My dear Father,
I would not write yesterday, that I might acknowledge the receipt of the parcel to-day. I had no idea they could all come together, meat and clothes. Gregory is not a Catholic. We may go in fancy dresses, but all must wear a mask; though no one is forced to assume a character. The verses I sent you were tame enough; but those I have since written, if I had not been forced to introduce the name of Wellington, with my own approbation, and at the suggestion of a very good critic, (Col. Barry,) are tolerably good, I think. Mrs. B. S. has undertaken to sing them, and, if she can’t adapt, to set them herself. Lady Cork has given me a most beautiful trimming for the bottom of a dress which I am to wear on the 4th. It is really handsome; a wreath of white satin flowers worked upon net.
Our day on Tuesday was delightful, the scene enchanting. My favourite companion there was Sir William Dunbar, more odd, but more amusing and original, than ever. Still, however pleasant the people at Fulham, M. and I enjoyed the drive to and fro, more than the day itself. James Smith went with us, and he sang funny songs, and repeated epigrams and bon mots all the way there. While waiting in the hall for the carriage, (for we wisely came away at eleven,) he gave us an extempore comedy; and, when in the carriage, on my telling him that Sir W. Dunbar had told me he was blasé with everything, and that he was a disappointed man; he said; “It is evident that he is so; I dare say there is something interesting and particular in his story; suppose I invent one for him.” So off he set, and gave us three letters of a novel in letters, and, without pausing a moment, beginning, “Sir W. Dunbar to General Evelyn.—When we last parted, my dear General, I was in the prime of life; every hope full of vigour,” &c., &c., and during the last mile or two, he relieved the monotony which was stealing over all this, by quotations from Young and Swift, well remembered and well repeated. Certainly, never did a man so completely pay, by his brains, for a seat in a carriage. I persuaded Edward to dance with Miss M., having vainly tried to persuade Sir W. D., though he owned her to be very pretty, as did Edward. We left them dancing. The baron, William de Humboldt, was forced to attend Lord Castlereagh in a conference of nine hours, yesterday; therefore he wrote me an elegant note of excuse for not going to see Mrs. Siddons with me, calling me “Mademoiselle Opie;”—no doubt from my juvenile appearance. So we walked over to tell Mrs. Siddons this, and she was somewhat mortified; but recovered herself, and was most delightful. We staid two hours and more, and we none of us knew how late it was. She said she had passed a most happy two hours, and had no regrets. M. came home raving all the way, saying she was the most beautiful, delightful, agreeable, and, I believe, even the youngest woman she ever saw; and she has put up in paper, the bud of a rose she gave her, to keep for ever. Yesterday we dined at H. G.’s, and went to the Maxwells’ in the evening. Old Albinia, of Buckinghamshire, has made me promise to go to her masquerade breakfast, and en masque. I owe her this, for her kindness to me, when I sang to the Prince. On Sunday we were to dine at the Solicitor-General’s, in Bloomsbury Square; but it is now put off to Sunday se’nnight, at Wimbledon. As I was offered a ticket for the ball to the Duke of Wellington for £4 7s., I accepted the offer, and wrote my last commands to Lord Tamworth; so I hope I did not write too late to prevent the exchange. I go full dressed, but no train, and high feathers; with a pink domino of calico, made high and long, to give me height and disguise me, thrown over all, that I may be incog., and be masked till I am tired, and then appear as myself. Mrs. P. goes with us. I have had the kindest letter from Mr. Coke! promising to do all he can for Mr. D., and entreating me to visit him in the winter, whenever I choose.[[19]]—I have just room to insert the lines.
Why sons of Britain rush ye forth
Like torrents from the mountain’s height,
To shout, untired, for foreign worth
And glad with foreign chiefs, your sight?
Can Britain boast no chiefs renown’d,
Whose arm can crush, whose heart can spare!
No Leader who, with conquest crown’d,