is as rare as it is refreshing to find a man who can stand
on his own legs and be conscious of his own feelings, who is sturdy
enough to react as well as to transmit action, and lofty enough to raise
himself above the hurrying crowd and have some distinct belief as to
whence it is coming and whither it is going. Now Johnson, as one of the
sturdiest of mankind, had the power due to a very distinct sentiment, if
not to a very clear theory, about the world in which he lived. It had
buffeted him severely enough, and he had formed a decisive estimate of
its value. He was no man to be put off with mere phrases in place of
opinions, or to accept doctrines which were not capable of expressing
genuine emotion. To this it must be added that his emotions were as deep
and tender as they were genuine. How sacred was his love for his old and
ugly wife; how warm his sympathy wherever it could be effective; how
manly the self-respect with which he guarded his dignity through all the
temptations of Grub Street, need not be once more pointed out. Perhaps,
however, it is worth while to notice the extreme rarity of such
qualities. Many people, we think, love their fathers. Fortunately, that
is true; but in how many people is filial affection strong enough to
overpower the dread of eccentricity? How many men would have been
capable of doing penance in Uttoxeter market years after their father's
death for a long-passed act of disobedience? Most of us, again, would
have a temporary emotion of pity for an outcast lying helplessly in the
street. We should call the police, or send her in a cab to the
workhouse, or, at least, write to the _Times_ to denounce the defective
arrangements of public charity. But it is perhaps better not to ask how
many good Samaritans would take her on their shoulders to their own
homes, care for her wants, and put her into a better way of life.

In the lives of most eminent men we find much good feeling and
honourable conduct; but it is an exception, even in the case of good
men, when we find that a life has been shaped by other than the ordinary
conventions, or that emotions have dared to overflow the well-worn
channels of respectability. The love which we feel for Johnson is due
to the fact that the pivots upon which his life turned are invariably
noble motives, and not mere obedience to custom. More than one modern
writer has expressed a fraternal affection for Addison, and it is
justified by the kindly humour whi