prizes
were to be awarded. The fathers and mothers, the friends and sisters of
such had come together from far and near. Seated in a chair was a stout,
mild, genial man, with face somewhat pale, and hair scant and inclined to
grey. He rose, and was received with rapturous applause; he spoke in
plain language--with little action, with a voice rather inclined to be
harsh--of the bright future which rises before the rapt eye of youth. He
spoke--and as he did so, as he mounted from one climax to another, every
young heart filled and warmed with the speaker's theme. That was
Macaulay, just come from India, with an honourable competence, to
consummate the fame as a man he had acquired in younger years. Again, we
thought of that last speech in the House of Commons, when, at an early
hour on a beautiful summer evening, the Parks, and Clubs, and Rotten Row
had been deserted, for it had gone forth to the world that Macaulay was
about to speak. Poor Joseph Hume had moved the adjournment of the
debate, and, as a matter of right, was in possession of the House; but
the calls for Macaulay on all sides were so numerous, that even that most
good-natured of men, as Hume was, grew a little angry and remonstrated;
but it was in vain that he sought the attention of the House: all were
anxious for the next speaker, and no sooner had Hume sat down than
Macaulay delivered, in his hurried feverish way, one of those speeches
which not merely delight, but which influence men's votes and opinions,
and may be read with delight when the occasion which gave rise to them
has long since passed away. We have heard much in favour of competition
in the civil service, at home and in India, since then, but never was the
argument more clearly put--more copiously illustrated, more clothed in
grace and beauty; and then came a few short years of infirmity of body,
of labour with the pen, and sudden death, and the burial at Westminster
Abbey. Out of the thousands standing by the grave, few could ever expect
to see the career of such another genius. He is gone, and we may not
hope to see his work finished. In vain we call up him--

"Who left untold,
The story of Cambuscan bold."

Since then another public funeral has taken place in Westminster Abbey;
only the other day we saw deposited there the ashes of Sir Charles Barry,
and here, as year by year passes over our heads, richer, and dearer, and
wider are the associations which cluster aro