That last fib was truly sublime, and the name of Cassabianca pales before that of one who obeyed fraternal commands to the letter, and tried to love his duty, heavy as it was. If, as has been sometimes predicted, England had gone under just then, it might truly have been said,—
Though prince and peer and poet rare
Were sunk among the piles,
The noblest man who perished there
Was faithful W. N——s.
The sight-seeing fever raged fiercely at first, and the flock of Americans went from Windsor Castle to the Tower of London, from Westminster Abbey to Madame Taussaud's Waxwork Show, with a vigour that appalled the natives. They would visit two or three galleries in the morning, lunch at Dolly's (the dark little chop-house which Johnson, Goldsmith, and the other worthies used to frequent in the good old times), go to Richmond in the afternoon and dine at the 'Star and Garter,' or to Greenwich and eat 'white baits fish,' as the Russian called that celebrated dish, and finish off the evening at some theatre, getting home at midnight, in a procession of two cabs and a hansom.
When the first excitement was over, Lavinia and Matilda took a turn at society, having friends in London. Amanda could not conquer her prejudices sufficiently to accompany them, and, falling back on the climate as her excuse, stayed at home and improved her mind.
'I feel now like girls in novels. You are the Duchess of Devonshire and I am Lady Maud Plantagenet, going to a ball at Buckingham Palace. I know that I was made to sit in the lap of luxury: it agrees with me so well,' said Matilda, as the two rolled away to Aubrey House in a brougham, all lamps, glass, and satin. Her long blue train lay piled up before her, the light flashed on her best Roman ear-rings, her curls were in their most picturesque array, and—crowning joy of all—cream-coloured gloves, with six buttons, covered her arms, and filled her soul with happiness, because they were so elegant and cost so little, being bought in Rome just after the flood.
Dowager Livy responded gravely from the depths of her silver-grey silk, enlivened with pink azaleas,—
'My child, thank your stars that you are a free-born Yankee, and have no great name or state to keep up. Buckingham Palace is all very well, and I shouldn't mind calling on Mrs. Guelph, or Saxe Coburg, whichever it is, but I much prefer to be going to the house of a Radical M.P., who is lending a hand to all good works. Mrs. T. is a far more interesting woman to me than Victoria, for her life is spent in helping her fellow-creatures. I consider her a model Englishwoman—simple, sincere, and accomplished; full of good sense, intelligence, and energy. Her house is open to all, friend and stranger, black and white, rich and poor. Great men and earnest women meet there; Mazzini and Frances Power Cobbe, John Bright and Jean Ingelow, Rossetti the poet, and Elizabeth Garrett the brave little doctor. Though wealthy and living in an historical mansion, the host is the most unassuming man in it, and the hostess the simplest dressed lady. Their money goes in other ways, and the chief ornament of that lovely spot is a school, where poor girls may get an education. Mrs. T. gave a piece of her own garden for it, and teaches there herself, aided by her friends, who serve the poor girls like mothers and sisters, and help to lift them up from the slough of despond in which so many sink. That beats anything you'll find in Buckingham Palace, sister Mat.'