I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. She felt he would tell people the way, control traffic, and refuse admission to public buildings with invincible correctness and the very finest explicit feelings possible. You met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father Spencer. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. Such was the terror inspired by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause for displeasure. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead.
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