. . Oh
how I wished it had pleased God to plant some little islands as
resting-places in the great waste of waters, some resting station.
But no, we must keep on, on, with everything in motion that your eye
could rest on.
Everything tumbling about . . . We lived through it,
however, and the sun of Sunday morn rose clear and bright. A pilot
got on board about seven and at ten we were in Liverpool.
We are at the Adelphi. Before I had taken off my bonnet Mr. Richard
Rathbone, one of the wealthiest merchants here, called to invite us
to dine the next day . . . Mrs. Richard Rathbone has written that
beautiful "Diary of Lady Willoughby," and, what is more, they say it
is a perfect reflect of her own lovely life and character. When she
published the book no one knew of it but her husband, not even her
brothers and sisters, and, of course, she constantly heard
speculations as to the authenticity of the book, and was often
appealed to for her opinion. She is very unpretending and sweet in
her manners; talks little, and seems not at all like a literary
lady.
I like these people in Liverpool. They seem to me to think less of
fashion and more of substantial excellence than our wealthy people.
I am not sure but the existence of a higher class above them has a
favorable effect, by limiting them in some ways. There is much less
show of furniture in the houses than with us, though their servants
and equipages are in much better keeping.
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