[Manchester—Wednesday, 9 September 1874]

Sepr 9th This is the finest part of the season this year, ripe and warm, humming with insects and pleasant country sounds—the grass is green, the fruits are ripe, the pastures shine in untold glory. I am very very sorry to go—but the prospect of our beautiful home here another season quite reconciles us. The house is progressing—tomorrow we go to Boston en route for Hanover.

Mr. Conway the actor was buried yesterday. He was a jovial creature, who drank much & lived well after the fashion of Englishmen. He was the son of Conway with whom Madame Piozzi corresponded in her old age. His house is on the crown of the hill adjoining ours with a wonderful view. He was proud of it and fond of it and passed the whole of last winter here hoping to recover his health. Mr. Bartol’s service was terrible; as “J.” says he put in the knife and turned it round. Mrs Conway was much excited by this sudden stroke of sorrow, and fairly shrieked as Mr. Bartol continued to talk. It was not only tasteless, it seemed hard-hearted in him under the circumstances to converse about the deceased as he did with the almighty.


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