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Updated: June 22, 2025
Westgate's sense a sense possibly morbidly acute conspicuous by their absence. "I don't want to express myself in a manner that you dislike," said Bessie Alden; "but I don't know why you should have so many theories about Lord Lambeth's poor mother. You know a great many young men in New York without knowing their mothers." Mrs. Westgate looked at her sister and then turned away.
"It did duty very well for a party," said Mrs. Westgate. "All the women were decolletes, and many of the figures looked as if they could speak if they tried." "Upon my word," Lord Lambeth rejoined, "you see people at London parties that look as if they couldn't speak if they tried." "Do you think Mr. Woodley could find us Mr. Beaumont?" asked Mrs. Westgate.
The door was opened by a long Negro in a white jacket, who grinned familiarly when Lord Lambeth asked for Mr. Westgate. "He ain't at home, sah; he's downtown at his o'fice." "Oh, at his office?" said the visitors. "And when will he be at home?" "Well, sah, when he goes out dis way in de mo'ning, he ain't liable to come home all day." This was discouraging; but the address of Mr.
"I always feel so sorry for the people that come up to town and go to live in those places," continued the young man. "They eat nothing but filth." "Oh, I say!" cried Willie Woodley. "Well, how do you like London, Miss Alden?" Lord Lambeth asked, unperturbed by this ejaculation. "I think it's grand," said Bessie Alden. "My sister likes it, in spite of the 'filth'!" Mrs. Westgate exclaimed.
Westgate, following the fashion of many of her compatriots, caused herself and her sister to be presented at the English court by her diplomatic representative for it was in this manner that she alluded to the American minister to England, inquiring what on earth he was put there for, if not to make the proper arrangements for one's going to a Drawing Room.
Eastward a sullen retreating cloud backed the luminous haze thrown up from hundreds of street-lamps and shop-windows a haze that faintly silhouetted the clustered roofs. The roofs were wet. The roadway, narrowing as it descended the hill, shone with recent rain. 'You may carry down my bag, said the colonel. 'I will walk. Somewhere to the right here should be a road leading to Westgate, eh?
"No; I want to see what you make of it," her sister continued. "I don't understand." "You will understand after Lord Lambeth has come," said Mrs. Westgate with a little laugh.
"If I hadn't met Woodley I should never have found you," he went on. "Should I, Woodley?" "Well, I guess not," said the young American. "Not even with my letter?" asked Mrs. Westgate. "Ah, well, I haven't got your letter yet; I suppose I shall get it this evening. I was awfully kind of you to write." "So I said to Bessie," observed Mrs. Westgate. "Did she say so, Miss Alden?"
She'll come down to-night by sleigh from The Green Pass and Westgate Centre." "Won't she be furious?" he inquired, with a hypocritical side glance at Kathleen, who laughed derisively and drew in the horses under the porte-cochère.
GEORGE W. WESTGATE, a member of the Congregational Church in Quincy, Illinois, who has spent the larger part of twelve years navigating the rivers of the south-western slave states with keel boats, as a trader, gives the following testimony as to the clothing and lodging of the slaves.
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