MILTON.

Dr. Johnson knew how to be merry with mean people, too, as well as to be

sad with them; he loved the lower ranks of humanity with a real

affection: and though his talents and learning kept him always in the

sphere of upper life, yet he never lost sight of the time when he and

they shared pain and pleasure in common. A borough election once showed

me his toleration of boisterous mirth, and his content in the company of

people whom one would have thought at first sight little calculated for

his society. A rough fellow one day on such an occasion, a hatter by

trade, seeing Mr. Johnson's beaver in a state of decay, seized it

suddenly with one hand, and clapping him on the back with the other, "Ah,

Master Johnson," says he, "this is no time to be thinking about _hats_."

"No, no, sir," replied our Doctor in a cheerful tone, "hats are of no use

now, as you say, except to throw up in the air and huzza with,"

accompanying his words with a true election halloo.

But it was never against people of coarse life that his contempt was

expressed, while poverty of sentiment in men who considered themselves to

be company for _the parlour_, as he called it, was what he could not

bear. A very ignorant young fellow, who had plagued us all for nine or

ten months, died at last consumptive. "I think," said Mr. Johnson, when

he heard the news, "I am afraid I should have been more concerned for the

death of the _dog_; but--" (hesitating a while) "I am not wrong now in

all this, for the dog acted up to his character on every occasion that we

know; but that dunce of a fellow helped forward the general disgrace of

humanity." "Why, dear sir," said I, "how odd you are! you have often

said the lad was not capable of receiving further instruction." "He

was," replied the Doctor, "like a corked bottle, with a drop of dirty

water in it, to be sure; one might pump upon it for ever without the

smallest effect; but when every method to open and clean it had been

tried, you would not have me grieve that the bottle was broke at last."

This was the same youth who told us he had been reading "Lucius Florus;"

Florus Delphini was the phrase. "And my mother," said he, "thought it

had something to do with Delphos; but of that I know nothing." "Who

founded Rome, then ?" inquired Mr. Thrale. The lad replied, "Romulus."

"And who succeeded Romulus?" said I. A long pause, and apparently

distressful hesitation, followed the difficult question. "Why will you

ask him in terms that he does not comprehend?" said Mr. Johnson, enraged.

"You might as well bid him tell you who phlebotomised Romulus. This

fellow's dulness is elastic," continued he, "and all we do is but like

kicking at a woolsack."

The pains he took, however, to obtain the young man more patient

instructors were many, and oftentimes repeated. He was put under the

care of a clergyman in a distant province; and Mr. Johnson used both to

write and talk to his friends concerning his education. It was on that

occasion that I remember his saying, "A boy should never be sent to Eton

or Westminster School before he is twelve years old at least; for if in

his years of babyhood he escapes that general and transcendent knowledge

without which life is perpetually put to a stand, he will never get it at

a public school, where, if he does not learn Latin and Greek, he learns

nothing." Mr. Johnson often said, "that there was too much stress laid

upon literature as indispensably necessary: there is surely no need that

everybody should be a scholar, no call that every one should square the

circle. Our manner of teaching," said he, "cramps and warps many a mind,

which if left more at liberty would have been respectable in some way,

though perhaps not in that. We lop our trees, and prune them, and pinch

them about," he would say, "and nail them tight up to the wall, while a

good standard is at last the only thing for bearing healthy fruit, though

it commonly begins later. Let the people learn necessary knowledge; let

them learn to count their fingers, and to count their money, before they

are caring for the classics; for," says Mr. Johnson, "though I do not

quite agree with the proverb, that Nullum numen abest si sit prudentia,

yet we may very well say, that Nullum numen adest--ni sit prudentia."

We had been visiting at a lady's house, whom as we returned some of the

company ridiculed for her ignorance. "She is not ignorant," said he, "I

believe, of anything she has been taught, or of anything she is desirous

to know: and I suppose if one wanted a little _run tea_, she might be a

proper person enough to apply to."

When I relate these various instances of contemptuous behaviour shown to

a variety of people, I am aware that those who till now have heard little

of Mr. Johnson will here cry out against his pride and his severity; yet

I have been as careful as I could to tell them that all he did was

gentle, if all he said was rough. Had I given anecdotes of his actions

instead of his words, we should, I am sure, have had nothing on record

but acts of virtue differently modified, as different occasions called

that virtue forth: and among all the nine biographical essays or

performances which I have heard will at last be written about dear Dr.

Johnson, no mean or wretched, no wicked or even slightly culpable action

will, I trust, be found, to produce and put in the scale against a life

of seventy years, spent in the uniform practice of every moral excellence

and every Christian perfection, save humility alone, says a critic, but

that I think _must_ be excepted. He was not, however, wanting even in

that to a degree seldom attained by man, when the duties of piety or

charity called it forth.

Lowly towards God, and docile towards the Church; implicit in his belief

of the Gospel, and ever respectful towards the people appointed to preach

it; tender of the unhappy, and affectionate to the poor, let no one

hastily condemn as proud a character which may perhaps somewhat justly be

censured as arrogant. It must, however, be remembered again, that even

this arrogance was never shown without some intention, immediate or

remote, of mending some fault or conveying some instruction. Had I meant

to make a panegyric on Mr. Johnson's well-known excellences, I should

have told his deeds only, not his words--sincerely protesting, that as I

never saw him once do a wrong thing, so we had accustomed ourselves to

look upon him almost as an excepted being: and I should as much have

expected injustice from Socrates, or impiety from Paschal, as the

slightest deviation from truth and goodness in any transaction one might

be engaged in with Samuel Johnson. His attention to veracity was without

equal or example: and when I mentioned Clarissa as a perfect character;

"On the contrary," said he, "you may observe there is always something

which she prefers to truth. Fielding's Amelia was the most pleasing

heroine of all the romances," he said, "but that vile broken nose, never

cured, ruined the sale of perhaps the only book, which being printed off

betimes one morning, a new edition was called for before night."

Mr. Johnson's knowledge of literary history was extensive and surprising.

He knew every adventure of every book you could name almost, and was

exceedingly pleased with the opportunity which writing the "Poets' Lives"

gave him to display it. He loved to be set at work, and was sorry when

he came to the end of the business he was about. I do not feel so myself

with regard to these sheets: a fever which has preyed on me while I wrote

them over for the press, will perhaps lessen my power of doing well the

first, and probably the last work I should ever have thought of

presenting to the public. I could doubtless wish so to conclude it, as

at least to show my zeal for my friend, whose life, as I once had the

honour and happiness of being useful to, I should wish to record a few

particular traits of, that those who read should emulate his goodness;

but feeling the necessity of making even virtue and learning such as

_his_ agreeable, that all should be warned against such coarseness of

manners, as drove even from _him_ those who loved, honoured, and esteemed

him. His wife's daughter, Mrs. Lucy Porter, of Lichfield, whose

veneration for his person and character has ever been the greatest

possible, being opposed one day in conversation by a clergyman who came

often to her house, and feeling somewhat offended, cried out sudden,

"Why, Mr. Pearson," said she, "you are just like Dr. Johnson, I think: I

do not mean that you are a man of the greatest capacity in all the world

like Dr. Johnson, but that you contradict one every word one speaks, just

like him."

Mr. Johnson told me the story: he was present at the giving of the

reproof. It was, however, observable, that with all his odd severity, he

could not keep even indifferent people from teasing him with

unaccountable confessions of silly conduct, which one would think they

would scarcely have had inclination to reveal even to their tenderest and

most intimate companions; and it was from these unaccountable volunteers

in sincerity that he learned to warn the world against follies little

known, and seldom thought on by other moralists.

Much of his eloquence, and much of his logic, have I heard him use to

prevent men from making vows on trivial occasions; and when he saw a

person oddly perplexed about a slight difficulty, "Let the man alone," he

would say, "and torment him no more about it; there is a vow in the case,

I am convinced; but is it not very strange that people should be neither

afraid nor ashamed of bringing in God Almighty thus at every turn between

themselves and their dinner?" When I asked what ground he had for such

imaginations, he informed me, "That a young lady once told him in

confidence that she could never persuade herself to be dressed against

the bell rung for dinner, till she had made a vow to heaven that she

would never more be absent from the family meals."

The strangest applications in the world were certainly made from time to

time towards Mr. Johnson, who by that means had an inexhaustible fund of

ancecdote, and could, if he pleased, tell the most astonishing stories of

human folly and human weakness that ever were confided to any man not a

confessor by profession.

