as brought since the cholera came.

But I must return to prose, and tell you all that has fallen out since
I wrote last. I have been dining with the Listers at Knightsbridge.
They are in a very nice house, next, or almost next, to that which
the Wilberforces had. We had quite a family party. There were George
Villiers, and Hyde Villiers, and Edward Villiers. Charles was not there.
George and Hyde rank very high in my opinion. I liked their behaviour to
their sister much. She seems to be the pet of the whole family; and
it is natural that she should be so. Their manners are softened by her
presence; and any roughness and sharpness which they have in intercourse
with men vanishes at once. They seem to love the very ground that she
treads on; and she is undoubtedly a charming woman, pretty, clever,
lively, and polite.

I was asked yesterday evening to go to Sir John Burke's, to meet another
heroine who was very curious to see me. Whom do you think? Lady Morgan.
I thought, however, that, if I went, I might not improbably figure in
her next novel; and, as I am not ambitious of such an honour, I kept
away. If I could fall in with her at a great party, where I could see
unseen and hear unheard, I should very much like to make observations on
her; but I certainly will not, if I can help it, meet her face to face,
lion to lioness.

That confounded chattering--, has just got into an argument about the
Church with an Irish papist who has seated himself at my elbow; and they
keep such a din that I cannot tell what I am writing. There they go.
The Lord Lieutenant--the Bishop of Derry-Magee--O'Connell--your
Bible meetings--your Agitation meetings--the propagation of the
Gospel--Maynooth College--the Seed of the Woman shall bruise the
Serpent's head. My dear Lieutenant, you will not only bruise, but break,
my head with your clatter. Mercy! mercy! However, here I am at the end
of my letter, and I shall leave the two demoniacs to tear each other to
pieces.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah and Margaret Macaulay.

Library of the H. of C. July 30, 1832, 11 o'clock at night.

My dear Sisters,--Here I am. Daniel Whittle Harvey is speaking; the
House is thin; the subject is dull; and I have stolen away to write
to you. Lushington is scribbling at my side. No sound is heard but the
scratching of our pens, and the ticking of the clock. We are in a far
better atmosphere than in the smoking-room, whence I wrote to you last
week; and th