elevation of a Cromwell or the renown of a Hampden the certain reward of my standing forth in the democratic cause, I would rather have my lips sealed on the subject than give my mother or you one hour of uneasiness.  There are not so many people in the world who love me that I can afford to pain them for any object of ambition which it contains.  If this assurance be not sufficient, clothe it in what language you please, and believe me to express myself in those words which you think the strongest and most solemn.  Affectionate love to my mother and sisters.  Farewell.

T. B. M.

Cambridge:  January 5, 1820.

My dear Father,—­Nothing that gives you disquietude can give me amusement.  Otherwise I should have been excessively diverted by the dialogue which you have reported with so much vivacity; the accusation; the predictions; and the elegant agnomen of “the novel-reader” for which I am indebted to this incognito.  I went in some amazement to Malden, Romilly, and Barlow.  Their acquaintance comprehends, I will venture to say, almost every man worth knowing in the university in every field of study.  They had never heard the appellation applied to me by any man.  Their intimacy with me would of course prevent any person from speaking to them on the subject in an insulting manner; for it is not usual here, whatever your unknown informant may do, for a gentleman who does not wish to be kicked downstairs to reply to a man who mentions another as his particular friend, “Do you mean the blackguard or the novel-reader?” But I am fully convinced that had the charge prevailed to any extent it must have reached the ears of one of those whom I interrogated.  At all events I have the consolation of not being thought a novel-reader by three or four who are entitled to judge upon the subject, and whether their opinion be of equal value with that of this John-a-Nokes against whom I have to plead I leave you to decide.

But stronger evidence, it seems, is behind.  This gentleman was in company with me.  Alas that I should never have found out how accurate an observer was measuring my sentiments, numbering the novels which I criticised, and speculating on the probability of my being plucked.  “I was familiar with all the novels whose names he had ever heard.”  If so frightful an accusation did not stun me at once, I might perhaps hint at the possibility that this was to be attributed almost as much to the narrowness of his reading on this subject as to the extent of mine.  There are men here who are mere mathematical blocks; who plod on their eight hours a day to the honours of the Senate House; who leave the groves which witnessed the musings of Milton, of Bacon, and of Gray, without one liberal idea or elegant image, and carry with them into the world minds contracted by unmingled attention to one part of science, and memories stored only with technicalities.  How often have I seen such men go forth into society for people to stare at them, and ask each other how it comes that beings so stupid in conversation, so uninformed on every subject of history, of letters, and of taste, could gain such distinction at Cambridge!