us to conversation. At the inn where we dined, the gentlewoman said she had done her best to educate her children, and particularly that she had never suffered them to be a moment idle. Johnson. 'I wish, Madam, you would educate me too; for I have been an idle fellow all my life.' 'I am sure, Sir,' said she, 'you have not been idle.' Johnson. 'Nay, Madam, it is very true : and that gentleman there (pointing to me) has been idle. He was idle at Edinburgh. His father sent him to Glasgow, where he continued to be idle. He then came to London, where he has been very idle; and now he is going to Utrecht, where he will be as idle as ever.' I asked him privately how he could expose me so. Johnson. Poh, poh!' said he, 'they knew nothing about you, and will think of it no more.' In the afternoon the gentlewoman talked violently against the Roman Catholics, and of the horrors of the Inquisition. To the utter astonishment of all the passengers but myself, who knew that he could talk upon any side of a question, he defended the Inquisition, and maintained that false doctrine should be checked on its first appearance; that the civil power should unite with the church in punishing those who dare to attack the established religion, and that such only were punished by the Inquisition.' He had in his pocket Pomponius Mela de Situ Orbis, in which he read occasionally, and seemed very intent upon ancient geography. Though by no means niggardly, his attention to what was generally right was so minute that having observed at one of the stages that I ostentatiously gave a shilling to the coachman, when the custom was for each passenger to give only sixpence, he took me aside and scolded me, saying that what I had done would make the coachman dissatisfied with all the rest of the passengers, who gave him no more than his due. This was a just reprimand; for in whatever way a man may indulge his generosity or his vanity in spending his money, for the sake of others he ought not to raise the price of any article for which there is a constant demand.

Having stopped a night at Colchester, Johnson talked of that town with veneration, for having stood a siege for Charles the First. The Dutchman alone now remained with us. He spoke English tolerably well; and thinking to recommend himself to us by expatiating on the superiority of the criminal jurisprudence of this country over that of Holland, he inveighed against the barbarity of putting an accused person to the torture in order to force a confession. But Johnson was as ready for this as for the Inquisition. Why, Sir, you do not, I find, understand the law of your own country. To torture in Holland is considered as a favour to an accused person; for no man is put to the torture there unless there is as much evidence against him as would amount to conviction in England. An accused person among you, therefore, has one chance more to escape punishment than those who are tried among us.'

At supper this night he talked of good eating with uncommon satisfaction. Some people,' said he, ‘have a foolish way of not minding, or pretending not to mind, what they eat. For my own part, I mind my belly very studiously and very carefully; for I look upon it, that he who does not mind his belly will hardly mind anything else.' He now appeared to me Jean Bull philosophe, and he was for the moment not only serious but vehement. [1763.]

Mrs Williams's Tea-Table.

We went home to his house to tea. Mrs Williams made it with sufficient dexterity, notwithstanding her blindness, though her manner of satisfying herself that the cups were full enough appeared to me a little awkward; for I fancied she put her finger down a certain way, till she felt the tea touch it. In my first elation at being allowed the privilege of attending Dr Johnson at his late visits to this lady, which was like being e secretioribus consiliis, I willingly drank cup after cup, as if it had been the Heliconian spring. But as the charm of novelty went off, I grew more fastidious; and besides, I discovered that she was of a peevish temper.

There was a pretty large circle this evening. Dr Johnson was in very good humour, lively, and ready to talk upon all subjects. Mr Fergusson, the self-taught philosopher, told him of a new invented machine which went without horses; a man who sat in it turned a handle, which worked a spring, that drove it forward. 'Then, Sir,' said Johnson, what is gained is, the man has his choice whether he will move himself alone, or himself and the machine too.' Dominicetti being mentioned, he would not allow him any merit. 'There is nothing in all this boasted system. No, Sir; medicated baths can be no better than warm water; their only effect can be that of tepid moisture.' One of the company took the other side, maintaining that medicines of various sorts, and some too of most powerful effect, are introduced into the human frame by the medium of the pores; and, therefore, when warm water is impregnated with salutiferous substances, it may produce great effects as a bath. This appeared to me very satisfactory. Johnson did not answer it; but talking for victory, and determined to be master of the field, he had recourse to the device which Goldsmith imputed to him in the witty words of one of Cibber's comedies: 'There is no argu ing with Johnson; for when his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt-end of it.' He turned to the gentleman, 'Well, Sir, go to Dominicetti, and get thyself fumigated; but be sure that the steam be directed to thy head, for that is the peccant part. This produced a triumphant roar of laughter from the motley assembly of philosophers, printers, and dependents, male and female.

