My dear lord, When at my time of day one can think a ball worth going to London for on purpose, you will not wonder that I am childish enough to write an account of it.  I could give a better reason, your bidding me send you any news; but I scorn a good reason when I am idle enough to do any thing for a bad one.  You had heard, before you left London, of Miss Chudleigh’s intended loyalty on the Prince’s birthday.  Poor thing, I fear she has thrown away above a quarter’s salary!  It was magnificent and well-understood—­no crowd—­and though a sultry night, one was not a moment incommoded.  The court was illuminated on the whole summit of the wall with a battlement of lamps; smaller ones on every step, and a figure of lanterns on the outside of the house.  The virgin-mistress began the ball with the Duke of York, who was dressed in a pale blue watered tabby, which, as I told him, if he danced much, would soon be tabby all over, like the man’s advertisement,(67) but nobody did dance much.  There was a new Miss Bishop from Sir Cecil’s endless hoard of beauty daughters, who is still prettier than her sisters.  The new Spanish embassy was there—­alas!  Sir Cecil Bishop has never been in Spain!  Monsieur de Fuentes is a halfpenny print of my Lord Huntingdon.  His wife homely, but seems good-humoured and civil.  The son does not degenerate from such high-born ugliness; the daughter-in-law was sick, and they say is not ugly, and has as good set of teeth as one can have, when one has but two and those black.  They seem to have no curiosity, sit where they are placed, and ask no questions about so strange a country.  Indeed, the ambassadress could see nothing; for Doddington(68) stood before her the whole time, sweating Spanish at her, of which it was evident, by her civil nods without answers, she did understand a word.  She speaks bad French, danced a bad minuet, and went away—­though there was a miraculous draught of fishes for their supper, for it was a fast-day—­but being the octave of their f`ete-dieu, they dared not even fast plentifully.  Miss Chudleigh desired the gamblers would go up into the garrets—­“Nay, they are not garrets-it is only the roof of the house hollowed for upper servants-but I have no upper servants.”  Every body ran up:  there is a low gallery with bookcases, and four chambers practised under the pent of the roof, each hung with the finest Indian pictures on different colours, and with Chinese chairs of the same colours.  Vases of flowers in each for nosegays, and in one retired nook a most critical couch!

The lord of the Festival(69) was there, and seemed neither ashamed nor vain of the expense of his pleasures.  At supper she offered him Tokay, and told him she believed he would find it good.  The supper was in two rooms and very fine, and on the sideboards, and even on the chairs, were pyramids and troughs of strawberries and cherries you would have thought she was kept by Vertumnus.  Last night my Lady Northumberland