who we thought might like invitations.  I was particularly desirous that many members of the medical profession whom I had not met, but who felt well disposed towards me, should be at this gathering.  The meeting was in every respect a success.  I wrote a prescription for as many baskets of champagne as would be consistent with the well-being of our guests, and such light accompaniments as a London company is wont to expect under similar circumstances.  My own recollections of the evening, unclouded by its festivities, but confused by its multitudinous succession of introductions, are about as definite as the Duke of Wellington’s alleged monosyllabic description of the battle of Waterloo.  But A——­ writes in her diary:  “From nine to twelve we stood, receiving over three hundred people out of the four hundred and fifty we invited.”  As I did not go to Europe to visit hospitals or museums, I might have missed seeing some of those professional brethren whose names I hold in honor and whose writings are in my library.  If any such failed to receive our cards of invitation, it was an accident which, if I had known, I should have deeply regretted.  So far as we could judge by all we heard, our unpretentious party gave general satisfaction.  Many different social circles were represented, but it passed off easily and agreeably.  I can say this more freely, as the credit of it belongs so largely to the care and self-sacrificing efforts of Dr. Priestley and his charming wife.

I never refused to write in the birthday book or the album of the humblest schoolgirl or schoolboy, and I could not refuse to set my name, with a verse from one of my poems, in the album of the Princess of Wales, which was sent me for that purpose.  It was a nice new book, with only two or three names in it, and those of musical composers,—­ Rubinstein’s, I think, was one of them,—­so that I felt honored by the great lady’s request.  I ought to describe the book, but I only remember that it was quite large and sumptuously elegant, and that I copied into it the last verse of a poem of mine called “The Chambered Nautilus,” as I have often done for plain republican albums.

The day after our simple reception was notable for three social events in which we had our part.  The first was a lunch at the house of Mrs. Cyril Flower, one of the finest in London,—­Surrey House, as it is called.  Mr. Browning, who seems to go everywhere, and is one of the vital elements of London society, was there as a matter of course.  Miss Cobbe, many of whose essays I have read with great satisfaction, though I cannot accept all her views, was a guest whom I was very glad to meet a second time.

In the afternoon we went to a garden-party given by the Princess Louise at Kensington Palace, a gloomy-looking edifice, which might be taken for a hospital or a poorhouse.  Of all the festive occasions which I attended, the garden-parties were to me the most formidable.  They are all very well for young people, and for those who do not mind the nipping and eager air, with which, as I have said, the climate of England, no less than that of America, falsifies all the fine things the poets have said about May, and, I may add, even June.  We wandered about the grounds, spoke with the great people, stared at the odd ones, and said to ourselves,—­at least I said to myself,—­with Hamlet,