LONDON, September 19.
MY DEAREST,—At half past three Mrs. Russell Sturgis came in her sumptuous barouche. We drove all through the fashionable squares and Streets and parks, and all through Kensington, even to the real Holland House. But Leigh Hunt's book went all out of my head when I tried to think what he said about it. Mrs. Sturgis knows him very well, and often visits him in his humble cottage. Oh, dear me! Such superb squares and terraces as I saw! Mrs. Sturgis told me where Sir E. B. Lytton, and many noted and noble persons, lived. We drove through Mayfair, but I did not see Miss Cushman's house, I Bolton Row. We certainly had a fine time. At five we got back, and I found the Ambassador's card, and Miss Lane's, inviting us there this evening.
September 20. I was just hurrying off with Mr. Bright when I wrote the two lines of post-script in my letter this morning, in answer to your note,—so like you; so tender and kind. Since I must go away, I ought not to have said a word; but you must ascribe what I said and say to infinite love only; for it is only because of this that I do not look forward with delight to a winter in Lisbon with the O'Sullivans. I could not be happy if you made any sacrifice for me; and as our interests are indissoluble, it would be my sacrifice, too. So I will be good, and not distress you with more regrets. I once thought that no power on earth should ever induce me to live without you, and especially thought that an ocean should never roll between us. But I am over-powered by necessity; and since my life is of importance to you, I will not dare to neglect any means of preserving it.
This morning baby was dressed in a beautiful embroidered white frock and blue sash, blue kid shoes, laced with blue ribbon, and blue silk sack fastened with a blue girdle, and a hat trimmed with blue and gray. Her long curls streamed out beneath: She was thus arrayed to visit Portland Place and the Sturgis children. Una looked very lovely in her summer cloud-muslin.
Mr. Bright came at twelve o'clock, bringing five or six superb photographs of Cologne; I never saw any so splendid. Then we started for the Crystal Palace. It has been one of the divinest days—one of our days, like that at Stratford-on-Avon.' When we got into the cab, however, Mr. Bright proposed to go to the Houses of Parliament first, and then at last concluded to give up the Crystal Palace, and see the sights of London instead. So we drove to the old St. James's Palace Yard. But a police-officer said we could only go in on Saturday, and then by a ticket from the Lord Chamberlain. I knew that, but supposed Mr. Bright had some other means of gaining admittance. He had not, nevertheless. He took us (Julian was with me) over Westminster Bridge. . . . We went into the Photographic Exhibition of persons and places at the Crimea, which was just like taking up groups of the army and putting them before one's eyes. It must be of wonderful interest to the relatives and friends of those who are there. The room was full of fine-looking, aristocratic people. From this we drove to Kensington Gardens; and I must say, my dear lord, that I never imagined any place so grand and majestic, so royal and superb, as those grounds. The trees—oh, the trees—every one of them kings, emperors, and Czars; so tall, so rich, and the lawn beneath them so sunny-velvet green, all made illustrious by the clearest warm sunshine, and a soft, sweet air. The magnificent groves of trees all round; and far off in the terminus, the towers and pinnacles of the Parliament Houses, and Westminster Abbey towers, rise into the clear sky over the blue waters of the Serpentine. A pretty yacht, with one white wing, slowly moved along. Large, princely lambs grazed on the sunny lawns. I think that thou wouldst have asked no more in the way of a park. We sat down on a felled tree and talked awhile. I would almost give a kingdom to sit on the tree again, with thee. Was not Mr. Bright good and lovely to devote his only whole day in London to me? He certainly is the most amiable and hospitable of mortals. THY DOVE.
My mother writes of Miss Bacon, who put Lord Bacon in that place in her heart where Shakespeare should have been:—
MY DEAREST,—I have been reading Miss Bacon's manuscript this afternoon, and it is marvelous. She reveals by her interpretation of Lord Bacon more fully to me what I already divined dimly of the power of Christ over nature; and it is the first word that I have found spoken or written which is commensurate with my actual idea. I felt as if I wanted to take this manuscript and all the others, and run off to some profound retreat, and study it all over, and reproduce it again with my own faculties. Oh, that I could read them with you! I almost begin to love the pain with which I delve after the thoughts presented in such a close and difficult handwriting.
To Miss Peabody:—
"Miss Bacon cannot speak out fairly [upon the subject of Bacon and Shakespeare], though there is neither the Tower, the scaffold, nor the pile of fagots to deter her. But she is a wonder and a benefactor,— and let us not criticise her style; or rather, it is no matter whether we did or not, so much remains for her. I did not see her. I was just going to take Una and call upon her, when she went to Stratford.
"I hope Mr. Plumly has not forgotten his project of beneficence [towards her]. It must be a foretaste of heaven to have money to give away."