I know not how so whimsical a thought came into my mind, but I asked, 'If, Sir, you were shut up in a castle, and a new-born child with you, what would you do?' Johnson. Why, Sir, I should not much like my company.' Boswell. But would you take the trouble of rearing it?' He seemed, as may well be supposed, unwilling to pursue the subject; but upon my persevering in my question, replied, 'Why yes, Sir, I would; but I must have all conveniences. If I had no garden, I would make a shed on the roof, and take it there for fresh air. I should feed it, and wash it much, and with warm water to please it, not with cold water to give it pain.' Boswell. But, Sir, does not heat relax?' Johnson. Sir, you are not to imagine the water is to be very hot. I would not coddle the child. No, Sir, the hardy method of treating children does no good. I'll take you five children from London, who shall cuff five Highland children. Sir, a man bred in London will carry a burden, or run, or wrestle, as well as a man brought up in the hardest manner in the country.' Boswell. Good living, I suppose, makes the Londoners

strong.' Johnson. Why, Sir, I don't know that it does. Our chairmen from Ireland, who are as strong men as any, have been brought up upon potatoes. Quantity makes up for quality.' Boswell. Would you teach this child that I have furnished you with anything?' Johnson. 'No, I should not be apt to teach it.' Boswell. Would not you have a pleasure in teaching it?' Johnson. 'No, Sir, I should not have a pleasure in teaching it.' Boswell. Have you not a pleasure in teaching men? There I have you. You have the same pleasure in teaching men that I should have in teaching children.' Johnson. Why, something about that.' [26th October 1769.]

·

Johnson at his Inn.

We dined at an excellent inn at Chapel-house, where he expatiated on the felicity of England in its taverns and inns, and triumphed over the French for not having, in any perfection, the tavern life. 'There is no private house,' said he, ‘in which people can enjoy themselves so well as at a capital tavern. Let there be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, ever so much desire that everybody should be easy, in the nature of things it cannot be there must always be some degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests-the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him; and no man but a very impudent dog indeed can as freely command what is in another man's house as if it were his own. Whereas at a tavern there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you are welcome; and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No servants will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do, who are incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they please. No, Sir, there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.' He then repeated, with great emotion, Shenstone's lines:

'Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome at an inn.'

My illustrious friend, I thought, did not sufficiently admire Shenstone. That ingenious and elegant gentleman's opinion of Johnson appears in one of his letters to Mr Graves, dated Feb. 9, 1760. 'I have lately been reading one or two volumes of the Rambler, who, excepting against some few hardnesses in his manner, and the want of more examples to enliven, is one of the most nervous, most perspicuous, most concise, most harmonious prose writers I know. A learned diction improves by time.'

In the afternoon, as we were driven rapidly along in the post-chaise, he said to me, 'Life has not many things better than this.' We stopped at Stratford-uponAvon, and drank tea and coffee; and it pleased me to be with him upon the classic ground of Shakespeare's native place. [21st March 1776.]

Meeting of Johnson and Wilkes. Upon the much-expected Wednesday, I called on him about half an hour before dinner, as I often did when we were to dine out together, to see that he was ready

in time, and to accompany him. I found him buffeting his books as upon a former occasion, covered with dust, and making no preparation for going abroad. 'How is this, Sir?' said I. 'Don't you recollect that you are to dine at Mr Dilly's?' Johnson. 'Sir, I did not think of going to Dilly's: it went out of my head. I have ordered dinner at home with Mrs Williams." Boswell. But, my dear Sir, you know you were engaged to Mr Dilly, and I told him so. He will expect

you, and will be much disappointed if you don't come." Johnson. 'You must talk to Mrs Williams about this.'

