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 the