the most perfect living
miniature of her great-grandmother's majestic beauty. In two curiously
minute, highly finished miniatures of the royal Hindoo personages, her
ancestors, which Mrs. George Siddons gave Miss Twiss (and the latter
gave me), it is wonderful how strong a likeness may be traced to several
of their remote descendants born in England of English parents.

To return to Edinburgh: another intimate acquaintance, or rather friend,
of Mr. Combe's whom I frequently met at his house was Duncan McLaren,
father of the present member of Parliament, the able editor of the
_Scotsman_. Between him and the Combes all matters of public interest
and importance were discussed from the most liberal and enlightened
point of view, and it was undoubtedly a great advantage to an
intelligent girl of my age to hear such vigorous, manly, clear
expositions of the broadest aspects of all the great political and
governmental questions of the day. Admirable sound sense was the
characteristic that predominated in that intellectual circle, and was
brought to bear upon every subject; and I remember with the greatest
pleasure the evenings I passed at Mr. Combe's residence in
Northumberland Street, with these three grave men. Among the younger
associates to whom these elders and betters extended their kindly
hospitality was William Gregory, son of the eminent professor of
chemistry, who himself has since pursued the same scientific course with
equal success and distinction, adding a new luster to the honorable name
he inherited.

Mr. William Murray, my dear Mrs. Harry's brother, was another member of
our society, to whom I have alluded, in speaking of the Edinburgh
Theater, as an accomplished actor; and sometimes I used to think that
was all he was, for it was impossible to determine whether the romance,
the sentiment, the pathos, the quaint humor, or any of the curiously
capricious varying moods in which these were all blended, displayed real
elements of his character or only shifting exhibitions of the peculiar
versatility of a nature at once so complex and so superficial that it
really was impossible for others, and I think would have been difficult
for himself, to determine what was genuine thought and feeling in him,
and what the mere appearance or demonstration or imitation of thought
and feeling. Perhaps this peculiarity was what made him such a perfect
actor. He was a very melancholy man, with a tendency to moody morbidness
of