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It was a great compliment to a mere youth to be asked to contribute to the “Edinburgh Review.” Edinburgh was a literary center, and you could not throw a stone in Princess Street, any more than you can in Tremont Street, Boston, without hitting a poet and caroming on two novel-writers and an essayist.

Thomas Carlyle, five years older than Macaulay, and who was to live and write for twenty-five years after Macaulay’s passing, had not yet struck twelve. London, too, like Edinburgh, was full of writing men, standing in the market-places of Grub Street with no man to hire.

And yet Fate sought out Tom Macaulay, five feet four, who had plenty of other work on hand; and through that single “Essay on Milton” he sprang at once into the front rank of British writers–and at the same time there was thrust into his hands a bonus of fifty pounds for the work.

As a study of a thing that made the reputation of a writer, the “Milton” is worth a careful reading. It is very sure that in America today there are a hundred men who could write just as good an article, but whether these men are Macaulays or not is quite another question. But it is not at all probable that a writer will ever again leap into place and power on so small a feat.

Yet the article surely shows all the dash and vigor that mark Macaulay’s literary style. There is personality in it; it reveals the red corpuscle; and tells without question that there is a man behind the guns. It was opportune; for literature at that particular time had reached a point where the sciolist was in full possession, and the dead husks of learning were being palmed off for the living thoughts of living men.

Periodicity reveals itself in all Nature, and even in the world of thought there are years of famine and years of plenty. Dry rot gets into letters; things are ripe for a revolution; the tinder is dry, and along comes some Martin Luther and applies the torch.

Macaulay simply expressed himself boldly, frankly, and without thought of favor–writing as he felt.

The article made a great stir–the first edition of the magazine was quickly exhausted, and Macaulay awoke one morning, like Byron, and found himself famous. All there was about it, the “Milton” revealed a man, a strong, vivid-thinking, vigorous man, who, seeing things clearly, wrote from his heart. Art is born of feeling: it is heart, not head, that carries conviction home; but if you have both, as Macaulay had, it is no special disadvantage.

From the publication of Macaulay’s first article the “Review” took on a new lease of life. Prosperity came that way and for the rest of his life the “Review” was not long without contributions from his pen; and the numbers that contained his articles were always in great demand. Writers who possess a piercing insight into the heart of things, and who have the courage to express themselves, regardless of the views of others, are well feared by men in power.

The man who knows, who can think, and who can write, holds a sword of Damocles over every politician.

Governments are honeycombed with vulnerable spots; and to secure the ready writer on your side is the part of wisdom.

Macaulay’s article on Milton proved that there was a thinker loose, and that on occasion he could strike. The politicians began to court him, and we find him writing articles of a very Junius-like quality on contemporary issues.

When he was twenty-six years old we are told he was “called to the Bar,” which means that he was given permission to practise law–the expression, “called,” being a mild form of fiction that still obtains in England in legal matters, while in America the word applies only in theology.

The practise of law, however, was not at all to the taste of Macaulay, and after a few short terms on the circuit he relinquished it entirely.