Though I am hopeless of Rosherville until after the 28th--for am I not
beckoned, by angels of charity and by local committees, to Manchester
and Liverpool, and to all sorts of bedevilments (if I may be allowed the
expression) in the way of managerial miseries in the meantime--here I
find myself falling into parenthesis within parenthesis, like Lord
Brougham--yet will I joyfully come up to London on Friday, to dine at
your house and meet the Dane, whose Books I honour, and whose--to make
the sentiment complete, I want something that would sound like "Bones, I
love!" but I can't get anything that unites reason with beauty. You, who
have genius and beauty in your own person, will supply the gap in your
kindness.
An advertisement in the newspapers mentioning the dinner-time, will be
esteemed a favour.
Some wild beasts (in cages) have come down here, and involved us in a
whirl of dissipation. A young lady in complete armour--at least, in
something that shines very much, and is exceedingly scaley--goes into
the den of ferocious lions, tigers, leopards, etc., and pretends to go
to sleep upon the principal lion, upon which a rustic keeper, who speaks
through his nose, exclaims, "Behold the abazid power of woobad!" and we
all applaud tumultuously.
Seriously, she beats Van Amburgh. And I think the Duke of Wellington
must have her painted by Landseer.
My penitent regards to Lady Blessington, Count D'Orsay, and my own
Marchioness.
Ever, dear Miss Power,
Very faithfully yours.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]