Life of Johnson
by James Boswell
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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Abridged and edited, with an introduction by Charles Grosvenor Osgood
Professor of English at Princeton University

Preface

In making this abridgement of Boswell's Life of Johnson I have
omitted most of Boswell's criticisms, comments, and notes, all of
Johnson's opinions in legal cases, most of the letters, and parts
of the conversation dealing with matters which were of greater
importance in Boswell's day than now. I have kept in mind an old
habit, common enough, I dare say, among its devotees, of opening
the book of random, and reading wherever the eye falls upon a
passage of especial interest. All such passages, I hope, have been
retained, and enough of the whole book to illustrate all the phases
of Johnson's mind and of his time which Boswell observed.

Loyal Johnsonians may look upon such a book with a measure of
scorn. I could not have made it, had I not believed that it would
be the means of drawing new readers to Boswell, and eventually of
finding for them in the complete work what many have already found--
days and years of growing enlightenment and happy companionship,
and an innocent refuge from the cares and perturbations of life.

Princeton, June 28, 1917.

INTRODUCTION

Phillips Brooks once told the boys at Exeter that in reading
biography three men meet one another in close intimacy--the subject
of the biography, the author, and the reader. Of the three the
most interesting is, of course, the man about whom the book is
written. The most privileged is the reader, who is thus allowed to
live familiarly with an eminent man. Least regarded of the three
is the author. It is his part to introduce the others, and to
develop between them an acquaintance, perhaps a friendship, while
he, though ever busy and solicitous, withdraws into the background.

Some think that Boswell, in his Life of Johnson, did not
sufficiently realize his duty of self-effacement. He is too much
in evidence, too bustling, too anxious that his own opinion, though
comparatively unimportant, should get a hearing. In general,
Boswell's faults are easily noticed, and have been too much talked
about. He was morbid, restless, self-conscious, vain, insinuating;
and, poor fellow, he died a drunkard. But the essential Boswell,
the skilful and devoted artist, is almost unrecognized. As the
creator of the Life of Johnson he is almost as much effaced as is
Homer in the Odyssey. He is indeed so closely concealed that the
reader suspects no art at all. Boswell's performance looks easy
enough--merely the more or less coherent stringing together of a
mass of memoranda. Nevertheless it was rare and difficult, as is
the highest achievement in art. Boswell is primarily the artist,
and he has created one of the great masterpieces of the world.*  He
created nothing else, though his head was continually filling
itself with literary schemes that came to nought. But into his
Life of Johnson he poured all his artistic energies, as Milton
poured his into Paradise Lost, and Vergil his into the Aneid.

* Here I include his Journal of a Tour of the Hebrides as
essentially a part of the Life. The Journal of a Tour in Corsica
is but a propaedeutic study.

First, Boswell had the industry and the devotion to his task of an
artist. Twenty years and more he labored in collecting his
material. He speaks frankly of his methods. He recorded the talk
of Johnson and his associates partly by a rough shorthand of his
own, partly by an exceptional memory, which he carefully trained
for this very purpose. 'O for shorthand to take this down!' said
he to Mrs. Thrale as they listened to Johnson; and she replied:
'You'll carry it all in your head; a long head is as good as
shorthand.'  Miss Hannah More recalls a gay meeting at the
Garricks', in Johnson's absence, when Boswell was bold enough to
match his skill with no other than Garrick himself in an imitation
of Johnson. Though Garrick was more successful in his Johnsonian
recitation of poetry, Boswell won in reproducing his familiar
conversation. He lost no time in perfecting his notes both mental
and stenographic, and sat up many a night followed by a day of
headache, to write them in final form, that none of the freshness
and glow might fade. The sheer labor of this process, not to
mention the difficulty, can be measured only by one who attempts a
similar feat. Let him try to report the best conversation of a
lively evening, following its course, preserving its point,
differentiating sharply the traits of the participants, keeping the
style, idiom, and exact words of each. Let him reject all parts of
it, however diverting, of which the charm and force will evaporate
with the occasion, and retain only that which will be as amusing,
significant, and lively as ever at the end of one hundred, or, for
all that we can see, one thousand years. He will then, in some
measure, realize the difficulty of Boswell's performance. When his
work appeared Boswell himself said: 'The stretch of mind and prompt
assiduity by which so many conversations are preserved, I myself,
at some distance of time, contemplate with wonder.'

He was indefatigable in hunting up and consulting all who had known
parts or aspects of Johnson's life which to him were inaccessible.
He mentions all told more than fifty names of men and women whom he
consulted for information, to which number many others should be
added of those who gave him nothing that he could use. 'I have
sometimes been obliged to run half over London, in order to fix a
date correctly.'  He agonized over his work with the true devotion
of an artist: 'You cannot imagine,' he says, 'what labor, what
perplexity, what vexation I have endured in arranging a prodigious
multiplicity of materials, in supplying omissions, in searching for
papers buried in different masses, and all this besides the
exertion of composing and polishing.'  He despairs of making his
picture vivid or full enough, and of ever realizing his
preconception of his masterpiece.

Boswell's devotion to his work appears in even more extraordinary
ways. Throughout he repeatedly offers himself as a victim to
illustrate his great friend's wit, ill-humor, wisdom, affection, or
goodness. He never spares himself, except now and then to assume a
somewhat diaphanous anonymity. Without regard for his own dignity,
he exhibits himself as humiliated, or drunken, or hypochondriac, or
inquisitive, or resorting to petty subterfuge--anything for the
accomplishment of his one main purpose. 'Nay, Sir,' said Johnson,
'it was not the wine that made your head ache, but the sense that I
put into it.'  'What, Sir,' asks the hapless Boswell, 'will sense
make the head ache?'  'Yes, Sir, when it is not used to it.'

Boswell is also the artist in his regard for truth. In him it was
a passion. Again and again he insists upon his authenticity. He
developed an infallible gust and unerring relish of what was
genuinely Johnsonian in speech, writing, or action; and his own
account leads to the inference that he discarded, as worthless,
masses of diverting material which would have tempted a less
scrupulous writer beyond resistance. 'I observed to him,' said
Boswell, 'that there were very few of his friends so accurate as
that I could venture to put down in writing what they told me as
his sayings.'  The faithfulness of his portrait, even to the
minutest details, is his unremitting care, and he subjects all
contributed material to the sternest criticism.

Industry and love of truth alone will not make the artist. With
only these Boswell might have been merely a tireless transcriber.
But he had besides a keen sense of artistic values. This appears
partly in the unity of his vast work. Though it was years in the
making, though the details that demanded his attention were
countless, yet they all centre consistently in one figure, and are
so focused upon it, that one can hardly open the book at random to
a line which has not its direct bearing upon the one subject of the
work. Nor is the unity of the book that of an undeviating
narrative in chronological order of one man's life; it grows rather
out of a single dominating personality exhibited in all the
vicissitudes of a manifold career. Boswell often speaks of his
work as a painting, a portrait, and of single incidents as pictures
or scenes in a drama. His eye is keen for contrasts, for
picturesque moments, for dramatic action. While it is always the
same Johnson whom he makes the central figure, he studies to shift
the background, the interlocutors, the light and shade, in search
of new revelations and effects. He presents a succession of many
scenes, exquisitely wrought, of Johnson amid widely various
settings of Eighteenth-Century England. And subject and setting
are so closely allied that each borrows charm and emphasis from the
other. Let the devoted reader of Boswell ask himself what glamor
would fade from the church of St. Clement Danes, from the Mitre,
from Fleet Street, the Oxford coach, and Lichfield, if the burly
figure were withdrawn from them; or what charm and illumination, of
the man himself would have been lost apart from these settings. It
is the unseen hand of the artist Boswell that has wrought them
inseparably into this reciprocal effect.

The single scenes and pictures which Boswell has given us will all
of them bear close scrutiny for their precision, their economy of
means, their lifelikeness, their artistic effect. None was wrought
more beautifully, nor more ardently, than that of Johnson's
interview with the King. First we see the plain massive figure of
the scholar amid the elegant comfort of Buckingham House. He is
intent on his book before the fire. Then the approach of the King,
lighted on his way by Mr. Barnard with candles caught from a table;
their entrance by a private door, with Johnson's unconscious
absorption, his sudden surprise, his starting up, his dignity, the
King's ease with him, their conversation, in which the King
courteously draws from Johnson knowledge of that in which Johnson
is expert, Johnson's manly bearing and voice throughout--all is set
forth with the unadorned vividness and permanent effect which seem
artless enough, but which are characteristic of only the greatest
art.

Boswell's Life of Johnson is further a masterpiece of art in that
it exerts the vigorous energy of a masterpiece, an abundance of
what, for want of a better word, we call personality. It is
Boswell's confessed endeavor to add this quality to the others,
because he perceived that it was an essential quality of Johnson
himself, and he more than once laments his inability to transmit
the full force and vitality of his original. Besides artistic
perception and skill it required in him admiration and enthusiasm
to seize this characteristic and impart it to his work. His
admiration he confesses unashamed: 'I said I worshipped him . . . I
cannot help worshipping him, he is so much superior to other men.'
He studied his subject intensely. 'During all the course of my
long intimacy with him, my respectful attention never abated.'
Upon such intensity and such ardor and enthusiasm depend the energy
and animation of his portrait.

But it exhibits other personal qualities than these, which, if less
often remarked, are at any rate unconsciously enjoyed. Boswell had
great social charm. His friends are agreed upon his liveliness and
good nature. Johnson called him 'clubbable,' 'the best traveling
companion in the world,' 'one Scotchman who is cheerful,' 'a man
whom everybody likes,' 'a man who I believe never left a house
without leaving a wish for his return.'  His vivacity, his love of
fun, his passion for good company and friendship, his sympathy, his
amiability, which made him acceptable everywhere, have mingled
throughout with his own handiwork, and cause it to radiate a kind
of genial warmth. This geniality it may be which has attracted so
many readers to the book. They find themselves in good company, in
a comfortable, pleasant place, agreeably stimulated with wit and
fun, and cheered with friendliness. They are loth to leave it, and
would ever enter it again. This rare charm the book owes in large
measure to its creator.

The alliance of author with subject in Boswell's Johnson is one of
the happiest and most sympathetic the world has known. So close is
it that one cannot easily discern what great qualities the work
owes to each. While it surely derives more of its excellence than
is commonly remarked from the art of Boswell, its greatness after
all is ultimately that of its subject. The noble qualities of
Johnson have been well discerned by Carlyle, and his obvious
peculiarities and prejudices somewhat magnified and distorted in
Macaulay's brilliant refractions. One quality only shall I dwell
upon, though that may be the sum of all the rest. Johnson had a
supreme capacity for human relationship. In him this capacity
amounted to genius.

In all respects he was of great stature. His contemporaries called
him a colossus, the literary Goliath, the Giant, the great Cham of
literature, a tremendous companion. His frame was majestic; he
strode when he walked, and his physical strength and courage were
heroic. His mode of speaking was 'very impressive,' his utterance
'deliberate and strong.'  His conversation was compared to 'an
antique statue, where every vein and muscle is distinct and bold.'
From boyhood throughout his life his companions naturally deferred
to him, and he dominated them without effort. But what overcame
the harshness of this autocracy, and made it reasonable, was the
largeness of a nature that loved men and was ever hungry for
knowledge of them. 'Sir,' said he, 'I look upon every day lost in
which I do not make a new acquaintance.'  And again: 'Why, Sir, I
am a man of the world. I live in the world, and I take, in some
degree, the color of the world as it moves along.'  Thus he was a
part of all that he met, a central figure in his time, with whose
opinion one must reckon in considering any important matter of his
day.

His love of London is but a part of his hunger for men. 'The
happiness of London is not to be conceived but by those who have
been in it.'  'Why, Sir, you find no man at all intellectual who is
willing to leave London: No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he
is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.'
As he loved London, so he loved a tavern for its sociability.
'Sir, there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by
which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern.'  'A
tavern chair is the throne of human felicity.'

Personal words are often upon his lips, such as 'love' and 'hate,'
and vast is the number, range, and variety of people who at one
time or another had been in some degree personally related with
him, from Bet Flint and his black servant Francis, to the adored
Duchess of Devonshire and the King himself. To no one who passed a
word with him was he personally indifferent. Even fools received
his personal attention. Said one: 'But I don't understand you,
Sir.'  'Sir, I have found you an argument. I am not obliged to
find you an understanding.'  'Sir, you are irascible,' said
Boswell; 'you have no patience with folly or absurdity.'

But it is in Johnson's capacity for friendship that his greatness
is specially revealed. 'Keep your friendships in good repair.'  As
the old friends disappeared, new ones came to him. For Johnson
seems never to have sought out friends. He was not a common
'mixer.'  He stooped to no devices for the sake of popularity. He
pours only scorn upon the lack of mind and conviction which is
necessary to him who is everybody's friend.

His friendships included all classes and all ages. He was a great
favorite with children, and knew how to meet them, from little
four-months-old Veronica Boswell to his godchild Jane Langton.
'Sir,' said he, 'I love the acquaintance of young people, . . .
young men have more virtue than old men; they have more generous
sentiments in every respect.'  At sixty-eight he said: 'I value
myself upon this, that there is nothing of the old man in my
conversation.'  Upon women of all classes and ages he exerts
without trying a charm the consciousness of which would have turned
any head less constant than his own, and with their fulsome
adoration he was pleased none the less for perceiving its real
value.

But the most important of his friendships developed between him and
such men of genius as Boswell, David Garrick, Oliver Goldsmith, Sir
Joshua Reynolds, and Edmund Burke. Johnson's genius left no fit
testimony of itself from his own hand. With all the greatness of
his mind he had no talent in sufficient measure by which fully to
express himself. He had no ear for music and no eye for painting,
and the finest qualities in the creations of Goldsmith were lost
upon him. But his genius found its talents in others, and through
the talents of his personal friends expressed itself as it were by
proxy. They rubbed their minds upon his, and he set in motion for
them ideas which they might use. But the intelligence of genius is
profounder and more personal than mere ideas. It has within it
something energic, expansive, propulsive from mind to mind,
perennial, yet steady and controlled; and it was with such force
that Johnson's almost superhuman personality inspired the art of
his friends. Of this they were in some degree aware. Reynolds
confessed that Johnson formed his mind, and 'brushed from it a
great deal of rubbish.'  Gibbon called Johnson 'Reynolds' oracle.'
In one of his Discourses Sir Joshua, mindful no doubt of his own
experience, recommends that young artists seek the companionship of
such a man merely as a tonic to their art. Boswell often testifies
to the stimulating effect of Johnson's presence. Once he speaks of
'an animating blaze of eloquence, which roused every intellectual
power in me to the highest pitch'; and again of the 'full glow' of
Johnson's conversation, in which he felt himself 'elevated as if
brought into another state of being.'  He says that all members of
Johnson's 'school' 'are distinguished for a love of truth and
accuracy which they would not have possessed in the same degree if
they had not been acquainted with Johnson.'  He quotes Johnson at
length and repeatedly as the author of his own large conception of
biography. He was Goldsmith's 'great master,' Garrick feared his
criticism, and one cannot but recognize the power of Johnson's
personality in the increasing intelligence and consistency of
Garrick's interpretations, in the growing vigor and firmness of
Goldsmith's stroke, in the charm, finality, and exuberant life of
Sir Joshua's portraits; and above all in the skill, truth,
brilliance, and lifelike spontaneity of Boswell's art. It is in
such works as these that we shall find the real Johnson, and
through them that he will exert the force of his personality upon
us.

