ant food and
raiment is so common in great cities, that a surly fellow like me has no
compassion to spare for wounds given only to vanity or softness." No
man, therefore, who smarted from the ingratitude of his friends, found
any sympathy from our philosopher. "Let him do good on higher motives
next time," would be the answer; "he will then be sure of his reward." It
is easy to observe that the justice of such sentences made them
offensive; but we must be careful how we condemn a man for saying what we
know to be true, only because it _is_ so. I hope that the reason our
hearts rebelled a little against his severity was chiefly because it came
from a living mouth. Books were invented to take off the odium of
immediate superiority, and soften the rigour of duties prescribed by the
teachers and censors of human kind--setting at least those who are
acknowledged wiser than ourselves at a distance. When we recollect,
however, that for this very reason _they_ are seldom consulted and little
obeyed, how much cause shall his contemporaries have to rejoice that
their living Johnson forced them to feel there proofs due to vice and
folly, while Seneca and Tillotson were no longer able to make
impression--except on our shelves! Few things, indeed, which pass well
enough with others would do with him: he had been a great reader of
Mandeville, and was ever on the watch to spy out those stains of original
corruption so easily discovered by a penetrating observer even in the
purest minds. I mentioned an event, which if it had happened would
greatly have injured Mr. Thrale and his family--"and then, dear sir,"
said I, "how sorry you would have been!" "I _hope_," replied he, after a
long pause, "I should have been _very_ sorry; but remember
Rochefoucault's maxim."

"I would rather," answered I, "remember Prior's verses, and ask--

'What need of books these truths to tell,
Which folks perceive that cannot spell?
And must we spectacles apply,
To see what hurts our naked eye?'

Will _anybody's_ mind bear this eternal microscope that you place upon
your own so?" "I never," replied he, "saw one that _would_, except that
of my dear Miss Reynolds--and hers is very near to purity itself." Of
slighter evils, and friends more distant than our own household, he spoke
less cautiously. An acquaintance lost the almost certain hope of a good
estate that had been long expected. "Such a one will grieve," said I,
"at her friend