of reconstructing a dead celebrity to a remarkable degree. Look
at the simple half-paragraph in which he gives us Johnson and his
atmosphere. Was ever a more definite picture given in a shorter
space--

"As we close it, the club-room is before us, and the table
on which stand the omelet for Nugent, and the lemons for
Johnson. There are assembled those heads which live for ever
on the canvas of Reynolds. There are the spectacles of Burke,
and the tall thin form of Langton, the courtly sneer of
Beauclerk and the beaming smile of Garrick, Gibbon tapping
his snuff-box, and Sir Joshua with his trumpet in his ear.
In the foreground is that strange figure which is as familiar
to us as the figures of those among whom we have been brought
up--the gigantic body, the huge massy face, seamed with the
scars of disease, the brown coat, the black worsted stockings,
the grey wig with the scorched foretop, the dirty hands, the
nails bitten and pared to the quick. We see the eyes and mouth
moving with convulsive twitches; we see the heavy form rolling;
we hear it puffing, and then comes the 'Why, sir!' and the
'What then, sir?' and the 'No, sir!' and the 'You don't see
your way through the question, sir!'"

It is etched into your memory for ever.

I can remember that when I visited London at the age of sixteen the
first thing I did after housing my luggage was to make a pilgrimage
to Macaulay's grave, where he lies in Westminster Abbey, just under
the shadow of Addison, and amid the dust of the poets whom he had
loved so well. It was the one great object of interest which London