Such a scene as the division of last Tuesday I never saw, and never

expect to see again. If I should live fifty years, the impression of it

will be as fresh and sharp in my mind as if it had just taken place.

It was like seeing Caesar stabbed in the Senate House, or seeing Oliver

taking the mace from the table; a sight to be seen only once, and never

to be forgotten. The crowd overflowed the House in every part. When the

strangers were cleared out, and the doors locked, we had six hundred and

eight members present,--more by fifty-five than ever were in a division

before. The Ayes and Noes were like two volleys of cannon from opposite

sides of a field of battle. When the opposition went out into the lobby,

an operation which took up twenty minutes or more, we spread ourselves

over the benches on both sides of the House; for there were many of us

who had not been able to find a seat during the evening. ["The practice

in the Commons, until 1836, was to send one party forth into the lobby,

the other remaining in the House."--Sir T. Erskine May's "Parliamentary

Practice."] When the doors were shut we began to speculate on our

numbers. Everybody was desponding. "We have lost it. We are only two

hundred and eighty at most. I do not think we are two hundred and fifty.

They are three hundred. Alderman Thompson has counted them. He says they

are two hundred and ninety-nine." This was the talk on our benches. I

wonder that men who have been long in Parliament do not acquire a better

coup d'oeil for numbers. The House, when only the Ayes were in it,

looked to me a very fair House,--much fuller than it generally is even

on debates of considerable interest. I had no hope, however, of three

hundred. As the tellers passed along our lowest row on the left hand

side the interest was insupportable,--two hundred and ninety-one,--two

hundred and ninety-two,--we were all standing up and stretching forward,

telling with the tellers. At three hundred there was a short cry of

joy,--at three hundred and two another,--suppressed however in a moment;

for we did not yet know what the hostile force might be. We knew,

however, that we could not be severely beaten. The doors were thrown

open, and in they came. Each of them, as he entered, brought some

different report of their numbers. It must have been impossible, as

you may conceive, in the lobby, crowded as they were, to form any exact

estimate. First we heard that they were three hundred and three; then

that number rose to three hundred and ten; then went down to three

hundred and seven. Alexander Barry told me that he had counted, and that

they were three hundred and four. We were all breathless with anxiety,

when Charles Wood, who stood near the door, jumped up on a bench and

cried out, "They are only three hundred and one." We set up a shout that

you might have heard to Charing Cross, waving our hats, stamping against

the floor, and clapping our hands. The tellers scarcely got through the

crowd; for the House was thronged up to the table, and all the floor

was fluctuating with heads like the pit of a theatre. But you might have

heard a pin drop as Duncannon read the numbers. Then again the shouts

broke out, and many of us shed tears. I could scarcely refrain. And

the jaw of Peel fell; and the face of Twiss was as the face of a damned

soul; and Herries looked like Judas taking his necktie off for the last

operation. We shook hands, and clapped each other on the back, and went

out laughing, crying, and huzzaing into the lobby. And no sooner were

the outer doors opened than another shout answered that within the

House. All the passages, and the stairs into the waiting-rooms, were

thronged by people who had waited till four in the morning to know the

issue. We passed through a narrow lane between two thick masses of them;

and all the way down they were shouting and waving their hats, till we

got into the open air. I called a cabriolet, and the first thing the

driver asked was, "Is the Bill carried?" "Yes, by one." "Thank God for

it, Sir." And away I rode to Gray's Inn,--and so ended a scene which

will probably never be equalled till the reformed Parliament

wants reforming; and that I hope will not be till the days of our

grandchildren, till that truly orthodox and apostolical person Dr.

Francis Ellis is an archbishop of eighty.

As for me, I am for the present a sort of lion. My speech has set me

in the front rank, if I can keep there; and it has not been my luck

hitherto to lose ground when I have once got it. Sheil and I are on very

civil terms. He talks largely concerning Demosthenes and Burke. He made,

I must say, an excellent speech; too florid and queer, but decidedly

successful.

Why did not Price speak? If he was afraid, it was not without reason;

for a more terrible audience there is not in the world. I wish that

Praed had known to whom he was speaking. But, with all his talent, he

has no tact, and he has fared accordingly. Tierney used to say that he

never rose in the House without feeling his knees tremble under him; and

I am sure that no man who has not some of that feeling will ever succeed

there.

Ever yours

T. B. MACAULAY.

London: May 27, 1835.

My dear Hannah,--Let me see if I can write a letter a la Richardson:--a

little less prolix it must be, or it will exceed my ounce. By the bye,

I wonder that Uncle Selby never grudged the postage of Miss Byron's

letters. According to the nearest calculation that I can make, her

correspondence must have enriched the post office of Ashby Canons by

something more than the whole annual interest of her fifteen thousand

pounds.

I reached Lansdowne House by a quarter to eleven, and passed through the

large suite of rooms to the great Sculpture Gallery. There were seated

and standing perhaps three hundred people, listening to the performers,

or talking to each other. The room is the handsomest and largest, I

am told, in any private house in London. I enclose our musical bill of

fare. Fanny, I suppose, will be able to expound it better than I. The

singers were more showily dressed than the auditors, and seemed quite at

home. As to the company, there was just everybody in London (except that

little million and a half that you wot of,)--the Chancellor, and the

First Lord of the Admiralty, and Sydney Smith, and Lord Mansfield, and

all the Barings and the Fitzclarences, and a hideous Russian spy, whose

face I see everywhere, with a star on his coat. During the interval

between the delights of "I tuoi frequenti," and the ecstasies of "Se tu

m'ami," I contrived to squeeze up to Lord Lansdowne. I was shaking hands

with Sir James Macdonald, when I heard a command behind us: "Sir James,

introduce me to Mr. Macaulay;" and we turned, and there sate a large

bold-looking woman, with the remains of a fine person, and the air of

Queen Elizabeth. "Macaulay," said Sir James, "let me present you to Lady

Holland." Then was her ladyship gracious beyond description, and asked

me to dine and take a bed at Holland House next Tuesday. I accepted

the dinner, but declined the bed, and I have since repented that I so

declined it. But I probably shall have an opportunity of retracting on

Tuesday.

To-night I go to another musical party at Marshall's, the late M.P.

for Yorkshire. Everybody is talking of Paganini and his violin. The man

seems to be a miracle. The newspapers say that long streamy flakes of

music fall from his string, interspersed with luminous points of sound

which ascend the air and appear like stars. This eloquence is quite

beyond me.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: May 28, 1831.

My dear Hannah,--More gaieties and music-parties; not so fertile of

adventures as that memorable masquerade whence Harriet Byron was carried

away; but still I hope that the narrative of what passed there will

gratify "the venerable circle." Yesterday I dressed, called a cab, and

was whisked away to Hill Street. I found old Marshall's house a very

fine one. He ought indeed to have a fine one; for he has, I believe, at

least thirty thousand a year. The carpet was taken up, and chairs were

set out in rows, as if we had been at a religious meeting. Then we

had flute-playing by the first flute-player in England, and

pianoforte-strumming by the first pianoforte-strummer in England,

and singing by all the first singers in England, and Signor Rubini's

incomparable tenor, and Signor Curioni's incomparable counter-tenor, and

Pasta's incomparable expression. You who know how airs much inferior

to these take my soul, and lap it in Elysium, will form some faint

conception of my transport. Sharp beckoned me to sit by him in the back

row. These old fellows are so selfish. "Always," said he, "establish

yourself in the middle of the row against the wall; for, if you sit in

the front or next the edges, you will be forced to give up your seat to

the ladies who are standing." I had the gallantry to surrender mine to

a damsel who had stood for a quarter of an hour; and I lounged into the

ante-rooms, where I found Samuel Rogers. Rogers and I sate together on

a bench in one of the passages, and had a good deal of very pleasant

conversation. He was,--as indeed he has always been to me,--extremely

kind, and told me that, if it were in his power, he would contrive to be

at Holland House with me, to give me an insight into its ways. He is the

great oracle of that circle.

He has seen the King's letter to Lord Grey, respecting the Garter; or

at least has authentic information about it. It is a happy stroke of

policy, and will, they say, decide many wavering votes in the House of

Lords. The King, it seems, requests Lord Grey to take the order, as a

mark of royal confidence in him "at so critical a time;"--significant

words, I think.

Ever yours

T. B. MACAULAY.

To Hannah More Macaulay.

London: May 30, 1831.

Well, my dear, I have been to Holland House. I took a glass coach, and

arrived, through a fine avenue of elms, at the great entrance towards

seven o'clock. The house is delightful;--the very perfection of the

old Elizabethan style;--a considerable number of very large and very

comfortable rooms, rich with antique carving and gilding, but carpeted

and furnished with all the skill of the best modern upholsterers. The

library is a very long room,--as long, I should think, as the gallery

at Rothley Temple,--with little cabinets for study branching out of it.

warmly and snugly fitted up, and looking out on very beautiful grounds.

The collection of books is not, like Lord Spencer's, curious; but it

contains almost everything that one ever wished to read. I found nobody

there when I arrived but Lord Russell, the son of the Marquess of

Tavistock. We are old House of Commons friends; so we had some very

pleasant talk, and in a little while in came Allen, who is warden of

Dulwich College, and who lives almost entirely at Holland House. He is

certainly a man of vast information and great conversational powers.

