“Here Rogers sate; and here for ever dwell
  With me those pleasures which he sang so well.”

Very neat and condensed, I think.  Another inscription by Luttrell hangs there.  Luttrell adjured me with mock pathos to spare his blushes; but I am author enough to know what the blushes of authors mean.  So I read the lines, and very pretty and polished they were, but too many to be remembered from one reading.

Having gone round the grounds I took my leave, very much pleased with the place.  Lord Holland is extremely kind.  But that is of course; for he is kindness itself.  Her ladyship too, which is by no means of course, is all graciousness and civility.  But, for all this, I would much rather be quietly walking with you; and the great use of going to these fine places is to learn how happy it is possible to be without them.  Indeed, I care so little for them that I certainly should not have gone to-day, but that I thought that I should be able to find materials for a letter which you might like.

Farewell.

T. B. Macaulay.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London:  June 3, 1831.

My dear Sister,—­I cannot tell you how delighted I am to find that my letters amuse you.  But sometimes I must be dull like my neighbours.  I paid no visits yesterday, and have no news to relate to-day.  I am sitting again in Basinghall Street and Basil Montagu is haranguing about Lord Verulam, and the way of inoculating one’s mind with truth; and all this a propos of a lying bankrupt’s balance-sheet. ["Those who are acquainted with the Courts in which Mr. Montagu practises with so much ability and success, will know how often he enlivens the discussion of a point of law by citing some weighty aphorism, or some brilliant illustration, from the De Augmentis or the Novum Organum.”—­ Macaulay’s Review of Basil Montagu’s Edition of Bacon.]

Send me some gossip, my love.  Tell me how you go on with German.  What novel have you commenced?  Or, rather, how many dozen have you finished?  Recommend me one.  What say you to “Destiny”?  Is the “Young Duke” worth reading? and what do you think of “Laurie Todd”?

I am writing about Lord Byron so pathetically that I make Margaret cry, but so slowly that I am afraid I shall make Napier wait.  Rogers, like a civil gentleman, told me last week to write no more reviews, and to publish separate works; adding, what for him is a very rare thing, a compliment:  “You may do anything, Mr. Macaulay.”  See how vain and insincere human nature is!  I have been put into so good a temper with Rogers that I have paid him, what is as rare with me as with him, a very handsome compliment in my review. ["Well do we remember to have heard a most correct judge of poetry revile Mr. Rogers for the incorrectness of that most sweet and graceful passage:—­