without leaving a wish
for his return.' His vivacity, his love of fun, his passion for good
company and friendship, his sympathy, his amiability, which made him
acceptable everywhere, have mingled throughout with his own handiwork,
and cause it to radiate a kind of genial warmth. This geniality it may
be which has attracted so many readers to the book. They find themselves
in good company, in a comfortable, pleasant place, agreeably stimulated
with wit and fun, and cheered with friendliness. They are loth to leave
it, and would ever enter it again. This rare charm the book owes in
large measure to its creator.

The alliance of author with subject in Boswell's Johnson is one of the
happiest and most sympathetic the world has known. So close is it that
one cannot easily discern what great qualities the work owes to each.
While it surely derives more of its excellence than is commonly remarked
from the art of Boswell, its greatness after all is ultimately that of
its subject. The noble qualities of Johnson have been well discerned by
Carlyle, and his obvious peculiarities and prejudices somewhat magnified
and distorted in Macaulay's brilliant refractions. One quality only
shall I dwell upon, though that may be the sum of all the rest. Johnson
had a supreme capacity for human relationship. In him this capacity
amounted to genius.

In all respects he was of great stature. His contemporaries called him a
colossus, the literary Goliath, the Giant, the great Cham of literature,
a tremendous companion. His frame was majestic; he strode when he
walked, and his physical strength and courage were heroic. His mode of
speaking was 'very impressive,' his utterance 'deliberate and strong.'
His conversation was compared to 'an antique statue, where every vein
and muscle is distinct and bold.' From boyhood throughout his life his
companions naturally deferred to him, and he dominated them without
effort. But what overcame the harshness of this autocracy, and made it
reasonable, was the largeness of a nature that loved men and was ever
hungry for knowledge of them. 'Sir,' said he, 'I look upon every day
lost in which I do not make a new acquaintance.' And again: 'Why, Sir, I
am a man of the world. I live in the world, and I take, in some degree,
the color of the world as it moves along.' Thus he was a part of all
that he met, a central figure in his time, with whose opinion one must
reckon in considering any important matter of his da