n the accomplishment of this result he
unlearned the very notion of framing his method of life with a view to
his own pleasure; and such was his high and simple nature, that it may
well be doubted whether it ever crossed his mind that to live wholly for
others was a sacrifice at all.

He resided with his father in Cadogan Place, and accompanied him when,
under the pressure of pecuniary circumstances, he removed to a less
fashionable quarter of the town. In 1823 the family settled in 50 Great
Ormond Street, which runs east and west for some three hundred yards
through the region bounded by the British Museum, the Foundling
Hospital, and Gray's Inn Road. It was a large rambling house, at the
corner of Powis Place, and was said to have been the residence of Lord
Chancellor Thurlow at the time when the Great Seal was stolen from his
custody. It now forms the east wing of an Homoeopathic hospital.
Here the Macaulays remained till 1831. "Those were to me," says Lady
Trevelyan, "years of intense happiness. There might be money troubles,
but they did not touch us. Our lives were passed after a fashion which
would seem indeed strange to the present generation. My father, ever
more and more engrossed in one object, gradually gave up all society;
and my mother never could endure it. We had friends, of course,
with whom we stayed out for months together; and we dined with the
Wilberforces, the Buxtons, Sir Robert Inglis, and others; but what is
now meant by 'society' was utterly unknown to us.

"In the morning there was some pretence of work and study. In the
afternoon your uncle always took my sister Margaret and myself a long
walk. We traversed every part of the City, Islington, Clerkenwell,
and the Parks, returning just in time for a six o'clock dinner. What
anecdotes he used to pour out about every street, and square, and court,
and alley! There are many places I never pass without 'the tender grace
of a day that is dead' coming back to me. Then, after dinner, he always
walked up and down the drawing-room between us chatting till tea-time.
Our noisy mirth, his wretched puns, so many a minute, so many an hour!
Then we sang, none of us having any voices, and he, if possible, least
of all; but still the old nursery songs were set to music, and chanted.
My father, sitting at his own table, used to look up occasionally, and
push back his spectacles, and, I dare say, wonder in his heart how
we could so waste our time. After tea the