The rhymes in which Macaulay unfolds his little budget derive a

certain dignity and meaning from the events of the ensuing weeks.

The unparalleled labours of the Anti-Slavery leaders were at length

approaching a successful issue, and Lord Grey's Cabinet had declared

itself responsible for the emancipation of the West Indian negroes. But

it was already beginning to be known that the Ministerial scheme, in

its original shape, was not such as would satisfy even the more moderate

Abolitionists. Its most objectionable feature was shadowed forth in the

third of the Resolutions with which Mr. Stanley, who had the question

in charge, prefaced the introduction of his bill: "That all persons, now

slaves, be entitled to be registered as apprenticed labourers, and to

acquire thereby all the rights and privileges of freemen, subject to

the restriction of labouring, for a time to be fixed by Parliament,

for their present owners." It was understood that twelve years would

be proposed as the period of apprenticeship; although no trace of this

intention could be detected in the wording of the Resolution. Macaulay,

who thought twelve years far too long, felt himself justified in

supporting the Government during the preliminary stages; but he took

occasion to make some remarks indicating that circumstances might occur

which would oblige him to resign office, and adopt a line of his own.

As time went on it became evident that his firmness would be put to

the test; and a severe test it was. A rising statesman, whose prospects

would be irremediably injured by abruptly quitting a Government that

seemed likely to be in power for the next quarter of a century; a

zealous Whig, who shrank from the very appearance of disaffection to his

party; a man of sense, with no ambition to be called Quixotic; a member

for a large constituency, possessed of only seven hundred pounds in the

world when his purse was at its fullest; above all, an affectionate son

and brother, now, more than ever, the main hope and reliance of those

whom he held most dear;--it may well be believed that he was not in a

hurry to act the martyr. His father's affairs were worse than bad. The

African firm, without having been reduced to declare itself bankrupt,

had ceased to exist as a house of business; or existed only so far that

for some years to come every penny that Macaulay earned, beyond what the

necessities of life demanded, was scrupulously devoted to paying, and

at length to paying off, his father's creditors; a dutiful enterprise

in which he was assisted by his brother Henry, [Henry married in 1841

a daughter of his brother's old political ally, Lord Denman. He died at

Boa Vista, in 1846, leaving two sons, Henry, and Joseph, Macaulay.] a

young man of high spirit and excellent abilities, who had recently been

appointed one of the Commissioners of Arbitration in the Prize Courts at

Sierra Leone.

The pressure of pecuniary trouble was now beginning to make itself felt

even by the younger members of the family. About this time, or perhaps a

little earlier, Hannah Macaulay writes thus to one of her cousins:

"You say nothing about coming to us. You must come in good health and

spirits. Our trials ought not greatly to depress us; for, after all, all

we want is money, the easiest want to bear; and, when we have so many

mercies--friends who love us and whom we love; no bereavements; and,

above all, (if it be not our own fault,) a hope full of immortality--let

us not be so ungrateful as to repine because we are without what in

itself cannot make our happiness."

Macaulay's colleagues, who, without knowing his whole story, knew enough

to be aware that he could ill afford to give up office, were earnest

in their remonstrances; but he answered shortly, and almost roughly:

"I cannot go counter to my father. He has devoted his whole life to the

question, and I cannot grieve him by giving way when he wishes me to

stand firm." During the crisis of the West India Bill, Zachary Macaulay

and his son were in constant correspondence. There is something touching

in the picture which these letters present of the older man, (whose

years were coming to a close in poverty which was the consequence of his

having always lived too much for others,) discussing quietly and gravely

how, and when, the younger was to take a step that in the opinion

of them both would be fatal to his career; and this with so little

consciousness that there was anything heroic in the course which they

were pursuing, that it appears never to have occurred to either of their

that any other line of conduct could possibly be adopted.

Having made up his mind as to what he should do, Macaulay set about it

with as good a grace as is compatible with the most trying position in

which a man, and especially a young man, can find himself. Carefully

avoiding the attitude of one who bargains or threatens, he had given

timely notice in the proper quarter of his intentions and his views. At

length the conjuncture arrived when decisive action could no longer

be postponed. On the 24th of July Mr. Thomas Fowell Buxton moved an

amendment in Committee, limiting the apprenticeship to the shortest

period necessary for establishing the system of free labour. Macaulay,

whose resignation was already in Lord Althorp's hands, made a speech

which produced all the more effect as being inornate, and, at times,

almost awkward. Even if deeper feelings had not restrained the range of

his fancy and the flow of his rhetoric, his judgment would have told

him that it was not the moment for an oratorical display. He began

by entreating the House to extend to him that indulgence which it had

accorded on occasions when he had addressed it "with more confidence

and with less harassed feelings." He then, at some length, exposed the

effects of the Government proposal. "In free countries the master has

a choice of labourers, and the labourer has a choice of masters; but

in slavery it is always necessary to give despotic power to the master.

This bill leaves it to the magistrate to keep peace between master and

slave. Every time that the slave takes twenty minutes to do that which

the master thinks he should do in fifteen, recourse must be had to

the magistrate. Society would day and night be in a constant state

of litigation, and all differences and difficulties must be solved by

judicial interference."

He did not share in Mr. Buxton's apprehension of gross cruelty as a

result of the apprenticeship. "The magistrate would be accountable to

the Colonial Office, and the Colonial Office to the House of Commons, in

which every lash which was inflicted under magisterial authority would

be told and counted. My apprehension is that the result of continuing

for twelve years this dead slavery,--this state of society destitute of

any vital principle,--will be that the whole negro population will sink

into weak and drawling inefficacy, and will be much less fit for liberty

at the end of the period than at the commencement. My hope is that the

system will die a natural death; that the experience of a few months

will so establish its utter inefficiency as to induce the planters to

abandon it, and to substitute for it a state of freedom. I have voted,"

he said, "for the Second Reading, and I shall vote for the Third

Reading; but, while the bill is in Committee, I shall join with other

honourable gentlemen in doing all that is possible to amend it."

Such a declaration, coming from the mouth of a member of the Government,

gave life to the debate, and secured to Mr. Buxton an excellent

division, which under the circumstances was equivalent to a victory. The

next day Mr. Stanley rose; adverted shortly to the position in which the

Ministers stood; and announced that the term of apprenticeship would be

reduced from twelve years to seven. Mr. Buxton, who, with equal energy

and wisdom, had throughout the proceedings acted as leader of the

Anti-slavery party in the House of Commons, advised his friends to make

the best of the concession; and his counsel was followed by all those

Abolitionists who were thinking more of their cause than of themselves.

It is worthy of remark that Macaulay's prophecy came true, though not

at so early a date as he ventured to anticipate. Four years of the

provisional system brought all parties to acquiesce in the premature

termination of a state of things which denied to the negro the blessings

of freedom, and to the planter the profits of slavery.

"The papers," Macaulay writes to his father, "will have told you all

that has happened, as far as it is known to the public. The secret

history you will have heard from Buxton. As to myself, Lord Althorp

told me yesterday night that the Cabinet had determined not to accept

my resignation. I have therefore the singular good luck of having saved

both my honour and my place, and of having given no just ground of

offence either to the Abolitionists or to my party-friends. I have more

reason than ever to say that honesty is the best policy."

This letter is dated the 27th of July. On that day week, Wilberforce

was carried to his grave in Westminster Abbey. "We laid him," writes

Macaulay, "side by side with Canning, at the feet of Pitt, and within

two steps of Fox and Grattan." He died with the promised land full in

view. Before the end of August Parliament abolished slavery, and the

last touch was put to the work that had consumed so many pure and noble

lives. In a letter of congratulation to Zachary Macaulay, Mr. Buxton

says: "Surely you have reason to rejoice. My sober and deliberate

opinion is that you have done more towards this consummation than any

other man. For myself, I take pleasure in acknowledging that you have

been my tutor all the way through, and that I could have done nothing

without you." Such was the spirit of these men, who, while the struggle

lasted, were prodigal of health and ease; but who, in the day of

triumph, disclaimed, each for himself, even that part of the merit

which their religion allowed them to ascribe to human effort and

self-sacrifice.

London: July 11, 1833.

Dear Hannah,--I have been so completely overwhelmed with business for

some days that I have not been able to find time for writing a

line. Yesterday night we read the India Bill a second time. It was a

Wednesday, and the reporters gave hardly any account of what passed.

They always resent being forced to attend on that day, which is their

holiday. I made the best speech, by general agreement, and in my own

opinion, that I ever made in my life. I was an hour and three-quarters

up; and such compliments as I had from Lord Althorp, Lord Palmerston,

Lord John Russell, Wynne, O'Connell, Grant, the Speaker, and twenty

other people, you never heard. As there is no report of the speech,

I have been persuaded, rather against my will, to correct it for

publication. I will tell you one compliment that was paid me, and which

delighted me more than any other. An old member said to me: "Sir, having

heard that speech may console the young people for never having heard

Mr. Burke." [A Tory member said that Macaulay resembled both the Burkes:

that he was like the first from his eloquence, and like the second from

his stopping other people's mouths.]

The Slavery Bill is miserably bad. I am fully resolved not to be dragged

through the mire, but to oppose, by speaking and voting, the clauses

which I think objectionable. I have told Lord Althorp this, and have

again tendered my resignation. He hinted that he thought that the

Government would leave me at liberty to take my own line, but that he

must consult his colleagues. I told him that I asked for no favour; that

I knew what inconvenience would result if official men were allowed to

dissent from Ministerial measures, and yet to keep their places; and

that I should not think myself in the smallest degree ill-used if the

Cabinet accepted my resignation. This is the present posture of affairs.

In the meantime the two Houses are at daggers drawn. Whether the

Government will last to the end of the Session I neither know nor care.

I am sick of Boards, and of the House of Commons; and pine for a few

quiet days, a cool country breeze, and a little chatting with my dear

sister.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay

London: July 19, 1833.

My dear Sister,--I snatch a few minutes to write a single line to you.

