rystal currents of the river Rib. Nothing is equal to the splendid
varieties of London life, "the fine flow of London talk," and the
dazzling brilliancy of London spectacles. Such are my sentiments, and,
if ever I publish poetry, it shall not be pastoral. Nature is the last
goddess to whom my devoirs shall be paid.

Yours most faithfully,

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

This votary of city life was still two months short of completing his
fifteenth year!

Aspenden Hall: August 23, 1815.

My dear Mama,--You perceive already in so large a sheet, and so small a
hand, the promise of a long, a very long letter, longer, as I intend
it, than all the letters which you send in a half-year together. I have
again begun my life of sterile monotony, unvarying labour, the dull
return of dull exercises in dull uniformity of tediousness. But do not
think that I complain.

My mind to me a kingdom is,
Such perfect joy therein I find
As doth exceed all other bliss
That God or nature hath assigned.

Assure yourself that I am philosopher enough to be happy,--I meant to
say not particularly unhappy,--in solitude; but man is an animal made
for society. I was gifted with reason, not to speculate in Aspenden
Park, but to interchange ideas with some person who can understand me.
This is what I miss at Aspenden. There are several here who possess both
taste and reading; who can criticise Lord Byron and Southey with much
tact and "savoir du metier." But here it is not the fashion to think.
Hear what I have read since I came here. Hear and wonder! I have in the
first place read Boccacio's Decameron, a tale of a hundred cantos. He is
a wonderful writer. Whether he tells in humorous or familiar strains the
follies of the silly Calandrino, or the witty pranks of Buffalmacco and
Bruno, or sings in loftier numbers

Dames, knights, and arms, and love, the feats that spring
From courteous minds and generous faith,

or lashes with a noble severity and fearless independence the vices of
the monks and the priestcraft of the established religion, he is always
elegant, amusing, and, what pleases and surprises most in a writer of
so unpolished an age, strikingly delicate and chastised. I prefer him
infinitely to Chaucer. If you wish for a good specimen of Boccacio, as
soon as you have finished my letter, (which will come, I suppose, by
dinner-time,) send Jane up to the library for Dryden's poems, and you
will find among them several translations from B