that you drew human nature in too dark colours; I now begin to think that is wholly impossible. Here we are flattering and hating, envying and caressing, duping and slandering, complimenting and ridiculing, each other. I really doubt whether there be such a thing as a heart in the world: perhaps, after all, it is only an elegant superfluity kept for the use of poets. Certainly we have no use for it here.
In consequence of the recent death of the king, we preserve a decorous appearance of dulness; but black is very becoming to a fair skin, and public mourning never yet interfered with private gaiety. I hear that his present majesty complains that he is no better off as king than he was as prince; the queen commanding to retain Mrs. Howard as dame de ses pensées. She is right; it is only positive qualities that are dangerous, and Mrs. Howard is made up of negations: not, I dare say, that she ever said a good downright "no" in her life. But you must make her acquaintance personally. Fancy a tall and fine figure in a green taffety dress, set off with rose-coloured
