Last evening we were at home to see any Americans who might chance
to come. . . . I make tea in the drawing-room, on a little table
with a white cloth, which would not be esteemed COMME IL FAUT with
us. There is none of the parade of eating in the largest evening
party here. I see nothing but tea, and sometimes find an informal
refreshment table in the room where we put on our cloaks.

I got a note yesterday from the O'Connor Don, enclosing an order to
admit me to the House of Commons on Monday. . . . You will be
curious to know who is "The O'Connor Don." He is Dennis O'Connor,
Esq., but is of the oldest family in Ireland, and the representative
of the last kings of Connaught. He is called altogether the
O'Connor Don, and begins his note to me with that title. You
remember Campbell's poem of "O'Connor's Child"?


Sunday, 14th February


. . . Yesterday morning was my breakfast at Sir Robert Inglis's.
The hour was halfpast nine, and as his house is two miles off I had
to be up wondrous early for me. The weather has been very cold for
this climate for the last few days, though we should think it
moderate. They know nothing of extreme cold here. But, to return
to or breakfast, where, notwithstanding the cold, the guests were
punctually assembled: The Marquis of Northampton and his sisters,
the Bishop of London with his black apron, Sir Stratford Canning,
Mr. Rutherford, Lord Advocate for Scotland, the Solicitor-General
and one or two others. The conversation was very agreeable and I