rature may suspect
that he is flattering him; but he may feel real and secure satisfaction
when some Johnian sneers at him for a novel-reader. [My uncle was fond
of telling us how he would walk miles out of Cambridge in order to meet
the coach which brought the last new Waverley novel.]

As to the question whether or not I am wasting time, I shall leave that
for time to answer. I cannot afford to sacrifice a day every week in
defence and explanation as to my habits of reading. I value, most deeply
value, that solicitude which arises from your affection for me; but
let it not debar me from justice and candour. Believe me ever, my dear
Father,

Your most affectionate son,

T. B. M.

The father and son were in sympathy upon what, at this distance of time,
appears as the least inviting article of the Whig creed. They were both
partisans of the Queen. Zachary Macaulay was inclined in her favour by
sentiments alike of friendship, and of the most pardonable resentment.
Brougham, her illustrious advocate, had for ten years been the main hope
and stay of the movement against Slavery and the Slave Trade; while the
John Bull, whose special mission it was to write her down, honoured the
Abolitionist party with its declared animosity. However full its columns
might be of libels upon the honour of the wives and daughters of Whig
statesmen, it could always find room for calumnies against Mr. Macaulay
which in ingenuity of fabrication, and in cruelty of intention,
were conspicuous even among the contents of the most discreditable
publication that ever issued from the London press. When Queen Caroline
landed from the Continent in June 1820 the young Trinity undergraduate
greeted her Majesty with a complimentary ode, which certainly little
resembled those effusions that, in the old courtly days, an University
was accustomed to lay at the feet of its Sovereign. The piece has no
literary value, and is curious only as reflecting the passion of the
hour. The first and last stanzas run as follows:--

Let mirth on every visage shine
And glow in every soul.
Bring forth, bring forth, the oldest wine,
And crown the largest bowl.
Bear to her home, while banners fly
From each resounding steeple,
And rockets sparkle in the sky,
The Daughter of the People.
E'en here, for one triumphant day,
Let want and woe be dumb,
And bonfires blaze, and schoolboys play.
Thank Heaven, our Queen is come.

* * * *

Though tyrant