Believe me, my dear Mr. Hawthorne,
"Yours very truly,
"DUFFERIN."
"CLANDEBOYE, HOLYWOOD."
Now have I not given you a fine feast of homage,--"flummery" Mr.
Hawthorne calls it?
To-morrow is Thanksgiving Day. We are going to observe it in memory of
the fatherland. Mr. Bright will dine with us by his own invitation,
not knowing it was a festival day with us. He has long been projecting
a visit, and finally proposed coming this week. He will remain all
night, as Sandheys is on the other side of Liverpool, and his mamma
does not wish him to cross the river [usually foggy] in the dark.
The English people, the ladies and gentlemen with whom we have become
acquainted, are very lovely and affectionate and friendly. They seem
lifelong acquaintances. I suppose there is no society in the world
that can quite compare to this. It is all stereotyped, crystallized,
with the repose and quiet in it of an immovable condition of caste.
There is such a simplicity, such an ease, such an entire cordiality,
such sweetness, that it is really beautiful to see. It is only when
looking at the matter outside--or rather out of it--that one can see
any disadvantage or unloveliness. It is a deep and great
question,--this about rank. Birth and wealth often are causes of the
superior cultivation and refinement that are found with them. In this
old civilization there seems to be no jealousy, no effort to alter
position. . . . Provided that the lowest orders could be redeemed from
the brutal misery in which they are plunged, there could be a little
more enjoyment in contemplating and mingling with the higher.
Pages:
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250