We went into Committee on the India Bill at twelve this morning, sate

till three, and are just set at liberty for two hours. At five we

recommence, and shall be at work till midnight. In the interval between

three and five I have to despatch the current business of the office,

which, at present, is fortunately not heavy; to eat my dinner, which I

shall do at Grant's; and to write a short scrawl to my little sister.

My work, though laborious, has been highly satisfactory. No Bill, I

believe, of such importance,--certainly no important Bill in my time,

has been received with such general approbation. The very cause of the

negligence of the reporters, and of the thinness of the House, is that

we have framed our measure so carefully as to give little occasion for

debate. Littleton, Denison, and many other members, assure me that they

never remember to have seen a Bill better drawn or better conducted.

On Monday night, I hope, my work will be over. Our Bill will have been

discussed, I trust, for the last time in the House of Commons; and, in

all probability, I shall within forty-eight hours after that time be out

of office. I am fully determined not to give way about the West India

Bill; and I can hardly expect,--I am sure I do not wish,--that the

Ministers should suffer me to keep my place and oppose their measure.

Whatever may befall me or my party, I am much more desirous to come to

an end of this interminable Session than to stay either in office or

in Parliament. The Tories are quite welcome to take everything, if

they will only leave me my pen and my books, a warm fireside, and you

chattering beside it. This sort of philosophy, an odd kind of cross

between Stoicism and Epicureanism, I have learned, where most people

unlearn all their philosophy, in crowded senates and fine drawing-rooms.

But time flies, and Grant's dinner will be waiting. He keeps open house

for us during this fight.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: July 22, 1833.

My dear Father,--We are still very anxious here. The Lords, though they

have passed the Irish Church Bill through its first stage, will very

probably mutilate it in Committee. It will then be for the Ministers to

decide whether they can with honour keep their places. I believe that

they will resign if any material alteration should be made; and then

everything is confusion.

These circumstances render it very difficult for me to shape my course

right with respect to the West India Bill, the Second Reading of which

stands for this evening. I am fully resolved to oppose several of the

clauses. But to declare my intention publicly, at a moment when the

Government is in danger, would have the appearance of ratting. I must be

guided by circumstances; but my present intention is to say nothing on

the Second Reading. By the time that we get into Committee the political

crisis, will, I hope, be over; the fate of the Church Bill will be

decided one way or the other; and I shall be able to take my own

course on the Slavery question without exposing myself to the charge of

deserting my friends in a moment of peril.

Ever yours affectionately

T. B. MACAULAY.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: July 24, 1833,

My dear Sister,--You will have seen by the papers that the West India

debate on Monday night went off very quietly in little more than an

hour. To-night we expect the great struggle, and I fear that, much

against my inclination, I must bear a part in it. My resignation is in

Lord Althorp's hands. He assures me that he will do his utmost to obtain

for me liberty to act as I like on this question; but Lord Grey and

Stanley are to be consulted, and I think it very improbable that they

will consent to allow me so extraordinary a privilege. I know that, if I

were Minister, I would not allow such latitude to any man in office; and

so I told Lord Althorp. He answered in the kindest and most flattering

manner; told me that in office I had surpassed their expectations, and

that, much as they wished to bring me in last year, they wished much

more to keep me in now. I told him in reply that the matter was one for

the Ministers to settle, purely with a view to their own interest; that

I asked for no indulgence; that I could make no terms; and that, what I

would not do to serve them, I certainly would not do to keep my place.

Thus the matter stands. It will probably be finally settled within a few

hours.

This detestable Session goes on lengthening, and lengthening, like a

human hair in one's mouth. (Do you know that delicious sensation?) Last

month we expected to have been up before the middle of August. Now we

should be glad to be quite certain of being in the country by the first

of September. One comfort I shall have in being turned out: I will not

stay a day in London after the West India Bill is through Committee;

which I hope it will be before the end of next week.

The new Edinburgh Review is not much amiss; but I quite agree with

the publishers, the editor, and the reading public generally, that the

number would have been much the better for an article of thirty or forty

pages from the pen of a gentleman who shall be nameless.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: July 25, 1833.

My dear Sister,--The plot is thickening. Yesterday Buxton moved an

instruction to the Committee on the Slavery Bill, which the Government

opposed, and which I supported. It was extremely painful to me to speak

against all my political friends; so painful that at times I could

hardly go on. I treated them as mildly as I could; and they all tell me

that I performed my difficult task not ungracefully. We divided at two

this morning, and were 151 to 158. The Ministers found that, if they

persisted, they would infallibly be beaten. Accordingly they came down

to the House at twelve this day, and agreed to reduce the apprenticeship

to seven years for the agricultural labourers, and to five years for

the skilled labourers. What other people may do I cannot tell; but I am

inclined to be satisfied with this concession; particularly as I believe

that, if we press the thing further, they will resign, and we shall have

no Bill at all, but instead of it a Tory Ministry and a dissolution.

Some people flatter me with the assurance that our large minority, and

the consequent change in the Bill, have been owing to me. If this be so,

I have done one useful act at least in my life.

I shall now certainly remain in office; and if, as I expect, the Irish

Church Bill passes the Lords, I may consider myself as safe till the

next Session; when Heaven knows what may happen. It is still quite

uncertain when we may rise. I pine for rest, air, and a taste of family

life, more than I can express. I see nothing but politicians, and talk

about nothing but politics.

I have not read Village Belles. Tell me, as soon as you can get it,

whether it is worth reading. As John Thorpe [The young Oxford man in

"Northanger Abbey."] says "Novels! Oh Lord! I never read novels. I have

something else to do."

Farewell.

T. B. M,

To Hannah M. Macaulay,

London: July 27, 1833.

My dear Sister,--Here I am, safe and well, at the end of one of the most

stormy weeks that the oldest man remembers in Parliamentary affairs.

I have resigned my office, and my resignation has been refused. I have

spoken and voted against the Ministry under which I hold my place. The

Ministry has been so hard run in the Commons as to be forced to modify

its plan; and has received a defeat in the Lords, [On the 25th of July

the Archbishop of Canterbury carried an amendment on the Irish Church

Bill, against the Government, by 84 votes to 82.]--a slight one to be

sure, and on a slight matter,--yet such that I, and many others, fully

believed twenty-four hours ago that they would have resigned. In fact,

some of the Cabinet,--Grant among the rest, to my certain knowledge,

were for resigning. At last Saturday has arrived. The Ministry is as

strong as ever. I am as good friends with the Ministers as ever. The

East India Bill is carried through our House. The West India Bill is so

far modified that, I believe, it will be carried. The Irish Church Bill

has got through the Committee in the Lords; and we are all beginning to

look forward to a Prorogation in about three weeks.

To-day I went to Hayden's to be painted into his great picture of the

Reform Banquet. Ellis was with me, and declares that Hayden has touched

me off to a nicety. I am sick of pictures of my own face. I have seen

within the last few days one drawing of it, one engraving, and three

paintings. They all make me a very handsome fellow. Hayden pronounces my

profile a gem of art, perfectly antique; and, what is worth the praise

of ten Haydens, I was told yesterday that Mrs. Littleton, the handsomest

woman in London, had paid me exactly the same compliment. She pronounced

Mr. Macaulay's profile to be a study for an artist. I have bought a new

looking-glass and razor-case on the strength of these compliments, and

am meditating on the expediency of having my hair cut in the Burlington

Arcade, rather than in Lamb's Conduit Street. As Richard says,

"Since I am crept in favour with myself,

I will maintain it with some little cost."

I begin, like Sir Walter Elliot, [The Baronet in "Persuasion."] to

rate all my acquaintance according to their beauty. But what nonsense I

write, and in times that make many merry men look grave!

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: July 29, 1833.

My dear Sister,--I dined last night at Holland House. There was a

very pleasant party. My Lady was courteous, and my Lord extravagantly

entertaining, telling some capital stories about old Bishop Horsley,

which were set off with some of the drollest mimicry that I ever saw.

Among many others there were Sir James Graham; and Dr. Holland, who is

a good scholar as well as a good physician; and Wilkie, who is a modest,

pleasing companion as well as an excellent artist. For ladies, we had

her Grace of--; and her daughter Lady--, a fine, buxom, sonsy lass, with

more colour than, I am sorry to say, is often seen among fine ladies. So

our dinner and our soiree were very agreeable.

We narrowly escaped a scene at one time. Lord is in the navy, and is

now on duty in the fleet at the Tagus. We got into a conversation about

Portuguese politics. His name was mentioned, and Graham, who is First

Lord of the Admiralty, complimented the Duchess on her son's merit, to

which, he said, every despatch bore witness. The Duchess forthwith began

to entreat that he might be recalled. He was very ill, she said. If he

stayed longer on that station she was sure that he would die; and then

she began to cry. I cannot bear to see women cry, and the matter

became serious, for her pretty daughter began to bear her company. That

hardhearted Lord ---- seemed to be diverted by the scene. He, by all

accounts, has been doing little else than making women cry during the

last five-and-twenty years. However, we all were as still as death while

the wiping of eyes and the blowing of noses proceeded. At last Lord

Holland contrived to restore our spirits; but, before the Duchess went

away, she managed to have a tete-a-tete with Graham, and, I have no

doubt, begged and blubbered to some purpose. I could not help thinking

how many honest stout-hearted fellows are left to die on the most

unhealthy stations for want of being related to some Duchess who has

been handsome, or to some Duchess's daughter who still is so.

The Duchess said one thing that amused us. We were talking about Lady

Morgan. "When she first came to London," said Lord Holland, "I remember

that she carried a little Irish harp about with her wherever she

went." Others denied this. I mentioned what she says in her Book of the

Boudoir. There she relates how she went one evening to Lady--'s with her

little Irish harp, and how strange everybody thought it. "I see nothing

very strange," said her Grace, "in her taking her harp to Lady--'s. If

she brought it safe away with her, that would have been strange indeed."

On this, as a friend of yours says, we la-a-a-a-a-a-a-ft.

