of exquisite enjoyment. That "invincible love of reading," which Gibbon declared that he would not exchange for the treasures of India, was with Macaulay a main element of happiness in one of the happiest lives that it has ever fallen to the lot of a biographer to record.

CHAPTER XV.

1859.

Melancholy anticipations-Visit to the English Lakes and to ScotlandExtracts from Macaulay's Journal-His death and funeral.

W

HEN the year 1859 opened, it seemed little likely that any event was at hand which would disturb the tranquil course of Macaulay's existence. His ailments, severe as they were, did not render him discontented on his own account, nor diminish the warmth of his interest in the welfare of those who were around him. Towards the close of the preceding year, his niece Margaret Trevelyan had been married to the son of his old friend Sir Henry Holland; an event which her uncle regarded with heartfelt satisfaction. Mr. Holland resided in London; and consequently the marriage, so far from depriving Macaulay of one whom he looked on as a daughter, gave him another household where he was as much at home as in his own. But a most unexpected circumstance now occurred which changed in a moment the whole complexion of his life. Early in January 1859 the Governorship of Madras was offered to my father. He accepted the post, and sailed for India in the third week of February. My mother remained in England for a while; but she was to follow her husband after no very long interval, and Macaulay was fully convinced that, when he and his sister parted, they would part for ever. Though he derived his belief from his own sensations,

and not from any warning of physicians, he was none the less firmly persuaded that the end was now not far off. "I took leave of Trevelyan," he says on the 18th of February. "He said, 'You have always been a most kind brother to me.' I certainly tried to be so. Shall we ever meet again? I do not expect it. My health is better; but another sharp winter would probably finish me." In another place he writes: "I am no better. This malady tries me severely. However, I bear up. As to my temper, it never has been soured, and, while I keep my understanding, will not, I think, be soured, by evils for which it is evident that no human being is responsible. To be angry with relations and servants because you suffer something which they did not inflict, and which they are desirous to alleviate, is unworthy, not merely of a good man, but of a rational being. Yet I see instances enough of such irritability to fear that I may be guilty of it. But I will take care. I have thought several times of late that the last scene of the play was approaching. I should wish to act it simply. but with fortitude and gentleness united."

The prospect of a separation from one with whom he had lived in close and uninterrupted companionship since her childhood and his own early manhood,-a prospect darkened by the thought that his last hour would surely come when she was thousands of miles away,-was a trial which weighed heavily on Macaulay's sinking health. He endured it manfully, and almost silently; but his spirits never recovered the blow. During the spring and summer of 1859 his journal contains a few brief but significant allusions to the state of his feelings; one of which, and one only, may fitly be inserted here. "July 11, 1859.-A letter from Hannah; very sad and affectionate. I answered her. There is a pleasure even in this exceeding sorrow; for it brings out the expression

of love with a tenderness which is wanting in ordinary circumstances. But the sorrow is very, very bitter. The Duke of Argyll called, and left me the sheets of a forthcoming poem of Tennyson. I like it extremely;-notwithstanding some faults, extremely. The parting of Lancelot and Guinivere, her penitence, and Arthur's farewell, are all very affecting. I cried over some passages; but I am now ἀρτίδακρυς 1 as Medea says.

Towards the end of July my uncle spent a week with us at Lowood Hotel, on the shore of Windermere; and thence accompanied my mother and my younger sister on a fortnight's tour through the Western Highlands, and by Stirling to Edinburgh. Every stage of the journey brought some fresh proof of the eager interest which his presence aroused in the minds of his fellow-countrymen, to whom his face and figure were very much less familiar than is usual in the case of a man of his eminence and reputation. He now so rarely emerged from his retirement that, whenever he appeared abroad, he was attended by a respect which gratified, and a curiosity which did not annoy, him. "I went the day before yesterday," he writes to Mr. Ellis, "to Grasmere Churchyard, and saw Wordsworth's tomb. I thought of announcing my intention of going, and issuing guinea tickets to people who wished to see me there. For a Yankee who was here a few days ago, and heard that I was expected, said that he would give the world to see that most sublime of all spectacles, Macaulay standing by the grave of Wordsworth." "In Scotland," my mother writes, "his reception was everywhere most enthusiastic. He was quickly recognised on steamers and at railway stations. At Tarbet we were escorted down to the boat by the whole household; and, while they surrounded your uncle,

1 “With the tears near the eyes."

finding a seat for him, and making him comfortable, I sat modestly in the shade next a young woman, who called a man to her, and asked who they were making such a fuss about. He replied that it was the great Lord Macaulay, who wrote the History. Oh,' said she, ‘I thought it was considered only a romance!' However, she added herself to the group of starers. When we went to Dr. Guthrie's church at Edinburgh, the congregation made a line for us through which to walk away.” At the hotels, one not uncommon form of doing Macaulay honour consisted in serving up a better dinner than had been ordered, no easy matter when he was catering for others besides himself,-and then refusing to accept payment for his entertainment." At Inverary he writes: "The landlord insisted on treating us to our drive of yesterday, but I was peremptory. I was half sorry afterwards, and so was Hannah, who, at the time, took my part. It is good to accept as well as to give. My feeling is too much that of Calderon's hero:

Cómo sabrá pedir

Quien solo ha sabido dar?1

I shrink too much from receiving services which I love to render."

During this visit to the North my uncle was still the same agreeable travelling companion that we had always known him;-with the same readiness to please and be pleased, and the same sweet and even temper. When one of us happened to be alone with him, there sometimes was a touch of melancholy about his conversation which imparted to it a singular charm; but, when the whole of our little circle was assembled, he showed himself as ready as ever to welcome any topic which

1 "How will he know how to ask who has only known how to give?"