my words at least to the literal story, I only exclaimed against the unfeeling absurdity of such a confession.

"Such a confession," cried he, "to a person then coming to try his lodging for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our account for."

I had seen Miss T. the day before.

I then said," Do you ever, sir, hear from her mother?"

"No," cried he, " nor write to her. I drive her quite from my mind. If I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly. I have burnt all I can find. I never speak of her, and I desire never to hear of her more. I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind."

Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the Bristol milk-woman, and told him the tales I have heard of her writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and Milton; "though those," I continued, "could never possibly, I should think, be the first authors with anybody. Would children understand them? and grown people who have not read are children in literature."

"Doubtless," said he; "but there is nothing so little comprehended among mankind as what is genius. They give to it all, when it can be but a part. Genius is nothing more than knowing the use of tools; but there must be tools for it to use: a man who has spent all his life in this room will give a very poor account of what is contained in the next."

66

Certainly, sir; yet there is such a thing as invention ? Shakspeare could never have seen a Caliban."

66

No; but he had seen a man, and knew, therefore, how to vary him to a monster. A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first know what a cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her an ass's head or an elephant's tusk will make her monstrous? Suppose you shew me a man who is a very expert carpenter; another will say he was born to be a carpenter— but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men, one with genius, the other with none, look at an overturned waggon: he who has no genius, will think of the waggon only as he sees it, overturned, and walk on; he who has genius, will paint it to himself before it was overturned,-standing still, and moving on, and heavy loaded, and empty; but both must see the waggon, to think of it at all."

How just and true all this, my dear Susy! He then animated, and talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a once as famous shoemaker, and upon our immortal Shakspeare, with as much fire, spirit, wit, and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him. How delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor and infirm machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way.

Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and offered to go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did not oppose; but, most kindly pressing both my hands,

"Be not," he said, in a voice of even tenderness, " be not longer in coming again for my letting you go now."

I assured him that I would be the sooner, and was running off, but he called me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most energetic, said,

"Remember me in your prayers!"

I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare. I gave him my promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him.

THURSDAY MORNING.-I was called away in the midst of my rhodomontade, and have lost all zest for pursuing it. I have been a second time to see poor Dr. Johnson, and both times he was too ill to admit me. I know how very much worse he must be, for when I saw him last, which was the morning before I went to Norbury, he repeatedly, and even earnestly begged me to come to him again, and to see him both as soon and as often as I could. I am told by Mr. Hoole, that he enquired of Dr. Brocklesby if he thought it likely he might live six weeks? and the Doctor's hesitation saying-No-he had been more deeply depressed than ever. Fearing death as he does, no one can wonder. Why he should fear it, all may wonder,

He sent me down yesterday, by a clergyman who was with him, the kindest of messages, and I hardly know whether I ought to go to him or not; though I know still less why I say so, for go again I both must and shall. One thing, his extreme dejection of mind considered, has both surprised and pleased me; he has now constantly an amanuensis with him, and dictates to him such compositions, particularly Latin and Greek, as he formerly made, but repeated to his friends without ever committing to paper. This,

I hope, will not only gratify his survivors, but serve to divert him.

The good Mr. Hoole, and equally good Mr. Sastres attend him, rather as nurses than friends, for they sit whole hours by him, without even speaking to him. He will not, it seems, be talked to—at least very rarely. At times, indeed, he re-animates; but it is soon over, and he says of himself, “I am now like Macbeth,— question enrages me."

My father saw him once while I was away, and carried Mr. Burke with him, who was desirous of paying his respects to him once more in person. He rallied a little while they were there; and Mr. Burke, when they left him, said to my father-"His work is almost done; and well has he done it!"

*

(Vol. II., page 334.)

ST. MARTIN'S-STREET, WEDNESDAY, DEC. 10TH, 1784.-I went in the evening to poor Dr. Johnson. Frank told me he was very ill, but let me in. He would have taken me up stairs, but I would not see him without his direct permission. I desired Frank to tell him I called to pay my respects to him, but not to disturb him if he was not well enough to see me. Mr. Strahan, a clergyman, he said, was with him alone.

In a few minutes, this Mr. Strahan came to me himself. He told me Dr. Johnson was very ill, very much obliged to me for coming, but so weak and bad he hoped I would excuse his not seeing me.

