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

Chapter 18:

• London.
-- letters to Mrs. Ticknor. -- Harrow. -- British Museum reading-room. -- anecdote of Scott. -- W. R. Greg. -- Tocqueille. -- MacAULAYulay. -- Wilson. -- Spanish studies. -- letter to Mr. Prescott. Due d'aumale.

To Mrs. Ticknor.

London, July 3, 1857.

Dearest wife,—I am here safe in gentle Ellen's¹ kind care. I wish I could add that I am easy in my thoughts. . . . . I want to know every hour how you are. I want to seem to do something for you . . . . I wish heartily, half the time, that I had never left the Arago, and sometimes think that the storm in which I escaped over the side of that vessel was a sort of warning to me not to leave it. But there is no use in all this; rather harm. . . . . We² did not reach Southampton till the five-o'clock train had been gone ten minutes. So we made ourselves comfortable, with a mutton-chop and a cup of tea, at an excellent inn there, and at fifteen minutes past seven took the next train, reached London at ten, and Rutland Gate at half past.

Ellen and the Lyells had waited for me till half past 9, and then giving up all hope of me, they went to their respective parties. . . . . At midnight, giving them up in my turn, I went to bed. The first thing yesterday morning I had a note from Ellen, saying that if I intended to accept an invitation—which with others was on the table waiting for me—to go to ‘the Speeches,’ or annual exhibition at Harrow, I must be at breakfast before ten. So I was down in season, and she came immediately after, and received me most sweetly and affectionately; Twisleton followed, with hearty kindness. We breakfasted, and set off for Harrow at once . . . . . After the exercises came lunch, of course, partly in the house of the Principal, Dr. Vaughan,—soon to be a bishop, they say,—and partly under a tent, [358] in beautiful open grounds, the ladies often sitting on the grass, and looking as gay as the flower-beds around them. A good many acquaintances were there,—the Milmans, who asked most kindly for you and Lizzie, the Godleys, etc., etc., besides lots of new acquaintances, the best of whom were Dean Trench and the Adderleys. With these last we drove into town, and I got out as nearly as I could to Harley Street, took a cab, and hurried to the Lyells'. Dear Lady Lyell was dressing to go out, but came down at once, and was as kind and good as ever. So was Sir Charles. But I did not stop long. It was dinner-time for both. . . .

We had nobody at dinner except Professor Brodie, from Oxford, son of Sir Benjamin Brodie, and a good pleasant talker. But after ten I was very sleepy, and Ellen having disappeared, I went to bed. . . . . This morning, however, I find I made a mistake in hurrying off so. Ellen had only gone up stairs to dress in Spanish costume for a fancy ball, and intended to show herself to me before she went. It was a pity I missed it. . . . . I dine to-day with the Lyells,—who still have the Pertz family with them,—and in the evening go to the Horners'. . . . .

I am just setting out for Bates's and the British Museum, so as to begin work first of all. How much there will be of it, or what else I shall do, I cannot yet foresee. But you will know just as fast as I can learn it myself. . . . . I am sorry to write in so bad a hand this morning, but I should not have had time to say half I have done, if I had written carefully and plain. And even now I have not said what I most want to say, and that is, to send my best love and many kisses to darling Lizzie, of whom it seems to me I think more and more, now I think of you both more together. Love to Dexter, of course.

London, July 4, 1857.

When I am alone there seems no way of preventing myself from being assailed by anxious thoughts about you and our home, except by writing to you of all I see and do here; a proceeding which necessarily turns my mind upon what is nearest to me. And so I wrote to you all my leisure yesterday, and so I suppose I shall write to you all my leisure to-day. I left off my hurried despatch just as I was going out . . . . I drove first to Mr. Bates's. ‘He is not in town,’ was the answer of the bowing porter. I was a little disappointed not to begin my business at once; but it is of no great consequence. . . . .

Failing in this I made half a dozen visits. First I went to Lord Fitzwilliam's. He was at home, so were Lady Charlotte and George. [359] . . . . They were all as kind as possible, and made all sorts of inquiries about you; Lady Charlotte really takes it to heart that she misses you again, and sent most affectionate messages to you . . . . I found nobody else at home, but Lord and Lady Stanhope . . . . They were very agreeable, and I stayed and gossiped a good while. . . . . Panizzi, at the British Museum, said that Lord Holland³ had told him I was come, and therefore he felt sure he should see me soon. He carried me at once to the new reading-room, which you know has a magnificent dome, a few feet larger in diameter than that of St. Peter's. The effect of the whole is very fine; the arrangements and details are admirable. . . . . Ellen says it is the finest room she has ever been in. I am not sure but I must say the same; even with the Pantheon fresh in my mind. Certainly I have never seen any room so completely adapted to its grand purpose of intellectual labor for a large number of persons. Indeed, I am much disposed—as I hear others are—to think that Panizzi has succeeded in making it what he boasted to me last year he would make it, namely, a more desirable place for literary work than any man in London can find in his own library, however ample and luxurious that library may be. For only think of having a dozen walking bibliographical indexes,—like Watts, Nichols, and the rest of them,—ready, each in his department, to tell you just what books you should ask for out of the million at your command, and then to turn and find an intelligent attendantor even two or three—always ready to bring you whatever you may need . . . . Parnell's tale of Edwin and the Fairy Feast is nothing to it. I intend to have great comfort there, and do a good deal of work.

