London, July 8, 1864
What do you say to the news you’ve been sending us for a week back? Grant repulsed. Sherman repulsed. Hunter repulsed and in retreat. Gold, 250. A devilish pretty list, portending, as I presume, the failure of the campaign. To read it has cost me much in the way of mental consumption, which you can figure to yourself if you like. And now what is to be the end? “Contemplate all this work of time.” We have failed, let us suppose! The financial difficulty, a Presidential election, and a disastrous campaign are three facts to be met. Not for us to meet, but for the nation, our own share being very limited. Ebbene! Dana’s idea a year ago of throwing off New England is, I suppose, no longer practicable. But what is practicable seems to be a summary ejection of us gentlemen from our places next November, and the arrival of the Democratic party in power, pledged to peace at any price. This is my interpretation of the news which now lies before us. . . .
Lucky is it for us that all Europe is now full of its own affairs. The fate of this Ministry seems to be pretty nearly decided, so far as Parliament can decide it, without an appeal to the people. The division takes place tonight and the excitement in society is tremendous. Every one who has an office, or whose family has an office, is in a state of funk at the idea of losing it, and every one who expects an office is brandishing the tomahawk with frightful yells over his trembling victim. As for the degree of principle involved, I have not yet succeeded in seeing it. The nation understands it in the same way, as a struggle by one set of incapable men to keep office, and by another set of ditto to gain it.
Society is almost silent among the hostile warriors. I breakfasted with Lord Houghton last Wednesday and what do you think was the subject of conversation? Bokhara and the inhabitants of central Asia. Some twenty prominent people discussed nothing but Bokhara, while all Europe and America are on the high road to the devil. And a delightful breakfast it was to me who am weary with long mental and concealed struggles for hope. I revelled in Tartaric steppes, and took a vivid interest in farthest Samarcand. . . .
