yself 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 s