When I came home, between four and five, I went in to see Lady Theresa, and found her in the midst of a fashionable matinee musicale . . . . She is as winning in her manners as ever, and as attractive. She told me to give her love to you and tell you how much she felt for your anxiety . . . . . She would have had me stay and talk with her when the music should be over, but I excused myself, and told her I would come another time soon.

I dined with the Lyells; nobody at table but solid, good Dr. Pertz and Mrs. Pertz, for they were all to go off—and I too—at a little after nine, the Lyells to the Queen's concert, and the rest of us to Mrs. Horner's. The dinner was pleasant, a little learned, a little gay, and altogether sensible. . . . .

The party at Mrs. Homer's was just like the one you and I went [360] to there last year. We had Gibson and Lady Bell, Edward Bunbury, Colonel Lyell, and perhaps a dozen more. . . . . Lady Bell and Mrs. Horner sent you abundance of affectionate messages. I talked a good deal with Richardson, Scott's old friend, who appears so largely and pleasantly in the Life by Lockhart. . . . . Telling him how fine I thought Scott's colloquial powers, he answered, ‘Yes, but they were never so fine as when he was having a jolly good time with two or three friends.’ He then described to me what he considered the finest specimen he had ever had of them. It was when nobody was present but Tom Campbell. They dined together at Ton's, in Sydenham, near London,—a very modest little cottage, where I dined in 1815,—and where the scene of this talk was chiefly laid at just about the same period. They dined early, but by ten o'clock, brilliant as the conversation was, Tom was past enjoying it, and nothing remained for them but to carry him up stairs and put him to bed. Scott, however, was neither disturbed nor exhausted, and they two repaired to the village tavern, and ordering beefsteaks and hot brandy-and-water, Scott poured out floods of anecdote and poetry, and talked on till three, when, with undiminished resources and as bright as ever, he reluctantly went to bed. Next morning they were up in good season. Tom came over to them, a little the worse for wear, but not much. Scott talked on, more brilliantly, if possible, than ever. At eleven they had mutton-chops and beer for breakfast, and then all three went off to London, Scott amusing them all the way, as—according to Richardson's account—men were never amused before or since. The whole story is, no doubt, characteristic of the period, as well as of the men. . . . . I was up in good season this morning,—the glorious Fourth,—and gave as many hours as I could hold out to work. I went to the Barings' about business, . . . . did several errands, and then went for four hours to the British Museum. Nothing could be better than the arrangements, and the good-nature with which my rather peculiar case was understood and met. I say peculiar, because, whereas other people want particular books and ask for them, I do not know what I want, except that I want books I have never heard of in old Spanish literature. So kind Mr. Watts took me to the place where they stand, far in one of the recesses of that vast pile of building, and gave me the services of one of his assistants. This person took down and showed me about three hundred and fifty curious volumes, and replaced them all. I was familiar with all but twenty of them. Of these twenty I took the numbers and titles, and shall go on Monday [361] to the grand reading-room, establish myself there, and send for them to examine their contents and make such memoranda about them as I may find expedient. And so I shall go on till I have gone through all the old Spanish books, a collection inferior to my own, but, of course, containing odd and curious things that I do not possess. Thus far, however, I have found nothing of any considerable value, nor indeed anything of extreme rarity . . . .

At home, . . . . I had a long visit from William Greg, and an excellent talk with him . . . .

July 5.—I breakfasted with Greg, having desired him to ask nobody else, as I wanted to have a thorough talk with him. I had it, and enjoyed it very much for two hours. Tell Hillard that he agrees with us exactly about the present position of affairs in America, and understands them better than anybody I have seen since I came from home.

After I came home, we had a visit from Tocqueville, as agreeable as ever. Then I drove out to Macaulay's, who seemed uncommonly glad to see me, and talked after his fashion for half an hour, with great richness and knowledge, chiefly on female beauty, which, by the most curious citations from Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's Letters, from Sir Charles Grandison, Congreve's Plays, and such out of-the-way places, he proved had greatly increased in England since the disappearance of small-pox. It was very amusing, but the first rush, as he comes down upon you, is like a shower-bath, or rather like a waterspout. But you will remember. Only, I think, his manner grows a little more declamatory.

