possession of William J. A. Bliss" src="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@1936@1936-h@images@p34s.jpg" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}img"/>

We have struck up a great friendship with Miss Murray, the Queen’s Maid of Honor, who paid me a visit of three hours to-day, in the midst of which came in Colonel Estcourt, whom I was delighted to see, as you may suppose.  Miss Murray is to me a very interesting person, though a great talker; a convenient fault to a stranger.  She is connected with half the noble families in England, is the grand-daughter of the Duchess of Athol, who governed the Isle of Man as a queen, and the descendant of Scott’s Countess of Derby.  Though sprung of such Tory blood, and a maid of honor, she thinks freely upon all subjects.  Religion, politics, and persons, she decides upon for herself, and has as many benevolent schemes as old Madam Jackson.

I returned the visit of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, the painter, this week, and saw the picture he is now painting for the Vice-Chancellor.  It is a sketch of children, a boy driving his two little sisters as horses.  One of the little girls is very like Susie, [37] her size, hair, and complexion.  How I longed to be rich enough to order a copy, but his pictures cost a fortune.  I paid also a visit this week to the Duchess of Inverness, whom I found in the prettiest, cosiest morning boudoir looking onto the gardens of the Palace.  In short, I do, or see, every hour, something that if I were a traveller only, I could make quite a story of.

To W. D. B. and A. B.

London, January 1, 1847.

My dear Sons: . . .  I wrote my last sheet on the 19th and your father went on that day to Cambridge to be present at the tri-centennial celebration of Trinity College . . . He went also the day after the anniversary, which was on our 22nd December, to Ely, with Peacock, the great mathematician, who is Dean of Ely, to see the great cathedral there . . . While he was at Cambridge I passed the evening of the 22nd at Lady Morgan’s, who happened to have a most agreeable set . . . Lady Morgan’s reunions are entertaining to me because they are collections of lions, but they are not strictly and exclusively fashionable.  They remind me in their composition from various circles of Mrs. Otis’s parties in Boston.  We have in this respect an advantage over the English themselves, as in our position we see a great variety of cliques.

For instance, last evening, the 31st, I took Louisa, at half-past seven, to the house of Mr. Hawes, an under Secretary of State, to see a beautiful children’s masque.  It was an impersonation of the “Old Year” dressed a little like Lear with snowy hair and draperies.  Old Year played his part inimitably, at times with great pathos, and then introducing witty hits at all the doings of his reign, such as exploding cotton, the new planet, a subject which he put at rest as “far beyond our reach,” etc., etc.  He then introduced one by one the children of all ages as “Days” of the coming year.  There was Twelfth Day, crowned as Queen with her cake in her hands; there was Christmas, covered with holly and mistletoe; there was April Fool’s Day, dressed as Harlequin; there was, above all, Shrove Tuesday, with her frying-pan of pancakes, dressed as a little cook; there was a charming boy of fourteen or fifteen, as St. Valentine’s Day with his packet of valentines addressed to the young ladies present; there was the 5th of November, full of wit and fun, etc.; the longest day, an elder brother, of William’s height, with a cap of three or four feet high; and his little sister of five, as the shortest day.  This was all arranged to music and each made little speeches, introducing themselves.  The Old Year, after introducing his successors, and after much pathos, is “going, going—gone,” and falls covered with his drapery, upon removing which, instead of the lifeless body of the Old Year, is discovered a sweet little flower-crowned girl of five or six, as the New Year.  It was charming, and I was so pleased that, instead of taking Louisa away at nine o’clock as I intended, I left her to see “Sir Roger de Coverly,” in the dress of his time.

Last night at Mr. Putnam’s, I met William and Mary Howitt, and some of the lesser lights.  I have put down my pen to answer a note, just brought in, to dine next Thursday with the Dowager Countess of Charleville, where we were last week, in the evening.  She is eighty-four (tell this to Grandmamma) and likes still to surround herself with beaux and belles esprits, and as her son and daughter reside with her, this is still easy . . . The old lady talks French as fast as possible, and troubles me somewhat by talking it to me, forgetting that a foreign minister’s wife can talk English . . . Your father likes to be here.  He has copying going on in the State Paper Office and British Museum, and his heart is full of manuscripts.  It is the first thought, I believe, whoever he sees, what papers are in their family.  He makes great interest with even the ladies sometimes for this purpose.  Upon the whole, I love my own country better than ever, but whether I shall not miss, upon my return, some things to which I am gradually getting accustomed, I have yet to learn.  The gratification of mixing constantly with those foremost in the world for rank, science, literature, or all which adorns society is great, but there is a certain yearning toward those whose habits, education, and modes of thought are the same as our own, which I never can get over.  In the full tide of conversation I often stop and think, “I may unconsciously be jarring the prejudices or preconceived notions of these people upon a thousand points; for how differently have I been trained from these women of high rank, and men, too, with whom I am now thrown.”  Upon all topics we are accustomed to think, perhaps, with more latitude, religion, politics, morals, everything.  I like the English extremely, even more than I expected, and yet happy am I to think that our own best portions of society can bear a comparison with theirs.  When I see you I can explain to you the differences, but I think we need not be ashamed of ourselves.

To I. P. D.

London, January 2, 1847.

My dear Uncle: . . . I refer you to my letters to my boys, for all the new persons and places we may have seen lately, while I give you for Aunty’s amusement a minute account of my visit into the country at Mr. Bates’s, where things are managed in a scrupulously English manner, so that it will give her the same idea of country life here, as if it were a nobleman’s castle.  Our invitation was to arrive on Thursday, the day before Christmas, to dine, and to remain until the following Tuesday morning.  His place is at East Sheen, which receives its name from the Anglo-Saxon word for beauty.  It adjoins Richmond Park, beyond which is the celebrated Richmond Hill, Twickenham, Kew, etc., etc. . . . We arrived at East Sheen at half-past five; but I ought first to mention the preparations for a country excursion.  Our own carriage has, of course, no dickey for my maid, or conveniences for luggage, so we