taste quite unique.  Its value does not depend on fashion, but must be the same while the fine arts are held in any esteem.  In the drawing-room, for example, the chimney-pieces are carved by Flaxman into the most beautiful Grecian forms.  The book-case is painted by Stothard, in his very best manner, with groups from Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Boccacio.  The pictures are not numerous; but every one is excellent.  In the dining-room there are also some beautiful paintings.  But the three most remarkable objects in that room are, I think, a cast of Pope taken after death by Roubiliac; a noble model in terra-cotta by Michael Angelo, from which he afterwards made one of his finest statues, that of Lorenzo de Medici; and, lastly, a mahogany table on which stands an antique vase.

When Chantrey dined with Rogers some time ago he took particular notice of the vase, and the table on which it stands, and asked Rogers who made the table.  “A common carpenter,” said Rogers.  “Do you remember the making of it?” said Chantrey.  “Certainly,” said Rogers, in some surprise.  “I was in the room while it was finished with the chisel, and gave the workman directions about placing it.”  “Yes,” said Chantrey, “I was the carpenter.  I remember the room well, and all the circumstances.”  A curious story, I think, and honourable both to the talent which raised Chantrey, and to the magnanimity which kept him from being ashamed of what he had been.

Ever yours affectionately

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London:  June 29, 1831.

My dear Sister,—­We are not yet in the full tide of Parliamentary business.  Next week the debates will be warm and long.  I should not wonder if we had a discussion of five nights.  I shall probably take a part in it.

I have breakfasted again with Rogers.  The party was a remarkable one,—­Lord John Russell, Tom Moore, Tom Campbell, and Luttrell.  We were all very lively.  An odd incident took place after breakfast, while we were standing at the window and looking into the Green Park.  Somebody was talking about diners-out.  “Ay,” said Campbell—­

“Ye diners-out from whom we guard our spoons.”

Tom Moore asked where the line was.  “Don’t you know?” said Campbell.  “Not I,” said Moore.  “Surely,” said Campbell, “it is your own.”  “I never saw it in my life,” said Moore.  “It is in one of your best things in the Times,” said Campbell.  Moore denied it.  Hereupon I put in my claim, and told them that it was mine.  Do you remember it?  It is in some lines called the Political Georgics, which I sent to the Times about three years ago.  They made me repeat the lines, and were vociferous in praise of them.  Tom Moore then said, oddly enough: