came just eighteen years ago when in an old book-shop, almost under the
shadow of a great cathedral, I bought a second-hand copy of a somewhat
early edition of the _Life_ in five well-bound volumes. Of all my books
none I cherish more than thesc. In looking at them I have known what it
is to feel Bishop Percy's 'uneasiness at the thoughts of leaving his
books in death[2].' They became my almost inseparable companions. Before
long I began to note the parallel passages and allusions not only in
their pages, but in the various authors whom I studied. Yet in these
early days I never dreamt of preparing a new edition. It fell to my lot
as time went on to criticise in some of our leading publications works
that bore both on Boswell and Johnson. Such was my love for the subject
that on one occasion, when I was called upon to write a review that
should fall two columns of a weekly newspaper, I read a new edition of
the _Life_ from beginning to end without, I believe, missing a single
line of the text or a single note. At length, 'towering in the
confidence'[3] of one who as yet has but set his foot on the threshold
of some stately mansion in which he hopes to find for himself a home, I
was rash enough more than twelve years ago to offer myself as editor of
a new edition of Boswell's _Life of Johnson_. Fortunately for me another
writer had been already engaged by the publisher to whom I applied, and
my offer was civilly declined. From that time on I never lost sight of
my purpose but when in the troubles of life I well-nigh lost sight of
every kind of hope. Everything in my reading that bore on my favourite
author was carefully noted, till at length I felt that the materials
which I had gathered from all sides were sufficient to shield me from a
charge of rashness if I now began to raise the building. Much of the
work of preparation had been done at a grievous disadvantage. My health
more than once seemed almost hopelessly broken down. Nevertheless even
then the time was not wholly lost. In the sleepless hours of many a
winter night I almost forgot my miseries in the delightful pages of