It is a great privilege to have lived so long in the society of such a man.  “He nothing common” said, “or mean.”  He was always the same pure and high-souled companion.  After being with him virtue seemed as natural to man as its opposite did according to the old theologies.  But how to let one’s self down from the high level of such a character to one’s own poor standard?  I trust that the influence of this long intellectual and spiritual companionship never absolutely leaves one 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.