who has lived in
it. It may come to him in the form of self-reproach that he falls so
far short of the superior being who has been so long the object of
his contemplation. But it also carries him at times into the other's
personality, so that he finds himself thinking thoughts that are not his
own, using phrases which he has unconsciously borrowed, writing, it may
be, as nearly like his long-studied original as Julio Romano's painting
was like Raphael's; and all this with the unquestioning conviction that
he is talking from his own consciousness in his own natural way. So far
as tones and expressions and habits which belonged to the idiosyncrasy
of the original are borrowed by the student of his life, it is a
misfortune for the borrower. But to share the inmost consciousness of
a noble thinker, to scan one's self in the white light of a pure
and radiant soul,--this is indeed the highest form of teaching and
discipline.

I have written these few memoirs, and I am grateful for all that they
have taught me. But let me write no more. There are but two biographers
who can tell the story of a man's or a woman's life. One is the person
himself or herself; the other is the Recording Angel. The autobiographer
cannot be trusted to tell the whole truth, though he may tell nothing
but the truth, and the Recording Angel never lets his book go out of
his own hands. As for myself, I would say to my friends, in the Oriental
phrase, "Live forever!" Yes, live forever, and I, at least, shall not
have to wrong your memories by my imperfect record and unsatisfying
commentary.

In connection with these biographies, or memoirs, more properly, in
which I have written of my departed friends, I hope my readers will
indulge me in another personal reminiscence. I have just lost my dear
and honored contemporary of the last century. A hundred years ago this
day, December 13, 1784, died the admirable and ever to be remembered
Dr. Samuel Johnson. The year 1709 was made ponderous and illustrious
in English biography by his birth. My own humble advent to the world of
protoplasm was in the year 1809 of the present century. Summer was just
ending when those four letters, "son b." were written under the date
of my birth, August 29th. Autumn had just begun when my great
pre-contemporary entered this un-Christian universe and was made a
member of the Christian church on the same day, for he was born and
baptized on the 18th of September.

Thus there was