I am glad to find that you approve of my conduct about the Niggers. I

expect, and indeed wish, to be abused by the Agency Society. My father

is quite satisfied, and so are the best part of my Leeds friends.

I amuse myself, as I walk back from the House at two in the morning,

with translating Virgil. I am at work on one of the most beautiful

episodes, and am succeeding pretty well. You shall have what I have

done when I come to Liverpool, which will be, I hope, in three weeks or

thereanent.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: July 31, 1833.

My dear Sister,--Political affairs look cheeringly. The Lords passed the

Irish Church Bill yesterday, and mean, we understand, to give us little

or no trouble about the India Bill. There is still a hitch in the

Commons about the West India Bill, particularly about the twenty

millions for compensation to the planters; but we expect to carry our

point by a great majority. By the end of next week we shall be very near

the termination of our labours. Heavy labours they have been.

So Wilberforce is gone! We talk of burying him in Westminster Abbey; and

many eminent men, both Whigs and Tories, are desirous to join in paying

him this honour. There is, however, a story about a promise given to old

Stephen that they should both lie in the same grave. Wilberforce kept

his faculties, and, except when he was actually in fits, his spirits, to

the very last. He was cheerful and full of anecdote only last Saturday.

He owned that he enjoyed life much, and that he had a great desire to

live longer. Strange in a man who had, I should have said, so little to

attach him to this world, and so firm a belief in another; in a man with

an impaired fortune, a weak spine, and a worn-out stomach! What is

this fascination which makes us cling to existence in spite of present

sufferings and of religious hopes? Yesterday evening I called at the

house in Cadogan Place, where the body is lying. I was truly fond of

him; that is, "je l'aimais comme l'on aime." And how is that? How very

little one human being generally cares for another! How very little the

world misses anybody! How soon the chasm left by the best and wisest

men closes! I thought, as I walked back from Cadogan Place, that our

own selfishness when others are taken away ought to teach us how little

others will suffer at losing us. I thought that, if I were to die

to-morrow, not one of the fine people, whom I dine with every week, will

take a cotelette aux petits pois the less on Saturday at the table to

which I was invited to meet them, or will smile less gaily at the ladies

over the champagne. And I am quite even with them. What are those pretty

lines of Shelley?

Oh, world, farewell!

Listen to the passing bell.

It tells that thou and I must part

With a light and heavy heart.

There are not ten people in the world whose deaths would spoil my

dinner; but there are one or two whose deaths would break my heart. The

more I see of the world, and the more numerous my acquaintance becomes,

the narrower and more exclusive my affection grows, and the more I cling

to my sisters, and to one or two old tried friends of my quiet days. But

why should I go on preaching to you out of Ecclesiastes? And here comes,

fortunately, to break the train of my melancholy reflections, the proof

of my East India Speech from Hansard; so I must put my letter aside, and

correct the press. Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: August 2, 1833.

My dear Sister,--I agree with your judgment on Chesterfield's Letters.

They are for the most part trash; though they contain some clever

passages, and the style is not bad. Their celebrity must be attributed

to causes quite distinct from their literary merit, and particularly to

the position which the author held in society. We see in our own time

that the books written by public men of note are generally rated at

more than their real value: Lord Granville's little compositions, for

example; Canning's verses; Fox's history; Brougham's treatises. The

writings of people of high fashion, also, have a value set on them far

higher than that which intrinsically belongs to them. The verses of the

late Duchess of Devonshire, or an occasional prologue by Lord Alvanley,

attract a most undue share of attention. If the present Duke of

Devonshire, who is the very "glass of fashion and mould of form,"

were to publish a book with two good pages, it would be extolled as a

masterpiece in half the drawing-rooms of London. Now Chesterfield was,

what no person in our time has been or can be, a great political leader,

and at the same time the acknowledged chief of the fashionable world; at

the head of the House of Lords, and at the head of laze; Mr. Canning

and the Duke of Devonshire in one. In our time the division of labour

is carried so far that such a man could not exist. Politics require the

whole of energy, bodily and mental, during half the year; and leave

very little time for the bow window at White's in the day, or for the

crush-room of the Opera at night. A century ago the case was different.

Chesterfield was at once the most distinguished orator in the Upper

House, and the undisputed sovereign of wit and fashion. He held this

eminence for about forty years. At last it became the regular custom

of the higher circles to laugh whenever he opened his mouth, without

waiting for his bon mot. He used to sit at White's with a circle of

young men of rank round him, applauding every syllable that he uttered.

If you wish for a proof of the kind of position which Chesterfield

held among his contemporaries, look at the prospectus of Johnson's

Dictionary. Look even at Johnson's angry letter. It contains the

strongest admission of the boundless influence which Chesterfield

exercised over society. When the letters of such a man were published,

of course they were received more favourably by far than they deserved.

So much for criticism. As to politics, everything seems tending to

repose; and I should think that by this day fortnight we shall probably

be prorogued. The Jew Bill was thrown out yesterday night by the Lords.

No matter. Our turn will come one of these days.

If you want to see me puffed and abused by somebody who evidently knows

nothing about me, look at the New Monthly for this month. Bulwer, I see,

has given up editing it. I suppose he is making money in some other way;

for his dress must cost as much as that of any five other members of

Parliament.

To-morrow Wilberforce is to be buried. His sons acceded, with great

eagerness, to the application made to them by a considerable number of

the members of both Houses that the funeral should be public. We meet

to-morrow at twelve at the House of Commons, and we shall attend the

coffin into the Abbey. The Duke of Wellington, Lord Eldon, and Sir

R. Peel have put down their names, as well as the Ministers and the

Abolitionists.

My father urges me to pay some tribute to Wilberforce in the House of

Commons. If any debate should take place on the third reading of the

West India Bill in which I might take part, I should certainly embrace

the opportunity of doing honour to his memory. But I do not expect that

such an occasion will arise. The House seems inclined to pass the Bill

without more contest; and my father must be aware that anything like

theatrical display,--anything like a set funeral oration not springing

naturally out of the discussion of a question,--is extremely distasteful

to the House of Commons.

I have been clearing off a great mass of business, which had accumulated

at our office while we were conducting our Bill through Parliament.

Today I had the satisfaction of seeing the green boxes, which a week

ago were piled up with papers three or four feet high, perfectly empty.

Admire my superhuman industry. This I will say for myself, that, when

I do sit down to work, I work harder and faster than any person that I

ever knew.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

The next letter, in terms too clear to require comment, introduces

the mention of what proved to be the most important circumstance in

Macaulay's life.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: August 17, 1833.

My dear Sister,--I am about to write to you on a subject which to you

and Margaret will be one of the most agitating interest; and which, on

that account chiefly, is so to me.

By the new India bill it is provided that one of the members of the

Supreme Council, which is to govern our Eastern Empire, is to be chosen

from among persons who are not servants of the Company. It is probable,

indeed nearly certain, that the situation will be offered to me.

The advantages are very great. It is a post of the highest dignity and

consideration. The salary is ten thousand pounds a year. I am assured by

persons who know Calcutta intimately, and who have themselves mixed in

the highest circles and held the highest offices at that Presidency,

that I may live in splendour there for five thousand a year, and may

save the rest of the salary with the accruing interest. I may therefore

hope to return to England at only thirty-nine, in the full vigour of

life, with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds. A larger fortune I never

desired.

I am not fond of money, or anxious about it. But, though every day makes

me less and less eager for wealth, every day shows me more and more

strongly how necessary a competence is to a man who desires to be either

great or useful. At present the plain fact is that I can continue to be

a public man only while I can continue in office. If I left my place in

the Government, I must leave my seat in Parliament too. For I must live;

I can live only by my pen; and it is absolutely impossible for any man

to write enough to procure him a decent subsistence, and at the same

time to take an active part in politics. I have not during this Session

been able to send a single line to the Edinburgh Review; and, if I had

been out of office, I should have been able to do very little. Edward

Bulwer has just given up the New Monthly Magazine on the ground that he

cannot conduct it, and attend to his Parliamentary duties. Cobbett has

been compelled to neglect his Register so much that its sale has fallen

almost to nothing. Now, in order to live like a gentleman, it would be

necessary for me to write, not as I have done hitherto, but regularly,

and even daily. I have never made more than two hundred a year by my

pen. I could not support myself in comfort on less than five hundred;

and I shall in all probability have many others to support. The

prospects of our family are, if possible, darker than ever.

In the meantime my political outlook is very gloomy. A schism in the

Ministry is approaching. It requires only that common knowledge of

public affairs, which any reader of the newspapers may possess, to see

this; and I have more, much more, than common knowledge on the subject.

They cannot hold together. I tell you in perfect seriousness that my

chance of keeping my present situation for six months is so small, that

I would willingly sell it for fifty pounds down. If I remain in office,

I shall, I fear, lose my political character. If I go out, and engage in

opposition, I shall break most of the private ties which I have formed

during the last three years. In England I see nothing before me, for

some time to come, but poverty, unpopularity, and the breaking up of old

connections.

If there were no way out of these difficulties, I would encounter them

with courage. A man can always act honourably and uprightly; and, if

I were in the Fleet Prison or the rules of the King's Bench, I believe

that I could find in my own mind resources which would preserve me from

being positively unhappy. But, if I could escape from these impending

disasters, I should wish to do so. By accepting the post which is

likely to be offered to me, I withdraw myself for a short time from the

contests of faction here. When I return, I shall find things settled,

parties formed into new combinations, and new questions under

discussion. I shall then be able, without the scandal of a violent

separation, and without exposing myself to the charge of inconsistency,

to take my own line. In the meantime I shall save my family from

distress; and shall return with a competence honestly earned, as rich as

if I were Duke of Northumberland or Marquess of Westminster, and able

to act on all public questions without even a temptation to deviate

from the strict line of duty. While in India, I shall have to discharge

duties not painfully laborious, and of the highest and most honourable

kind. I shall have whatever that country affords of comfort or

splendour; nor will my absence be so long that my friends, or the public

here, will be likely to lose sight of me.