Here was a sad dilemma. I feared that what I was so confident I had secured would yet be frustrated. He had accustomed himself to show Mrs Williams such a degree of humane attention as frequently imposed some restraint upon him; and I knew that if she should be obstinate, he would not stir. I hastened down stairs to the blind lady's room, and told her I was in great uneasiness, for Dr Johnson had engaged to me to dine this day at Mr Dilly's, but that he had told me he hai forgotten his engagement, and had ordered dinner at home. 'Yes, Sir,' said she, pretty peevishly, 'Dr Johnson is to dine at home.'-'Madam,' said I, 'his respect for you is such that I know he will not leave you unless you absolutely desire it. But as you have so much of his company, I hope you will be good enough to forego it for a day; as Mr Dilly is a very worthy man, has frequently had agreeable parties at his house for Dr Johnson, and will be vexed if the Doctor neglects him to-day. And then, Madam, be pleased to consider my situation; I carried the message, and I assured Mr Dilly that Dr Johnson was to come; and no doubt he has made a dinner, and invited a company, and boasted of the honour he expected to have. I shall be quite disgraced if the Doctor is not there.' She gradually softened to my solicitations, which were certainly as earnest as most entreaties to ladies upon any occasion, and was graciously pleased to empower me to tell Dr Johnson, That all things considered, she thought he should certainly go.' I flew back to him, still in dust, and careless of what should be the event, 'indifferent in his choice to go or stay; but as soon as I had announced to him Mrs Williams's consent, he roared, 'Frank! a clean shirt'-and was very soon drest. When I had him fairly seated in a hackney-coach with me, I exulted as much as a fortune-hunter who has got an heiress into a post-chaise with him, to set out for Gretna Green.

When we entered Mr Dilly's drawing-room, he found himself in the midst of a company he did not know. I kept myself snug and silent, watching how he would conduct himself. I observed him whispering to Mr Dilly, Who is that gentleman, Sir?'- Mr Arthur Lee.'-Johnson. Too, too, too,' (under his breath,) which was one of his habitual mutterings. Mr Arthur Lee could not but be very obnoxious to Johnson, for he was not only a patriot but an American. He was afterwards minister from the United States at the Court of Madrid. ‘And who is the gentleman in lace?'—'Mr Wilkes, Sir.' This information confounded him still more; he had some difficulty to restrain himself, and taking up a book, sat down upon a window-seat and read, or at least kept his eye intently upon it for some time, till he composed himself. His feelings, I dare say, were awkward enough. But he no doubt recollected having rated me for supposing that he could

be at all disconcerted by any company, and he, therefore, resolutely set himself to behave quite as an easy man of the world, who could adapt himself at once to the disposition and manners of those whom he might chance to meet.

The cheering sound of 'Dinner is upon the table' dissolved his reverie, and we all sat down without any symptom of ill-humour. There were present-beside Mr Wilkes and Mr Arthur Lee, who was an old companion of mine when he studied physic at Edinburgh — Mr (now Sir John) Miller, Dr Lettsom, and Mr Slater the druggist. Mr Wilkes placed himself next to Dr Johnson, and behaved to him with so much attention and politeness that he gained upon him insensibly. No man eat [ate] more heartily than Johnson, or loved better what was nice and delicate. Mr Wilkes was very assiduous in helping him to some fine veal. 'Pray give me leave, Sir;-It is better here-A little of the brown -Some fat, Sir-A little of the stuffing-Some gravyLet me have the pleasure of giving you some butterAllow me to recommend a squeeze of this orange; or the lemon, perhaps, may have more zest.'-'Sir, Sir, I am obliged to you, Sir,' cried Johnson, bowing, and turning his head to him with a look for some time of 'surly virtue,' but, in a short while, of complacency. [15th May 1776.]

Boswell's Last Meeting with Johnson.

On Wednesday, June 30, the friendly confidential dinner with Sir Joshua Reynolds took place,-no other company being present. Had I known that this was the last time that I should enjoy, in this world, the conversation of a friend whom I so much respected, and from whom I derived so much instruction and entertainment, I should have been deeply affected. When I now look back to it, I am vexed that a single word should have been forgotten. . . .

Our conversation turned upon living in the country, which Johnson, whose melancholy mind required the dissipation of quick successive variety, had habituated himself to consider as a kind of mental imprisonment. 'Yet, Sir,' said I, 'there are many people who are content to live in the country.' Johnson. 'Sir, it is in the intellectual world as in the physical world: we are told by natural philosophers that a body is at rest in the place that is fit for it; they who are content to live in the country, are fit for the country.'