On my way back I stopped at Holland House, and again met Tocqueville, and two or three agreeable people. But I could not stop long. The old house is much altered, and made very luxurious, but I missed things I should have been glad to see in the library, the dining-room, and the drawing-room. Some of it, too, was a little fine, though on the whole it is much improved and better kept. From Holland House I drove to Hallam's. He is little altered since last year, dines out sometimes, he told me, with old friends, and talks as fast as ever. . . . . He asked me to dine for Tuesday, but I am engaged, and as he goes out of town in a few days, I may not see him again. He said that he is just upon eighty years old . . . .

I dined with Mr. Wilson, a member of Parliament, Financial Secretary of the Treasury, owner, and formerly editor, of the ‘Economist,’ and the person on whom the government depends in questions of banking and finance. He never reads a book; he gets all his [362] knowledge from documents and conversation, as Greg tells me, that is, at first hand. But he talks uncommonly well on all subjects; strongly, and with a kind of original force, that you rarely witness. He has a young wife, and three nice, grown — up daughters, who, with Greg, a barrister,—whose name I did not get,—one other person, and myself, filled up a very luxurious table, as far as eating and drinking are concerned. And who do you think that other person was? Nobody less than Madame Mohl;⁴ who talked as fast and as amusingly as ever, full of good-natured kindness, with a little subacid as usual, to give it a good flavor. The young ladies Greg accounts among the most intelligent of his acquaintance, and they certainly talk French as few English girls can; for Tocqueville came in after dinner, and we all changed language at once,⁵ except the Master, who evidently has but one tongue in his head, and needs but one, considering the strong use he makes of it . . . . Mad. Mohl was very kind about you, and assured me that I might consider Lizzie quite well by this time. My heart aches to think that I can't. But patience. To-morrow, letters will come. If they could only come from the middle of the Atlantic too!

July 6.—No letters! no steamer! I waited till the last moment this morning, hoping Ellen's would come before I went to breakfast with Macaulay. The postman brought sundry notes of no regard, but no letters. . . . .

The breakfast at Macaulay's was very agreeable. I suppose I ought to say very brilliant. We had just nine persons. . . . . Senior, Tocqueville, Lord Stanley, Lord Glenelg, Lord Roden, Lord Granville, and Lord Stanhope, with the Master and myself, made up Horace Walpole's number. We all walked for half an hour on the beautiful lawn behind the house, talking in squads, English where Macaulay was, French for Tocqueville's humor . . . . . The whole breakfast was very agreeable. We talked about everything, and wearied with nothing, ending with another half-hour on the lawn, in rich sunshine, where I talked all the time with Lord Granville. . . . . At half past 12 I drove to the British Museum, and worked there four hours most satisfactorily . . . . . After this I made a few visits.

. . . . I had just time, on returning home, to dress for dinner at Lord Fitzwilliam's. The family portion of the party was large, as [363] you might expect. But beside this we had Wilde, a Queen's Counsel of eminence; Lord Monteagle, an excellent talker; Lord Burlington, a man of known ability, but shy; and Bouverie and his wife. . . . . The conversation was good and strong, chiefly in the hands of Lord Monteagle,—Spring Rice,—who continued it afterwards in the saloon, where we became so animated that I did not get home till half past 11.

July 7.—. . . Ellen had a breakfast-party this morning; Senior, Merivale, Godley,—our old friend,⁶—Adderley, Trench,—Dean of Westminster in place of poor Buckland, one of the men I am most glad to meet,—and Sparks. . . . . The talk was excellent. Ellen was charming at the head of her own table. . . . .

July 8.—The letters came this morning by the early post. Thank Heaven, everything was right on the 22d of June. I hope I feel grateful in some degree as I should, but it seems impossible. And now I must wait till I can hear from you, and that will be a long time; two passages across the unsociable ocean. But you have made two thirds of one of them . . . .

Sir Edmund Head came in immediately after breakfast.⁷ . . . . He is looking very well, and says he is better than he has been for many years . . . . . He is to come again to-morrow morning, and I shall go with him to Lady Head, and he with me afterwards to the British Museum .

I went to the Duchess of Argyll's party . . . . . There were a good many people there whom I knew, more than I expected, and I had a very good time. The Lyells, Lord Burlington,—who is to be Duke of Devonshire, and is fit to be,—Stirling, Lord and Lady Wensleydale, Mrs. Norton, and I suppose a dozen more.

July 9.—We had a most delightful breakfast at Twisleton's this morning: Tocqueville, Sir Edmund Head, Senior, Stirling, Lord Glenelg, Lord Monteagle, Merivale,--again, and I was glad of it,—Sir George Lewis, and Lord Lansdowne,—a little older than he was last year. The talk was admirable, and I was struck anew with the abundance of Lewis's knowledge; but I have not time to tell you, and only see how many pages I have written. I went home with Head, and was most kindly, even affectionately, received by Lady. Head, who could not say too much of her regret at not seeing you . . . . . We then went to Stirling's, and looked over his pictures and things, very [364] curious, rich, and rare, and I worked a little among his Spanish books, and mean to work more, for there are good things among them. . . . .