The only persons who know what I have written to you are Lord Grey,

the Grants, Stewart Mackenzie, and George Babington. Charles Grant

and Stewart Mackenzie, who know better than most men the state of the

political world, think that I should act unwisely in refusing this post;

and this though they assure me,--and, I really believe, sincerely,--that

they shall feel the loss of my society very acutely. But what shall I

feel? And with what emotions, loving as I do my country and my family,

can I look forward to such a separation, enjoined, as I think it is,

by prudence and by duty? Whether the period of my exile shall be one

of comfort,--and, after the first shock, even of happiness,--depends on

you. If, as I expect, this offer shall be made to me, will you go with

me? I know what a sacrifice I ask of you. I know how many dear and

precious ties you must, for a time, sunder. I know that the splendour

of the Indian Court, and the gaieties of that brilliant society of which

you would be one of the leading personages, have no temptation for you.

I can bribe you only by telling you that, if you will go with me, I will

love you better than I love you now, if I can.

I have asked George Babington about your health and mine. He says that

he has very little apprehension for me, and none at all for you. Indeed,

he seemed to think that the climate would be quite as likely to do you

good as harm.

All this is most strictly secret. You may, of course, show the letter

to Margaret; and Margaret may tell Edward; for I never cabal against

the lawful authority of husbands. But further the thing must not go. It

would hurt my father, and very justly, to hear of it from anybody before

he hears of it from myself; and, if the least hint of it were to get

abroad, I should be placed in a very awkward position with regard to the

people at Leeds. It is possible, though not probable, that difficulties

may arise at the India House; and I do not mean to say anything to any

person, who is not already in the secret, till the Directors have made

their choice, and till the King's pleasure has been taken.

And now think calmly over what I have written. I would not have written

on the subject even to you, till the matter was quite settled, if I had

not thought that you ought to have full time to make up your mind. If

you feel an insurmountable aversion to India, I will do all in my power

to make your residence in England comfortable during my absence, and

to enable you to confer instead of receiving benefits. But if my dear

sister would consent to give me, at this great crisis of my life, that

proof, that painful and arduous proof, of her affection, which I beg

of her, I think that she will not repent of it. She shall not, if the

unbounded confidence and attachment of one to whom she is dearer than

life can compensate her for a few years' absence from much that she

loves.

Dear Margaret! She will feel this. Consult her, my love, and let us both

have the advantage of such advice as her excellent understanding, and

her warm affection for us, may furnish. On Monday next, at the latest, I

expect to be with you. Our Scotch tour, under these circumstances, must

be short. By Christmas it will be fit that the new Councillor should

leave England. His functions in India commence next April. We shall

leave our dear Margaret, I hope, a happy mother.

Farewell, my dear sister. You cannot tell how impatiently I shall wait

for your answer.

T. B. M.

This letter, written under the influence of deep and varied emotions,

was read with feelings of painful agitation and surprise. India was not

then the familiar name that it has become to a generation which regards

a visit to Cashmere as a trip to be undertaken between two London

seasons, and which discusses over its breakfast table at home the

decisions arrived at on the previous afternoon in the Council-room of

Simla or Calcutta. In those rural parsonages and middle-class households

where service in our Eastern territories now presents itself in the

light of a probable and desirable destiny for a promising son, those

same territories were forty years ago regarded as an obscure and distant

region of disease and death. A girl who had seen no country more foreign

than Wales, and crossed no water broader and more tempestuous than the

Mersey, looked forward to a voyage which (as she subsequently learned

by melancholy experience), might extend over six weary months, with an

anxiety that can hardly be imagined by us who spend only half as many

weeks on the journey between Dover and Bombay. A separation from

beloved relations under such conditions was a separation indeed; and, if

Macaulay and his sister could have foreseen how much of what they left

at their departure they would fail to find on their return, it is a

question whether any earthly consideration could have induced them to

quit their native shore. But Hannah's sense of duty was too strong for

these doubts and tremors; and, happily, (for on the whole her resolution

was a fortunate one,) she resolved to accompany her brother in an

expatriation which he never would have faced without her. With a mind

set at ease by a knowledge of her intention, he came down to Liverpool

as soon as the Session was at an end; and carried her off on a jaunt to

Edinburgh, in a post-chaise furnished with Horace Walpole's letters for

their common reading, and Smollett's collected works for his own.

Before October he was back at the Board of Control; and his letters

recommenced, as frequent and rather more serious and business-like than

of old.

London: October 5, 1833

Dear Hannah,--Life goes on so quietly here, or rather stands so still,

that I have nothing, or next to nothing, to say. At the Athenaeum I now

and then fall in with some person passing through town on his way to the

Continent or to Brighton. The other day I met Sharp, and had a long talk

with him about everything and everybody,--metaphysics, poetry, politics,

scenery, and painting. One thing I have observed in Sharp, which is

quite peculiar to him among town-wits and diners-out. He never talks

scandal. If he can say nothing good of a man, he holds his tongue. I do

not, of course, mean that in confidential communication about politics

he does not speak freely of public men; but about the foibles of private

individuals I do not believe that, much as I have talked with him,

I ever heard him utter one word. I passed three or four hours very

agreeably in his company at the club.

I have also seen Kenny for an hour or two. I do not know that I ever

mentioned Kenny to you. When London is overflowing, I meet such numbers

of people that I cannot remember half their names. This is the time

at which every acquaintance, however slight, attracts some degree of

attention. In the desert island, even poor Poll was something of a

companion to Robinson Crusoe. Kenny is a writer of a class which, in our

time, is at the very bottom of the literary scale. He is a dramatist.

Most of the farces, and three-act plays, which have succeeded during

the last eight or ten years, are, I am told, from his pen. Heaven knows

that, if they are the farces and plays which I have seen, they do him

but little honour. However, this man is one of our great comic writers.

He has the merit, such as it is, of hitting the very bad taste of our

modern audiences better than any other person who has stooped to that

degrading work. We had a good deal of literary chat; and I thought him a

clever shrewd fellow.

My father is poorly; not that anything very serious is the matter with

him; but he has a cold, and is in low spirits.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: October 14, 1833

Dear Hannah,--I have just finished my article on Horace Walpole. This is

one of the happy moments of my life; a stupid task performed; a weight

taken off my mind. I should be quite joyous if I had only you to read it

to. But to Napier it must go forthwith; and, as soon as I have finished

this letter, I shall put it into the general post with my own fair

hands. I was up at four this morning to put the last touch to it. I

often differ with the majority about other people's writings, and still

oftener about my own; and therefore I may very likely be mistaken; but

I think that this article will be a hit. We shall see. Nothing ever cost

me more pains than the first half; I never wrote anything so flowingly

as the latter half; and I like the latter half the best. I have laid it

on Walpole so unsparingly that I shall not be surprised if Miss Berry

should cut me. You know she was Walpole's favourite in her youth.

Neither am I sure that Lord and Lady Holland will be well pleased. But

they ought to be obliged to me; for I refrained for their sake from

laying a hand, which has been thought to be not a light one, on that old

rogue the first Lord Holland. [Lord Holland, once upon a time, speaking

to Macaulay of his grandfather, said: "He had that temper which kind

folks have been pleased to say belongs to my family; but he shared the

fault that belonged to that school of statesmen, an utter disbelief in

public virtue."]

Charles Grant is still at Paris; ill, he says. I never knew a man who

wanted setting to rights so often. He goes as badly as your watch.

My father is at me again to provide for P--. What on earth have I to

do with P--? The relationship is one which none but Scotchmen would

recognise. The lad is such a fool that he would utterly disgrace my

recommendation. And, as if to make the thing more provoking, his sisters

say that he must be provided for in England, for that they cannot think

of parting with him. This, to be sure, matters little; for there is

at present just as little chance of getting anything in India as in

England.

But what strange folly this is which meets me in every quarter; people

wanting posts in the army, the navy, the public offices, and saying

that, if they cannot find such posts, they must starve! How do all the

rest of mankind live? If I had not happened to be engaged in politics,

and if my father had not been connected, by very extraordinary

circumstances, with public men, I should never have dreamed of having

places. Why cannot P-- be apprenticed to some hatter or tailor? He may

do well in such a business; he will do detestably ill as a clerk in my

office. He may come to make good coats; he will never, I am sure, write

good despatches. There is nothing truer than Poor Richard's say: "We

are taxed twice as heavily by our pride as by the state." The curse of

England is the obstinate determination of the middle classes to make

their sons what they call gentlemen. So we are overrun by clergymen

without livings; lawyers without briefs; physicians without patients;

authors without readers; clerks soliciting employment, who might

have thriven, and been above the world, as bakers, watchmakers, or

innkeepers. The next time my father speaks to me about P--, I will offer

to subscribe twenty guineas towards making a pastry-cook of him. He had

a sweet tooth when he was a child.

So you are reading Burnet! Did you begin from the beginning? What do

you think of the old fellow? He was always a great favourite of mine;

honest, though careless; a strong party man on the right side, yet with

much kind feeling towards his opponents, and even towards his personal

enemies. He is to me a most entertaining writer; far superior to

Clarendon in the art of amusing, though of course far Clarendon's

inferior in discernment, and in dignity and correctness of style. Do you

know, by the bye, Clarendon's life of himself? I like it, the part after

the Restoration at least, better than his great History.

I am very quiet; rise at seven or half-past; read Spanish till ten;

breakfast; walk to my office; stay there till four; take a long walk,

dine towards seven; and am in bed before eleven. I am going through Don

Quixote again, and admire it more than ever. It is certainly the best

novel in the world, beyond all comparison.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: October 21, 1833.

My dear Sister,--Grant is here at last, and we have had a very long talk

about matters both public and private. The Government would support

my appointment; but he expects violent opposition from the Company. He

mentioned my name to the Chairs, and they were furious. They know that

I have been against them through the whole course of the negotiations

which resulted in the India Bill. They put their opposition on the

ground of my youth,--a very flattering objection to a man who this week

completes his thirty-third year. They spoke very highly of me in other

respects; but they seemed quite obstinate.

