To Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Temple-house, Thursday morning.

Your Emily was happy beyond words last night:  amongst a crowd of beauties, her Rivers’s eyes continually followed her; he seemed to see no other object:  he would scarce let me wait till supper to unmask.

But you will call me a foolish romantic girl; therefore I will only say, I had the delight to see him pleased with my dress, and charmed with the complaisance which was shewed me by others.

There was a gentleman who came with Rivers, who was particularly attentive to me; he is not young, but extremely amiable:  has a very fine person, with a commanding air; great politeness, and, as far as one can judge by a few hours conversation, an excellent understanding.

I never in my life met with a man for whom I felt such a partiality at first sight, except Rivers, who tells me, I have made a conquest of his friend.

He is to be my cavalier this morning to Burleigh.

It has this moment struck me, that Rivers never introduced his friend and me to each other, but as masks; I never thought of this before:  I suppose he forgot it in the hurry of the masquerade.

I do not even know this agreable stranger’s name; I only found out by his conversation he had served in the army.

There is no saying how beautiful Lucy looked last night; her dress was rich, elegantly fancied, and particularly becoming to her graceful form, which I never saw look so graceful before.

All who attempted to be fine figures, shrunk into nothing before her.

Lucy carries her head, you know, remarkably well; which, with the advantage of her height, the perfect standard of women, her fine proportion, the native dignity of her air, the majestic flow of her robe, and the blaze of her diamonds, gave her a look of infinite superiority; a superiority which some of the company seemed to feel in a manner, which rather, I will own, gave me pain.

In a place consecrated to joy, I hate to see any thing like an uneasy sensation; yet, whilst human passions are what they are, it is difficult to avoid them.

There were four or five other sultanas, who seemed only the slaves of her train.

In short,

  “She look’d a goddess, and she mov’d a queen.”

I was happy the unassuming simplicity of the character in which I appeared, prevented comparisons which must have been extremely to my disadvantage.

I was safe in my littleness, like a modest shrub by the side of a cedar; and, being in so different a style, had the better chance to be taken notice of, even where Lucy was.

She was radiant as the morning star, and even dazzlingly lovely.

Her complexion, for Temple would not suffer her to wear a mask at all, had the vivid glow of youth and health, heightened by pleasure, and the consciousness of universal admiration.

Her eyes had a fire which one could scarce look at.