Some other gentlemen dropped in, and we chatted till Lady Holland made

her appearance. Lord Holland dined by himself on account of his gout.

We sat down to dinner in a fine long room, the wainscot of which is

rich with gilded coronets, roses, and portcullises. There were Lord

Albemarle, Lord Alvanley, Lord Russell, Lord Mahon,--a violent Tory, but

a very agreeable companion, and a very good scholar. There was Cradock,

a fine fellow who was the Duke of Wellington's aide-de-camp in 1815, and

some other people whose names I did not catch. What however is more to

the purpose, there was a most excellent dinner. I have always heard that

Holland House is famous for its good cheer, and certainly the reputation

is not unmerited. After dinner Lord Holland was wheeled in, and placed

very near me. He was extremely amusing and good-natured.

In the drawing-room I had a long talk with Lady Holland about the

antiquities of the house, and about the purity of the English language,

wherein she thinks herself a critic. I happened, in speaking about the

Reform Bill, to say that I wished that it had been possible to form a

few commercial constituencies, if the word constituency were admissible.

"I am glad you put that in," said her ladyship. "I was just going

to give it you. It is an odious word. Then there is _talented_ and

_influential_, and _gentlemanly_. I never could break Sheridan of

_gentlemanly_, though he allowed it to be wrong." We talked about the

word _talents_ and its history. I said that it had first appeared in

theological writing, that it was a metaphor taken from the parable in

the New Testament, and that it had gradually passed from the vocabulary

of divinity into common use. I challenged her to find it in any

classical writer on general subjects before the Restoration, or even

before the year 1700. I believe that I might safely have gone down

later. She seemed surprised by this theory, never having, so far as I

could judge, heard of the parable of the talents. I did not tell her,

though I might have done so, that a person who professes to be a critic

in the delicacies of the English language ought to have the Bible at his

fingers' ends.

She is certainly a woman of considerable talents and great literary

acquirements. To me she was excessively gracious; yet there is a

haughtiness in her courtesy which, even after all that I had heard of

her, surprised me. The centurion did not keep his soldiers in better

order than she keeps her guests. It is to one "Go," and he goeth; and to

another "Do this," and it is done. "Ring the bell, Mr. Macaulay." "Lay

down that screen, Lord Russell; you will spoil it." "Mr. Allen, take a

candle and show Mr. Cradock the picture of Buonaparte." Lord Holland

is, on the other hand, all kindness, simplicity, and vivacity. He talked

very well both on politics and on literature. He asked me in a very

friendly manner about my father's health, and begged to be remembered to

him.

When my coach came, Lady Holland made me promise that I would on

the first fine morning walk out to breakfast with them, and see the

grounds;--and, after drinking a glass of very good iced lemonade, I

took my leave, much amused and pleased. The house certainly deserves

its reputation for pleasantness, and her ladyship used me, I believe, as

well as it is her way to use anybody.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

Court of Commissioners, Basinghall Street: May 31, 1831.

My dear Sister,--How delighted I am that you like my letters, and how

obliged by yours! But I have little more than my thanks to give for your

last. I have nothing to tell about great people to-day. I heard no fine

music yesterday, saw nobody above the rank of a baronet, and was shut

up in my own room reading and writing all the morning. This day seems

likely to pass in much the same way, except that I have some bankruptcy

business to do, and a couple of sovereigns to receive. So here I am,

with three of the ugliest attorneys that ever deserved to be transported

sitting opposite to me; a disconsolate-looking bankrupt, his hands in

his empty pockets, standing behind; a lady scolding for her money, and

refusing to be comforted because it is not; and a surly butcher-like

looking creditor, growling like a house-dog, and saying, as plain as

looks can say "If I sign your certificate, blow me, that's all." Among

these fair and interesting forms, on a piece of official paper, with

a pen and with ink found at the expense of the public, am I writing to

Nancy.

These dirty courts, filled with Jew money-lenders, sheriffs' officers,

attorneys' runners, and a crowd of people who live by giving sham bail

and taking false oaths, are not by any means such good subjects for a

lady's correspondent as the Sculpture Gallery at Lansdowne House, or

the conservatory at Holland House, or the notes of Pasta, or the talk of

Rogers. But we cannot be always fine. When my Richardsonian epistles are

published, there must be dull as well as amusing letters among them;

and this letter is, I think, as good as those sermons of Sir Charles to

Geronymo which Miss Byron hypocritically asked for, or as the greater

part of that stupid last volume.

We shall soon have more attractive matter. I shall walk out to breakfast

at Holland House; and I am to dine with Sir George Philips, and with

his son the member for Steyning, who have the best of company; and I

am going to the fancy ball of the Jew. He met me in the street, and

implored me to come. "You need not dress more than for an evening party.

You had better come. You will be delighted. It will be so very pretty."

I thought of Dr. Johnson and the herdsman with his "See, such pretty

goats." [See Boswell's Tour to the Hebrides, Sept. 1 1773. "The Doctor

was prevailed with to mount one of Vass's grays. As he rode upon it

downhill, it did not go well, and he grumbled. I walked on a little

before, but was excessively entertained with the method taken to keep

him in good humour. Hay led the horse's head, talking to Dr. Johnson

as much as he could and, (having heard him, in the forenoon, express a

pastoral pleasure on seeing the goats browsing,) just when the Doctor

was uttering his displeasure, the fellow cried, with a very Highland

accent, 'See, such pretty goats!' Then he whistled whu! and made them

jump."] However, I told my honest Hebrew that I would come. I may

perhaps, like the Benjamites, steal away some Israelite damsel in the

middle of her dancing.

But the noise all round me is becoming louder, and a baker in a white

coat is bellowing for the book to prove a debt of nine pounds fourteen

shillings and fourpence. So I must finish my letter and fall to

business.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London June 1, 1831.

My dear Sister,--My last letter was a dull one. I mean this to be very

amusing. My last was about Basinghall Street, attorneys, and bankrupts.

But for this,--take it dramatically in the German style.

Fine morning. Scene, the great entrance of Holland House.

Enter MACAULAY and Two FOOTMEN in livery.

First Footman.--Sir, may I venture to demand your name?

Macaulay.--Macaulay, and thereto I add M.P.

And that addition, even in these proud halls,

May well ensure the bearer some respect.

Second Footman.--And art thou come to breakfast with our Lord?

Macaulay.--I am for so his hospitable will,

And hers--the peerless dame ye serve--hath bade.

First Footman.--Ascend the stair, and thou above shalt find,

On snow-white linen spread, the luscious meal.

(Exit MACAULAY up stairs.)

In plain English prose, I went this morning to breakfast at Holland

House. The day was fine, and I arrived at twenty minutes after ten.

After I had lounged a short time in the dining-room, I heard a gruff

good-natured voice asking, "Where is Mr. Macaulay? Where have you put

him?" and in his arm-chair Lord Holland was wheeled in. He took me round

the apartments, he riding and I walking. He gave me the history of the

most remarkable portraits in the library, where there is, by the bye,

one of the few bad pieces of Lawrence that I have seen--a head of

Charles James Fox, an ignominious failure. Lord Holland said that it

was the worst ever painted of so eminent a man by so eminent an artist.

There is a very fine head of Machiavelli, and another of Earl Grey,

a very different sort of man. I observed a portrait of Lady Holland

painted some thirty years ago. I could have cried to see the change. She

must have been a most beautiful woman. She still looks, however, as if

she had been handsome, and shows in one respect great taste and sense.

She does not rouge at all; and her costume is not youthful, so that

she looks as well in the morning as in the evening. We came back to the

dining-room. Our breakfast party consisted of my Lord and Lady, myself,

Lord Russell, and Luttrell. You must have heard of Luttrell. I met him

once at Rogers's; and I have seen him, I think, in other places. He is

a famous wit,--the most popular, I think, of all the professed wits,--a

man who has lived in the highest circles, a scholar, and no contemptible

poet. He wrote a little volume of verse entitled "Advice to Julia,"--not

first rate, but neat, lively, piquant, and showing the most consummate

knowledge of fashionable life.

We breakfasted on very good coffee, and very good tea, and very good

eggs, butter kept in the midst of ice, and hot rolls. Lady Holland told

us her dreams; how she had dreamed that a mad dog bit her foot, and how

she set off to Brodie, and lost her way in St. Martin's Lane, and could

not find him. She hoped, she said, the dream would not come true. I said

that I had had a dream which admitted of no such hope; for I had dreamed

that I heard Pollock speak in the House of Commons, that the speech was

very long, and that he was coughed down. This dream of mine diverted

them much.

After breakfast Lady Holland offered to conduct me to her own

drawing-room, or, rather, commanded my attendance. A very beautiful room

it is, opening on a terrace, and wainscoted with miniature paintings

interesting from their merit, and interesting from their history. Among

them I remarked a great many,--thirty, I should think,--which even I,

who am no great connoisseur, saw at once could come from no hand but

Stothard's. They were all on subjects from Lord Byron's poems. "Yes,"

said she; "poor Lord Byron sent them to me a short time before the

separation. I sent them back, and told him that, if he gave them away,

he ought to give them to Lady Byron. But he said that he would not, and

that if I did not take them, the bailiffs would, and that they would be

lost in the wreck." Her ladyship then honoured me so far as to conduct

me through her dressing-room into the great family bedchamber to show me

a very fine picture by Reynolds of Fox, when a boy, birds-nesting. She

then consigned me to Luttrell, asking him to show me the grounds.

