[Manchester—Friday, 20 July 1866]
Friday 20th Dear J. gone to town—a cool soft day. Went to the beach before six and found the tide nearly high, the sun was partly veiled and the sea rocked with a low voiced motion while faint color awaked upon it—a few bathers came to go into the water. All was ineffably calm and sweet with a beauty so vast and inexpressible that the mind sank in awe before it. I saw a flight of wild geese making a V in the air and afterward an N. The dew was cool and held an influence of its own.
The Shannons from Newton and Oliver Lay and [sic] artist have come today on a pic-nic and all the family except myself are away this morning. I do not know them therefore have stayed at home, beside although my mind seems strangely lacking in acuteness or elasticity today I have preferred to stay and keep my stupidity to myself at least, with a half confessed hope too that I may do something to bear witness to myself as a responsible being if only to write these few lines.
The pic-nickers returned to the house early in the afternoon. The elder Miss Shannon a lady of nearly fifty years is a person of fine presence and manner. Her beauty has a calm majesty in its nature and her character a poise which shows she understands her self—holds herself well in leash, as it were.
Oliver Lay is a painter of 21 making these two ladies a visit at their beautiful home in Newton—he is about Lissie B’s height and they went ranging over the pastures like two children hand in hand, his beautiful brown hair (making him look quite as girlish as herself) floating in the wind. I hear he has ability as an artist and industry, we shall see.
