light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to
bed, and, in a short time, waked and sat up, as has long been my
custom; when I felt a confusion in my head which lasted, I suppose,
about half a minute; I was alarmed, and prayed God that however much
He might afflict my body He would spare my understanding. . . . Soon
after I perceived that I had suffered a paralytic stroke, and that my
speech was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection, in
this dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered
that perhaps death itself, when it should come, would excite less
horror than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the vocal
organs I took two drams. . . . I then went to bed, and, strange as it
may seem, I think, slept. When I saw light it was time I should
contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech He left me my
hand. I enjoyed a mercy which was not granted to my dear friend
Lawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me, as I am writing, and rejoices
that I have what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to my
servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend why
he should read what I put into his hands. . . . How this will be
received by you I know not. I hope you will sympathize with me; but
perhaps--

'"My mistress, gracious, mild, and good,
Cries--Is he dumb? 'Tis time he shou'd."

'I suppose you may wish to know how my disease is treated by the
physicians. They put a blister upon my back, and two from my ear to
my throat, one on a side. The blister on the back has done little,
and those on the throat have not risen. I bullied and bounced (it
sticks to our last sand), and compelled the apothecary to make his
salve according to the Edinburgh dispensatory, that it might adhere
better. I have now two on my own prescription. They likewise give me
salt of hartshorn, which I take with no great confidence; but I am
satisfied that what can be done is done for me. I am almost ashamed
of this querulous letter, but now it is written let it go.'

This is indeed tonic and bark for the mind.

If, irritated by a comparison that ought never to have been thrust upon
us, we ask why it is that the reader of Boswell finds it as hard to help
loving Johnson as the reader of Froude finds its hard to avoid disliking
Carlyle, the answer must be that whilst t