Through the grounds we went, and very pretty I thought them. In the

Dutch garden is a fine bronze bust of Napoleon, which Lord Holland put

up in 1817, while Napoleon was a prisoner at St. Helena. The inscription

was selected by his lordship, and is remarkably happy. It is from

Homer's Odyssey. I will translate it, as well as I can extempore, into a

measure which gives a better idea of Homer's manner than Pope's singsong

couplet.

For not, be sure, within the grave

Is hid that prince, the wise, the brave;

But in an islet's narrow bound,

With the great Ocean roaring round,

The captive of a foeman base

He pines to view his native place.

There is a seat near the spot which is called Rogers's seat. The poet

loves, it seems, to sit there. A very elegant inscription by Lord

Holland is placed over it.

"Here Rogers sate; and here for ever dwell

With me those pleasures which he sang so well."

Very neat and condensed, I think. Another inscription by Luttrell hangs

there. Luttrell adjured me with mock pathos to spare his blushes; but I

am author enough to know what the blushes of authors mean. So I read

the lines, and very pretty and polished they were, but too many to be

remembered from one reading.

Having gone round the grounds I took my leave, very much pleased with

the place. Lord Holland is extremely kind. But that is of course; for he

is kindness itself. Her ladyship too, which is by no means of course, is

all graciousness and civility. But, for all this, I would much rather

be quietly walking with you; and the great use of going to these fine

places is to learn how happy it is possible to be without them. Indeed,

I care so little for them that I certainly should not have gone to-day,

but that I thought that I should be able to find materials for a letter

which you might like.

Farewell.

T. B. MACAULAY.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: June 3, 1831.

My dear Sister,--I cannot tell you how delighted I am to find that my

letters amuse you. But sometimes I must be dull like my neighbours.

I paid no visits yesterday, and have no news to relate to-day. I am

sitting again in Basinghall Street and Basil Montagu is haranguing about

Lord Verulam, and the way of inoculating one's mind with truth; and

all this a propos of a lying bankrupt's balance-sheet. ["Those who are

acquainted with the Courts in which Mr. Montagu practises with so much

ability and success, will know how often he enlivens the discussion of

a point of law by citing some weighty aphorism, or some brilliant

illustration, from the De Augmentis or the Novum Organum."--Macaulay's

Review of Basil Montagu's Edition of Bacon.]

Send me some gossip, my love. Tell me how you go on with German. What

novel have you commenced? Or, rather, how many dozen have you finished?

Recommend me one. What say you to "Destiny"? Is the "Young Duke" worth

reading? and what do you think of "Laurie Todd"?

I am writing about Lord Byron so pathetically that I make Margaret cry,

but so slowly that I am afraid I shall make Napier wait. Rogers, like

a civil gentleman, told me last week to write no more reviews, and to

publish separate works; adding, what for him is a very rare thing,

a compliment: "You may do anything, Mr. Macaulay." See how vain and

insincere human nature is! I have been put into so good a temper with

Rogers that I have paid him, what is as rare with me as with him, a very

handsome compliment in my review. ["Well do we remember to have heard a

most correct judge of poetry revile Mr. Rogers for the incorrectness of

that most sweet and graceful passage:--

'Such grief was ours,--it seems but yesterday,--

When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay,

Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh

At midnight in a sister's arms to die,

Oh! thou wast lovely; lovely was thy frame,

And pure thy spirit as from heaven it came;

And, when recalled to join the blest above,

Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love

Nursing the young to health. In happier hours,

When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers,

Once in thy mirth thou badst me write on thee;

And now I write what thou shalt never see.'

Macaulay's Essay on Byron.] It is not undeserved; but I confess that

I cannot understand the popularity of his poetry. It is pleasant and

flowing enough; less monotonous than most of the imitations of Pope and

Goldsmith; and calls up many agreeable images and recollections. But

that such men as Lord Granville, Lord Holland, Hobhouse, Lord Byron, and

others of high rank in intellect, should place Rogers, as they do, above

Southey, Moore, and even Scott himself, is what I cannot conceive. But

this comes of being in the highest society of London. What Lady Jane

Granville called the Patronage of Fashion can do as much for a middling

poet as for a plain girl like Miss Arabella Falconer. [Lady Jane, and

Miss Arabella, appear in Miss Edgeworth's "Patronage."]

But I must stop. This rambling talk has been scrawled in the middle of

haranguing, squabbling, swearing, and crying. Since I began it I have

taxed four bills, taken forty depositions, and rated several perjured

witnesses.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah and Margaret Macaulay.

London: June 7, 1831.

Yesterday I dined at Marshall's, and was almost consoled for not meeting

Ramohun Roy by a very pleasant party. The great sight was the two wits,

Rogers and Sydney Smith. Singly I have often seen them; but to see them

both together was a novelty, and a novelty not the less curious because

their mutual hostility is well known, and the hard hits which they have

given to each other are in everybody's mouth. They were very civil,

however. But I was struck by the truth of what Matthew Bramble, a person

of whom you probably never heard, says in Smollett's Humphrey Clinker:

that one wit in a company, like a knuckle of ham in soup, gives a

flavour; but two are too many. Rogers and Sydney Smith would not come

into conflict. If one had possession of the company, the other was

silent; and, as you may conceive, the one who had possession of the

company was always Sydney Smith, and the one who was silent was always

Rogers. Sometimes, however, the company divided, and each of them had a

small congregation. I had a good deal of talk with both of them; for, in

whatever they may disagree, they agree in always treating me with very

marked kindness.

I had a good deal of pleasant conversation with Rogers. He was telling

me of the curiosity and interest which attached to the persons of

Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron. When Sir Walter Scott dined at a

gentleman's in London some time ago, all the servant-maids in the house

asked leave to stand in the passage and see him pass. He was, as you

may conceive, greatly flattered. About Lord Byron, whom he knew well, he

told me some curious anecdotes. When Lord Byron passed through Florence,

Rogers was there. They had a good deal of conversation, and Rogers

accompanied him to his carriage. The inn had fifty windows in front. All

the windows were crowded with women, mostly English women, to catch a

glance at their favourite poet. Among them were some at whose houses he

had often been in England, and with whom he had lived on friendly terms.

He would not notice them, or return their salutations. Rogers was the

only person that he spoke to.

The worst thing that I know about Lord Byron is the very unfavourable

impression which he made on men, who certainly were not inclined to

judge him harshly, and who, as far as I know, were never personally

ill-used by him. Sharp and Rogers both speak of him as an unpleasant,

affected, splenetic person. I have heard hundreds and thousands of

people who never saw him rant about him; but I never heard a single

expression of fondness for him fall from the lips of any of those who

knew him well. Yet, even now, after the lapse of five-and-twenty years,

there are those who cannot talk for a quarter of an hour about Charles

Fox without tears.

Sydney Smith leaves London on the 20th, the day before Parliament meets

for business. I advised him to stay, and see something of his friends

who would be crowding to London. "My flock!" said this good shepherd.

"My dear Sir, remember my flock! The hungry sheep look up and are not

fed."

I could say nothing to such an argument; but I could not help thinking

that, if Mr. Daniel Wilson had said such a thing, it would infallibly

have appeared in his funeral sermon, and in his Life by Baptist Noel.

But in poor Sydney's mouth it sounded like a joke. He begged me to come

and see him at Combe Florey. "There I am, Sir, the priest of the Flowery

Valley, in a delightful parsonage, about which I care a good deal, and a

delightful country, about which I do not care a straw." I told him that

my meeting him was some compensation for missing Ramohun Roy. Sydney

broke forth:

"Compensation! Do you mean to insult me? A beneficed clergyman,

an orthodox clergyman, a nobleman's chaplain, to be no more than

compensation for a Brahmin; and a heretic Brahmin too, a fellow who has

lost his own religion and can't find another; a vile heterodox dog, who,

as I am credibly informed eats beef-steaks in private! A man who has

lost his caste! who ought to have melted lead poured down his nostrils,

if the good old Vedas were in force as they ought to be."

These are some Boswelliana of Sydney; not very clerical, you will say,

but indescribably amusing to the hearers, whatever the readers may think

of them. Nothing can present a more striking contrast to his rapid,

loud, laughing utterance, and his rector-like amplitude and rubicundity,

than the low, slow, emphatic tone, and the corpse-like face of Rogers.

There is as great a difference in what they say as in the voice and

look with which they say it. The conversation of Rogers is remarkably

polished and artificial. What he says seems to have been long meditated,

and might be published with little correction. Sydney talks from the

impulse of the moment, and his fun is quite inexhaustible.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M Macaulay.

London: June 8, 1831.

My dear Sister,--Yesterday night I went to the Jew's. I had indeed no

excuse for forgetting the invitation; for, about a week after I had

received the green varnished billet, and answered it, came another in

the self-same words, and addressed to Mr. Macaulay, Junior. I thought

that my answer had miscarried; so down I sate, and composed a second

epistle to the Hebrews. I afterwards found that the second invitation

was meant for Charles.

