One very amusing little anecdote of his personal strength, combined with some irritability of temper, must not be omitted. In the playhouse at Lichfield (there were no theatres then; we used plain English words for everything), Johnson, having quitted his seat for a minute, found, on returning, a gentleman in possession. The Doctor civilly laid claim to the place and begged the intruder to retire. On his rudely refusing, our big friend simply caught up the chair and tossed it and its occupant into the pit.

To pass from scenes like this to his literary work, when he had all but reached the limit of man's threescore and ten years, Johnson began to write his "Lives of the Poets"-a work which has been pronounced "the richest, most beautiful, and most perfect production of Johnson's pen." The booksellers asked him to name his own terms for the undertaking, and with the modesty which always characterised him, he asked two hundred guineas. "Had he asked one thousand, or even fifteen hundred guineas," says Malone, "the booksellers, who knew the value of his name, would doubtless have readily given it. They have," he adds, "probably got five thousand guineas by this work in the course of twentyfive years."

This was the last of his publications of any great importance. We, who know him chiefly by his half-dozen most prominent achievements, turn with surprise to a closely printed four-page list of magazine articles, pamphlets, prefaces, tales, letters, biographies, notes of travel, translations, &c., &c., all the fruits of this same busy pen. This is the more wonderful, since Johnson was no retiring student, but a man who loved society and club life, conversation and the hum of the outer world. Nay, so sociable was the man, that when long past his seventieth year, he was heard to say to a friend, “Sir, I count that day lost in which I do not make a new acquaintance."

It was not with literature and polite society alone, however, that Johnson occupied himself at this time. Though he had reached an advanced age and was often depressed by disease and melancholy, he bore about within him the heart of a young man, which attracted him at times to strange scenes.

The Gordon Riots broke out in 1780. A mob, headed by Lord George Gordon, defied the Government for a whole week, and vented their feelings in destroying property and assaulting unoffending citizens. "The high sport" was, as Dr. Johnson records, "to burn the gaols. This was a good rabble trick. The debtors and the criminals were all set at liberty." Some half dozen of the London prisons were thus treated. The Fleet, the Marshalsea, and Newgate were afterwards set ablaze.

The spirited old man was in the streets gazing at the mischief. The sight was dreadful, he declares. No wonder that a friend implored him to take care of himself. Doubtless he was known to be on the side of law and order, and so might prove a mark for the disturbers of the peace.

Johnson tells a tale at this crisis concerning a former burning of the Fleet prison, which will bear repetition.

Many years before, a portion of the edifice had accidentally caught fire, to the great terror of the inmates, who raised a frenzied cry of "We shall be burnt! we shall be burnt! down with the gates!" Mr. Akermann, the governor, was speedily on the spot; he assured the prisoners that they were in no immediate danger, that the gates must not go down, and that he held it his duty to keep them in safe custody, but that, if they would promise to obey him, he would come in among them, and conduct them to a part of the building furthest removed from the flames. He engaged further to remain with them till they gave him leave to depart.

Quieted by this brave and judicious offer, the frightened wretches drew back from the gate, round which they were

crowding, and permitted the governor to enter, the key being instantly turned upon him by a warder. He then conducted his flock, as he had promised, into comparative safety, though still within bolts and bars; and having restored confidence, he thus addressed them: "Gentlemen, you are now convinced that I told you true. I have no doubt that the engines will soon extinguish this fire; if they should not, a sufficient guard will come, and you shall all be taken out and lodged in the Compters. I assure you upon my word and honour that I have not a farthing insured. I have left my house that I might take care of you. I will keep my promise and stay with you if you insist upon it; but if you will allow me to go out and look after my family and property, I shall be obliged to you."

Struck with his behaviour, they called out as one man, "Master Akermann, you have done bravely; it was very kind in you; by all means go and take care of your own concerns."

This the governor was only too glad to do, and neither he nor his charge suffered any hurt either in life or limb.

Unhappily, in the Gordon Riots Mr. Akermann did not fare so well; the soldiery did not reach him in time to resist the mob; so that Newgate was wrecked and his own house burnt to the ground despite all his efforts.

Johnson thought very highly of this man, who amidst the worst of mankind (and a century ago our prisons did indeed harbour the vilest of characters) could retain a tenderness of heart which endeared him even to his miserable charge.

As to the danger the good Doctor braved by plunging into the mob of the year 1780, we may perhaps imagine that his powerful frame and peculiar appearance gave him a sort of superiority even over this unruly gathering.

In a sketch of his life, written by one Kearsley, we find

it mentioned that his gait and movement in the public streets were well known. His head rolled from side to side, and his body rolled too, in such violent fashion that he hardly seemed to walk, but to roll along the streets. The narrative goes on to say, "That he was often stared at while he advanced in this manner, may easily be believed; but it was not safe to make sport of one so robust as he was. Mr. Langton saw him one day in a fit of absence drive the load off a porter's back, and walk forward briskly without being conscious of what he had done. The porter was very angry, but stood still and eyed the huge figure with much earnestness, till he was satisfied that his wisest course was to be quiet and take up his burden again."

Johnson never became a wealthy man; literature in his day was not the well-paid profession it is now; but he seldom expressed a desire for larger means than he possessed. He was one day, in company with Mr. Boswell, visiting the beautiful seat of Lord Scarsdale in Derbyshire, when his friend broke out into loud praise of the splendid house, the fine park with its noble oaks, the stream with its handsome barge, and the Gothic chapel attached to the property. "One should think," said he, "that the proprietor of all this must be happy." "Nay, sir," said Johnson, "all this excludes but one evil-poverty." And another time, on contemplating a similar scene, he remarked, "This is what makes it so hard to quit the world."

All the same, the Doctor greatly appreciated many things that wealth can give, and though, at a pinch, he could fast from Sunday's dinner to Tuesday's, he could also enjoy the good things of life as much as anyone.

We must now, however, with reluctance leave Johnson as he lived, to approach the closing scenes of the great man's life, and behold him suffering-dying. Sickness had often laid him low for a time, and death had ever been present to his mind's

eye-a fearful shadow against whose chill he tried to fortify himself with the light and warmth of religion. Yes, the brave man, the wise man, the kindly-natured man was afraid of death, and shrank back as timidly as the weakest woman from the shimmer of its cold waters.

Boswell records that once in earlier days he dragged the subject of dying into the conversation, to see what his great friend would say on the subject, asking, "May we not fortify our minds for the approach of death?" to which question Johnson answered in great agitation, “No, sir, let it alone; it matters not how a man dies, but how he lives." "Don't let us meet to-morrow," he added at the close of the conversation, showing how distasteful it was to his mind. Yet Johnson did not avoid the subject in private, as we know from his prayers and meditations.

He was careful to observe the public offices of religion, attending public worship, and to the last quietly observing the Church's holy days.

He had a clear insight into the realities of life; and, when some very worthy person cried out against showy dress he rebuked his shortsightedness with the observation, "Let us not be found, when our Master calls us, stripping the lace off our waistcoats, but the spirit of contention from our souls and tongues. Alas! sir, a man who cannot get to heaven in a green coat will not find his way thither the sooner in a grey one!"

Talking of devotion, he one day remarked, "Though it be true that God dwelleth not in temples made with hands, yet in this state of being, our minds are more piously affected in places appropriated to divine worship than in others. Some people have a particular room in their houses where they say their prayers, of which I do not disapprove, as it may animate their devotion."

In the summer of 1783, Dr. Johnson was struck with