Talking of various enjoyments, I argued that a refinement of taste was a disadvantage, as they who have attained to it must be seldomer pleased than those who have no nice discrimination, and are therefore satisfied with everything that comes in their way. Johnson. Nay, Sir: that is a paltry notion. Endeavour to be as perfect as you can in every respect.'

I accompanied him, in Sir Joshua Reynolds's coach, to the entry of Bolt-court. He asked me whether I would not go with him to his house; I declined it, from an apprehension that my spirits would sink. We bade adieu to each other affectionately in the carriage. When he had got down upon the foot-pavement, he called out, 'Fare you well;' and without looking back, sprung away with a kind of pathetic briskness, if I may use that expression, which seemed to indicate a struggle to conceal uneasiness, and impressed me with a foreboding of our long, long separation. [1784.]

Standard editions of Boswell's great work are those by Napier (4 vols. 1884; two supplementary volumes contain Boswell's Journal

of a Tour to the Hebrides and ‘Johnsoniana ') and by Dr Birkbeck Hill (6 vols. 1887). Invaluable for the light thrown on Boswell's inner character are his Letters to Temple (1856), whose acquaintance he had made while yet a student at Edinburgh University, and Boswelliana (1874) by Charles Rogers. Of the famous essays by Macaulay and Carlyle, which contradict rather than correct each other, the latter has much more truth in it than the former. There is a Life of Boswell by Percy Fitzgerald (2 vols. 1891).

THOMAS DAVIDSON.

Mrs Piozzi (1741-1821) was as yet MRS THRALE when she became a particular star in Dr Johnson's firmament. Born at Bodvel in Carnarvonshire, Hester Lynch Salusbury in 1763 married Henry Thrale, a prosperous Southwark brewer; in 1765 Johnson conceived an extraordinary affection for her, was domesticated in her house at Streatham Place for over sixteen years, and for her sake learned to soften many of his eccentricities. Thrale, who made Johnson one of his four executors, died in 1781, after his wife had borne him twelve children; and in 1784 the brewery-'the potentiality of becoming rich beyond the dreams of avarice,' as Johnson said-was sold for £135,000. Johnson felt himself slighted when the widow became attached to the Italian musician Piozzi. The marriage took place in July 1784; the pair travelled through France, Italy, Germany, and Belgium, returning to England in 1787. In 1795 Mrs Piozzi built Brynhella on the Clwyd, and there Piozzi died in 1809. When past seventy the irrepressible old lady formed a sentimental attachment for the actor W. A. Conway; she was eighty when she died from the consequences of a broken leg. Vivacious, frank, and witty, she was charming and pretty, if hardly beautiful. Only two of her works can be said to live, and that solely through their subject-Anecdotes of Dr Johnson (1786; reprinted in Mrs Napier's Johnsoniana, 1884) and Letters to and from Dr Johnson (1788). She was an acute observer, and her reminiscences are often interesting, though she was by no means painfully accurate. Observations and Reflections on her Continental experiences are forgotten, as are a book on British Synonymy (1794) and her Retrospection over the events of eighteen hundred years! (1801). Of her poems, the best-known, The Three Warnings, was her first, and was so much above the level of her other verse that it was believed to have been at least amended by Johnson; it appeared in a volume of Miscellanies issued in 1766 by Mrs Williams, the blind inmate of Johnson's house. Mrs Piozzi's contributions to The Florence Miscellany in 1785 afforded a subject for Gifford's satire, his Baviad having been written expressly to ridicule the Della Cruscan mutual admiration society, of which Mrs Piozzi was arch-priestess.

From The Three Warnings.' When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room,

Her

6

And looking grave-You must,' says he,

Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'

With you! and quit my Susan's side?

With you!' the hapless husband cried;
'Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know.'
What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;

So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,

your

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke—
"Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb mirthful hour:
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave.'
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffered then, he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near:

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod.
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-stilled with anger and surprise, 'So soon returned!' old Dobson cries.

'So soon, d'ye call it?' Death replies : 'Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore.'

'So much the worse,' the clown rejoined; 'To spare the aged would be kind : However, see your search be legal ; And your authority—is 't regal?