I set off a little after ten, having attired myself simply as for a

dinner-party. The house is a very fine one. The door was guarded by

peace-officers, and besieged by starers. My host met me in a

superb court-dress, with his sword at his side. There was a most

sumptuous-looking Persian, covered with gold lace. Then there was an

Italian bravo with a long beard. Two old gentlemen, who ought to have

been wiser, were fools enough to come in splendid Turkish costumes at

which everybody laughed. The fancy-dresses were worn almost exclusively

by the young people. The ladies for the most part contented themselves

with a few flowers and ribands oddly disposed. There was, however,

a beautiful Mary Queen of Scots, who looked as well as dressed the

character perfectly; an angel of a Jewess in a Highland plaid; and

an old woman, or rather a woman,--for through her disguise it was

impossible to ascertain her age,--in the absurdest costume of the last

century. These good people soon began their quadrilles and galopades,

and were enlivened by all the noise that twelve fiddlers could make for

their lives.

You must not suppose the company was made up of these mummers. There was

Dr. Lardner, and Long, the Greek Professor in the London University, and

Sheil, and Strutt, and Romilly, and Owen the philanthropist. Owen laid

bold on Sheil, and gave him a lecture on Co-operation which lasted

for half an hour. At last Sheil made his escape. Then Owen seized Mrs.

Sheil,--a good Catholic, and a very agreeable woman,--and began to prove

to her that there could be no such thing as moral responsibility. I had

fled at the first sound of his discourse, and was talking with Strutt

and Romilly, when behold! I saw Owen leave Mrs. Sheil and come towards

us. So I cried out "Sauve qui peut!" and we ran off. But before we had

got five feet from where we were standing, who should meet us face to

face but Old Basil Montagu? "Nay, then," said I, "the game is up. The

Prussians are on our rear. If we are to be bored to death there is no

help for it." Basil seized Romilly; Owen took possession of Strutt; and

I was blessing myself on my escape, when the only human being worthy to

make a third with such a pair, J--, caught me by the arm, and begged to

have a quarter of an hour's conversation with me. While I was suffering

under J--, a smart impudent-looking young dog, dressed like a sailor in

a blue jacket and check shirt, marched up, and asked a Jewish-looking

damsel near me to dance with him. I thought that I had seen the fellow

before; and, after a little looking, I perceived that it was Charles;

and most knowingly, I assure you, did he perform a quadrille with Miss

Hilpah Manasses.

If I were to tell you all that I saw I should exceed my ounce. There

was Martin the painter, and Proctor, alias Barry Cornwall, the poet or

poetaster. I did not see one Peer, or one star, except a foreign order

or two, which I generally consider as an intimation to look to my

pockets. A German knight is a dangerous neighbour in a crowd. [Macaulay

ended by being a German knight himself.] After seeing a galopade very

prettily danced by the Israelitish women, I went downstairs, reclaimed

my hat, and walked into the dining-room. There, with some difficulty,

I squeezed myself between a Turk and a Bernese peasant, and obtained an

ice, a macaroon, and a glass of wine. Charles was there, very active in

his attendance on his fair Hilpah. I bade him good night. "What!" said

young Hopeful, "are you going yet?" It was near one o'clock; but this

joyous tar seemed to think it impossible that anybody could dream of

leaving such delightful enjoyments till daybreak. I left him staying

Hilpah with flagons, and walked quietly home. But it was some time

before I could get to sleep. The sound of fiddles was in mine ears; and

gaudy dresses, and black hair, and Jewish noses, were fluctuating up and

down before mine eyes.

There is a fancy ball for you. If Charles writes a history of it, tell

me which of us does it best.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M Macaulay.

London: June 10. 1835.

My dear Sister,--I am at Basinghall Street, and I snatch this quarter of

an hour, the only quarter of an hour which I am likely to secure during

the day, to write to you. I will not omit writing two days running,

because, if my letters give you half the pleasure which your letters

give me, you will, I am sure, miss them. I have not, however, much to

tell. I have been very busy with my article on Moore's Life of Byron. I

never wrote anything with less heart. I do not like the book; I do not

like the hero; I have said the most I could for him, and yet I shall be

abused for speaking as coldly of him as I have done.

I dined the day before yesterday at Sir George Philips's with Sotheby,

Morier the author of "Hadji Baba," and Sir James Mackintosh. Morier

began to quote Latin before the ladies had left the room, and quoted it

by no means to the purpose. After their departure he fell to repeating

Virgil, choosing passages which everybody else knows and does not

repeat. He, though he tried to repeat them, did not know them, and could

not get on without my prompting. Sotheby was full of his translation of

Homer's Iliad, some specimens of which he has already published. It is a

complete failure; more literal than that of Pope, but still tainted

with the deep radical vice of Pope's version, a thoroughly modern and

artificial manner. It bears the same kind of relation to the Iliad

that Robertson's narrative bears to the story of Joseph in the book of

Genesis.

There is a pretty allegory in Homer--I think in the last book, but I

forget precisely where--about two vessels, the one filled with blessings

and the other with sorrow, which stand, says the poet, on the right and

left hand of Jupiter's throne, and from which he dispenses good and evil

at his pleasure among men. What word to use for these vessels has long

posed the translators of Homer. Pope, who loves to be fine, calls

them _urns_. Cowper, who loves to be coarse, calls them _casks_;--a

translation more improper than Pope's; for a cask is, in our general

understanding, a wooden vessel; and the Greek word means an earthen

vessel. There is a curious letter of Cowper's to one of his female

correspondents about this unfortunate word. She begged that Jupiter

might be allowed a more elegant piece of furniture for his throne than

a cask. But Cowper was peremptory. I mentioned this incidentally when

we were talking about translations. This set Sotheby off. "I," said

he, "have translated it _vase_. I hope that meets your ideas. Don't you

think vase will do? Does it satisfy you?" I told him, sincerely enough,

that it satisfied me; for I must be most unreasonable to be dissatisfied

at anything that he chooses to put in a book which I never shall read.

Mackintosh was very agreeable; and, as usually happens when I meet him,

I learned something from him. [Macaulay wrote to one of his nieces in

September 1859: "I am glad that Mackintosh's Life interests you. I knew

him well; and a kind friend he was to me when I was a young fellow,

fighting my way uphill."]

The great topic now in London is not, as you perhaps fancy, Reform,

but Cholera. There is a great panic; as great a panic as I remember,

particularly in the City. Rice shakes his head, and says that this is

the most serious thing that has happened in his time; and assuredly, if

the disease were to rage in London as it has lately raged in Riga, it

would be difficult to imagine anything more horrible. I, however, feel

no uneasiness. In the first place I have a strong leaning towards the

doctrines of the anti-contagionists. In the next place I repose a great

confidence in the excellent food and the cleanliness of the English.

I have this instant received your letter of yesterday with the enclosed

proof-sheets. Your criticism is to a certain extent just; but you have

not considered the whole sentence together. Depressed is in itself

better than weighed down; but "the oppressive privileges which had

depressed industry" would be a horrible cacophony. I hope that word

convinces you. I have often observed that a fine Greek compound is an

excellent substitute for a reason.

I met Rogers at the Athenaeum. He begged me to breakfast with him, and

name my day, and promised that he would procure me as agreeable a party

as he could find in London. Very kind of the old man, is it not? and,

if you knew how Rogers is thought of, you would think it as great a

compliment as could be paid to a Duke. Have you seen what the author of

the "Young Duke" says about me: how rabid I am, and how certain I am to

rat?

Ever yours

T. B. M.

Macaulay's account of the allusion to himself in the "Young Duke"

is perfectly accurate; and yet, when read as a whole, the passage in

question does not appear to have been ill-naturedly meant. ["I hear that

Mr. Babington Macaulay is to be returned. If he speaks half as well as

he writes, the House will be in fashion again. I fear that he is one of

those who, like the individual whom he has most studied, will give up to

a party what was meant for mankind. At any rate, he must get rid of his

rabidity. He writes now on all subjects as if he certainly intended to

be a renegade, and was determined to make the contrast complete."--The

Young Duke, book v chap. vi.] It is much what any young literary man

outside the House of Commons might write of another who had only been

inside that House for a few weeks; and it was probably forgotten by the

author within twenty-four hours after the ink was dry. It is to be

hoped that the commentators of the future will not treat it as an

authoritative record of Mr. Disraeli's estimate of Lord Macaulay's

political character.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: June 25, 1831.

My dear Sister,--There was, as you will see, no debate on Lord John

Russell's motion. The Reform Bill is to be brought in, read once, and

printed, without discussion. The contest will be on the second reading,

and will be protracted, I should think, through the whole of the week

after next;--next week it will be, when you read this letter.

I breakfasted with Rogers yesterday. There was nobody there but Moore.

We were all on the most friendly and familiar terms possible; and Moore,

who is, Rogers tells me, excessively pleased with my review of his

book, showed me very marked attention. I was forced to go away early on

account of bankrupt business; but Rogers said that we must have the talk

out so we are to meet at his house again to breakfast. What a delightful

house it is! It looks out on the Green Park just at the most pleasant

point. The furniture has been selected with a delicacy of taste quite

unique. Its value does not depend on fashion, but must be the same while

the fine arts are held in any esteem. In the drawing-room, for example,

the chimney-pieces are carved by Flaxman into the most beautiful Grecian

forms. The book-case is painted by Stothard, in his very best manner,

with groups from Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Boccacio. The pictures are

not numerous; but every one is excellent. In the dining-room there are

also some beautiful paintings. But the three most remarkable objects in

that room are, I think, a cast of Pope taken after death by Roubiliac;

a noble model in terra-cotta by Michael Angelo, from which he afterwards

made one of his finest statues, that of Lorenzo de Medici; and, lastly,

a mahogany table on which stands an antique vase.

