It is all very well to pooh-pooh Boswell as Macaulay has done, but it is not by chance that a man writes the best biography in the language.  He had some great and rare literary qualities.  One was a clear and vivid style, more flexible and Saxon than that of his great model.  Another was a remarkable discretion which hardly once permitted a fault of taste in this whole enormous book where he must have had to pick his steps with pitfalls on every side of him.  They say that he was a fool and a coxcomb in private life.  He is never so with a pen in his hand.  Of all his numerous arguments with Johnson, where he ventured some little squeak of remonstrance, before the roaring “No, sir!” came to silence him, there are few in which his views were not, as experience proved, the wiser.  On the question of slavery he was in the wrong.  But I could quote from memory at least a dozen cases, including such vital subjects as the American Revolution, the Hanoverian Dynasty, Religious Toleration, and so on, where Boswell’s views were those which survived.

But where he excels as a biographer is in telling you just those little things that you want to know.  How often you read the life of a man and are left without the remotest idea of his personality.  It is not so here.  The man lives again.  There is a short description of Johnson’s person—­it is not in the Life, but in the Tour to the Hebrides, the very next book upon the shelf, which is typical of his vivid portraiture.  May I take it down, and read you a paragraph of it?—­

“His person was large, robust, I may say approaching to the gigantic, and grown unwieldy from corpulency.  His countenance was naturally of the cast of an ancient statue, but somewhat disfigured by the scars of King’s evil.  He was now in his sixty-fourth year and was become a little dull of hearing.  His sight had always been somewhat weak, yet so much does mind govern and even supply the deficiencies of organs that his perceptions were uncommonly quick and accurate.  His head, and sometimes also his body, shook with a kind of motion like the effect of palsy.  He appeared to be frequently disturbed by cramps or convulsive contractions of the nature of that distemper called St. Vitus’ dance.  He wore a full suit of plain brown clothes, with twisted hair buttons of the same colour, a large bushy greyish wig, a plain shirt, black worsted stockings and silver buckles.  Upon this tour when journeying he wore boots and a very wide brown cloth great-coat with pockets which might almost have held the two volumes of his folio dictionary, and he carried in his hand a large English oak stick.”

You must admit that if one cannot reconstruct the great Samuel after that it is not Mr. Boswell’s fault—­and it is but one of a dozen equally vivid glimpses which he gives us of his hero.  It is just these pen-pictures of his of the big, uncouth man, with his grunts and his groans, his Gargantuan appetite, his twenty cups of tea, and his tricks with the orange-peel and the lamp-posts, which fascinate the reader, and have given Johnson a far broader literary vogue than his writings could have done.