heard father and Mr. S.
exulting over his foreign despatches by our home fireside.

The Marquis of Lansdowne now entered. He is about the middle height,
with gray hair, blue eyes, and a mild, quiet dignity of manner. He is
one of those who, as Lord Henry Pettes, took a distinguished part with
Clarkson and Wilberforce in the abolition of the slave trade. He has
always been a most munificent patron of literature and art.

There were present, also, Lord John Russell, Mr. Gladstone, and Lord
Grenville. The latter we all thought very strikingly resembled in his
appearance the poet Longfellow. My making the remark introduced the
subject of his poetry. The Duchess of Argyle appealed to her two little
boys, who stood each side of her, if they remembered her reading
Evangeline to them. It is a gratification to me that I find by every
English fireside traces of one of our American poets. These two little
boys of the Duchess of Argyle, and the youngest son of the Duchess of
Sutherland, were beautiful fair-haired children, picturesquely attired
in the Highland costume. There were some other charming children of the
family circle present. The eldest son of the Duke of Argyle bears the
title of the Lord of Lorn, which Scott has rendered so poetical a sound
to our ears.

When lunch was announced, the Duke of Sutherland gave me his arm, and
led me through a suite of rooms into the dining hall. Each room that we
passed was rich in its pictures, statues, and artistic arrangements; a
poetic eye and taste had evidently presided over all. The table was
beautifully laid, ornamented by two magnificent _epergnes_, crystal
vases supported by wrought silver standards, filled with the most
brilliant hothouse flowers; on the edges of the vases and nestling
among the flowers were silver doves of the size of life. The walls of
the room were hung with gorgeous pictures, and directly opposite to me
was a portrait of the Duchess of Sutherland, by Sir Thomas Lawrence,
which has figured largely in our souvenirs and books of beauty. She is
represented with a little child in her arms; this child, now Lady
Blantyre, was sitting opposite to me at table, with a charming little
girl of her own, of about the same apparent age. When one sees such
things, one almost fancies this to be a fairy palace, where the cold
demons of age and time have lost their power.

I was seated next to Lord Lansdowne, who conversed much with me about
affairs in America. It seems