rote brought
with her Fanny Ellsler's little girl, a lovely child about seven years
old....

I must tell you something of our event of yesterday. A concert was given
for the benefit of the Poles, the Duchess of Sutherland condescending to
lend Stafford House, provided the assemblage was quite select and
limited to four hundred people; to accomplish which desirable point, and
at the same time make the thing answer its charitable purpose, the
tickets were sold at first at two guineas apiece, and on the morning
itself of the concert at five guineas. Rachel was to recite, Liszt to
play, and my sister was requested to sing, which she agreed to do, the
occasion being semi-public and private, so to speak. A large assembly of
our finest (and bluntest) people was not a bad audience, in a worldly
sense, for her _debut_. She sang beautifully, and looked beautiful, and
was extremely admired and praised and petted.

The whole scene was one of the gayest and most splendid possible, the
entertainment and assembly taking place in the great hall and staircase
of Stafford House, with its scarlet floor-cloths, and marble stairs and
balustrades, and pillars of scagliola, and fretted roof of gold and
white, and skylight surrounded and supported by gigantic gilt
caryatides.

The wide noble flights of steps and long broad galleries, filled with
brilliantly dressed groups; with the sunlight raining down in streams on
the panels and pillars of the magnificent hall, on the beautiful faces
of the women, and the soft sheen and brilliant varied coloring of their
clothes, and on perfect masses of flowers, piled in great pyramids of
every form and hue in every niche and corner, or single plants covered
with an exquisite profusion of perfect bloom, standing here and there in
great precious china vases stolen from the Arabian Nights; it really
was one of the grandest and gayest shows you can imagine, more beautiful
than Paul Veronese's most splendid pictures, which it reminded one of.

My sister's singing overcame me dreadfully....

I must close this letter, my dear; my head is in such a state of
confusion that I scarcely know what I write; and if I keep it longer,
you will never get it.

Yours ever truly----

(I don't know what I am saying; I love you affectionately, but I am
almost beside myself with--everything.)

Yours ever,