Biography is the literature of realized personality, of life as it
has been lived, of actual achievements or shortcomings, of success
or failure; it is not imaginary and embellished, not what might be
or might have been, not reduced to prescribed or artificial forms,
but it is the unvarnished story of that which was delightful,
disappointing, possible, or impossible, in a life spent in this
world.

In this sense it is peculiarly the literature of truth and
authenticity. Elements of imagination and speculation must enter
into all other forms of literature, and as purely creative forms
they may rank superior to biography; but in each case it will be
found that their authenticity, their right to our attention and
credence, ultimately rests upon the biographical element which is
basic in them, that is, upon what they have derived by observation
and experience from a human life seriously lived. Biography
contains this element in its purity. For this reason it is more
authentic than other kinds of literature, and more relevant. The
thing that most concerns me, the individual, whether I will or no,
is the management of myself in this world. The fundamental and
essential conditions of life are the same in any age, however the
adventitious circumstances may change. The beginning and the end
are the same, the average length the same, the problems and the
prize the same. How, then, have others managed, both those who
failed and those who succeeded, or those, in far greatest number,
who did both? Let me know their ambitions, their odds, their
handicaps, obstacles, weaknesses, and struggles, how they finally
fared, and what they had to say about it. Let me know a great
variety of such instances that I may mark their disagreements, but
more especially their agreement about it. How did they play the
game? How did they fight the fight that I am to fight, and how in
any case did they lose or win? To these questions biography gives
the direct answer. Such is its importance over other literature.
For such reasons, doubtless, Johnson 'loved' it most. For such
reasons the book which has been most cherished and revered for
well-nigh two thousand years is a biography.

Biography, then, is the chief text-book in the art of living, and
preeminent in its kind is the Life of Johnson. Here is the
instance of a man who was born into a life stripped of all ornament
and artificiality. His equipment in mind and stature was Olympian,
but the odds against him were proportionate to his powers. Without
fear or complaint, without boast or noise, he fairly joined issue
with the world and overcame it. He scorned circumstance, and laid
bare the unvarying realities of the contest. He was ever the sworn
enemy of speciousness, of nonsense, of idle and insincere
speculation, of the mind that does not take seriously the duty of
making itself up, of neglect in the gravest consideration of life.
He insisted upon the rights and dignity of the individual man, and
at the same time upon the vital necessity to him of reverence and
submission, and no man ever more beautifully illustrated their
interdependence, and their exquisite combination in a noble nature.

Boswell's Johnson is consistently and primarily the life of one
man. Incidentally it is more, for through it one is carried from
his own present limitations into a spacious and genial world. The
reader there meets a vast number of people, men, women, children,
nay even animals, from George the Third down to the cat Hodge. By
the author's magic each is alive, and the reader mingles with them
as with his acquaintances. It is a varied world, and includes the
smoky and swarming courts and highways of London, its stately
drawing-rooms, its cheerful inns, its shops and markets, and beyond
is the highroad which we travel in lumbering coach or speeding
postchaise to venerable Oxford with its polite and leisurely dons,
or to the staunch little cathedral city of Lichfield, welcoming
back its famous son to dinner and tea, or to the seat of a country
squire, or ducal castle, or village tavern, or the grim but
hospitable feudal life of the Hebrides. And wherever we go with
Johnson there is the lively traffic in ideas, lending vitality and
significance to everything about him.

A part of education and culture is the extension of one's narrow
range of living to include wider possibilities or actualities, such
as may be gathered from other fields of thought, other times, other
men; in short, to use a Johnsonian phrase, it is 'multiplicity of
consciousness.'  There is no book more effective through long
familiarity to such extension and such multiplication than
Boswell's Life of Johnson. It adds a new world to one's own, it
increases one's acquaintance among people who think, it gives
intimate companionship with a great and friendly man.

The Life of Johnson is not a book on first acquaintance to be read
through from the first page to the end. 'No, Sir, do YOU read
books through?' asked Johnson. His way is probably the best one of
undertaking this book. Open at random, read here and there,
forward and back, wholly according to inclination; follow the
practice of Johnson and all good readers, of 'tearing the heart'
out of it. In this way you most readily come within the reach of
its charm and power. Then, not content with a part, seek the
unabridged whole, and grow into the infinite possibilities of it.

But the supreme end of education, we are told, is expert
discernment in all things--the power to tell the good from the bad,
the genuine from the counterfeit, and to prefer the good and the
genuine to the bad and the counterfeit. This is the supreme end of
the talk of Socrates, and it is the supreme end of the talk of
Johnson. 'My dear friend,' said he, 'clear your mind of cant; . . .
don't THINK foolishly.'  The effect of long companionship with
Boswell's Johnson is just this. As Sir Joshua said, 'it brushes
away the rubbish'; it clears the mind of cant; it instills the
habit of singling out the essential thing; it imparts discernment.
Thus, through his friendship with Boswell, Johnson will realize his
wish, still to be teaching as the years increase.

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

Had Dr. Johnson written his own life, in conformity with the
opinion which he has given, that every man's life may be best
written by himself; had he employed in the preservation of his own
history, that clearness of narration and elegance of language in
which he has embalmed so many eminent persons, the world would
probably have had the most perfect example of biography that was
ever exhibited. But although he at different times, in a desultory
manner, committed to writing many particulars of the progress of
his mind and fortunes, he never had persevering diligence enough to
form them into a regular composition. Of these memorials a few
have been preserved; but the greater part was consigned by him to
the flames, a few days before his death.

As I had the honour and happiness of enjoying his friendship for
upwards of twenty years; as I had the scheme of writing his life
constantly in view; as he was well apprised of this circumstance,
and from time to time obligingly satisfied my inquiries, by
communicating to me the incidents of his early years; as I acquired
a facility in recollecting, and was very assiduous in recording,
his conversation, of which the extraordinary vigour and vivacity
constituted one of the first features of his character; and as I
have spared no pains in obtaining materials concerning him, from
every quarter where I could discover that they were to be found,
and have been favoured with the most liberal communications by his
friends; I flatter myself that few biographers have entered upon
such a work as this, with more advantages; independent of literary
abilities, in which I am not vain enough to compare myself with
some great names who have gone before me in this kind of writing.

Instead of melting down my materials into one mass, and constantly
speaking in my own person, by which I might have appeared to have
more merit in the execution of the work, I have resolved to adopt
and enlarge upon the excellent plan of Mr. Mason, in his Memoirs of
Gray. Wherever narrative is necessary to explain, connect, and
supply, I furnish it to the best of my abilities; but in the
chronological series of Johnson's life, which I trace as distinctly
as I can, year by year, I produce, wherever it is in my power, his
own minutes, letters or conversation, being convinced that this
mode is more lively, and will make my readers better acquainted
with him, than even most of those were who actually knew him, but
could know him only partially; whereas there is here an
accumulation of intelligence from various points, by which his
character is more fully understood and illustrated.

Indeed I cannot conceive a more perfect mode of writing any man's
life, than not only relating all the most important events of it in
their order, but interweaving what he privately wrote, and said,
and thought; by which mankind are enabled as it were to see him
live, and to 'live o'er each scene' with him, as he actually
advanced through the several stages of his life. Had his other
friends been as diligent and ardent as I was, he might have been
almost entirely preserved. As it is, I will venture to say that he
will be seen in this work more completely than any man who has ever
yet lived.

And he will be seen as he really was; for I profess to write, not
his panegyrick, which must be all praise, but his Life; which,
great and good as he was, must not be supposed to be entirely
perfect. To be as he was, is indeed subject of panegyrick enough
to any man in this state of being; but in every picture there
should be shade as well as light, and when I delineate him without
reserve, I do what he himself recommended, both by his precept and
his example.

I am fully aware of the objections which may be made to the
minuteness on some occasions of my detail of Johnson's
conversation, and how happily it is adapted for the petty exercise
of ridicule, by men of superficial understanding and ludicrous
fancy; but I remain firm and confident in my opinion, that minute
particulars are frequently characteristick, and always amusing,
when they relate to a distinguished man. I am therefore
exceedingly unwilling that any thing, however slight, which my
illustrious friend thought it worth his while to express, with any
degree of point, should perish.

Of one thing I am certain, that considering how highly the small
portion which we have of the table-talk and other anecdotes of our
celebrated writers is valued, and how earnestly it is regretted
that we have not more, I am justified in preserving rather too many
of Johnson's sayings, than too few; especially as from the
diversity of dispositions it cannot be known with certainty
beforehand, whether what may seem trifling to some, and perhaps to
the collector himself, may not be most agreeable to many; and the
greater number that an authour can please in any degree, the more
pleasure does there arise to a benevolent mind.

Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield, in Staffordshire, on the 18th
of September, N. S., 1709; and his initiation into the Christian
Church was not delayed; for his baptism is recorded, in the
register of St. Mary's parish in that city, to have been performed
on the day of his birth. His father is there stiled Gentleman, a
circumstance of which an ignorant panegyrist has praised him for
not being proud; when the truth is, that the appellation of
Gentleman, though now lost in the indiscriminate assumption of
Esquire, was commonly taken by those who could not boast of
gentility. His father was Michael Johnson, a native of Derbyshire,
of obscure extraction, who settled in Lichfield as a bookseller and
stationer. His mother was Sarah Ford, descended of an ancient race
of substantial yeomanry in Warwickshire. They were well advanced
in years when they married, and never had more than two children,
both sons; Samuel, their first born, who lived to be the
illustrious character whose various excellence I am to endeavour to
record, and Nathanael, who died in his twenty-fifth year.

Mr. Michael Johnson was a man of a large and robust body, and of a
strong and active mind; yet, as in the most solid rocks veins of
unsound substance are often discovered, there was in him a mixture
of that disease, the nature of which eludes the most minute
enquiry, though the effects are well known to be a weariness of
life, an unconcern about those things which agitate the greater
part of mankind, and a general sensation of gloomy wretchedness.
From him then his son inherited, with some other qualities, 'a vile
melancholy,' which in his too strong expression of any disturbance
of the mind, 'made him mad all his life, at least not sober.'
Michael was, however, forced by the narrowness of his circumstances
to be very diligent in business, not only in his shop, but by
occasionally resorting to several towns in the neighbourhood, some
of which were at a considerable distance from Lichfield. At that
time booksellers' shops in the provincial towns of England were
very rare, so that there was not one even in Birmingham, in which
town old Mr. Johnson used to open a shop every market-day. He was
a pretty good Latin scholar, and a citizen so creditable as to be
made one of the magistrates of Lichfield; and, being a man of good
sense, and skill in his trade, he acquired a reasonable share of
wealth, of which however he afterwards lost the greatest part, by
engaging unsuccessfully in a manufacture of parchment. He was a
zealous high-church man and royalist, and retained his attachment
to the unfortunate house of Stuart, though he reconciled himself,
by casuistical arguments of expediency and necessity, to take the
oaths imposed by the prevailing power.

Johnson's mother was a woman of distinguished understanding. I
asked his old school-fellow, Mr. Hector, surgeon of Birmingham, if
she was not vain of her son. He said, 'she had too much good sense
to be vain, but she knew her son's value.'  Her piety was not
inferiour to her understanding; and to her must be ascribed those
early impressions of religion upon the mind of her son, from which
the world afterwards derived so much benefit. He told me, that he
remembered distinctly having had the first notice of Heaven, 'a
place to which good people went,' and hell, 'a place to which bad
people went,' communicated to him by her, when a little child in
bed with her; and that it might be the better fixed in his memory,
she sent him to repeat it to Thomas Jackson, their man-servant; he
not being in the way, this was not done; but there was no occasion
for any artificial aid for its preservation.

There is a traditional story of the infant Hercules of toryism, so
curiously characteristick, that I shall not withhold it. It was
communicated to me in a letter from Miss Mary Adye, of Lichfield:

'When Dr. Sacheverel was at Lichfield, Johnson was not quite three
years old. My grandfather Hammond observed him at the cathedral
perched upon his father's shoulders, listening and gaping at the
much celebrated preacher. Mr. Hammond asked Mr. Johnson how he
could possibly think of bringing such an infant to church, and in
the midst of so great a crowd. He answered, because it was
impossible to keep him at home; for, young as he was, he believed
he had caught the publick spirit and zeal for Sacheverel, and would
have staid for ever in the church, satisfied with beholding him.'

Nor can I omit a little instance of that jealous independence of
spirit, and impetuosity of temper, which never forsook him. The
fact was acknowledged to me by himself, upon the authority of his
mother. One day, when the servant who used to be sent to school to
conduct him home, had not come in time, he set out by himself,
though he was then so near-sighted, that he was obliged to stoop
down on his hands and knees to take a view of the kennel before he
ventured to step over it. His school-mistress, afraid that he
might miss his way, or fall into the kennel, or be run over by a
cart, followed him at some distance. He happened to turn about and
perceive her. Feeling her careful attention as an insult to his
manliness, he ran back to her in a rage, and beat her, as well as
his strength would permit.

Of the power of his memory, for which he was all his life eminent
to a degree almost incredible, the following early instance was
told me in his presence at Lichfield, in 1776, by his step-
daughter, Mrs. Lucy Porter, as related to her by his mother. When
he was a child in petticoats, and had learnt to read, Mrs. Johnson
one morning put the common prayer-book into his hands, pointed to
the collect for the day, and said, 'Sam, you must get this by
heart.'  She went up stairs, leaving him to study it: But by the
time she had reached the second floor, she heard him following her.
'What's the matter?' said she. 'I can say it,' he replied; and
repeated it distinctly, though he could not have read it more than
twice.

But there has been another story of his infant precocity generally
circulated, and generally believed, the truth of which I am to
refute upon his own authority. It is told, that, when a child of
three years old, he chanced to tread upon a duckling, the eleventh
of a brood, and killed it; upon which, it is said, he dictated to
his mother the following epitaph:

   'Here lies good master duck,
      Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;
    If it had liv'd, it had been GOOD LUCK,
      For then we'd had an ODD ONE.'

There is surely internal evidence that this little composition
combines in it, what no child of three years old could produce,
without an extension of its faculties by immediate inspiration; yet
Mrs. Lucy Porter, Dr. Johnson's stepdaughter, positively maintained
to me, in his presence, that there could be no doubt of the truth
of this anecdote, for she had heard it from his mother. So
difficult is it to obtain an authentick relation of facts, and such
authority may there be for errour; for he assured me, that his
father made the verses, and wished to pass them for his child's.
He added, 'my father was a foolish old man; that is to say, foolish
in talking of his children.'

Young Johnson had the misfortune to be much afflicted with the
scrophula, or king's evil, which disfigured a countenance naturally
well formed, and hurt his visual nerves so much, that he did not
see at all with one of his eyes, though its appearance was little
different from that of the other. There is amongst his prayers,
one inscribed 'When, my EYE was restored to its use,' which
ascertains a defect that many of his friends knew he had, though I
never perceived it. I supposed him to be only near-sighted; and
indeed I must observe, that in no other respect could I discern any
defect in his vision; on the contrary, the force of his attention
and perceptive quickness made him see and distinguish all manner of
objects, whether of nature or of art, with a nicety that is rarely
to be found. When he and I were travelling in the Highlands of
Scotland, and I pointed out to him a mountain which I observed
resembled a cone, he corrected my inaccuracy, by shewing me, that
it was indeed pointed at the top, but that one side of it was
larger than the other. And the ladies with whom he was acquainted
agree, that no man was more nicely and minutely critical in the
elegance of female dress. When I found that he saw the romantick
beauties of Islam, in Derbyshire, much better than I did, I told
him that he resembled an able performer upon a bad instrument. It
has been said, that he contracted this grievous malady from his
nurse. His mother yielding to the superstitious notion, which, it
is wonderful to think, prevailed so long in this country, as to the
virtue of the regal touch; a notion, which our kings encouraged,
and to which a man of such inquiry and such judgement as Carte
could give credit; carried him to London, where he was actually
touched by Queen Anne. Mrs. Johnson indeed, as Mr. Hector informed
me, acted by the advice of the celebrated Sir John Floyer, then a
physician in Lichfield. Johnson used to talk of this very frankly;
and Mrs. Piozzi has preserved his very picturesque description of
the scene, as it remained upon his fancy. Being asked if he could
remember Queen Anne, 'He had (he said) a confused, but somehow a
sort of solemn recollection of a lady in diamonds, and a long black
hood.'  This touch, however, was without any effect. I ventured to
say to him, in allusion to the political principles in which he was
educated, and of which he ever retained some odour, that 'his
mother had not carried him far enough; she should have taken him to
ROME.'

