Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 16
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Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 16
Literature -- Collections
It has been felt and pointed out in many quarters that Macaulay
as a writer was the child, and became the type, of his
country and his age. As fifty years ago the inscription "Bath"
used to be carried on our letter-paper, so the word "English" is,
as it were, in the water-mark of every leaf of Macaulay's writing.
His country was not the Empire, nor was it the United
Kingdom. It was not even Great Britain. Though he was
descended in the higher, that is the paternal, half from Scottish
ancestry, and was linked specially with that country through the
signal virtues, the victorious labors, and the considerable reputation
of his father Zachary,—his country was England. On this
little spot he concentrated a force of admiration and of worship
which might have covered all the world. But as in space, so in
time, it was limited. It was the England of his own age.
The higher energies of his life were as completely summed
up in the present as those of Walter Scott were projected
upon the past. He would not have filled an Abbotsford with
armor and relics of the Middle Ages. He judges the men and
institutions and events of other times by the instruments and
measures of the present. The characters whom he admires are
those who would have conformed to the type that was before his
eyes: who would have moved with effect in the court, the camp,
[Pg 6367]
the senate, the drawing-room of to-day. He contemplates the
past with no desiderium, no regretful longing, no sense of things
admirable which are also lost and irrecoverable. Upon this limitation
of his retrospects it follows in natural sequence that of
the future he has no glowing anticipations, and even the present
he is not apt to contemplate on its mysterious and ideal side.
As in respect to his personal capacity of loving, so in regard
to the corresponding literary power. The faculty was singularly
intense, and yet it was spent within a narrow circle. There is
a marked sign of this narrowness, in his disinclination even to
look at the works of contemporaries whose tone or manner he
disliked.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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