attentive to Johnson, and patronized him, and borrowed money of him; Mrs. Thrale grew tired, before the end, of the burden of his masterful ways; Goldsmith and Reynolds were companionable and friendly when they met him, and had many other things to think of when he was absent. Boswell was never tired, never preoccupied with other thoughts, never superior to his opportunities. He was faithful, humble, and devoted, so that he has been laughed at for his almost dog-like attachment. But Johnson was worth it; and it is Boswell’s high distinction that he knew that Johnson was worth it. The world is not so constructed that a fool, by sheer force of loquacity and indiscretion, can make a pompous old dogmatist into one of the great live figures of its history. What happened was something very different. A man of profound humanity and conquering intellect lived a private life in London, never seeking public fame or exalted company, content to amuse his leisure hours with the conversation of his friends. So great was the force of his mind and character that he became famous in spite of himself, and his lightest sayings were treasured and chronicled by those about him. But only one of them fully saw what was passing before the eyes of all. Not every one can see a great event while it happens, or a great man while he lives. If Boswell had this power, it was because his mind, naturally quick and curious, was made almost preternaturally sensible by the overwhelming reverence and affection that he felt for Johnson. What a pity it is that neither Swift nor Goldsmith was worshipped as Johnson was worshipped, by a brother in the craft! These had no Boswell. The fate that gave Boswell to Johnson may have been a blind fate.
