from Sir Gerald Denbigh to Lady Ulverston, a lady distinguished by a congenial love of _tracasserie_, and a congenial idolization of social distinctions; an address which passed for cleverness; unimpeachable taste in self-adornment; and who was courted by the ball-going part of London as a dispenser of tickets for Almack's. "Do you know you are paying us all a very undeserved compliment in being curious about our proceedings; and I will not turn the head of any one here, by imparting a syllable touching your inquiries. You ask what the party is composed of--a sign that you don't consume your invaluable time in spelling newspapers--for Berwick announces the accessions to his menagerie as diligently as Pidcock. Our last arrivals were those Polar bears, the Rochdales, with their pretty youngest daughter, who is surprisingly little, chilly and frozen for a creature that has always been living among icebergs. We are doomed to them for a week, Lord Rochdale having promised to stay so long; and he is one of those patterns of inconvenient precision, who, having once promised, will certainly pay the heavy debt of visitation to the uttermost minute. Arlington is here--brought expressly to play suitor, and looking affectingly conscious of his _rôle_. Berwick, I believe, has told him that he shall die of disappointment, or, what is as bad, shut up his house, if he quits them unaccepted. What an alternative for the poor youth--to be forced to marry at one-and-twenty, or deprive the world of the fortunate master of the best cook in Christendom. "There is a strange heterogeneous medley here. Fancy, of all living creatures, the Bolsovers being brought hither to meet the Rochdales, whom they suit like point ruffles with a shooting-jacket. Either Berwick has acquired a taste for contrasts, or, in assorting his party, has overlooked every thing but the prospective match, and drawn the rest of the company by lot. His only other considerate arrangement is having Charles Theobald here to swain Lady Bolsover, and talk 'Turf' with her Lord. This is one of Berwick's 'good-natured things.' To do him justice, nobody knows better how to place _chacun avec sa chacune_; but it is a pity that in this case it contributes so little to the general amusement; for really Theobald's intense flirtation with Lady Bolsover, is the flattest piece of dull indecorum that ever met my virtuous eyes. They are dull, these people--keep him from quadrupeds, and Theobald is a cipher; and Lady B. has little more than the few ideas which she gets sent over with her dresses from Paris. I know it is _mauvais ton_ to cry them down--but I cannot help it. My sincerity will ruin me some fine day.