When Chantrey dined with Rogers some time ago he took particular notice

of the vase, and the table on which it stands, and asked Rogers who

made the table. "A common carpenter," said Rogers. "Do you remember

the making of it?" said Chantrey. "Certainly," said Rogers, in some

surprise. "I was in the room while it was finished with the chisel, and

gave the workman directions about placing it." "Yes," said Chantrey, "I

was the carpenter. I remember the room well, and all the circumstances."

A curious story, I think, and honourable both to the talent which raised

Chantrey, and to the magnanimity which kept him from being ashamed of

what he had been.

Ever yours affectionately

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: June 29, 1831.

My dear Sister,--We are not yet in the full tide of Parliamentary

business. Next week the debates will be warm and long. I should not

wonder if we had a discussion of five nights. I shall probably take a

part in it.

I have breakfasted again with Rogers. The party was a remarkable

one,--Lord John Russell, Tom Moore, Tom Campbell, and Luttrell. We were

all very lively. An odd incident took place after breakfast, while we

were standing at the window and looking into the Green Park. Somebody

was talking about diners-out. "Ay," said Campbell--

"Ye diners-out from whom we guard our spoons."

Tom Moore asked where the line was. "Don't you know?" said Campbell.

"Not I," said Moore. "Surely," said Campbell, "it is your own." "I never

saw it in my life," said Moore. "It is in one of your best things in the

Times," said Campbell. Moore denied it. Hereupon I put in my claim,

and told them that it was mine. Do you remember it? It is in some lines

called the Political Georgics, which I sent to the Times about three

years ago. They made me repeat the lines, and were vociferous in praise

of them. Tom Moore then said, oddly enough:

"There is another poem in the Times that I should like to know

the author of;--A Parson's Account of his Journey to the Cambridge

Election." I laid claim to that also. "That is curious," said Moore. "I

begged Barnes to tell me who wrote it. He said that he had received it

from Cambridge, and touched it up himself, and pretended that all the

best strokes were his. I believed that he was lying, because I never

knew him to make a good joke in his life. And now the murder is out."

They asked me whether I had put anything else in the Times. Nothing, I

said, except the Sortes Virgilianae, which Lord John remembered well.

I never mentioned the Cambridge Journey, or the Georgics, to any but

my own family; and I was therefore, as you may conceive, not a little

flattered to hear in one day Moore praising one of them, and Campbell

praising the other.

I find that my article on Byron is very popular; one among a thousand

proofs of the bad taste of the public. I am to review Croker's edition

of Bozzy. It is wretchedly ill done. The notes are poorly written, and

shamefully inaccurate. There is, however, much curious information in

it. The whole of the Tour to the Hebrides is incorporated with the Life.

So are most of Mrs. Thrale's anecdotes, and much of Sir John Hawkins's

lumbering book. The whole makes five large volumes. There is a most

laughable sketch of Bozzy, taken by Sir T. Lawrence when young. I never

saw a character so thoroughly hit off. I intend the book for you, when I

have finished my criticism on it. You are, next to myself, the best read

Boswellite that I know. The lady whom Johnson abused for flattering

him [See Boswell's Life of Johnson, April 15, 1778.] was certainly,

according to Croker, Hannah More. Another ill-natured sentence about

a Bath lady ["He would not allow me to praise a lady then at Bath;

observing, 'She does not gain upon me, sir; I think her empty-headed.'"]

whom Johnson called "empty-headed" is also applied to your godmother.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: July 6, 1835.

My dear Sister,--I have been so busy during the last two or three days

that I have found no time to write to you. I have now good news for you.

I spoke yesterday night with a success beyond my utmost expectations. I

am half ashamed to tell you the compliments which I have received; but

you well know that it is not from vanity, but to give you pleasure, that

I tell you what is said about me. Lord Althorp told me twice that it was

the best speech he had ever heard; Graham, and Stanley, and Lord John

Russell spoke of it in the same way; and O'Connell followed me out of

the house to pay me the most enthusiastic compliments. I delivered my

speech much more slowly than any that I have before made, and it is in

consequence better reported than its predecessors, though not well. I

send you several papers. You will see some civil things in the leading

articles of some of them. My greatest pleasure, in the midst of all this

praise, is to think of the pleasure which my success will give to my

father and my sisters. It is happy for me that ambition has in my mind

been softened into a kind of domestic feeling, and that affection has at

least as much to do as vanity with my wish to distinguish myself. This

I owe to my dear mother, and to the interest which she always took in my

childish successes. From my earliest years, the gratification of those

whom I love has been associated with the gratification of my own thirst

for fame, until the two have become inseparably joined in my mind.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M Macaulay

London: July 8, 1831.

My dear Sister,--Do you want to hear all the compliments that are paid

to me? I shall never end, if I stuff my letters with them; for I meet

nobody who does not give me joy. Baring tells me that I ought never to

speak again. Howick sent a note to me yesterday to say that his father

wished very much to be introduced to me, and asked me to dine with them

yesterday, as, by great good luck, there was nothing to do in the

House of Commons. At seven I went to Downing Street, where Earl Grey's

official residence stands. It is a noble house. There are two splendid

drawing-rooms, which overlook St. James's Park. Into these I was shown.

The servant told me that Lord Grey was still at the House of Lords, and

that her Ladyship had just gone to dress. Howick had not mentioned the

hour in his note. I sate down, and turned over two large portfolios of

political caricatures. Earl Grey's own face was in every print. I was

very much diverted. I had seen some of them before; but many were new to

me, and their merit is extraordinary. They were the caricatures of that

remarkably able artist who calls himself H. B. In about half an hour

Lady Georgiana Grey, and the Countess, made their appearance. We had

some pleasant talk, and they made many apologies. The Earl, they said,

was unexpectedly delayed by a question which had arisen in the Lords.

Lady Holland arrived soon after, and gave me a most gracious reception;

shook my hand very warmly, and told me, in her imperial decisive manner,

that she had talked with all the principal men on our side about my

speech, that they all agreed that it was the best that had been made

since the death of Fox, and that it was more like Fox's speaking than

anybody's else. Then she told me that I was too much worked, that I must

go out of town, and absolutely insisted on my going to Holland House to

dine, and take a bed, on the next day on which there is no Parliamentary

business. At eight we went to dinner. Lord Howick took his father's

place, and we feasted very luxuriously. At nine Lord Grey came from the

House with Lord Durham, Lord Holland, and the Duke of Richmond. They

dined on the remains of our dinner with great expedition, as they had to

go to a Cabinet Council at ten. Of course I had scarcely any talk with

Lord Grey. He was, however, extremely polite to me, and so were his

colleagues. I liked the ways of the family.

I picked up some news from these Cabinet Ministers. There is to be

a Coronation on quite a new plan; no banquet in Westminster Hall, no

feudal services, no champion, no procession from the Abbey to the Hall,

and back again. But there is to be a service in the Abbey. All the Peers

are to come in state and in their robes, and the King is to take the

oaths, and be crowned and anointed in their presence. The spectacle will

be finer than usual to the multitude out of doors. The few hundreds who

could obtain admittance to the Hall will be the only losers.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: July 8, 1831.

My dear Sister,--Since I wrote to you I have been out to dine and sleep

at Holland House. We had a very agreeable and splendid party; among

others the Duke and Duchess of Richmond, and the Marchioness of

Clanricarde, who, you know, is the daughter of Canning. She is very

beautiful, and very like her father, with eyes full of fire, and great

expression in all her features. She and I had a great deal of talk. She

showed much cleverness and information, but, I thought, a little more of

political animosity than is quite becoming in a pretty woman. However,

she has been placed in peculiar circumstances. The daughter of a

statesman who was a martyr to the rage of faction may be pardoned

for speaking sharply of the enemies of her parent; and she did speak

sharply. With knitted brows, and flashing eyes, and a look of feminine

vengeance about her beautiful mouth, she gave me such a character of

Peel as he would certainly have had no pleasure in hearing.

In the evening Lord John Russell came; and, soon after, old Talleyrand.

