It was not until Macaulay had done his last work upon the book (still incomplete) which he counted his monument, that he moved away from his bachelor quarters in the Albany (Piccadilly) and established himself at Holly Lodge, which, under the new name (he gave it) of Oirlie Lodge, may be found upon a winding lane in that labyrinth of city roads that lies between Kensington Gardens and Holland House. There was a bit of green lawn attached, which he came to love in those last days of his; though he had been without strong rural proclivities. Like Gibbon, he never hunted, never fished, rarely rode. But now and then--among the thorn-trees reddening into bloom and the rhododendrons bursting their buds, the May mornings were “delicious” to him. He enjoyed, too, overmuch, the modest hospitalities he could show in a home of his own. There are joyfully turned notes--in his journal or in his familiar letters--of “a goose for Michaelmas,” and of “a chine and oysters for Christmas eve,” and “excellent audit ale” on Lord Mayor’s day. There, too, at Holly Lodge, comes to him in August, 1857, when he was very sad about India (as all the world were), an offer of a peerage. He accepts it, as he had accepted all the good things of life--cheerily and squarely, and was thenceforward Baron Macaulay of Rothley. He appears from time to time on the benches of the Upper House, but never spoke there. His speaking days were over. A little unwonted fluttering of the heart warned him that the end was not far off. A visit to the English lakes and to Scotland in 1859 did not--as was hoped--give him access of strength. He was much disturbed, too (at this crisis), by the prospect of a long separation from his sister, Lady Trevelyan--whose husband had just now been appointed Governor of Madras. “This prolonged parting,” he says, “this slow sipping of the vinegar and the gall is terrible!” And the parting came earlier than he thought, and easier; for on a day of December in the same year he died in his library chair. His nephew and biographer had left him in the morning--sitting with his head bent forward on his chest--an attitude not unusual for him--in a languid and drowsy reverie. In the evening, a little before seven, Lady Trevelyan was summoned, and the biographer says:--“As we drove up to the porch of my uncle’s house, the maids ran crying into the darkness to meet us; and we knew that all was over.” He was not an old man--only fifty-nine. The stone which marks his grave in Westminster Abbey is very near to the statue of Addison.