The ladies seem to take it as a matter of course that he should
speculate and gamble at cards, and indeed do anything and everything
he fancied, but they beg him at least to keep to respectable clubs.
He is constantly away. His daughter tries to tempt him home with
the bloom of her hyacinths. 'How they long to see him again!' she
says, 'how greatly have they been disappointed, when, every day, the
journey to Reading has been fruitless. The driver of the Reading
coach is quite accustomed to being waylaid by their carriage.' Then
she tells him about the primroses, but neither hyacinths nor
primroses bring the Doctor away from his cards. Finally, the
rhododendrons and the azaleas are in bloom, but these also fail to
attract him.

Miss Mitford herself as she grows up is sent to London more than
once, to the St. Quintin's and elsewhere. She goes to the play and
to Westminster Hall, she sees her hero, Charles James Fox, and has
the happiness of watching him helped on to his horse. Mr. Romilly
delights her, but her greatest favourite of all is Mr. Whitbread.
'You know I am always an enthusiast,' she writes, 'but at present it
is impossible to describe the admiration I feel for this exalted
character.' She speaks of his voice 'which she could listen to with
transport even if he spoke in an unknown language!' she writes a
sonnet to him, 'an impromptu, on hearing Mr. Whitbread declare in
Westminster Hall that he fondly trusted his name would descend to
posterity.'

'The hope of Fame thy noble bosom fires,
Nor vain the hope thy ardent mind inspires;
In British breasts whilst Purity remains,
Whilst Liberty her blessed abode retains,