whom the veterans of the Eton press formed a brilliant, and, as he
vainly hoped, a reliable nucleus of contributors.

Knight's Quarterly Magazine is full of Macaulay, and of Macaulay in the
attractive shape which a great author wears while he is still writing
to please no one but himself. He unfortunately did not at all please his
father. In the first number, besides a great deal of his that is
still worth reading, there were printed under his adopted signature of
Tristram Merton two little poems, the nature of which may be guessed
from Praed's editorial comments. "Tristram Merton, I have a strong
curiosity to know who Rosamond is. But you will not tell me; and, after
all, as far as your verses are concerned, the surname is nowise germane
to the matter. As poor Sheridan said, it is too formal to be registered
in love's calendar." And again: "Tristram, I hope Rosamond and your Fair
Girl of France will not pull caps; but I cannot forbear the temptation
of introducing your Roxana and Statira to an admiring public." The
verses were such as any man would willingly look back to having written
at two and twenty; but their appearance occasioned real misery to
Zachary Macaulay, who indeed disapproved of the whole publication
from beginning to end, with the exception of an article on West Indian
Slavery which his son had inserted with the most filial intention, but
which, it must be allowed, was not quite in keeping with the general
character of the magazine.

July 9, 1823.

My dear Father,--I have seen the two last letters which you have sent to
my mother. They have given me deep pain; but pain without remorse. I am
conscious of no misconduct, and whatever uneasiness I may feel arises
solely from sympathy for your distress.

You seem to imagine that the book is edited, or principally written,
by friends of mine. I thought that you had been aware that the work
is conducted in London, and that my friends and myself are merely
contributors, and form a very small proportion of the contributors.
The manners of almost all of my acquaintances are so utterly alien from
coarseness, and their morals from libertinism, that I feel assured that
no objection of that nature can exist to their writings. As to my own
contributions I can only say that the Roman Story was read to my mother
before it was published, and would have been read to you if you had
happened to be at home. Not one syllable of censure was uttered.

The Essay on the Roy