Many Londoners—­not all—­have seen the British Museum Library.  I speak a coeur ouvert, and pray the kindly reader to bear with me.  I have seen all sorts of domes of Peters and Pauls, Sophia, Pantheon,—­what not?—­and have been struck by none of them so much as by that catholic dome in Bloomsbury, under which our million volumes are housed.  What peace, what love, what truth, what beauty, what happiness for all, what generous kindness for you and me, are here spread out!  It seems to me one cannot sit down in that place without a heart full of grateful reverence.  I own to have said my grace at the table, and to have thanked heaven for this my English birthright, freely to partake of these bountiful books, and to speak the truth I find there.  Under the dome which held Macaulay’s brain, and from which his solemn eyes looked out on the world but a fortnight since, what a vast, brilliant, and wonderful store of learning was ranged! what strange lore would he not fetch for you at your bidding!  A volume of law, or history, a book of poetry familiar or forgotten (except by himself who forgot nothing), a novel ever so old, and he had it at hand.  I spoke to him once about “Clarissa.”  “Not read ‘Clarissa!’” he cried out.  “If you have once thoroughly entered on ‘Clarissa’ and are infected by it, you can’t leave it.  When I was in India I passed one hot season at the hills, and there were the Governor-General, and the Secretary of Government, and the Commander-in-Chief, and their wives.  I had ‘Clarissa’ with me:  and, as soon as they began to read, the whole station was in a passion of excitement about Miss Harlowe and her misfortunes, and her scoundrelly Lovelace!  The Governor’s wife seized the book, and the Secretary waited for it, and the Chief Justice could not read it for tears!” He acted the whole scene:  he paced up and down the “Athenaeum” library:  I dare say he could have spoken pages of the book—­of that book, and of what countless piles of others!

In this little paper let us keep to the text of nil nisi bonum.  One paper I have read regarding Lord Macaulay says “he had no heart.”  Why, a man’s books may not always speak the truth, but they speak his mind in spite of himself:  and it seems to me this man’s heart is beating through every page he penned.  He is always in a storm of revolt and indignation against wrong, craft, tyranny.  How he cheers heroic resistance; how he backs and applauds freedom struggling for its own; how he hates scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful; how he recognizes genius, though selfish villains possess it!  The critic who says Macaulay had no heart, might say that Johnson had none:  and two men more generous, and more loving, and more hating, and more partial, and more noble, do not live in our history.  Those who knew Lord Macaulay knew how admirably tender and generous,* and affectionate he was.  It was not his business to bring his family before the theatre footlights, and call for bouquets from the gallery as he wept over them.