He was first taught to read English by Dame Oliver, a widow, who
kept a school for young children in Lichfield. He told me she
could read the black letter, and asked him to borrow for her, from
his father, a bible in that character. When he was going to
Oxford, she came to take leave of him, brought him, in the
simplicity of her kindness, a present of gingerbread, and said, he
was the best scholar she ever had. He delighted in mentioning this
early compliment: adding, with a smile, that 'this was as high a
proof of his merit as he could conceive.'  His next instructor in
English was a master, whom, when he spoke of him to me, he
familiarly called Tom Brown, who, said he, 'published a spelling-
book, and dedicated it to the UNIVERSE; but, I fear, no copy of it
can now be had.'

He began to learn Latin with Mr. Hawkins, usher, or under-master of
Lichfield school, 'a man (said he) very skilful in his little way.'
With him he continued two years, and then rose to be under the care
of Mr. Hunter, the headmaster, who, according to his account, 'was
very severe, and wrong-headedly severe. He used (said he) to beat
us unmercifully; and he did not distinguish between ignorance and
negligence; for he would beat a boy equally for not knowing a
thing, as for neglecting to know it. He would ask a boy a
question; and if he did not answer it, he would beat him, without
considering whether he had an opportunity of knowing how to answer
it. For instance, he would call up a boy and ask him Latin for a
candlestick, which the boy could not expect to be asked. Now, Sir,
if a boy could answer every question, there would be no need of a
master to teach him.'

It is, however, but justice to the memory of Mr. Hunter to mention,
that though he might err in being too severe, the school of
Lichfield was very respectable in his time. The late Dr. Taylor,
Prebendary of Westminster, who was educated under him, told me,
that 'he was an excellent master, and that his ushers were most of
them men of eminence; that Holbrook, one of the most ingenious men,
best scholars, and best preachers of his age, was usher during the
greatest part of the time that Johnson was at school. Then came
Hague, of whom as much might be said, with the addition that he was
an elegant poet. Hague was succeeded by Green, afterwards Bishop
of Lincoln, whose character in the learned world is well known.'

Indeed Johnson was very sensible how much he owed to Mr. Hunter.
Mr. Langton one day asked him how he had acquired so accurate a
knowledge of Latin, in which, I believe, he was exceeded by no man
of his time; he said, 'My master whipt me very well. Without that,
Sir, I should have done nothing.'  He told Mr. Langton, that while
Hunter was flogging his boys unmercifully, he used to say, 'And
this I do to save you from the gallows.'  Johnson, upon all
occasions, expressed his approbation of enforcing instruction by
means of the rod. 'I would rather (said he) have the rod to be the
general terrour to all, to make them learn, than tell a child, if
you do thus, or thus, you will be more esteemed than your brothers
or sisters. The rod produces an effect which terminates in itself.
A child is afraid of being whipped, and gets his task, and there's
an end on't; whereas, by exciting emulation and comparisons of
superiority, you lay the foundation of lasting mischief; you make
brothers and sisters hate each other.'

That superiority over his fellows, which he maintained with so much
dignity in his march through life, was not assumed from vanity and
ostentation, but was the natural and constant effect of those
extraordinary powers of mind, of which he could not but be
conscious by comparison; the intellectual difference, which in
other cases of comparison of characters, is often a matter of
undecided contest, being as clear in his case as the superiority of
stature in some men above others. Johnson did not strut or stand
on tiptoe; He only did not stoop. From his earliest years his
superiority was perceived and acknowledged. He was from the
beginning [Greek text omitted], a king of men. His school-fellow,
Mr. Hector, has obligingly furnished me with many particulars of his
boyish days: and assured me that he never knew him corrected at
school, but for talking and diverting other boys from their
business. He seemed to learn by intuition; for though indolence
and procrastination were inherent in his constitution, whenever he
made an exertion he did more than any one else. His favourites
used to receive very liberal assistance from him; and such was the
submission and deference with which he was treated, such the desire
to obtain his regard, that three of the boys, of whom Mr. Hector
was sometimes one, used to come in the morning as his humble
attendants, and carry him to school. One in the middle stooped,
while he sat upon his back, and one on each side supported him; and
thus he was borne triumphant. Such a proof of the early
predominance of intellectual vigour is very remarkable, and does
honour to human nature. Talking to me once himself of his being
much distinguished at school, he told me, 'they never thought to
raise me by comparing me to any one; they never said, Johnson is as
good a scholar as such a one; but such a one is as good a scholar
as Johnson; and this was said but of one, but of Lowe; and I do not
think he was as good a scholar.'

He discovered a great ambition to excel, which roused him to
counteract his indolence. He was uncommonly inquisitive; and his
memory was so tenacious, that he never forgot any thing that he
either heard or read. Mr. Hector remembers having recited to him
eighteen verses, which, after a little pause, he repeated verbatim,
varying only one epithet, by which he improved the line.

He never joined with the other boys in their ordinary diversions:
his only amusement was in winter, when he took a pleasure in being
drawn upon the ice by a boy barefooted, who pulled him along by a
garter fixed round him; no very easy operation, as his size was
remarkably large. His defective sight, indeed, prevented him from
enjoying the common sports; and he once pleasantly remarked to me,
'how wonderfully well he had contrived to be idle without them.'
Mr. Hector relates, that 'he could not oblige him more than by
sauntering away the hours of vacation in the fields, during which
he was more engaged in talking to himself than to his companion.'

Dr. Percy, the Bishop of Dromore, who was long intimately
acquainted with him, and has preserved a few anecdotes concerning
him, regretting that he was not a more diligent collector, informs
me, that 'when a boy he was immoderately fond of reading romances
of chivalry, and he retained his fondness for them through life; so
that (adds his Lordship) spending part of a summer at my parsonage
house in the country, he chose for his regular reading the old
Spanish romance of Felixmarte of Hircania, in folio, which he read
quite through. Yet I have heard him attribute to these extravagant
fictions that unsettled turn of mind which prevented his ever
fixing in any profession.'

1725: AETAT. 16.--After having resided for some time at the house
of his uncle, Cornelius Ford, Johnson was, at the age of fifteen,
removed to the school of Stourbridge, in Worcestershire, of which
Mr. Wentworth was then master. This step was taken by the advice
of his cousin, the Reverend Mr. Ford, a man in whom both talents
and good dispositions were disgraced by licentiousness, but who was
a very able judge of what was right. At this school he did not
receive so much benefit as was expected. It has been said, that he
acted in the capacity of an assistant to Mr. Wentworth, in teaching
the younger boys. 'Mr. Wentworth (he told me) was a very able man,
but an idle man, and to me very severe; but I cannot blame him
much. I was then a big boy; he saw I did not reverence him; and
that he should get no honour by me. I had brought enough with me,
to carry me through; and all I should get at his school would be
ascribed to my own labour, or to my former master. Yet he taught
me a great deal.'

He thus discriminated, to Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dromore, his
progress at his two grammar-schools. 'At one, I learnt much in the
school, but little from the master; in the other, I learnt much
from the master, but little in the school.'

He remained at Stourbridge little more than a year, and then
returned home, where he may be said to have loitered, for two
years, in a state very unworthy his uncommon abilities. He had
already given several proofs of his poetical genius, both in his
school-exercises and in other occasional compositions.

He had no settled plan of life, nor looked forward at all, but
merely lived from day to day. Yet he read a great deal in a
desultory manner, without any scheme of study, as chance threw
books in his way, and inclination directed him through them. He
used to mention one curious instance of his casual reading, when
but a boy. Having imagined that his brother had hid some apples
behind a large folio upon an upper shelf in his father's shop, he
climbed up to search for them. There were no apples; but the large
folio proved to be Petrarch, whom he had seen mentioned in some
preface, as one of the restorers of learning. His curiosity having
been thus excited, he sat down with avidity, and read a great part
of the book. What he read during these two years he told me, was
not works of mere amusement, 'not voyages and travels, but all
literature, Sir, all ancient writers, all manly: though but little
Greek, only some of Anacreon and Hesiod; but in this irregular
manner (added he) I had looked into a great many books, which were
not commonly known at the Universities, where they seldom read any
books but what are put into their hands by their tutors; so that
when I came to Oxford, Dr. Adams, now master of Pembroke College,
told me I was the best qualified for the University that he had
ever known come there.'

That a man in Mr. Michael Johnson's circumstances should think of
sending his son to the expensive University of Oxford, at his own
charge, seems very improbable. The subject was too delicate to
question Johnson upon. But I have been assured by Dr. Taylor that
the scheme never would have taken place had not a gentleman of
Shropshire, one of his schoolfellows, spontaneously undertaken to
support him at Oxford, in the character of his companion; though,
in fact, he never received any assistance whatever from that
gentleman.

He, however, went to Oxford, and was entered a Commoner of Pembroke
College on the 31st of October, 1728, being then in his nineteenth
year.

The Reverend Dr. Adams, who afterwards presided over Pembroke
College with universal esteem, told me he was present, and gave me
some account of what passed on the night of Johnson's arrival at
Oxford. On that evening, his father, who had anxiously accompanied
him, found means to have him introduced to Mr. Jorden, who was to
be his tutor.

His father seemed very full of the merits of his son, and told the
company he was a good scholar, and a poet, and wrote Latin verses.
His figure and manner appeared strange to them; but he behaved
modestly, and sat silent, till upon something which occurred in the
course of conversation, he suddenly struck in and quoted Macrobius;
and thus he gave the first impression of that more extensive
reading in which he had indulged himself.

His tutor, Mr. Jorden, fellow of Pembroke, was not, it seems, a man
of such abilities as we should conceive requisite for the
instructor of Samuel Johnson, who gave me the following account of
him. 'He was a very worthy man, but a heavy man, and I did not
profit much by his instructions. Indeed, I did not attend him
much. The first day after I came to college I waited upon him, and
then staid away four. On the sixth, Mr. Jorden asked me why I had
not attended. I answered I had been sliding in Christ-Church
meadow. And this I said with as much nonchalance as I am now
talking to you. I had no notion that I was wrong or irreverent to
my tutor. BOSWELL: 'That, Sir, was great fortitude of mind.'
JOHNSON: 'No, Sir; stark insensibility.'

He had a love and respect for Jorden, not for his literature, but
for his worth. 'Whenever (said he) a young man becomes Jorden's
pupil, he becomes his son.'

Having given a specimen of his poetical powers, he was asked by Mr.
Jorden, to translate Pope's Messiah into Latin verse, as a
Christmas exercise. He performed it with uncommon rapidity, and in
so masterly a manner, that he obtained great applause from it,
which ever after kept him high in the estimation of his College,
and, indeed, of all the University.

It is said, that Mr. Pope expressed himself concerning it in terms
of strong approbation. Dr. Taylor told me, that it was first
printed for old Mr. Johnson, without the knowledge of his son, who
was very angry when he heard of it.

The 'morbid melancholy,' which was lurking in his constitution, and
to which we may ascribe those particularities, and that aversion to
regular life, which, at a very early period, marked his character,
gathered such strength in his twentieth year, as to afflict him in
a dreadful manner. While he was at Lichfield, in the college
vacation of the year 1729, he felt himself overwhelmed with an
horrible hypochondria, with perpetual irritation, fretfulness, and
impatience; and with a dejection, gloom, and despair, which made
existence misery. From this dismal malady he never afterwards was
perfectly relieved; and all his labours, and all his enjoyments,
were but temporary interruptions of its baleful influence. He told
Mr. Paradise that he was sometimes so languid and inefficient, that
he could not distinguish the hour upon the town-clock.

Johnson, upon the first violent attack of this disorder, strove to
overcome it by forcible exertions. He frequently walked to
Birmingham and back again, and tried many other expedients, but all
in vain. His expression concerning it to me was 'I did not then
know how to manage it.'  His distress became so intolerable, that
he applied to Dr. Swinfen, physician in Lichfield, his god-father,
and put into his hands a state of his case, written in Latin. Dr.
Swinfen was so much struck with the extraordinary acuteness,
research, and eloquence of this paper, that in his zeal for his
godson he shewed it to several people. His daughter, Mrs.
Desmoulins, who was many years humanely supported in Dr. Johnson's
house in London, told me, that upon his discovering that Dr.
Swinfen had communicated his case, he was so much offended, that he
was never afterwards fully reconciled to him. He indeed had good
reason to be offended; for though Dr. Swinfen's motive was good, he
inconsiderately betrayed a matter deeply interesting and of great
delicacy, which had been entrusted to him in confidence; and
exposed a complaint of his young friend and patient, which, in the
superficial opinion of the generality of mankind, is attended with
contempt and disgrace.

To Johnson, whose supreme enjoyment was the exercise of his reason,
the disturbance or obscuration of that faculty was the evil most to
be dreaded. Insanity, therefore, was the object of his most dismal
apprehension; and he fancied himself seized by it, or approaching
to it, at the very time when he was giving proofs of a more than
ordinary soundness and vigour of judgement. That his own diseased
imagination should have so far deceived him, is strange; but it is
stranger still that some of his friends should have given credit to
his groundless opinion, when they had such undoubted proofs that it
was totally fallacious; though it is by no means surprising that
those who wish to depreciate him, should, since his death, have
laid hold of this circumstance, and insisted upon it with very
unfair aggravation.

The history of his mind as to religion is an important article. I
have mentioned the early impressions made upon his tender
imagination by his mother, who continued her pious care with
assiduity, but, in his opinion, not with judgement. 'Sunday (said
he) was a heavy day to me when I was a boy. My mother confined me
on that day, and made me read "The Whole Duty of Man," from a great
part of which I could derive no instruction. When, for instance, I
had read the chapter on theft, which from my infancy I had been
taught was wrong, I was no more convinced that theft was wrong than
before; so there was no accession of knowledge. A boy should be
introduced to such books, by having his attention directed to the
arrangement, to the style, and other excellencies of composition;
that the mind being thus engaged by an amusing variety of objects,
may not grow weary.'

He communicated to me the following particulars upon the subject of
his religious progress. 'I fell into an inattention to religion,
or an indifference about it, in my ninth year. The church at
Lichfield, in which we had a seat, wanted reparation, so I was to
go and find a seat in other churches; and having bad eyes, and
being awkward about this, I used to go and read in the fields on
Sunday. This habit continued till my fourteenth year; and still I
find a great reluctance to go to church. I then became a sort of
lax TALKER against religion, for I did not much THINK against it;
and this lasted till I went to Oxford, where it would not be
SUFFERED. When at Oxford, I took up Law's Serious Call to a Holy
Life, expecting to find it a dull book (as such books generally
are), and perhaps to laugh at it. But I found Law quite an
overmatch for me; and this was the first occasion of my thinking in
earnest of religion, after I became capable of rational inquiry.'
From this time forward religion was the predominant object of his
thoughts; though, with the just sentiments of a conscientious
Christian, he lamented that his practice of its duties fell far
short of what it ought to be.

