“I told you my lady was fidgetty-like, and she very soon got tired of Bath and would come to London. Now, dear, I’ll leave it to another time to say what I’ve got to say about London—and remember, sure if I wrote for a hundred years, I could not _insense_ you into what it is, or what it is like. Aunt, it’s full up of people! underground, overground, high up, down low—people—people in misery and sin, people in plenty and pleasure; it’s never still by day or night, for at night, the very breathing of such thousands and thousands of people, is like to stifled thunder; it’s full of a pale withered-up sort of life in one place, and it is blooming like a fresh May morning only a stone’s-throw from the same, in another; it’s a city of contradictions—it’s the grandest place upon the face of the earth, if it was only for the multitudes of living immortal creatures it contains, and it’s the meanest place in the universe:—they make money out of the very scrapings of the streets!—and, bless your kind heart! it’s yourself that would be troubled to see the people driving on, and on, and on forever, without rest, and all so solid like. And, aunt, but it’s lonesome to be surrounded by such thousands of people without knowing one of them from Adam, only all black strangers, no one to bid you good morrow morning, or say, God save you; for their manners are not our manners; they’re a fine, kind-hearted people, but they’re mortal fearful you should think so. The first lodging we were in, I thought to be very kind and mannerly to the mistress of the house, and so when I met her the next day I dropped her a curtsey—and says I, ‘The top of the morning to ye, Ma’am;’ well, instead of returning my civility, she told my mistress I’d insulted her; you see they’re an unaccountable people, but it’s not _that_ I wanted to write about. Aunt, dear, I know you’re anxious about how I get on with my ‘_duty_’ and I took your advice and resolved to walk in my own way, and when I told my mistress I’d like to get leave to go to my duty, she told me she was well satisfied with the way I was going on, I was doing my duty perfectly; so I thanked her for her good opinion, but said I wanted to make a clean breast, if I could find out a proper Clergy to make it to; and then she smiled her faint, quiet smile, just for all the world like a thread of moonlight, and said, she understood now that what I meant by ‘duty,’ was going to the Priest, to confession, and gave me leave to go next Sunday to first Mass. So I got my instructions where to go and set off with a light heart. To be sure it did me good to enter a place of my own worship again, and the music was just wonderful—only they made me pay a shilling for a seat, think of that! but I’d have paid ten, if I had it—to get in, my heart warmed so. And the tears came to my eyes, when I see the fine men serving on the altar and such fine blessed candles—all wax. And the _rale_ bowing