Anecdotes of Johnson | Page 8

such an occasion, forbear
recollecting the predictions of Boileau's father, when stroking the head
of the young satirist?--"Ce petit bon homme," says he, "n'a point trop
d'esprit, MAIS IL ne dira jamais mal de personne." Such are the
prognostics formed by men of wit and sense, as these two certainly
were, concerning the future character and conduct of those for whose
welfare they were honestly and deeply concerned; and so late do those
features of peculiarity come to their growth, which mark a character to
all succeeding generations.
Dr. Johnson first learned to read of his mother and her old maid
Catharine, in whose lap he well remembered sitting while she
explained to him the story of St. George and the Dragon. I know not
whether this is the proper place to add that such was his tenderness, and
such his gratitude, that he took a journey to Lichfield fifty-seven years
afterwards to support and comfort her in her last illness; he had
inquired for his nurse, and she was dead. The recollection of such
reading as had delighted him in his infancy made him always persist in

fancying that it was the only reading which could please an infant; and
he used to condemn me for putting Newbery's books into their hands as
too trifling to engage their attention. "Babies do not want," said he, "to
hear about babies; they like to be told of giants and castles, and of
somewhat which can stretch and stimulate their little minds." When in
answer I would urge the numerous editions and quick sale of "Tommy
Prudent" or "Goody Two-Shoes." "Remember always," said he, "that
the parents BUY the books, and that the children never read them." Mrs.
Barbauld, however, had his best praise, and deserved it; no man was
more struck than Mr. Johnson with voluntary descent from possible
splendour to painful duty.
At eight years old he went to school, for his health would not permit
him to be sent sooner; and at the age of ten years his mind was
disturbed by scruples of infidelity, which preyed upon his spirits and
made him very uneasy, the more so as he revealed his uneasiness to no
one, being naturally, as he said, "of a sullen temper and reserved
disposition." He searched, however, diligently but fruitlessly, for
evidences of the truth of revelation; and at length, recollecting a book
he had once seen in his father's shop, entitled "De Veritate Religionis,"
etc., he began to think himself highly culpable for neglecting such a
means of information, and took himself severely to task for this sin,
adding many acts of voluntary, and to others unknown, penance. The
first opportunity which offered, of course, he seized the book with
avidity, but on examination, not finding himself scholar enough to
peruse its contents, set his heart at rest; and, not thinking to inquire
whether there were any English books written on the subject, followed
his usual amusements, and considered his conscience as lightened of a
crime. He redoubled his diligence to learn the language that contained
the information he most wished for, but from the pain which guilt had
given him he now began to deduce the soul's immortality, which was
the point that belief first stopped at; and from that moment, resolving to
be a Christian, became one of the most zealous and pious ones our
nation ever produced. When he had told me this odd anecdote of his
childhood, "I cannot imagine," said he, "what makes me talk of myself
to you so, for I really never mentioned this foolish story to anybody
except Dr. Taylor, not even to my DEAR, DEAR Bathurst, whom I
loved better than ever I loved any human creature; but poor Bathurst is

dead!" Here a long pause and a few tears ensued. "Why, sir," said I,
"how like is all this to Jean Jacques Rousseau--as like, I mean, as the
sensations of frost and fire, when my child complained yesterday that
the ice she was eating BURNED her mouth." Mr. Johnson laughed at
the incongruous ideas, but the first thing which presented itself to the
mind of an ingenious and learned friend whom I had the pleasure to
pass some time with here at Florence was the same resemblance,
though I think the two characters had little in common, further than an
early attention to things beyond the capacity of other babies, a keen
sensibility of right and wrong, and a warmth of imagination little
consistent with sound and perfect health. I have heard him relate
another odd thing of himself too, but it is one which everybody has
heard as well as me: how, when he was about nine years old, having
got the play of Hamlet in his hand, and reading it quietly in his father's