The particular course of his reading while at Oxford, and during
the time of vacation which he passed at home, cannot be traced.
Enough has been said of his irregular mode of study. He told me
that from his earliest years he loved to read poetry, but hardly
ever read any poem to an end; that he read Shakspeare at a period
so early, that the speech of the ghost in Hamlet terrified him when
he was alone; that Horace's Odes were the compositions in which he
took most delight, and it was long before he liked his Epistles and
Satires. He told me what he read SOLIDLY at Oxford was Greek; not
the Grecian historians, but Homer and Euripides, and now and then a
little Epigram; that the study of which he was the most fond was
Metaphysicks, but he had not read much, even in that way. I always
thought that he did himself injustice in his account of what he had
read, and that he must have been speaking with reference to the
vast portion of study which is possible, and to which a few
scholars in the whole history of literature have attained; for when
I once asked him whether a person, whose name I have now forgotten,
studied hard, he answered 'No, Sir; I do not believe he studied
hard. I never knew a man who studied hard. I conclude, indeed,
from the effects, that some men have studied hard, as Bentley and
Clarke.'  Trying him by that criterion upon which he formed his
judgement of others, we may be absolutely certain, both from his
writings and his conversation, that his reading was very extensive.
Dr. Adam Smith, than whom few were better judges on this subject,
once observed to me that 'Johnson knew more books than any man
alive.'  He had a peculiar facility in seizing at once what was
valuable in any book, without submitting to the labour of perusing
it from beginning to end. He had, from the irritability of his
constitution, at all times, an impatience and hurry when he either
read or wrote. A certain apprehension, arising from novelty, made
him write his first exercise at College twice over; but he never
took that trouble with any other composition; and we shall see that
his most excellent works were struck off at a heat, with rapid
exertion.

No man had a more ardent love of literature, or a higher respect
for it than Johnson. His apartment in Pembroke College was that
upon the second floor, over the gateway. The enthusiasts of
learning will ever contemplate it with veneration. One day, while
he was sitting in it quite alone, Dr. Panting, then master of the
College, whom he called 'a fine Jacobite fellow,' overheard him
uttering this soliloquy in his strong, emphatick voice: 'Well, I
have a mind to see what is done in other places of learning. I'll
go and visit the Universities abroad. I'll go to France and Italy.
I'll go to Padua.--And I'll mind my business. For an Athenian
blockhead is the worst of all blockheads.'

Dr. Adams told me that Johnson, while he was at Pembroke College,
'was caressed and loved by all about him, was a gay and frolicksome
fellow, and passed there the happiest part of his life.'  But this
is a striking proof of the fallacy of appearances, and how little
any of us know of the real internal state even of those whom we see
most frequently; for the truth is, that he was then depressed by
poverty, and irritated by disease. When I mentioned to him this
account as given me by Dr. Adams, he said; 'Ah, Sir, I was mad and
violent. It was bitterness which they mistook for frolick. I was
miserably poor, and I thought to fight my way by my literature and
my wit; so I disregarded all power and all authority.'

The Bishop of Dromore observes in a letter to me,

'The pleasure he took in vexing the tutors and fellows has been
often mentioned. But I have heard him say, what ought to be
recorded to the honour of the present venerable master of that
College, the Reverend William Adams, D.D., who was then very young,
and one of the junior fellows; that the mild but judicious
expostulations of this worthy man, whose virtue awed him, and whose
learning he revered, made him really ashamed of himself, "though I
fear (said he) I was too proud to own it."

'I have heard from some of his cotemporaries that he was generally
seen lounging at the College gate, with a circle of young students
round him, whom he was entertaining with wit, and keeping from
their studies, if not spiriting them up to rebellion against the
College discipline, which in his maturer years he so much
extolled.'

I do not find that he formed any close intimacies with his fellow-
collegians. But Dr. Adams told me that he contracted a love and
regard for Pembroke College, which he retained to the last. A
short time before his death he sent to that College a present of
all his works, to be deposited in their library; and he had
thoughts of leaving to it his house at Lichfield; but his friends
who were about him very properly dissuaded him from it, and he
bequeathed it to some poor relations. He took a pleasure in
boasting of the many eminent men who had been educated at Pembroke.
In this list are found the names of Mr. Hawkins the Poetry
Professor, Mr. Shenstone, Sir William Blackstone, and others; not
forgetting the celebrated popular preacher, Mr. George Whitefield,
of whom, though Dr. Johnson did not think very highly, it must be
acknowledged that his eloquence was powerful, his views pious and
charitable, his assiduity almost incredible; and, that since his
death, the integrity of his character has been fully vindicated.
Being himself a poet, Johnson was peculiarly happy in mentioning
how many of the sons of Pembroke were poets; adding, with a smile
of sportive triumph, 'Sir, we are a nest of singing birds.'

He was not, however, blind to what he thought the defects of his
own College; and I have, from the information of Dr. Taylor, a very
strong instance of that rigid honesty which he ever inflexibly
preserved. Taylor had obtained his father's consent to be entered
of Pembroke, that he might be with his schoolfellow Johnson, with
whom, though some years older than himself, he was very intimate.
This would have been a great comfort to Johnson. But he fairly
told Taylor that he could not, in conscience, suffer him to enter
where he knew he could not have an able tutor. He then made
inquiry all round the University, and having found that Mr.
Bateman, of Christ Church, was the tutor of highest reputation,
Taylor was entered of that College. Mr. Bateman's lectures were so
excellent, that Johnson used to come and get them at second-hand
from Taylor, till his poverty being so extreme that his shoes were
worn out, and his feet appeared through them, he saw that this
humiliating circumstance was perceived by the Christ Church men,
and he came no more. He was too proud to accept of money, and
somebody having set a pair of new shoes at his door, he threw them
away with indignation. How must we feel when we read such an
anecdote of Samuel Johnson!

The res angusta domi prevented him from having the advantage of a
complete academical education. The friend to whom he had trusted
for support had deceived him. His debts in College, though not
great, were increasing; and his scanty remittances from Lichfield,
which had all along been made with great difficulty, could be
supplied no longer, his father having fallen into a state of
insolvency. Compelled, therefore, by irresistible necessity, he
left the College in autumn, 1731, without a degree, having been a
member of it little more than three years.

And now (I had almost said POOR) Samuel Johnson returned to his
native city, destitute, and not knowing how he should gain even a
decent livelihood. His father's misfortunes in trade rendered him
unable to support his son; and for some time there appeared no
means by which he could maintain himself. In the December of this
year his father died.

Johnson was so far fortunate, that the respectable character of his
parents, and his own merit, had, from his earliest years, secured
him a kind reception in the best families at Lichfield. Among
these I can mention Mr. Howard, Dr. Swinfen, Mr. Simpson, Mr.
Levett, Captain Garrick, father of the great ornament of the
British stage; but above all, Mr. Gilbert Walmsley, Register of the
Prerogative Court of Lichfield, whose character, long after his
decease, Dr. Johnson has, in his Life of Edmund Smith, thus drawn
in the glowing colours of gratitude:

'Of Gilbert Walmsley, thus presented to my mind, let me indulge
myself in the remembrance. I knew him very early; he was one of
the first friends that literature procured me, and I hope that, at
least, my gratitude made me worthy of his notice.

'He was of an advanced age, and I was only not a boy, yet he never
received my notions with contempt. He was a whig, with all the
virulence and malevolence of his party; yet difference of opinion
did not keep us apart. I honoured him and he endured me.

'At this man's table I enjoyed many cheerful and instructive hours,
with companions, such as are not often found--with one who has
lengthened, and one who has gladdened life; with Dr. James, whose
skill in physick will be long remembered; and with David Garrick,
whom I hoped to have gratified with this character of our common
friend. But what are the hopes of man! I am disappointed by that
stroke of death, which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and
impoverished the publick stock of harmless pleasure.'

In these families he passed much time in his early years. In most
of them, he was in the company of ladies, particularly at Mr.
Walmsley's, whose wife and sisters-in-law, of the name of Aston,
and daughters of a Baronet, were remarkable for good breeding; so
that the notion which has been industriously circulated and
believed, that he never was in good company till late in life, and,
consequently had been confirmed in coarse and ferocious manners by
long habits, is wholly without foundation. Some of the ladies have
assured me, they recollected him well when a young man, as
distinguished for his complaisance.

In the forlorn state of his circumstances, he accepted of an offer
to be employed as usher in the school of Market-Bosworth, in
Leicestershire, to which it appears, from one of his little
fragments of a diary, that he went on foot, on the 16th of July.

This employment was very irksome to him in every respect, and he
complained grievously of it in his letters to his friend Mr.
Hector, who was now settled as a surgeon at Birmingham. The
letters are lost; but Mr. Hector recollects his writing 'that the
poet had described the dull sameness of his existence in these
words, "Vitam continet una dies" (one day contains the whole of my
life); that it was unvaried as the note of the cuckow; and that he
did not know whether it was more disagreeable for him to teach, or
the boys to learn, the grammar rules.'  His general aversion to
this painful drudgery was greatly enhanced by a disagreement
between him and Sir Wolstan Dixey, the patron of the school, in
whose house, I have been told, he officiated as a kind of domestick
chaplain, so far, at least, as to say grace at table, but was
treated with what he represented as intolerable harshness; and,
after suffering for a few months such complicated misery, he
relinquished a situation which all his life afterwards he
recollected with the strongest aversion, and even a degree of
horrour. But it is probable that at this period, whatever
uneasiness he may have endured, he laid the foundation of much
future eminence by application to his studies.

Being now again totally unoccupied, he was invited by Mr. Hector to
pass some time with him at Birmingham, as his guest, at the house
of Mr. Warren, with whom Mr. Hector lodged and boarded. Mr. Warren
was the first established bookseller in Birmingham, and was very
attentive to Johnson, who he soon found could be of much service to
him in his trade, by his knowledge of literature; and he even
obtained the assistance of his pen in furnishing some numbers of a
periodical Essay printed in the newspaper, of which Warren was
proprietor. After very diligent inquiry, I have not been able to
recover those early specimens of that particular mode of writing by
which Johnson afterwards so greatly distinguished himself.

He continued to live as Mr. Hector's guest for about six months,
and then hired lodgings in another part of the town, finding
himself as well situated at Birmingham as he supposed he could be
any where, while he had no settled plan of life, and very scanty
means of subsistence. He made some valuable acquaintances there,
amongst whom were Mr. Porter, a mercer, whose widow he afterwards
married, and Mr. Taylor, who by his ingenuity in mechanical
inventions, and his success in trade, acquired an immense fortune.
But the comfort of being near Mr. Hector, his old school-fellow and
intimate friend, was Johnson's chief inducement to continue here.

His juvenile attachments to the fair sex were very transient; and
it is certain that he formed no criminal connection whatsoever.
Mr. Hector, who lived with him in his younger days in the utmost
intimacy and social freedom, has assured me, that even at that
ardent season his conduct was strictly virtuous in that respect;
and that though he loved to exhilarate himself with wine, he never
knew him intoxicated but once.

In a man whom religious education has secured from licentious
indulgences, the passion of love, when once it has seized him, is
exceedingly strong; being unimpaired by dissipation, and totally
concentrated in one object. This was experienced by Johnson, when
he became the fervent admirer of Mrs. Porter, after her first
husband's death. Miss Porter told me, that when he was first
introduced to her mother, his appearance was very forbidding: he
was then lean and lank, so that his immense structure of bones was
hideously striking to the eye, and the scars of the scrophula were
deeply visible. He also wore his hair, which was straight and
stiff, and separated behind: and he often had, seemingly,
convulsive starts and odd gesticulations, which tended to excite at
once surprize and ridicule. Mrs. Porter was so much engaged by his
conversation that she overlooked all these external disadvantages,
and said to her daughter, 'this is the most sensible man that I
ever saw in my life.'

Though Mrs. Porter was double the age of Johnson, and her person
and manner, as described to me by the late Mr. Garrick, were by no
means pleasing to others, she must have had a superiority of
understanding and talents, as she certainly inspired him with a
more than ordinary passion; and she having signified her
willingness to accept of his hand, he went to Lichfield to ask his
mother's consent to the marriage, which he could not but be
conscious was a very imprudent scheme, both on account of their
disparity of years, and her want of fortune. But Mrs. Johnson knew
too well the ardour of her son's temper, and was too tender a
parent to oppose his inclinations.

I know not for what reason the marriage ceremony was not performed
at Birmingham; but a resolution was taken that it should be at
Derby, for which place the bride and bridegroom set out on
horseback, I suppose in very good humour. But though Mr. Topham
Beauclerk used archly to mention Johnson's having told him, with
much gravity, 'Sir, it was a love marriage on both sides,' I have
had from my illustrious friend the following curious account of
their journey to church upon the nuptial morn:

9th JULY:--'Sir, she had read the old romances, and had got into
her head the fantastical notion that a woman of spirit should use
her lover like a dog. So, Sir, at first she told me that I rode
too fast, and she could not keep up with me; and, when I rode a
little slower, she passed me, and complained that I lagged behind.
I was not to be made the slave of caprice; and I resolved to begin
as I meant to end. I therefore pushed on briskly, till I was
fairly out of her sight. The road lay between two hedges, so I was
sure she could not miss it; and I contrived that she should soon
come up with me. When she did, I observed her to be in tears.'

This, it must be allowed, was a singular beginning of connubial
felicity; but there is no doubt that Johnson, though he thus shewed
a manly firmness, proved a most affectionate and indulgent husband
to the last moment of Mrs. Johnson's life: and in his Prayers and
Meditations, we find very remarkable evidence that his regard and
fondness for her never ceased, even after her death.

He now set up a private academy, for which purpose he hired a large
house, well situated near his native city. In the Gentleman's
Magazine for 1736, there is the following advertisement:

'At Edial, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, young gentlemen are
boarded and taught the Latin and Greek languages, by SAMUEL
JOHNSON.'

But the only pupils that were put under his care were the
celebrated David Garrick and his brother George, and a Mr. Offely,
a young gentleman of good fortune who died early. The truth is,
that he was not so well qualified for being a teacher of elements,
and a conductor in learning by regular gradations, as men of
inferiour powers of mind. His own acquisitions had been made by
fits and starts, by violent irruptions into the regions of
knowledge; and it could not be expected that his impatience would
be subdued, and his impetuosity restrained, so as to fit him for a
quiet guide to novices.

Johnson was not more satisfied with his situation as the master of
an academy, than with that of the usher of a school; we need not
wonder, therefore, that he did not keep his academy above a year
and a half. From Mr. Garrick's account he did not appear to have
been profoundly reverenced by his pupils. His oddities of manner,
and uncouth gesticulations, could not but be the subject of
merriment to them; and, in particular, the young rogues used to
listen at the door of his bed-chamber, and peep through the key-
hole, that they might turn into ridicule his tumultuous and awkward
fondness for Mrs. Johnson, whom he used to name by the familiar
appellation of Tetty or Tetsey, which, like Betty or Betsey, is
provincially used as a contraction for Elisabeth, her christian
name, but which to us seems ludicrous, when applied to a woman of
her age and appearance. Mr. Garrick described her to me as very
fat, with a bosom of more than ordinary protuberance, with swelled
cheeks of a florid red, produced by thick painting, and increased
by the liberal use of cordials; flaring and fantastick in her
dress, and affected both in her speech and her general behaviour.
I have seen Garrick exhibit her, by his exquisite talent of
mimickry, so as to excite the heartiest bursts of laughter; but he,
probably, as is the case in all such representations, considerably
aggravated the picture.

