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." CHAPTER XI ENGLISH DAYS: III Tourist letters describe Wordsworth's house and country at Rydal:-- MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--I had a hope that when I left Rock Park I should be clothed with wings, and be able to write letters and journal and to draw. But I have been particularly wingless during the whole six weeks of our absence, and have clone literally nothing but use my eyes. At Windermere we left Una, Rose, and Nurse at a charming, homelike house, and Mr. Hawthorne, Julian, and I went farther north. We went first to Rydal and Grasmere, and at Grasmere Hotel, which is nearly opposite the grave of Wordsworth, I had set my heart upon writing you a long letter about those sacred places, especially sacred to you, the true lover of Wordsworth. On a most superb afternoon we took an open carriage at Lowood Hotel, where we had been staying for several days, and drove to Grasmere Hotel, where we left our luggage and then drove back to Rydal Water. We alighted just at the commencement of the lake, intending to loiter and enjoy it at leisure. The lake surprised me by its extreme smallness,--in America we should never think of calling it a lake; but it receives dignity from the lofty hills and mountains that embosom it, and I thought it was irreverent in Mr. Hawthorne to say he "could carry it all away in a porringer." It has several very small islands in it, and one rather larger, which is a heronry. The lake and all the parks and grounds around belong to Sir Richard le Fleming, who is Lord of the Manor and of a very ancient family in those regions. We presently came to a fine old crag by the shore, up which were some friendly steps; and we were entirely sure that Wordsworth had often gone up there and looked off upon his beloved