From Stirling's, Head and I went to the British Museum, where, as he truly said, it was amusing enough that I should lionize him. But he had not been there, of course, for five years, since which everything is changed. He agreed with all whom I have heard speak of it, that the reading-room is the finest room in Europe, taking out churches. I am more and more impressed with it. I then made some calls, finding no one at home but Lord Ashburton, with whom I had a very interesting talk; then, after a walk for exercise with Twisleton, in Kensington Gardens,—the first I have been able to take since I came to London,—we passed a quiet and happy evening together, having refused to go to Milnes',⁸ lest we should all be quite worn out with dinners.

I cannot tell you how kind, gentle, and loving Ellen is to me, making me all but happy, and relieving my anxious thoughts more than they could be relieved anywhere else, separated as I am from you all. Nor can I tell you how much she is liked in society here, the very best of it. . . . . I hear of her on all sides. She is certainly a charming creature, and if I were to fail to love her, I should be very ungrateful.

A good many people come to see me, and I of course return their calls, but I have not time to tell you of them, still less to repeat, as I intended to do when I began this volume,. some of their good things . . . .

July 10.—I am invited thrice to breakfast this morning, and although I am sorry to miss Dean Trench, and should have liked the company at Senior's, including Lesseps,—whose father I knew at Lisbon in 1818,—yet I rather think I am in luck in being first engaged to Lord Stanhope . . . . . The breakfast was first-rate in all points, company and talk. Lady Evelyn Stanhope was the first person I saw,—young, pretty, unmarried. . . . . The next was Tocqueville; . . . . then came the Lyells, Lord Aberdeen, and Lord Caernarvon, a young nobleman of great fortune and promise, who, a few years ago, carried off the first honors at Oxford. All talked French . . . . . This gave Tocqueville, of course, the advantage, and nobody was sorry for it. He did his best, both with discussion and anecdote, and nobody can do better. The consequence was, that we sat late, two hours and a half; some of us, perhaps, lingering because we remembered that it is Tocqueville's last day. Before we separated, he came up to me [365] and gave me a long message of regrets for you and Anna, . . . . adding, that if either of us want anything in Paris that he can do for us, he shall always be charmed to do it. . . . . I sat next to Lord Aberdeen, and had some very interesting talk with that wise old statesman. Lady Stanhope was charming, as I think she always is, and so was Lady Lyell.

The next three or four hours I spent in hard work at the British Museum, and then went by appointment to the Athenaeum, and was taken by Lord Stanhope to the House of Lords, and placed on the ‘steps of the throne,’—as the place is called, and really is,—to hear a great debate on the ‘Oaths Bill,’ or the bill that should permit Jews to sit in Parliament. . . . . I was in a good neighborhood. Milman stood next to me, and introduced me to Elwin, editor of the ‘Quarterly,’ and I talked with both a good deal. . . . . Sundry of the lords came to the rail, which separated me from their consecrated body, and spoke to me,—Lord Stanhope, Lord Glenelg, Lord Granville, and others. . . . . The debate was very exciting, if not very able, and produced all its effect in that grand hall, so imposing, so suited to its grave purpose. Earl Granville opened the discussion. He is a graceful, fluent speaker, not very powerful, but a man who produces upon you the impression that he is in earnest, and means to be fair. Lord Stanley followed, vehement and subtle, but not persuasive. Then came Lord Lyndhurst, compact, logical, and very exact in his choice of language. These were the three principal speakers. Of the three, Lord Lyndhurst was decidedly the ablest as a debater, and what he said lost none of its force from the circumstance that he is eighty-five years old, and more . . . . . The bill was lost by thirty-four, as was foreseen. But I did not wait for the division; I was too tired. I had given up a pleasant dinner, and at twelve o'clock,—having had not so much as a drop of water since the brilliant breakfast of the morning,—I went to the Athenaeum, ordered mutton-chops and sherry, and enjoyed my dinner, I assure you . . . .

July 11.—I breakfasted tete-á--tete with Mr. Bates, and had a long and very satisfactory conversation with him about the Library. Then I went to Stirling's, and worked in his library two or three hours, till I was obliged to go and make some calls, after which . . . . I came home and rested till it was time to go to dinner at the Lyells', where I had an uncommonly good time with the Heads, and a small party consisting of the Pertzes and two or three others. Ellen and Twisleton were engaged elsewhere, for which I was sorry, for Sir Edmund was in great feather, and very amusing. . . . .

[366]

To W. H. Prescott.

London, July 13, 1857.

dear William,—I must write to you in this hurry-skurry of a London season, if it be only to thank you and dear Susan for your great kindness to our darling Lizzie. It is mentioned in all our letters from home, and sinks into all our hearts. . . . .