Else you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.

Beside, you promised me Three Warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings;

But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages.'

'I know,' cries Death, 'that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest;

But don't be captious, friend, at least ;
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!'

'Hold!' says the farmer; 'not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.'

And no great wonder,' Death replies ; 'However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.'

'Perhaps,' says Dobson, so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight.'

"This is a shocking story, faith,
Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death;
Each strives your sadness to amuse;

I warrant you have all the news.'

'There's none,' cries he; and if there were,

I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.'
'Nay, then,' the spectre stern rejoined,
'These are unjustifiable yearnings:

If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

You've had your Three sufficient Warnings;

So come along; no more we'll part,'
He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

The 'secretary's warrant' refers to the famous illegal warrant used against Wilkes (see below at page 516). In 1861 Abraham Hayward edited Mrs Piozzi's Autobiography, Letters and Literary Remains (2 vols. 1861); see also Mangin's Piozziana (1833) and L. B. Seely's Mrs Thrale (1891).

COMING

T was part of the spirit of the nineteenth century to look down on the eighteenth and all its works, and greatly to overestimate the deeper, higher, holier temper of the new epoch. Coleridge's discovery, by German help, of the contrast between understanding and reason, led him to an unphilosophical disdain of all that had been accomplished in the century into which he was born; Carlyle denounced 'a sceptical century and godless,' opulent in accumulated falsities as never century was.' It became customary to agree that those three unhappy generations of men were dead to faith, to historical insight, to poetical feeling, to love of nature, to apprehension or real admiration of the sublime, the beautiful, the tender, the true. And it was assumed that the English literature of the period, mysteriously differing from that of all other periods, consistently and comprehensively reveals and displays these lamentable defects in intellectual and spiritual life.

Geological development did not proceed by universal cataclysms; in literary history, though there are changes of humour, of taste, and of fashion-violent as well as gradual, profound as well as superficial—the revolutions recorded are rarely or never so absolute as nineteenthcentury writers unhistorically declared; and the transition from the eighteenth-century way of looking at things or of putting things was not one of them. The men of the eighteenth century bled when they were pricked, laughed if they were tickled, died when they were poisoned; they loved, they hated, they rejoiced and hoped and feared; the roots of poetry were still deep-planted in their life, even though the life had for the time gone out of their poetry.

In truth, the literature of that time was a somewhat peculiarly self-consistent outcome of the characteristic English temperament. Our literary mood has changed, but in our ordinary rule of life the principles of the eighteenth century are still dominant. The Englishman

does not wear his heart on his sleeve, still less the Scotsman-it is weak and worthy only of a foreigner to be demonstrative. He does not propose to take the public to his heart, or let them feel the very pulse of the machine. In religion he will not grovel in abject selfnegation, nor does he desire or aim at ecstatic bliss. Englishmen do not (except in poetry) shout for intensity of joy or scream with laughter nor do they weep or whine if they can possibly help it; they are reticent in the sphere of the domestic affections, and are very slow to unbosom themselves about any other. We are not enthusiastic; we regard the intense with suspicious dislike. We do not adore; we do not gush; we will not allow ourselves to seem surprised or delighted; we are extremely reserved-good form so prescribes it. However much we may actually feel, this is still the law of the island-born, save only in art and poetry. Yet contrariwise, in literature and art, but there only, we now set the highest value on that which is the most complete self-revelation of the artist, illustrating even the fainter nuances of his varying moods, his hopes, his fears, his doubts, struggles, distresses, despondencies, despairs. In poetry we say we love intensity and unreserve.

Not so was it with us under good Queen Anne and the Georges. Then the Englishman carried into his literature what was and is still the rule of his daily life-moderation, commonsense, correctness, abhorrence of enthusiasm ' in word as in deed, self-complacent appreciation of the high degree of civilisation he had now happily attained, and a corresponding disregard of what he thought 'Gothic,' barbarous, and uncultured. Dignified reserve was the keynote of literature; the lyric cry,' whether of joy or grief, was repressed on principle; mystery and marvel were ratiocinatively explained away; nature was admired on philosophical grounds;

propriety' was the fetich of the period; decorum, elegance, point, and good taste took aristocratic precedence of uncouth originality, humour, and power. The originality, the humour, and the power had not ceased to