riage of his sisters, which was
really great and enduring. He had planned to have them in his home, and
not to be in theirs; and when it turned out otherwise he could not at
first be reconciled to it. His sister Nancy went out with him to India
after his appointment there, and soon fell in with young Trevelyan,--to
whom she became engaged, with her brother's approval but to his great
grief. He calls it "a tragical denouement to an absurd plot." After the
marriage they formed one household during his stay in India, and her
home was to all intents and purposes his own during life. His youngest
sister died during his stay abroad, and of her he thus writes:--

"The last month has been the most painful I ever went through.
Indeed, I never knew before what it was to be miserable. Early in
January letters from England brought me news of the death of my
sister. What she was to me no words can express. I will not say
that she was dearer to me than anything in the world, for my sister
who was with me was equally dear; but she was as dear to me as one
human being can be to another. Even now, when time has begun to do
its healing work, I cannot write about her without being altogether
unmanned."

His only solace was found in books. He could at any time bury himself in
these and forget all the world. Probably there never was such a reader
before. He devoured books like a gourmand. He read everything--Greek,
Latin, German, Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese; and books of all
kinds in these languages,--history, _belles-lettres_, poetry, novels,
old chronicles. He seemed to have a passion for all. He would read a
book in an hour which it would take any one else half a day to get
through in the poorest shape. And he would know what was in it, too. He
read enormous quantities of novels always, and was very fond of poor
ones,--none too poor for him were written at that time. It is a question
whether if he had lived till this day the same thing could have been
said of him. It is not recorded whether he ever encountered any of
Anthony Trollope's works during his life.

If Macaulay had not been known as a great man of letters he would
probably have been known as a great orator. He was, indeed, one of the
best speakers of his day, and the House of Commons, that listens to so
few speakers, always gave its attention to him. It seems a great pity
that he should have given so many years of his life