One day, when he was in a humour to record some of them, he told us the

following tale:--"A person," said he, "had for these last five weeks

often called at my door, but would not leave his name or other message,

but that he wished to speak with me. At last we met, and he told me that

he was oppressed by scruples of conscience. I blamed him gently for not

applying, as the rules of our Church direct, to his parish priest or

other discreet clergyman; when, after some compliments on his part, he

told me that he was clerk to a very eminent trader, at whose warehouses

much business consisted in packing goods in order to go abroad; that he

was often tempted to take paper and packthread enough for his own use,

and that he had indeed done so so often, that he could recollect no time

when he ever had bought any for himself. 'But probably,' said I, 'your

master was wholly indifferent with regard to such trivial emoluments. You

had better ask for it at once, and so take your trifles with content.'

'Oh, sir!' replies the visitor, 'my master bid me have as much as I

pleased, and was half angry when I talked to him about it.' 'Then pray,

sir,' said I, 'tease me no more about such airy nothings,' and was going

on to be very angry, when I recollected that the fellow might be mad,

perhaps; so I asked him, 'When he left the counting-house of an evening?'

'At seven o'clock, sir.' 'And when do you go to bed, sir?' 'At twelve

o'clock.' 'Then,' replied I, 'I have at least learnt thus much by my new

acquaintance--that five hours of the four-and-twenty unemployed are

enough for a man to go mad in; so I would advise you, sir, to study

algebra, if you are not an adept already in it. Your head would get less

_muddy_, and you will leave off tormenting your neighbours about paper

and packthread, while we all live together in a world that is bursting

with sin and sorrow.' It is perhaps needless to add that this visitor

came no more."

Mr. Johnson had, indeed, a real abhorrence of a person that had ever

before him treated a little thing like a great one; and he quoted this

scrupulous gentleman with his packthread very often, in ridicule of a

friend who, looking out on Streatham Common from our windows, one day,

lamented the enormous wickedness of the times because some bird-catchers

were busy there one fine Sunday morning. "While half the Christian world

is permitted," said he, "to dance and sing and celebrate Sunday as a day

of festivity, how comes your Puritanical spirit so offended with

frivolous and empty deviations from exactness? Whoever loads life with

unnecessary scruples, sir," continued he, "provokes the attention of

others on his conduct, and incurs the censure of singularity without

reaping the reward of superior virtue."

I must not, among the anecdotes of Dr. Johnson's life, omit to relate a

thing that happened to him one day, which he told me of himself. As he

was walking along the Strand a gentleman stepped out of some neighbouring

tavern, with his napkin in his hand, and no hat, and stopping him as

civily as he could, "I beg your pardon, sir, but you are Dr. Johnson, I

believe?" "Yes, sir." "We have a wager depending on your reply. Pray,

sir, is it irr_e_parable or irrep_air_able that one should say?" "The

_last_, I think, sir," answered Dr. Johnson, "for the adverb ought to

follow the verb; but you had better consult my 'Dictionary' than me, for

that was the result of more thought than you will now give me time for."

"No, no," replied the gentleman, gaily, "the book I have no certainty at

all of, but here is the _author_, to whom I referred. Is he not,

sir?"--to a friend with him. "I have won my twenty guineas quite fairly,

and am much obliged to you, sir;" and so shaking Mr. Johnson kindly by

the hand, he went back to finish his dinner or dessert.

Another strange thing he told me once which there was no danger of

forgetting; how a young gentleman called on him one morning, and told him

that his father having, just before his death, dropped suddenly into the

enjoyment of an ample fortune, he (the son) was willing to qualify

himself for genteel society by adding some literature to his other

endowments, and wished to be put in an easy way of obtaining it. Dr.

Johnson recommended the university, "for you read Latin, sir, with

_facility_?" "I read it a little, to be sure, sir." "But do you read it

_with facility_, I say?" "Upon my word, sir, I do not very well know,

but I rather believe not." Mr. Johnson now began to recommend other

branches of science, when he found languages at such an immeasurable

distance, and advising him to study natural history, there arose some

talk about animals, and their divisions into oviparous and viviparous.

"And the cat here, sir," said the youth, who wished for instruction;

"pray in what class is she?" Our Doctor's patience and desire of doing

good began now to give way to the natural roughness of his temper. "You

would do well," said he, "to look for some person to be always about you,

sir, who is capable of explaining such matters, and not come to us"--there

were some literary friends present, as I recollect--"to know whether the

cat lays eggs or not. Get a discreet man to keep you company: there are

so many who would be glad of your table and fifty pounds a year." The

young gentleman retired, and in less than a week informed his friends

that he had fixed on a preceptor to whom no objections could be made; but

when he named as such one of the most distinguished characters in our age

or nation, Mr. Johnson fairly gave himself up to an honest burst of

laughter; and seeing this youth at such a surprising distance from common

knowledge of the world, or of anything in it, desired to see his visitor

no more.

He had not much better luck with two boys that he used to tell of, to

whom he had taught the classics, "so that," he said, "they were no

incompetent or mean scholars." It was necessary, however, that something

more familiar should be known, and he bid them read the History of

England. After a few months had elapsed he asked them, "If they could

recollect who first destroyed the monasteries in our island?" One

modestly replied that he did not know; the other said _Jesus Christ_!

Of the truth of stories which ran currently about the town concerning Dr.

Johnson it was impossible to be certain, unless one asked him himself,

and what he told, or suffered to be told, before his face without

contradicting, has every public mark, I think, of real and genuine

authenticity. I made, one day, very minute inquiries about the tale of

his knocking down the famous Tom Osborne with his own "Dictionary" in the

man's own house. "And how was that affair? In earnest? Do tell me, Mr.

Johnson?" "There is nothing to tell, dearest lady, but that he was

insolent, and I beat him, and that he was a blockhead, and told of it,

which I should never have done. So the blows have been multiplying and

the wonder thickening for all these years, as Thomas was never a

favourite with the public. I have beat many a fellow, but the rest had

the wit to hold their tongues."

I have heard Mr. Murphy relate a very singular story, while he was

present, greatly to the credit of his uncommon skill and knowledge of

life and manners. When first the "Ramblers" came out in separate

numbers, as they were the objects of attention to multitudes of people,

they happened, as it seems, particularly to attract the notice of a

society who met every Saturday evening during the summer at Romford in

Essex, and were known by the name of the Bowling-Green Club. These men

seeing one day the character of Leviculus, the fortune-hunter, or

Tetrica, the old maid: another day some account of a person who spent his

life in hoping for a legacy, or of him who is always prying into other

folks' affairs, began sure enough to think they were betrayed, and that

some of the coterie sate down to divert himself by giving to the public

the portrait of all the rest. Filled with wrath against the traitor of

Romford, one of them resolved to write to the printer, and inquire the

author's name. Samuel Johnson, was the reply. No more was necessary;

Samuel Johnson was the name of the curate, and soon did each begin to

load him with reproaches for turning his friends into ridicule in a

manner so cruel and unprovoked. In vain did the guiltless curate protest

his innocence; one was sure that Aligu meant Mr. Twigg, and that Cupidus

was but another name for neighbour Baggs, till the poor parson, unable to

contend any longer, rode to London, and brought them full satisfaction

concerning the writer, who, from his own knowledge of general manners,

quickened by a vigorous and warm imagination, had happily delineated,

though unknown to himself, the members of the Bowling-Green Club.

Mr. Murphy likewise used to tell before Dr. Johnson, of the first time

_they_ met, and the occasion of their meeting, which he related thus.

That being in those days engaged in a periodical paper, he found himself

at a friend's house out of town; and not being disposed to lose pleasure

for the sake of business, wished rather to content his bookseller by

sending some unstudied essay to London by the servant, than deny himself

the company of his acquaintance, and drive away to his chambers for the

purpose of writing something more correct. He therefore took up a French

Journal Litteraire that lay about the room, and translating something he

liked from it, sent it away without further examination. Time, however,

discovered that he had translated from the French a "Rambler" of

Johnson's, which had been but a month before taken from the English; and

thinking it right to make him his personal excuses, he went next day, and

found our friend all covered with soot like a chimney-sweeper, in a

little room, with an intolerable heat and strange smell, as if he had

been acting Lungs in the 'Alchymist,' making aether. "Come, come," says

Dr. Johnson, "dear Mur, the story is black enough now; and it was a very

happy day for me that brought you first to my house, and a very happy

mistake about the 'Ramblers.'"

