Forster told me to-day that you wish Tennyson's sonnet to be read after
your health is given on Saturday. I am perfectly certain that it would
not do at that time. I am quite convinced that the audience would not
receive it, under these exciting circumstances, as it ought to be
received. If I had to read it, I would on no account undertake to do so
at that period, in a great room crowded with a dense company. I have an
instinctive assurance that it would fail. Being with Bulwer this
morning, I communicated your wish to him, and he immediately felt as I
do. I could enter into many reasons which induce me to form this
opinion. But I believe that you have that confidence in me that I may
spare you the statement of them.
I want to know one thing from you. As I shall be obliged to be at the
London Tavern in the afternoon of to-morrow, Friday (I write, observe,
on Thursday night), I shall be much helped in the arrangements if you
will send me your answer by a messenger (addressed here) on the receipt
of this. Which would you prefer--that "Auld Lang Syne" should be sung
after your health is given and before you return thanks, or after you
have spoken?
I cannot forbear a word about last night. I think I have told you
sometimes, my much-loved friend, how, when I was a mere boy, I was one
of your faithful and devoted adherents in the pit; I believe as true a
member of that true host of followers as it has ever boasted. As I
improved myself and was improved by favouring circumstances in mind and
fortune, I only became the more earnest (if it were possible) in my
study of you. No light portion of my life arose before me when the quiet
vision to which I am beholden, in I don't know how great a decree, or
for how much--who does?--faded so nobly from my bodily eyes last night.
And if I were to try to tell you what I felt--of regret for its being
past for ever, and of joy in the thought that you could have taken your
leave of _me_ but in God's own time--I should only blot this paper with
some drops that would certainly not be of ink, and give very faint
expression to very strong emotions.
What is all this in writing! It is only some sort of relief to my full
heart, and shows very little of it to you; but that's something, so I
let it go.
Ever, my dearest Macready,
Your most affectionate Friend.
P.S.--My very flourish departs from me for the moment.
[Sidenote: Mr. David Roberts, R.A.]