“To him
 There was no pain like silence—­no constraint
 So dull as unanimity.  He breathed
 An atmosphere of argument, nor shrank
 From making, where he could not find, excuse
 For controversial fight.”

At Cambridge he would say of himself that, whenever anybody enunciated a proposition, all possible answers to it rushed into his mind at once; and it was said of him by others that he had no politics except the opposite of those held by the person with whom he was talking.  To that charge, at any rate, he did not long continue liable.  He left college a staunch and vehement Whig, eager to maintain against all comers, and at any moment, that none but Whig opinions had a leg to stand upon.  His cousin George Babington, a rising surgeon, with whom at one time he lived in the closest intimacy, was always ready to take up the Tory cudgels.  The two friends “would walk up and down the room, crossing each other for hours, shouting one another down with a continuous simultaneous storm of words, until George at length yielded to arguments and lungs combined.  Never, so far as I remember, was there any loss of temper.  It was a fair, good-humoured battle in not very mannerly lists.”

Even as a very young man nine people out of ten liked nothing better than to listen to him, which was fortunate; because in his early days he had scanty respect of persons, either as regarded the choice of his topics, or the quantity of his words.  But with his excellent temper, and entire absence of conceit, he soon began to learn consideration for others in small things as well as in great.  By the time he was fairly launched in London he was agreeable in company, as well as forcible and amusing.  Wilberforce speaks of his “unruffled good-humour.”  Sir Robert Inglis, a good observer with ample opportunity of forming a judgment, pronounced that he conversed and did not dictate, and that he was loud but never overbearing.  As far back as the year 1826 Crabb Robinson gave a very favourable account of his demeanour in society, which deserves credence as the testimony of one who liked his share of talk, and was not willing to be put in the background for anybody.  “I went to James Stephen, and drove with him to his house at Hendon.  A dinner party.  I had a most interesting companion in young Macaulay, one of the most promising of the rising generation I have seen for a long time.  He has a good face,—­not the delicate features of a man of genius and sensibility, but the strong lines and well-knit limbs of a man sturdy in body and mind.  Very eloquent and cheerful.  Overflowing with words, and not poor in thought.  Liberal in opinion, but no radical.  He seems a correct as well as a full man.  He showed a minute knowledge of subjects not introduced by himself.”

So loyal and sincere was Macaulay’s nature that he was unwilling to live upon terms of even apparent intimacy with people whom he did not like, or could not esteem; and, as far as civility allowed, he avoided their advances, and especially their hospitality.  He did not choose, he said, to eat salt with a man for whom he could not say a good word in all companies.  He was true throughout life to those who had once acquired his regard and respect.  Moultrie says of him