never would have faced without her.  With a mind set at ease by a knowledge of her intention, he came down to Liverpool as soon as the Session was at an end; and carried her off on a jaunt to Edinburgh, in a post-chaise furnished with Horace Walpole’s letters for their common reading, and Smollett’s collected works for his own.  Before October he was back at the Board of Control; and his letters recommenced, as frequent and rather more serious and business-like than of old.

London:  October 5, 1833

Dear Hannah,—­Life goes on so quietly here, or rather stands so still, that I have nothing, or next to nothing, to say.  At the Athenaeum I now and then fall in with some person passing through town on his way to the Continent or to Brighton.  The other day I met Sharp, and had a long talk with him about everything and everybody,—­metaphysics, poetry, politics, scenery, and painting.  One thing I have observed in Sharp, which is quite peculiar to him among town-wits and diners-out.  He never talks scandal.  If he can say nothing good of a man, he holds his tongue.  I do not, of course, mean that in confidential communication about politics he does not speak freely of public men; but about the foibles of private individuals I do not believe that, much as I have talked with him, I ever heard him utter one word.  I passed three or four hours very agreeably in his company at the club.

I have also seen Kenny for an hour or two.  I do not know that I ever mentioned Kenny to you.  When London is overflowing, I meet such numbers of people that I cannot remember half their names.  This is the time at which every acquaintance, however slight, attracts some degree of attention.  In the desert island, even poor Poll was something of a companion to Robinson Crusoe.  Kenny is a writer of a class which, in our time, is at the very bottom of the literary scale.  He is a dramatist.  Most of the farces, and three-act plays, which have succeeded during the last eight or ten years, are, I am told, from his pen.  Heaven knows that, if they are the farces and plays which I have seen, they do him but little honour.  However, this man is one of our great comic writers.  He has the merit, such as it is, of hitting the very bad taste of our modern audiences better than any other person who has stooped to that degrading work.  We had a good deal of literary chat; and I thought him a clever shrewd fellow.

My father is poorly; not that anything very serious is the matter with him; but he has a cold, and is in low spirits.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London:  October 14, 1833