ith a strange thread of
pathos woven by time into the texture of its absurdity. Poor, little,
lovely reprehensible Madham! Her after-career was not a happy one.

These agreeable persons filled our stuccoed villa full, and gave
poignant addition to the quiet, gray beauty of that English spring. A
year or so later, when my mother's health compelled her to escape to a
warmer climate from fog-ridden Liverpool, she went with my sisters to
Lisbon, where the O'Sullivans were by that time established, and spent
several months with them, and saw all the splendors of the naive but
brilliant little court of Dom Pedro V. She brought home a portfolio
of etchings presented to her, and done by his youthful Majesty; which
indicate that his throne, little as he cared for it, preserved him from
the mortification of failing as an artist.

Early in the winter of the following year (1855), Mr. James Buchanan,
appointed Minister to the Court of St. James, found his way to my
father's retreat in Rock Park. The English winter was a mild affair
compared with our recent experiences of the arctic snows of Lenox; there
was no coasting, and not much snow-balling; but we had the pleasure of
making friends with the English robin-redbreast, a most lovable little
creature, who, every morning, hopped confidingly on our window-sill and
took bread-crumbs almost from our hands. The old American diplomatist
and President that was to be (though he vehemently disclaimed any such
possibility) distracted our attention from robin for a day or two.
He had the aspect, perhaps cultivated for political and democratic
purposes, of a Pennsylvania farmer; he was, I believe, born on a farm in
Franklin County, in that State, at the beginning of the last decade of
the eighteenth century. He was tall and ungainly in figure, though he
bore himself with a certain security and dignity; his head was high
and thinly covered with gray hair; he carried it oddly, a little on
one side; it was said at the time that this was due to his having once
attempted suicide by cutting his throat. His visage--heavy, long, and
noticeable--had the typical traits of the American politician of that
epoch; his eyes were small, shrewd, and twinkling; there was a sort of
professional candor in his bearing, but he looked like a sad and weary
old man. He talked somewhat volubly to my father, who kept him going by
a question now and then, as his way generally was with visitors. There
was a flavor of ru