I am very busy. I have nearly got through with everything I wish to discuss with Mr. Bates, who continues to entertain most generous purposes towards the Library; and I have done a good deal of work in the British Museum and elsewhere. But I have plenty more to do, and I want to make considerable purchases of books, or at least make arrangements for them. Still, everything will depend on what I may hear.

I am living with the Twisletons, in a most agreeable manner, petted enough to spoil me outright. They live almost next door to Sir George Lewis and Lord Morley,—not forgetting Lady Theresa,— close by Reeve of the ‘Edinburgh Review,’ and within easy distance of Senior, Macaulay, Lord Holland. . . . . But their social position is better than all their surroundings on Hyde Park. . . . . It almost amuses me sometimes to hear such people as old Lord Glenelg, old Lord Monteagle, Lord Ashburton, and your friends Lord and Lady Wensleydale, talk of our own little Ellen, who is really as attractive a lady, and as agreeable, as any I meet in society. As for Lord Lansdowne,—now seventy-seven,—who breakfasted here the other morning, his manners to her showed a mixture of affection and gallantry that it was delightful to witness. Indeed, the sort of admiration I everywhere hear expressed for her is truly remarkable, when you remember that five years ago she was a stranger here, and that this society which now claims her as an ornament is the most exclusive society of London, and the one most reluctant to receive anybody into its intimacy or association.

And speaking of people who are admired, reminds me of Tocqueville, who has been here some time, and, as Senior and Lord Stanhope said the other day,—looking from quite different positions,—he has been decidedly the lion of the season. I have met him quite often, and though he has an English wife, and talks English well enough, he has generally been humored by keeping the conversation in French. Indeed, it was well worth while; for nobody talks as well as he does, not even Villemain or Mignet, who have the more brilliant epigrammatic style of recent fashion, while he talks with the [367] beautiful grace and finish of the ancien regime. Once or twice when Macaulay was present this produced a curious contrast. He —Macaulay, I mean-talked French, indeed, and not bad as to idiom, but it was most amusingly hard and unwieldy, and poured forth, if not as triumphantly as he pours forth his English, yet with the same tone and accent. . . . .

July 14.—Your letter of June 27, addressed to Anna, came this morning. Thank you for it as much as if it were addressed to me, for I have had the full benefit of it. So have sundry of your friends, —as far as good news about you are concerned,—for I read it on my way down to Milman's, where I met the Heads, the Lyells, Macaulay, and Elwin, the editor of the ‘Quarterly,’ all of whom were glad to hear about you. We had a most agreeable breakfast; Macaulay doing, of course, pretty much all the talk, but doing it in a gayer, and even a more droll spirit, than I have known him to do it before. We laughed immoderately sometimes.

Yesterday evening I met a lot more of your friends at Lord Wensleydale's,—the Argylls, Milnes, etc. They all want to know about ‘Philip II.,’ but I can tell them very little. You must come and explain the matter yourself. If you will, you will find as glad a welcome as anybody can have, from as good people as are to be found anywhere. To-day, at dinner, I am to meet Grote. I forget whether you knew him. I mean to find out what he thinks about Philip, for though I do not doubt what his opinion on the whole will be, I am curious to know how he will give it, and it is well worth having in detail.

The condensation of social activity seems to be more absolute than ever this season. Besides invitations to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and all the forms of evening parties, . . . . they have now a sort of tea and talk meetings, with fruit and ices, from four to seven, which they call matinees, . . . . and which I am told are very agreeable, especially when they are given with music, in gardens, . . . . I have been asked to several, but have not yet been able to go. Lady Holland, however, is to give three in the next three weeks, which I hear are likely to be the best of the season, and which, no doubt, will be fine, under those grand old trees in the park round Holland House; where, though I miss some things that I wish had been preserved as records of the past, I find everywhere great improvements, and in excellent taste. To one of these matinees I mean to go. . . . .

Your laurels are very green, and grow fast; perhaps faster on the [368] Continent than they do here. Mignet spoke to me of you nearly every time I saw him, and he knows the value of your labors, for he has himself been employed several years on a history of the sixteenth century, which he evidently intends should be his opus magnum. And a great work it will be if he finishes it in a manner becoming so great a subject; but he gives no sign as to the time when it will be ready for the press, and his health is not strong, especially since the death of his mother last winter, which I hear had a very painful effect upon him. But I am at the end of my paper . . . Yours always,

G. T.

To Mrs. Ticknor.

London, July 13, 1857.

I worked at the British Museum till four o'clock, and had some talk there with Stirling, who comes there almost every day to work for his history of Don John of Austria. But the chief event of the morning for me was a long visit I made, by his invitation, to old Lord Aberdeen; and a very interesting talk I had with him about the politics of Europe and, to some extent, of the United States. I have talked with no man in England who seems to be, on such great matters, so able and wise as he is, or so calm and moderate. . . . .

