CHAPTER XII.

1848-1852.

Extracts from Macaulay's Diary.-Herodotus.-Mr. Roebuck.-Anticipations of Failure and Success.-Appearance of the "History."-Progress of the Sale.—Duke of Wellington.—Lord Palmerston.-Letters to Mr. Ellis.-Lord Brougham on Euripides.-Macaulay is elected Lord Rector of Glasgow University.-His Inaugural Address.-Good Resolutions.— Croker.-Dr. Parr.-The Historical Professorship at Cambridge.-Byron.-Tour in Ireland.-Althorp.-Lord Sidmouth.-Lord Thurlow.— Death of Jeffrey.-Mr. Richmond's Portrait of Macaulay.-Dinner at the Palace.-Robert Montgomery.-Death of Sir Robert Peel.--The Prelude. -Ventnor.-Letters to Mr. Ellis.-Plautus.-Fra Paolo.-Gibbon.-The Papal Bull.-Death of Henry Hallam.-Porson's Letters to Archdeacon Travis. Charles Mathews. Windsor Castle.-Macaulay sets up his Carriage. Opening of the Great Exhibition of 1851.-Cobbett.—Malvern.-Letters to Mr. Ellis.-Wilhelm Meister.-The Battle of Worcester.-Palmerston leaves the Foreign Office.-Macaulay refuses an Offer of the Cabinet.-Windsor Castle.-King John.-Scene of the Assassination Plot.-Royal Academy Dinner.

"NOVEMBER 18th, 1848: Albany.-After the lapse of more than nine years I begin my journal again.* What a change! I have been, since the last

*It must be remembered that whatever was in Macaulay's mind may be found in his diary. That diary was written, throughout, with the unconscious candor of a man who freely and frankly notes down remarks which he expects to be read by himself alone; and with the copiousness natural to one who, except where it was demanded for the purpose of literary effect, did not willingly compress any thing which he had to say. It may, therefore, be hoped that the extracts presented in these volumes possess those qualities in which, as he has himself pronounced, the special merit of a private journal lies. In a letter dated August 4th, 1853, he says: "The article on the 'Life of Moore' is spiteful. Moore, however, afforded but too good an opportunity to a malevolent assailant. His diary, it is evident to me, was written to be published, and this destroys the charm proper to diaries."

lines were written, a member of two Parliaments and of two Cabinets. I have published several volumes with success. I have escaped from Parliament, and am living in the way best suited to my temper. I lead a college life in London, with the comforts of domestic life near me; for Hannah and her children are very dear to me. I have an easy fortune. I have finished the first two volumes of my 'History.' Yesterday the last sheets went to America, and within a fortnight, I hope, the publication will take place in London. I am pretty well satisfied. As compared with excellence, the work is a failure; but, as compared with other similar books, I can not think so. We shall soon know what the world says. To-day I enjoyed my new liberty, after having been most severely worked during three months in finishing my 'History' and correcting proofs. I rose at half after nine, read at breakfast Fearon's 'Sketches of America,' and then finished Lucian's critique on the bad historians of his time, and felt my own withers unwrung. Ellis came to dinner at seven. I gave him a lobster curry, woodcock, and macaroni. I think that I will note dinners, as honest Pepys did."

"Monday, November 20th.—Read Pepys at breakfast, and then sat down to Herodotus, and finished 'Melpomene' at a sitting. I went out, looked into the Athenæum, and walked about the streets for some time; came home, and read 'Terpsichore,' and began 'Erato.' I never went through Herodotus at such a pace before. He is an admirable artist in many respects; but undoubtedly his arrangement is faulty."

"November 23d.-I received to-day a translation of Kant from Ellis's friend at Liverpool. I tried to read it, but found it utterly unintelligible, just as if it had been written in Sanskrit. Not one word of it gave me any thing like an idea except a Latin quotation from 'Persius.' It seems to me that it ought to be possible to explain a true theory of metaphysics fn words which I can understand. I can understand Locke, and Berkeley, and Hume, and Reid, and Stewart. I can understand Cicero's Academics, and most of Plato: and it seems odd that in a book on the elements of metaphysics, by a Liverpool merchant, I should not be able to comprehend a word. I wrote my acknowledgments, with a little touch of the Socratic irony.

