CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Our tale is now drawing to its close. The subject clings to the heart, and is parted with reluctantly. The circumstances attending the close of his life have been so minutely, and, to all appearance, faithfully narrated, as to call for no animadversion. His peculiarities and failings have been by some too harshly pointed out and commented upon, without due consideration of how exceedingly they were counterbalanced, by the most extraordinary and most valuable endowments. Of what importance is it, that when he shaved himself he would walk up and down his room, conversing with whomsoever might happen to be present; that he knew the precise number of steps from his apartments to the houses of those of his friends, with whom he was most intimate, which, by the way, in the metropolis, must have been strongly indicative of a mind not easily made to swerve from its purpose; that at one period he was remarkably fond of the theatre, and all at once, as it were, ceased to frequent it? The circumstance most remarkable concerning his habits and propensities is, that he latterly became a hoarder of money, and, when he died, had not less than two thousand pounds in the funds. All these, however, are minor subjects of reflection. In him, criticism lost the most able, most expert, most accomplished support of her sceptre;—learning, one of its greatest ornaments. His knowledge was far more extensive than was generally understood, or imagined, or believed.—There are very few languages with which he had not some acquaintance. His discernment and acuteness in correcting what was corrupt, and explaining what was difficult and perplexed, were almost intuitive; and, in addition to all this, his taste was elegant and correct. His recitations and repetitions were, it must be confessed, sometimes tedious and irksome, which would not, however, have been the case, unless they had been too often heard before; for he never repeated any thing that was not characterized by excellence, of some kind or other. One talent and quality he had, for which they who have hitherto exhibited biographical sketches of him, have not given him sufficient credit:—This was humour.
To prove that he possessed this in no ordinary degree of perfection, appeal need only be made to the three witty and facetious letters which he inserted in the Gentleman’s Magazine, with the signature of “Sundry Whereof.” The occasion was, The Life of Johnson, by Sir John Hawkins—Let the reader judge from one or two specimens.
Addressing the Editor he says: “Have you read that divine book, ‘The Life of Samuel Johnson, L.L.D. by Sir John Hawkins, Knt.?’ Have you done any thing but read it, since it was first published? For my own part, I scruple not to declare, that I could not rest till I had read it quite through, notes, digressions, index, and all. Then I could not rest till I had gone over it a second time. I begin to think that increase of appetite grows by what it feeds on, for I have been reading it ever since. I am now in the midst of the sixteenth perusal, and still I discover more beauties. I can think of nothing else—I can talk of nothing else, &c. &c. &c.
“Read Hawkins once, and you can read no more,
For all books hence appear so mean, so poor,
Johnson’s a dunce; but still persist to read,
And Hawkins will be all the books you need.”
Who would have expected this sally of facetiousness from the grave and didactic Porson?