I had seen Talleyrand in very large parties, but had never been near

enough to hear a word that he said. I now had the pleasure of listening

for an hour and a half to his conversation. He is certainly the greatest

curiosity that I ever fell in with. His head is sunk down between two

high shoulders. One of his feet is hideously distorted. His face is as

pale as that of a corpse, and wrinkled to a frightful degree. His eyes

have an odd glassy stare quite peculiar to them. His hair, thickly

powdered and pomatumed, hangs down his shoulders on each side as

straight as a pound of tallow candles. His conversation, however, soon

makes you forget his ugliness and infirmities. There is a poignancy

without effort in all that he says, which reminded me a little of the

character which the wits of Johnson's circle give of Beauclerk. For

example, we talked about Metternich and Cardinal Mazarin. "J'y trouve

beaucoup a redire. Le Cardinal trompait; mais il ne mentait pas. Or, M.

de Metternich ment toujours, et ne trompe jamais." He mentioned M. de

St. Aulaire,--now one of the most distinguished public men of France. I

said: "M. de Saint-Aulaire est beau-pere de M. le duc de Cazes, n'est-ce

pas?" "Non, monsieur," said Talleyrand; "l'on disait, il y a douze

ans, que M. de Saint-Aulaire etoit beau-pere de M. de Cazes; l'on dit

maintenant que M. de Cazes est gendre de M. de Saint-Aulaire." [This

saying remained in Macaulay's mind. He quoted it on the margin of his

Aulus Gellius, as an illustration of the passage in the nineteenth book

in which Julius Caesar is described, absurdly enough as "perpetuus ille

dictator, Cneii Pompeii socer".] It was not easy to describe the change

in the relative positions of two men more tersely and more sharply; and

these remarks were made in the lowest tone, and without the slightest

change of muscle, just as if he had been remarking that the day was

fine. He added: "M. de Saint-Aulaire a beaucoup d'esprit. Mais il est

devot, et, ce qui pis est, devot honteux. Il va se cacher dans quelque

hameau pour faire ses Paques." This was a curious remark from a Bishop.

He told several stories about the political men of France; not of any

great value in themselves; but his way of telling them was beyond

all praise,--concise, pointed, and delicately satirical. When he had

departed, I could not help breaking out into admiration of his talent

for relating anecdotes. Lady Holland said that he had been considered

for nearly forty years as the best teller of a story in Europe, and that

there was certainly nobody like him in that respect.

When the Prince was gone, we went to bed. In the morning Lord John

Russell drove me back to London in his cabriolet, much amused with what

I had seen and heard. But I must stop.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

Basinghall Street: July 15 1831.

My dear Sister,--The rage of faction at the present moment exceeds

anything that has been known in our day. Indeed I doubt whether, at the

time of Mr. Pitt's first becoming Premier, at the time of Sir Robert

Walpole's fall, or even during the desperate struggles between the

Whigs and Tories at the close of Anne's reign, the fury of party was so

fearfully violent. Lord Mahon said to me yesterday that friendships of

long standing were everywhere giving way, and that the schism between

the reformers and the anti-reformers was spreading from the House of

Commons into every private circle. Lord Mahon himself is an exception.

He and I are on excellent terms. But Praed and I become colder every

day.

The scene of Tuesday night beggars description. I left the House at

about three, in consequence of some expressions of Lord Althorp's which

indicated that the Ministry was inclined to yield on the question of

going into Committee on the Bill. I afterwards much regretted that I had

gone away; not that my presence was necessary; but because I should have

liked to have sate through so tremendous a storm. Towards eight in

the morning the Speaker was almost fainting. The Ministerial members,

however, were as true as steel. They furnished the Ministry with the

resolution which it wanted. "If the noble Lord yields," said one of

our men, "all is lost." Old Sir Thomas Baring sent for his razor, and

Benett, the member for Wiltshire, for his night-cap; and they were both

resolved to spend the whole day in the House rather than give way. If

the Opposition had not yielded, in two hours half London would have been

in Old Palace Yard.

Since Tuesday the Tories have been rather cowed. But their demeanour,

though less outrageous than at the beginning of the week, indicates what

would in any other time be called extreme violence. I have not been once

in bed till three in the morning since last Sunday. To-morrow we have a

holiday. I dine at Lansdowne House. Next week I dine with Littleton,

the member for Staffordshire, and his handsome wife. He told me that

I should meet two men whom I am curious to see, Lord Plunket and the

Marquess Wellesley; let alone the Chancellor, who is not a novelty to

me.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: July 25, 1831.

My dear Sister,--On Saturday evening I went to Holland House. There

I found the Dutch Ambassador, M. de Weissembourg, Mr. and Mrs. Vernon

Smith, and Admiral Adam, a son of old Adam, who fought the duel with

Fox. We dined like Emperors, and jabbered in several languages. Her

Ladyship, for an esprit fort, is the greatest coward that I ever saw.

The last time that I was there she was frightened out of her wits by the

thunder. She closed all the shutters, drew all the curtains, and ordered

candles in broad day to keep out the lightning, or rather the appearance

of the lightning. On Saturday she was in a terrible taking about the

cholera; talked of nothing else; refused to eat any ice because somebody

said that ice was bad for the cholera; was sure that the cholera was at

Glasgow; and asked me why a cordon of troops was not instantly placed

around that town to prevent all intercourse between the infected and the

healthy spots. Lord Holland made light of her fears. He is a thoroughly

good-natured, open, sensible man; very lively; very intellectual; well

read in politics, and in the lighter literature both of ancient and

modern times. He sets me more at ease than almost any person that I

know, by a certain good-humoured way of contradicting that he has.

He always begins by drawing down his shaggy eyebrows, making a face

extremely like his uncle, wagging his head and saying: "Now do you know,

Mr. Macaulay, I do not quite see that. How do you make it out?" He

tells a story delightfully; and bears the pain of his gout, and the

confinement and privations to which it subjects him, with admirable

fortitude and cheerfulness. Her Ladyship is all courtesy and kindness

to me; but her demeanour to some others, particularly to poor Allen, is

such as it quite pains me to witness. He really is treated like a negro

slave. "Mr. Allen, go into my drawing-room and bring my reticule."

"Mr. Allen, go and see what can be the matter that they do not bring up

dinner." "Mr. Allen, there is not enough turtle-soup for you. You must

take gravy-soup or none." Yet I can scarcely pity the man. He has an

independent income; and, if he can stoop to be ordered about like a

footman, I cannot so much blame her for the contempt with which she

treats him.

Perhaps I may write again to-morrow.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

Library of the House of Commons

July 26, 1831.

My dear Sister,--Here I am seated, waiting for the debate on the borough

of St. Germains with a very quiet party,--Lord Milton, Lord Tavistock,

and George Lamb. But, instead of telling you in dramatic form my

conversations with Cabinet Ministers, I shall, I think, go back two

or three days, and complete the narrative which I left imperfect in my

epistle of yesterday.

[This refers to a passage in a former letter, likewise written from the

Library of the House.

"'Macaulay!' Who calls Macaulay? Sir James Graham. What can he have to

say to me? Take it dramatically:

Sir J. G. Macaulay!

Macaulay. What?

Sir J. G. Whom are you writing to, that you laugh so much over your

letter?

Macaulay. To my constituents at Caine, to be sure. They expect news of

the Reform Bill every day.

Sir J. G. Well, writing to constituents is less of a plague to you than

to most people, to judge by your face.

Macaulay. How do you know that I am not writing a billet doux to a lady?

Sir J. G. You look more like it, by Jove!

Cutlar Ferguson, M.P. for Kirkcudbright. Let ladies and constituents

alone, and come into the House. We are going on to the case of the

borough of Great Bedwin immediately."]

At half after seven on Sunday I was set down at Littleton's palace, for

such it is, in Grosvenor Place. It really is a noble house; four

superb drawing-rooms on the first floor, hung round with some excellent

pictures--a Hobbema, (the finest by that artist in the world, it is

said,) and Lawrence's charming portrait of Mrs. Littleton. The beautiful

original, by the bye, did not make her appearance. We were a party of

gentlemen. But such gentlemen! Listen, and be proud of your connection

with one who is admitted to eat and drink in the same room with beings

so exalted. There were two Chancellors, Lord Brougham and Lord Plunket.

There was Earl Gower; Lord St. Vincent; Lord Seaford; Lord Duncannon;

Lord Ebrington; Sir James Graham; Sir John Newport; the two Secretaries

of the Treasury, Rice and Ellice; George Lamb; Denison; and half a

dozen more Lords and distinguished Commoners, not to mention Littleton

himself. Till last year he lived in Portman Square. When he changed

his residence his servants gave him warning. They could not, they said,

consent to go into such an unheard-of part of the world as Grosvenor

Place. I can only say that I have never been in a finer house than

Littleton's, Lansdowne House excepted,--and perhaps Lord Milton's, which

is also in Grosvenor Place. He gave me a dinner of dinners. I talked

with Denison, and with nobody else. I have found out that the real use

of conversational powers is to put them forth in tete-a-tete. A man

is flattered by your talking your best to him alone. Ten to one he is

piqued by your overpowering him before a company. Denison was agreeable

enough. I heard only one word from Lord Plunket, who was remarkably

silent. He spoke of Doctor Thorpe, and said that, having heard the

Doctor in Dublin, he should like to hear him again in London. "Nothing

easier," quoth Littleton; "his chapel is only two doors off; and he will

be just mounting the pulpit." "No," said Lord Plunket; "I can't lose my

dinner." An excellent saying, though one which a less able man than Lord

Plunket might have uttered.

At midnight I walked away with George Lamb, and went--where for a ducat?

"To bed," says Miss Hannah. Nay, my sister, not so; but to Brooks's.

There I found Sir James Macdonald; Lord Duncannon, who had left

Littleton's just before us; and many other Whigs and ornaments of human

nature. As Macdonald and I were rising to depart we saw Rogers, and I

went to shake hands with him. You cannot think how kind the old man was

to me. He shook my hand over and over, and told me that Lord Plunket

longed to see me in a quiet way, and that he would arrange a breakfast

party in a day or two for that purpose.