Dr. Johnson was always exceeding fond of chemistry; and we made up a sort

of laboratory at Streatham one summer, and diverted ourselves with

drawing essences and colouring liquors. But the danger Mr. Thrale found

his friend in one day when I was driven to London, and he had got the

children and servants round him to see some experiments performed, put an

end to all our entertainment, so well was the master of the house

persuaded that his short sight would have been his destruction in a

moment, by bringing him close to a fierce and violent flame. Indeed, it

was a perpetual miracle that he did not set himself on fire reading a-

bed, as was his constant custom, when exceedingly unable even to keep

clear of mischief with our best help; and accordingly the fore-top of all

his wigs were burned by the candle down to the very net work. Mr.

Thrale's valet de chambre, for that reason, kept one always in his own

hands, with which he met him at the parlour-door when the bell had called

him down to dinner, and as he went upstairs to sleep in the afternoon,

the same man constantly followed him with another.

Future experiments in chemistry, however, were too dangerous, and Mr.

Thrale insisted that we should do no more towards finding the

Philosopher's Stone.

Mr. Johnson's amusements were thus reduced to the pleasures of

conversation merely. And what wonder that he should have an avidity for

the sole delight he was able to enjoy? No man conversed so well as he on

every subject; no man so acutely discerned the reason of every fact, the

motive of every action, the end of every design. He was indeed often

pained by the ignorance or causeless wonder of those who knew less than

himself, though he seldom drove them away with apparent scorn, unless he

thought they added presumption to stupidity. And it was impossible not

to laugh at the patience he showed, when a Welsh parson of mean

abilities, though a good heart, struck with reverence at the sight of Dr.

Johnson, whom he had heard of as the greatest man living, could not find

any words to answer his inquiries concerning a motto round somebody's

arms which adorned a tombstone in Ruabon churchyard. If I remember right

the words were--

"Heb Dw, Heb Dym,

Dw o' diggon."

And though of no very difficult construction, the gentleman seemed wholly

confounded, and unable to explain them; till Mr. Johnson, having picked

out the meaning by little and little, said to the man, "Heb is a

preposition, I believe, sir, is it not?" My countryman recovering some

spirits upon the sudden question, cried out, "So I humbly presume, sir,"

very comically.

Stories of humour do not tell well in books; and what made impression on

the friends who heard a jest will seldom much delight the distant

acquaintance or sullen critic who reads it. The cork model of Paris is

not more despicable as a resemblance of a great city, than this book,

levior cortice, as a specimen of Johnson's character. Yet everybody

naturally likes to gather little specimens of the rarities found in a

great country; and could I carry home from Italy square pieces of all the

curious marbles which are the just glory of this surprising part of the

world, I could scarcely contrive, perhaps, to arrange them so meanly as

not to gain some attention from the respect due to the places they once

belonged to. Such a piece of motley Mosaic work will these anecdotes

inevitably make. But let the reader remember that he was promised

nothing better, and so be as contented as he can.

An Irish trader at our house one day heard Dr. Johnson launch out into

very great and greatly deserved praises of Mr. Edmund Burke. Delighted

to find his countryman stood so high in the opinion of a man he had been

told so much of, "Sir," said he, "give _me_ leave to tell something of

Mr. Burke now." We were all silent, and the honest Hibernian began to

relate how Mr. Burke went to see the collieries in a distant province;

and he would go down into the bowels of the earth (in a bag), and he

would examine everything. "He went in a bag, sir, and ventured his

health and his life for knowledge: but he took care of his clothes, that

they should not be spoiled, for he went down in a bag." "Well, sir,"

says Mr. Johnson, good-humouredly, "if our friend Mund should die in any

of these hazardous exploits, you and I would write his life and panegyric

together; and your chapter of it should be entitled thus: 'Burke in a

Bag.'"

He had always a very great personal regard and particular affection for

Mr. Edmund Burke, as well as an esteem difficult for me to repeat, though

for him only easy to express. And when at the end of the year 1774 the

General Election called us all different ways, and broke up the

delightful society in which we had spent some time at Beaconsfield, Dr.

Johnson shook the hospitable master of the house kindly by the hand, and

said, "Farewell, my dear sir, and remember that I wish you all the

success which ought to be wished you, which can possibly be wished you,

indeed--_by an honest man_."

I must here take leave to observe, that in giving little memoirs of Mr.

Johnson's behaviour and conversation, such as I saw and heard it, my book

lies under manifest disadvantages, compared with theirs, who having seen

him in various situations, and observed his conduct in numberless cases,

are able to throw stronger and more brilliant lights upon his character.

Virtues are like shrubs, which yield their sweets in different manners

according to the circumstances which surround them; and while generosity

of soul scatters its fragrance like the honeysuckle, and delights the

senses of many occasional passengers, who feel the pleasure, and half

wonder how the breeze has blown it from so far, the more sullen but not

less valuable myrtle waits like fortitude to discover its excellence,

till the hand arrives that will _crush_ it, and force out that perfume

whose durability well compensates the difficulty of production.

I saw Mr. Johnson in none but a tranquil, uniform state, passing the

evening of his life among friends, who loved, honoured, and admired him.

I saw none of the things he did, except such acts of charity as have been

often mentioned in this book, and such writings as are universally known.

What he said is all I can relate; and from what he said, those who think

it worth while to read these anecdotes must be contented to gather his

character. Mine is a mere _candle-light_ picture of his latter days,

where everything falls in dark shadow except the face, the index of the

mind; but even that is seen unfavourably, and with a paleness beyond what

nature gave it.

When I have told how many follies Dr. Johnson knew of others, I must not

omit to mention with how much fidelity he would always have kept them

concealed, could they of whom he knew the absurdities have been

contented, in the common phrase, to keep their own counsel. But

returning home one day from dining at the chaplain's table, he told me

that Dr. Goldsmith had given a very comical and unnecessarily exact

recital there of his own feelings when his play was hissed: telling the

company how he went, indeed, to the Literary Club at night, and chatted

gaily among his friends, as if nothing had happened amiss; that to

impress them still more forcibly with an idea of his magnanimity, he even

sung his favourite song about an old woman tossed in a blanket seventeen

times as high as the moon; "but all this while I was suffering horrid

tortures," said he, "and verily believe that if I had put a bit in my

mouth it would have strangled me on the spot, I was so excessively ill.

But I made more noise than usual to cover all that, and so they never

perceived my not eating, nor I believe at all imaged to themselves the

anguish of my heart; but when all were gone except Johnson here, I burst

out a-crying, and even swore by --- that I would never write again." "All

which, Doctor," says Mr. Johnson, amazed at his odd frankness, "I thought

had been a secret between you and me; and I am sure I would not have said

anything about it for the world. Now see," repeated he, when he told the

story, "what a figure a man makes who thus unaccountably chooses to be

the frigid narrator of his own disgrace. Il volto sciolto, ed i pensieri

stretti, was a proverb made on purpose for such mortals, to keep people,

if possible, from being thus the heralds of their own shame; for what

compassion can they gain by such silly narratives? No man should be

expected to sympathise with the sorrows of vanity. If, then, you are

mortified by any ill-usage, whether real or supposed, keep at least the

account of such mortifications to yourself, and forbear to proclaim how

meanly you are thought on by others, unless you desire to be meanly

thought of by all."

The little history of another friend's superfluous ingenuity will

contribute to introduce a similar remark. He had a daughter of about

fourteen years old, as I remember, fat and clumsy; and though the father

adored, and desired others to adore her, yet being aware, perhaps, that

she was not what the French call paitrie des graces, and thinking, I

suppose, that the old maxim of beginning to laugh at yourself first when

you have anything ridiculous about you was a good one, he comically

enough called his girl _Trundle_ when he spoke of her; and many who bore

neither of them any ill-will felt disposed to laugh at the happiness of

the appellation. "See, now," says Dr. Johnson, "what haste people are in

to be hooted. Nobody ever thought of this fellow nor of his daughter,

could he but have been quiet himself, and forborne to call the eyes of

the world on his dowdy and her deformity. But it teaches one to see at

least that if nobody else will nickname one's children, the parents will

e'en do it themselves."

All this held true in matters to Mr. Johnson of more serious consequence.

When Sir Joshua Reynolds had painted his portrait looking into the slit

of his pen, and holding it almost close to his eye, as was his general

custom, he felt displeased, and told me "he would not be known by

posterity for his _defects_ only, let Sir Joshua do his worst." I said

in reply that Reynolds had no such difficulties about himself, and that

he might observe the picture which hung up in the room where we were

talking represented Sir Joshua holding his ear in his hand to catch the

sound. "He may paint himself as deaf if he chooses," replied Johnson,

"but I will not be _Blinking Sam_."

