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.

124. Mr. Cholmondeley.

No one was 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 past, 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. "'T is Mr. Cholmondeley," says my husband. "Well, Sir! and what if it is Mr. Cholmondeley? says the other sternly, just lifting his eyes a moment from his book, and returning to it again with renewed avidity. (1)

(1) For Boswell's strictures on this passage, see antè, Vol. VIII. p. 347. I subjoin Mr. Cholmondeley's own account of the circumstance, which however only confirms Mrs. Piozzi's statement: "In the year 1774 I was making a tour of Derbyshire in a gig with Windham. Just as we came to the point of the hill going down into Matlock, we saw Mr. Thrale's

125. "In Vino Veritas."

It was 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. Boswell has not forgotten, that though his friend one evening in a gay humour

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carriage and four, in which were Dr. Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Thrale: the horses were breathing after ascending the hill: we had heard they were in those parts; of course this rencontre excited some interest. I, with all the conceit of a young man, saying, I know Dr. Johnson very well, I'll manage it all; tripped very pertly from the gig to the carriage, shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Thrale, who were very glad to see me as people are glad in a commonplace way. Dr. Johnson took not the smallest notice; on which Mr. Thrale said, Dr. Johnson, here is Mr. Cholmondeley.' Dr. Johnson neither spoke nor moved. He_repeated, Dr. Johnson, here is Mr. Cholmondeley.' Dr. Johnson was equally silent. Mr. Thrale repeated it a third time; when Dr. Johnson answered, Well, Sir!' and what if there is Mr. Cholmondeley?' I, of course, tripped back again, much entertained at the humorous way in which my conceit had been put down. I imagine Mrs. Thrale must, in some dispute, have reproached him with this, as an instance of unprovoked brutality towards an unoffending person. Four years afterwards, I went to dine at Mr. Thrale's, at Brighton. The house was small; the passage running close by the room into the street. I arrived before Dr. Johnson was dressed. When he entered the room, he said, George, I want to speak to you.' He led me from the passage into the street; then said, George, I owe you reparation for an injury which I do not recollect. I am told that, some years ago, I met you on the point of Matlock Hill, and spoke to you with unjustifiable insolence; whether I was thinking of something else, or whether I had been quarrelling with Thrale, I know not; but I ought not so to have insulted an innocent unoffending young man; and I beg your pardon.' I told this to Mrs. Thrale, with all the animation such a beautiful trait was calculated to inspire; and after she published her garbled account of it, I called upon her, reminded her of this circumstance, pointed out to her how characteristic an anecdote it was, of a man whose temper was harsh, but whose principles were charitable in the extreme, and who was, consequently, always in a state of repentance for imaginary injuries: I enjoined her, by the love of truth and justice, to publish another edition of it, which she never did.".

C.

talked in praise of wine, as one of the blessings permitted by Heaven when used with moderation, to enlighten 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."

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126. Ossian.- Macpherson.

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 every body, "How knowledge is divided among the Scots, like bread in a besieged town, to every man a mouthful, to no man a belly ful." This story he likewise acknowledged, and said besides, that some officious friend had carried it to Lord Bute, who only

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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. Brook 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 propect 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 any thing 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." (1)

With such notions, who can wonder he passed his time uncomfortably enough with us, whom 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."

29. Amusements.

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 expe

(1) [This reminds one of Caraccioli's remark, that "the only fruit in England that ripened in the open air were apples, for they were roasted."-FONNEREAU.]