Macaulay’s interests.  I have often seen Music Hall crowded by an enthusiastic mass while the bookseller filled the chair, and the great reviewer appeared as a public orator.  Macaulay’s person was very striking and impressive.  He was tall, and of noble build and full development.  Although one of the most diligent of readers and hard working of students of any age, his ruddy countenance did not indicate close application, and his appearance was anything but that of a book-worm.  Indeed, at first glance, one would have taken him for a fine specimen of the wealthy English farmer; and to have observed his habits of good living at the social dining parties, would have added to the impression that in him the animal nature was far in advance of the intellectual.  Macaulay, on all festive occasions, proved himself as elegant a conversationist as he was a writer; his tone was thoroughly English, and his pronunciation, like that of Washington Irving, was singularly correct.  As a speaker, he at times rose to splendid flights of oratory, although his delivery from memory was less effective than the extemporaneous style.  Macaulay never married, but was always happy in the social circle of his friends.

The Blacks were likewise publishers of Scott’s novels, the demand for which was so great that they were seldom ‘off the press.’  Three standard editions were issued,—­one of forty-eight volumes, at a low rate, another of twenty-five volumes, at higher cost, and an additional library edition, of still greater price.  Of these, one thousand ‘sets’ per year were the average of sale.

Shortly after this, I was in connection with the Ballantynes, who published Blackwood’s Magazine, one of the most profitable periodicals in the United Kingdom.  This connection led to an acquaintance with John Wilson, better known as ‘Christopher North,’ of ‘Old Ebony.’  When the printers were in haste, I have frequently walked down to his residence in Gloucester Place, and sat by his side, waiting patiently, hour after hour, for copy.  The professor always wrote in the night, and would frequently dash off one of his splendid articles between supper and daybreak.  His study was a small room, containing a table littered with paper, the walls garnished with a few pictures, while heaps of books were scattered wherever chance might direct.  At this table might have been seen the famous professor of moral philosophy, stripped to his shirt and pantaloons, the former open in front, and displaying a vast, hirsute chest, while a slovenly necktie kept the limp collar from utter loss of place.  This was his favorite state for composition, and was in true keeping with the character and productions of his genius.  When in public, the professor was still a sloven; but his heavy form and majestic head and countenance—­though he was not a tall man—­at once commanded respect.  He never appeared anything but the philosopher, and I, who saw him in the dishabille of his study, never