Nothing but a bird's note ever breaks our
stillness. The air is full of mignonette, roses, and wallflowers. It
is autumn; but the grass and foliage are like those of early spring or
summer.
In Manchester, which we have lately visited, I found that the foul air
of the manufactories made me cough more, and the moment Mr. Hawthorne
perceived it, he decided to come away. Nothing but the Palace of Art
would ever have made us think of being one hour in such a nasty old
ugly place. I could never be weary of looking at some of the
masterpieces, to the end of my clays. I should think the Good Shepherd
would convert the Jew, Baron L. R., to Christianity; for it is his.
No words can possibly do justice to that, or to the Madonna in Glory.
. . .
September 12. To-day we went to Kenilworth. There was not blue sky
enough to encourage Mr. Hawthorne at first; but at eleven o'clock we
set forth in very good sunshine, and delicious air. By a short turn
out of our Circus we came into a street called Regent's Grove, on
account of a lovely promenade between noble trees for a very
long-distance, almost to the railroad station; and Una and I walked
that way, leaving Mr. Hawthorne and Julian to follow, as we wished to
saunter. They overtook us, having gone down the Parade, which is the
principal street, containing hotels and shops; and it crosses at right
angles Warwick Street, which reaches for several miles, until it
arrives at Warwick Castle itself.
The bright greens of England seem to be lined with gold; and in the
autumn, the leaves merely turn their golden linings.
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