Away I went from Brooks's--but whither? "To bed now, I am sure," says

little Anne. No, but on a walk with Sir James Macdonald to the end of

Sloane Street, talking about the Ministry, the Reform Bill, and the East

India question.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

House of Commons Smoking Room: Saturday.

My dear Sister,--The newspapers will have, explained the reason of our

sitting to-day. At three this morning I left the House. At two this

afternoon I have returned to it, with the thermometer at boiling heat,

and four hundred and fifty people stowed together like negroes in the

John Newton's slaveship. I have accordingly left Sir Francis Burdett

on his legs, and repaired to the smoking-room; a large, wainscoted,

uncarpeted place, with tables covered with green baize and writing

materials. On a full night it is generally thronged towards twelve

o'clock with smokers. It is then a perfect cloud of fume. There have I

seen, (tell it not to the West Indians,) Buxton blowing fire out of his

mouth. My father will not believe it. At present, however, all the doors

and windows are open, and the room is pure enough from tobacco to suit

my father himself.

Get Blackwood's new number. There is a description of me in it. What do

you think he says that I am? "A little, splay-footed, ugly, dumpling of

a fellow, with a mouth from ear to ear." Conceive how such a charge must

affect a man so enamoured of his own beauty as I am.

I said a few words the other night. They were merely in reply, and quite

unpremeditated, and were not ill received. I feel that much practice

will be necessary to make me a good debater on points of detail; but my

friends tell me that I have raised my reputation by showing that I was

quite equal to the work of extemporaneous reply. My manner, they say, is

cold and wants care. I feel this myself. Nothing but strong excitement,

and a great occasion, overcomes a certain reserve and mauvaise honte

which I have in public speaking; not a mauvaise honte which in the least

confuses me, or makes me hesitate for a word, but which keeps me from

putting any fervour into my tone or my action. This is perhaps in some

respects an advantage; for, when I do warm, I am the most vehement

speaker in the House, and nothing strikes an audience so much as the

animation of an orator who is generally cold.

I ought to tell you that Peel was very civil, and cheered me loudly; and

that impudent leering Croker congratulated the House on the proof which

I had given of my readiness. He was afraid, he said, that I had been

silent so long on account of the many allusions which had been made

to Calne. Now that I had risen again he hoped that they should hear me

often. See whether I do not dust that varlet's jacket for him in the

next number of the Blue and Yellow. I detest him more than cold boiled

veal. ["By the bye," Macaulay writes elsewhere, "you never saw such a

scene as Croker's oration on Friday night. He abused Lord John Russell;

he abused Lord Althorp; he abused the Lord Advocate, and we took no

notice;--never once groaned or cried 'No!' But he began to praise Lord

Fitzwilliam;--'a venerable nobleman, an excellent and amiable nobleman'

and so forth; and we all broke out together with 'Question!' 'No, no!'

'This is too bad!' 'Don't, don't!' He then called Canning his right

honourable friend. 'Your friend! damn your impudent face!' said the

member who sate next me."]

After the debate I walked about the streets with Bulwer till near

three o'clock. I spoke to him about his novels with perfect sincerity,

praising warmly, and criticising freely. He took the praise as a greedy

boy takes apple-pie, and the criticism as a good dutiful boy takes

senna-tea. He has one eminent merit, that of being a most enthusiastic

admirer of mine; so that I may be the hero of a novel yet, under the

name of Delamere or Mortimer. Only think what an honour!

Bulwer is to be editor of the New Monthly Magazine. He begged me very

earnestly to give him something for it. I would make no promises; for

I am already over head and ears in literary engagements. But I may

possibly now and then send him some trifle or other. At all events I

shall expect him to puff me well. I do not see why I should not have my

puffers as well as my neighbours.

I am glad that you have read Madame de Stael's Allemagne. The book is a

foolish one in some respects; but it abounds with information, and shows

great mental power. She was certainly the first woman of her age; Miss

Edgeworth, I think, the second; and Miss Austen the third.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: August 29, 1831.

My dear Sister,--Here I am again settled, sitting up in the House

of Commons till three o'clock five days in the week, and getting an

indigestion at great dinners the remaining two. I dined on Saturday with

Lord Althorp, and yesterday with Sir James Graham. Both of them gave me

exactly the same dinner; and, though I am not generally copious on the

repasts which my hosts provide for me, I must tell you, for the honour

of official hospitality, how our Ministers regale their supporters.

Turtle, turbot, venison, and grouse, formed part of both entertainments.

Lord Althorp was extremely pleasant at the head of his own table. We

were a small party; Lord Ebrington, Hawkins, Captain Spencer, Stanley,

and two or three more. We all of us congratulated Lord Althorp on his

good health and spirits. He told us that he never took exercise now;

that from his getting up, till four o'clock, he was engaged in the

business of his office; that at four he dined, went down to the House

at five, and never stirred till the House rose, which is always after

midnight; that he then went home, took a basin of arrow-root with a

glass of sherry in it, and went to bed, where he always dropped asleep

in three minutes. "During the week," said he, "which followed my taking

office, I did not close my eyes for anxiety. Since that time I have

never been awake a quarter of an hour after taking off my clothes."

Stanley laughed at Lord Althorp's arrow-root, and recommended his own

supper, cold meat and warm negus; a supper which I will certainly begin

to take when I feel a desire to pass the night with a sensation as if I

was swallowing a nutmeg-grater every third minute.

We talked about timidity in speaking. Lord Althorp said that he had only

just got over his apprehensions. "I was as much afraid," he said, "last

year as when first I came into Parliament. But now I am forced to speak

so often that I am quite hardened. Last Thursday I was up forty times."

I was not much surprised at this in Lord Althorp, as he is certainly one

of the most modest men in existence. But I was surprised to hear Stanley

say that he never rose without great uneasiness. "My throat and lips,"

he said, "when I am going to speak, are as dry as those of a man who

is going to be hanged." Nothing can be more composed and cool than

Stanley's manner. His fault is on that side. A little hesitation at

the beginning of a speech is graceful; and many eminent speakers have

practised it, merely in order to give the appearance of unpremeditated

reply to prepared speeches; but Stanley speaks like a man who never knew

what fear, or even modesty, was. Tierney, it is remarkable, who was

the most ready and fluent debater almost ever known, made a confession

similar to Stanley's. He never spoke, he said, without feeling his knees

knock together when he rose.

My opinion of Lord Althorp is extremely high. In fact, his character is

the only stay of the Ministry. I doubt whether any person has ever lived

in England who, with no eloquence, no brilliant talents, no profound

information, with nothing in short but plain good sense and an excellent

heart, possessed so much influence both in and out of Parliament. His

temper is an absolute miracle. He has been worse used than any Minister

ever was in debate; and he has never said one thing inconsistent, I do

not say with gentlemanlike courtesy, but with real benevolence. Lord

North, perhaps, was his equal in suavity and good-nature; but Lord North

was not a man of strict principles. His administration was not only

an administration hostile to liberty, but it was supported by vile and

corrupt means,--by direct bribery, I fear, in many cases. Lord Althorp

has the temper of Lord North with the principles of Romilly. If he had

the oratorical powers of either of those men, he might do anything. But

his understanding, though just, is slow, and his elocution painfully

defective. It is, however, only justice to him to say that he has done

more service to the Reform Bill even as a debater than all the other

Ministers together, Stanley excepted.

We are going,--by we I mean the Members of Parliament who are for

reform,--as soon as the Bill is through the Commons, to give a grand

dinner to Lord Althorp and Lord John Russell, as a mark of our respect.

Some people wished to have the other Cabinet Ministers included; but

Grant and Palmerston are not in sufficiently high esteem among the Whigs

to be honoured with such a compliment.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: September 9, 1835.

My dear Sister,--I scarcely know where to begin, or where to end, my

story of the magnificence of yesterday. No pageant can be conceived more

splendid. The newspapers will happily save me the trouble of relating

minute particulars. I will therefore give you an account of my own

proceedings, and mention what struck me most. I rose at six. The cannon

awaked me; and, as soon as I got up, I heard the bells pealing on every

side from all the steeples in London. I put on my court-dress, and

looked a perfect Lovelace in it. At seven the glass coach, which I had

ordered for myself and some of my friends, came to the door. I called in

Hill Street for William Marshall, M.P. for Beverley, and in Cork Street

for Strutt the Member for Derby, and Hawkins the Member for Tavistock.

Our party being complete, we drove through crowds of people, and ranks

of horseguards in cuirasses and helmets, to Westminster Hall, which we

reached as the clock struck eight.

The House of Commons was crowded, and the whole assembly was in uniform.

After prayers we went out in order by lot, the Speaker going last. My

county, Wiltshire, was among the first drawn; so I got an excellent

place in the Abbey, next to Lord Mahon, who is a very great favourite of

mine, and a very amusing companion, though a bitter Tory.

