Billsbury, Thursday, May 22.—­Came down here yesterday, to stay for a fortnight on end.  Four meetings have been arranged in different wards, and a good deal of time is to be devoted to canvassing.  Pleasant prospect!  Begin to think that, on the whole, it was easier work to wear an occasional wig in the Law Courts, or to sit in Chambers, planning imaginary Law-books.

On Tuesday I lunched with the BELLAMYS, to say good-bye.  Mrs. BELLAMY made herself very agreeable.  Somebody, so she said, had told her that my chances at Billsbury were excellent, and she declared she had always admired young men who devoted themselves with a single-hearted purpose to the service of their country.  So different from the crowd “Of shallow-pates, who scorn laborious days.  And shun the rugged paths that lead to praise.”  This is a familiar quotation from the works of “your grandfather, the poet.”  Mrs. BELLAMY quotes him on all possible occasions.  A long time ago she gave me a beautifully bound copy of his book, “Per Ardua, by HENRY GATTLETON, M.A.”  I’ve got a notion she has a whole room-full of the unsold copies, somewhere at the top of the house.

After luncheon had a long talk with MARY, who really looked prettier than I’ve ever seen her.  She said, “Now that you have got into what Mamma calls ‘the vortex of politics,’ I suppose you’ll despise all our simple little amusements, and begin to forget everybody except the Billsbury voters.”  I asked her how she could say such a thing, told her I never could forget the happy hours I’d spent with her at Exhibitions and dances, and so forth, and assured her I loathed the Billsbury voters (which, by the way, I really think I do).  I was just beginning to screw myself up to the pitch of asking her the question, in fact, I had taken her hand, and was actually stuttering out something which made her look down at her feet (she’s got the smallest and prettiest foot I ever saw), when the footman opened the door and announced POMFRET.  Of course POMFRET must have seen something was up.  He’s a beast, but not a fool.  But he chattered away volubly, just as if he were the most delightful and welcome person in the world.  I got so angry after ten minutes of it, and my toes and fingers began to have such an almost irresistible longing to be at him, that I thought it best to go.  But MARY gave me a look as I went away which simply went right through me, the kindest and most beautiful look any two eyes ever gave to an unhappy man.  I shut my eyes constantly and bring the whole scene back, and in imagination I throw POMFRET out of the window, and carry MARY in triumph to the nearest church, while her mother quotes the late Mr. GATTLETON’s poetry over us in blessing.  And then I open them again and find myself in this hole.

Dinner with the CHORKLES on Saturday.