IT

DR. JOHNSON AS TALKER.

BY J. A. GOODACRE.

T was once observed by the doctor himself that the best part of an author is to be found in his works, and that a transition from the writings to the conversation of a man generally disappoints our expectation. All history and experience say the same thing. Examples drawn from any period, either anterior or subsequent to Johnson, show his observation to have been extremely just. Of the numbers who have risen to literary eminence in this country, comparatively few have made any approach to colloquial supremacy. Many, it must be acknowledged, have never aspired to conversational honours; some appear to have been studiously silent, as though taciturnity became them; others have said nothing because they really had nothing to say. Thus, from various causes, it generally happens that, in society, men of letters are men of very few words; seldom, indeed, is their conversation such as their works would lead us to suppose.

It is strange that a truth of this kind should have been expressed by such a man as Johnson, for he was himself a most remarkable exception to the rule. Indeed it may safely be said that a more striking instance of conversational superiority will not be found in the whole range of modern authors. Although he has not yet completed the probationary century-the term commonly regarded as the test.

of literary merit-Criticism, taking time by the forelock, has already delivered her verdict, and assigned to Johnson his apparently immutable position as a writer. In addition to this we have the further award, equally fixed and unanimous, that he is not seen at his best in his writings. To those who have read his works with pleasure, and still delight to peruse them, this is saying a great deal; but unfortunately a very large proportion of to-day's readers know no other literature than the ephemeral and light productions of their time, and to them Johnson walks the streets of posterity with nothing but a dictionary under his arm. Except by literary men, and the more ardent lovers of letters, to whom the memory of Johnson must ever be dear, he is not remembered as the author of the Lives of the Poets, Preface to Shakspere, Rasselas, or Journey to the Western Islands; but as a pompous philosopher delivering his sentiments in stentorian tones; a hardened and shameless tea-drinker, imbibing his favourite beverage with amazing avidity and very little ceremony; an ungainly figure of irregular, convulsive movements; a character irresistibly grotesque and entertaining. These were the infirmities of the outward man: peculiarities and eccentricities which he little thought would be laughed at and talked about while his writings were passed by unnoticed. Such is the irony of fate. To-day, for every one who has any real knowledge of his works, fifty will be found able to speak of the ludicrousness of the author's person and character.

While the critical and philosophical writings of Johnson prove him to have been a man of uncommon genius in the art of literary composition, the exercise of his conversational powers show him to still greater advantage, and exhibit him as a talker of extraordinary force and compass. He achieved the greatest distinction in that which he loved most. He began to write for bread, and worked for some

time, much more out of necessity than from choice. Had it not been for the spur of dependence constantly goading him on, he would not have left much for posterity to read, or leave unread. We know that writing was often very irksome to him, but we do not know, and certainly should not be justified in supposing, that he was ever tired of talking. Once, and only once, was he known to suggest to the company that they should retire to rest; as a rule, he was disposed to sit far into the night, and would talk of anything and everything, except of going to bed. It is true, that to him a day was as four-and-twenty hours; but for the customary division of those twenty-four hours, as we divide them, into day and night, he had very little regard. At one time he commonly rose about twelve, went out at four, and returned about two. John Wesley, he said, was a very decent fellow, but he never had any time to spare, for he had always to be here, or there, or somewhere else, at suchand-such a time; in fact, he was no sooner seated than he began to say he must go; and that was far from pleasing to the man who loved to cross his legs and have his talk out. To say at any time that Johnson should have his talk out, was to put the matter very indefinitely, for with him it meant very much more than it did with most people. The amazing fertility of his mind, and, above all, the wonderful stores of his retentive memory, replete with gleanings from the whole field of human thought and history, were not easily exhausted. So keen and penetrating was his power of perception, so did he develop and exhibit the latent elements of a subject, that the boundary of a topic which appeared so near at starting receded as he advanced, and the question assumed proportions far greater than the original conception of his hearers. But, with all his extension and expansion, he did not become involved and obscure, like many amplifiers, who lead and lose their followers in the

maze of their own discursiveness. Whatever his theme, he was still lucid and vigorous; he spoke as only those who are masters of a subject can speak with ideal perspicacity, and energy and aptness of expression.

Fond of conversation as Johnson undoubtedly was, he occasionally showed some little indisposition to commence talking when in the company of strangers; indeed, Tom Tyers, with Johnson's own approval, once likened him to a ghost, which is never known to speak until spoken to, and not always then. But there his similarity to a ghost ended, for when the initial difficulty of starting him had been overcome, there yet remained the still greater difficulty of stopping him. If the bull were seized by the horns, he was sure to either toss or gore his adversary, as Goldsmith experienced over and over again. But, although at times he displayed some shyness, and seemed disinclined to take the initiative, he very severely condemned the custom then in vogue, and most generally observed now, of strangers maintaining a rigorous silence when in a room together, because, forsooth, they don't know each other's names, or have not been introduced one to the other. He said, "Two men of any other nation who are shown into a room together, at a house where they are both visitors, will immediately find some conversation. But two Englishmen will probably go each to a different window, and remain in obstinate silence. Sir, we as yet do not understand the common rights of humanity." With but few, isolated exceptions, however, Johnson's conduct in this respect was in strict conformity with the custom he sought to inculcate. Except at such times as he gave himself up to religious meditation and devotional exercises, he hardly ever cared to be alone. From fifty-three, the age at which he met his now celebrated biographer, to the end of his life, he became increasingly fond of society. He loved to put his mind

beside that of another man: company and conversation were to him indispensable; without them he must have been of all men the most miserable. This comfort he found and enjoyed to the full, for at least the last twenty years of his life. A man of such intellectual power, and such moral grasp and compass, was not in danger of loneliness, except that which comes of gratuitous isolation. Like a not very respectable Hottentot, when at table he may have thrown his meat anywhere but down his throat, and have been guilty of innumerable improprieties of behaviour; still, there were men and women of culture and refinement who loved him, and delighted to do all they could to make him happy. It is quite true that for years he kept under his roof a man who dabbled in medicine-the despised Levett, who has been held up to the ridicule of later days, and stigmatized as a contemptuous quack, for no better reason than that he condescended to dress the wounds, and alleviate the suffering, of afflicted coal-heavers, chimney sweepers, scavengers, and others who were sick, and had not the means wherewith to procure medical aid. But the tenderness and sympathy with which Johnson treated Levett never estranged him from a single individual whose esteem and friendship he valued. He drew around him, if not the most fashionable men and women, certainly the best and most intellectual people of the metropolis and the provinces. To these it was obvious that he had "nothing of the bear but his skin;" his untidy dress, uncouth manner, and disregard of etiquette, were the mere husk and shell of the man, adventitious blemishes and disfigurements which he never took the trouble to remove. Had he but possessed that outward refinement, elegant propriety, and graceful bearing, which Walpole and others were so shocked at the absence of, the circle of his acquaintance would undoubtedly have been larger; whether it would have been better is another ques