A Player,
Though still yours.
Miss Power.
Broadstairs, Kent, Tuesday, July 14th, 1847.
My dear Miss Power,
Though I am hopeless of Rosherville until after the 28th—for am I not beckoned, by angels of charity and by local committees, to Manchester and Liverpool, and to all sorts of bedevilments (if I may be allowed the expression) in the way of managerial miseries in the meantime—here I find myself falling into parenthesis within parenthesis, like Lord Brougham—yet will I joyfully come up to London on Friday, to dine at your house and meet the Dane, whose Books I honour, and whose—to make the sentiment complete, I want something that would sound like "Bones, I love!" but I can't get anything that unites reason with beauty. You, who have genius and beauty in your own person, will supply the gap in your kindness.
An advertisement in the newspapers mentioning the dinner-time, will be esteemed a favour.
Some wild beasts (in cages) have come down here, and involved us in a whirl of dissipation. A young lady in complete armour—at least, in something that shines very much, and is exceedingly scaley—goes into the den of ferocious lions, tigers, leopards, etc., and pretends to go to sleep upon the principal lion, upon which a rustic keeper, who speaks through his nose, exclaims, "Behold the abazid power of woobad!" and we all applaud tumultuously.
Seriously, she beats Van Amburgh. And I think the Duke of Wellington must have her painted by Landseer.
My penitent regards to Lady Blessington, Count D'Orsay, and my own Marchioness.
Ever, dear Miss Power,
Very faithfully yours.