e company is more decent, inasmuch as that naval officer,
whom Nancy blames me for describing in just terms, is not present.

By the bye, you know doubtless the lines which are in the mouth of every
member of Parliament, depicting the comparative merits of the two rooms.
They are, I think, very happy.

If thou goest into the Smoking-room
Three plagues will thee befall,--
The chloride of lime, the tobacco smoke,
And the Captain who's worst of all,
The canting Sea-captain,
The prating Sea-captain,
The Captain who's worst of all.

If thou goest into the Library
Three good things will thee befall,-- Very good books, and very good air,
And M*c**l*y, who's best of all,
The virtuous M*c**l*y,
The prudent M*c**l*y,
M*c**l*y who's best of all.

Oh, how I am worked! I never see Fanny from Sunday to Sunday. All my
civilities wait for that blessed day; and I have so many scores of
visits to pay that I can scarcely find time for any of that Sunday
reading in which, like Nancy, I am in the habit of indulging. Yesterday,
as soon as I was fixed in my best and had breakfasted, I paid a round
of calls to all my friends who had the cholera. Then I walked to all the
clubs of which I am a member, to see the newspapers. The first of
these two works you will admit to be a work of mercy; the second, in
a political man, one of necessity. Then, like a good brother, I walked
under a burning sun to Kensington to ask Fanny how she did, and stayed
there two hours. Then I went to Knightsbridge to call on Mrs. Listen and
chatted with her till it was time to go and dine at the Athenaeum. Then
I dined, and after dinner, like a good young man, I sate and read Bishop
Heber's journal till bedtime. There is a Sunday for you! I think that I
excel in the diary lire. I will keep a journal like the Bishop, that my
memory may

"Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust."

Next Sunday I am to go to Lord Lansdowne's at Richmond, so that I hope
to have something to tell you. But on second thoughts I will tell you
nothing, nor ever will write to you again, nor ever speak to you again.
I have no pleasure in writing to undutiful sisters. Why do you not send
me longer letters? But I am at the end of my paper, so that I have no
more room to scold.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah and Margaret Macaulay.

London: August 14, 1832.

My dear Sisters,--Our work is over at last; not, however, till it has
half killed us all.[On the 8th August, 1832,