Part 9 (1/2)

Nor was Mr. Johnson more merciful with regard to the amus.e.m.e.nts 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 peris.h.i.+ng 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 friends.h.i.+ps, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 n.o.blest 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 a.s.sist them by cl.u.s.ters 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 n.o.body 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 _embarra.s.sed 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 s.e.x, 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 wis.h.i.+ng, 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 G.o.ds, 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 pet.i.tions 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 G.o.d'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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 acc.u.mulation of horror without antic.i.p.ated 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 ma.n.u.scripts 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 cla.s.ses among _them_, while ”Don Quixote” is a sort of common property, an universal cla.s.sic, equally tasted by the court and the cottage, equally applauded in France and England as in Spain, quoted by every servant, the amus.e.m.e.nt 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 wors.h.i.+pped only at home, though his plays are now the favourite amus.e.m.e.nts 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 a.s.sertion, 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 repet.i.tion. 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 s.h.i.+pboard would make all who saw a cabin envy a gaol.” The roughness of the language used on board a man-of-war, where he pa.s.sed 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 coa.r.s.e 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 n.o.bleman, 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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.”