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.
At the first stop she wrote to her father as follows:
“DEAR PA: As I knew you would never consent to my marriage with
Lord Hastings, I was wedded to him to-day. I remain yours, etc.”
She wrote also to Chaplin:
“DEAR HARRY: When you receive this, I shall be the wife of Lord
Hastings. Forget yours, very truly,