George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor
George Hillard, Ed.

[395] forty or fifty thousand curious articles in natural history and in art, collected by some of his ancestors, . . . . and greatly increased by himself and his wife in their manifold travellings, and brought into order by his own care. It has, I understand, a considerable reputation with naturalists. . . . .

I went to church in the morning, a mile off, and the weather being as fine as possible, most of us walked. . . . . . The rest of the day I lounged about in the bright, beautiful sunshine with Mr. Percival, Professor Donkin, and Sir Walter . . . . In the evening we were in the saloon, where Sir Walter brought us a great many books to look at, which were new and interesting to me, and which, with his talk about them and Lady Trevelyan's, made the time seem very short. . . . . She is as active-minded, natural, and cordial as she ever was, with ways a little freer, and on that account more agreeable. She said to-day that she was forty-one years old, but she is little changed from what she was when we knew her, and is as charming as any one I have seen for a long time . . . .

Monday, August 17.—After spending a couple of hours in the library, I went with Trevelyan to see his gardens and greenhouses, half a mile off, and, as he truly says, much too large for his establishment. . . . . We have abundant proof daily how fine they are, in the grapes, peaches, figs, etc., that come to the table. Declining a drive, . . . . I walked with Trevelyan to one of his villages, and went into some of the houses, which I found as neat as possible, and talked with three or four of the people, who seemed intelligent, and quicker of comprehension, and more vigilant in observation, than is common to their class here. Except their accent, I might have thought them to be good New-Englanders. . . . .

August 18.—Lady Trevelyan was at work this morning on the plants with which she is ornamenting her music-room. She paints very successfully, and very faithfully. Meantime, with her husband, I turned over above an hundred water-color sketches which she made in Greece, not so remarkable as works of art,—though very good,— but evidently full of truth, and not touched or finished up in the least afterwards. But this was the last of my pleasures in this remarkable establishment, where I have enjoyed so much, for it was time to go. The whole party came with me to the door, . . . . bidding me good by, with many kind wishes that we might meet again, with all sorts of kind messages from the Trevelyans to you at home. Indeed, I very much wished you had been with me there, you would have so enjoyed it.