Part 6 (1/2)
”And now,” said he, as I was writing them down, ”you may see what it is to come for poetry to a dictionary-maker; you may observe that the rhymes run in alphabetical order exactly.” And so they do.
Mr. Johnson did indeed possess an almost Tuscan power of improvisation.
When he called to my daughter, who was consulting with a friend about a new gown and dressed hat she thought of wearing to an a.s.sembly, thus suddenly, while she hoped he was not listening to their conversation--
”Wear the gown and wear the hat, s.n.a.t.c.h thy pleasures while they last; Hadst thou nine lives like a cat, Soon those nine lives would be past.”
It is impossible to deny to such little sallies the power of the Florentines, who do not permit their verses to be ever written down, though they often deserve it, because, as they express it, Cosi se perde- rebbe la poca gloria.
As for translations, we used to make him sometimes run off with one or two in a good humour. He was praising this song of Metastasio:--
”Deh, se piacermi vuoi, Lascia i sospetti tuoi, Non mi turbar conquesto Molesto dubitar: Chi ciecamente crede, Impegna a serbar fede: Chi sempre inganno aspetta, Alletta ad ingannar.”
”Should you like it in English,” said he, ”thus?”
”Would you hope to gain my heart, Bid your teasing doubts depart; He who blindly trusts, will find Faith from every generous mind: He who still expects deceit, Only teaches how to cheat.”
Mr. Baretti coaxed him likewise one day at Streatham out of a translation of Emirena's speech to the false courtier Aquileius, and it is probably printed before now, as I think two or three people took copies; but perhaps it has slipped their memories.
”Ah! tu in corte invecchiasti, e giurerei Che fra i pochi non sei tenace ancora Dell' antica onesta: quando bisogna, Saprai sereno in volto Vezzeggiare un nemico: accio vi cada, Aprirgli innanzi un precipizio, e poi Piangerne la caduta. Offrirti a tutti E non esser che tuo; di false lodi Vestir le accuse, ed aggravar le colpe Nel farne la difesa, ognor dal trono I buoni allontanar; d'ogni castigo Lasciar Vodio allo seettro, c d'ogni dono Il merito usurpar: tener nascosto Sotto un zelo apparente un empio fine, Ne fabbricar che sulle altrui rouine.”
”Grown old in courts, thou art not surely one Who keeps the rigid rules of ancient honour; Well skilled to soothe a foe with looks of kindness, To sink the fatal precipice before him, And then lament his fall with seeming friends.h.i.+p: Open to all, true only to thyself, Thou know'st those arts which blast with envious praise, Which aggravate a fault with feigned excuses, And drive discountenanced virtue from the throne; That leave blame of rigour to the prince, And of his every gift usurp the merit; That hide in seeming zeal a wicked purpose, And only build upon another's ruin.”
These characters Dr. Johnson, however, did not delight in reading, or in hearing of: he always maintained that the world was not half so wicked as it was represented; and he might very well continue in that opinion, as he resolutely drove from him every story that could make him change it; and when Mr. Bickerstaff's flight confirmed the report of his guilt, and my husband said, in answer to Johnson's astonishment, that he had long been a suspected man: ”By those who look close to the ground, dirt will be seen, sir,” was the lofty reply. ”I hope I see things from a greater distance.”
His desire to go abroad, particularly to see Italy, was very great; and he had a longing wish, too, to leave some Latin verses at the Grand Chartreux. He loved, indeed, the very act of travelling, and I cannot tell how far one might have taken him in a carriage before he would have wished for refreshment. He was therefore in some respects an admirable companion on the road, as he piqued himself upon feeling no inconvenience, and on despising no accommodations. On the other hand, however, he expected no one else to feel any, and felt exceedingly inflamed with anger if any one complained of the rain, the sun, or the dust. ”How,” said he, ”do other people bear them?” As for general uneasiness, or complaints of lone confinement in a carriage, he considered all lamentations on their account as proofs of an empty head, and a tongue desirous to talk without materials of conversation. ”A mill that goes without grist,” said he, ”is as good a companion as such creatures.”
I pitied a friend before him, who had a whining wife that found everything painful to her, and nothing pleasing. ”He does not know that she whimpers,” says Johnson; ”when a door has creaked for a fortnight together, you may observe--the master will scarcely give sixpence to get it oiled.”
Of another lady, more insipid than offensive, I once heard him say, ”She has some softness indeed, but so has a pillow.” And when one observed, in reply, that her husband's fidelity and attachment were exemplary, notwithstanding this low account at which her perfections were rated--”Why, sir,” cries the Doctor, ”being married to those sleepy-souled women is just like playing at cards for nothing: no pa.s.sion is excited, and the time is filled up. I do not, however, envy a fellow one of those honeysuckle wives for my part, as they are but _creepers_ at best, and commonly destroy the tree they so tenderly cling about.”