Johnson now thought of trying his fortune in London, the great
field of genius and exertion, where talents of every kind have the
fullest scope, and the highest encouragement. It is a memorable
circumstance that his pupil David Garrick went thither at the same
time,* with intention to complete his education, and follow the
profession of the law, from which he was soon diverted by his
decided preference for the stage.

* Both of them used to talk pleasantly of this their first journey
to London. Garrick, evidently meaning to embellish a little, said
one day in my hearing, 'we rode and tied.'  And the Bishop of
Killaloe informed me, that at another time, when Johnson and
Garrick were dining together in a pretty large company, Johnson
humorously ascertaining the chronology of something, expressed
himself thus: 'that was the year when I came to London with two-
pence half-penny in my pocket.'  Garrick overhearing him,
exclaimed, 'eh? what do you say? with two-pence half-penny in your
pocket?'--JOHNsON, 'Why yes; when I came with two-pence half-penny
in MY pocket, and thou, Davy, with three half-pence in thine.'--
BOSWELL.

They were recommended to Mr. Colson, an eminent mathematician and
master of an academy, by the following letter from Mr. Walmsley:

'TO THE REVEREND MR. COLSON.

'Lichfield, March 2,1737.

'Dear Sir, I had the favour of yours, and am extremely obliged to
you; but I cannot say I had a greater affection for you upon it
than I had before, being long since so much endeared to you, as
well by an early friendship, as by your many excellent and valuable
qualifications; and, had I a son of my own, it would be my
ambition, instead of sending him to the University, to dispose of
him as this young gentleman is.

'He, and another neighbour of mine, one Mr. Samuel Johnson, set out
this morning for London together. Davy Garrick is to be with you
early the next week, and Mr. Johnson to try his fate with a
tragedy, and to see to get himself employed in some translation,
either from the Latin or the French. Johnson is a very good
scholar and poet, and I have great hopes will turn out a fine
tragedy-writer. If it should any way lie in your way, doubt not
but you would be ready to recommend and assist your countryman.

'G. WALMSLEY.'

How he employed himself upon his first coming to London is not
particularly known.'

* One curious anecdote was communicated by himself to Mr. John
Nichols. Mr. Wilcox, the bookseller, on being informed by him that
his intention was to get his livelihood as an authour, eyed his
robust frame attentively, and with a significant look, said, 'You
had better buy a porter's knot.'  He however added, 'Wilcox was one
of my best friends.'--BOSWELL.

He had a little money when he came to town, and he knew how he
could live in the cheapest manner. His first lodgings were at the
house of Mr. Norris, a staymaker, in Exeter-street, adjoining
Catharine-street, in the Strand. 'I dined (said he) very well for
eight-pence, with very good company, at the Pine Apple in New-
street, just by. Several of them had travelled. They expected to
meet every day; but did not know one another's names. It used to
cost the rest a shilling, for they drank wine; but I had a cut of
meat for six-pence, and bread for a penny, and gave the waiter a
penny; so that I was quite well served, nay, better than the rest,
for they gave the waiter nothing.'  He at this time, I believe,
abstained entirely from fermented liquors: a practice to which he
rigidly conformed for many years together, at different periods of
his life.

His Ofellus in the Art of Living in London, I have heard him
relate, was an Irish painter, whom he knew at Birmingham, and who
had practised his own precepts of oeconomy for several years in the
British capital. He assured Johnson, who, I suppose, was then
meditating to try his fortune in London, but was apprehensive of
the expence, 'that thirty pounds a year was enough to enable a man
to live there without being contemptible. He allowed ten pounds
for clothes and linen. He said a man might live in a garret at
eighteen-pence a week; few people would inquire where he lodged;
and if they did, it was easy to say, "Sir, I am to be found at such
a place."  By spending three-pence in a coffeehouse, he might be
for some hours every day in very good company; he might dine for
six-pence, breakfast on bread and milk for a penny, and do without
supper. On clean-shirt-day he went abroad, and paid visits.'  I
have heard him more than once talk of this frugal friend, whom he
recollected with esteem and kindness, and did not like to have one
smile at the recital. 'This man (said he, gravely) was a very
sensible man, who perfectly understood common affairs: a man of a
great deal of knowledge of the world, fresh from life, not strained
through books. He amused himself, I remember, by computing how
much more expence was absolutely necessary to live upon the same
scale with that which his friend described, when the value of money
was diminished by the progress of commerce. It may be estimated
that double the money might now with difficulty be sufficient.'

Amidst this cold obscurity, there was one brilliant circumstance to
cheer him; he was well acquainted with Mr. Henry Hervey, one of the
branches of the noble family of that name, who had been quartered
at Lichfield as an officer of the army, and had at this time a
house in London, where Johnson was frequently entertained, and had
an opportunity of meeting genteel company. Not very long before
his death, he mentioned this, among other particulars of his life,
which he was kindly communicating to me; and he described this
early friend, 'Harry Hervey,' thus: 'He was a vicious man, but very
kind to me. If you call a dog HERVEY, I shall love him.'

He told me he had now written only three acts of his Irene, and
that he retired for some time to lodgings at Greenwich, where he
proceeded in it somewhat further, and used to compose, walking in
the Park; but did not stay long enough at that place to finish it.

In the course of the summer he returned to Lichfield, where he had
left Mrs. Johnson, and there he at last finished his tragedy, which
was not executed with his rapidity of composition upon other
occasions, but was slowly and painfully elaborated. A few days
before his death, while burning a great mass of papers, he picked
out from among them the original unformed sketch of this tragedy,
in his own hand-writing, and gave it to Mr. Langton, by whose
favour a copy of it is now in my possession.

Johnson's residence at Lichfield, on his return to it at this time,
was only for three months; and as he had as yet seen but a small
part of the wonders of the Metropolis, he had little to tell his
townsmen. He related to me the following minute anecdote of this
period: 'In the last age, when my mother lived in London, there
were two sets of people, those who gave the wall, and those who
took it; the peaceable and the quarrelsome. When I returned to
Lichfield, after having been in London, my mother asked me, whether
I was one of those who gave the wall, or those who took it. NOW it
is fixed that every man keeps to the right; or, if one is taking
the wall, another yields it; and it is never a dispute.'

He now removed to London with Mrs. Johnson; but her daughter, who
had lived with them at Edial, was left with her relations in the
country. His lodgings were for some time in Woodstock-street, near
Hanover-square, and afterwards in Castle-street, near Cavendish-
square.

His tragedy being by this time, as he thought, completely finished
and fit for the stage, he was very desirous that it should be
brought forward. Mr. Peter Garrick told me, that Johnson and he
went together to the Fountain tavern, and read it over, and that he
afterwards solicited Mr. Fleetwood, the patentee of Drury-lane
theatre, to have it acted at his house; but Mr. Fleetwood would not
accept it, probably because it was not patronized by some man of
high rank; and it was not acted till 1749, when his friend David
Garrick was manager of that theatre.

The Gentleman's Magazine, begun and carried on by Mr. Edward Cave,
under the name of SYLVANUS URBAN, had attracted the notice and
esteem of Johnson, in an eminent degree, before he came to London
as an adventurer in literature. He told me, that when he first saw
St. John's Gate, the place where that deservedly popular miscellany
was originally printed, he 'beheld it with reverence.'

It appears that he was now enlisted by Mr. Cave as a regular
coadjutor in his magazine, by which he probably obtained a
tolerable livelihood. At what time, or by what means, he had
acquired a competent knowledge both of French and Italian, I do not
know; but he was so well skilled in them, as to be sufficiently
qualified for a translator. That part of his labour which
consisted in emendation and improvement of the productions of other
contributors, like that employed in levelling ground, can be
perceived only by those who had an opportunity of comparing the
original with the altered copy. What we certainly know to have
been done by him in this way, was the Debates in both houses of
Parliament, under the name of 'The Senate of Lilliput,' sometimes
with feigned denominations of the several speakers, sometimes with
denominations formed of the letters of their real names, in the
manner of what is called anagram, so that they might easily be
decyphered. Parliament then kept the press in a kind of mysterious
awe, which made it necessary to have recourse to such devices. In
our time it has acquired an unrestrained freedom, so that the
people in all parts of the kingdom have a fair, open, and exact
report of the actual proceedings of their representatives and
legislators, which in our constitution is highly to be valued;
though, unquestionably, there has of late been too much reason to
complain of the petulance with which obscure scribblers have
presumed to treat men of the most respectable character and
situation.

This important article of the Gentlemen's Magazine was, for several
years, executed by Mr. William Guthrie, a man who deserves to be
respectably recorded in the literary annals of this country. The
debates in Parliament, which were brought home and digested by
Guthrie, whose memory, though surpassed by others who have since
followed him in the same department, was yet very quick and
tenacious, were sent by Cave to Johnson for his revision; and,
after some time, when Guthrie had attained to greater variety of
employment, and the speeches were more and more enriched by the
accession of Johnson's genius, it was resolved that he should do
the whole himself, from the scanty notes furnished by persons
employed to attend in both houses of Parliament. Sometimes,
however, as he himself told me, he had nothing more communicated to
him than the names of the several speakers, and the part which they
had taken in the debate.*

* Johnson later told Boswell that 'as soon as he found that the
speeches were thought genuine he determined that he would write no
more of them: for "he would not be accessary to the propagation of
falsehood."  And such was the tenderness of his conscience, that a
short time before his death he expressed his regret for his having
been the authour of fictions which had passed for realities.'--Ed.

But what first displayed his transcendent powers, and 'gave the
world assurance of the MAN,' was his London, a Poem, in Imitation
of the Third Satire of Juvenal: which came out in May this year,
and burst forth with a splendour, the rays of which will for ever
encircle his name. Boileau had imitated the same satire with great
success, applying it to Paris; but an attentive comparison will
satisfy every reader, that he is much excelled by the English
Juvenal. Oldham had also imitated it, and applied it to London;
all which performances concur to prove, that great cities, in every
age, and in every country, will furnish similar topicks of satire.
Whether Johnson had previously read Oldham's imitation, I do not
know; but it is not a little remarkable, that there is scarcely any
coincidence found between the two performances, though upon the
very same subject.

Johnson's London was published in May, 1738; and it is remarkable,
that it came out on the same morning with Pope's satire, entitled
'1738;' so that England had at once its Juvenal and Horace as
poetical monitors. The Reverend Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of
Salisbury, to whom I am indebted for some obliging communications,
was then a student at Oxford, and remembers well the effect which
London produced. Every body was delighted with it; and there being
no name to it, the first buz of the literary circles was 'here is
an unknown poet, greater even than Pope.'  And it is recorded in
the Gentleman's Magazine of that year, that it 'got to the second
edition in the course of a week.'

One of the warmest patrons of this poem on its first appearance was
General Oglethorpe, whose 'strong benevolence of soul,' was
unabated during the course of a very long life; though it is
painful to think, that he had but too much reason to become cold
and callous, and discontented with the world, from the neglect
which he experienced of his publick and private worth, by those in
whose power it was to gratify so gallant a veteran with marks of
distinction. This extraordinary person was as remarkable for his
learning and taste, as for his other eminent qualities; and no man
was more prompt, active, and generous, in encouraging merit. I
have heard Johnson gratefully acknowledge, in his presence, the
kind and effectual support which he gave to his London, though
unacquainted with its authour.

Pope, who then filled the poetical throne without a rival, it may
reasonably be presumed, must have been particularly struck by the
sudden appearance of such a poet; and, to his credit, let it be
remembered, that his feelings and conduct on the occasion were
candid and liberal. He requested Mr. Richardson, son of the
painter, to endeavour to find out who this new authour was. Mr.
Richardson, after some inquiry, having informed him that he had
discovered only that his name was Johnson, and that he was some
obscure man, Pope said; 'he will soon be deterre.'  We shall
presently see, from a note written by Pope, that he was himself
afterwards more successful in his inquiries than his friend.

While we admire the poetical excellence of this poem, candour
obliges us to allow, that the flame of patriotism and zeal for
popular resistance with which it is fraught, had no just cause.
There was, in truth, no 'oppression;' the 'nation' was NOT
'cheated.'  Sir Robert Walpole was a wise and a benevolent
minister, who thought that the happiness and prosperity of a
commercial country like ours, would be best promoted by peace,
which he accordingly maintained, with credit, during a very long
period. Johnson himself afterwards honestly acknowledged the merit
of Walpole, whom he called 'a fixed star;' while he characterised
his opponent, Pitt, as 'a meteor.'  But Johnson's juvenile poem was
naturally impregnated with the fire of opposition, and upon every
account was universally admired.

Though thus elevated into fame, and conscious of uncommon powers,
he had not that bustling confidence, or, I may rather say, that
animated ambition, which one might have supposed would have urged
him to endeavour at rising in life. But such was his inflexible
dignity of character, that he could not stoop to court the great;
without which, hardly any man has made his way to a high station.
He could not expect to produce many such works as his London, and
he felt the hardships of writing for bread; he was, therefore,
willing to resume the office of a schoolmaster, so as to have a
sure, though moderate income for his life; and an offer being made
to him of the mastership of a school, provided he could obtain the
degree of Master of Arts, Dr. Adams was applied to, by a common
friend, to know whether that could be granted him as a favour from
the University of Oxford. But though he had made such a figure in
the literary world, it was then thought too great a favour to be
asked.

Pope, without any knowledge of him but from his London, recommended
him to Earl Gower, who endeavoured to procure for him a degree from
Dublin.

It was, perhaps, no small disappointment to Johnson that this
respectable application had not the desired effect; yet how much
reason has there been, both for himself and his country, to rejoice
that it did not succeed, as he might probably have wasted in
obscurity those hours in which he afterwards produced his
incomparable works.

About this time he made one other effort to emancipate himself from
the drudgery of authourship. He applied to Dr. Adams, to consult
Dr. Smalbroke of the Commons, whether a person might be permitted
to practice as an advocate there, without a doctor's degree in
Civil Law. 'I am (said he) a total stranger to these studies; but
whatever is a profession, and maintains numbers, must be within the
reach of common abilities, and some degree of industry.'  Dr. Adams
was much pleased with Johnson's design to employ his talents in
that manner, being confident he would have attained to great
eminence.

As Mr. Pope's note concerning Johnson, alluded to in a former page,
refers both to his London, and his Marmor Norfolciense, I have
deferred inserting it till now. I am indebted for it to Dr. Percy,
the Bishop of Dromore, who permitted me to copy it from the
original in his possession. It was presented to his Lordship by
Sir Joshua Reynolds, to whom it was given by the son of Mr.
Richardson the painter, the person to whom it is addressed. I have
transcribed it with minute exactness, that the peculiar mode of
writing, and imperfect spelling of that celebrated poet, may be
exhibited to the curious in literature. It justifies Swift's
epithet of 'Paper-sparing Pope,' for it is written on a slip no
larger than a common message-card, and was sent to Mr. Richardson,
along with the Imitation of Juvenal.

'This is imitated by one Johnson who put in for a Publick-school in
Shropshire, but was disappointed. He has an infirmity of the
convulsive kind, that attacks him sometimes, so as to make him a
sad Spectacle. Mr. P. from the Merit of this Work which was all
the knowledge he had of him endeavour'd to serve him without his
own application; & wrote to my Ld gore, but he did not succeed.
Mr. Johnson published afterwds another Poem in Latin with Notes the
whole very Humerous call'd the Norfolk Prophecy. P.'

