ery highest class Macaulay was not; his way of thought was
too positive, too clear, too destitute either of mystery or of dream, to
command or to impart the true poetical mirage, to "make the common as if
it were not common." His best efforts of this kind are in small and not
very generally known things, the "Jacobite's Epitaph," "The Last
Buccaneer." But his ballads earlier and later, _Ivry_, _The Armada_,
_Naseby_, and the Roman quartet, exhibit the result of a consummate
literary faculty with a real native gift for rhythm and metre, applying
the lessons of the great Romantic generation with extraordinary vigour
and success, and not without considerable eloquence and refinement. It
is a gross and vulgar critical error to deem Macaulay's poetical effects
vulgar or gross. They are _popular_; they hit exactly that scheme of
poetry which the general ear can appreciate and the general brain
understand. They are coin for general circulation; but they are not base
coin. Hundreds and thousands of immature and 'prentice tastes have been
educated to the enjoyment of better things by them; thousands and tens
of thousands of tastes, respectable at least, have found in them the
kind of poetry which they can like, and beyond which they are not fitted
to go. And it would be a very great pity if there were ever wanting
critical appreciations which, while relishing things more exquisite and
understanding things more esoteric, can still taste and savour the
simple genuine fare of poetry which Macaulay offers. There are few wiser
proverbs than that which cautions us against demanding "better bread
than is made of wheat," and the poetical bread of the _Lays of Ancient
Rome_ is an honest household loaf that no healthy palate will reject.

In the second division, that of essay writing, Macaulay occupies a
position both absolutely and relatively higher. That the best verse
ranks above even the best prose is not easily disputable; that prose
which is among the very best of its own particular kind ranks above
verse which though good is not the best, may be asserted without any
fear. And in their own kind of essay, Macaulay's are quite supreme.
Jeffrey, a master of writing and a still greater master of editing, with
more than twenty years' practice in criticism, asked him "where he got
that style?" The question was not entirely unanswerable. Macaulay had
taken not a little from Gibbon; he had taken something from a then still
living contributor