This paper shall not be headed “Tetty.”  What may be a graceful enough freedom with the wives of other men shall be prohibited in the case of Johnson’s, she with whose name no writer until now has scrupled to take freedoms whereto all graces were lacking.  “Tetty” it should not be, if for no other reason, for this — that the chance of writing “Tetty” as a title is a kind of facile literary opportunity; it shall be denied.  The Essay owes thus much amends of deliberate care to Dr. Johnson’s wife.  But, indeed, the reason is graver.  What wish would he have had but that the language in the making whereof he took no ignoble part should somewhere, at some time, treat his only friend with ordinary honour?

Men who would trust Dr. Johnson with their orthodoxy, with their vocabulary, and with the most intimate vanity of their human wishes, refuse, with every mark of insolence, to trust him in regard to his wife.  On that one point no reverence is paid to him, no deference, no respect, not so much as the credit due to our common sanity.  Yet he is not reviled on account of his Thrale — nor, indeed, is his Thrale now seriously reproached for her Piozzi.  It is true that Macaulay, preparing himself and his reader “in his well-known way” (as a rustic of Mr. Hardy’s might have it) for the recital of her second marriage, says that it would have been well if she had been laid beside the kind and generous Thrale when, in the prime of her life, he died.  But Macaulay has not left us heirs to his indignation.  His well-known way was to exhaust those possibilities of effect in which the commonplace is so rich.  And he was permitted to point his paragraphs as he would, not only by calling Mrs. Thrale’s attachment to her second husband “a degrading passion,” but by summoning a chorus of “all London” to the same purpose.  She fled, he tells us, from the laughter and hisses of her countrymen and countrywomen to a land where she was unknown.  Thus when Macaulay chastises Mrs. Elizabeth Porter for marrying Johnson, he is not inconsistent, for he pursues Mrs. Thrale with equal rigour for her audacity in keeping gaiety and grace in her mind and manners longer than Macaulay liked to see such ornaments added to the charm of twice “married brows.”

It is not so with succeeding essayists.  One of these minor biographers is so gentle as to call the attachment of Mrs. Thrale and Piozzi “a mutual affection.”  He adds, “No one who has had some experience of life will be inclined to condemn Mrs. Thrale.”  But there is no such courtesy, even from him, for Mrs. Johnson.  Neither to him nor to any other writer has it yet occurred that if England loves her great Englishman’s memory, she owes not only courtesy, but gratitude, to the only woman who loved him while there was yet time.

Not a thought of that debt has stayed the alacrity with which a caricature has been acclaimed as the only possible portrait of Mrs. Johnson.  Garrick’s school reminiscences would probably have made a much more charming woman grotesque.  Garrick is welcome to his remembrances; we may even reserve for ourselves the liberty of envying those who heard him.  But honest laughter should not fall into that tone of common antithesis which seems to say, “See what are the absurdities of the great!  Such is life!  On this one point we, even we, are wiser than Dr. Johnson — we know how grotesque was his wife.  We know something of the privacies of her toilet-table.  We are able to compare her figure with the figures we, unlike him in his youth, have had the opportunity of admiring — the figures of the well-bred and well-dressed.”  It is a sorry success to be able to say so much.

But in fact such a triumph belongs to no man.  When Samuel Johnson, at twenty-six, married his wife, he gave the dull an advantage over himself which none but the dullest will take.  He chose, for love, a woman who had the wit to admire him at first meeting, and in spite of first sight.  “That,” she said to her daughter, “is the most sensible man I ever met.”  He was penniless.  She had what was no mean portion for those times and those conditions; and, granted that she was affected, and provincial, and short, and all the rest with which she is charged, she was probably not without suitors; nor do her defects or faults seem to have been those of an unadmired or neglected woman.  Next, let us remember what was the aspect of Johnson’s form and face, even in his twenties, and how little he could have touched the senses of a widow fond of externals.  This one loved him, accepted him, made him happy, gave to one of the noblest of all English hearts the one love of its sombre life.  And English literature has had no better phrase for her than Macaulay’s — “She accepted, with a readiness which did her little honour, the addresses of a suitor who might have been her son.”

