It was a subject I should not have
introduced, for of that knot of intimate friends, Mr. Grenville, the
Archbishop, and himself, he is now all that remains.
November 28th
. . . On Monday evening I went without Mr. Bancroft to a little
party at Mrs. Lyell's, where I was introduced to Mrs. Somerville.
She has resided for the last nine years abroad, chiefly at Venice,
but has now come to London and taken a house very near us. . . . Her
daughter told me that nothing could exceed the ease and simplicity
with which her literary occupations were carried on. She is just
publishing a book upon Natural Geography without regard to political
boundaries. She writes principally before she rises in the morning
on a little piece of board, with her inkstand on a table by her
side. After she leaves her room she is as much at leisure as other
people, but if an idea strikes her she takes her little board into a
corner or window and writes quietly for a short time and returns to
join the circle.
Dr. Somerville told me that his wife did not discover her genius for
mathematics till she was about sixteen. Her brother, who has no
talent for it, was receiving a mathematical lesson from a master
while she was hemming and stitching in the room. In this way she
first heard the problems of Euclid stated and was ravished. When
the lesson was over, she carried off the book to her room and
devoured it. For a long time she pursued her studies secretly, as
she had scaled heights of science which were not considered feminine
by those about her.
December 2d
I put down my pen yesterday when the carriage came to the door for
my drive. It was a day bright, beaming, and exhilarating as one of
our own winter days. I was so busy enjoying the unusual beams of
the unclouded sun that I did not perceive for some time that I had
left my muff, and was obliged to drive home again to get it. While
I was waiting in the carriage for the footman to get it, two of the
most agreeable old-lady faces in the world presented themselves at
the window. They were the Miss Berrys. They had driven up behind
me and got out to have a little talk on the sidewalk. I took them
into Mr. Bancroft's room and was thankful that my muff had sent me
back to receive a visit which at their age is rarely paid. . . . I
found them full of delight at Mr. Brooke, the Rajah of Sarawak, with
whose nobleness of soul they would have great sympathy. He is just
now the lion of London, and like all other lions is run after by
most people because he is one, and by the few because he deserves to
be one.
