Mrs. Perigord has just
been here. She tells me that we owe her master for the silk-dyeing.
My poor old muslin has never been dyed yet. It has been promised to
be done several times. What wicked people dyers are. They begin with
dipping their own souls in scarlet sin. It is evening. We have drank
tea, and I have torn through the third vol. of the "Heroine." I do
not think it falls off. It is a delightful burlesque, particularly on
the Radcliffe style. Henry is going on with "Mansfield Park." He
admires H. Crawford: I mean properly, as a clever, pleasant man. I
tell you all the good I can, as I know how much you will enjoy it. We
hear that Mr. Kean is more admired than ever. There are no good
places to be got in Drury Lane for the next fortnight, but Henry means
to secure some for Saturday fortnight, when you are reckoned upon.
Give my love to little Cass. I hope she found my bed comfortable last
night. I have seen nobody in London yet with such a long chin as Dr.
Syntax, nor anybody quite so large as Gogmagolicus.
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