It is in such circles, which, I am happy to say, I hardly know but by report, that knowledge of modern literature is called novel-reading; a commodious name, invented by ignorance and applied by envy, in the same manner as men without learning call a scholar a pedant, and men without principle call a Christian a Methodist.  To me the attacks of such men are valuable as compliments.  The man whose friend tells him that he is known to be extensively acquainted with elegant literature 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.