A historical letter from Macaulay, Britain's to his father.

Note: (Macaulay, Britain's outstanding historical scholar of the 19th century, wrote this letter to his father when he was twelve. You will be surprised to learn that he wrote a history of the world at the age of eight.)

Shelford,
22nd February 1813

My dear Papa,

    As this is a whole holiday, I cannot find a better time to answer your letter. With respect to my health, I am very well and tolerably cheerful as Blundell, the best and most clever of all the scholars is very kind, talks to me, and takes my part. He is quite a friend of Mr Preston's. The other boys, especially Lyon, a Scotch boy, and Wilberforce, are very good-natured, and we might have gone very well had not one, Bristol fellow, come here. He is unanimously allowed to be a queer fellow and is generally characterized as a foolish boy and by most of us as an ill-natured one. 

    In my learning, I do Xenophon every day, and twice a week the Odyssey, in which I am classed with Wilberforce, whom all the boys allow to be very clever, very droll and impudent. We do Latin verses twice a week, and I have not yet been laughed at, as Wilberforce is the only one who hears them, being in my class. We have exercised also once a week in English composition, and once in Latin composition…………we get by heart Greek grammar or Virgil every evening.
        As for sermon - writing, I have hitherto got off with credit, and I hope I shall keep up my reputation. We have had the first meeting of our debating society the other day when a vote of censure was moved upon Wilberforce, but he getting up said, ” Mr President, I beg to second the motion.” By this means, he escapes. The kindness which Mr Preston shows me is very great. He always assists me in what I cannot do and takes me to walk out with him every now and then. 

    My room is a delightful, snug, little chamber, which no dog can enter, as there is a trick about opening the door. I sit like a king with my writing - desk before me; for (would you believe it?) There is a writing desk in my chest of drawers; my books on one side, my box of papers on the other, with my armchair and my candle for every boy has a candlestick, snuffers, and extinguisher of his own. Being pressed for room, I will conclude with what I have to say tomorrow, and ever remain.

                                                        Your affectionate son,
                                                         Thomas B. Macaulay.