In the beginning of the eighteenth century the great-grandfather of the
famous Lord Macaulay, the author of the glowing and impassioned History
of England, was minister of Tiree and Coll, when his stipend was taken
from him at the instance of the Laird of Ardchattan. The slight
inconvenience of having nothing to live upon did not seem to incline the
old minister in the least degree to resign his charge and to seek a
flock who could feed their shepherd. He stayed valiantly on, doing his
duty faithfully by his humble people. But after some time had elapsed,
"his health being much impaired, and there being no church or
meeting-house, he was exposed to the violence of the weather at all
seasons; and having no manse or glebe, and no fund for communion
elements, and having no mortification for schools or other pious
purposes in either of the islands, and the air being unwholesome,"--he
was finally compelled to leave, much to his own regret and that of his
poor little flock.
The reasons enumerated certainly seem sufficient to us in these later
days for a change of parishes; and indeed some modern ministers have
been known to change upon provocations less than these. There was fine
stuff in the old Scotch ministers of that day, and it is pleasant to
hear that this one found a new charge to which he ministered for half a
century. There were many other ministers in the Macaulay family during
several generations; but Zachary Macaulay, the father of the historian,
seemed born with a taste for business, and was accordingly sent out to
Jamaica to learn mercantile affairs, when quite young. Here he saw much
of negro slavery, and became so much impressed with its horrors, and so
filled with sympathy for the black race, that he resolved to devote
himself to their interests. He accordingly resigned his position in
Jamaica and returned to Scotland, where until his death he labored in
the unpopular and misunderstood ranks of the abolitionists. A colony was
projected in Sierra Leone for freed slaves, and young Macaulay was
appointed a member of the council, and sailed for Africa to take
practical part in the work for the negro. Soon after his arrival there
he succeeded to the position of Governor, and for some time worked
heroically in that capacity. But in the very midst of the Reign of
Terror in France, a French fleet bore down upon the little colony and
almost wiped it out of existence. Zachary Macaulay stayed for a year
after the attack, heroically trying to rehabilitate the little colony,
and partially succeeded in doing so, when, his health failing, he
returned to England, where he gave almost the entire remaining years of
his life to the work of negro emancipation in one form or another.
Thomas Babington Macaulay was born the 25th of October, 1800, the day of
St. Crispin and the anniversary of Agincourt. He drew in the love of
freedom with his earliest breath, and he was reared with the utmost care
by those high moralists, his noble parents. He was a prodigy from
babyhood. From the time he was three years old he read incessantly, for
the most part lying on the rug before the fire. Many laughable stories
are told of his precocity, particularly of the fine language he used
when a mere infant. For instance, when four years old some hot coffee
was spilled on his legs, and after a little time a lady inquired of him
if he felt better now, when the phenomenon replied, "Thank you, madam,
the agony is abated." Of course so quaint and remarkable a child was
much petted and spoiled, and probably rendered somewhat conceited and
priggish. But he was docile and affectionate, and was then, as always
thereafter, the idol of his family.
After he left Cambridge he went up to London, and soon after wrote his
article on Milton for the "Edinburgh Review." Like Byron, he awoke one
morning and found himself famous. Compliments and enthusiastic letters
poured in upon him from all sides. The one compliment which he said gave
him the most pleasure was Jeffrey's word at the end of a business note:
"The more I think, the less I can conceive where you picked up that
style." And no wonder; that style was not a thing to be picked up every
day. Jeffrey did well to wonder. Macaulay at once became the fashion,
and invitations were showered upon him from every side, many of which he
accepted. The first flush of such a success as Macaulay's must have been
very sweet to a young man of his genial nature. He was thus described by
Praed:--
"There came up a short, manly figure, marvellously upright, with a
bad neckcloth, and one hand in his waistcoat pocket. Of regular
beauty he had little to boast; but in faces where there is an
expression of great power or of great good-humor, or both, you do
not regret its absence."
He had a massive head, and features powerful and rugged, but peculiarly
expressive. His face was oftentimes all aglow with emotion. He dressed
badly but not cheaply; indeed, his wardrobe, Trevelyan tells us, was
always enormously overstocked. "Later in life he indulged himself in an
apparently inexhaustible succession of handsome embroidered waistcoats,
which he used to regard with much complacency."
Among the first places to which the new lion was invited was of course
the famous resort of celebrities, Holland House; and in his letters to
his two younger sisters,--to whom he was always the most devoted of
brothers,--he frequently narrates his experiences there. Let us glance
at a few of these pictures:--
"Well, my dear, I have been to Holland House. I took a glass coach,
and arrived, through a fine avenue of elms, at the great entrance
about seven o'clock. The house is delightful, the very perfection
of the old Elizabethan style,--a considerable number of very large
and very comfortable rooms, rich with antique carving and gilding,
but carpeted and furnished with all the skill of the best modern
upholsterers. Lady Holland is certainly a woman of considerable
talent and great acquirements. To me she was excessively courteous;
yet there was a haughtiness in her courtesy which, even after all
that I had heard of her, surprised me. The centurion did not keep
his soldiers in better order than she keeps her guests. It is to
one, 'Go,' and he goeth; and to another, 'Do this,' and it is done.
'Ring the bell, Mr. Macaulay.' 'Lay down that screen, Lord Russell;
you will spoil it.' 'Mr. Allen, take a candle and show Mr. Cradock
the picture of Bonaparte.' Her ladyship used me as well, I believe,
as it is her way to use anybody. . . .
"I had a good deal of pleasant conversation with Rogers. He was
telling me of the curiosity and interest which attached to the
persons of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron. When Scott dined at a
gentleman's house in London not long ago, all the servant-maids in
the house asked leave to stand in the passage and see him pass. He
was, as you may conceive, greatly flattered. About Lord Byron, whom
he knew well, he told me some curious anecdotes. When Byron passed
through Florence, Rogers was there. The inn had fifty windows in
front. All were crowded with women, mostly Englishwomen, to catch a
glimpse of their favorite poet. Among them were some at whose
houses he had been in England oftentimes, and with whom he had
lived on friendly terms. He would not notice them or return their
salutations. Rogers was the only person he spoke to. The worst
thing that I know about Lord Byron is the very unfavorable
impression which he made on men who certainly were not inclined to
judge him harshly, and who were not personally ill-used by him.
Sharp and Rogers both speak of him as an unpleasant, affected,
splenetic person. I have heard hundreds and thousands of persons
who never knew him rant about him, but I never heard a single
expression of fondness for him fall from the lips of any one who
knew him well. Yet even now there are those who cannot talk a
quarter of an hour about Charles Fox without tears--after
twenty-five years. . . .
"In the evening Lord John Russell came, and old Talleyrand. I had
seen Talleyrand before. I now had the pleasure of listening to his
conversation. He is certainly the greatest curiosity I ever fell in
with. His head is sunk down between two high shoulders. One of his
feet is hideously distorted. His face is pale as that of a corpse,
and wrinkled to a frightful degree. His eyes have an odd, glassy
stare. His hair, thickly powdered and pomatumed, hangs down his
shoulders on each side as straight as a pound of tallow candles.
His conversation, however, soon makes you forget his ugliness and
infirmities."