SAMUEL JOHNSON. From a painting at one time in the possession of Archdeacon Cambridge 42 FACSIMILE OF PART OF THE ORIGINAL DRAFT OF "IRENE" 48 FACSIMILE OF PART OF A LETTER TO 64 SAMUEL JOHNSON HIS LIFE As an author, Samuel Johnson, while living, ranked with the most illustrious writers of his century, and although his works have lost much of their reputation, he is better known to us than he was to his contemporaries. Every lover of literature is familiar with the "Great Cham of Literature," and with the famous Club over which he ruled as dictator. The way in which this immortality is secured forms a paradox in literary history. Many a notable man has been buried a second time by his biographer, but Johnson may be said to owe to Boswell another and ampler life. How well he understood the art of the biographer is seen from his reply to Hannah More, who begged him to show some tenderness to the foibles of their friend: "I will not," he said, "cut off his claws, nor make a tiger a cat, to please anybody." Thanks to his wonderful skill, there is no man of letters, of his own or of any century, with whom we can live on such friendly terms; nor is there one, unless it be Sir Walter Scott, whose companionship is more delightful. Moreover, the bulk of the work adds to its attractiveness; we cannot have too much of Johnson, and it may be hoped that this brief sketch will send the reader, with a keener zest, to the feast of wisdom and of wit, flavoured occasionally by the exquisite folly of the writer, stored up in Boswell's pages. It is not true, as Macaulay asserted, that Boswell was a man of the meanest and feeblest intellect. No such intellect could have produced a consummate work of art, which the Essayist acknowledged the Life to be. Boswell knew from the outset what he designed to do, and did it to the admiration of the world. But the book, strange to say, could not have been written by a man of high character, or even by a man possessing the self-respect which is common in Society. "Bozzy," as he was familiarly called, never objected to making a fool of himself. He was constantly saying or doing foolish things, and had no sense of shame in publishing his folly. No rebuff daunted him for long, and probably it was due to his irrepressible good humour that a place was found for this strange guest in intellectual society. Somequality there must have been better than that of the mere hero-worshipper that made him not only tolerable but even dear to Johnson; and we are reaping the reward of that toler ance. Samuel Johnson, who was born in Lichfield on the 18th September, 1709, may be said to have been cradled in a library. His father, Michael Johnson, a highly respected bookseller, and magistrate, "propagated learning all over the |