ve been
pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind;
but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and can not enjoy
it; till I am a solitary, and can not impart it; till I am known,
and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to
confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be
unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a
patron which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to
any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I
should conclude it, should less be possible, with less; for I
have been long wakened from that dream of hope in which I once
boasted myself with so much exultation, my Lord.

Your Lordship's most humble, most obedient servant,
--_Sam Johnson_

[Illustration: SAMUEL JOHNSON]

The critics, I believe, have made a distinction between large men and
great men.

Samuel Johnson was both. He was massive in intellect, colossal in culture,
prodigious in memory, weighed nigh three hundred pounds, and had
prejudices to match. He was possessed of a giant's strength, and
occasionally used it like a giant--for instance, when he felled an
offending bookseller with a folio.

Johnson was most unfortunate in his biographer. In picturing the great
writer, Boswell writes more entertainingly than Johnson ever did, and
thereby overtops his subject. And when in reply to the intimation that
Boswell was going to write his life, Johnson answered, "If I really
thought he was, I would take his," he spoke a jest in earnest.

Walking along Market Street in the city of Saint Louis, with a friend, not
long ago, my comrade suddenly stopped and excitedly pointed out a man
across the way--"Look quick--there he goes!" exclaimed my friend, "that
man with the derby and duster--see? That's the husband of Mrs. Lease of
Kansas!" And all I could say was, "God help him!"

Not but that Mrs. Lease is a most excellent and amiable lady; but the
idea of a man, made in the image of his Maker, being reduced to the social
state of a drone-bee is most depressing.

Among that worthy class of people referred to somewhat ironically as "the
reading public," Boswell is read, but Johnson never. And so sternly true
is the fact that many critics, set on a hair-trigger, aver that were it
not for Boswell