Our gallery was immediately over the great altar. The whole vast avenue

of lofty pillars was directly in front of us. At eleven the guns

fired, the organ struck up, and the procession entered. I never saw so

magnificent a scene. All down that immense vista of gloomy arches there

was one blaze of scarlet and gold. First came heralds in coats stiff

with embroidered lions, unicorns, and harps; then nobles bearing the

regalia, with pages in rich dresses carrying their coronets on cushions;

then the Dean and Prebendaries of Westminster in copes of cloth of gold;

then a crowd of beautiful girls and women, or at least of girls and

women who at a distance looked altogether beautiful, attending on the

Queen. Her train of purple velvet and ermine was borne by six of these

fair creatures. All the great officers of state in full robes, the Duke

of Wellington with his Marshal's staff, the Duke of Devonshire with his

white rod, Lord Grey with the Sword of State, and the Chancellor with

his seals, came in procession. Then all the Royal Dukes with their

trains borne behind them, and last the King leaning on two Bishops. I do

not, I dare say, give you the precise order. In fact, it was impossible

to discern any order. The whole abbey was one blaze of gorgeous dresses,

mingled with lovely faces.

The Queen behaved admirably, with wonderful grace and dignity. The

King very awkwardly. The Duke of Devonshire looked as if he came to be

crowned instead of his master. I never saw so princely a manner and air.

The Chancellor looked like Mephistopheles behind Margaret in the church.

The ceremony was much too long, and some parts of it were carelessly

performed. The Archbishop mumbled. The Bishop of London preached, well

enough indeed, but not so effectively as the occasion required; and,

above all, the bearing of the King made the foolish parts of the ritual

appear monstrously ridiculous, and deprived many of the better parts of

their proper effect. Persons who were at a distance perhaps did not feel

this; but I was near enough to see every turn of his finger, and every

glance of his eye. The moment of the crowning was extremely fine. When

the Archbishop placed the crown on the head of the King, the trumpets

sounded, and the whole audience cried out "God save the King." All the

Peers and Peeresses put on their coronets, and the blaze of splendour

through the Abbey seemed to be doubled. The King was then conducted to

the raised throne, where the Peers successively did him homage, each

of them kissing his cheek, and touching the crown. Some of them were

cheered, which I thought indecorous in such a place, and on such an

occasion. The Tories cheered the Duke of Wellington; and our people, in

revenge, cheered Lord Grey and Brougham.

You will think this a very dull letter for so great a subject; but I

have only had time to scrawl these lines in order to catch the post.

I have not a minute to read them over. I lost yesterday, and have been

forced to work to-day. Half my article on Boswell went to Edinburgh the

day before yesterday. I have, though I say it who should not say it,

beaten Croker black and blue. Impudent as he is, I think he must be

ashamed of the pickle in which I leave him. [Mr. Carlyle reviewed

Croker's book in "Fraser's Magazine" a few months after the appearance

of Macaulay's article in the "Edinburgh." The two Critics seem to have

arrived at much the same conclusion as to the merits of the work.

"In fine," writes Mr. Carlyle, "what ideas Mr. Croker entertains of

a literary _whole_, and the thing called _Book_, and how the very

Printer's Devils did not rise in mutiny against such a conglomeration as

this, and refuse to print it, may remain a problem.... It is our painful

duty to declare, aloud, if that be necessary, that his gift, as weighed

against the hard money which the booksellers demand for giving it you,

is (in our judgment) very much the lighter. No portion, accordingly, of

our small floating capital has been embarked in the business, or ever

shall be. Indeed, were we in the market for such a thing, there is

simply no edition of Boswell to which this last would seem preferable,"]

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: September 13, 1831.

My dear Sister,--I am in high spirits at the thought of soon seeing you

all in London, and being again one of a family, and of a family which I

love so much. It is well that one has something to love in private life;

for the aspect of public affairs is very menacing;--fearful, I think,

beyond what people in general imagine. Three weeks, however, will

probably settle the whole, and bring to an issue the question, Reform or

Revolution. One or the other I am certain that we must and shall have.

I assure you that the violence of the people, the bigotry of the Lords,

and the stupidity and weakness of the Ministers, alarm me so much that

even my rest is disturbed by vexation and uneasy forebodings; not for

myself; for I may gain, and cannot lose; but for this noble country,

which seems likely to be ruined without the miserable consolation of

being ruined by great men. All seems fair as yet, and will seem fair for

a fortnight longer. But I know the danger from information more accurate

and certain than, I believe, anybody not in power possesses; and I

perceive, what our men in power do not perceive, how terrible the danger

is.

I called on Lord Lansdowne on Sunday. He told me distinctly that he

expected the Bill to be lost in the Lords, and that, if it were

lost, the Ministers must go out. I told him, with as much strength of

expression as was suited to the nature of our connection, and to his age

and rank, that, if the Ministers receded before the Lords, and hesitated

to make Peers, they and the Whig party were lost; that nothing remained

but an insolent oligarchy on the one side, and an infuriated people on

the other; and that Lord Grey and his colleagues would become as odious

and more contemptible than Peel and the Duke of Wellington. Why did they

not think of all this earlier? Why put their hand to the plough, and

look back? Why begin to build without counting the cost of finishing?

Why raise the public appetite, and then baulk it? I told him that the

House of Commons would address the King against a Tory Ministry. I

feel assured that it would do so. I feel assured that, if those who are

bidden will not come, the highways and hedges will be ransacked to get

together a reforming Cabinet. To one thing my mind is made up. If nobody

else will move an address to the Crown against a Tory Ministry, I will.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: October 17, 1831.

My dear Ellis,--I should have written to you before, but that I mislaid

your letter and forgot your direction. When shall you be in London? Of

course you do not mean to sacrifice your professional business to the

work of numbering the gates, and telling the towers, of boroughs in

Wales. [Mr. Ellis was one of the Commissioners appointed to arrange

the boundaries of Parliamentary boroughs in connection with the Reform

Bill.] You will come back, I suppose, with your head full of ten pound

householders instead of eroes and of Caermarthen and Denbigh instead of

Carians and Pelasgians. Is it true, by the bye, that the Commissioners

are whipped on the boundaries of the boroughs by the beadles, in order

that they may not forget the precise line which they have drawn? I deny

it wherever I go, and assure people that some of my friends who are in

the Commission would not submit to such degradation.

You must have been hard-worked indeed, and soundly whipped too, if

you have suffered as much for the Reform Bill as we who debated it. I

believe that there are fifty members of the House of Commons who have

done irreparable injury to their health by attendance on the discussions

of this session. I have got through pretty well, but I look forward, I

confess, with great dismay to the thought of recommencing; particularly

as Wetherell's cursed lungs seem to be in as good condition as ever.

I have every reason to be gratified by the manner in which my speeches

have been received. To say the truth, the station which I now hold in

the House is such that I should not be inclined to quit it for any place

which was not of considerable importance. What you saw about my having

a place was a blunder of a stupid reporter's. Croker was taunting the

Government with leaving me to fight their battle, and to rally their

followers; and said that the honourable and learned member for Calne,

though only a practising barrister in title, seemed to be in reality

the most efficient member of the Government. By the bye, my article on

Croker has not only smashed his book, but has hit the Westminster Review

incidentally. The Utilitarians took on themselves to praise the accuracy

of the most inaccurate writer that ever lived, and gave as an instance

of it a note in which, as I have shown, he makes a mistake of twenty

years and more. John Mill is in a rage, and says that they are in a

worse scrape than Croker; John Murray says that it is a damned nuisance;

and Croker looks across the House of Commons at me with a leer of

hatred, which I repay with a gracious smile of pity.

I am ashamed to have said so much about myself. But you asked for news

about me. No request is so certain to be granted, or so certain to be a

curse to him who makes it as that which you have made to me.

Ever yours

T. B. MACAULAY.

London: January 9, 1832.

Dear Napier,--I have been so much engaged by bankrupt business, as we

are winding up the affairs of many estates, that I shall not be able to

send off my article about Hampden till Thursday the 12th. It will be,

I fear, more than forty pages long. As Pascal said of his eighteenth

letter, I would have made it shorter if I could have kept it longer. You

must indulge me, however; for I seldom offend in that way.

It is in part a narrative. This is a sort of composition which I have

never yet attempted. You will tell me, I am sure with sincerity, how you

think that I succeed in it. I have said as little about Lord Nugent's

book as I decently could.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: January 19, 1832.

Dear Napier,--I will try the Life of Lord Burleigh, if you will tell

Longman to send me the book. However bad the work may be, it will serve

as a heading for an article on the times of Elizabeth. On the whole,

I thought it best not to answer Croker. Almost all the little pamphlet

which he published, (or rather printed, for I believe it is not for

sale,) is made up of extracts from Blackwood; and I thought that a

contest with your grog-drinking, cock-fighting, cudgel-playing Professor

of Moral Philosophy would be too degrading. I could have demolished

every paragraph of the defence. Croker defended his thuetoi philoi

by quoting a passage of Euripides which, as every scholar knows, is

corrupt; which is nonsense and false metre if read as he reads it; and

which Markland and Matthiae have set right by a most obvious correction.

But, as nobody seems to have read his vindication, we can gain nothing

by refuting it. ["Mr. Croker has favoured us with some Greek of his

own. 'At the altar,' say Dr. Johnson. 'I recommended my th ph.'

'These letters,' says the editor, (which Dr. Strahan seems not to

have understood,) probably mean _departed friends._' Johnson was not

a first-rate Greek scholar; but he knew more Greek than most boys

when they leave school; and no schoolboy could venture to use the word

thuetoi in the sense which Mr. Croker ascribes to it without imminent

danger of a flogging."--Macaulay's Review of Croker's Boswell.]

Ever yours

T. B. MACAULAY.