Had he known he might have answered as proudly as Dryden answered when some
one said to him that his _Ode to St. Cecilia_ was the finest that had ever
been written. "Or ever will be," said the poet. Dryden's ode has been
eclipsed more than once since it was written; but Boswell's book has never
been approached. It is not only the best thing of its sort in literature:
there is nothing with which one can compare it.
Boswell's house is falling to dust. No matter! His memorial will last as
long as the English speech is spoken and as long as men love the immortal
things of which it is the vehicle.
ON SEEING OURSELVES
A friend of mine who is intimate enough with me to guess my secrets, said
to me quizzingly the other day: "Do you know 'Alpha of the Plough?'"
"I have never seen the man," I said promptly and unblushingly. He laughed
and I laughed.
"What, never?" he said.
"Never," I said. "What's more, I never shall see him."
"What, not in the looking-glass?" said he.
"That's not 'Alpha of the Plough,'" I answered.
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