In the afternoon Henry Taylor came and made me a long visit. He is only in town for the day, passing from Worcestershire to St. Leonard's, where he is to spend the next two months. He is grown quite gray, but otherwise is little changed. He was surprised to find Ellen a kinswoman of ours; and when I told him she was a niece of whom I have always been very fond, he answered instantly, ‘How could you help it? everybody is fond of her.’ This, indeed, is certainly the feeling of a very large, high, and intellectual society, which claims her as one of its ornaments. Godley, who knows a great many people of the best sort in the upper classes, told me the other day that he had never heard a word of anything but praise and love of her, since she had been here. One person, however, he added, objected to her, that she was ‘an admitted paragon, and that paragons were not to his taste.’

At half past 10 in the evening—nobody goes to a party earlier— we went to Lady Wensleydale's, she and Lord Wensleydale being among Ellen's great admirers. A good many people were there, but not a crowd. I talked chiefly with Milnes, Lord Belhaven,—a Scotch Lord,—and the Lord Chancellor and his wife, Lady Cranworth; the [369] latter curious about the rich, large houses in New York. There were more people there that I knew than I expected to find in any London party of the sort.

Tuesday, July 14.—Lizzie's letter of the 28th—30th was my morning benediction. Thank you for it, darling child. . . . . If I could now only get news of your safe and comfortable arrival at home, dearest wife, it seems as if I should be patient. But I do not suppose I shall be till I see you all.

As soon as I had read your letter, dearest Lizzie, I took the rest, . . . . and set off on my travels into the city to breakfast with the Milmans. The rooms were not quite so dark as they were when we breakfasted there a year ago, for the weather is very bright and warm. But even if it had been dull and smoky outside, the company at table would have made everything cheerful, namely, the Lyells, the Heads, Elwin (editor of the ‘Quarterly’), and Macaulay, so that, with the family, we had just ten, which seems to be the general number. Macaulay, of course, did the talking, and certainly he did it well. He was more positively amusing than I have ever heard him, more nearly droll. . . . .

By the time I reached home—four miles, I think—. . . . it was two o'clock, and very hot and close. Reeve, the editor of the ‘Edinburgh Review,’ came in soon afterwards, and I talked with him for nearly an hour. We all dined together, with Mrs. Stanley, a very agreeable, sensible old lady, mother of the Stanley who wrote Arnold's Life . . . . We had Mad. Mohl, Senior, and Grote, the historian, so that there were abundant materials for good talk, and we had it; Grote doing his part rather solemnly, but very well. In the evening Tocqueville came in, passing through London towards home, and so I took leave of him . . . . for the third time, and always sorry to do it. . . . .

July 15.—I worked a good while at Stirling's this morning; but as he gives me leave, very liberally, to bring home with me such books as I want to examine, I did not stop so long as I otherwise should have done, but came home to rest a little. It was lucky I did, for I was but just stretched on the sofa when I was called to the Duc de Broglie and Albert. They have been, as you know, to visit the family of Louis Philippe. . . .. The Duc is one of their counsellors, or, as the Duc d'aumale called him, this afternoon at Lady Holland's, the patriarch in their politics. They are only in town for a part of the day, so that I was really touched with their kindness in coming to see me at all. But on Friday they will be here again for a few [370] hours, and I shall hope to find them just a moment, to thank them. Afterwards I went to see the Lyells, for they go off to-morrow, and I do not want to take leave of them in the midst of a great party, where I am to meet them to-night. I need not tell you I was sorry to bid them good by. They have been as kind and true as they always are . . . .

I then went first to General Fox's,⁹ where I found the same sort of hearty kindness I always have, and where I took one of the party I found lounging there and went to a grand matinee at Holland House. . . . . Nothing of the sort could well be finer. The wind had come round to the north, so that it was cool enough; and, passing through the house, . . . . the company came out into the park, where all the fashionable society of London seemed collected in picturesque groups under the magnificent old oaks, and in the open glades and fine gardens, which are scattered over that superb domain,—a true country scene, such as is found in the rich, quiet parks of the inland counties, brought to the very borders of crowded, bustling, noisy London. Tables were spread with all kinds of refreshments in the open air, and in one of the buildings appropriate to such a spot . . . . a Neapolitan confectioner, with his attendants, making ices and screaming out their qualities and excellences in rhyme and in his native dialect. . . . . Elsewhere there was music, and a little dancing, but not much, though enough to enliven a scene that was the most riant that can be imagined . . . . The cynosure indubitably was Mad. de Castiglione, a Sardinian lady, with all the attributes of Italian beauty added to an English complexion of purest red and white,—generally seeming as unmoved as if she were of marble, but warming to a very beautiful smile when I told her I had lately been at Turin . . . . . She was dressed with good taste, no doubt, but in the extravagance of the French fashion, and looked as if she had just walked out of Watteau's pictures of a garden scene in the time of Louis XV . . . . . Everybody stared at her, and yet, they say, she does not think she is admired here so much as at home, and rather complains of it.