It is chiefly for the sake of evincing the regularity and steadiness of

Mr. Johnson's mind that I have given these trifling memoirs, to show that

his soul was not different from that of another person, but, as it was,

greater; and to give those who did not know him a just idea of his

acquiescence in what we call vulgar prejudices, and of his extreme

distance from those notions which the world has agreed, I know not very

well why, to call romantic. It is indeed observable in his preface to

Shakespeare, that while other critics expatiate on the creative powers

and vivid imagination of that matchless poet, Dr. Johnson commends him

for giving so just a representation of human manners, "that from his

scenes a hermit might estimate the value of society, and a confessor

predict the progress of the passions." I have not the book with me here,

but am pretty sure that such is his expression.

The general and constant advice he gave, too, when consulted about the

choice of a wife, a profession, or whatever influences a man's particular

and immediate happiness, was always to reject no positive good from fears

of its contrary consequences. "Do not," said he, "forbear to marry a

beautiful woman if you can find such, out of a fancy that she will be

less constant than an ugly one; or condemn yourself to the society of

coarseness and vulgarity for fear of the expenses or other dangers of

elegance and personal charms, which have been always acknowledged as a

positive good, and for the want of which there should be always given

some weighty compensation. I have, however," continued Mr. Johnson,

"seen some prudent fellows who forbore to connect themselves with beauty

lest coquetry should be near, and with wit or birth lest insolence should

lurk behind them, till they have been forced by their discretion to

linger life away in tasteless stupidity, and choose to count the moments

by remembrance of pain instead of enjoyment of pleasure."

When professions were talked of, "Scorn," said Mr. Johnson, "to put your

behaviour under the dominion of canters; never think it clever to call

physic a mean study, or law a dry one; or ask a baby of seven years old

which way his _genius_ leads him, when we all know that a boy of seven

years old has no _genius_ for anything except a pegtop and an apple-pie;

but fix on some business where much money may be got, and little virtue

risked: follow that business steadily, and do not live as Roger Ascham

says the wits do, 'men know not how; and at last die obscurely, men mark

not where.'"

Dr. Johnson had indeed a veneration for the voice of mankind beyond what

most people will own; and as he liberally confessed that all his own

disappointments proceeded from himself, he hated to hear others complain

of general injustice. I remember when lamentation was made of the

neglect showed to Jeremiah Markland, a great philologist, as some one

ventured to call him. "He is a scholar, undoubtedly, sir," replied Dr.

Johnson, "but remember that he would run from the world, and that it is

not the world's business to run after him. I hate a fellow whom pride,

or cowardice, or laziness drives into a corner, and does nothing when he

is there but sit and _growl_; let him come out as I do, and _bark_. The

world," added he, "is chiefly unjust and ungenerous in this, that all are

ready to encourage a man who once talks of leaving it, and few things do

really provoke me more than to hear people prate of retirement, when they

have neither skill to discern their own motives, or penetration to

estimate the consequences. But while a fellow is active to gain either

power or wealth," continued he, "everybody produces some hindrance to his

advancement, some sage remark, or some unfavourable prediction; but let

him once say slightly, I have had enough of this troublesome, bustling

world, 'tis time to leave it now: 'Ah, dear sir!' cries the first old

acquaintance he meets, 'I am glad to find you in this happy disposition:

yes, dear friend! _do_ retire and think of nothing but your own ease.

There's Mr. William will find it a pleasure to settle all your accounts

and relieve you from the fatigue; Miss Dolly makes the charmingest

chicken-broth in the world, and the cheesecakes we ate of hers once, how

good they were. I will be coming every two or three days myself to chat

with you in a quiet way; _so snug_! and tell you how matters go upon

'Change, or in the House, or according to the blockhead's first pursuits,

whether lucrative or politic, which thus he leaves; and lays himself down

a voluntary prey to his own sensuality and sloth, while the ambition and

avarice of the nephews and nieces, with their rascally adherents and

coadjutors, reap the advantage, while they fatten their fool.'"

As the votaries of retirement had little of Mr. Johnson's applause,

unless that he knew that the motives were merely devotional, and unless

he was convinced that their rituals were accompanied by a mortified state

of the body, the sole proof of their sincerity which he would admit, as a

compensation for such fatigue as a worldly life of care and activity

requires; so of the various states and conditions of humanity, he

despised none more, I think, than the man who marries for a maintenance.

And of a friend who made his alliance on no higher principles, he said

once, "Now has that fellow (it was a nobleman of whom we were speaking)

at length obtained a certainty of three meals a day, and for that

certainty, like his brother dog in the fable, he will get his neck galled

for life with a collar."

That poverty was an evil to be avoided by all honest means, however, no

man was more ready to avow: concealed poverty particularly, which he said

was the general corrosive that destroyed the peace of almost every

family; to which no evening perhaps ever returned without some new

project for hiding the sorrows and dangers of the next day. "Want of

money," says Dr. Johnson, "is sometimes concealed under pretended

avarice, and sly hints of aversion to part with it; sometimes under

stormy anger, and affectation of boundless rage, but oftener still under

a show of thoughtless extravagance and gay neglect, while to a

penetrating eye none of these wretched veils suffice to keep the cruel

truth from being seen. Poverty is hic et ubique," says he, "and if you

do shut the jade out of the door, she will always contrive in some manner

to poke her pale, lean face in at the window."

I have mentioned before that old age had very little of Mr. Johnson's

reverence. "A man commonly grew wickeder as he grew older," he said, "at

least he but changed the vices of youth; headstrong passion and wild

temerity, for treacherous caution, and desire to circumvent. I am

always," said he, "on the young people's side, when there is a dispute

between them and the old ones, for you have at least a chance for virtue

till age has withered its very root." While we were talking, my mother's

spaniel, whom he never loved, stole our toast and butter; "Fie, Belle!"

said I, "you used to be upon honour." "Yes, madam," replies Johnson,

"_but Belle grows old_." His reason for hating the dog was, "because she

was a professed favourite," he said, "and because her lady ordered her

from time to time to be washed and combed, a foolish trick," said he,

"and an assumption of superiority that every one's nature revolts at; so

because one must not wish ill to the lady in such cases," continued he,

"one curses the cur." The truth is, Belle was not well behaved, and

being a large spaniel, was troublesome enough at dinner with frequent

solicitations to be fed. "This animal," said Dr. Johnson one day, "would

have been of extraordinary merit and value in the state of Lycurgus; for

she condemns one to the exertion of perpetual vigilance."

He had, indeed, that strong aversion felt by all the lower ranks of

people towards four-footed companions very completely, notwithstanding he

had for many years a cat which he called Hodge, that kept always in his

room at Fleet Street; but so exact was he not to offend the human species

by superfluous attention to brutes, that when the creature was grown sick

and old, and could eat nothing but oysters, Mr. Johnson always went out

himself to buy Hodge's dinner, that Francis the black's delicacy might

not be hurt, at seeing himself employed for the convenience of a

quadruped.

No one was, indeed, so attentive not to offend in all such sort of things

as Dr. Johnson; nor so careful to maintain the ceremonies of life: and

though he told Mr. Thrale once that he had never sought to please till

past thirty years old, considering the matter as hopeless, he had been

always studious not to make enemies by apparent preference of himself. It

happened very comically that the moment this curious conversation passed,

of which I was a silent auditress, was in the coach, in some distant

province, either Shropshire or Derbyshire, I believe; and as soon as it

was over, Mr. Johnson took out of his pocket a little book and read,

while a gentleman of no small distinction for his birth and elegance

suddenly rode up to the carriage, and paying us all his proper

compliments, was desirous not to neglect Dr. Johnson; but observing that

he did not see him, tapped him gently on the shoulder. "'Tis Mr. Ch-lm---

ley," says my husband. "Well, sir! and what if it is Mr. Ch-lm---ley!"

says the other, sternly, just lifting his eyes a moment from his book,

and returning to it again with renewed avidity.

He had sometimes fits of reading very violent; and when he was in earnest

about getting through some particular pages, for I have heard him say he

never read but one book, which he did not consider as obligatory, through

in his whole life (and "Lady Mary Wortley's Letters," was the book); he

would be quite lost to the company, and withdraw all his attention to

what he was reading, without the smallest knowledge or care about the

noise made round him. His deafness made such conduct less odd and less

difficult to him than it would have been to another man: but his advising

others to take the same method, and pull a little book out when they were

not entertained with what was going forward in society, seemed more

likely to advance the growth of science than of polished manners, for

which he always pretended extreme veneration.

