Years ago there was a wretched outcry raised because Mr. Macaulay
dated a letter from Windsor Castle, where he was staying. Immortal
gods! Was this man not a fit guest for any palace in the world? or a fit
companion for any man or woman in it? I dare say, after Austerlitz, the
old K. K. court officials and footmen sneered at Napoleon for dating
from Schonbrunn. But that miserable "Windsor Castle" outcry is an echo
out of fast-retreating old-world remembrances. The place of such a
natural chief was amongst the first of the land; and that country
is best, according to our British notion at least, where the man of
eminence has the best chance of investing his genius and intellect.
If a company of giants were got together, very likely one or two of the
mere six-feet-six people might be angry at the incontestable superiority
of the very tallest of the party; and so I have heard some London wits,
rather peevish at Macaulay's superiority, complain that he occupied too
much of the talk, and so forth. Now that wonderful tongue is to speak
no more, will not many a man grieve that he no longer has the chance
to listen? To remember the talk is to wonder: to think not only of the
treasures he had in his memory, but of the trifles he had stored there,
and could produce with equal readiness.
Pages:
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322