Her readiness did her incalculable honour.  But it is at last worth remembering that Johnson had first done her incalculable honour.  No one has given to man or woman the right to judge as to the worthiness of her who received it.  The meanest man is generally allowed his own counsel as to his own wife; one of the greatest of men has been denied it.  “The lover,” says Macaulay, “continued to be under the illusions of the wedding day till the lady died.”  What is so graciously said is not enough.  He was under those “illusions” until he too died, when he had long passed her latest age, and was therefore able to set right that balance of years which has so much irritated the impertinent.  Johnson passed from this life twelve years older than she, and so for twelve years his constant eyes had to turn backwards to dwell upon her.  Time gave him a younger wife.

And here I will put into Mrs. Johnson’s mouth, that mouth to which no one else has ever attributed any beautiful sayings, the words of Marceline Desbordes-Valmore to the young husband she loved:  “Older than thou!  Let me never see thou knowest it.  Forget it!  I will remember it, to die before thy death.”

Macaulay, in his unerring effectiveness, uses Johnson’s short sight for an added affront to Mrs. Johnson.  The bridegroom was too weak of eyesight “to distinguish ceruse from natural bloom.”  Nevertheless, he saw well enough, when he was old, to distinguish Mrs. Thrale’s dresses.  He reproved her for wearing a dark dress; it was unsuitable, he said, for her size; a little creature should show gay colours “like an insect.”  We are not called upon to admire his wife; why, then, our taste being thus uncompromised, do we not suffer him to admire her?  It is the most gratuitous kind of intrusion.  Moreover, the biographers are eager to permit that touch of romance and grace in his relations to Mrs. Thrale, which they officially deny in the case of Mrs. Johnson.  But the difference is all on the other side.  He would not have bidden his wife dress like an insect.  Mrs. Thrale was to him “the first of womankind” only because his wife was dead.

Beauclerc, we learn, was wont to cap Garrick’s mimicry of Johnson’s love-making by repeating the words of Johnson himself in after-years — “It was a love-match on both sides.”  And obviously he was as strange a lover as they said.  Who doubted it?  Was there any other woman in England to give such a suitor the opportunity of an eternal love?  “A life radically wretched,” was the life of this master of Letters; but she, who has received nothing in return except ignominy from these unthankful Letters, had been alone to make it otherwise.  Well for him that he married so young as to earn the ridicule of all the biographers in England; for by doing so he, most happily, possessed his wife for nearly twenty years.  I have called her his only friend.  So indeed she was, though he had followers, disciples, rivals, competitors, and companions, many degrees of admirers, a biographer, a patron, and a public.  He had also the houseful of sad old women who quarrelled under his beneficent protection.  But what friend had he?  He was “solitary” from the day she died.

Let us consider under what solemn conditions and in what immortal phrase the word “solitary” stands.  He wrote it, all Englishmen know where.  He wrote it in the hour of that melancholy triumph when he had been at last set free from the dependence upon hope.  He hoped no more, and he needed not to hope.  The “notice” of Lord Chesterfield had been too long deferred; it was granted at last, when it was a flattery which Johnson’s court of friends would applaud.  But not for their sake was it welcome.  To no living ear would he bring it and report it with delight.

He was indifferent, he was known.  The sensitiveness to pleasure was gone, and the sensitiveness to pain, slights, and neglect would thenceforth be suffered to rest; no man in England would put that to proof again.  No man in England, did I say?  But, indeed, that is not so.  No slight to him, to his person, or to his fame could have had power to cause him pain more sensibly than the customary, habitual, ready-made ridicule that has been cast by posterity upon her whom he loved for twenty years, prayed for during thirty-two years more, who satisfied one of the saddest human hearts, but to whom the world, assiduous to admire him, hardly accords human dignity.  He wrote praises of her manners and of her person for her tomb.  But her epitaph, that does not name her, is in the greatest of English prose.  What was favour to him?  “I am indifferent . . .  I am known . . .  I am solitary, and cannot impart it.”