Johnson had been told of this note; and Sir Joshua Reynolds
informed him of the compliment which it contained, but, from
delicacy, avoided shewing him the paper itself. When Sir Joshua
observed to Johnson that he seemed very desirous to see Pope's
note, he answered, 'Who would not be proud to have such a man as
Pope so solicitous in inquiring about him?'

The infirmity to which Mr. Pope alludes, appeared to me also, as I
have elsewhere observed, to be of the convulsive kind, and of the
nature of that distemper called St. Vitus's dance; and in this
opinion I am confirmed by the description which Sydenham gives of
that disease. 'This disorder is a kind of convulsion. It
manifests itself by halting or unsteadiness of one of the legs,
which the patient draws after him like an ideot. If the hand of
the same side be applied to the breast, or any other part of the
body, he cannot keep it a moment in the same posture, but it will
be drawn into a different one by a convulsion, notwithstanding all
his efforts to the contrary.'  Sir Joshua Reynolds, however, was of
a different opinion, and favoured me with the following paper.

'Those motions or tricks of Dr. Johnson are improperly called
convulsions. He could sit motionless, when he was told so to do,
as well as any other man; my opinion is that it proceeded from a
habit which he had indulged himself in, of accompanying his
thoughts with certain untoward actions, and those actions always
appeared to me as if they were meant to reprobate some part of his
past conduct. Whenever he was not engaged in conversation, such
thoughts were sure to rush into his mind; and, for this reason, any
company, any employment whatever, he preferred to being alone. The
great business of his life (he said) was to escape from himself;
this disposition he considered as the disease of his mind, which
nothing cured but company.

'One instance of his absence and particularity, as it is
characteristick of the man, may be worth relating. When he and I
took a journey together into the West, we visited the late Mr.
Banks, of Dorsetshire; the conversation turning upon pictures,
which Johnson could not well see, he retired to a corner of the
room, stretching out his right leg as far as he could reach before
him, then bringing up his left leg, and stretching his right still
further on. The old gentleman observing him, went up to him, and
in a very courteous manner assured him, that though it was not a
new house, the flooring was perfectly safe. The Doctor started
from his reverie, like a person waked out of his sleep, but spoke
not a word.'

While we are on this subject, my readers may not be displeased with
another anecdote, communicated to me by the same friend, from the
relation of Mr. Hogarth.

Johnson used to be a pretty frequent visitor at the house of Mr.
Richardson, authour of Clarissa, and other novels of extensive
reputation. Mr. Hogarth came one day to see Richardson, soon after
the execution of Dr. Cameron, for having taken arms for the house
of Stuart in 1745-6; and being a warm partisan of George the
Second, he observed to Richardson, that certainly there must have
been some very unfavourable circumstances lately discovered in this
particular case, which had induced the King to approve of an
execution for rebellion so long after the time when it was
committed, as this had the appearance of putting a man to death in
cold blood, and was very unlike his Majesty's usual clemency.
While he was talking, he perceived a person standing at a window in
the room, shaking his head, and rolling himself about in a strange
ridiculous manner. He concluded that he was an ideot, whom his
relations had put under the care of Mr. Richardson, as a very good
man. To his great surprise, however, this figure stalked forwards
to where he and Mr. Richardson were sitting, and all at once took
up the argument, and burst out into an invective against George the
Second, as one, who, upon all occasions was unrelenting and
barbarous; mentioning many instances, particularly, that when an
officer of high rank had been acquitted by a Court Martial, George
the Second had with his own hand, struck his name off the list. In
short, he displayed such a power of eloquence, that Hogarth looked
at him with astonishment, and actually imagined that this ideot had
been at the moment inspired. Neither Hogarth nor Johnson were made
known to each other at this interview.

1740: AETAT. 3l.]--In 1740 he wrote for the Gentleman's Magazine
the 'Preface,' 'Life of Sir Francis Drake,' and the first parts of
those of 'Admiral Blake,' and of 'Philip Baretier,' both which he
finished the following year. He also wrote an 'Essay on Epitaphs,'
and an 'Epitaph on Philips, a Musician,' which was afterwards
published with some other pieces of his, in Mrs. Williams's
Miscellanies. This Epitaph is so exquisitely beautiful, that I
remember even Lord Kames, strangely prejudiced as he was against
Dr. Johnson, was compelled to allow it very high praise. It has
been ascribed to Mr. Garrick, from its appearing at first with the
signature G; but I have heard Mr. Garrick declare, that it was
written by Dr. Johnson, and give the following account of the
manner in which it was composed. Johnson and he were sitting
together; when, amongst other things, Garrick repeated an Epitaph
upon this Philips by a Dr. Wilkes, in these words:

    'Exalted soul! whose harmony could please
     The love-sick virgin, and the gouty ease;
     Could jarring discord, like Amphion, move
     To beauteous order and harmonious love;
     Rest here in peace, till angels bid thee rise,
     And meet thy blessed Saviour in the skies.'

Johnson shook his head at these common-place funereal lines, and
said to Garrick, 'I think, Davy, I can make a better.'  Then,
stirring about his tea for a little while, in a state of
meditation, he almost extempore produced the following verses:

    'Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove
     The pangs of guilty power or hapless love;
     Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more,
     Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
     Sleep, undisturb'd, within this peaceful shrine,
     Till angels wake thee with a note like thine!'

1742: AETAT. 33.]--In 1742 he wrote . . . 'Proposals for Printing
Bibliotheca Harleiana, or a Catalogue of the Library of the Earl of
Oxford.'  He was employed in this business by Mr. Thomas Osborne
the bookseller, who purchased the library for 13,000l., a sum which
Mr. Oldys says, in one of his manuscripts, was not more than the
binding of the books had cost; yet, as Dr. Johnson assured me, the
slowness of the sale was such, that there was not much gained by
it. It has been confidently related, with many embellishments,
that Johnson one day knocked Osborne down in his shop, with a
folio, and put his foot upon his neck. The simple truth I had from
Johnson himself. 'Sir, he was impertinent to me, and I beat him.
But it was not in his shop: it was in my own chamber.'

1744: AETAT. 35.]--He produced one work this year, fully sufficient
to maintain the high reputation which he had acquired. This was
The Life of Richard Savage; a man, of whom it is difficult to speak
impartially, without wondering that he was for some time the
intimate companion of Johnson; for his character was marked by
profligacy, insolence, and ingratitude: yet, as he undoubtedly had
a warm and vigorous, though unregulated mind, had seen life in all
its varieties, and been much in the company of the statesmen and
wits of his time, he could communicate to Johnson an abundant
supply of such materials as his philosophical curiosity most
eagerly desired; and as Savage's misfortunes and misconduct had
reduced him to the lowest state of wretchedness as a writer for
bread, his visits to St. John's Gate naturally brought Johnson and
him together.

It is melancholy to reflect, that Johnson and Savage were sometimes
in such extreme indigence,* that they could not pay for a lodging;
so that they have wandered together whole nights in the streets.
Yet in these almost incredible scenes of distress, we may suppose
that Savage mentioned many of the anecdotes with which Johnson
afterwards enriched the life of his unhappy companion, and those of
other Poets.

* Soon after Savage's Life was published, Mr. Harte dined with
Edward Cave, and occasionally praised it. Soon after, meeting him,
Cave said, 'You made a man very happy t'other day.'--'How could
that be.' says Harte; 'nobody was there but ourselves.'  Cave
answered, by reminding him that a plate of victuals was sent behind
a screen, which was to Johnson, dressed so shabbily, that he did
not choose to appear; but on hearing the conversation, was highly
delighted with the encomiums on his book--MALONE.

He told Sir Joshua Reynolds, that one night in particular, when
Savage and he walked round St. James's-square for want of a
lodging, they were not at all depressed by their situation; but in
high spirits and brimful of patriotism, traversed the square for
several hours, inveighed against the minister, and 'resolved they
would stand by their country.'

In Johnson's Life of Savage, although it must be allowed that its
moral is the reverse of--'Respicere exemplar vitae morumque
jubebo,' a very useful lesson is inculcated, to guard men of warm
passions from a too free indulgence of them; and the various
incidents are related in so clear and animated a manner, and
illuminated throughout with so much philosophy, that it is one of
the most interesting narratives in the English language. Sir
Joshua Reynolds told me, that upon his return from Italy he met
with it in Devonshire, knowing nothing of its authour, and began to
read it while he was standing with his arm leaning against a
chimney-piece. It seized his attention so strongly, that, not
being able to lay down the book till he had finished it, when he
attempted to move, he found his arm totally benumbed. The rapidity
with which this work was composed, is a wonderful circumstance.
Johnson has been heard to say, 'I wrote forty-eight of the printed
octavo pages of the Life of Savage at a sitting; but then I sat up
all night.'

It is remarkable, that in this biographical disquisition there
appears a very strong symptom of Johnson's prejudice against
players; a prejudice which may be attributed to the following
causes: first, the imperfection of his organs, which were so
defective that he was not susceptible of the fine impressions which
theatrical excellence produces upon the generality of mankind;
secondly, the cold rejection of his tragedy; and, lastly, the
brilliant success of Garrick, who had been his pupil, who had come
to London at the same time with him, not in a much more prosperous
state than himself, and whose talents he undoubtedly rated low,
compared with his own. His being outstripped by his pupil in the
race of immediate fame, as well as of fortune, probably made him
feel some indignation, as thinking that whatever might be Garrick's
merits in his art, the reward was too great when compared with what
the most successful efforts of literary labour could attain. At
all periods of his life Johnson used to talk contemptuously of
players; but in this work he speaks of them with peculiar acrimony;
for which, perhaps, there was formerly too much reason from the
licentious and dissolute manners of those engaged in that
profession. It is but justice to add, that in our own time such a
change has taken place, that there is no longer room for such an
unfavourable distinction.

His schoolfellow and friend, Dr. Taylor, told me a pleasant
anecdote of Johnson's triumphing over his pupil David Garrick.
When that great actor had played some little time at Goodman's
fields, Johnson and Taylor went to see him perform, and afterwards
passed the evening at a tavern with him and old Giffard. Johnson,
who was ever depreciating stage-players, after censuring some
mistakes in emphasis which Garrick had committed in the course of
that night's acting, said, 'The players, Sir, have got a kind of
rant, with which they run on, without any regard either to accent
or emphasis.'  Both Garrick and Giffard were offended at this
sarcasm, and endeavoured to refute it; upon which Johnson rejoined,
'Well now, I'll give you something to speak, with which you are
little acquainted, and then we shall see how just my observation
is. That shall be the criterion. Let me hear you repeat the ninth
Commandment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy
neighbour."'  Both tried at it, said Dr. Taylor, and both mistook
the emphasis, which should be upon not and false witness. Johnson
put them right, and enjoyed his victory with great glee.

Johnson's partiality for Savage made him entertain no doubt of his
story, however extraordinary and improbable. It never occurred to
him to question his being the son of the Countess of Macclesfield,
of whose unrelenting barbarity he so loudly complained, and the
particulars of which are related in so strong and affecting a
manner in Johnson's life of him. Johnson was certainly well
warranted in publishing his narrative, however offensive it might
be to the lady and her relations, because her alledged unnatural
and cruel conduct to her son, and shameful avowal of guilt, were
stated in a Life of Savage now lying before me, which came out so
early as 1727, and no attempt had been made to confute it, or to
punish the authour or printer as a libeller: but for the honour of
human nature, we should be glad to find the shocking tale not true;
and, from a respectable gentleman connected with the lady's family,
I have received such information and remarks, as joined to my own
inquiries, will, I think, render it at least somewhat doubtful,
especially when we consider that it must have originated from the
person himself who went by the name of Richard Savage.

1746: AETAT. 37.]--It is somewhat curious, that his literary career
appears to have been almost totally suspended in the years 1745 and
1746, those years which were marked by a civil war in Great-
Britain, when a rash attempt was made to restore the House of
Stuart to the throne. That he had a tenderness for that
unfortunate House, is well known; and some may fancifully imagine,
that a sympathetick anxiety impeded the exertion of his
intellectual powers: but I am inclined to think, that he was,
during this time, sketching the outlines of his great philological
work.

1747: AETAT. 38.]--This year his old pupil and friend, David
Garrick, having become joint patentee and manager of Drury-lane
theatre, Johnson honoured his opening of it with a Prologue, which
for just and manly dramatick criticism, on the whole range of the
English stage, as well as for poetical excellence, is unrivalled.
Like the celebrated Epilogue to the Distressed Mother, it was,
during the season, often called for by the audience.

But the year 1747 is distinguished as the epoch, when Johnson's
arduous and important work, his DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE,
was announced to the world, by the publication of its Plan or
Prospectus.

How long this immense undertaking had been the object of his
contemplation, I do not know. I once asked him by what means he
had attained to that astonishing knowledge of our language, by
which he was enabled to realise a design of such extent, and
accumulated difficulty. He told me, that 'it was not the effect of
particular study; but that it had grown up in his mind insensibly.'
I have been informed by Mr. James Dodsley, that several years
before this period, when Johnson was one day sitting in his brother
Robert's shop, he heard his brother suggest to him, that a
Dictionary of the English Language would be a work that would be
well received by the publick; that Johnson seemed at first to catch
at the proposition, but, after a pause, said, in his abrupt
decisive manner, 'I believe I shall not undertake it.'  That he,
however, had bestowed much thought upon the subject, before he
published his Plan, is evident from the enlarged, clear, and
accurate views which it exhibits; and we find him mentioning in
that tract, that many of the writers whose testimonies were to be
produced as authorities, were selected by Pope; which proves that
he had been furnished, probably by Mr. Robert Dodsley, with
whatever hints that eminent poet had contributed towards a great
literary project, that had been the subject of important
consideration in a former reign.

The booksellers who contracted with Johnson, single and unaided,
for the execution of a work, which in other countries has not been
effected but by the co-operating exertions of many, were Mr. Robert
Dodsley, Mr. Charles Hitch, Mr. Andrew Millar, the two Messieurs
Longman, and the two Messieurs Knapton. The price stipulated was
fifteen hundred and seventy-five pounds.

The Plan, was addressed to Philip Dormer, Earl of Chesterfield,
then one of his Majesty's Principal Secretaries of State; a
nobleman who was very ambitious of literary distinction, and who,
upon being informed of the design, had expressed himself in terms
very favourable to its success. There is, perhaps in every thing
of any consequence, a secret history which it would be amusing to
know, could we have it authentically communicated. Johnson told
me, 'Sir, the way in which the Plan of my Dictionary came to be
inscribed to Lord Chesterfield, was this: I had neglected to write
it by the time appointed. Dodsley suggested a desire to have it
addressed to Lord Chesterfield. I laid hold of this as a pretext
for delay, that it might be better done, and let Dodsley have his
desire. I said to my friend, Dr. Bathurst, "Now if any good comes
of my addressing to Lord Chesterfield, it will be ascribed to deep
policy, when, in fact, it was only a casual excuse for laziness."'

Dr. Adams found him one day busy at his Dictionary, when the
following dialogue ensued. 'ADAMS. This is a great work, Sir.
How are you to get all the etymologies? JOHNSON. Why, Sir, here
is a shelf with Junius, and Skinner, and others; and there is a
Welch gentleman who has published a collection of Welch proverbs,
who will help me with the Welch. ADAMS. But, Sir, how can you do
this in three years? JOHNSON. Sir, I have no doubt that I can do
it in three years. ADAMS. But the French Academy, which consists
of forty members, took forty years to compile their Dictionary.
JOHNSON. Sir, thus it is. This is the proportion. Let me see;
forty times forty is sixteen hundred. As three to sixteen hundred,
so is the proportion of an Englishman to a Frenchman.'  With so
much ease and pleasantry could he talk of that prodigious labour
which he had undertaken to execute.

