France, whose disciples were more numerous than those of Johnson, was ever willing to give them both the benefit and the pleasure of his accumulated store of learning. This utilisation of an extraordinary memory in conversation unites the Doctor and the Master. Each spoke to a circle, one at Streatham, at a club or in some hospitable house, the other at the Villa Said at Versailles, or at La Bechellerie, and each with equal enjoyment. There is,' the

Doctor once declared, 'in the world no real delight but exchange of ideas in conversation,' a sentiment with which France cordially agreed, though both of these great men reduced, or were sometimes allowed by their friends to reduce, conversation to a monologue, so that often there was little of that exchange of ideas which Johnson regarded as the basis of true conversation. Bennett Langton, after an evening with Johnson and Burke, was walking home with the statesman, and in the course of their talk Langton said that he could have wished, during the evening, to have heard more from another person, meaning Burke. Oh no,' said Burke; it is enough for me to have rung the bell.' Johnson had, on that occasion, obviously monopolised the conversation.

The same conversational fault is equally clearly discernible in the familiar descriptions which have been written since his death of the intimate life of France. It would have been impossible for a man of great intellectual gifts, delighting in their display among men and women, not to have contracted this shortcoming, especially when it is clear that France made no attempt to limit the number of his guests. So far from retiring from the crowd, he welcomed it; and yet, curiously enough, he disliked and evaded public meetings.

This pleasure in society, of course, laid both men open to the advances of those stupid people whom both Johnson and France rather liked, as the phrase is, to score off. A foolish lady asked France one day which of his books he preferred, and he replied without a moment's hesitation, 'Le Violon de Faïence '-a purely imaginary title of a purely imaginary book. The reply came with equal rapidity, 'Moi aussi, Maître.' Boswell has noted quite similar sallies by Johnson, though his replies to foolish people were more in the nature of blows with a bludgeon. 'Would you,' asked a young gentleman in the drawing-room at Streatham, advise me to marry?' The answer startled the ingenuous inquirer. 'I would advise no man to marry, sir, who is not likely to propagate understanding,' and he walked out of the room.

'Our

companion,' observes Mrs. Thrale, 'looked confounded,' which was not surprising.

It would be a mistake, however, to regard this pleasure which Johnson and France found in society merely as an idle way of passing an hour or two, or for the satisfaction of exhibiting remarkable mental gifts. It was largely a form of philanthropy—that is, not of philanthropy as popularly regarded, limited to the assistance of some benevolent object, but in a finer sense; a love of their fellow-beings, of coming in contact with them, of finding enjoyment in their gifts and even in their faults. It was the result of largeheartedness. Johnson was a strong Tory, but he had intimate friends among the Whigs. France, who could see all the shortcomings of democracy, was actually in theory a socialist, chiefly from the same reason-a desire to see everyone as well off as himself.

In another and an admirable way there was a distinct affinity between Johnson and France. Each detested exaggeration in statement and big words, whether in conversation or in writing. This was the distinct opinion of those who frequented France's salon.

A phrase which he used and which includes a neat play on words and is illustrative of this, has been preserved by one of France's most assiduous listeners during the last decade of his life. Les grands mots, mon ami, mènent aux grands maux.' It is not surprising that one who was always seeking in writing for the juste mot, and who valued form in literature, should have disliked exaggeration of verbal expression as much as Johnson, and it was for this reason that in conversation, France spoke carefully and even with some hesitation, so that his thoughts, when uttered, should be expressed in appropriate language.

In the case of Johnson, Boswell has given many examples of this dislike. In fact, he has told a story on the point against himself, for at Harwich when Boswell was starting on his journey to Utrecht and observed that it would be terrible if the Doctor could not, after he had sailed, speedily return to London, the latter snubbed him with the remark, 'Don't, sir, accustom yourself to use big words for little matters'; and he gave for a and he gave for a reason for liking old Mr. Langton that he never embraces you with an overacted cordiality '—a cordiality, that is, of language.

The striking traits in which a resemblance between Johnson and Anatole France can be traced clearly sprang from several common qualities-a keen power of observation, an equally keen

love of mingling with all sorts and conditions of men, and a lifelong habit of mental candour. But at the same time in one basic condition they were poles apart. Johnson looked at things from the point of view of a Christian, Anatole France from that of a pagan : yet these opposite points of view produced in both men a similar result a permanent sense of emotional and intellectual depression. Johnson was perpetually perplexed by hopes and fears of his eternal salvation, and his many Prayers and Meditations which have been preserved are lifelong evidence of it. I rose according to my resolution, and am now to begin another year (January 1781), I hope with an amendment of life. I will not despair. Help me, help me, O my God.'

France, on the other hand, found so much pleasure in existence that he was always unresigned to the shortness of human life.

E. S. Roscoe.

RELATIVITY.

WHENEVER I go out to tea,

My friends desire to do me good; They tell me what I shouldn't be, They tell me what I should.

Oh, they are kindly, they are wise,
And excellent is all they say!
Their final verdict in their eyes
I read-and turn away.

Their criticisms are rehearsed
By memory till I have them pat;
And still I wonder which is worst,
My head, or heart, or hat!

Each is unutterably wrong:
Each is inextricably I!
I'd sell myself for an old song,
But nobody would buy.

So home I go in sorry plight

But my dog barks as I draw near;

And in tumultuous delight

He hails me: You are here!

'This long and dreary afternoon

I've been without you, dearest chum ! You never can come back too soon; Hurrah, I'm glad you've come!'

Then Pussy leaps upon my knee,
And beatifically purrs

That there is nothing wrong with me-
I'm just what she prefers.

They only are a dog and cat,

My morals cause them no distress, They do not mind about my hat, They simply love and bless.

But if such errant souls as mine,
Who fail in every human test,
Were called to face some judge divine,
Or the verdict of the blest,

Should we not falter? Maimed and poor,
Bowed down by much forgiveness, even
On earth-ah, how could we endure
The pardon of high Heaven?

Peace! Though the harvest of our years
Has failed, and we are sore bested,

It is the judgment of our peers,

And not of Heaven, we dread.

We who are weaklings fear the weak;
They are our spiritual kin;
And even in their scorn they speak
The language of our sin.

But if upon this dim grey earth

They sojourn spirits higher far May see the soul of smallest worth Clear shining as a star.

To plumb our folly all too wise,

And all too pure our guilt to guess—

Nor scorn nor censure in their eyes,

They simply love and bless!

MAY KENDALL.