For a lady of quality, since dead, who received us at her husband's seat in Wales with less attention than he had long been accustomed to, he had a rougher denunciation. ”That woman,” cries Johnson, ”is like sour small- beer, the beverage of her table, and produce of the wretched country she lives in: like that, she could never have been a good thing, and even that bad thing is spoiled.” This was in the same vein of asperity, and I believe with something like the same provocation, that he observed of a Scotch lady, ”that she resembled a dead nettle; were she alive,” said he, ”she would sting.”
Mr. Johnson's hatred of the Scotch is so well known, and so many of his bons mots expressive of that hatred have been already repeated in so many books and pamphlets, that 'tis perhaps scarcely worth while to write down the conversation between him and a friend of that nation who always resides in London, and who at his return from the Hebrides asked him, with a firm tone of voice, ”What he thought of his country?” ”That it is a very vile country, to be sure, sir,” returned for answer Dr. Johnson.
”Well, sir!” replies the other, somewhat mortified, ”G.o.d made it.”
”Certainly He did,” answers Mr. Johnson again, ”but we must always remember that He made it for Scotchmen, and comparisons are odious, Mr.
S---; but G.o.d made h.e.l.l.”
Dr. Johnson did not, I think, much delight in that kind of conversation which consists in telling stories. ”Everybody,” said he, ”tells stories of me, and I tell stories of n.o.body. I do not recollect,” added he, ”that I have ever told _you_, that have been always favourites, above three stories; but I hope I do not play the Old Fool, and force people to hear uninteresting narratives, only because I once was diverted with them myself.” He was, however, no enemy to that sort of talk from the famous Mr. Foote, ”whose happiness of manner in relating was such,” he said, ”as subdued arrogance and roused stupidity. _His_ stories were truly like those of Biron in Love's Labour's Lost, so _very_ attractive--
'That aged ears played truant with his tales, And younger hearings were quite ravished, So sweet and voluble was his discourse.'
Of all conversers, however,” added he, ”the late Hawkins Browne was the most delightful with whom I ever was in company: his talk was at once so elegant, so apparently artless, so pure, so pleasing, it seemed a perpetual stream of sentiment, enlivened by gaiety, and sparkling with images.” When I asked Dr. Johnson who was the best man he had ever known? ”Psalmanazar,” was the unexpected reply. He said, likewise, ”that though a native of France, as his friend imagined, he possessed more of the English language than any one of the other foreigners who had separately fallen in his way.” Though there was much esteem, however, there was, I believe, but little confidence between them; they conversed merely about general topics, religion and learning, of which both were undoubtedly stupendous examples; and, with regard to true Christian perfection, I have heard Johnson say, ”That George Psalmanazar's piety, penitence, and virtue exceeded almost what we read as wonderful even in the lives of saints.”
I forget in what year it was this extraordinary person lived and died at a house in Old Street, where Mr. Johnson was witness to his talents and virtues, and to his final preference of the Church of England, after having studied, disgraced, and adorned so many modes of wors.h.i.+p. The name he went by was not supposed by his friend to be that of his family, but all inquiries were vain. His reasons for concealing his original were penitentiary; he deserved no other name than that of the impostor, he said. That portion of the Universal History which was written by him does not seem to me to be composed with peculiar spirit, but all traces of the wit and the wanderer were probably worn out before he undertook the work. His pious and patient endurance of a tedious illness, ending in an exemplary death, confirmed the strong impression his merit had made upon the mind of Mr. Johnson. ”It is so _very_ difficult,” said he, always, ”for a sick man not to be a scoundrel. Oh! set the pillows soft, here is Mr. Grumbler a-coming. Ah! let no air in for the world, Mr.
Grumbler will be here presently.”
This perpetual preference is so offensive, where the privileges of sickness are, besides, supported by wealth, and nourished by dependence, that one cannot much wonder that a rough mind is revolted by them. It was, however, at once comical and touchant (as the French call it), to observe Mr. Johnson so habitually watchful against this sort of behaviour, that he was often ready to suspect himself of it; and when one asked him gently, how he did?--”Ready to become a scoundrel, madam,”
would commonly be the answer; ”with a little more spoiling you will, I think, make me a complete rascal!”
His desire of doing good was not, however, lessened by his aversion to a sick chamber. He would have made an ill man well by any expense or fatigue of his own, sooner than any of the canters. Canter, indeed, was he none: he would forget to ask people after the health of their nearest relations, and say in excuse, ”That he knew they did not care: why should they?” says he; ”every one in this world has as much as they can do in caring for themselves, and few have leisure really to _think_ of their neighbours' distresses, however they may delight their tongues with _talking_ of them.”