Mr. Johnson, indeed, always measured other people's notions of everything

by his own, and nothing could persuade him to believe that the books

which he disliked were agreeable to thousands, or that air and exercise

which he despised were beneficial to the health of other mortals. When

poor Smart, so well known for his wit and misfortunes, was first obliged

to be put in private lodgings, a common friend of both lamented in tender

terms the necessity which had torn so pleasing a companion from their

acquaintance. "A madman must be confined, sir," replies Dr. Johnson.

"But," says the other, "I am now apprehensive for his general health, he

will lose the benefit of exercise." "Exercise!" returns the Doctor, "I

never heard that he used any: he might, for aught I know, walk _to_ the

alehouse; but I believe he was always _carried_ home again."

It was, however, unlucky for those who delighted to echo Johnson's

sentiments, that he would not endure from them to-day what perhaps he had

yesterday, by his own manner of treating the subject, made them fond of

repeating; and I fancy Mr. B--- has not forgotten that though his friend

one evening in a gay humour talked in praise of wine as one of the

blessings permitted by heaven, when used with moderation, to lighten the

load of life, and give men strength to endure it; yet, when in

consequence of such talk he thought fit to make a Bacchanalian discourse

in its favour, Mr. Johnson contradicted him somewhat roughly, as I

remember; and when, to assure himself of conquest, he added these words:

"You must allow me, sir, at least that it produces truth; in vino

veritas, you know, sir." "That," replied Mr. Johnson, "would be useless

to a man who knew he was not a liar when he was sober."

When one talks of giving and taking the lie familiarly, it is impossible

to forbear recollecting the transactions between the editor of "Ossian,"

and the author of the "Journey to the Hebrides." It was most observable

to me, however, that Mr. Johnson never bore his antagonist the slightest

degree of ill-will. He always kept those quarrels which belonged to him

as a writer separate from those which he had to do with as a man; but I

never did hear him say in private one malicious word of a public enemy;

and of Mr. Macpherson I once heard him speak respectfully, though his

reply to the friend who asked him if _any man living_ could have written

such a book, is well known, and has been often repeated--"Yes, sir, many

men, many women, and many children."

I inquired of him myself if this story was authentic, and he said it was.

I made the same inquiry concerning his account of the state of literature

in Scotland, which was repeated up and down at one time by everybody--"How

knowledge was divided among the Scots, like bread in a besieged town, to

every man a mouthful, to no man a bellyful." This story he likewise

acknowledged, and said, besides, "that some officious friend had carried

it to Lord Bute, who only answered, 'Well, well! never mind what he says,

he will have the pension all one.'"

Another famous reply to a Scotsman who commended the beauty and dignity

of Glasgow, till Mr. Johnson stopped him by observing, "that he probably

had never yet seen Brentford," was one of the jokes he owned; and said

himself "that when a gentleman of that country once mentioned the lovely

prospects common in his nation, he could not help telling him that the

view of the London road was the prospect in which every Scotsman most

naturally and most rationally delighted."

Mrs. Brooke received an answer not unlike this, when expatiating on the

accumulation of sublime and beautiful objects, which form the fine

prospect _up_ the River St. Lawrence, in North America. "Come, madam,"

says Dr. Johnson, "confess that nothing ever equalled your pleasure in

seeing that sight reversed; and finding yourself looking at the happy

prospect _down_ the River St. Lawrence." The truth is, he hated to hear

about prospects and views, and laying out ground and taste in gardening.

"That was the best garden," he said, "which produced most roots and

fruits; and that water was most to be prized which contained most fish."

He used to laugh at Shenstone most unmercifully for not caring whether

there was anything good to _eat_ in the streams he was so fond of, "as

if," says Johnson, "one could fill one's belly with hearing soft murmurs,

or looking at rough cascades!"

He loved the sight of fine forest trees, however, and detested

Brighthelmstone Downs, "because it was a country so truly desolate," he

said, "that if one had a mind to hang one's self for desperation at being

obliged to live there, it would be difficult to find a tree on which to

fasten the rope." Walking in a wood when it rained was, I think, the

only rural image he pleased his fancy with; "for," says he, "after one

has gathered the apples in an orchard, one wishes them well baked, and

removed to a London eating-house for enjoyment."

With such notions, who can wonder he passed his time uncomfortably enough

with us, who he often complained of for living so much in the country,

"feeding the chickens," as he said I did, "till I starved my own

understanding. Get, however," said he, "a book about gardening, and

study it hard, since you will pass your life with birds and flowers, and

learn to raise the _largest_ turnips, and to breed the _biggest_ fowls."

It was vain to assure him that the goodness of such dishes did not depend

upon their size. He laughed at the people who covered their canals with

foreign fowls, "when," says he, "our own geese and ganders are twice as

large. If we fetched better animals from distant nations, there might be

some sense in the preference; but to get cows from Alderney, or water-

fowl from China, only to see nature degenerating round one, is a poor

ambition indeed."

Nor was Mr. Johnson more merciful with regard to the amusements people

are contented to call such. "You hunt in the morning," says he, "and

crowd to the public rooms at night, and call it _diversion_, when your

heart knows it is perishing with poverty of pleasures, and your wits get

blunted for want of some other mind to sharpen them upon. There is in

this world no real delight (excepting those of sensuality), but exchange

of ideas in conversation; and whoever has once experienced the full flow

of London talk, when he retires to country friendships, and rural sports,

must either be contented to turn baby again and play with the rattle, or

he will pine away like a great fish in a little pond, and die for want of

his usual food." "Books without the knowledge of life are useless," I

have heard him say; "for what should books teach but the art of _living_?

To study manners, however, only in coffee-houses, is more than equally

imperfect; the minds of men who acquire no solid learning, and only exist

on the daily forage that they pick up by running about, and snatching

what drops from their neighbours as ignorant as themselves, will never

ferment into any knowledge valuable or durable; but like the light wines

we drink in hot countries, please for the moment, though incapable of

keeping. In the study of mankind much will be found to swim as froth,

and much must sink as feculence, before the wine can have its effect, and

become that noblest liquor which rejoices the heart, and gives vigour to

the imagination."

I am well aware that I do not and cannot give each expression of Dr.

Johnson with all its force or all its neatness; but I have done my best

to record such of his maxims, and repeat such of his sentiments, as may

give to those who know him not a just idea of his character and manner of

thinking. To endeavour at adorning, or adding, or softening, or

meliorating such anecdotes, by any tricks my inexperienced pen could

play, would be weakness indeed; worse than the Frenchman who presides

over the porcelain manufactory at Seve, to whom, when some Greek vases

were given him as models, he lamented la tristesse de telles formes; and

endeavoured to assist them by clusters of flowers, while flying Cupids

served for the handles of urns originally intended to contain the ashes

of the dead. The misery is, that I can recollect so few anecdotes, and

that I have recorded no more axioms of a man whose every word merited

attention, and whose every sentiment did honour to human nature. Remote

from affectation as from error or falsehood, the comfort a reader has in

looking over these papers is the certainty that these were really the

opinions of Johnson, which are related as such.

Fear of what others may think is the great cause of affectation; and he

was not likely to disguise his notions out of cowardice. He hated

disguise, and nobody penetrated it so readily. I showed him a letter

written to a common friend, who was at some loss for the explanation of

it. "Whoever wrote it," says our doctor, "could, if he chose it, make

himself understood; but 'tis the letter of an _embarrassed man_ sir;" and

so the event proved it to be.

Mysteriousness in trifles offended him on every side. "It commonly ended

in guilt," he said; "for those who begin by concealment of innocent

things will soon have something to hide which they dare not bring to

light." He therefore encouraged an openness of conduct, in women

particularly, "who," he observed, "were often led away when children, by

their delight and power of surprising." He recommended, on something

like the same principle, that when one person meant to serve another, he

should not go about it slily, or as we say, underhand, out of a false

idea of delicacy, to surprise one's friend with an unexpected favour,

"which, ten to one," says he, "fails to oblige your acquaintance, who had

some reasons against such a mode of obligation, which you might have

known but for that superfluous cunning which you think an elegance. Oh!

never be seduced by such silly pretences," continued he; "if a wench

wants a good gown, do not give her a fine smelling-bottle, because that

is more delicate: as I once knew a lady lend the key of her library to a

poor scribbling dependant, as if she took the woman for an ostrich that

could digest iron." He said, indeed, "that women were very difficult to

be taught the proper manner of conferring pecuniary favours; that they

always gave too much money or too little; for that they had an idea of

delicacy accompanying their gifts, so that they generally rendered them

either useless or ridiculous."

He did, indeed, say very contemptuous things of our sex, but was

exceedingly angry when I told Miss Reynolds that he said "It was well

managed of some one to leave his affairs in the hands of his wife,

because, in matters of business," said he, "no woman stops at integrity."

