It was after this that he made the acquaintance of the rich Bermondsey brewer, Mr. Thrale, and his young and clever papillon wife (afterwards Mrs. Piozzi), and became a weekly guest, and subsequently almost a fixture, at their hospitable Streatham home, Thrale Park. Better fortune has made but little change in him so far as appearance is concerned: he is just as slovenly and personally uncared for as in the years gone by; perhaps, if possible, he is even more awkward and ungainly, because grown more massive, so that, though written of another,[277] it might be said of him, ‘When _Johnson_ treads the street the paviours cry, “God bless you, sir,” and lay their rammers by.’ Yet it is something added to the interest of Hampstead and its walks, that they have known the weight of the great Doctor’s tread, and the pressure of the serviceable oaken staff with which he steadied the uncertain movements of his unwieldy frame and vacillating legs, which, like his arms, to quote Lord Chesterfield, were never in the position which, according to the situation of his body, they ought to be in. His burly figure is so familiar to us—thanks to friend Reynolds—that we can easily imagine him rolling along, not averse to a talk with any intelligent passer-by, for he himself was an illustration of his own remark, ‘that one man would learn more in a journey by the Hampstead coach, than another would in the course of the Grand Tour.’ It is not the love of Nature, however beautiful, or of fine views, that brings him here—he valued neither. Either he accompanies friends, or expects to meet some or other of his club associates, Goldy or Garrick, whom he ‘allows no man to find fault with but himself.’ Or it may be Hogarth in his sky-blue coat, who, with the actor, likes to be where folks foregather, and loves Hampstead for its own sake. Did he not select the Hampstead Road for the scene of his “March to Finchley”?[278] There was a time when he brought with him his favourite friend, the genial old sea-captain, Thomas Coram. How could a kindly-hearted man, the merriest in Fleet Street, enjoy the finest views, and air nearest heaven in his neighbourhood, and not desire the Jonathan of his soul to share them with him? While he, having seen his scheme of a foundling hospital accomplished, could with a white conscience afford himself a ‘sunshine holiday.’ But all that is past. The old philanthropist died in 1751, and ‘Home had gone and ta’en his wages.’ As it is, what a unique party they must have made at one or other of the pleasant taverns, and how much has Boswell lost for us, by not hearing the rich after-dinner talk of them over the ‘wine and walnuts,’ or bowl of punch, or often the homelier refreshment of brown ale and clean Broseley pipes! The number they smoked and the quantity of ale they consumed remains a social problem of their times unsolved.