earnest, and full of a genial and almost tender kindliness which is delightful to me.  Wild and theoretical in many ways he is of course, but I believe he could not be otherwise than good and noble, let him say or dream what he will.  You are not to confound this visit of ours to Farnham with the ‘sanitary reform’ picnic (!) to the same place, at which the newspapers say we were present.  We were invited—­that is true—­but did not go, nor thought of it.  I am not up to picnics—­nor down to some of the company perhaps; who knows?  Don’t think me grown, too, suddenly scornful, without being sure of the particulars....

Mr. Tennyson has a little son, and wrote me such three happy notes on the occasion that I really never liked him so well before.  I do like men who are not ashamed to be happy beside a cradle.  Monckton Milnes had a brilliant christening luncheon, and his baby was made to sweep in India muslin and Brussels lace among a very large circle of admiring guests.  Think of my vanity turning my head completely and admitting of my taking Wiedeman there (because of an express invitation).  He behaved like an angel, everybody said, and looked very pretty, I said myself; only he disgraced us all at last by refusing to kiss the baby, on the ground of his being ‘troppo grande.’  He has learnt quantities of English words, and is in consequence more unintelligible than ever.  Poor darling!  I am in pain about him to-day.  Wilson goes to spend a fortnight with her mother, and I don’t know how I shall be comforter enough.  There will be great wailing and gnashing of teeth certainly, and I shall be in prison for the next two weeks, and have to do all the washing and dressing myself....

Your ever affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

To Miss Mitford

58 Welbeck Street:  Saturday, September 14, 1852 [postmark].

My dearest Miss Mitford,—­I am tied and bound beyond redemption for the next fortnight at least, therefore the hope of seeing you must be for afterwards.  I dare say you think that a child can be stowed away like other goods; but I do assure you that my child, though quite capable of being amused by his aunts for a certain number of half-hours, would break his little heart if I left him for a whole day while he had not Wilson.  When she is here, he is contented.  In her absence he is sceptical about happiness, and suspicious of complete desolation.  Every now and then he says to me, ‘Will mama’ (saying it in his pretty, broken, unquotable language) ‘go away and leave Peninni all alone?’ He won’t let a human being touch him.  I wash and dress him, and have him to sleep with me, and Robert is the only other helper he will allow of.  ‘There’s spoiling of a child!’ say you.  But he is so good and tender and sensitive that we can’t go beyond a certain line.  For instance, I was quite frightened about the effect of Wilson’s leaving him.  We managed to prepare him as well as we could, and when he found she was actually gone, the passion of grief I had feared was just escaped.  He struggled with himself, the eyes full of tears, and the lips quivering, but there was not any screaming and crying such as made me cry last year on a like occasion.  He had made up his mind.