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In such an atmosphere of intellectual stimulus study was not an incidental and irksome feature of a few years' life at a great university. With Macaulay and his associates there was the good old-fashioned love of learning that gave them an adequate return of pleasure for every hour spent over the text and lexicon. But in so far as Cambridge was, as it still is, scientific rather than classical in its tendencies, Macaulay's choice of universities was unfortunate. Whatever of an error he had made in this regard he set about to rectify in his own way. Mathematics, particularly, he slighted as much as was consistent with his maintaining a standard of general scholarship that was satisfactory to himself. The Senate House saw fit to resent this independent action by depriving him, on one pretext or another, of several prizes which he had fairly earned. He was not allowed to take a fellowship until his third trial, for the astonishing reason that the English of his translations, while faithful to the text, was not sufficiently polished. Nevertheless he could hardly be prevented from carrying off prizes in English Composition, and each year added to the evidences of his ability.

Notwithstanding his liberal treatment of the prescribed curriculum, he would have considered few faults more unpardonable in himself than idleness; as much time as he rescued—to use his own term—from mathematics he applied to reading. One of his habits, “his only athletic accomplishment” his biographer calls it, was reading while he walked; morning after morning he would pace up and down the worn flagstones of old Trinity's court, reading at least one entire book each day, whether it were poem, history or novel. His indiscriminate reading habits helped rather than harmed his style. Where there was so much to imitate he imitated none, but took the best of each. He used to consider it worth his while to wade through the most purposeless novel for the sake of gaining a thought or expression. The result justified him. “The more I think the less I can conceive where you picked up that style,” wrote Jeffrey in accepting the essay on Milton.

During his last two years in the university, Macaulay was a frequent contributor to Knight's Magazine. The three volumes of its short life contain little worth reading except the work of Praed and Macaulay. But it is easy to see how his poor father—who wrote to Macaulay in distress, earlier in the course, grieving that his son had “got the reputation of a novel reader ”-should have felt alarmed at the tone of these contributions. Ten years later Macaulay himself would have been glad to withdraw them from the view of the world; nevertheless they are interesting and moreover valuable as showing the development of his style, just as is his epic poem “Olaus the Great," written when he was eight years old.

The results of his honest, independent work in the university may be easily traced in his after life. In the Union he developed his ability for public speaking and political argument. The man who “was always in the mood for conversation and companionship so long as there was a door open or a light burning in any of the courts " found little trouble in adapting himself to Lady Holland's diningroom. His diary and letters are filled with references to his affection for the classics. He read them over and over again. In India, for instance, his usual Sunday recreation was the reading of a Greek Tragedy. His acquaintance with books, and the practice given him by his work for Knight's Magazine prepared him to take a stand face to face with his life work as soon as he left the university. He immediately proved his right to maintain his position by bringing out his essay on Milton in the Edinborough Review. As each new opportunity opened to him he was ready to take advantage of it without hesitation. He may have been, as is so often disparagingly said, particularly fortunate in his opportunities; but he had earned his right to them. It is much the fashion to talk of self-made menmen self-educated and at the same time self-supported. Macaulay sets before us an example of how a man may be self-educated without poverty, and in the midst of a great university.

Lindsay Denison.

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APPRECIATION.

It was a king of olden days

On thoughts of self and pleasure bent, Who, seeking for the unearn'd praise That tyrants love, by divers ways

For men of fame and honor sent.

With loyal heart, kindly severe,

And hoping that their youthful king May catch the thoughts that many a year Has taught their lives, from far and near

Their tales of truth and love they bring.

And first there came a white-hair'd sage,

The hope of many prosperous reigns ;-
But now his monarch's untaught age
Grew proud, and in a burst of rage

He bade them cast him into chains.

A painter left his hours of ease

To bring before the royal throne
His tales of fields and skies and seas
And life and death. They could not please

A dullard mind and heart of stone.

And then a sweet-sould poet came,

In whose pure heart all nature smil'd ;
He rhym'd life's discords in one strain
Of everlasting song;-in vain

His hopeful words and spirit mild.

Jingling his bells, behind the rest,

Seeking his foes to overwhelm,
A fool then made some passing jest ;
Loud roar'd the king with royal zest
And gave him half his realm.

Burton J. Hendrick. A MINSTER LEGEND.

IT
T is a strange face even now, with that cruel smile

fixed in the iron by some old monk centuries ago. Yet to many a poor wretch fleeing an oppressor; to many a great nobleman seeking safety in the wreck of his fortunes, it has seemed the fairest face in the world. For it is fixed to the great door of the Minster, and behind it lay protection. By night a tiny taper burned within the head, and through the open eyes and grinning teeth its rays went out into the darkness to guide the steps of the fugitive. Above the door is the window of the little cell, cut in the thickness of the wall, where a monk was ever on the watch ready to admit all who claimed shelter beneath the wide wings of the church for the lawful ninety days.

So it was one summer night centuries ago. Long the monk had listened to the voices of his brethren far up

in the choir chanting the midnight mass. Now they sank till only a faint murmur reached him, anon swelled to a great cry, that echoed and re-echoed down the long aisles “Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis.” At length he turned to the window, looking out into the night and wondering what the great world was like, then shuddered at the forms his fancy pictured, and blessed the saints that he was well within the protection of the fantastic monsters carved on the stones of the Cathedral-a sure defense against witches and demons. Suddenly the thud of a horse's hoofs broke the stillness, and with a cry of “ Sanctuary, Sanctuary," a horseman dashed into the narrow circle of lights cast by the lantern. One instant the monk stood watching him, then turned and hurried from his cell down toward the door. Ere he reached it the stranger was knocking fiercely, crying “ Quick, quick.” Eagerly the monk drew back the bars and loosed the chains that held the great door. The stranger stood for a moment with one hand on the bridle of his panting steed as if listening; then, as the sound as of many horses galloping furiously reached his ear, he loosed his hold and sprang within the door.

Hardly had the monk and he closed it again and shot home the bolts, when the party in pursuit reached it. Even within the church could be heard the rattle of sword in scabbard as the men-at-arms sprang to the ground, their spurs jingling against the pavement. Then there was quiet for a little space while the troopers seemed consulting, followed by the loud command “To horse !" When the sound of the horses' tread had died away in the distance, the monk turned toward the stranger, and for the first time looked at him closely. The dim light of the tapers burning in a shrine near by fell upon his suit once rich with velvet and gold, but now torn and dusty, showed his golden spurs bloody with hard riding, and beneath his hat with its broken plume revealed the long grey hair, the grizzled beard and furrowed face of the Lord of half the country round. The monk needed no second look, but bowing low turned and led the way across the dim Cathedral.

Day breaks early in an English summer. So before the deep bell of the Minster had tolled three, the huge mass of the Cathedral might have been distinguished even at a distance, rising boldly from the gray mist that enshrouded it. As the light grew stronger, the first rays of the sun touched the top of the great square tower, then crept slowly down. Buttress and gargoyle stood out boldly against the dark recesses still deep in shadow. Then the sun shone full upon the great walls, the immense door and long narrow windows, and at a little distance upon the Bishop's palace with its frowning portcullis, its battlements and towers. And last the light dropped down to where far below, the river wound round all in one wide loop.

Early also, there was a stir in the palace. It was whispered from ear to ear that the great Duke had come during the night to throw himself at the feet of the Bishop for protection, and that they had been long closeted together. Cloister and palace were alike expectant. In the court of the palace, men-at-arms wearing the gorgeous livery of the Lord Bishop were drawn up, while within the hall priests in flowing robes and knights in glittering

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