I saw Owen leave Mrs. Sheil and come towards us.  So I cried out “Sauve qui peut!” and we ran off.  But before we had got five feet from where we were standing, who should meet us face to face but Old Basil Montagu?  “Nay, then,” said I, “the game is up.  The Prussians are on our rear.  If we are to be bored to death there is no help for it.”  Basil seized Romilly; Owen took possession of Strutt; and I was blessing myself on my escape, when the only human being worthy to make a third with such a pair, J—­, caught me by the arm, and begged to have a quarter of an hour’s conversation with me.  While I was suffering under J—­, a smart impudent-looking young dog, dressed like a sailor in a blue jacket and check shirt, marched up, and asked a Jewish-looking damsel near me to dance with him.  I thought that I had seen the fellow before; and, after a little looking, I perceived that it was Charles; and most knowingly, I assure you, did he perform a quadrille with Miss Hilpah Manasses.

If I were to tell you all that I saw I should exceed my ounce.  There was Martin the painter, and Proctor, alias Barry Cornwall, the poet or poetaster.  I did not see one Peer, or one star, except a foreign order or two, which I generally consider as an intimation to look to my pockets.  A German knight is a dangerous neighbour in a crowd. [Macaulay ended by being a German knight himself.] After seeing a galopade very prettily danced by the Israelitish women, I went downstairs, reclaimed my hat, and walked into the dining-room.  There, with some difficulty, I squeezed myself between a Turk and a Bernese peasant, and obtained an ice, a macaroon, and a glass of wine.  Charles was there, very active in his attendance on his fair Hilpah.  I bade him good night.  “What!” said young Hopeful, “are you going yet?” It was near one o’clock; but this joyous tar seemed to think it impossible that anybody could dream of leaving such delightful enjoyments till daybreak.  I left him staying Hilpah with flagons, and walked quietly home.  But it was some time before I could get to sleep.  The sound of fiddles was in mine ears; and gaudy dresses, and black hair, and Jewish noses, were fluctuating up and down before mine eyes.

There is a fancy ball for you.  If Charles writes a history of it, tell me which of us does it best.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M Macaulay.

London:  June 10. 1835.

My dear Sister,—­I am at Basinghall Street, and I snatch this quarter of an hour, the only quarter of an hour which I am likely to secure during the day, to write to you.  I will not omit writing two days running, because, if my letters give you half the pleasure which your letters give me, you will, I am sure, miss them.  I have not, however, much to tell.  I have been very busy with my article on Moore’s Life of Byron.  I never wrote anything with less heart.  I do not like the book; I do not like the hero; I have said the most I could for him, and yet I shall be abused for speaking as coldly of him as I have done.