Wishing you all possible prosperity and happiness in your future avocations, we subscribe ourselves with unfeigned respect, Gentlemen,

Your most obedient servants,

Rev.  John TILTEY,

&c., &c.

(25 signatures.)

In one respect Macaulay hardly deserved his share of this eulogium.  A scheme was on foot in the town to found an auxiliary branch of the Bible Society.  A public meeting was called, and Mr. Bird urged his eloquent pupil to aid the project with a specimen of Union rhetoric.  Macaulay, however, had had enough of the Bible Society at Clapham, and sturdily refused to come forward as its champion at Llanrwst.

Llanrwst:  July—­, 1821.

My dear Mother,—­You see I know not how to date my letter.  My calendar in this sequestered spot is as irregular as Robinson Crusoe’s after he had missed one day in his calculation.  I have no intelligence to send you, unless a battle between a drunken attorney and an impudent publican which took place here yesterday may deserve the appellation.  You may perhaps be more interested to hear that I sprained my foot, and am just recovering from the effects of the accident by means of opodeldoc which I bought at the tinker’s.  For all trades and professions here lie in a most delightful confusion.  The druggist sells hats; the shoemaker is the sole bookseller, if that dignity may be allowed him on the strength of the three Welsh Bibles, and the guide to Caernarvon, which adorn his window; ink is sold by the apothecary; the grocer sells ropes, (a commodity which, I fear, I shall require before my residence here is over,) and tooth-brushes.  A clothes-brush is a luxury yet unknown to Llanrwst.  As to books, for want of any other English literature, I intend to learn Paradise Lost by heart at odd moments.  But I must conclude.  Write to me often, my dear Mother, and all of you at home, or you may have to answer for my drowning myself, like Gray’s bard, in “Old Conway’s foaming flood,” which is most conveniently near for so poetical an exit.

Ever most affectionately yours,

T. B. M.

Llanrwst:  August 32, 1821.

My dear Father,—­I have just received your letter, and cannot but feel concerned at the tone of it.  I do not think it quite fair to attack me for filling my letters with remarks on the King’s Irish expedition.  It has been the great event of this part of the world.  I was at Bangor when he sailed.  His bows, and the Marquis of Anglesea’s fete, were the universal subjects of conversation; and some remarks on the business were as natural from me as accounts of the coronation from you in London.  In truth I have little else to say.  I see nothing that connects me with the world except the newspapers.  I get up, breakfast, read, play at quoits, and go to bed.  This is the history of my life.  It will do for every day of the last fortnight.