when another is inclined to be either
serious or displeased."

One may gather from this how he felt when his Irish friend Grierson,
hearing him enumerate the qualities necessary to the formation of a poet,
began a comical parody upon his ornamented harangue in praise of a cook,
concluding with this observation, that he who dressed a good dinner was a
more excellent and a more useful member of society than he who wrote a
good poem. "And in this opinion," said Mr. Johnson in reply, "all the
dogs in the town will join you."

Of this Mr. Grierson I have heard him relate many droll stories, much to
his advantage as a wit, together with some facts more difficult to be
accounted for; as avarice never was reckoned among the vices of the
laughing world. But Johnson's various life, and spirit of vigilance to
learn and treasure up every peculiarity of manner, sentiment, or general
conduct, made his company, when he chose to relate anecdotes of people he
had formerly known, exquisitely amusing and comical. It is indeed
inconceivable what strange occurrences he had seen, and what surprising
things he could tell when in a communicative humour. It is by no means
my business to relate memoirs of his acquaintance; but it will serve to
show the character of Johnson himself, when I inform those who never knew
him that no man told a story with so good a grace, or knew so well what
would make an effect upon his auditors. When he raised contributions for
some distressed author, or wit in want, he often made us all more than
amends by diverting descriptions of the lives they were then passing in
corners unseen by anybody but himself; and that odd old surgeon whom he
kept in his house to tend the out-pensioners, and of whom he said most
truly and sublimely that--

"In misery's darkest caverns known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pours her groan,
And lonely want retires to die."

I have forgotten the year, but it could scarcely I think be later than
1765 or 1766, that he was called abruptly from our house after dinner,
and returning in about three hours, said he had been with an enraged
author, whose landlady pressed him for payment within doors, while the
bailiffs beset him without; that he was drinking himself drunk with
Madeira to drown care, and fretting over a novel which, when finished,
was to be his whole fortune; but he could not get it done for
distraction, nor could he step out of