This evening we
dined with the Earl of Carlisle. There was no company but ourselves,
for he, with great consideration, said in his note that he thought a
little quiet would be the best thing he could offer.
Lord Carlisle is a great friend to America, and so is his sister, the
Duchess of Sutherland. He is the only English traveler who ever wrote
notes on our country in a real spirit of appreciation.
We went about seven o'clock, the dinner hour being here somewhere
between eight and nine. We were shown into an ante-room adjoining the
entrance hall, and from that into an adjacent apartment, where we met
Lord Carlisle. The room had a pleasant, social air, warmed and
enlivened by the blaze of a coal fire and wax candles.
We had never, any of us, met Lord Carlisle before; but the
considerateness and cordiality of our reception obviated whatever
embarrassment there might have been in this circumstance. In a few
moments after we were all seated, a servant announced the Duchess of
Sutherland, and Lord Carlisle presented me. She is tall and stately,
with a most noble bearing. Her fair complexion, blonde hair, and full
lips speak of Saxon blood.
The only person present not of the family connection was my quondam
correspondent in America, Arthur Helps. Somehow or other I had formed
the impression from his writings that he was a venerable sage of very
advanced years, who contemplated life as an aged hermit from the door
of his cell.
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