Mr. Gladstone _m'embete_!
Half of them say he is the destruction of England, the other half say he
is the salvation of England. Myself, I don't care the least which he is;
only I know they cannot keep him out of their conversation, one way or
another, for five minutes, which, to an unprejudiced foreigner, is a
_seccatura_. But to-morrow I go down into the country with my
primrose,--all alone; to-morrow she will be mine altogether and
unalterably, and I shall hear nothing about Mr. Gladstone or anything
that is tiresome. Of course you are wondering that I should marry. I
wonder myself; but, then, if I did not marry I should be compelled to
say an eternal _addio_ to the Lenten Lily. She has such a spiked wall
around her of male relatives and family greatness. It is not the convent
wall; there is no ladder that will go over it; one must enter at the big
front door, or not at all. Felicitate me, and yet compassionate me! I am
going to Paradise, no doubt; but I have the uncomfortable doubt as to
whether it will suit me, which all people who are going to Paradise
always do feel. Why? Because we are mortal or because we are sinners? _A
rivederci, cara mia Teresina!_ Write to me at my future Eden: it is
called Coombe-Bysset, near Luton, Bedfordshire. We are to be there a
month. It is the choice of my primrose.

* * * * *

_From the Lady Mary Bruton, Belgrave Square, London, to Mrs. D'Arcy,
British Embassy, Berlin._

The season has been horribly dull; quantities of marriages. People
always will marry, however dull it is. The one most talked about is that
of the Cowes's second daughter, Lady Gladys, with the Prince of San
Zenone. She is one of the beauties, but a very simple girl, quite
old-fashioned, indeed. She has refused Lord Hampshire, and a good many
other people, and then fallen in love in a week with this Roman, who is
certainly as handsome as a picture. But Cowes didn't like it at all; he
gave in because he couldn't help it; but he was dreadfully vexed that
the Hampshire affair did not come off instead. Hampshire is such a good
creature, and his estates are close to theirs. It is certainly very
provoking for them that this Italian must take it into his head to spend
a season in London, and lead the cotillon so beautifully that all the
young women talked of nothing else but his charms.

* * * * *

_From the Lady Mona St. Clair, Grosvenor Square, London, to