only
difference 'the Duchesse' ever found was, that her Sunday parties
were less well attended; but this was because the world (which
often grows religious, but never grows moral) had begun to take
it into its head that it would keep holy the Sabbath _night_. The
worst part of the story was, that this profligate blackguard
bullied and plundered her without mercy or shame, and she had
managed very nearly to ruin herself before her death. What she
had left, she bequeathed to her husband, notwithstanding his
infidelities and his absence.

January 21st, 1841 {p.367}

[Page Head: MACAULAY'S CONVERSATION.]
[Page Head: MACAULAY'S MEMORY.]

I dined with Lady Holland yesterday. Everything there is exactly
the same as it used to be, excepting only the person of Lord
Holland, who seems to be pretty well forgotten.[3] The same talk
went merrily round, the laugh rang loudly and frequently, and,
but for the black and the mob-cap of the lady, one might have
fancied he had never lived or had died half a century ago. Such
are, however, affections and friendships, and such is the world.
Macaulay dined there, and I never was more struck than upon this
occasion by the inexhaustible variety and extent of his
information. He is not so _agreeable_ as such powers and
resources ought to make any man, because the vessel out of which
it is all poured forth is so ungraceful and uncouth; his voice
unmusical and monotonous, his face not merely inexpressive but
positively heavy and dull, no fire in his eye, no intelligence
playing round his mouth, nothing which bespeaks the genius and
learning stored within and which burst out with such
extraordinary force. It is impossible to mention any book in any
language with which he is not familiar; to touch upon any
subject, whether relating to persons or things, on which he does
not know everything that is to be known. And if he could tread
less heavily on the ground, if he could touch the subjects he
handles with a lighter hand, if he knew when to stop as well as
he knows what to say, his talk would be as attractive as it is
wonderful. What Henry Taylor said of him is epigrammatic and
true, 'that his memory has swamped his mind;' and though I do not
think, as some people say, that his own opinions are completely
suppressed by the load of his learning so that you know nothing
of his mind, it appears to me true that there is less of
originality in him, less exhibition of his own character, than
the