We sat down twenty-one to dinner yesterday; the Sawbridges, Armytages, Mr. Gunning, and our old London friend Mr. Skeffington, were added to our stationary party. We had some musick in the evening. Harriet played as beautifully as usual, and I declare it was quite affecting to see poor old Skeffington, who is as good an Irishman in his heart as anybody, standing close to the piano quite in raptures at some pretty Irish tunes she was playing, and making her repeat them over and over, and watching every note, which seemed to go to his very heart. Nothing I like so much as a little bit of nationality peeping out every now and then. 

“Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is mine own, my native land!” 

Do you remember those lines in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel”? How beautiful!