The question now is whether their opposition will be supported by the

other Directors. If it should be so, I have advised Grant most strongly

to withdraw my name, to put up some other man, and then to fight the

battle to the utmost. We shall be suspected of jobbing if we proceed to

extremities on behalf of one of ourselves; but we can do what we

like, if it is in favour of some person whom we cannot be suspected of

supporting from interested motives. From the extreme unreasonableness

and pertinacity which are discernible in every communication that we

receive from the India House at present, I am inclined to think that

I have no chance of being chosen by them, without a dispute in which I

should not wish the Government to engage for such a purpose. Lord Grey

says that I have a right to their support if I ask for it; but that,

for the sake of his administration generally, he is very adverse to my

going. I do not think that I shall go. However, a few days will decide

the matter.

I have heard from Napier. He praises my article on Walpole in terms

absolutely extravagant. He says that it is the best that I ever

wrote; and, entre nous, I am not very far from agreeing with him. I

am impatient to have your opinion. No flattery pleases me so much as

domestic flattery. You will have the Number within the week.

Ever yours

T. B. M

To Macvey Napier, Esq.

London: October 21, 1833.

Dear Napier,--I am glad to learn that you like my article. I like it

myself; which is not much my habit. Very likely the public, which has

often been kinder to my performances than I was, may on this, as on

other occasions, differ from me in opinion. If the paper has any merit,

it owes it to the delay of which you must, I am sure, have complained

very bitterly in your heart. I was so thoroughly dissatisfied with the

article, as it stood at first, that I completely re-wrote it; altered

the whole arrangement; left out ten or twelve pages in one part; and

added twice as many in another. I never wrote anything so slowly as the

first half, or so rapidly as the last half.

You are in an error about Akenside, which I must clear up for his

credit, and for mine. You are confounding the Ode to Curio and the

Epistle to Curio. The latter is generally printed at the end of

Akenside's works, and is, I think, the best thing that he ever wrote.

The Ode is worthless. It is merely an abridgment of the Epistle executed

in the most unskilful way. Johnson says, in his Life of Akenside, that

no poet ever so much mistook his powers as Akenside when he took to

lyric composition. "Having," I think the words are, "written with great

force and poignancy his Epistle to Curio, he afterwards transformed it

into an Ode only disgraceful to its author." ["Akenside was one of

the fiercest and the most uncompromising of the young patriots out of

Parliament. When he found that the change of administration had produced

no change of system, he gave vent to his indignation in the 'Epistle to

Curio,' the best poem that he ever wrote; a poem, indeed, which seems to

indicate that, if he had left lyrical composition to Cray and Collins,

and had employed his powers in grave and elevated satire, he might have

disputed the pre-eminence of Dryden." This passage occurs in Macaulay's

Essay on Horace Walpole. In the course of the same Essay, Macaulay

remarks that "Lord Chesterfield stands much lower in the estimation

of posterity than he would have done if his letters had never been

published."]

When I said that Chesterfield had lost by the publication of his

letters, I of course considered that he had much to lose; that he

has left an immense reputation, founded on the testimony of all his

contemporaries of all parties, for wit, taste, and eloquence; that what

remains of his Parliamentary oratory is superior to anything of that

time that has come down to us, except a little of Pitt's. The utmost

that can be said of the letters is that they are the letters of a

cleverish man; and there are not many which are entitled even to that

praise. I think he would have stood higher if we had been left to judge

of his powers,--as we judge of those of Chatham, Mansfield, Charles

Townshend, and many others,--only by tradition, and by fragments of

speeches preserved in Parliamentary reports.

I said nothing about Lord Byron's criticism on Walpole, because I

thought it, like most of his Lordship's criticism, below refutation. On

the drama Lord Byron wrote more nonsense than on any subject. He wanted

to have restored the unities. His practice proved as unsuccessful as his

theory was absurd. His admiration of the "Mysterious Mother" was of

a piece with his thinking Gifford, and Rogers, greater poets than

Wordsworth, and Coleridge.

Ever yours truly

T. B. MACAULAY.

London: October 28, 1833.

Dear Hannah,--I wish to have Malkin as head of the Commission at Canton,

and Grant seems now to be strongly bent on the same plan. [Sir Benjamin

Malkin, a college friend of Macaulay, was afterwards a judge in

the Supreme Court at Calcutta.] Malkin is a man of singular temper,

judgment, and firmness of nerve. Danger and responsibility, instead of

agitating and confusing him, always bring out whatever there is in him.

This was the reason of his great success at Cambridge. He made a figure

there far beyond his learning or his talents, though both his learning

and his talents are highly respectable. But the moment that he sate down

to be examined, which is just the situation in which all other people,

from natural flurry, do worse than at other times, he began to do his

very best. His intellect became clearer, and his manner more quiet, than

usual. He is the very man to make up his mind in three minutes if the

Viceroy of Canton were in a rage, the mob bellowing round the doors of

the factory, and an English ship of war making preparations to bombard

the town.

A propos of places, my father has been at me again about P--. Would you

think it? This lad has a hundred and twenty pounds a year for life! I

could not believe my ears; but so it is; and I, who have not a penny,

with half a dozen brothers and sisters as poor as myself, am to move

heaven and earth to push this boy who, as he is the silliest, is also, I

think, the richest relation that I have in the world.

I am to dine on Thursday with the Fishmongers' Company, the first

company for gourmandise in the world. Their magnificent Hall near London

Bridge is not yet built, but, as respects eating and drinking, I shall

be no loser; for we are to be entertained at the Albion Tavern. This is

the first dinner-party that I shall have been to for a long time. There

is nobody in town that I know except official men, and they have left

their wives and households in the country. I met Poodle Byng, it is

true, the day before yesterday in the street; and he begged me to make

haste to Brooks's; for Lord Essex was there, he said, whipping up for a

dinner-party; cursing and swearing at all his friends for being out

of town; and wishing--what an honour!--that Macaulay was in London. I

preserved all the dignity of a young lady in an affaire du coeur. "I

shall not run after my Lord, I assure you. If he wants me, he knows

where he may hear of me." This nibble is the nearest approach to a

dinner-party that I have had.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: November 1, 1833.

Dear Hannah,--I have not much to add to what I told you yesterday; but

everything that I have to add looks one way. We have a new Chairman and

Deputy Chairman, both very strongly in my favour. Sharp, by whom I sate

yesterday at the Fishmongers' dinner, told me that my old enemy James

Mill had spoken to him on the subject. Mill is, as you have heard, at

the head of one of the principal departments of the India House. The

late Chairman consulted him about me; hoping, I suppose, to have his

support against me. Mill said, very handsomely, that he would advise

the Company to take me; for, as public men went, I was much above the

average, and, if they rejected me, he thought it very unlikely that they

would get anybody so fit. This is all the news that I have to give you.

It is not much. But I wish to keep you as fully informed of what is

going on as I am myself.

Old Sharp told me that I was acting quite wisely, but that he should

never see me again; and he cried as he said it. [Mr. Sharp died in 1837,

before Macaulay's return from India.] I encouraged him; and told him

that I hoped to be in England again before the end of 1839, and that

there was nothing impossible in our meeting again. He cheered up after

a time; told me that he should correspond with me, and give me all the

secret history both of politics and of society; and promised to select

the best books, and send them regularly to me.

The Fishmongers' dinner was very good, but not so profusely splendid as

I had expected. There has been a change, I find, and not before it was

wanted. They had got at one time to dining at ten guineas a head. They

drank my health, and I harangued them with immense applause. I talked

all the evening to Sharp. I told him what a dear sister I had, and how

readily she had agreed to go with me. I had told Grant the same in

the morning. Both of them extolled my good fortune in having such a

companion.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: November--, 1833.

Dear Hannah,--Things stand as they stood; except that the report of my

appointment is every day spreading more widely; and that I am beset by

advertising dealers begging leave to make up a hundred cotton shirts for

me, and fifty muslin gowns for you, and by clerks out of place begging

to be my secretaries. I am not in very high spirits to-day, as I have

just received a letter from poor Ellis, to whom I had not communicated

my intentions till yesterday. He writes so affectionately and so

plaintively that he quite cuts me to the heart. There are few indeed

from whom I shall part with so much pain; and he, poor fellow, says

that, next to his wife, I am the person for whom he feels the

most thorough attachment, and in whom he places the most unlimited

confidence.

On the 11th of this month there is to be a dinner given to Lushington

by the electors of the Tower Hamlets. He has persecuted me with

importunities to attend, and make a speech for him; and my father has

joined in the request. It is enough, in these times, Heaven knows, for

a man who represents, as I do, a town of a hundred and twenty thousand

people to keep his own constituents in good humour; and the Spitalfields

weavers, and Whitechapel butchers, are nothing to me. But, ever since

I succeeded in what everybody allows to have been the most hazardous

attempt of the kind ever made,--I mean in persuading an audience of

manufacturers, all Whigs or Radicals, that the immediate alteration

of the corn-laws was impossible,--I have been considered as a capital

physician for desperate cases in politics. However,--to return from that

delightful theme, my own praises,--Lushington, who is not very popular

with the rabble of the Tower Hamlets, thinks that an oration from me

would give him a lift. I could not refuse him directly, backed as he was

by my father. I only said that I would attend if I were in London on the

11th; but I added that, situated as I was, I thought it very probable

that I should be out of town.

I shall go to-night to Miss Berry's soiree. I do not know whether I

told you that she resented my article on Horace Walpole so much that

Sir Stratford Canning advised me not to go near her. She was Walpole's

greatest favourite. His Reminiscences are addressed to her in terms of

the most gallant eulogy. When he was dying at past eighty, he asked her

to marry him, merely that he might make her a Countess and leave her

his fortune. You know that in Vivian Grey she is called Miss Otranto. I

always expected that my article would put her into a passion, and I was

not mistaken; but she has come round again, and sent me a most pressing

and kind invitation the other day.

