When shall you return? You spoke of remaining a fortnight only at ——; but I suppose that you will, as usual, string out that fortnight into a long month. I desire earnestly to see you soon and take a walk, as we used to do, admiring radiant nature. It would be for me a rare occasion to enjoy a little poetry.
Farewell, dear friend. Write to me. If you have at your disposal none but the town library, you would do well to read Lucian, in the translation of Pierrot d’Ablancourt, or some one else; it would amuse you, and indulge your Hellenic tastes.
I am deep in a history of Peter the Great, which I mean to share with the public. He was an abominable man, surrounded by abominable scamps. His history amuses me no little.
Write to me as soon as you have received my letter.
CCLXXIV
London, British Museum, July 21, 1864.
Dear Friend: You have guessed my retreat. I have been here since the last time we met, or, to speak more exactly, since the following day. I spend my time, from eight at night until midnight, in dining out, and the morning in examining books and statues, or else in writing my long article on the son of Peter the Great, to which I am tempted to give the title: On the Danger of Being Stupid, for the moral to be drawn from my work is the necessity of being clever.
I think you will find, here and there, in a score of pages, some things which would interest you, notably how Peter the Great was deceived by his wife. I have translated with great care and pains the letters of his wife to her lover, who was impaled for his trouble. They are really better than one would expect of the time and country in which she wrote, but love works miracles. It was a misfortune that she did not know how to spell, which makes it extremely difficult for grammarians like myself to guess what she means.
These are my plans: I am to go, Monday, to Chevenings, to visit Lord Stanhope, where I shall stay three days. Thursday I shall dine here with a large company, leaving immediately afterwards for Paris.
They talk of nothing here but the marriage of Lady Florence Paget, the London beauty of two seasons ago. It is impossible to see a prettier face or a more graceful figure, but too small and delicate to suit my own taste. She was notorious for her flirtations. M. Ellice’s nephew, Chaplin, of whom you have often heard me speak, a tall fellow of twenty-five, with an income of twenty-five thousands pounds sterling, fell in love with her. She trifled with him a long time, then engaged herself, and it is said, accepted jewels and six thousand pounds to pay her debts with the dressmaker. The day for the marriage was appointed. Last Friday, they went together to the park and to the opera. Saturday morning she went out alone, proceeded to the Church of Saint George, and there was married to Lord Hastings, a young man of her own age, very homely, and with two petty vices, gambling and drink. After the religious ceremony they went to the country to consummate other ceremonies.