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 irreparable or irrepairable 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 Tigranes and Tiridates, 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.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANECDOTES OF THE LATE SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.***