After the drawing-room we went to the Assembly-rooms, which were crowded with company.  I saw some very pretty girls dancing merrily that old-fashioned thing called a country-dance which Old England has now thrown aside, as she would do her creed, if there were some foreign frippery offered instead.  We got away after midnight, a large party, and reached Ravensworth Castle—­Duke of Wellington, Lord Londonderry, and about twenty besides—­about half-past one.  Soda water, and to bed by two.

October 4.—­Slept till nigh ten—­fatigued by our toils of yesterday, and the unwonted late hours.  Still too early for this Castle of Indolence, for I found few of last night’s party yet appearing.  I had an opportunity of some talk with the Duke.  He does not consider Foy’s book[50] as written by himself, but as a thing got up perhaps from notes.  Says he knew Foy very well in Spain.  Mentioned that he was, like other French officers, very desirous of seeing the English papers, through which alone they could collect any idea of what was going on without their own cantonments, for Napoleon permitted no communication of that kind with France.  The Duke, growing tired of this, at length told Baron Tripp, whose services he chiefly used in communication with the outposts, that he was not to give them the newspapers.  “What reason shall I allege for withholding them?” said Baron Tripp.  “None,” replied the Duke.  “Let them allege some reason why they want them.”  Foy was not at a loss to assign a reason.  He said he had considerable sums of money in the English funds and wanted to see how Stocks fell and rose.  The excuse did not, however, go down[51].  I remember Baron Tripp, a Dutch nobleman, and a dandy of the first water, and yet with an energy in his dandyism which made it respectable.  He drove a gig as far as Dunrobin Castle, and back again, without a whip.  He looked after his own horse, for he had no servant, and after all his little establishment of clothes and necessaries, with all the accuracy of a petit-maitre.  He was one of the best-dressed men, and his horse was in equally fine condition as if he had had a dozen of grooms.  I met him at Lord Somerville’s, and liked him much.  But there was something exaggerated, as appeared from the conclusion of his life.  Baron Tripp shot himself in Italy for no assignable cause.

What is called great society, of which I have seen a good deal in my day, is now amusing to me, because from age and indifference I have lost the habit of considering myself as a part of it, and have only the feelings of looking on as a spectator of the scene, who can neither play his part well nor ill, instead of being one of the dramatis personae; and, careless what is thought of myself, I have full time to attend to the motions of others.