epossessed himself with a notion, that to say a man was sick was very
near wishing him so; and few things offended him more than
prognosticating even the death of an ordinary acquaintance. "Ay, ay,"
said he, "Swift knew the world pretty well when he said that--

'Some dire misfortune to portend,
No enemy can match a friend.'"

The danger, then, of Mr. Garrick, or of Mr. Thrale, whom he loved better,
was an image which no one durst present before his view; he always
persisted in the possibility and hope of their recovering disorders from
which no human creatures by human means alone ever did recover. His
distress for their loss was for that very reason poignant to excess. But
his fears of his own salvation were excessive. His truly tolerant spirit
and Christian charity, which _hopeth all things_, and _believeth all
things_, made him rely securely on the safety of his friends; while his
earnest aspiration after a blessed immortality made him cautious of his
own steps, and timorous concerning their consequences. He knew how much
had been given, and filled his mind with fancies of how much would be
required, till his impressed imagination was often disturbed by them, and
his health suffered from the sensibility of his too tender conscience. A
real Christian is _so_ apt to find his talk above his power of
performance!

Mr. Johnson did not, however, give in to ridiculous refinements either of
speculation or practice, or suffer himself to be deluded by specious
appearances. "I have had dust thrown in my eyes too often," would he
say, "to be blinded so. Let us never confound matters of belief with
matters of opinion." Some one urged in his presence the preference of
hope to possession; and as I remember produced an Italian sonnet on the
subject. "Let us not," cries Johnson, "amuse ourselves with subtleties
and sonnets, when speaking about hope, which is the follower of faith and
the precursor of eternity; but if you only mean those air-built hopes
which to-day excite and to-morrow will destroy, let us talk away, and
remember that we only talk of the pleasures of hope; we feel those of
possession, and no man in his senses would change the last for the first.
Such hope is a mere bubble, that by a gentle breath may be blown to what
size you will almost, but a rough blast bursts it at once. Hope is an
amusement rather than a good, and adapted to none but very tranquil
minds." The truth is, Mr. Johnson hated what