We always trust the man who has courage plus, enthusiasm to spare, and who shows by his manner that he is master of the situation.
In a few years Macaulay saved from the wreck enough to secure his father, mother and sisters against want for the rest of their days, and eventually he paid every creditor in full with interest. Had he run away from the difficulty, as his father was on the point of doing, the family would have been turned homeless into the streets.
Moral—Things are never so bad as they seem; and all difficulties sneak away when you look them squarely in the eye.
At this time the family, consisting of the father, mother, three sisters and a brother, lived at Fifty Great Ormond Street, not far from the British Museum. The house is still standing, but I recently discovered that the occupants know nothing, and care less, about Thomas Macaulay.
Tom was the child of his mother. In temperament, disposition and physique he was as much unlike his father as two men can well be. Old Zachary Macaulay was a strong, earnest man who took himself seriously. In latter years he grew morose, puritanic and was full of dread of the Unseen. He preached long sermons to his family, cautioned them against frivolity, forbade music, tabued games, and constantly spoke of the tongue as "the unruly member."
He, of course, was not aware of it, but he was teaching his children by antithesis.
"When I meet Macaulay I always imagine I am in Holland," once said Sydney Smith.
"Why so!" asked a friend.
"Because he is such a windmill," was the reply.
But then we must remember that Sydney Smith never much liked Macaulay—they were too near alike. Whenever they met there was usually a wordy duel. "He is so overflowing with learning that it runs over and he stands in the slop," said Smith.