meant to be purely satiric, have now become instructive. They show us, as in a mirror, the early hours, the scanty ablutions,—"washed hands, but not face,"—the comfortable eating and drinking, the refreshing absence of books, the delightful vagueness and uncertainty of foreign news. A man could interest himself for days in the reported strangling of the Grand Vizier, when no intrusive cablegram came speeding over the wires to silence and refute the pleasant voice of rumor.
It is this wholesome and universal love of detail which lends to a veracious diary its indestructible charm. Charlotte Burney has less to tell us than her famous sister; but it is to her, after all, that we owe our knowledge of Dr. Johnson's worsted wig,—a present, it seems, from Mr. Thrale, and especially valued for its tendency to stay in curl however roughly used. "The doctor generally diverts himself with lying down just after he has got a fresh wig on," writes Charlotte gayly; and this habit, it must be admitted, is death and destruction to less enduring perukes. Swift's Journal to Stella—a true diary, though cast in the form of correspondence—shows us