For the mechanical part he employed, as he told me, six amanuenses;
and let it be remembered by the natives of North-Britain, to whom
he is supposed to have been so hostile, that five of them were of
that country. There were two Messieurs Macbean; Mr. Shiels, who we
shall hereafter see partly wrote the Lives of the Poets to which
the name of Cibber is affixed; Mr. Stewart, son of Mr. George
Stewart, bookseller at Edinburgh; and a Mr. Maitland. The sixth of
these humble assistants was Mr. Peyton, who, I believe, taught
French, and published some elementary tracts.

To all these painful labourers, Johnson shewed a never-ceasing
kindness, so far as they stood in need of it. The elder Mr.
Macbean had afterwards the honour of being Librarian to Archibald,
Duke of Argyle, for many years, but was left without a shilling.
Johnson wrote for him a Preface to A System of Ancient Geography;
and, by the favour of Lord Thurlow, got him admitted a poor brother
of the Charterhouse. For Shiels, who died of a consumption, he had
much tenderness; and it has been thought that some choice sentences
in the Lives of the Poets were supplied by him. Peyton, when
reduced to penury, had frequent aid from the bounty of Johnson, who
at last was at the expense of burying both him and his wife.

While the Dictionary was going forward, Johnson lived part of the
time in Holborn, part in Gough-square, Fleet-street; and he had an
upper room fitted up like a counting-house for the purpose, in
which he gave to the copyists their several tasks. The words,
partly taken from other dictionaries, and partly supplied by
himself, having been first written down with spaces left between
them, he delivered in writing their etymologies, definitions, and
various significations. The authorities were copied from the books
themselves, in which he had marked the passages with a black-lead
pencil, the traces of which could easily be effaced. I have seen
several of them, in which that trouble had not been taken; so that
they were just as when used by the copyists. It is remarkable,
that he was so attentive in the choice of the passages in which
words were authorised, that one may read page after page of his
Dictionary with improvement and pleasure; and it should not pass
unobserved, that he has quoted no authour whose writings had a
tendency to hurt sound religion and morality.

The necessary expense of preparing a work of such magnitude for the
press, must have been a considerable deduction from the price
stipulated to be paid for the copy-right. I understand that
nothing was allowed by the booksellers on that account; and I
remember his telling me, that a large portion of it having by
mistake been written upon both sides of the paper, so as to be
inconvenient for the compositor, it cost him twenty pounds to have
it transcribed upon one side only.

He is now to be considered as 'tugging at his oar,' as engaged in a
steady continued course of occupation, sufficient to employ all his
time for some years; and which was the best preventive of that
constitutional melancholy which was ever lurking about him, ready
to trouble his quiet. But his enlarged and lively mind could not
be satisfied without more diversity of employment, and the pleasure
of animated relaxation. He therefore not only exerted his talents
in occasional composition very different from Lexicography, but
formed a club in Ivy-lane, Paternoster-row, with a view to enjoy
literary discussion, and amuse his evening hours. The members
associated with him in this little society were his beloved friend
Dr. Richard Bathurst, Mr. Hawkesworth, afterwards well known by his
writings, Mr. John Hawkins, an attorney, and a few others of
different professions.

1749: AETAT. 40.]--In January, 1749, he published the Vanity of
human Wishes, being the Tenth Satire of Juvenal imitated. He, I
believe, composed it the preceding year. Mrs. Johnson, for the
sake of country air, had lodgings at Hampstead, to which he
resorted occasionally, and there the greatest part, if not the
whole, of this Imitation was written. The fervid rapidity with
which it was produced, is scarcely credible. I have heard him say,
that he composed seventy lines of it in one day, without putting
one of them upon paper till they were finished. I remember when I
once regretted to him that he had not given us more of Juvenal's
Satires, he said he probably should give more, for he had them all
in his head; by which I understood that he had the originals and
correspondent allusions floating in his mind, which he could, when
he pleased, embody and render permanent without much labour. Some
of them, however, he observed were too gross for imitation.

The profits of a single poem, however excellent, appear to have
been very small in the last reign, compared with what a publication
of the same size has since been known to yield. I have mentioned,
upon Johnson's own authority, that for his London he had only ten
guineas; and now, after his fame was established, he got for his
Vanity of Human Wishes but five guineas more, as is proved by an
authentick document in my possession.

His Vanity of Human Wishes has less of common life, but more of a
philosophick dignity than his London. More readers, therefore,
will be delighted with the pointed spirit of London, than with the
profound reflection of The Vanity of Human Wishes. Garrick, for
instance, observed in his sprightly manner, with more vivacity than
regard to just discrimination, as is usual with wits: 'When Johnson
lived much with the Herveys, and saw a good deal of what was
passing in life, he wrote his London, which is lively and easy.
When he became more retired, he gave us his Vanity of Human Wishes,
which is as hard as Greek. Had he gone on to imitate another
satire, it would have been as hard as Hebrew.'

Garrick being now vested with theatrical power by being manager of
Drury-lane theatre, he kindly and generously made use of it to
bring out Johnson's tragedy, which had been long kept back for want
of encouragement. But in this benevolent purpose he met with no
small difficulty from the temper of Johnson, which could not brook
that a drama which he had formed with much study, and had been
obliged to keep more than the nine years of Horace, should be
revised and altered at the pleasure of an actor. Yet Garrick knew
well, that without some alterations it would not be fit for the
stage. A violent dispute having ensued between them, Garrick
applied to the Reverend Dr. Taylor to interpose. Johnson was at
first very obstinate. 'Sir, (said he) the fellow wants me to make
Mahomet run mad, that he may have an opportunity of tossing his
hands and kicking his heels.'  He was, however, at last, with
difficulty, prevailed on to comply with Garrick's wishes, so as to
allow of some changes; but still there were not enough.

Dr. Adams was present the first night of the representation of
Irene, and gave me the following account: 'Before the curtain drew
up, there were catcalls whistling, which alarmed Johnson's friends.
The Prologue, which was written by himself in a manly strain,
soothed the audience, and the play went off tolerably, till it came
to the conclusion, when Mrs. Pritchard, the heroine of the piece,
was to be strangled upon the stage, and was to speak two lines with
the bowstring round her neck. The audience cried out "Murder!
Murder!"  She several times attempted to speak; but in vain. At
last she was obliged to go off the stage alive.'  This passage was
afterwards struck out, and she was carried off to be put to death
behind the scenes, as the play now has it. The Epilogue, as
Johnson informed me, was written by Sir William Yonge. I know not
how his play came to be thus graced by the pen of a person then so
eminent in the political world.

Notwithstanding all the support of such performers as Garrick,
Barry, Mrs. Cibber, Mrs. Pritchard, and every advantage of dress
and decoration, the tragedy of Irene did not please the publick.
Mr. Garrick's zeal carried it through for nine nights, so that the
authour had his three nights' profits; and from a receipt signed by
him, now in the hands of Mr. James Dodsley, it appears that his
friend Mr. Robert Dodsley gave him one hundred pounds for the copy,
with his usual reservation of the right of one edition.

When asked how he felt upon the ill success of his tragedy, he
replied, 'Like the Monument;' meaning that he continued firm and
unmoved as that column. And let it be remembered, as an admonition
to the genus irritabile of dramatick writers, that this great man,
instead of peevishly complaining of the bad taste of the town,
submitted to its decision without a murmur. He had, indeed, upon
all occasions, a great deference for the general opinion: 'A man
(said he) who writes a book, thinks himself wiser or wittier than
the rest of mankind; he supposes that he can instruct or amuse
them, and the publick to whom he appeals, must, after all, be the
judges of his pretensions.'

On occasion of his play being brought upon the stage, Johnson had a
fancy that as a dramatick authour his dress should be more gay than
what he ordinarily wore; he therefore appeared behind the scenes,
and even in one of the side boxes, in a scarlet waistcoat, with
rich gold lace, and a gold-laced hat. He humourously observed to
Mr. Langton, 'that when in that dress he could not treat people
with the same ease as when in his usual plain clothes.'  Dress
indeed, we must allow, has more effect even upon strong minds than
one should suppose, without having had the experience of it. His
necessary attendance while his play was in rehearsal, and during
its performance, brought him acquainted with many of the performers
of both sexes, which produced a more favourable opinion of their
profession than he had harshly expressed in his Life of Savage.
With some of them he kept up an acquaintance as long as he and they
lived, and was ever ready to shew them acts of kindness. He for a
considerable time used to frequent the Green Room, and seemed to
take delight in dissipating his gloom, by mixing in the sprightly
chit-chat of the motley circle then to be found there. Mr. David
Hume related to me from Mr. Garrick, that Johnson at last denied
himself this amusement, from considerations of rigid virtue;
saying, 'I'll come no more behind your scenes, David; for the silk
stockings and white bosoms of your actresses excite my amorous
propensities.'

1750: AETAT. 41.]--In 1750 he came forth in the character for which
he was eminently qualified, a majestick teacher of moral and
religious wisdom. The vehicle which he chose was that of a
periodical paper, which he knew had been, upon former occasions,
employed with great success. The Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian,
were the last of the kind published in England, which had stood the
test of a long trial; and such an interval had now elapsed since
their publication, as made him justly think that, to many of his
readers, this form of instruction would, in some degree, have the
advantage of novelty. A few days before the first of his Essays
came out, there started another competitor for fame in the same
form, under the title of The Tatler Revived, which I believe was
'born but to die.'  Johnson was, I think, not very happy in the
choice of his title, The Rambler, which certainly is not suited to
a series of grave and moral discourses; which the Italians have
literally, but ludicrously translated by Il Vagabondo; and which
has been lately assumed as the denomination of a vehicle of
licentious tales, The Rambler's Magazine. He gave Sir Joshua
Reynolds the following account of its getting this name: 'What MUST
be done, Sir, WILL be done. When I was to begin publishing that
paper, I was at a loss how to name it. I sat down at night upon my
bedside, and resolved that I would not go to sleep till I had fixed
its title. The Rambler seemed the best that occurred, and I took
it.'

With what devout and conscientious sentiments this paper was
undertaken, is evidenced by the following prayer, which he composed
and offered up on the occasion: 'Almighty GOD, the giver of all
good things, without whose help all labour is ineffectual, and
without whose grace all wisdom is folly; grant, I beseech Thee,
that in this undertaking thy Holy Spirit may not be with-held from
me, but that I may promote thy glory, and the salvation of myself
and others: grant this, O LORD, for the sake of thy son JESUS
CHRIST. Amen.'

The first paper of The Rambler was published on Tuesday the 20th of
March, 1750; and its authour was enabled to continue it, without
interruption, every Tuesday and Friday, till Saturday the 17th of
March, 1752, on which day it closed. This is a strong confirmation
of the truth of a remark of his, which I have had occasion to quote
elsewhere, that 'a man may write at any time, if he will set
himself doggedly to it;' for, notwithstanding his constitutional
indolence, his depression of spirits, and his labour in carrying on
his Dictionary, he answered the stated calls of the press twice a
week from the stores of his mind, during all that time.

Posterity will be astonished when they are told, upon the authority
of Johnson himself, that many of these discourses, which we should
suppose had been laboured with all the slow attention of literary
leisure, were written in haste as the moment pressed, without even
being read over by him before they were printed. It can be
accounted for only in this way; that by reading and meditation, and
a very close inspection of life, he had accumulated a great fund of
miscellaneous knowledge, which, by a peculiar promptitude of mind,
was ever ready at his call, and which he had constantly accustomed
himself to clothe in the most apt and energetick expression. Sir
Joshua Reynolds once asked him by what means he had attained his
extraordinary accuracy and flow of language. He told him, that he
had early laid it down as a fixed rule to do his best on every
occasion, and in every company; to impart whatever he knew in the
most forcible language he could put it in; and that by constant
practice, and never suffering any careless expressions to escape
him, or attempting to deliver his thoughts without arranging them
in the clearest manner, it became habitual to him.

As The Rambler was entirely the work of one man, there was, of
course, such a uniformity in its texture, as very much to exclude
the charm of variety; and the grave and often solemn cast of
thinking, which distinguished it from other periodical papers, made
it, for some time, not generally liked. So slowly did this
excellent work, of which twelve editions have now issued from the
press, gain upon the world at large, that even in the closing
number the authour says, 'I have never been much a favourite of the
publick.'

Johnson told me, with an amiable fondness, a little pleasing
circumstance relative to this work. Mrs. Johnson, in whose
judgement and taste he had great confidence, said to him, after a
few numbers of The Rambler had come out, 'I thought very well of
you before; but I did not imagine you could have written any thing
equal to this.'  Distant praise, from whatever quarter, is not so
delightful as that of a wife whom a man loves and esteems. Her
approbation may be said to 'come home to his bosom;' and being so
near, its effect is most sensible and permanent.

Mr. James Elphinston, who has since published various works, and
who was ever esteemed by Johnson as a worthy man, happened to be in
Scotland while The Rambler was coming out in single papers at
London. With a laudable zeal at once for the improvement of his
countrymen, and the reputation of his friend, he suggested and took
the charge of an edition of those Essays at Edinburgh, which
followed progressively the London publication.

This year he wrote to the same gentleman upon a mournful occasion.

'To MR. JAMES ELPHINSTON.

September 25, 1750.

'DEAR SIR, You have, as I find by every kind of evidence, lost an
excellent mother; and I hope you will not think me incapable of
partaking of your grief. I have a mother, now eighty-two years of
age, whom, therefore, I must soon lose, unless it please GOD that
she rather should mourn for me. I read the letters in which you
relate your mother's death to Mrs. Strahan, and think I do myself
honour, when I tell you that I read them with tears; but tears are
neither to YOU nor to ME of any further use, when once the tribute
of nature has been paid. The business of life summons us away from
useless grief, and calls us to the exercise of those virtues of
which we are lamenting our deprivation. The greatest benefit which
one friend can confer upon another, is to guard, and excite, and
elevate his virtues. This your mother will still perform, if you
diligently preserve the memory of her life, and of her death: a
life, so far as I can learn, useful, wise, and innocent; and a
death resigned, peaceful, and holy. I cannot forbear to mention,
that neither reason nor revelation denies you to hope, that you may
increase her happiness by obeying her precepts; and that she may,
in her present state, look with pleasure upon every act of virtue
to which her instructions or example have contributed. Whether
this be more than a pleasing dream, or a just opinion of separate
spirits, is, indeed, of no great importance to us, when we consider
ourselves as acting under the eye of GOD: yet, surely, there is
something pleasing in the belief, that our separation from those
whom we love is merely corporeal; and it may be a great incitement
to virtuous friendship, if it can be made probable, that that union
that has received the divine approbation shall continue to
eternity.

'There is one expedient by which you may, in some degree, continue
her presence. If you write down minutely what you remember of her
from your earliest years, you will read it with great pleasure, and
receive from it many hints of soothing recollection, when time
shall remove her yet farther from you, and your grief shall be
matured to veneration. To this, however painful for the present, I
cannot but advise you, as to a source of comfort and satisfaction
in the time to come; for all comfort and all satisfaction is
sincerely wished you by, dear Sir, your most obliged, most
obedient, and most humble servant,

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

The Rambler has increased in fame as in age. Soon after its first
folio edition was concluded, it was published in six duodecimo
volumes; and its authour lived to see ten numerous editions of it
in London, beside those of Ireland and Scotland.

The style of Johnson was, undoubtedly, much formed upon that of the
great writers in the last century, Hooker, Bacon, Sanderson,
Hakewell, and others; those 'GIANTS,' as they were well
characterised by A GREAT PERSONAGE, whose authority, were I to name
him, would stamp a reverence on the opinion.