Lady Theresa asked for my arm, and I walked round with her and saw everybody and everything in the most agreeable manner, and gossiped and heard gossip of all kinds, such as belongs to London fashionable society when the season is the fullest, and the movement of everything, like the weird dance in Tam O'Shanter, grows fast and furious.

. . . . At half past 11 Twisleton, Ellen, and I reached Lord [371] Lansdowne's to a great concert. . . . . I could not stop in the concert-room, it was like a steam-bath; but the Queen of Holland was there, sundry other high-mightinesses, and abundance of ladies and old gentlemen, like Lord Glenelg, Lord Monteagle, Lord Lyndhurst, and not a few more, who seemed to thrive in it like hot-house plants. Many others—of whom I was one—stayed in the outer rooms, where were the charming Lady Shelburne, Sir Edmund Head, Sir Henry Holland, and a plenty more people whom it was agreeable to talk to. . . . .

July 17.—When I despatched my letters to you this morning, giving an account of my travel's history down to that moment, I was beginning a regular London day, which I have now just finished at one A. M., without so much fatigue as to prevent me from writing you at least a page. I always do before I go to bed, as I do not think I could go quietly to sleep else, or have a good night. I began at the British Museum three or four hours work, and very interesting work, too, from which I came home with a good many notes, and very dirty hands, from turning over curious old Spanish books. When I had washed and put myself in order I went to Lady Chatterton's, a lady who has written a book about the South of France, and collects a certain portion of fashionable and literary society at her house to hear music and eat ices, drink tea, and talk, from four to six or seven. . . . . Harness was there, Harriet Hosmer, Sir Gardiner Wilkinson, ‘Faust’ Hayward, Barlow, Lady Becher, etc. But I went late and came away early. . . . .

My dinner was at Lord Wensleydale's, where we had Murchison, Lord Caernarvon, the Bishop of London,—very agreeable,—the Laboucheres, Edward Ellice, Lord Brougham, Lady Ebrington, etc. I talked before dinner with Lord Brougham, who seems to grow old as fast as anybody I meet, and who is said to have shown symptoms of age in a speech to-day. . . . .

It was so pleasant that I forgot myself and stayed too late, so that I did not arrive at Senior's, to a musical party, till considerably after eleven o'clock. There I talked a long time with Lord Hatherton, who has just had a day or two from Tocqueville, and who—as well as Lady Hatherton—seemed to share the general admiration he has inspired during his visit here. . . . .

July 18.—Milnes called for me in his open carriage at ten, and we drove through the beautiful country—which is found on almost all sides of London—to Twickenham, for a breakfast at the Duc d'aumale's. His place is called Orleans House, and is one of those rich old places that abound in England. It was once occupied by his [372] father, Louis Philippe, and the Duc—who, you know, has the immense Conde fortune—has filled it up with rare and curious books, inherited pictures, manuscripts, etc., etc., all arranged with admirable taste, so that it is like a beautiful museum. This is inside; outside, an English lawn of many acres, with flower-beds and groups of trees scattered all over it, slopes down to the Thames, and leaves nothing to desire; while belts of wood, that look like a forest, exclude whatever would be disagreeable in the neighborhood.

We had for company Sir John Simeon, Van De Weyer, Milman, Hawtrey, Lord Dufferin, etc., etc. The breakfast—at twelve and a half—was, in fact, a dinner of great luxury and many courses . . . . But it did not occupy much above an hour, and then we went out upon the lawn, walked about, talked gayly, smoked, went into the orangery, greenhouses, and one or two other buildings, which are made repositories for works of art and curiosities.

The Duc is very agreeable, and in rare books one of the most knowing men in England, collecting them with care and at great cost, and cataloguing them with curious notes himself. . . . .

By four o'clock we were in town again, and I went to a matinee at Lady Theresa Lewis's. It was music. The large saloon was full, . . . . the Milmans, Lady Head, Lord and Lady Morley, Mrs. Edward Villiers and her three pretty daughters, Hayward, etc. . . . .

I was now—as you may suppose—well tired, and took a good rest . . . . At half past 8 or nine o'clock—for it comes to that nowadays—I dined with Mr. Bates, and met Sparks and his wife, Cary,—a sensible M. P.,—Sir Gore Ouseley and Lady Ouseley, and a Count and Countess Somebody from Brussels. . . . .

I finished the evening at Lady Palmerston's; that is, I was there from eleven to one, and saw great numbers of distinguished people,— Lord Aberdeen, Mad. de Castiglione,—with her hair creped, and built up as high as it used to be in the time of Louis XV., and powdered and full of ribbons,—the Argylls, the Laboucheres, Lord Clarendon, and most of the ministers, . . . . and ever so many more. Mr. Dallas was there, and introduced me diligently to foreign ambassadors, both Christian and heathen, and to General Williams, the hero of Kars, for which last I was much obliged to him, as the General is a most agreeable person. Lord Palmerston was uncommonly civil. . . . . But I was glad when it was over, I was so tired, though Milnes and Lord Wensleydale thought it was very American to go home so early.

