In Your Evening Reading Circles, Macaulay, Sidney Smith, And Milman
Have Long Been Such Familiar Names That You Will Be Glad To Go With Me
Over All The Scenes Of My Morning Breakfast At Sir Charles Trevelyan's
Yesterday.
Lady Trevelyan, I believe I have said before, is the sister
of Macaulay, and a daughter of Zachary Macaulay - that undaunted
laborer for the slave, whose place in the hearts of all English
Christians is little below saintship.
We were set down at Welbourne Terrace, somewhere, I believe, about
eleven o'clock, and found quite a number already in the drawing room.
I had met Macaulay before, but as you have not, you will of course ask
a lady's first question, "How does he look?"
Well, my dear, so far as relates to the mere outward husk of the soul,
our engravers and daguerreotypists have done their work as well as
they usually do. The engraving that you get in the best editions of
his works may be considered, I suppose, a fair representation of how
he looks, when he sits to have his picture taken, which is generally
very different from the way any body looks at any other time. People
seem to forget, in taking likenesses, that the features of the face
are nothing but an alphabet, and that a dry, dead map of a person's
face gives no more idea how one looks than the simple presentation of
an alphabet shows what there is in a poem.
Macaulay's whole physique gives you the impression of great strength
and stamina of constitution.
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