It was not, however, until his article on Milton appeared in the Edinburgh Review in 1825, that Macaulay’s great career began.  Like Byron, he woke up one morning to find himself famous.  Everybody read and admired an essay the style of which was new and striking.  “Where did you pick up that style?” wrote Jeffrey to the briefless barrister.  It transcended in brilliancy anything which had yet appeared in the Edinburgh or Quarterly.  Brougham became envious, and treated the rising light with no magnanimity or admiration.

Of course, the author of such an uncommon article as that on Milton, the praise of which was in everybody’s mouth, had invitations to dinner from distinguished people; and these were most eagerly accepted.  Macaulay rapidly became a social favorite, sought for his brilliant conversation, which was as remarkable for a young man of twenty-six as were his writings in the foremost literary journal of the world.  He was not handsome, and was carelessly dressed; but he had a massive head, and rugged yet benevolent features, which lighted up with peculiar animation when he was excited.  One of the first persons of note to welcome him to her table was Lady Holland, an accomplished but eccentric and plain-spoken woman, who seems to have greatly admired him.  He was a frequent guest at Holland House, where for nearly half-a-century the courtly and distinguished Lord Holland and his wife entertained the most eminent men and women of the time.  This gratified young Macaulay’s inordinate social ambition.  He scarcely mentions in his letters at this time any but peers and peeresses.

And yet he did not court the society of those he did not respect.  He was not a parasite or a flatterer even of the great, but met them apparently on equal terms, as a monarch of the mind.  He was at home in any circle that was not ignorant or frivolous.  He was more easy than genial, for his prejudices or intellectual pride made him unkind to persons of mediocrity.  It was a bold thing to cross his path, for he came down like an avalanche on those who opposed him, not so much in anger as in contempt.  I do not find that his circle of literary friends was large or intimate.  He seldom alludes to Carlyle or Bulwer or Thackeray or Dickens.  He has more to say of Rogers and Lord Jeffrey, and other pets of aristocratic circles,—­those who were conventionally favored, like Sydney Smith; or those who gave banquets to people of fashion, like Lord Lansdowne.  These were the people he loved best to associate with, who listened to his rhetoric with rapt admiration, who did not pique his vanity, and who had something to give to him,—­position and eclat.