A call, this morning, at the Consulate, from Dr. Bowrug, who is British
minister, or something of the kind, in China, and now absent on a
twelvemonth's leave. The Doctor is a brisk person, with the address of a
man of the world,--free, quick to smile, and of agreeable manners. He
has a good face, rather American than English in aspect, and does not
look much above fifty, though he says he is between sixty and seventy. I
should take him rather for an active lawyer or a man of business than for
a scholar and a literary man. He talked in a lively way for ten or
fifteen minutes, and then took his leave, offering me any service in his
power in London,--as, for instance, to introduce me to the Athenaeum
Club.


August 8th.--Day before yesterday I escorted my family to Rock Ferry, two
miles either up or down the Mersey (and I really don't know which) by
steamer, which runs every half-hour. There are steamers going
continually to Birkenhead and other landings, and almost always a great
many passengers on the transit. At this time the boat was crowded so as
to afford scanty standing-room; it being Saturday, and therefore a kind
of gala-day. I think I have never seen a populace before coming to
England; but this crowd afforded a specimen of one, both male and female.
The women were the most remarkable; though they seemed not disreputable,
there was in them a coarseness, a freedom, an--I don't know what, that
was purely English. In fact, men and women here do things that would at
least make them ridiculous in America. They are not afraid to enjoy
themselves in their own way, and have no pseudo-gentility to support.
Some girls danced upon the crowded deck, to the miserable music of a
little fragment of a band which goes up and down the river on each trip
of the boat. Just before the termination of the voyage a man goes round