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I can compare the embarrassment of our London life, with its
multiplied solicitations and infinite stimulants to curiosity and
desire, only to that annual perplexity which used to beset us in our
childhood on thanksgiving day.
Having been kept all the year within
the limits which prudence assigns to well-regulated children, came at
last the governor's proclamation, and a general saturnalia of dainties
for the little ones. For one day the gates of license were thrown
open, and we, plumped down into the midst of pie and pudding exceeding
all conception but that of a Yankee housekeeper, were left to struggle
our way out as best we might.
So here, beside all the living world of London, its scope and range of
persons and circles of thought, come its architecture, its arts, its
localities, historic, poetic, all that expresses its past, its
present, and its future. Every day and every hour brings its'
conflicting allurements, of persons to be seen, places to be visited,
things to be done, beyond all computation. Like Miss Edgeworth's
philosophic little Frank, we are obliged to make out our list of what
man _must_ want, and of what he _may_ want; and in our list
of the former we set down, in large and decisive characters, one quiet
day for the exploration and enjoyment of Windsor.
We were solicited, indeed, to go in another direction; a party was
formed to go down the Thames with the Right Hon. Sidney Herbert,
secretary at war, and visit an emigrant ship just starting for
Australia.
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