It is said that Lord Amesbury also died of cholera, though no very strange explanation seems necessary to account for the death of a man of eighty-four.

Yesterday it was rumoured that the three Miss Molyneuxes, of whom by the way there are only two, were all dead in the same way; that the Bishop of Worcester and Lord Barham were no more; and many other foolish stories.

I do not believe there is the slightest ground for uneasiness; though Lady Holland apparently considers the case so serious that she has taken her conscience out of Allen's keeping, and put it into the hands of Charles Grant.
Here I end my letter; a great deal too long already for so busy a man to write, and for such careless correspondents to receive.
T.B.M.
To Hannah and Margaret Macaulay.
London: July 6, 1832.
Be you Foxes, be you Pitts, You must write to silly chits.
Be you Tories, be you Whigs, You must write to sad young gigs.
On whatever board you are-- Treasury, Admiralty, War, Customs, Stamps, Excise, Control;-- Write you must, upon my soul.
So sings the judicious poet; and here I sit in my parlour, looking out on the Thames, and divided, like Garrick in Sir Joshua's picture, between Tragedy and Comedy; a letter to you, and a bundle of papers about Hydrabad, and the firm of Palmer and Co., late bankers to the Nizam.
Poor Sir Walter Scott is going back to Scotland by sea tomorrow.

All hope is over; and he has a restless wish to die at home.

He is many thousand pounds worse than nothing.