dislike of
visiting in private houses, much preferring hotels, where he could be
free from conventional life.

Macaulay was always careful in his expenditures, wasting nothing that he
might enjoy the pleasure of charity,--for he gave liberally, especially
to needy and unfortunate men of letters. Once he gave L100 to a total
stranger who implored his aid. In his household he was revered, for he
was the kindest and most considerate of masters, while his relatives
absolutely worshipped him. At home he made no claim to the privileges of
genius; he had few eccentricities; he never interfered with the
pleasures of others; he never obtruded his 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 w