Allow me to beg your acceptance of one of our Chevening turkeys, which, though it does not rival in size those of Suffolk—that classic land of all poultry—may, I hope, be found not inferior in flavour.
Allow me also to ask you a very ridiculous question—Is the outside of Abbotsford of stone or brick—grey, white or red in colour? My reason for asking is to please a worthy old lady—a maiden friend of ours in the country—who is busily engaged in a Scottish drawing, and who keeps it suspended until this important doubt be solved.
We are going in this week to Hertfordshire, and next for our Christmas quarters to the Land of Turkey aforesaid, namely Suffolk, but my address is always Grosvenor Place, I will take up en passant the books you had the kindness to lend me, and see how far I may be able to make any thing from them.
Mr. Gladstone’s volume has of late engaged much of my attention. It is difficult to feel quite free from partiality where so amiable and excellent a man is concerned; but, if my friendship does not blind me, I should pronounce his production as marked by profound ecclesiastical learning, and eminent native ability. At the same time I must contest) myself startled at some of his tenets; his doctrine of Private Judgment especially seems to me a contradiction in terms, attempting to blend together the incompatible advantages of the Romanist and of the Protestant principle upon that point. Believe me,
