was talking to the King, and when Goldsmith sulked because he had
not shared the honour; when he met Wilkes, and when he insulted Sir Joshua
and for once got silenced; when he "downed" Robertson, and when, for want
of a lodging, he and Savage walked all night round St. James's Square, full
of high spirits and patriotism, inveighing against the Minister and
resolving that "they would _stand by their country_."

And at the end of it all I feel very much like Mr. Birrell, who, when asked
what he would do when the Government went out of office, replied, "I shall
retire to the country, and really read Boswell." Not "finish Boswell," you
observe. No one could ever finish Boswell. No one would ever want to finish
Boswell. Like a sensible man he will just go on reading him and reading
him, and reading him until the light fails and there is no more reading to
be done.

What an achievement for this uncouth Scotch lawyer to have accomplished! He
knew he had done a great thing; but even he did not know how great a thing.
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. "That is only his
counterfeit. It may be a good counterfeit, but it's not the man. The man I
shall never see. I can see bits of him--his hands, his feet, his arms, and
so on. By shutting one eye I can see something of the shape of his nose. By
thrusting out the upper lip I can see that the fellow wears a moustache.
But his face, as a whole, is hidden from me. I cannot tell you even with