I am conscious that a near relative has peculiar temptations towards that partiality of the biographer which Lord Macaulay himself so often and so cordially denounced; and the danger is greater in the case of one whose knowledge of him coincided with his later years; for it would not be easy to find a nature which gained more by time than his, and lost less.  But believing, as I do, (to use his own words,) that “if he were now living he would have sufficient judgment and sufficient greatness of mind” to wish to be shown as himself, I will suppress no trait in his disposition, or incident in his career, which might provoke blame or question.  Such in all points as he was, the world, which has been so indulgent to him, has a right to know him; and those who best love him do not fear the consequences of freely submitting his character and his actions to the public verdict.

The most devout believers in the doctrine of the transmission of family qualities will be content with tracing back descent through four generations; and all favourable hereditary influences, both intellectual and moral, are assured by a genealogy which derives from a Scotch Manse.  In the first decade of the eighteenth century Aulay Macaulay, the great-grandfather of the historian, was minister of Tiree and Coll; where he was “grievously annoyed by a decreet obtained after instance of the Laird of Ardchattan, taking away his stipend.”  The Duchess of Argyll of the day appears to have done her best to see him righted; “but his health being much impaired, and there being no church or meeting-house, he was exposed to the violence of the weather at all seasons; and having no manse or plebe, and no fund for communion elements, and no mortification for schools or any pious purpose in either of the islands, and the air being unwholesome, he was dissatisfied;” and so, to the great regret of the parishioners whom he was leaving behind, he migrated to Harris, where he discharged the clerical duties for nearly half a century.

Aulay was the father of fourteen children, of whom one, Kenneth, the minister of Ardnamurchan, still occupies a very humble niche in the temple of literature.  He wrote a History of St. Kilda which happened to fall into the hands of Dr. Johnson, who spoke of it more than once with favour.  His reason for liking the book is characteristic enough.  Mr. Macaulay had recorded the belief prevalent in St. Kilda that, as soon as the factor landed on the island, all the inhabitants had an attack which from the account appears to have partaken of the nature both of influenza and bronchitis.  This touched the superstitious vein in Johnson, who praised him for his “magnanimity” in venturing to chronicle so questionable a phenomenon; the more so because,—­said the Doctor,—­“Macaulay set out with a prejudice against prejudice, and wanted to be a smart modern thinker.”  To a reader of our day the History of St. Kilda appears to be innocent of any trace of such pretension; unless it