face of the plot of ground within whose narrower confines he has so long
been labouring, and whose every corner he knows so well. May-be he finds
hope in the thought that should his new world seem strange to him and
uncomfortable, ere long he may be called back to his old task, and in
the preparation of a second edition find the quiet and the peace of mind
that are often found alone in 'old use and wont.'

With me the preparation of these volumes has, indeed, been the work of
many years. Boswell's _Life of Johnson_ I read for the first time in my
boyhood, when I was too young for it to lay any hold on me. When I
entered Pembroke College, Oxford, though I loved to think that Johnson
had been there before me, yet I cannot call to mind that I ever opened
the pages of Boswell. By a happy chance I was turned to the study of the
literature of the eighteenth century. Every week we were required by the
rules of the College to turn into Latin, or what we called Latin, a
passage from _The Spectator_. Many a happy minute slipped by while, in
forgetfulness of my task, I read on and on in its enchanting pages. It
was always with a sigh that at last I tore myself away, and sat
resolutely down to write bad Latin instead of reading good English. From
Addison in the course of time I passed on to the other great writers of
his and the succeeding age, finding in their exquisitely clear style,
their admirable common sense and their freedom from all the tricks of
affectation, a delightful contrast to so many of the eminent authors of
our own time. Those troublesome doubts, doubts of all kinds, which since
the great upheaval of the French Revolution have harassed mankind, had
scarcely begun to ruffle the waters of their life. Even Johnson's
troubled mind enjoyed vast levels of repose. The unknown world alone was
wrapped in stormy gloom; of this world 'all the complaints which were
made were unjust[1].' Though I was now familiar with many of the great
writers, yet Boswell I had scarcely opened since my boyhood. A happy day