A mysterious emissary brought me a note in your always welcome
handwriting at the Athenaeum last night. I enquired of the servant in
attendance whether the bearer of this letter was of my vast
establishment. To which he replied "Yezzir." "Then," said I, "tell him
not to wait."
Maclise was with me. It was then half-past seven. We had been walking,
and were splashed to the eyes. We debated upon the possibility of
getting to Russell Square in reasonable time--decided that it would be
in the worst taste to appear when the performance would be half
over--and very reluctantly decided not to come. You may suppose how
dirty and dismal we were when we went to the Thames Tunnel, of all
places in the world, instead!
When I came home here at midnight I found another letter from you (I
left off in this place to press it dutifully to my lips). Then my mind
misgave me that _you_ must have sent to the Athenaeum. At the apparent
rudeness of my reply, my face, as Hadji Baba says, was turned upside
down, and fifty donkeys sat upon my father's grave--or would have done
so, but for his not being dead yet.
Therefore I send this humble explanation--protesting, however, which I
do most solemnly, against being invited under such untoward
circumstances; and claiming as your old friend and no less old admirer
to be instantly invited to the next performance, if such a thing is ever
contemplated.
Ever, my dear Miss Ely,
Faithfully yours.
[Sidenote: Mr. Douglas Jerrold.]