"Roebuck called, and talked to me about the West Riding. He asked me to stand. I told him that it was quite out of the question; that I had made up my mind never again to make the smallest concession to fanatical clamor on the subject of Papal endowment. I would not certainly advise the Government to propose such endowment, but I would say nothing tending to flatter the absurd prejudices which exist on that subject. I thanked him for his good-will, and asked him to breakfast on Monday. I find that Macculloch and Hastie have a wager on the sale of my History.' Macculloch has betted that it will sell better than Lord Campbell's book. Hastie bets on Lord Campbell. Green, of Longman's house, is to be arbiter."

“November 25th.-Read my book while dressing, and thought it better than Campbell's, with all deference to Mr. Hastie. But these things are a strange lottery. After breakfast I went to the British Museum. I was in the chair. It is a stupid, useless way of doing business. An hour was lost in reading trashy minutes. All boards are bad, and this is the worst of boards. If I live, I will see whether I can not work a reform here. Home, and read Thucydides. I admire him more than ever. He is the great historian. The others one may hope to match: him, never."

"November 29th, 1848, Wednesday.-I was shocked to learn the death of poor Charles Buller. It took me quite by surprise. I could almost cry for him. I found copies of my 'History' on my table. The suspense must now soon be over. I read my book, and Thucydides's, which, I am sorry to say, I found much better than mine."

"November 30th.-Tufnellt sent for me, and proposed Liskeard to me. I hesitated; and went home, leaving the matter doubtful. Roebuck called at near seven to ask about my intentions, as he had also been thought of. This at once decided me; and I said that I would not stand, and wrote to Tufnell telling him so. Roebuck has on more than one occasion behaved to me with great kindness and generosity, and I did not choose to staud in his way."

"December 4th, 1848.-Staid at home all the day, making corrections for the second edition. Shaw, the printer, came to tell me that they are wanted with speed, and that the first edition of three thousand is nearly out. Then I read the eighth book of Thucydides. On the whole, he is the first of historians. What is good in him is better than any thing that can be found elsewhere. But his dry parts are dreadfully dry, and his arrangement is bad. Mere chronological order is not the order for a complicated narrative.

"I have felt to-day somewhat anxious about the fate of my book. The sale has surpassed expectation: but that proves only that people have formed a high idea of what they are to have. The disappointment, if there is disappointment, will be great. All that I hear is laudatory. But who can trust to praise which is poured into his own ear? At all events, I have aimed high; I have tried to do something that may be remembered;

* "In Parliament I shall look in vain for virtues which I loved, and for abilities which I admired. Often in debate, and never more than when we discuss those questions of colonial policy which are every day acquiring a new importance, I shall remember with regret how much eloquence and wit, how much acuteness and knowledge, how many engaging qualities, how many fair hopes, are buried in the grave of poor Charles Buller.”— Macaulay's Speech at Edinburgh in 1852.

+ Mr. Tufnell was then patronage secretary, or, in more familiar parlance, treasury whip.

I have had the year 2000, and even the year 3000, often in my mind; I have sacrificed nothing to temporary fashions of thought and style; and if I fail, my failure will be more honorable than nine-tenths of the successes that I have witnessed."

"December 12th, 1848.-Longman called. A new edition of three thousand copies is preparing as fast as they can work. I have reason to be pleased. Of the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' two thousand two hundred and fifty copies were sold in the first year; of 'Marmion' two thousand copies in the first month; of my book three thousand copies in ten days. Black says that there has been no such sale since the days of Waverley.' The success is in every way complete beyond all hope, and is the more agreeable to me because expectation had been wound up so high that disappointment was almost inevitable. I think, though with some misgivings, that the book will live. I put two volumes of Foote into my pockets, and walked to Clapham. They were reading my book again. How happy their praise made me, and how little by comparison I care for any other praise! A quiet, happy, affectionate evening. Mr. Conybeare makes a criticism, in which Hannah seems to agree, that I sometimes repeat myself. I suspect there is truth in this. Yet it is very hard to know what to do. If an important principle is laid down only once, it is unnoticed or forgotten by dull readers, who are the majority. If it is inculcated in several places, quick-witted persons think that the writer harps too much on one string. Probably I have erred on the side of repetition. This is really the only important criticism that I have yet heard.

