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summer-house into their hands for the two evenings, to fill with acquaintance and merriment. Francis and his white wife were invited of course. She was eminently pretty, and he was jealous, as my maids told me. On the first of these days' amusements (I know not what year) Frank took offence at some attentions paid his Desdemona, and walked away next morning to London in wrath. His master and I driving the same road an hour after, overtook him. "What is the matter, child,” says Dr. Johnson, "that you leave Streatham to-day? Art sick?" "He is jealous," whispered I. "Are you jealous of your wife, you stupid blockhead?" cries out his master in another tone." The fellow hesitated; and, "To be sure, Sir, I don't quite approve, Sir," was the stammering reply. Why, what do they do to her, man? do the footmen kiss her?" "No, Sir, no! Kiss my wife, Sir! —I hope not, Sir." Why, what do they do to her, my lad?" "Why nothing, Sir, I'm sure, Sir." Why, then, go back directly and dance, you dog, do; and let's hear no more of such empty lamentations." I believe, however, that Francis was scarcely as much the object of Mr. Johnson's personal kindness, as the representative of Dr. Bathurst, for whose sake he would have loved any body, or any thing. When he spoke of negroes, he always appeared to think them of a race naturally inferior, and made few exceptions in favour of his own; yet whenever disputes arose in his household among the many odd inhabitants of which it consisted, he always sided with Francis against the others, whom he suspected (not unjustly, I believe) of greater malignity.

102. Poverty of Sentiment.

It was never against people of coarse life that his contempt was expressed, while poverty of sentiment in men who considered themselves to be company for the parlour, as he called it, was what he would not bear.

A very ignorant young fellow, who had plagued us all for nine or ten months, died at last consumptive: “I think," said Mr. Johnson when he heard the news, "I am afraid, I should have been more concerned for the death of the dog; but -" (hesitating a while) " I am not wrong now in all this, for the dog acted up to his character on every occasion that we know; but that dunce of a fellow helped forward the general disgrace of humanity." "Why, dear Sir," said I, "how odd you are! you have often said the lad was not capable of receiving further instruction." "He was," replied the Doctor, "like a corked bottle, with a drop of dirty water in it, to be sure; one might pump upon it for ever without the smallest effect; but when every method to open and clean it had been tried, you would not have me grieve that the bottle was broke at last?" This was the same youth who told us he had been reading Lucius Florus ; Florus Delphini was the phrase ; and my mother," said he, thought it had something to do with Delphos ; but of that I know nothing." "Who founded Rome then?" inquired Mr. Thrale. The lad replied, "Romulus." "And who succeeded Romulus?" said I. A long pause, and apparently distressful hesitation, followed the difficult question. "Why will "Why will you ask him in terms that he does not comprehend?" said Mr. Johnson enraged. "You might as well bid him tell you who phlebotomised Romulus. This fellow's dulness is elastic," continued he," and all we do is but like kicking at a woolsack."

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103. Public Schools. - Useful Knowledge.

I remember his saying, "A boy should never be sent to Eton or Westminster school before he is twelve years old at least; for if in his years of babyhood he 'scapes that general and transcendent knowledge without which life is perpetually put to a stand, he will never

get it at a public school, where if he does not learn Latin and Greek, he learns nothing."

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Mr. Johnson often said, "that there was too much stress laid upon literature as indispensably necessary : there is surely no need that every body should be a scholar, no call that every one should square the circle. Our manner of teaching," said he, cramps and warps many a mind, which if left more at liberty would have been respectable in some way, though perhaps not in that. We lop our trees, and prune them, and pinch them about," he would say, "and nail them tight up to the wall, while a good standard is at last the only thing for bearing healthy fruit, though it commonly begins later. Let the people learn necessary knowledge; let them learn to count their fingers, and to count their money, before they are caring for the classics; for," says Mr. Johnson, "though I do not quite agree with the proverb, that Nullum numen abest si sit prudentia, yet we may very well say, that Nullum numen adest ni sit prudentia."

104. Ignorance.

We had been visiting at a lady's house, whom as we returned some of the company ridiculed for her ignorance: "She is not ignorant," said he, "I believe, of any thing she has been taught, or of any thing she is desirous to know; and I suppose if one wanted a little run tea, she might be a proper person enough to apply to."

105. Johnson's Pride and Severity.

When I relate these various instances of contemptuous behaviour shown to a variety of people, I am aware that those who till now have heard little of Mr. Johnson will here cry out against his pride and his severity; yet I have been as careful as I could to tell them, that all he did was gentle, if all he said was rough. Had I

given anecdotes of his actions instead of his words, we should, I am sure, have had nothing on record but acts of virtue differently modified, as different occasions called that virtue forth and among all the nine biographical essays or performances which I have heard will at last be written about dear Dr. Johnson, no mean or wretched, no wicked or even slightly culpable, action will, I trust, be found, to produce and put in the scale against a life of seventy years, spent in the uniform practice of every moral excellence and every Christian perfection, save humility alone, says a critic; but that, I think, must be excepted. He was not, however, wanting even in that to a degree seldom attained by man, when the duties of piety or charity called it forth.

Lowly towards God, and docile towards the church; implicit in his belief of the gospel, and ever respectful towards the people appointed to preach it; tender of the unhappy, and affectionate to the poor, let no one hastily condemn as proud, a character which may perhaps somewhat justly be censured as arrogant. It must however be remembered again, that even this arrogance was never shown without some intention, immediate or remote, of mending some fault or conveying some instruction. Had I meant to make a panegyric on Mr. Johnson's well-known excellencies, I should have told his deeds only, not his words—sincerely protesting, that as I never saw him once do a wrong thing, so we had accustomed ourselves to look upon him almost as an excepted being; and I should as much have expected injustice from Socrates, or impiety from Pascal, as the slightest deviation from truth and goodness in any transaction one might be engaged in with Samuel Johnson.

106. Veracity. — Clarissa. — Amelia. His attention to veracity was without equal or example: and when I mentioned Clarissa as a perfect

character; "On the contrary," said he, " you may observe there is always something which she prefers to truth. Fielding's Amelia was the most pleasing heroine of all the romances," he said; "but that vile broken nose, never cured, ruined the sale of perhaps the only book, which, being printed off betimes one morning, a new edition was called for before night."

His wife's daughter, Mrs. Lucy Porter of Litchfield, whose veneration for his person and character has ever been the greatest possible, being opposed one day in conversation by a clergyman who came often to her house, and feeling somewhat offended, cried out suddenly, "Why, Mr. Pearson," said she, "you are just like Dr. Johnson, I think: I do not mean that you are a man of the greatest capacity in all the world like Dr. Johnson, but that you contradict one every word one speaks, just like him." Mr. Johnson told me the story he was present at the giving of the reproof. It was, however, observable that with all his odd severity, he could not keep even indifferent people from teasing him with unaccountable confessions of silly conduct, which one would think they would scarcely have had inclination to reveal even to their tenderest and most intimate companions; and it was from these unaccountable volunteers in sincerity, that he learned to warn the world against follies little known, and seldom thought on by other moralists.

108. Vows.

Much of his eloquence, and much of his logic, have I heard him use to prevent men from making vows on trivial occasion; 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