advice, or demanded that his own views or tastes should be consulted; he was especially careful not to wound the feelings of those with whom he lived.  Children were his delight and solace.  Over them he seemed to have unbounded influence.  He would spend the half of a busy day in playing with them, and in inventing new games for their diversion.  One of his pleasures was to take them to see the sights of London.  His sympathies were quick and generous; although apparently so cynical in his opinions of books, he was always affected at any touches of pathos, even to tears.

It was hard for Macaulay to realize that the time had come when he must leave untold that portion of English history with which he was more familiar than any other living man; but he submitted to the inevitable without repining.  He had done what he could.  Even when he was compelled to give up his daily task, his love of reading remained; a book was his solace to the last.  He had no extensive acquaintance with the works of some of the best writers of his own generation, preferring the classic authors of antiquity, and of England in the time of Anne.  He did not relish Coleridge or Carlyle or Buckle or Ruskin, or indeed any writer who seemed to strain after originality of style, in defiance of the old and conservative canons.  He preferred Miss Austen to Dickens.  He felt that he owed a great debt to the master-minds of by-gone ages, who reached perfection of style, so far as it can be attained.  Even the English writers of the reign of Anne, to his mind, have never been surpassed.  His admiration for Addison was unbounded.  Dryden and Pope to him were greater poets than any who have succeeded them.  Such a poet as Tennyson or Wordsworth he pretended he did not understand.  He wanted transparent clearness of expression.  Browning would have been to him an abomination.  He despised the poetry of his own age, with its involved sentences, its obscurity, and its strange metres.  His own poetry was as direct as Homer, as simple as Chaucer, and as graphic as Scott.

In 1859, Macaulay contrived to visit once more the English lakes and the western highlands, where he was received with great veneration, being recognized everywhere on steamers and railway stations.  But his cheerfulness had now departed, although he made an effort to be agreeable.  In December of this year he ceased writing in his diary.  The physicians pretended to think that he was better, but fainting fits set in.  On Christmas he said but little, and was constantly dropping to sleep.  His relatives did not seem to think that he was in immediate danger, but the end was near.  He died without pain, and was buried in Westminster Abbey on the 9th of January, 1860, having for pall-bearers the most illustrious men in England.  He rests in the Poet’s Corner, amid the tombs of Johnson and Garrick, Handel and Goldsmith, Gay and Addison, leaving behind him an immortal fame.