London is emptying itself, and the relief will be great in a certain way; for one gets exhausted sometimes. Let me remember whom I have seen. Mrs. Newton Crosland, who spoke of you very warmly; Miss Mulock, who wrote 'The Ogilvies' (that series of novels), and is interesting, gentle, and young, and seems to have worked half her life in spite of youth; Mr. Field we have not seen, only heard of; Miss ----, no--but I am to see her, I understand, and that she is an American Corinna in yellow silk, but pretty. We drove out to Kensington with Monckton Milnes and his wife, and I like her; she is quiet and kind, and seems to have accomplishments, and we are to meet Fanny Kemble at the Procters some day next week. Many good faces, but the best wanting. Ah, I wish Lord Stanhope, who shows the spirits of the sun in a crystal ball, could show us _that_! Have you heard of the crystal ball?[14] We went to meet it and the seer the other morning, with sundry of the believers and unbelievers--among the latter, chief among the latter, Mr. Chorley, who was highly indignant and greatly scandalised, particularly on account of the combination sought to be established by the lady of the house between lobster salad and Oremus, spirit of the sun. For my part, I endured both luncheon and spiritual phenomena with great equanimity. It was very curious altogether to my mind, as a sign of the times, if in no other respect of philosophy. But I love the marvellous. Write a word to me, I beseech you, and love me and think of me, as I love and think of you. God bless you. Robert's love. Your ever affectionate BA. * * * * * _To Mrs. Jameson_ 58 Welbeck Street: Tuesday, [July-October 1852]. Dearest Monna Nina,--Here are the verses. I did them all because that was easiest to me, but of course you will extract the two you want. It has struck me besides that you might care to see this old ballad which I find among my papers from one of the Percy or other antiquarian Society books, and which I transcribed years ago, modernising slightly in order to make out some sort of rhythm as I went on. I did this because the original poem impressed me deeply with its pathos. I wish I could send you the antique literal poem, but I haven't it, nor know where to find it; still, I don't think I quite spoilt it with the very slight changes ventured by me in the transcription. God bless you. Let us meet on Wednesday. Robert's best love, with that of your ever affectionate BA. STABAT MATER Mother full of lamentation, Near that cross she wept her passion, Whereon hung her child and Lord. Through her spirit worn and wailing, Tortured by the stroke and failing, Passed and pierced the prophet's sword. Oh, sad, sore, above all other, Was that ever blessed mother Of the sole-begotten one; She who mourned and moaned and trembled While she measured, nor dissembled, Such despairs of such a son!