Sunday, August 3, 1856.

From a country-house near Glasgow.

I am weary for you, as you used to say so gracefully. Nevertheless, I am leading a pleasant life, going from one castle to another, and welcomed everywhere with a hospitality which I can find no words to describe, and which would be impossible anywhere else than in this aristocratic land. I am getting into bad habits. Arriving at the home of these poor people, who have an income of hardly more than thirty thousand pounds, I scarcely recognised myself at dinner when I found there was no wind band and no bagpiper in Highland costume.

I spent three days at the Marquis of Breadalbane’s, driving in a barouche all over his park. There are nearly two thousand deer, besides eight to ten thousand more which he keeps in his forest at some distance from the castle of Taymouth. There is also, as something unusual, a thing to which every one here aspires, a herd of American bison. They are perfectly wild, and are kept on a peninsula, where they are seen through the gaps in the enclosure. Everybody there, Marquis and bison, looked as if they were bored. Their only pleasure, I fancy, consists in making people envy them, and I doubt if that is a compensation for the drudgery of entertaining all the world and his wife.

From time to time, in the midst of all this luxury, I see evidences of petty stinginess which are extremely amusing. Yet, after all, I have met none but excellent people, who get along with me, with all my difference in temperament, without the least misunderstanding.

I have just heard a story which amused me, and which I wish to share with you. An Englishman is walking in front of a poultry-house in a castle in Scotland one Saturday night. He hears a great commotion inside and outcries among the cocks and hens. Thinking that a fox has found his way there, he gives warning, but is told that it is nothing, that they are only separating the cocks from the hens so they will not profane the Lord’s Day.

Before my return you might write to me at 18 Arlington Street, care of the Honourable E. Ellice. Your letters will be forwarded from there, or else will be held until my arrival in London.

Good-bye. It is needless to tell you to write to me as often as possible.