[Footnote 70: [Miss Berry and her sister Agnes, who both died at a very advanced age in 1852, were the last surviving friends of Horace Walpole, who called them his 'Strawberries,' and had established a great intimacy between their youth and his own age. Miss Berry's house in Curzon Street was one of the last _salons_ that existed in London, and the most agreeable. It was frequented by all the rank, beauty, and talent of those times. Whenever the lamp over the hall door was lit, any _habitué_ of the house was welcome. Of the two sisters, Mary Berry was born in March 1763, and died in November 1852; Agnes Berry was born in May 1764, and died in January 1852. They were buried in Petersham Church, where Lord Carlisle placed an inscription to their memory.]] [Sidenote: RANKE AND MACAULAY.] _October 16th._--I have been laid up with the gout more or less during the last three weeks, and when that is upon me I am always disinclined to write. Just before I was attacked I went to breakfast with George Lewis to meet Ranke, the author of 'The Popes of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century.' He had got Macaulay, who had reviewed his book, to meet him, Sir Alexander Duff Gordon and his wife (daughter of Mrs. Austin, his translator), and Sir Edmund Head. I went prepared to listen to some first-rate literary talk between such luminaries as Ranke and Macaulay, but there never was a greater failure. The professor, a vivacious little man, not distinguished in appearance, could talk no English, and his French, though spoken fluently, was quite unintelligible. On the other hand, Macaulay could not speak German, and he spoke French without any facility and with a very vile accent. It was comical to see the abundance of his matter struggling with his embarrassment in giving utterance to it, to hear the torrent of knowledge trying to force its way through the impediment of a limited acquaintance with the French language and the want of habit of conversing in it. But the struggle was of short duration. He began in French, but very soon could bear the restraint no longer, and broke into English, pouring forth his stores to the utterly unconscious and uncomprehending professor. This babel of a breakfast, at which it was impossible for seven people to converse in any common language, soon came to an end, and Ranke was evidently glad to go off to the State Paper Office, where he was working every day. After he was gone, Macaulay held forth, and was as usual very well worth listening to.