I shall now certainly remain in office; and if, as I expect, the Irish Church Bill passes the Lords, I may consider myself as safe till the next Session; when Heaven knows what may happen.  It is still quite uncertain when we may rise.  I pine for rest, air, and a taste of family life, more than I can express.  I see nothing but politicians, and talk about nothing but politics.

I have not read Village Belles.  Tell me, as soon as you can get it, whether it is worth reading.  As John Thorpe [The young Oxford man in “Northanger Abbey.”] says “Novels!  Oh Lord!  I never read novels.  I have something else to do.”

Farewell.

T. B. M,

To Hannah M. Macaulay,

London:  July 27, 1833.

My dear Sister,—­Here I am, safe and well, at the end of one of the most stormy weeks that the oldest man remembers in Parliamentary affairs.  I have resigned my office, and my resignation has been refused.  I have spoken and voted against the Ministry under which I hold my place.  The Ministry has been so hard run in the Commons as to be forced to modify its plan; and has received a defeat in the Lords, [On the 25th of July the Archbishop of Canterbury carried an amendment on the Irish Church Bill, against the Government, by 84 votes to 82.]—­a slight one to be sure, and on a slight matter,—­yet such that I, and many others, fully believed twenty-four hours ago that they would have resigned.  In fact, some of the Cabinet,—­Grant among the rest, to my certain knowledge, were for resigning.  At last Saturday has arrived.  The Ministry is as strong as ever.  I am as good friends with the Ministers as ever.  The East India Bill is carried through our House.  The West India Bill is so far modified that, I believe, it will be carried.  The Irish Church Bill has got through the Committee in the Lords; and we are all beginning to look forward to a Prorogation in about three weeks.

To-day I went to Hayden’s to be painted into his great picture of the Reform Banquet.  Ellis was with me, and declares that Hayden has touched me off to a nicety.  I am sick of pictures of my own face.  I have seen within the last few days one drawing of it, one engraving, and three paintings.  They all make me a very handsome fellow.  Hayden pronounces my profile a gem of art, perfectly antique; and, what is worth the praise of ten Haydens, I was told yesterday that Mrs. Littleton, the handsomest woman in London, had paid me exactly the same compliment.  She pronounced Mr. Macaulay’s profile to be a study for an artist.  I have bought a new looking-glass and razor-case on the strength of these compliments, and am meditating on the expediency of having my hair cut in the Burlington Arcade, rather than in Lamb’s Conduit Street.  As Richard says,

 “Since I am crept in favour with myself,
  I will maintain it with some little cost.”

I begin, like Sir Walter Elliot, [The Baronet in “Persuasion.”] to rate all my acquaintance according to their beauty.  But what nonsense I write, and in times that make many merry men look grave!