This was, I think, the only sentence I ever observed him solicitous to

explain away after he had uttered it. He was not at all displeased at

the recollection of a sarcasm thrown on a whole profession at once; when

a gentleman leaving the company, somebody who sat next Dr. Johnson asked

him, who he was? "I cannot exactly tell you, sir," replied he, "and I

would be loth to speak ill of any person who I do not know deserves it,

but I am afraid he is an _attorney_." He did not, however, encourage

general satire, and for the most part professed himself to feel directly

contrary to Dr. Swift; "who," says he, "hates the world, though he loves

John and Robert, and certain individuals."

Johnson said always, "that the world was well constructed, but that the

particular people disgraced the elegance and beauty of the general

fabric." In the same manner I was relating once to him how Dr. Collier

observed that the love one bore to children was from the anticipation

one's mind made while one contemplated them. "We hope," says he, "that

they will sometime make wise men or amiable women; and we suffer 'em to

take up our affection beforehand. One cannot love _lumps of flesh_, and

little infants are nothing more." "On the contrary," says Johnson, "one

can scarcely help wishing, while one fondles a baby, that it may never

live to become a man; for it is so probable that when he becomes a man,

he should be sure to end in a scoundrel." Girls were less displeasing to

him; "for as their temptations were fewer," he said, "their virtue in

this life, and happiness in the next, were less improbable; and he

loved," he said, "to see a knot of little misses dearly."

Needlework had a strenuous approver in Dr. Johnson, who said "that one of

the great felicities of female life was the general consent of the world

that they might amuse themselves with petty occupations, which

contributed to the lengthening their lives, and preserving their minds in

a state of sanity." "A man cannot hem a pocket-handkerchief," said a

lady of quality to him one day, "and so he runs mad, and torments his

family and friends." The expression struck him exceedingly, and when one

acquaintance grew troublesome, and another unhealthy, he used to quote

Lady Frances's observation, "That a man cannot hem a

pocket-handkerchief."

The nice people found no mercy from Mr. Johnson; such, I mean, as can

only dine at four o'clock, who cannot bear to be waked at an unusual

hour, or miss a stated meal without inconvenience. _He_ had no such

prejudices himself, and with difficulty forgave them in another.

"Delicacy does not surely consist," says he, "in impossibility to be

pleased, and that is false dignity indeed which is content to depend upon

others."

The saying of the old philosopher who observes, "That he who wants least

is most like the gods, who want nothing," was a favourite sentence with

Dr. Johnson, who on his own part required less attendance, sick or well,

than ever I saw any human creature. Conversation was all he required to

make him happy; and when he would have tea made at two o'clock in the

morning, it was only that there might be a certainty of detaining his

companions round him. On that principle it was that he preferred winter

to summer, when the heat of the weather gave people an excuse to stroll

about and walk for pleasure in the shade, while he wished to sit still on

a chair and chat day after day, till somebody proposed a drive in the

coach, and that was the most delicious moment of his life. "But the

carriage must stop some time," he said, "and the people would come home

at last," so his pleasure was of short duration.

I asked him why he doated on a coach so? and received for answer, "That

in the first place the company were shut in with him _there_, and could

not escape, as out of a room. In the next place, he heard all that was

said in a carriage, where it was my turn to be deaf," and very impatient

was he at my occasional difficulty of hearing. On this account he wished

to travel all over the world, for the very act of going forward was

delightful to him, and he gave himself no concern about accidents, which

he said never happened. Nor did the running away of the horses on the

edge of a precipice between Vernon and St. Denis, in France, convince him

to the contrary, "for nothing came of it," he said, "except that Mr.

Thrale leaped out of the carriage into a chalk-pit, and then came up

again looking _as white_!" When the truth was, all their lives were

saved by the greatest Providence ever exerted in favour of three human

creatures; and the part Mr. Thrale took from desperation was the

likeliest thing in the world to produce broken limbs and death.

Fear was indeed a sensation to which Mr. Johnson was an utter stranger,

excepting when some sudden apprehensions seized him that he was going to

die, and even then he kept all his wits about him to express the most

humble and pathetic petitions to the Almighty. And when the first

paralytic stroke took his speech from him, he instantly set about

composing a prayer in Latin, at once to deprecate God's mercy, to satisfy

himself that his mental powers remained unimpaired, and to keep them in

exercise, that they might not perish by permitted stagnation. This was

after we parted; but he wrote me an account of it, and I intend to

publish that letter, with many more.

When one day he had at my house taken tincture of antimony instead of

emetic wine, for a vomit, he was himself the person to direct us what to

do for him, and managed with as much coolness and deliberation as if he

had been prescribing for an indifferent person. Though on another

occasion, when he had lamented in the most piercing terms his approaching

dissolution, and conjured me solemnly to tell him what I thought, while

Sir Richard Jebb was perpetually on the road to Streatham, and Mr.

Johnson seemed to think himself neglected if the physician left him for

an hour only, I made him a steady, but as I thought a very gentle

harangue, in which I confirmed all that the doctor had been saying; how

no present danger could be expected, but that his age and continued ill-

health must naturally accelerate the arrival of that hour which can be

escaped by none. "And this," says Johnson, rising in great anger, "is

the voice of female friendship, I suppose, when the hand of the hangman

would be softer."

Another day, when he was ill, and exceedingly low-spirited, and persuaded

that death was not far distant, I appeared before him in a dark-coloured

gown, which his bad sight, and worse apprehensions, made him mistake for

an iron-grey. "Why do you delight," said he, "thus to thicken the gloom

of misery that surrounds me? Is not here sufficient accumulation of

horror without anticipated mourning?" "This is not mourning, sir," said

I, drawing the curtain, that the light might fall upon the silk, and show

it was a purple mixed with green. "Well, well," replied he, changing his

voice, "you little creatures should never wear those sort of clothes,

however; they are unsuitable in every way. What! have not all insects

gay colours?" I relate these instances chiefly to show that the fears of

death itself could not suppress his wit, his sagacity, or his temptation

to sudden resentment.

Mr. Johnson did not like that his friends should bring their manuscripts

for him to read, and he liked still less to read them when they were

brought. Sometimes, however, when he could not refuse, he would take the

play or poem, or whatever it was, and give the people his opinion from

some one page he had peeped into. A gentleman carried him his tragedy,

which, because he loved the author, Johnson took, and it lay about our

rooms some time. "What answer did you give your friend, sir?" said I,

after the book had been called for. "I told him," replied he, "that

there was too much _Tig_ and _Tirry_ in it!" Seeing me laugh most

violently, "Why, what would'st have, child?" said he. "I looked at the

dramatis, and there was _Tig_ranes and _Tiri_dates, or Teribazus, or such

stuff. A man can tell but what he knows, and I never got any farther

than the first page. Alas, madam!" continued he, "how few books are

there of which one ever can possibly arrive at the _last_ page. Was

there ever yet anything written by mere man that was wished longer by its

readers, excepting 'Don Quixote,' 'Robinson Crusoe,' and the 'Pilgrim's

Progress?'" After Homer's Iliad, Mr. Johnson confessed that the work of

Cervantes was the greatest in the world, speaking of it I mean as a book

of entertainment. And when we consider that every other author's

admirers are confined to his countrymen, and perhaps to the literary

classes among _them_, while "Don Quixote" is a sort of common property,

an universal classic, equally tasted by the court and the cottage,

equally applauded in France and England as in Spain, quoted by every

servant, the amusement of every age from infancy to decrepitude; the

first book you see on every shelf, in every shop, where books are sold,

through all the states of Italy; who can refuse his consent to an avowal

of the superiority of Cervantes to all other modern writers? Shakespeare

himself has, till lately, been worshipped only at home, though his plays

are now the favourite amusements of Vienna; and when I was at Padua some

months ago, Romeo and Juliet was acted there under the name of Tragedia

Veronese; while engravers and translators _live_ by the hero of La Mancha

in every nation, and the sides of miserable inns all over England and

France, and I have heard Germany too, are adorned with the exploits of

Don Quixote. May his celebrity procure my pardon for a digression in

praise of a writer who, through four volumes of the most exquisite

pleasantry and genuine humour, has never been seduced to overstep the

limits of propriety, has never called in the wretched auxiliaries of

obscenity or profaneness; who trusts to nature and sentiment alone, and

never misses of that applause which Voltaire and Sterne labour to

produce, while honest merriment bestows her unfading crown upon

Cervantes.

