And, with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.”
This does not sound like those verses of Shelley, which we lately encountered. Those went through the empyrean of song like Aurora’s chariot of the morning, with cherubs, and garlands, and flashing torches. This, in the comparison, is like some well-appointed dump-cart, with sleek, well-groomed Percheron horses—up to their work, and accomplishing what they are set to do absolutely well.
It was not until 1842, a year or two after the Italian visit, that Macaulay ventured to publish that solitary book of his verse; he very much doubted the wisdom of putting his literary reputation in peril by such overture in rhyme. It extorted, however, extravagant praise from that muscular critic Christopher North; while the fastidious Hunt writes to him (begging a little money—as was his wont), and regretting that the book did not show more of the poetic aroma which breathes from the Faerie Queene. But say what we may of its lack—there is no weakly maundering; it is the work of a man full-grown, with all his wits active, and his vision clear, and who loved plain sirloins better than the fricandeaux and ragoûts of the artists.
There is also a scholarly handling, with high, historic air blowing through—as if he liked his Homer better than his Spenser; his prosody is up to the rules; the longs and shorts are split to a hair’s breadth—jingling and merry where the sense calls for it; and sober and resonant where meaning is weighty; flashing, too, where need is—with sword play and spear-heads that glitter and waver over marching men; but nowhere—I think it must be said—the tremulous poetic susurrus, that falters, and touches, and detains by its mystic sounds—tempting one into dim border-lands where higher and more inspired singers find their way. Christabel is not of his school, nor the star-shaped shadow of Wordsworth’s Daisy.
Parliamentarian and Historian.
Meantime occasional papers from Macaulay’s hand found their way into the pages of the great Northern Review—but by no means so many as the Whig managers could have wished; he had himself grown to think lightly of such work; the History was calling for his best powers, and there were parliamentary duties devolving upon him as member for Edinboro’.
I remember catching sight of him somewhere between 1844 and 1846—in his place in the House of Commons, and of listening to his brilliant castigation of Sir Robert Peel, in the matter, I think, of the Maynooth grant. He was well toward fifty then, but sturdy—with the firm tread of a man who could do his three or four leagues of walking—if need were; beetle-browed; his clothes ill-adjusted; his neck bundled in a big swathing of cravat. There was silence when he rose; there was nothing orator-like in his bearing; rather awkward in his pose; having scorn, too, as would seem, for any of the graces of elocution. But he was clear, emphatic, direct, with a great swift river of words all bearing toward definite aim. Tory critics used to say he wrote his speeches and committed them to memory. There was no need for that. Words tripped to his tongue as easily as to his pen. But there were no delicate modulations of voice; no art of pantomime; no conscious or unconscious assumption of graceful attitudes; and when subject-matter enfevered and kindled him—as it did on that occasion—there was the hurry and the over-strained voice of extreme earnestness.
It was not very long after this that he met with a notable repulse from his old political supporters in Edinboro’ that touched him grievously. But there were certain arts of the politician he could not, and would not learn; he could not truckle; he could not hobnob with clients who made vulgar claims upon him. He could not make domiciliary visits, to kiss the babies—whether of patrons, or of editors; he could not listen to twaddle from visiting committees, without breaking into a righteous wrath that hurt his chances. Edinboro’, afterward, however, cleared the record, by giving him before his death a triumphant return to Parliament.
Meantime that wonderful History had been written, and its roll of magniloquent periods made echo in every quarter of the literary world. Its success was phenomenal. After the issue of its second couplet of volumes the publishers sent to the author a check for £20,000 on account. Such checks passing between publisher and author were then uncommon; and—without straining a point—I think I may say they are now. With its Macaulay endorsement, it makes a unique autograph, now in the possession of the Messrs. Longmans—but destined to find place eventually among the manuscript treasures of the British Museum.