before, but was excessively entertained with the method taken to keep him in good humour.  Hay led the horse’s head, talking to Dr. Johnson as much as he could and, (having heard him, in the forenoon, express a pastoral pleasure on seeing the goats browsing,) just when the Doctor was uttering his displeasure, the fellow cried, with a very Highland accent, ’See, such pretty goats!’ Then he whistled whu! and made them jump.”] However, I told my honest Hebrew that I would come.  I may perhaps, like the Benjamites, steal away some Israelite damsel in the middle of her dancing.

But the noise all round me is becoming louder, and a baker in a white coat is bellowing for the book to prove a debt of nine pounds fourteen shillings and fourpence.  So I must finish my letter and fall to business.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London June 1, 1831.

My dear Sister,—­My last letter was a dull one.  I mean this to be very amusing.  My last was about Basinghall Street, attorneys, and bankrupts.  But for this,—­take it dramatically in the German style.

Fine morning.  Scene, the great entrance of Holland House.

Enter Macaulay and Two footmen in livery.

 First Footman.—­Sir, may I venture to demand your name?

 Macaulay.—­Macaulay, and thereto I add M.P. 
 And that addition, even in these proud halls,
 May well ensure the bearer some respect.

 Second Footman.—­And art thou come to breakfast with our Lord?

 Macaulay.—­I am for so his hospitable will,
 And hers—­the peerless dame ye serve—­hath bade.

 First Footman.—­Ascend the stair, and thou above shalt find,
 On snow-white linen spread, the luscious meal.

(Exit Macaulay up stairs.)

In plain English prose, I went this morning to breakfast at Holland House.  The day was fine, and I arrived at twenty minutes after ten.  After I had lounged a short time in the dining-room, I heard a gruff good-natured voice asking, “Where is Mr. Macaulay?  Where have you put him?” and in his arm-chair Lord Holland was wheeled in.  He took me round the apartments, he riding and I walking.  He gave me the history of the most remarkable portraits in the library, where there is, by the bye, one of the few bad pieces of Lawrence that I have seen—­a head of Charles James Fox, an ignominious failure.  Lord Holland said that it was the worst ever painted of so eminent a man by so eminent an artist.  There is a very fine head of Machiavelli, and another of Earl Grey, a very different sort of man.  I observed a portrait of Lady Holland painted some thirty years ago.  I could have cried to see the change.  She must have been a most beautiful woman.  She still looks, however, as if she had been handsome, and shows in one respect great taste and sense.  She does not rouge at all; and her costume is not youthful, so that she looks as well in the morning