*

*

*

*

At night my father brought us the most dismal tidings of dear Dr. Johnson. Dr. Warren had seen him, and told him to take what opium he pleased! He had thanked and taken leave of all his physicians. Alas!—I shall lose him, and he will take no leave of me! My father was deeply depressed; he has himself tried in vain for admission this week. Yet some people see him-the Hooles, Mr. Sastres, Mr. Langton;-but then they must be in the house, watching for one moment, whole hours. I hear from every one he is now perfectly resigned to his approaching fate, and no longer in terror of death, I am thankfully happy in hearing that he speaks himself now of the change his mind has undergone, from its dark horror, and says-" He feels the irradiation

of hope!" Good, and pious, and excellent Christian-who shall feel it if not he?

(Vol. II., page 336.)

DEC. 11TH, 1784.—We had a party to dinner, by long appointment, for which, indeed, none of us were well disposed, the apprehension of hearing news only of death being hard upon us all. The party was, Dr. Rose, Dr. Gillies, Dr. Garthshore, and Charles.

The day could not be well-but mark the night.

My father, in the morning, saw this first of men! I had not his account till bed-time; he feared over-exciting me. He would not, he said, but have seen him for worlds! He happened to be better, and admitted him. He was up, and very composed. He took his hand very kindly, asked after all his family, and then, in particular, how Fanny did?

66

"I hope," he said, "Fanny did not take it amiss that I did not see her? I was very bad!"

Amiss! what a word! Oh that I had been present to have answered it! My father stayed, I suppose, half an hour, and then was coming away. He again took his hand, and encouraged him to come again to him; and when he was taking leave, said— "Tell Fanny to pray for me!"

Ah! dear Dr. Johnson! might I but have your prayers! After which, still grasping his hand, he made a prayer for himself,—the most fervent, pious, humble, eloquent, and touching, my father says, that ever was composed. Oh, would I had heard it! He ended it with Amen! in which my father joined, and was echoed by all present. And again, when my father was leaving him, he brightened up, something of his arch look returned and he said "I think I shall throw the ball at Fanny yet!"

Little more passed ere my father came away, decided, most tenderly, not to tell me this till our party was gone.

This most earnestly increased my desire to see him: this kind and frequent mention of me melted me into double sorrow and regret. I would give the world I had but gone to him that day! It was, however, impossible, and the day was over before I knew he had said what I look upon as a call to me. This morning, after church time, I went. Frank said he was very ill, and saw nobody; I told him I had understood by my father the day before that he meant to see me. He then let me in. I

went into his room upstairs; he was in his bedroom. I saw it crowded, and ran hastily down. Frank told me his master had

refused seeing even Mr. Langton. I told him merely to say I had called, but by no means to press my admission. His own feelings were all that should be consulted; his tenderness, I knew, would be equal, whether he was able to see me or not.

I went into the parlour, preferring being alone in the cold, to any company with a fire. Here I waited long, here and upon the stairs, which I ascended and descended to meet again with Frank, and make inquiries; but I met him not. At last, upon

Dr. Johnson's ringing his bell, I saw Frank enter his room, and Mr. Langton follow. "Who's that?" I heard him say; they answered, "Mr. Langton," and I found he did not return.

Soon after, all the rest went away but a Mrs. Davis, a good sort of woman, whom this truly charitable soul had sent for to take a dinner at his house. I then went and waited with her by the fire it was, however, between three and four o'clock before I got any answer. Mr. Langton then came himself. He could not look at me, and I turned away from him. Mrs. Davis asked how the Doctor was? "Going on to death very fast!" was his mournful answer. "Has he taken," said she, "anything?" "Nothing at all! We carried him some bread and milk-he refused it, and said- The less the better.'" She asked more questions, by which I found his faculties were perfect, his mind composed, and his dissolution was quick drawing on.

*

I could not immediately go on, and it is now long since I have written at all; but I will go back to this afflicting theme, which I can now better bear.

Mr. Langton was, I believe, a quarter of an hour in the room before I suspected he meant to speak to me, never looking near At last he said

me.

"This poor man, I understand, ma'am, desired yesterday to see you."

66

'My understanding that, sir, brought me to-day."

“Poor man! it is pity he did not know himself better, and that you should have had this trouble."

"Trouble!" cried I; "I would come a hundred times to see him the hundredth and first!"

66

He hopes now you will excuse him; he is very sorry not to