that, between us, we have not fewer than seven. For relics, that's
a good many! We are all writing very long letters--or at least we
are writing a great number. There is no news of the Bay as yet.
Mr. Antrobus, mamma's friend, opposite to me, is beginning on his
ninth. He is an Honourable, and a Member of Parliament; he has
written, during the voyage, about a hundred letters, and he seems
greatly alarmed at the number of stamps he will have to buy when he
arrives. He is full of information; but he has not enough, for he
asks as many questions as mamma when she goes to hire apartments.
He is going to "look into" various things; he speaks as if they had
a little hole for the purpose. He walks almost as much as I, and he
has very big shoes. He asks questions even of me, and I tell him
again and again that I know nothing about America. But it makes no
difference; he always begins again, and, indeed, it is not strange
that he should find my ignorance incredible. "Now, how would it be
in one of your South-Western States?"--that's his favourite way of
opening conversation. Fancy me giving an account of the South-
Western States! I tell him he had better ask mamma--a little to
tease that lady, who knows no more about such places than I. Mr.
Antrobus is very big and black; he speaks with a sort of brogue; he
has a wife and ten children; he is not very romantic. But he has
lots of letters to people la-bas (I forget that we are just
arriving), and mamma, who takes an interest in him in spite of his
views (which are dreadfully advanced, and not at all like mamma's
own), has promised to give him the entree to the best society. I
don't know what she knows about the best society over here today,
for we have not kept up our connections at all, and no one will know
(or, I am afraid, care) anything about us. She has an idea that we
shall be immensely recognised; but really, except the poor little
Rucks, who are bankrupt, and, I am told, in no society at all, I