s, 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