
the throne--and this all goes on for three weeks--till the midst of the
coronation grandeurs in Westminster Abbey, Feb. 20, when the ragged true
King forces his way in but cannot prove his genuineness--until the bogus
King, by a remembered incident of the first day is able to prove it for
him--whereupon clothes are changed and the coronation proceeds under the
new and rightful conditions.
My idea is to afford a realizing sense of the exceeding severity of the
laws of that day by inflicting some of their penalties upon the King
himself and allowing him a chance to see the rest of them applied
to others--all of which is to account for certain mildnesses which
distinguished Edward VI's reign from those that preceded and followed
it.
Imagine this fact--I have even fascinated Mrs. Clemens with this yarn
for youth. My stuff generally gets considerable damning with faint
praise out of her, but this time it is all the other way. She is become
the horseleech's daughter and my mill doesn't grind fast enough to suit
her. This is no mean triumph, my dear sir.
Last night, for the first time in ages, we went to the theatre--to see
Yorick's Love. The magnificence of it is beyond praise. The language
is so beautiful, the passion so fine, the plot so ingenious, the whole
thing so stirring, so charming, so pathetic! But I will clip from the
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