I have been quite amused with something which has happened lately. It
always has seemed to me that distinguished people here in England live
a remarkably out-door sort of life; and newspapers tell a vast deal
about people's concerns which it is not our custom to put into print
in America. Such, for instance, as where the Hon. Mr. A. is staying
now, and where he expects to go next; what her grace wore at the last
ball, and when the royal children rode out, and what they had on; and
whom Lord Such-a-one had to dinner; besides a large number of
particulars which probably never happen.
Could I have expected dear old England to make me so much one of the
family as to treat my humble fortunes in this same public manner? But
it is even so. This week the Times has informed the United Kingdom
that Mrs. Stowe is getting a new dress made!--the charming old
aristocratic Times, which every body declares is such a wicked paper,
and yet which they can no more do without than they can their
breakfast! What am I, and what is my father's house, that such
distinction should come upon me? I assure you, my dear, I feel myself
altogether too much flattered.
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