[Picture: Elizabeth Davis Bancroft. From the painting by C. C. Ingham in the possession of William J. A. Bliss]
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.
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 take a travelling carriage. The imperials (which are large, flat boxes, covering the whole top of the carriage, _capital_ for velvet dresses, and smaller ones fitting into all the seats _in_ the carriage, and _before_ and _behind_) are brought to you the day before. I am merely asked what dresses I wish taken, and that is all I know of the matter, so thoroughly does an English maid understand her business. We were shown on our arrival into a charming room, semi-library.