book then in reading was
produced. Your uncle very seldom read aloud himself of an evening, but
walked about listening, and commenting, and drinking water.

"The Sundays were in some respects trying days to him. My father's habit
was to read a long sermon to us all in the afternoon, and again after
evening service another long sermon was read at prayer-time to the
servants. Our doors were open to sons of relations or friends; and
cousins who were medical students, or clerks in merchants' houses,
came in regularly to partake of our Sunday dinner and sermons. Sunday
walking, for walking's sake, was never allowed; and even going to a
distant church was discouraged. When in Cadogan Place, we always crossed
the Five Fields, where Belgrave Square now stands, to hear Dr. Thorpe at
the Lock Chapel, and bring him home to dine with us. From Great Ormond
Street, we attended St. John's Chapel in Bedford Row, then served by
Daniel Wilson, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta. He was succeeded in 1826
by the Rev. Baptist Noel. Your uncle generally went to church with us in
the morning, and latterly formed the habit of walking out of town, alone
or with a friend, in the after part of the day. I never heard that my
father took any notice of this; and, indeed, in the interior of his own
family, he never attempted in the smallest degree to check his son in
his mode of life, or in the expression of his opinions.

"I believe that breakfast was the pleasantest part of the day to my
father. His spirits were then at their best, and he was most disposed to
general conversation. He delighted in discussing the newspaper with his
son, and lingered over the table long after the meal was finished. On
this account he felt it extremely when, in the year 1829, your uncle
went to live in chambers, and often said to my mother that the change
had taken the brightness out of his day. Though your uncle generally
dined with us, yet my father was tired by the evening, so that the
breakfast hour was a grievous loss to him, as indeed it was to us all.
Truly he was to old and young alike the sunshine of our home; and I
believe that no one, who did not know him there, ever knew him in his
most brilliant, witty, and fertile vein."

That home was never more cheerful than during the eight years which
followed the close of Macaulay's college life. There had been much quiet
happiness at Clapham, and much in Cadogan Place; but it was round the
house in Great Ormond Street