The last party given in honour of Don Miguel took place to-night at the Dutch Ambassador's, to which little incident one might hang all sorts of interesting historical reminiscences. Both Portugal and Holland, though so small in territorial extent, were once great powers. The one took the road of freedom, the other that of slavery, and yet both are become equally insignificant; nor does their internal prosperity and happiness seem very greatly to differ. But I will leave these considerations, and substitute for them a few words in praise of the amiable Ambassadress, whose French vivacity has not yet given place to the melancholy, ponderous follies of English fashion. Her house, too, is one of the few which one may visit in an evening in the Continental fashion, uninvited, and be sure to find _conversation_. When Madame de F---- was living in Tournay before her marriage, my beloved 'chef,' the old Grand Duke of W----, lived in her parents' house for some time during the war of deliverance,[77] and used jestingly to call the charming daughter his favourite aide-de-camp. As I had filled that post, I had to plead a sort of comradeship, an honour I am the less disposed to forego my claim to, as her husband is a very agreeable man, equally distinguished for the goodness of his heart and the soundness of his head. I ate a German dinner to-day at Count Münster's, who from time to time regales us with a wild Hanoverian. To-day it was a noble boar, with that royal sauce invented by George the Fourth, of which it is written in the Almanac des Gourmands, 'qu'avec une telle sauce on mangérait son père.' Over and above this delicacy, we were treated with a good anecdote by Sir Walter Scott. He said he one day met an Irish beggar in the street, who asked him for six-pence; Sir Walter could not find one, and at last gave him a shilling, saying, with a laugh, "But mind now, you owe me six-pence." "Och, sure enough!" said the beggar, "and God grant you may live till I pay you." Before I went to bed I read over your last letter again. You have entered completely into my view of the character of Macbeth, and the few words you say about it and about the performance of our actors are masterly. It is strange, but true, that acting is every where degenerated. Surely this lies in the selfish, mechanical, unpoetical spirit of our times.