. . .
My mother gives a glimpse of the vicissitudes of the Consulate,--that
precinct which I pictured as an ogre's lair, though the ogre was
temporarily absent, while my father, like a prince bewitched, had been
compelled by a rash vow to languish in the man-eater's place for a
term of years:--
"In the evening Mr. Hawthorne told me that there were suddenly thrown
upon his care two hundred soldiers who had been shipwrecked in the
San Francisco, and that he must clothe and board them and send them
home to the United States. They were picked up somewhere on the sea
and brought to Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne has no official authority to
take care of any but sailors in distress. He invited the lieutenant to
come and stay here, and he must take care of the soldiers, even if the
expense comes out of his own purse." [Later.] "Mr. Hawthorne sent to
Mr. Buchanan (the Ambassador) about the soldiers, and he would share
no responsibility, though it was much more a matter pertaining to his
powers than to a consul. . . . Mr. Hawthorne has supplied them with
clothes and lodgings, and has finally chartered for their passage home
one of the Cunard steamers! Such are his official reverses."
"Last Friday I received a note from the wife of the U. S. Consul at
London, inviting me and the children to go with Mr. Hawthorne to town,
to see the Queen open Parliament. It was such a cordial invitation
that it was nearly impossible to refuse; but we could not go, Mr.
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