Dr. Johnson was a great reader of French literature, and delighted

exceedingly in Boileau's works. Moliere, I think, he had hardly

sufficient taste of, and he used to condemn me for preferring La Bruyere

to the Duc de Rochefoucault, who, he said, was the only gentleman writer

who wrote like a professed author. The asperity of his harsh sentences,

each of them a sentence of condemnation, used to disgust me, however;

though it must be owned that, among the necessaries of human life, a rasp

is reckoned one as well as a razor.

Mr. Johnson did not like any one who said they were happy, or who said

any one else was so. "It is all cant," he would cry; "the dog knows he

is miserable all the time." A friend whom he loved exceedingly, told him

on some occasion, notwithstanding, that his wife's sister was _really_

happy, and called upon the lady to confirm his assertion, which she did

somewhat roundly, as we say, and with an accent and manner capable of

offending Mr. Johnson, if her position had not been sufficient, without

anything more, to put him in very ill-humour. "If your sister-in-law is

really the contented being she professes herself, sir," said he, "her

life gives the lie to every research of humanity; for she is happy

without health, without beauty, without money, and without

understanding." This story he told me himself, and when I expressed

something of the horror I felt, "The same stupidity," said he, "which

prompted her to extol felicity she never felt, hindered her from feeling

what shocks you on repetition. I tell you, the woman is ugly and sickly

and foolish and poor; and would it not make a man hang himself to hear

such a creature say it was happy?

"The life of a sailor was also a continual scene of danger and exertion,"

he said; "and the manner in which time was spent shipboard would make all

who saw a cabin envy a gaol." The roughness of the language used on

board a man-of-war, where he passed a week on a visit to Captain Knight,

disgusted him terribly. He asked an officer what some place was called,

and received for answer, that it was where the loplolly man kept his

loplolly, a reply he considered, not unjustly, as disrespectful, gross,

and ignorant; for though in the course of these memoirs I have been led

to mention Dr. Johnson's tenderness towards _poor_ people, I do not wish

to mislead my readers, and make them think he had any delight in _mean_

manners or coarse expressions. Even dress itself, when it resembled that

of the vulgar, offended him exceedingly; and when he had condemned me

many times for not adorning my children with more show than I thought

useful or elegant, I presented a little girl to him who came o'visiting

one evening covered with shining ornaments, to see if he would approve of

the appearance she made. When they were gone home, "Well, sir," said I,

"how did you like little miss? I hope she was _fine_ enough." "It was

the finery of a beggar," said he, "and you know it was; she looked like a

native of Cow Lane dressed up to be carried to Bartholomew Fair."

His reprimand to another lady for crossing her little child's

handkerchief before, and by that operation dragging down its head oddly

and unintentionally, was on the same principle. "It is the beggar's fear

of cold," said he, "that prevails over such parents, and so they pull the

poor thing's head down, and give it the look of a baby that plays about

Westminster Bridge, while the mother sits shivering in a niche."

I commended a young lady for her beauty and pretty behaviour one day,

however, to whom I thought no objection could have been made. "I saw

her," says Dr. Johnson, "take a pair of scissors in her left hand,

though; and for all her father is now become a nobleman, and as you say,

excessively rich, I should, were I a youth of quality ten years hence,

hesitate between a girl so neglected, and a _negro_."

It was indeed astonishing how he _could_ remark such minutenesses with a

sight so miserably imperfect; but no accidental position of a ribband

escaped him, so nice was his observation, and so rigorous his demands of

propriety. When I went with him to Lichfield and came downstairs to

breakfast at the inn, my dress did not please him, and he made me alter

it entirely before he would stir a step with us about the town, saying

most satirical things concerning the appearance I made in a riding-habit,

and adding, "'Tis very strange that such eyes as yours cannot discern

propriety of dress. If I had a sight only half as good, I think I should

see to the centre."

My compliances, however, were of little worth. What really surprised me

was the victory he gained over a lady little accustomed to contradiction,

who had dressed herself for church at Streatham one Sunday morning in a

manner he did not approve, and to whom he said such sharp and pungent

things concerning her hat, her gown, etc., that she hastened to change

them, and returning quite another figure received his applause, and

thanked him for his reproofs, much to the amazement of her husband, who

could scarcely believe his own ears.

Another lady, whose accomplishments he never denied, came to our house

one day covered with diamonds, feathers, etc., and he did not seem

inclined to chat with her as usual. I asked him why, when the company

was gone. "Why, her head looked so like that of a woman who shows

puppets," said he, "and her voice so confirmed the fancy, that I could

not bear her to-day. When she wears a large cap I can talk to her."

When the ladies wore lace trimmings to their clothes he expressed his

contempt of the reigning fashion in these terms: "A Brussels trimming is

like bread sauce," said he, "it takes away the glow of colour from the

gown, and gives you nothing instead of it. But sauce was invented to

heighten the flavour of our food, and trimming is an ornament to the

manteau or it is nothing. Learn," said he, "that there is propriety or

impropriety in everything how slight soever, and get at the general

principles of dress and of behaviour; if you then transgress them you

will at least know that they are not observed."

All these exactnesses in a man who was nothing less than exact himself

made him extremely impracticable as an inmate, though most instructive as

companion and useful as a friend. Mr. Thrale, too, could sometimes

overrule his rigidity by saying coldly, "There, there, now we have had

enough for one lecture, Dr. Johnson. We will not be upon education any

more till after dinner, if you please," or some such speech. But when

there was nobody to restrain his dislikes it was extremely difficult to

find anybody with whom he could converse without living always on the

verge of a quarrel, or of something too like a quarrel to be pleasing. I

came into the room, for example, one evening where he and a gentleman,

whose abilities we all respect exceedingly, were sitting. A lady who

walked in two minutes before me had blown 'em both into a flame by

whispering something to Mr. S---d, which he endeavoured to explain away

so as not to affront the Doctor, whose suspicions were all alive. "And

have a care, sir," said he, just as I came in, "the Old Lion will not

bear to be tickled." The other was pale with rage, the lady wept at the

confusion she had caused, and I could only say with Lady Macbeth--

"Soh! you've displac'd the mirth, broke the good meeting

With most admir'd disorder."

Such accidents, however, occurred too often, and I was forced to take

advantage of my lost lawsuit and plead inability of purse to remain

longer in London or its vicinage. I had been crossed in my intentions of

going abroad, and found it convenient, for every reason of health, peace,

and pecuniary circumstances, to retire to Bath, where I knew Mr. Johnson

would not follow me, and where I could for that reason command some

little portion of time for my own use, a thing impossible while I

remained at Streatham or at London, as my hours, carriage, and servants

had long been at his command, who would not rise in the morning till

twelve o'clock, perhaps, and oblige me to make breakfast for him till the

bell rung for dinner, though much displeased if the toilet was neglected,

and though much of the time we passed together was spent in blaming or

deriding, very justly, my neglect of economy and waste of that money

which might make many families happy. The original reason of our

connection, his _particularly disordered health and spirits_, had been

long at an end, and he had no other ailments than old age and general

infirmity, which every professor of medicine was ardently zealous and

generally attentive to palliate, and to contribute all in their power for

the prolongation of a life so valuable. Veneration for his virtue,

reverence for his talents, delight in his conversation, and habitual

endurance of a yoke my husband first put upon me, and of which he

contentedly bore his share for sixteen or seventeen years, made me go on

so long with Mr. Johnson; but the perpetual confinement I will own to

have been terrifying in the first years of our friendship and irksome in

the last. Nor could I pretend to support it without help, when my

coadjutor was no more. To the assistance we gave him, the shelter our

house afforded to his uneasy fancies, and to the pains we took to soothe

or repress them, the world perhaps is indebted for the three political

pamphlets, the new edition and correction of his "Dictionary," and for

the "Poets' Lives," which he would scarce have lived, I think, and kept

his faculties entire to have written, had not incessant care been exerted

at the time of his first coming to be our constant guest in the country,

and several times after that, when he found himself particularly

oppressed with diseases incident to the most vivid and fervent

imaginations. I shall for ever consider it as the greatest honour which

could be conferred on any one to have been the confidential friend of Dr.

Johnson's health, and to have in some measure, with Mr. Thrale's

assistance, saved from distress at least, if not worse, a mind great

beyond the comprehension of common mortals, and good beyond all hope of

imitation from perishable beings.

Many of our friends were earnest that he should write the lives of our

famous prose authors; but he never made any answer that I can recollect

to the proposal, excepting when Sir Richard Musgrave once was singularly

warm about it, getting up and entreating him to set about the work

immediately, he coldly replied, "_Sit down_, _sir_!"

