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.