Macaulay simply expressed himself boldly, frankly, and without thought of favor—­writing as he felt.

The article made a great stir—­the first edition of the magazine was quickly exhausted, and Macaulay awoke one morning, like Byron, and found himself famous.  All there was about it, the “Milton” revealed a man, a strong, vivid-thinking, vigorous man, who, seeing things clearly, wrote from his heart.  Art is born of feeling:  it is heart, not head, that carries conviction home; but if you have both, as Macaulay had, it is no special disadvantage.

From the publication of Macaulay’s first article the “Review” took on a new lease of life.  Prosperity came that way and for the rest of his life the “Review” was not long without contributions from his pen; and the numbers that contained his articles were always in great demand.  Writers who possess a piercing insight into the heart of things, and who have the courage to express themselves, regardless of the views of others, are well feared by men in power.

The man who knows, who can think, and who can write, holds a sword of Damocles over every politician.

Governments are honeycombed with vulnerable spots; and to secure the ready writer on your side is the part of wisdom.

Macaulay’s article on Milton proved that there was a thinker loose, and that on occasion he could strike.  The politicians began to court him, and we find him writing articles of a very Junius-like quality on contemporary issues.

When he was twenty-six years old we are told he was “called to the Bar,” which means that he was given permission to practise law—­the expression, “called,” being a mild form of fiction that still obtains in England in legal matters, while in America the word applies only in theology.

The practise of law, however, was not at all to the taste of Macaulay, and after a few short terms on the circuit he relinquished it entirely.

In the meantime we find he read continually.  Indeed, about the only bad habit this man had was reading.  He read to excess—­he read everything and read all the time.  He read novels, history, poetry, and dived deeply into the dead languages, reading Plutarch’s Lives twice in a year, and Euripides, Thucydides, Homer, Cicero, Caesar—­all without special aim or end.  Such a restless appetite for reading is apt to produce mental dyspepsia, and is not at all to be advised for average people; and the probabilities are that even in Macaulay’s case his time might often have been better spent in meditation.

In Eighteen Hundred Twenty-seven appeared in the “Review” the “Essay on Mill.”  Like all of Macaulay’s articles it reveals a wealth of learning and bristles with information on many themes.  It often seems as if Macaulay took a subject simply to execute a learned war-dance around it.  The article on Mill is a good example of merely touching the central theme and then going off into by-lanes of economics, history and civil government, with endless allusions to literature, poetry, art and philosophy.  It is all intensely interesting, closely woven, often gorgeous in its coloring; and “style” runs like a thread of gold through it all.