ression. He is sometimes
conservative, sometimes reformer, not in the sense of eclecticism, but
because his powers and views do not find a true harmony. On the
conservative side he is scholarly, acute; on the other, pathetic,
pictorial, generous. He is no prophet and no sage, yet a man full of
fine affections and thoughts; always suggestive, sometimes
satisfactory."

Mr. Fox appears to her "the reverse of all this. He is homogeneous in
his materials, and harmonious in the results he produces. He has great
persuasive power; it is the persuasive power of a mind warmly engaged in
seeking truth for itself."

What a leap did our Margaret now make, from Puritanic New England,
Roundhead and Cromwellian in its character, into the very heart of Old
England,--into that London which, in those days, and for long years
after, might have been called the metropolis of the world! Wonders of
many sorts the "province in brick" still contains. Still does it most
astonish those who bring to it the most knowledge. But the social
wonders which it then could boast have passed away, leaving no equals to
take their place.

Charles Dickens was then in full bloom,--Thackeray in full bud. Sydney
Smith exercised his keen, discreet wit. Kenyon not only wrote about pink
champagne, but dispensed it with many other good things. Rogers
entertained with exquisite taste, and showed his art-treasures without
ostentation. Tom Moore, like a veteran canary, chirped, but would not
sing. Lord Brougham and the Iron Duke were seen in the House of Lords.
Carlyle growled and imbibed strong tea at Chelsea. The Queen was in the
favor of her youth, with her handsome husband always at her side. The
Duchess of Sutherland, a beautiful woman with lovely daughters, kept her
state at Stafford House. Lord Houghton was known as Monckton Milnes. The
Honorable Mrs. Norton wore her dark hair folded upon her classic head,
beneath a circlet of diamonds. A first season in London was then a
bewilderment of brilliancy in reputations, beauties, and entertainments.
Margaret did not encounter the season, but hoped to do so at a later
day. For the moment she consoled herself thus:--

"I am glad I did not at first see all that pomp and parade of wealth and
luxury in contrast with the misery--squalid, agonizing, ruffianly--which
stares one in the face in every street of London, and hoots at the gates
of her palaces a note more ominous than ever was that of owl or raven in
the portento