I was, however, richly paid for it, . . . . for on the table in the entry lay, most unexpectedly, dear Lizzie's charming letter of July 6 [373] and 7, which I read through twice without stopping, and then carried to bed with me. . . .

July 19.—Twisleton and I breakfasted with Milnes, and we had Mad. Mohl, Sir John Simeon,—a book-collector whom I met at the Duc d'aumale's and find very pleasant,—General Kmety,—a Hungarian, who flourished much in the last war at home and now flourishes much in society here,—young Harcourt, Lord Stanley, and enough more to make up a dozen. The talk was much about the defection of the Sepoys in Bombay, which begins to trouble them very much. I noticed last night that Lord Clarendon, Lord Palmerston, and two or three of their set, seemed so anxious to put a good face on the matter and keep up a cheerful courage, that I could not help feeling that they must have serious misgivings. Indeed, it cannot be otherwise; and the impression seems to be that there will be angry discussions in Parliament. But this last I take to be uncertain. British pluck will, I think, stand the ministers in good stead on this occasion, as it did in the war with Russia.

I came home before two, and wrote to you and Circourt till four, when I made a very agreeable visit at Holland House, where I went into the old library and turned over a good many curious books, the very positions of which I remembered, so that when Lord Holland mustered up a knowing person and sent him to me,—for I went to the library alone,—I found him useless. Lord and Lady Holland were receiving a good many friends, and I lounged with them some time, after which I made a visit to Macaulay, who lives near, and with whom I had a long and interesting talk about Burke, as we sat on his beautiful lawn, where I found him reading. He said that Burke would have made a good historian, judging from his East India speeches and papers, which were drawn up with great labor, and perfectly accurate in their facts. I doubted, and doubt still. Burke was really made for a statesman and orator, and for nothing else.

In the evening I went to Lord Granville's, having been obliged to refuse an invitation to dine there two days ago. Sir John Acton, who has been to see me twice, but whom I have not before met, was there, having arrived four days ago from the Continent.¹⁰ Both he and his mother, Lady Granville, received me with the greatest kindness. Lord Granville came in soon afterwards, wearing the Star and Garter, because he had been dining with the Queen of Holland. He was followed by Count Bernstorff and his wife, the Prussian Ambassador [374] and Ambassadress, Lord and Lady Clanricarde,—the daughter of Canning,—and a good many more . . .

Lady Clanricarde—of whom, when Lord Granville presented me to her, he said she was among the most brilliant persons in English society—I found a very pleasant talker, but not quite, I thought, up to the character he gave her. I took the most pleasure in Sir John Acton and his mother. Sir John seemed to begin just where he left off in Boston, and to have the liveliest recollection of everything there. He sent many messages to you and Anna and Lizzie, full of regret that he should not see any of you, and told his mother how much kindness he had received from you. She is a person of excellent manners, elegant but not elaborate, talks a great deal, with a slightly foreign accent, and is vigilantly attentive to everybody. . . . . She invited me to come as often as I can, saying she is always at home. . . . .

I shall go if I can, but I have no time at my disposition. At least, it seems so to me; for I cannot do as the English do, go to two or three places after a dinner that does not end till half past 10, because, being a stranger, I must talk some time with each person to whom I am introduced, or else seem uncivil. Besides, I want to talk to them generally.

July 20.—I worked at home till twelve o'clock, and then went about Library affairs, to the booksellers', and then to the British Museum. But on my way I stopped at the famous Bow Street office, where the police of all London is chiefly managed, and where one of the principal officers is Jardine, an old fellow-student at Gottingen forty years ago. He had complained heretofore that I had not been to see him when I had been in London, and two days ago I left my card, which he returned yesterday with a note, begging me to come and see him this morning at the Bow Street office, as he leaves London to-morrow for six weeks. I was glad I went, though I stopped only a few minutes; for he is a good, warm-hearted man, and was evidently pleased that I had remembered him.

From three to six I spent in the library of a Mr. Turner, who has a very beautiful collection of rare old Spanish books, which he did not at all weary of showing me . . . . . I dined with John Chorley, the Spanish scholar, meeting only his brother,—who writes about music, —and Arthur Helps, and we talked on till after midnight with as much interest and in as high a tone as any conversation I have had in Europe. The subjects were of the noblest, the differences of opinion enough to give zest to the discussion, and the men—especially [375] John Chorley—first-rate in knowledge, and the power to illustrate and fortify their positions . . . .

July 21.—. . . . I worked some time in the British Museum, where the way seems lengthening as I go, under the leading of Panizzi and that living index, Watts. . . . . But I am determined not to wear myself out there much more. . . . . I dined at Senior's. . . . . Several interesting people were at table: the Bishop of Hereford, better known as Dr. Hampden; Doyle, the editor of Punch; Colonel Rawlinson.