When Mr. Thrale built the new library at Streatham, and hung up over the

books the portraits of his favourite friends, that of Dr. Johnson was

last finished, and closed the number. It was almost impossible _not_ to

make verses on such an accidental combination of circumstances, so I made

the following ones. But as a character written in verse will for the

most part be found imperfect as a character, I have therefore written a

prose one, with which I mean, not to complete, but to conclude these

"Anecdotes" of the best and wisest man that ever came within the reach of

my personal acquaintance, and I think I might venture to add, that of all

or any of my readers:--

Gigantic in knowledge, in virtue, in strength,

Our company closes with JOHNSON at length;

So the Greeks from the cavern of Polypheme past,

When wisest, and greatest, Ulysses came last.

To his comrades contemptuous we see him look down,

On their wit and their worth with a general frown.

Since from Science' proud tree the rich fruit he receives,

Who could shake the whole trunk while they turned a few leaves.

His piety pure, his morality nice--

Protector of virtue, and terror of vice;

In these features Religion's firm champion displayed,

Shall make infidels fear for a modern crusade.

While th' inflammable temper, the positive tongue,

Too conscious of right for endurance of wrong:

We suffer from JOHNSON, contented to find,

That some notice we gain from so noble a mind;

And pardon our hurts, since so often we've found

The balm of instruction poured into the wound.

'Tis thus for its virtues the chemists extol

Pure rectified spirit, sublime alcohol;

From noxious putrescence, preservative pure,

A cordial in health, and in sickness a cure;

But exposed to the sun, taking fire at his rays,

Burns bright to the bottom, and ends in a blaze.

It is usual, I know not why, when a character is given, to begin with a

description of the person. That which contained the soul of Mr. Johnson

deserves to be particularly described. His stature was remarkably high,

and his limbs exceedingly large. His strength was more than common, I

believe, and his activity had been greater, I have heard, than such a

form gave one reason to expect. His features were strongly marked, and

his countenance particularly rugged; though the original complexion had

certainly been fair, a circumstance somewhat unusual. His sight was

near, and otherwise imperfect; yet his eyes, though of a light grey

colour, were so wild, so piercing, and at times so fierce, that fear was,

I believe, the first emotion in the hearts of all his beholders. His

mind was so comprehensive, that no language but that he used could have

expressed its contents; and so ponderous was his language, that

sentiments less lofty and less solid than his were would have been

encumbered, not adorned by it.

Mr. Johnson was not intentionally, however, a pompous converser; and

though he was accused of using big words, as they are called, it was only

when little ones would not express his meaning as clearly, or when,

perhaps, the elevation of the thought would have been disgraced by a

dress less superb. He used to say, "that the size of a man's

understanding might always be justly measured by his mirth," and his own

was never contemptible. He would laugh at a stroke of genuine humour, or

sudden sally of odd absurdity, as heartily and freely as I ever yet saw

any man; and though the jest was often such as few felt besides himself,

yet his laugh was irresistible, and was observed immediately to produce

that of the company, not merely from the notion that it was proper to

laugh when he did, but purely out of want of power to forbear it. He was

no enemy to splendour of apparel or pomp of equipage. "Life," he would

say, "is barren enough surely with all her trappings; let us therefore be

cautious how we strip her." In matters of still higher moment he once

observed, when speaking on the subject of sudden innovation, "He who

plants a forest may doubtless cut down a hedge; yet I could wish,

methinks, that even he would wait till he sees his young plants grow."

With regard to common occurrences, Mr. Johnson had, when I first knew

him, looked on the still-shifting scenes of life till he was weary; for

as a mind slow in its own nature, or unenlivened by information, will

contentedly read in the same book for twenty times, perhaps, the very act

of reading it being more than half the business, and every period being

at every reading better understood; while a mind more active or more

skilful to comprehend its meaning is made sincerely sick at the second

perusal; so a soul like his, acute to discern the truth, vigorous to

embrace, and powerful to retain it, soon sees enough of the world's dull

prospect, which at first, like that of the sea, pleases by its extent,

but soon, like that, too, fatigues from its uniformity; a calm and a

storm being the only variations that the nature of either will admit.

Of Mr. Johnson's erudition the world has been the judge, and we who

produce each a score of his sayings, as proofs of that wit which in him

was inexhaustible, resemble travellers who, having visited Delhi or

Golconda, bring home each a handful of Oriental pearl to evince the

riches of the Great Mogul. May the public condescend to accept my _ill-

strung_ selection with patience at least, remembering only that they are

relics of him who was great on all occasions, and, like a cube in

architecture, you beheld him on each side, and his size still appeared

undiminished.

As his purse was ever open to almsgiving, so was his heart tender to

those who wanted relief, and his soul susceptible of gratitude, and of

every kind impression: yet though he had refined his sensibility he had

not endangered his quiet, by encouraging in himself a solicitude about

trifles, which he treated with the contempt they deserve.

It was well enough known before these sheets were published, that Mr.

Johnson had a roughness in his manner which subdued the saucy, and

terrified the meek; this was, when I knew him, the prominent part of a

character which few durst venture to approach so nearly; and which was

for that reason in many respects grossly and frequently mistaken, and it

was perhaps peculiar to him, that the lofty consciousness of his own

superiority which animated his looks, and raised his voice in

conversation, cast likewise an impenetrable veil over him when he said

nothing. His talk, therefore, had commonly the complexion of arrogance,

his silence of superciliousness. He was, however, seldom inclined to be

silent when any moral or literary question was started; and it was on

such occasions that, like the sage in "Rasselas," he spoke, and attention

watched his lips; he reasoned, and conviction closed his periods; if

poetry was talked of, his quotations were the readiest; and had he not

been eminent for more solid and brilliant qualities, mankind would have

united to extol his extraordinary memory. His manner of repeating

deserves to be described, though at the same time it defeats all power of

description; but whoever once heard him repeat an ode of Horace would be

long before they could endure to hear it repeated by another.

His equity in giving the character of living acquaintance ought not

undoubtedly to be omitted in his own, whence partiality and prejudice

were totally excluded, and truth alone presided in his tongue, a

steadiness of conduct the more to be commended, as no man had stronger

likings or aversions. His veracity was, indeed, from the most trivial to

the most solemn occasions, strict, even to severity; he scorned to

embellish a story with fictitious circumstances, which, he used to say,

took off from its real value. "A story," says Johnson, "should be a

specimen of life and manners; but if the surrounding circumstances are

false, as it is no more a representation of reality, it is no longer

worthy our attention."

For the rest--that beneficence which during his life increased the

comforts of so many may after his death be, perhaps, ungratefully

forgotten; but that piety which dictated the serious papers in the

"Rambler" will be for ever remembered; for ever, I think, revered. That

ample repository of religious truth, moral wisdom, and accurate

criticism, breathes, indeed, the genuine emanations of its great author's

mind, expressed, too, in a style so natural to him, and so much like his

common mode of conversing, that I was myself but little astonished when

he told me that he had scarcely read over one of those inimitable essays

before they went to the press.

I will add one or two peculiarities more before I lay down my pen. Though

at an immeasurable distance from content in the contemplation of his own

uncouth form and figure, he did not like another man much the less for

being a coxcomb. I mentioned two friends who were particularly fond of

looking at themselves in a glass. "They do not surprise me at all by so

doing," said Johnson; "they see, reflected in that glass, men who have

risen from almost the lowest situations in life; one to enormous riches,

the other to everything this world can give--rank, fame, and fortune.

They see, likewise, men who have merited their advancement by the

exertion and improvement of those talents which God had given them; and I

see not why they should avoid the mirror."

The other singularity I promised to record is this: That though a man of

obscure birth himself, his partiality to people of family was visible on

every occasion; his zeal for subordination warm even to bigotry; his

hatred to innovation, and reverence for the old feudal times, apparent,

whenever any possible manner of showing them occurred. I have spoken of

his piety, his charity, and his truth, the enlargement of his heart, and

the delicacy of his sentiments; and when I search for shadow to my

portrait, none can I find but what was formed by pride, differently

modified as different occasions showed it; yet never was pride so

purified as Johnson's, at once from meanness and from vanity. The mind

of this man was, indeed, expanded beyond the common limits of human

nature, and stored with such variety of knowledge, that I used to think

it resembled a royal pleasure ground, where every plant, of every name

and nation, flourished in the full perfection of their powers, and where,

though lofty woods and falling cataracts first caught the eye, and fixed

the earliest attention of beholders, yet neither the trim parterre nor

the pleasing shrubbery, nor even the antiquated evergreens, were denied a

place in some fit corner of the happy valley.