he was, of course, the unconscious object.

Johnson's face was scarred by the King's Evil, which even the touch of
Queen Anne had failed to cure. While a youth he talked aloud to himself--a
privilege that should be granted only to those advanced in years. He would
grunt out prayers and expletives at uncertain times, keep up a clucking
sound with his tongue, sway his big body from side to side, and drum a
tattoo upon his knee. Now and again would come a suppressed whistle, and
then a low humming sound, backed up by a vacant non-compos-mentis smile.

Another odd whim of Johnson's was, that he would never pass a lamp-post
without touching it, and would go back miles upon his way to repair an
omission. Surely great wit to madness is near allied.

This most strange young man was a boarder in the home of Mrs. Porter, when
her husband was alive, and the husband and boarder had been fast
friends--drawn together by a bookish bias.

Very naturally, when the husband passed away, the boarder sought to
console the bereaved landlady, and the result was as usual. And when, long
years after, Johnson would solemnly explain that it was a pure love-match
on both sides, the statement never failed to excite much needless and
ill-suppressed merriment on the part of the listeners. In mimicking the
endearments of Johnson and his "pretty creature"--so the admiring husband
called her--Garrick many years later added to his artistic reputation.

Unlike most literary men, Johnson was domestic, and his marriage was one
of the most happy events of his career. But to show that the philosophy of
Montaigne is not infallible, and that all signs fail in dry weather, it
may be stated that the bride proved by her conduct on her wedding-day that