As I wrote to you on the day after we landed, and told you of the safe arrival of your child in her native country, and of all that I had seen at Falmouth, I will say no more on that subject.
My uncle was so good as to come for me, and Mrs. P——, who had been unceasingly kind and tender to me throughout the whole voyage, gave me into his care. I felt much regret at parting from her, and as I was going amongst relations whom I had never seen, I was the more sorry to lose this good friend; but my uncle made Mrs. P—— promise to visit him at some future time.
We set out very early in the morning from Falmouth, slept one night on the road, and arrived here yesterday evening to tea. My aunt and cousins received me in the most affectionate manner.
I cannot tell you how odd many things in this country seem. In coming here we passed along great wide roads, which are indeed very different from those in Brazil; they are so smooth that the carriage rolled on without impediment, and I was not half as much tired by the journey here as I have been going only from Rio to the Prince’s farm. The whole appearance of the country—the trees, the fields, the roads, the people, the houses, are so different from what I have been accustomed to, that I still feel in a state of constant surprise; but nothing that I see appears so remarkable, as that there are no slaves here—no poor negroes!
Though my aunt and cousins are very good-natured to me, I cannot help feeling a little afraid of them. Indeed, I must confess, though you, who love my uncle so much, will be surprised, that I felt quite a dread of meeting him; but I soon perceived that I was a fool, and that he was as kind and indulgent as you had told me he would be.
On our journey he talked to me of you, dear Mamma, and told me many delightful anecdotes of your youth, when you and he were so happy together. How I do wish your health may soon permit you to return to England, that you may be again with this dear brother.
I am determined to continue my journal regularly; for it will be my greatest pleasure to write every thing that interests me to you and my dear Marianne. I shall sometimes imagine I am speaking to you.
August 6th.—It still seems like a dream to think that I actually am here, where I have so often wished to be.
This place is altered in many respects, I am told, since you saw it last. Some of the old windows are enlarged; new walks are made; and there is a new flower-garden and conservatory, of which my aunt is very fond. Your favourite walk has been preserved quite unchanged. My uncle loves it so much, that he shewed it to me himself, and we sat under your favourite tree, where you and he used to play and read together in those happy times when you were companions.
I sleep in your room, which has the same dear old projecting window, which you described to me,—a half hexagon, with stone divisions, and pretty casement work between.