I have been racketing lately, having dined twice with Rogers, and once

with Grant. Lady Holland is in a most extraordinary state. She came

to Rogers's, with Allen, in so bad a humour that we were all forced

to rally, and make common cause against her. There was not a person at

table to whom she was not rude; and none of us were inclined to submit.

Rogers sneered; Sydney made merciless sport of her. Tom Moore looked

excessively impertinent; Bobus put her down with simple straightforward

rudeness; and I treated her with what I meant to be the coldest

civility. Allen flew into a rage with us all, and especially with

Sydney, whose guffaws, as the Scotch say, were indeed tremendous. When

she and all the rest were gone, Rogers made Tom Moore and me sit down

with him for half an hour, and we coshered over the events of the

evening. Rogers said that he thought Allen's firing up in defence of his

patroness the best thing that he had seen in him. No sooner had Tom and

I got into the street than he broke forth: "That such an old stager as

Rogers should talk such nonsense, and give Allen credit for attachment

to anything but his dinner! Allen was bursting with envy to see us so

free, while he was conscious of his own slavery."

Her Ladyship has been the better for this discipline. She has

overwhelmed me ever since with attentions and invitations. I have at

last found out the cause of her ill-humour, or at least of that portion

of it of which I was the object. She is in a rage at my article on

Walpole, but at what part of it I cannot tell. I know that she is very

intimate with the Waldegraves, to whom the manuscripts belong, and for

whose benefit the letters were published. But my review was surely not

calculated to injure the sale of the book. Lord Holland told me, in an

aside, that he quite agreed with me, but that we had better not discuss

the subject.

A note; and, by my life, from my Lady Holland: "Dear Mr. Macaulay, pray

wrap yourself very warm, and come to us on Wednesday." No, my good

Lady. I am engaged on Wednesday to dine at the Albion Tavern with the

Directors of the East India Company; now my servants; next week, I hope,

to be my masters.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: November 22, 1833.

My dear Sister,--The decision is postponed for a week; but there is no

chance of an unfavourable result. The Chairs have collected the

opinions of their brethren; and the result is, that, of the twenty-four

Directors, only six or seven at the most will vote against me.

I dined with the Directors on Wednesday at the Albion Tavern. We had a

company of about sixty persons, and many eminent military men amongst

them. The very courteous manner in which several of the Directors begged

to be introduced to me, and drank my health at dinner, led me to think

that the Chairs have not overstated the feeling of the Court. One of

them, an old Indian and a great friend of our uncle the General, told

me in plain words that he was glad to hear that I was to be in their

service. Another, whom I do not even know by sight, pressed the Chairman

to propose my health. The Chairman with great judgment refused. It

would have been very awkward to have had to make a speech to them in the

present circumstances.

Of course, my love, all your expenses, from the day of my appointment,

are my affair. My present plan, formed after conversation with

experienced East Indians, is not to burden myself with an extravagant

outfit. I shall take only what will be necessary for the voyage. Plate,

wine, coaches, furniture, glass, china, can be bought in Calcutta as

well as in London. I shall not have money enough to fit myself out

handsomely with such things here; and to fit myself out shabbily would

be folly. I reckon that we can bring our whole expense for the passage

within the twelve hundred pounds allowed by the Company. My calculation

is that our cabins and board will cost L250 apiece. The passage of our

servants L50 apiece. That makes up L600. My clothes and etceteras, as

Mrs. Meeke observes, I will, I am quite sure, come within L200. [Mrs.

Meeke was his favourite among bad novel-writers, See page 96.] Yours

will, of course, be more. I will send you L300 to lay out as you like;

not meaning to confine you to it, by any means; but you would probably

prefer having a sum down to sending in your milliner's bills to me.

I reckon my servant's outfit at L50; your maid's at as much more. The

whole will be L1200.

One word about your maid. You really must choose with great caution.

Hitherto the Company has required that all ladies, who take maidservants

with them from this country to India, should give security to send

them back within two years. The reason was, that no class of people

misconducted themselves so much in the East as female servants from

this country. They generally treat the natives with gross insolence; an

insolence natural enough to people accustomed to stand in a subordinate

relation to others when, for the first time, they find a great

population placed in a servile relation towards them. Then, too, the

state of society is such that they are very likely to become mistresses

of the wealthy Europeans, and to flaunt about in magnificent palanquins,

bringing discredit on their country by the immorality of their lives

and the vulgarity of their manners. On these grounds the Company has

hitherto insisted upon their being sent back at the expense of those who

take them out. The late Act will enable your servant to stay in India,

if she chooses to stay. I hope, therefore, that you will be careful

in your selection. You see how much depends upon it. The happiness and

concord of our native household, which will probably consist of sixty or

seventy people, may be destroyed by her, if she should be ill-tempered

and arrogant. If she should be weak and vain, she will probably form

connections that will ruin her morals and her reputation. I am no

preacher, as you very well know; but I have a strong sense of the

responsibility under which we shall both lie with respect to a poor

girl, brought by us into the midst of temptations of which she cannot

be aware, and which have turned many heads that might have been steady

enough in a quiet nursery or kitchen in England.

To find a man and wife, both of whom would suit us, would be very

difficult; and I think it right, also, to offer to my clerk to keep him

in my service. He is honest, intelligent, and respectful; and, as he is

rather inclined to consumption, the change of climate would probably be

useful to him. I cannot bear the thought of throwing any person who has

been about me for five years, and with whom I have no fault to find, out

of bread, while it is in my power to retain his services.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: December 5, 1833

Dear Lord Lansdowne,--I delayed returning an answer to your kind letter

till this day, in order that I might be able to send you definite

intelligence. Yesterday evening the Directors appointed me to a seat in

the Council of India. The votes were nineteen for me, and three against

me.

I feel that the sacrifice which I am about to make is great. But the

motives which urge me to make it are quite irresistible. Every day that

I live I become less and less desirous of great wealth. But every day

makes me more sensible of the importance of a competence. Without a

competence it is not very easy for a public man to be honest; it is

almost impossible for him to be thought so. I am so situated that I can

subsist only in two ways: by being in office, and by my pen. Hitherto,

literature has been merely my relaxation,--the amusement of perhaps a

month in the year. I have never considered it as the means of support. I

have chosen my own topics, taken my own time, and dictated my own terms.

The thought of becoming a bookseller's hack; of writing to relieve, not

the fulness of the mind, but the emptiness of the pocket; of spurring a

jaded fancy to reluctant exertion; of filling sheets with trash merely

that the sheets may be filled; of bearing from publishers and editors

what Dryden bore from Tonson, and what, to my own knowledge, Mackintosh

bore from Lardner, is horrible to me. Yet thus it must be, if I should

quit office. Yet to hold office merely for the sake of emolument would

be more horrible still. The situation, in which I have been placed for

some time back, would have broken the spirit of many men. It has rather

tended to make me the most mutinous and unmanageable of the followers of

the Government. I tendered my resignation twice during the course of the

last Session. I certainly should not have done so if I had been a man

of fortune. You, whom malevolence itself could never accuse of coveting

office for the sake of pecuniary gain, and whom your salary very poorly

compensates for the sacrifice of ease, and of your tastes, to the public

service, cannot estimate rightly the feelings of a man who knows that

his circumstances lay him open to the suspicion of being actuated in his

public conduct by the lowest motives. Once or twice, when I have been

defending unpopular measures in the House of Commons, that thought has

disordered my ideas, and deprived me of my presence of mind.

If this were all, I should feel that, for the sake of my own happiness

and of my public utility, a few years would be well spent in obtaining

an independence. But this is not all. I am not alone in the world. A

family which I love most fondly is dependent on me. Unless I would see

my father left in his old age to the charity of less near relations;

my youngest brother unable to obtain a good professional education; my

sisters, who are more to me than any sisters ever were to a brother,

forced to turn governesses or humble companions,--I must do something,

I must make some effort. An opportunity has offered itself. It is in

my power to make the last days of my father comfortable, to educate my

brother, to provide for my sisters, to procure a competence for myself.

I may hope, by the time I am thirty-nine or forty, to return to England

with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds. To me that would be affluence.

I never wished for more.

As far as English politics are concerned, I lose, it is true, a few

years. But, if your kindness had not introduced me very early to

Parliament,--if I had been left to climb up the regular path of my

profession, and to rise by my own efforts,--I should have had very

little chance of being in the House of Commons at forty. If I have

gained any distinction in the eyes of my countrymen,--if I have acquired

any knowledge of Parliamentary and official business, and any habitude

for the management of great affairs,--I ought to consider these things

as clear gain.

Then, too, the years of my absence, though lost, as far as English

politics are concerned, will not, I hope, be wholly lost, as respects

either my own mind or the happiness of my fellow-creatures. I can

scarcely conceive a nobler field than that which our Indian Empire now

presents to a statesman. While some of my partial friends are blaming

me for stooping to accept a share in the government of that Empire, I

am afraid that I am aspiring too high for my qualifications. I sometimes

feel, I most unaffectedly declare, depressed and appalled by the immense

responsibility which I have undertaken. You are one of the very few

public men of our time who have bestowed on Indian affairs the attention

which they deserve; and you will therefore, I am sure, fully enter into

my feelings.

And now, dear Lord Lansdowne, let me thank you most warmly for the kind

feeling which has dictated your letter. That letter is, indeed, but a

very small part of what I ought to thank you for. That at an early age

I have gained some credit in public life; that I have done some little

service to more than one good cause; that I now have it in my power

to repair the ruined fortunes of my family, and to save those who are

dearest to me from the misery and humiliation of dependence; that I am

almost certain, if I live, of obtaining a competence by honourable

means before I am past the full vigour of manhood,--this I owe to your

kindness. I will say no more. I will only entreat you to believe that

neither now, nor on any former occasion, have I ever said one thousandth

part of what I feel.

