Friday Morning.
May 30, 1845.
Just one word to say that if Saturday, to-morrow, should be fine — because in the case of its raining I shall not expect you; you will find me at three o’clock.
Yes — the circumstances of the costume were mentioned in the letter; Mr. Rogers’ bag-wig and the rest, and David Wilkie’s sword — and also that the Laureate, so equipped, fell down upon both knees in the superfluity of etiquette, and had to be picked up by two lords-in-waiting. It is a large exaggeration I do not doubt — and then I never sympathised with the sighing kept up by people about that acceptance of the Laureateship which drew the bag-wig as a corollary after it. Not that the Laureateship honoured him, but that he honoured it; and that, so honouring it, he preserves a symbol instructive to the masses, who are children and to be taught by symbols now as formerly. Isn’t it true? or at least may it not be true? And won’t the court laurel (such as it is) be all the worthier of you for Wordsworth’s having worn it first?
And in the meantime I shall see you to-morrow perhaps? or if it should rain, on Monday at the same hour.
Ever yours, my dear friend,
E.B.B.