Your affectionate son,

Thomas B. Macaulay.

It will be seen that this passing fondness for mathematics soon changed into bitter disgust.

Clapham May 28, 1813.

My dear Tom,—­I am very happy to hear that you have so far advanced in your different prize exercises, and with such little fatigue.  I know you write with great ease to yourself, and would rather write ten poems than prune one; but remember that excellence is not attained at first.  All your pieces are much mended after a little reflection, and therefore take some solitary walks, and think over each separate thing.  Spare no time or trouble to render each piece as perfect as you can, and then leave the event without one anxious thought.  I have always admired a saying of one of the old heathen philosophers.  When a friend was condoling with him that he so well deserved of the gods, and yet that they did not shower their favours on him, as on some others less worthy, he answered, “I will, however, continue to deserve well of them.”  So do you, my dearest.  Do your best because it is the will of God you should improve every faculty to the utmost now, and strengthen the powers of your mind by exercise, and then in future you will be better enabled to glorify God with all your powers and talents, be they of a more humble, or higher order, and you shall not fail to be received into everlasting habitations, with the applauding voice of your Saviour, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”  You see how ambitious your mother is.  She must have the wisdom of her son acknowledged before Angels, and an assembled world.  My wishes can soar no higher, and they can be content with nothing less for any of my children.  The first time I saw your face, I repeated those beautiful lines of Watts’ cradle hymn,

 Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,
 Trust and love Him all thy days
 Then go dwell for ever near Him,
 See His face, and sing His praise.

and this is the substance of all my prayers for you.  In less than a month you and I shall, I trust, be rambling over the Common, which now looks quite beautiful.

I am ever, my dear Tom,

Your affectionate mother,

Selina Macaulay.

The commencement of the second half-year at school, perhaps the darkest season of a boy’s existence, was marked by an unusually severe and prolonged attack of home-sickness.  It would be cruel to insert the first letter written after the return to Shelford from the summer holidays.  That which follows it is melancholy enough.

Shelford:  August 14. 1813.