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I can sketch Coavins's, but I cannot alter it: I can set it to music, on Coavins's piano; but how melancholy are the jingling strains of that dilapidated instrument! At Jarndyce's house, when I am there, I am in possession of it: here Coavins's is in possession of me of the person of Harold Skimpole. And why am I here? Why am I far from landscape, music, conversation?
Let not the sun of May-day go down on Harold Skimpole in Coavins's! Yours ever, P.S. A youthful myrmidon of Coavins's will wait for a reply. Shall we say, while we are about it, Twenty-five? From the Rev. Charles Honeyman to Harold Skimpole, Esq. Cursitor Street, May 1. My Dear Skimpole, How would I have joyed, had Providence placed it within my power to relieve your distress! But it cannot be.
I only hope he won't make "copy" out of me and my situation. LETTER: From Harold Skimpole, Esq., to the Rev. Charles Honeyman, M.A. These letters tell their own tale of Genius and Virtue indigent and in chains. The eloquence of a Honeyman, the accomplishments of a Skimpole, lead only to Cursitor Street. Coavins's, Cursitor Street, May 1.
The chimney-sweeper has all I ask, all that the butterflies possess, all that Common-sense and Business and Society deny to Harold Skimpole. He lives, he is free, he is "in the green!" I am in Coavins's! In Cursitor Street I cannot hear the streams warble, the birds chant, the music roll through the stately fane, let us say, of Lady Whittlesea's.
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