If it will not be inconvenient to you, I propose to go to Bowood on

Wednesday next. Labouchere will be my fellow-traveller. On Saturday we

must both return to town. Short as my visit must be, I look forward to

it with great pleasure.

Believe me, ever,

Yours most faithfully and affectionately

T. B. MACAULAY.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: December 5, 1833

My dear Sister,--I am overwhelmed with business, clearing off my work

here, and preparing for my new functions. Plans of ships, and letters

from captains, pour in without intermission. I really am mobbed with

gentlemen begging to have the honour of taking me to India at my own

time. The fact is that a Member of Council is a great catch, not merely

on account of the high price which he directly pays for accommodation,

but because other people are attracted by him. Every father of a young

writer, or a young cadet, likes to have his son on board the same vessel

with the great man, to dine at the same table, and to have a chance of

attracting his notice. Everything in India is given by the Governor

in Council; and, though I have no direct voice in the disposal of

patronage, my indirect influence may be great.

Grant's kindness through all these negotiations has been such as I

really cannot describe. He told me yesterday, with tears in his eyes,

that he did not know what the Board would do without me. I attribute his

feeling partly to Robert Grant's absence; not that Robert ever did me

ill offices with him far from it; but Grant's is a mind that cannot

stand alone. It is begging your pardon for my want of gallantry, a

feminine mind. It turns, like ivy, to some support. When Robert is near

him, he clings to Robert. Robert being away, he clings to me. This may

be a weakness in a public man; but I love him the better for it.

I have lately met Sir James Graham at dinner. He took me aside, and

talked to me on my appointment with a warmth of kindness which, though

we have been always on good terms, surprised me. But the approach of

a long separation, like the approach of death, brings out all friendly

feelings with unusual strength. The Cabinet, he said, felt the loss

strongly. It was great at the India Board, but in the House of Commons,

(he used the word over and over,) "irreparable." They all, however, he

said, agreed that a man of honour could not make politics a profession

unless he had a competence of his own, without exposing himself to

privation of the severest kind. They felt that they had never had it

in their power to do all they wished to do for me. They had no means of

giving me a provision in England; and they could not refuse me what

I asked in India. He said very strongly that they all thought that

I judged quite wisely; and added that, if God heard his prayers, and

spared my health, I should make a far greater figure in public life than

if I had remained during the next five or six years in England.

I picked up in a print-shop the other day some superb views of the

suburbs of Chowringhee, and the villas of the Garden Reach. Selina

professes that she is ready to die with envy of the fine houses and

verandahs. I heartily wish we were back again in a nice plain brick

house, three windows in front, in Cadogan Place or Russell Square, with

twelve or fifteen hundred a year, and a spare bedroom,--(we, like Mrs.

Norris, [A leading personage in Miss Austen's "Mansfield Park."] must

always have a spare bedroom,)--for Edward and Margaret, Love to them

both.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Macvey Napier, Esq.

London: December 5, 1833

Dear Napier,--You are probably not unprepared for what I am about to

tell you. Yesterday evening the Directors of the East India Company

elected me one of the members of the Supreme Council. It will,

therefore, be necessary that in a few weeks,--ten weeks, at furthest,--I

should leave this country for a few years.

It would be mere affectation in me to pretend not to know that my

support is of some importance to the Edinburgh Review. In the situation

in which I shall now be placed, a connection with the Review will be of

some importance to me. I know well how dangerous it is for a public man

wholly to withdraw himself from the public eye. During an absence of six

years, I run some risk of losing most of the distinction, literary and

political, which I have acquired. As a means of keeping myself in the

recollection of my countrymen during my sojourn abroad the Review will

be invaluable to me; nor do I foresee that there will be the slightest

difficulty in my continuing to write for you at least as much as ever.

I have thought over my late articles, and I really can scarcely call

to mind a single sentence in any one of them which might not have been

written at Calcutta as easily as in London. Perhaps in India I might not

have the means of detecting two or three of the false dates in Croker's

Boswell. But that would have been all. Very little, if any, of the

effect of my most popular articles is produced either by minute research

into rare books, or by allusions to mere topics of the day.

I think therefore that we might easily establish a commerce mutually

beneficial. I shall wish to be supplied with all the good books

which come out in this part of the world. Indeed, many books which

in themselves are of little value, and which, if I were in England, I

should not think it worth while to read, will be interesting to me in

India; just as the commonest daubs, and the rudest vessels, at Pompeii

attract the minute attention of people who would not move their eyes

to see a modern signpost, or a modern kettle. Distance of place, like

distance of time, makes trifles valuable.

What I propose, then, is that you should pay me for the articles which I

may send you from India, not in money, but in books. As to the amount

I make no stipulations. You know that I have never haggled about such

matters. As to the choice of books, the mode of transmission, and other

matters, we shall have ample time to discuss them before my departure.

Let me know whether you are willing to make an arrangement on this

basis.

I have not forgotten Chatham in the midst of my avocations. I hope to

send you an article on him early next week.

Ever yours sincerely

T. B. MACAULAY.

From the Right Hon. Francis Jeffrey to Macvey Napier, Esq.

24, Moray Place Saturday evening, December

My dear Napier,--I am very much obliged to you for the permission

to read this. It is to me, I will confess, a solemn and melancholy

announcement. I ought not, perhaps, so to consider it. But I cannot help

it. I was not prepared for six years, and I must still hope that it will

not be so much. At my age, and with that climate for him, the chances of

our ever meeting again are terribly endangered by such a term. He does

not know the extent of the damage which his secession may be to the

great cause of Liberal government. His anticipations and offers about

the Review are generous and pleasing, and must be peculiarly gratifying

to you. I think, if you can, you should try to see him before he goes,

and I envy you the meeting.

Ever very faithfully yours

F. JEFFREY.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: December 21, 1833.

My dear Sister,--Yesterday I dined at Boddington's. We had a very

agreeable party: Duncannon, Charles Grant, Sharp, Chantrey the sculptor,

Bobus Smith, and James Mill. Mill and I were extremely friendly, and

I found him a very pleasant companion, and a man of more general

information than I had imagined.

Bobus was very amusing. He is a great authority on Indian matters. He

was during several years Advocate-General in Bengal, and made all his

large fortune there. I asked him about the climate. Nothing, he said,

could be pleasanter, except in August and September. He never ate or

drank so much in his life. Indeed, his looks do credit to Bengal; for

a healthier man of his age I never saw. We talked about expenses. "I

cannot conceive," he said, "how anybody at Calcutta can live on less

than L3,000 a year, or can contrive to spend more than L4,000." We

talked of the insects and snakes, and he said a thing which reminded me

of his brother Sydney: "Always, Sir, manage to have at your table

some fleshy, blooming, young writer or cadet, just come out; that the

musquitoes may stick to him, and leave the rest of the company alone."

I have been with George Babington to the Asia. We saw her to every

disadvantage, all litter and confusion; but she is a fine ship, and our

cabins will be very good. The captain I like much. He is an agreeable,

intelligent, polished man of forty; and very good-looking, considering

what storms and changes of climate he has gone through. He advised me

strongly to put little furniture into our cabins. I told him to have

yours made as neat as possible, without regard to expense. He has

promised to have it furnished simply, but prettily; and when you see it,

if any addition occurs to you, it shall be made. I shall spare nothing

to make a pretty little boudoir for you. You cannot think how my friends

here praise you. You are quite Sir James Graham's heroine.

To-day I breakfasted with Sharp, whose kindness is as warm as possible.

Indeed, all my friends seen to be in the most amiable mood. I have twice

as many invitations as I can accept; and I have been frequently begged

to name my own party. Empty as London is, I never was so much beset with

invitations. Sharp asked me about you. I told him how much I regretted

my never having had any opportunity of showing you the best part of

London society. He said that he would take care that you should see what

was best worth seeing before your departure. He promises to give us a

few breakfast-parties and dinner-parties, where you will meet as many

as he can muster of the best set in town,--Rogers, Luttrell, Rice, Tom

Moore, Sydney Smith, Grant, and other great wits and politicians. I am

quite delighted at this; both because you will, I am sure, be amused,

and pleased, at a time when you ought to have your mind occupied, and

because even to have mixed a little in a circle so brilliant will be

of advantage to you in India. You have neglected, and very rightly and

sensibly, frivolous accomplishments; you have not been at places of

fashionable diversion; and it is, therefore, the more desirable that

you should appear among the dancing, pianoforte-playing, opera-going,

damsels at Calcutta as one who has seen society better than any that

they ever approached. I hope that you will not disapprove of what I have

done. I accepted Sharp's offer for you eagerly.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: January 2, 1834.

My dear Sister,--I am busy with an article for Napier. [The first

article on Lord Chatham.] I cannot in the least tell at present whether

I shall like it or not. I proceed with great ease; and in general I have

found that the success of my writings has been in proportion to the ease

with which they have been written.

I had a most extraordinary scene with Lady Holland. If she had been as

young and handsome as she was thirty years ago, she would have turned my

head. She was quite hysterical about my going; paid me such compliments

as I cannot repeat; cried; raved; called me dear, dear Macaulay. "You

are sacrificed to your family. I see it all. You are too good to them.

They are always making a tool of you; last Session about the slaves; and

now sending you to India!" I always do my best to keep my temper with

Lady Holland for three reasons; because she is a woman; because she is

very unhappy in her health, and in the circumstances of her position;

and because she has a real kindness for me. But at last she said

something about you. This was too much, and I was beginning to answer

her in a voice trembling with anger, when she broke out again: "I beg

your pardon. Pray forgive me, dear Macaulay. I was very impertinent. I

know you will forgive me. Nobody has such a temper as you. I have said

so a hundred times. I said so to Allen only this morning. I am sure you

will bear with my weakness. I shall never see you again;" and she cried,

and I cooled; for it would have been to very little purpose to be angry

with her. I hear that it is not to me alone that she runs on in this

way. She storms at the Ministers for letting me go. I was told that at

one dinner she became so violent that even Lord Holland, whose temper,

whatever his wife may say, is much cooler than mine, could not command

himself, and broke out: "Don't talk such nonsense, my Lady. What, the

devil! Can we tell a gentleman who has a claim upon us that he must lose

his only chance of getting an independence in order that he may come and

talk to you in an evening?"

