the sound of an old bell—ding-dong, ding-dong—"Make her look pretty, for she might catch this lord." I would often smile at the request of some mother or chaperon—"Make her look her prettiest." I would smile and say, "That is very easy to do."
Whatever part of the house these lords would be in, there the ladies flocked, some with one question, some another; may-be a question as to the manners and customs of England, or the Palace, the Queen, the royal children, or anything else to elicit conversation; when they, as replies, would rattle off anything they would think of, let it be plausible or not; and sometimes, if the three chanced to be near each other, they would throw a sign, as well understood by them as the sign of either Mason or Odd-Fellow.
I was afraid, from the specimens at Saratoga that time, these lords would get a false impression of the American ladies, as not being sufficiently dignified; but hearing they had sought introductions to our Cincinnati and New York belles, whom I have before spoken of, I knew they would redeem the character of those who had laid aside their dignity and run after them. After these lords had amused themselves a little longer, they left for the wilds of the West.
I have given you many instances of marriages in high life. Now, before leaving Saratoga, I will give you a little account of a death in high life. It has always been a painful subject to me since. A lady who lived in great splendor and elegance, and in her queen-like mansion entertained thousands—Madame R., of Philadelphia—died at Saratoga in the summer of 1858.
After a flourishing summer, being gazed upon by
