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George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 3: (search)
them. . . . . In the evening we had a visit from the kind Chevalier Kestner, after which I passed an hour quietly and agreeably at the Princess Borghese's, where I met the Chigis, Lord Stuart de Rothesay, and only one or two other persons. Lord Stuart, who was thirteen years British Ambassador at Paris, remembered me, and reminded me of a conversation I had with him eighteen years ago, which surprised me very much, as I never saw him but once. December 25.—A rainy, windy, and stormy Christmas, but the first really disagreeable day we have had since we crossed the Alps, above three months ago. . . . . We went comfortably enough to St. Peter's, and having good places there by the kindness of Mr. Kestner, saw the grand mass performed by the Pope, to great advantage . . . . December 26.—. . . . I dined in a gentlemen's party, at Mr. Jones the Bankers, with Mr. Harper, Charles Carroll Harper, of Baltimore. Dr. Bowring, Sir John Bowring. and a Mr. Greg, William R. Greg, a
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 14: (search)
Rhine; and the adoption of De Morny is openly spoken of as a settled thing. It seems as if the worst days of the Roman Empire were come back. It reminds me of a conversation at Chateaubriand's, in 1817,—of which I have a note made at the time,—in which he said, Je ne crois pas à la society Europeenne, going on to show that we were about in the fourth century of the Roman Empire. This adoption looks like it. . . . . To Sir Edmund Head. Boston, December 23, 1855. My dear Head,—Our Christmas greetings are with you. By New Year, if your reckonings are right, you will have your books all arranged, and dear Lady Head will have her drawing-rooms in order, so that both departments will be going on right, and you will be better off for the winter than if you had remained at Quebec. . . . . I have heard Thackeray's four lectures on the four Georges, truculent enough in their general satire,—though not much beyond the last half-volume of Harry Esmond about Queen Anne,—but full