"I looked at the 'Life of Campbell,' by a foolish Dr. Beattie: a glorious specimen of the book-making of this age. Campbell may have written in all his life three hundred good lines, rather less than more. His letters, his conversation, were mere trash.* A life such as Johnson has written

*This was rather ungrateful to Campbell, who had provided Macaulay with an anecdote, which he told well and often, to illustrate the sentiment with which the authors of old days regarded their publishers. At a literary dinner Campbell asked leave to propose a toast, and gave the health of Napoleon Bonaparte. The war was at its height, and the very mention of Napoleon's name, except in conjunction with some uncomplimentary epithet, was in most circles regarded as an outrage. A storm of groans broke out, and Campbell with difficulty could get a few sentences heard. "Gentlemen," he said, "you must not mistake me. I admit that the French emperor is a tyrant. I admit that he is a monster. I admit that he is the sworn foe of our own nation, and, if you will, of the whole human race. But, gentlemen, we must be just to our great enemy. We must not forget that he once shot a book-seller." The guests, of whom two out of every three lived by their pens, burst into a roar of laughter, and Campbell sat down in triumph.

of Shenstone, or Akenside, would have been quite long enough for the subject; but here are three mortal volumes. I suppose that, if I die to-mor

row,

, I shall have three volumes. Really, I begin to understand why Coleridge says that life in death is more horrible than death.

"I dined with Miss Berry. She and her guests made an idol of me: but I know the value of London idolatry, and how soon these fashions pass away."*

"January 11th, 1849.-I am glad to find how well my book continues to sell. The second edition of three thousand was out of print almost as soon as it appeared, and one thousand two hundred and fifty of the third edition are already bespoken. I hope all this will not make me a coxcomb. I feel no intoxicating effect; but a man may be drunk without knowing it. If my abilities do not fail me, I shall be a rich man; as rich, that is to say, as I wish to be. But that I am already, if it were not for my dear ones. I am content, and should have been so with less. On the whole, I remember no success so complete; and I remember all Byron's poems and all Scott's novels."

"Saturday, January 27th.-Longman has written to say that only sixteen hundred copies are left of the third edition of five thousand, and that two thousand more copies must be immediately printed, still to be called the third edition. I went into the City to discuss the matter, and found William Longman and Green. They convinced me that the proposed course was right; but I am half afraid of this strange prosperity. Thirteen thousand copies, they seem quite confident, will have been taken off in less than six months. Of such a run I had never dreamed. But I had thought that the book would have a permanent place in our literature; and I see no reason to alter that opinion. Yet I feel extremely anxious about the second part. Can it possibly come up to the first? Does the subject admit of such vivid description and such exciting narrative? Will not the judgment of the public be unduly severe? All this disturbs me. Yet the risk must be run; and whatever art and labor can do shall be done." "February 2d.-Mahon sent me a letter from Arbuthnot, saying that the Duke of Wellington was enthusiastic in admiration of my book. Though

* "There is nothing," Macaulay says elsewhere, "more pitiable than an ex-lion or ex-lioness. London, I have often thought, is like the sorceress in the 'Arabian Nights,' who, by some mysterious law, can love the same object only forty days. During forty days she is all fondness. As soon as they are over, she not only discards the poor favorite, but turns him into some wretched shape-a mangy dog or spavined horse. How many hundreds of victims have undergone this fate since I was born! The strongest instances, I think, have been Betty, who was called the young Roscius; Edward Irving; and Mrs. Beecher Stowe."

† As a matter of fact, they were taken off in less than four months.