Good-bye, and take care not to become so fond of your own will as my

Lady. It is now my duty to omit no opportunity of giving you wholesome

advice. I am henceforward your sole guardian. I have bought Gisborne's

Duties of Women, Moore's Fables for the Female Sex, Mrs. King's Female

Scripture Characters, and Fordyce's Sermons. With the help of these

books I hope to keep my responsibility in order on our voyage, and in

India.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

To Hannah M. Macaulay.

London: January 4, 1834.

My dear Sister,--I am now buying books; not trashy books which will only

bear one reading; but good books for a library. I have my eye on all the

bookstalls; and I shall no longer suffer you, when we walk together in

London, to drag me past them as you used to do. Pray make out a list of

any which you would like to have. The provision which I design for the

voyage is Richardson, Voltaire's works, Gibbon, Sismondi's History of

the French, Davila, the Orlando in Italian, Don Quixote in Spanish,

Homer in Greek, Horace in Latin. I must also have some books of

jurisprudence, and some to initiate me in Persian and Hindostanee. Shall

I buy "Dunallan" for you? I believe that in your eyes it would stand in

the place of all the rest together. But, seriously, let me know what you

would like me to procure.

Ellis is making a little collection of Greek classics for me. Sharp has

given me one or two very rare and pretty books, which I much wanted. All

the Edinburgh Reviews are being bound, so that we shall have a complete

set, up to the forth coming number, which will contain an article of

mine on Chatham. And this reminds me that I must give over writing to

you, and fall to my article. I rather think that it will be a good one.

Ever yours

T. B. M.

London: February 13, 1834.

Dear Napier,--It is true that I have been severely tried by ill-health

during the last few weeks; but I am now rapidly recovering, and am

assured by all my medical advisers that a week of the sea will make me

better than ever I was in my life.

I have several subjects in my head. One is Mackintosh's History; I mean

the fragment of the large work. Another plan which I have is a very fine

one, if it could be well executed. I think that the time is come when a

fair estimate may be formed of the intellectual and moral character of

Voltaire. The extreme veneration, with which he was regarded during his

lifetime, has passed away; the violent reaction, which followed, has

spent itself; and the world can now, I think, bear to hear the truth,

and to see the man exhibited as he was,--a strange mixture of greatness

and littleness, virtues and vices. I have all his works, and shall take

them in my cabin on the voyage. But my library is not particularly rich

in those books which illustrate the literary history of his times. I

have Rousseau, and Marmontel's Memoirs, and Madame du Deffand's Letters,

and perhaps a few other works which would be of use. But Grimm's

Correspondence, and several other volumes of memoirs and letters, would

be necessary. If you would make a small collection of the works which

would be most useful in this point of view, and send it after me as soon

as possible, I will do my best to draw a good Voltaire. I fear that the

article must be enormously long,--seventy pages perhaps;--but you know

that I do not run into unnecessary lengths.

I may perhaps try my hand on Miss Austen's novels. That is a subject on

which I shall require no assistance from books.

Whatever volumes you may send me ought to be half bound; or the white

ants will devour them before they have been three days on shore. Besides

the books which may be necessary for the Review, I should like to have

any work of very striking merit which may appear during my absence. The

particular department of literature which interests me most is history;

above all, English history. Any valuable book on that subject I should

wish to possess. Sharp, Miss Berry, and some of my other friends, will

perhaps, now and then, suggest a book to you. But it is principally on

your own judgment that I must rely to keep me well supplied.

Yours most truly

T. B. MACAULAY.

On the 4th of February Macaulay bade farewell to his electors, in an

address which the Leeds Tories probably thought too high-flown for the

occasion. ["If, now that I have ceased to be your servant, and am only

your sincere and grateful friend, I may presume to offer you advice

which must, at least, be allowed to be disinterested, I would say to

you: Act towards your future representatives as you have acted towards

me. Choose them, as you chose me, without canvassing and without

expense. Encourage them, as you encouraged me, always to speak to you

fearlessly and plainly. Reject, as you have hitherto rejected, the wages

of dishonour. Defy, as you have hitherto defied, the threats of petty

tyrants. Never forget that the worst and most degrading species of

corruption is the corruption which operates, not by hopes, but by fears.

Cherish those noble and virtuous principles for which we have struggled

and triumphed together--the principles of liberty and toleration, of

justice and order. Support, as you have steadily supported, the cause of

good government; and may all the blessings which are the natural

fruits of good government descend upon you and be multiplied to you an

hundredfold! May your manufactures flourish; may your trade be extended;

may your riches increase! May the works of your skill, and the signs of

your prosperity, meet me in the furthest regions of the East, and give

me fresh cause to be proud of the intelligence, the industry, and the

spirit of my constituents!"] But he had not yet done with the House of

Commons. Parliament met on the first Tuesday in the month; and, on the

Wednesday, O'Connell, who had already contrived to make two speeches

since the Session began, rose for a third time to call attention to

words uttered during the recess by Mr. Hill, the Member for Hull. That

gentleman, for want of something better to say to his constituents, had

told them that he happened to know "that an Irish Member, who spoke

with great violence against every part of the Coercion Bill, and voted

against every clause of it, went to Ministers and said: 'Don't bate a

single atom of that Bill, or it will be impossible for any man to live

in Ireland."' O'Connell called upon Lord Althorp, as the representative

of the Government, to say what truth there was in this statement. Lord

Althorp, taken by surprise, acted upon the impulse of the moment, which

in his case was a feeling of reluctance to throw over poor Mr. Hill to

be bullied by O'Connell and his redoubtable tail. After explaining that

no set and deliberate communication of the nature mentioned had been

made to the Ministers, his Lordship went on to say that he "should not

act properly if he did not declare that he had good reason to believe

that some Irish Members did, in private conversation, use very different

language" from what they had employed in public.

It was chivalrously, but most unwisely, spoken. O'Connell at once gave

the cue by inquiring whether he himself was among the Members referred

to, and Lord Althorp assured him that such was not the case. The

Speaker tried to interfere; but the matter had gone too far. One Irish

representative after another jumped up to repeat the same question with

regard to his own case, and received the same answer. At length Sheil

rose, and asked whether he was one of the Members to whole the Noble

Lord had alluded. Lord Althorp replied: "Yes. The honourable and learned

gentleman is one." Sheil, "in the face of his country, and the presence

of his God," asserted that the individual who had given any such

information to the Noble Lord was guilty of a "gross and scandalous

calumny," and added that he understood the Noble Lord to have made

himself responsible for the imputation. Then ensued one of those

scenes in which the House of Commons appears at its very worst. All the

busybodies, as their manner is, rushed to the front; and hour after

hour slipped away in an unseemly, intricate, and apparently interminable

wrangle. Sheil was duly called upon to give an assurance that the affair

should not be carried beyond the walls of the House. He refused to

comply, and was committed to the charge of the Sergeant at Arms. The

Speaker then turned to Lord Althorp, who promised in Parliamentary

language not to send a challenge. Upon this, as is graphically enough

described in the conventional terms of Hansard, "Mr O'Connell made some

observation to the honourable Member sitting next him which was not

heard in the body of the House. Lord Althorp immediately rose, and amid

loud cheers, and with considerable warmth, demanded to know what the

honourable and learned gentleman meant by his gesticulation;" and then,

after an explanation from O'Connell, his Lordship went on to use phrases

which very clearly signified that, though he had no cause for sending a

challenge, he had just as little intention of declining one; upon which

he likewise was made over to the Sergeant. Before, however, honourable

Members went to their dinners, they had the relief of learning that

their refractory colleagues had submitted to the Speaker's authority,

and had been discharged from custody.

There was only one way out of the difficulty. On the 10th of February

a Committee of Investigation was appointed, composed of Members who

enjoyed a special reputation for discretion. Mr. Hill called his

witnesses. The first had nothing relevant to tell. Macaulay was the

second; and he forthwith cut the matter short by declaring that,

on principle, he refused to disclose what had passed in private

conversation; a sentiment which was actually cheered by the Committee.

One sentence of common sense brought the absurd embroilment to a

rational conclusion. Mr. Hill saw his mistake; begged that no further

evidence might be taken; and, at the next sitting of the House, withdrew

his charge in unqualified terms of self-abasement and remorse. Lord

Althorp readily admitted that he had acted "imprudently as a man, and

still more imprudently as a Minister," and stated that he considered

himself bound to accept Sheil's denial; but he could not manage so to

frame his remarks as to convey to his hearers the idea that his opinion

of that honourable gentleman had been raised by the transaction. Sheil

acknowledged the two apologies with effusion proportioned to their

respective value; and so ended an affair which, at the worst, had evoked

a fresh proof of that ingrained sincerity of character for the sake

of which his party would have followed Lord Althorp to the death. [In

Macaulay's journal for June 4, 1851, we read: "I went to breakfast

with the Bishop of Oxford, and there learned that Sheil was dead. Poor

fellow! We talked about Sheil, and I related my adventure of February

1834. Odd that it should have been so little known or so completely

forgotten!"]

Gravesend: February 15, 1834.

Dear Lord Lansdowne,--I had hoped that it would have been in my power to

shake hands with you once more before my departure; but this deplorably

absurd affair in the House of Commons has prevented me from calling

on you. I lost a whole day while the Committee were deciding whether

I should, or should not, be forced to repeat all the foolish, shabby,

things that I had heard Sheil say at Brooks's. Everybody thought me

right, as I certainly was.

I cannot leave England without sending a few lines to you,--and yet they

are needless. It is unnecessary for me to say with what feelings I shall

always remember our connection, and with what interest I shall always

learn tidings of you and of your family.

Yours most sincerely

T. B. MACAULAY.