Since Tuesday the Tories have been rather cowed.  But their demeanour, though less outrageous than at the beginning of the week, indicates what would in any other time be called extreme violence.  I have not been once in bed till three in the morning since last Sunday.  To-morrow we have a holiday.  I dine at Lansdowne House.  Next week I dine with Littleton, the member for Staffordshire, and his handsome wife.  He told me that I should meet two men whom I am curious to see, Lord Plunket and the Marquess Wellesley; let alone the Chancellor, who is not a novelty to me.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London:  July 25, 1831.

My dear Sister,—­On Saturday evening I went to Holland House.  There I found the Dutch Ambassador, M. de Weissembourg, Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Smith, and Admiral Adam, a son of old Adam, who fought the duel with Fox.  We dined like Emperors, and jabbered in several languages.  Her Ladyship, for an esprit fort, is the greatest coward that I ever saw.  The last time that I was there she was frightened out of her wits by the thunder.  She closed all the shutters, drew all the curtains, and ordered candles in broad day to keep out the lightning, or rather the appearance of the lightning.  On Saturday she was in a terrible taking about the cholera; talked of nothing else; refused to eat any ice because somebody said that ice was bad for the cholera; was sure that the cholera was at Glasgow; and asked me why a cordon of troops was not instantly placed around that town to prevent all intercourse between the infected and the healthy spots.  Lord Holland made light of her fears.  He is a thoroughly good-natured, open, sensible man; very lively; very intellectual; well read in politics, and in the lighter literature both of ancient and modern times.  He sets me more at ease than almost any person that I know, by a certain good-humoured way of contradicting that he has.  He always begins by drawing down his shaggy eyebrows, making a face extremely like his uncle, wagging his head and saying:  “Now do you know, Mr. Macaulay, I do not quite see that.  How do you make it out?” He tells a story delightfully; and bears the pain of his gout, and the confinement and privations to which it subjects him, with admirable fortitude and cheerfulness.  Her Ladyship is all courtesy and kindness to me; but her demeanour to some others, particularly to poor Allen, is such as it quite pains me to witness.  He really is treated like a negro slave.  “Mr. Allen, go into my drawing-room and bring my reticule.”  “Mr. Allen, go and see what can be the matter that they do not bring up dinner.”  “Mr. Allen, there is not enough turtle-soup for you.  You must take gravy-soup or none.”  Yet I can scarcely pity the man.  He has an independent income; and, if he can stoop to be ordered about like a footman, I cannot so much blame her for the contempt with which she treats him.

Perhaps I may write again to-morrow.