As we issued from the house to the carriage for our drive in the park, Aurora responded to the profound bow of a gentleman who rode past. "That is a young Irishman who was known about town as the Penniless Adventurer," said she; "yet he wrote a charming book on 'The Sublime and Beautiful.'" "Edmund Burke," I exclaimed, looking after him with admiration; "is that the great Edmund Burke?" "Even so, with his hair all frizzed up. How oddly he wears it," said Aurora, as we seated ourselves, and Mr. Trot, after shutting the door, perched himself on the footboard behind. At night Drury Lane Theatre presented a scene of brilliance and splendour to which I had long been unaccustomed. Aurora was exceedingly gay and sparkling with youth, beauty, and jewels--bowing to people of good fashion in almost every box--always happy and with considerable readiness of wit, remarking several turns of the play and peculiarities of personages who were present, and in whom, she thought, I might feel interested. The first piece, I grieve, my prudish friends, to state was Howe's tragedy of "The Fair Penitent," which drew tears from all the brocaded dames in the boxes. Mr. David Garrick, the manager, appeared as Lothario in a full-bottomed perriwig, square-cut blue coat with buttons in size like saucers, white rolled stockings and square toed shoes. Mrs. Pritchard was the frail Lavinia; and sarcastic old Macklin, who hated the Scots so much, made up by pads and paint as a youth, played the part of Horatio to the great admiration of the pit, and particularly of one group, among whom Aurora pointed out to me a poet named Churchill and Dr. Johnson the great Lexicographer. Mr. Garrick's laughable farce of the "Lying Valet" followed. A sentinel of the Foot Guards, with bayonet fixed and musket shouldered, stood at the end of the proscenium during the whole performance, at the conclusion of which, the manager and pretty Mrs. Pritchard, were called before the curtain amid a storm of applause. At the door of the box-lobby we had some confusion; a hundred voices were shouting "Chair! chair!--coach, coach!" at once, and an irritable old gentleman with a very red face, drew his sword to clear the way before his party of ladies. "Who is this passionate personage?" I inquired. "'Tis Admiral Forbes," said Madame Blythe, "the only Lord of the Admiralty who _refused_ to sign poor Admiral Byng's death warrant." "A Scotsman, like yourself, Basil," said Aurora smiling. I escorted the ladies home to Piccadilly, and assisted them to alight from their sedan chairs. As the links were extinguished, and Aurora's cheek was very near mine, I--but as it is wrong to kiss and tell, I shall close this chapter, and with it my third day in London. CHAPTER XXII. THE LAST.