Johnson assured me, that he had not taken upon him to add more than
four or five words to the English language, of his own formation;
and he was very much offended at the general licence, by no means
'modestly taken' in his time not only to coin new words, but to use
many words in senses quite different from their established
meaning, and those frequently very fantastical.

Sir Thomas Brown, whose life Johnson wrote, was remarkably fond of
Anglo-Latin diction; and to his example we are to ascribe Johnson's
sometimes indulging himself in this kind of phraseology. Johnson's
comprehension of mind was the mould for his language. Had his
conceptions been narrower, his expression would have been easier.
His sentences have a dignified march; and, it is certain, that his
example has given a general elevation to the language of his
country, for many of our best writers have approached very near to
him; and, from the influence which he has had upon our composition,
scarcely any thing is written now that is not better expressed than
was usual before he appeared to lead the national taste.

Though The Rambler was not concluded till the year 1752, I shall,
under this year, say all that I have to observe upon it. Some of
the translations of the mottos by himself are admirably done. He
acknowledges to have received 'elegant translations' of many of
them from Mr. James Elphinston; and some are very happily
translated by a Mr. F. Lewis, of whom I never heard more, except
that Johnson thus described him to Mr. Malone: 'Sir, he lived in
London, and hung loose upon society.'

His just abhorrence of Milton's political notions was ever strong.
But this did not prevent his warm admiration of Milton's great
poetical merit, to which he has done illustrious justice, beyond
all who have written upon the subject. And this year he not only
wrote a Prologue, which was spoken by Mr. Garrick before the acting
of Comus at Drury-lane theatre, for the benefit of Milton's grand-
daughter, but took a very zealous interest in the success of the
charity.

1751: AETAT. 42.]--In 1751 we are to consider him as carrying on
both his Dictionary and Rambler.

Though Johnson's circumstances were at this time far from being
easy, his humane and charitable disposition was constantly exerting
itself. Mrs. Anna Williams, daughter of a very ingenious Welsh
physician, and a woman of more than ordinary talents and
literature, having come to London in hopes of being cured of a
cataract in both her eyes, which afterwards ended in total
blindness, was kindly received as a constant visitor at his house
while Mrs. Johnson lived; and after her death, having come under
his roof in order to have an operation upon her eyes performed with
more comfort to her than in lodgings, she had an apartment from him
during the rest of her life, at all times when he had a house.

1752: AETAT. 43.]--In 1752 he was almost entirely occupied with his
Dictionary. The last paper of his Rambler was published March 2,
this year; after which, there was a cessation for some time of any
exertion of his talents as an essayist. But, in the same year, Dr.
Hawkesworth, who was his warm admirer, and a studious imitator of
his style, and then lived in great intimacy with him, began a
periodical paper, entitled The Adventurer, in connection with other
gentlemen, one of whom was Johnson's much-beloved friend, Dr.
Bathurst; and, without doubt, they received many valuable hints
from his conversation, most of his friends having been so assisted
in the course of their works.

That there should be a suspension of his literary labours during a
part of the year 1752, will not seem strange, when it is considered
that soon after closing his Rambler, he suffered a loss which,
there can be no doubt, affected him with the deepest distress. For
on the 17th of March, O.S., his wife died.

The following very solemn and affecting prayer was found after Dr.
Johnson's decease, by his servant, Mr. Francis Barber, who
delivered it to my worthy friend the Reverend Mr. Strahan, Vicar of
Islington, who at my earnest request has obligingly favoured me
with a copy of it, which he and I compared with the original:

'April 26, 1752, being after 12 at Night of the 25th.

'O Lord! Governour of heaven and earth, in whose hands are embodied
and departed Spirits, if thou hast ordained the Souls of the Dead
to minister to the Living, and appointed my departed Wife to have
care of me, grant that I may enjoy the good effects of her
attention and ministration, whether exercised by appearance,
impulses, dreams or in any other manner agreeable to thy
Government. Forgive my presumption, enlighten my ignorance, and
however meaner agents are employed, grant me the blessed influences
of thy holy Spirit, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.'

That his love for his wife was of the most ardent kind, and, during
the long period of fifty years, was unimpaired by the lapse of
time, is evident from various passages in the series of his Prayers
and Meditations, published by the Reverend Mr. Strahan, as well as
from other memorials, two of which I select, as strongly marking
the tenderness and sensibility of his mind.

'March 28, 1753. I kept this day as the anniversary of my Tetty's
death, with prayer and tears in the morning. In the evening I
prayed for her conditionally, if it were lawful.'

'April 23, 1753. I know not whether I do not too much indulge the
vain longings of affection; but I hope they intenerate my heart,
and that when I die like my Tetty, this affection will be
acknowledged in a happy interview, and that in the mean time I am
incited by it to piety. I will, however, not deviate too much from
common and received methods of devotion.'

Her wedding ring, when she became his wife, was, after her death,
preserved by him, as long as he lived, with an affectionate care,
in a little round wooden box, in the inside of which he pasted a
slip of paper, thus inscribed by him in fair characters, as
follows:

        'Eheu!
     Eliz. Johnson
    Nupta Jul. 9 1736,
     Mortua, eheu!
    Mart. 17 1752.'

After his death, Mr. Francis Barber, his faithful servant and
residuary legatee, offered this memorial of tenderness to Mrs. Lucy
Porter, Mrs. Johnson's daughter; but she having declined to accept
of it, he had it enamelled as a mourning ring for his old master,
and presented it to his wife, Mrs. Barber, who now has it.

I have, indeed, been told by Mrs. Desmoulins, who, before her
marriage, lived for some time with Mrs. Johnson at Hampstead, that
she indulged herself in country air and nice living, at an
unsuitable expense, while her husband was drudging in the smoke of
London, and that she by no means treated him with that complacency
which is the most engaging quality in a wife. But all this is
perfectly compatible with his fondness for her, especially when it
is remembered that he had a high opinion of her understanding, and
that the impressions which her beauty, real or imaginary, had
originally made upon his fancy, being continued by habit, had not
been effaced, though she herself was doubtless much altered for the
worse. The dreadful shock of separation took place in the night;
and he immediately dispatched a letter to his friend, the Reverend
Dr. Taylor, which, as Taylor told me, expressed grief in the
strongest manner he had ever read; so that it is much to be
regretted it has not been preserved. The letter was brought to Dr.
Taylor, at his house in the Cloisters, Westminster, about three in
the morning; and as it signified an earnest desire to see him, he
got up, and went to Johnson as soon as he was dressed, and found
him in tears and in extreme agitation. After being a little while
together, Johnson requested him to join with him in prayer. He
then prayed extempore, as did Dr. Taylor; and thus, by means of
that piety which was ever his primary object, his troubled mind
was, in some degree, soothed and composed.

The next day he wrote as follows:

'To THE REVEREND DR. TAYLOR.

'DEAR SIR,--Let me have your company and instruction. Do not live
away from me. My distress is great.

'Pray desire Mrs. Taylor to inform me what mourning I should buy
for my mother and Miss Porter, and bring a note in writing with
you.

'Remember me in your prayers, for vain is the help of man. I am,
dear Sir, &c.;

'March 18, 1752.'

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

That his sufferings upon the death of his wife were severe, beyond
what are commonly endured, I have no doubt, from the information of
many who were then about him, to none of whom I give more credit
than to Mr. Francis Barber, his faithful negro servant, who came
into his family about a fortnight after the dismal event. These
sufferings were aggravated by the melancholy inherent in his
constitution; and although he probably was not oftener in the wrong
than she was, in the little disagreements which sometimes troubled
his married state, during which, he owned to me, that the gloomy
irritability of his existence was more painful to him than ever, he
might very naturally, after her death, be tenderly disposed to
charge himself with slight omissions and offences, the sense of
which would give him much uneasiness. Accordingly we find, about a
year after her decease, that he thus addressed the Supreme Being:
'O LORD, who givest the grace of repentance, and hearest the
prayers of the penitent, grant that by true contrition I may obtain
forgiveness of all the sins committed, and of all duties neglected
in my union with the wife whom thou hast taken from me; for the
neglect of joint devotion, patient exhortation, and mild
instruction.'  The kindness of his heart, notwithstanding the
impetuosity of his temper, is well known to his friends; and I
cannot trace the smallest foundation for the following dark and
uncharitable assertion by Sir John Hawkins: 'The apparition of his
departed wife was altogether of the terrifick kind, and hardly
afforded him a hope that she was in a state of happiness.'  That
he, in conformity with the opinion of many of the most able,
learned, and pious Christians in all ages, supposed that there was
a middle state after death, previous to the time at which departed
souls are finally received to eternal felicity, appears, I think,
unquestionably from his devotions: 'And, O LORD, so far as it may
be lawful in me, I commend to thy fatherly goodness the soul of my
departed wife; beseeching thee to grant her whatever is best in her
present state, and finally to receive her to eternal happiness.'
But this state has not been looked upon with horrour, but only as
less gracious.

He deposited the remains of Mrs. Johnson in the church of Bromley,
in Kent, to which he was probably led by the residence of his
friend Hawkesworth at that place. The funeral sermon which he
composed for her, which was never preached, but having been given
to Dr. Taylor, has been published since his death, is a performance
of uncommon excellence, and full of rational and pious comfort to
such as are depressed by that severe affliction which Johnson felt
when he wrote it. When it is considered that it was written in
such an agitation of mind, and in the short interval between her
death and burial, it cannot be read without wonder.

From Mr. Francis Barber I have had the following authentick and
artless account of the situation in which he found him recently
after his wife's death:

'He was in great affliction. Mrs. Williams was then living in his
house, which was in Gough-square. He was busy with the Dictionary.
Mr. Shiels, and some others of the gentlemen who had formerly
written for him, used to come about him. He had then little for
himself, but frequently sent money to Mr. Shiels when in distress.
The friends who visited him at that time, were chiefly Dr.
Bathurst, and Mr. Diamond, an apothecary in Cork-street,
Burlington-gardens, with whom he and Mrs. Williams generally dined
every Sunday. There was a talk of his going to Iceland with him,
which would probably have happened had he lived. There were also
Mr. Cave, Dr. Hawkesworth, Mr. Ryland, merchant on Tower Hill, Mrs.
Masters, the poetess, who lived with Mr. Cave, Mrs. Carter, and
sometimes Mrs. Macaulay, also Mrs. Gardiner, wife of a tallow-
chandler on Snow-hill, not in the learned way, but a worthy good
woman; Mr. (now Sir Joshua) Reynolds; Mr. Millar, Mr. Dodsley, Mr.
Bouquet, Mr. Payne of Paternoster-row, booksellers; Mr. Strahan,
the printer; the Earl of Orrery, Lord Southwell, Mr. Garrick.'

Many are, no doubt, omitted in this catalogue of his friends, and,
in particular, his humble friend Mr. Robert Levet, an obscure
practiser in physick amongst the lower people, his fees being
sometimes very small sums, sometimes whatever provisions his
patients could afford him; but of such extensive practice in that
way, that Mrs. Williams has told me, his walk was from Hounsditch
to Marybone. It appears from Johnson's diary that their
acquaintance commenced about the year 1746; and such was Johnson's
predilection for him, and fanciful estimation of his moderate
abilities, that I have heard him say he should not be satisfied,
though attended by all the College of Physicians, unless he had Mr.
Levet with him. Ever since I was acquainted with Dr. Johnson, and
many years before, as I have been assured by those who knew him
earlier, Mr. Levet had an apartment in his house, or his chambers,
and waited upon him every morning, through the whole course of his
late and tedious breakfast. He was of a strange grotesque
appearance, stiff and formal in his manner, and seldom said a word
while any company was present.

The circle of his friends, indeed, at this time was extensive and
various, far beyond what has been generally imagined. To trace his
acquaintance with each particular person, if it could be done,
would be a task, of which the labour would not be repaid by the
advantage. But exceptions are to be made; one of which must be a
friend so eminent as Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was truly his dulce
decus, and with whom he maintained an uninterrupted intimacy to the
last hour of his life. When Johnson lived in Castle-street,
Cavendish-square, he used frequently to visit two ladies, who lived
opposite to him, Miss Cotterells, daughters of Admiral Cotterell.
Reynolds used also to visit there, and thus they met. Mr.
Reynolds, as I have observed above, had, from the first reading of
his Life of Savage, conceived a very high admiration of Johnson's
powers of writing. His conversation no less delighted him; and he
cultivated his acquaintance with the laudable zeal of one who was
ambitious of general improvement. Sir Joshua, indeed, was lucky
enough at their very first meeting to make a remark, which was so
much above the common-place style of conversation, that Johnson at
once perceived that Reynolds had the habit of thinking for himself.
The ladies were regretting the death of a friend, to whom they owed
great obligations; upon which Reynolds observed, 'You have,
however, the comfort of being relieved from a burthen of
gratitude.'  They were shocked a little at this alleviating
suggestion, as too selfish; but Johnson defended it in his clear
and forcible manner, and was much pleased with the MIND, the fair
view of human nature, which it exhibited, like some of the
reflections of Rochefaucault. The consequence was, that he went
home with Reynolds, and supped with him.

Sir Joshua told me a pleasant characteristical anecdote of Johnson
about the time of their first acquaintance. When they were one
evening together at the Miss Cotterells', the then Duchess of
Argyle and another lady of high rank came in. Johnson thinking
that the Miss Cotterells were too much engrossed by them, and that
he and his friend were neglected, as low company of whom they were
somewhat ashamed, grew angry; and resolving to shock their supposed
pride, by making their great visitors imagine that his friend and
he were low indeed, he addressed himself in a loud tone to Mr.
Reynolds, saying, 'How much do you think you and I could get in a
week, if we were to WORK AS HARD as we could?'--as if they had been
common mechanicks.

His acquaintance with Bennet Langton, Esq. of Langton, in
Lincolnshire, another much valued friend, commenced soon after the
conclusion of his Rambler; which that gentleman, then a youth, had
read with so much admiration, that he came to London chiefly with
the view of endeavouring to be introduced to its authour. By a
fortunate chance he happened to take lodgings in a house where Mr.
Levet frequently visited; and having mentioned his wish to his
landlady, she introduced him to Mr. Levet, who readily obtained
Johnson's permission to bring Mr. Langton to him; as, indeed,
Johnson, during the whole course of his life, had no shyness, real
or affected, but was easy of access to all who were properly
recommended, and even wished to see numbers at his levee, as his
morning circle of company might, with strict propriety, be called.
Mr. Langton was exceedingly surprised when the sage first appeared.
He had not received the smallest intimation of his figure, dress,
or manner. From perusing his writings, he fancied he should see a
decent, well-drest, in short, remarkably decorous philosopher.
Instead of which, down from his bed-chamber, about noon, came, as
newly risen, a huge uncouth figure, with a little dark wig which
scarcely covered his head, and his clothes hanging loose about him.
But his conversation was so rich, so animated, and so forcible, and
his religious and political notions so congenial with those in
which Langton had been educated, that he conceived for him that
veneration and attachment which he ever preserved. Johnson was not
the less ready to love Mr. Langton, for his being of a very ancient
family; for I have heard him say, with pleasure, 'Langton, Sir, has
a grant of free warren from Henry the Second; and Cardinal Stephen
Langton, in King John's reign, was of this family.'

Mr. Langton afterwards went to pursue his studies at Trinity
College, Oxford, where he formed an acquaintance with his fellow
student, Mr. Topham Beauclerk; who, though their opinions and modes
of life were so different, that it seemed utterly improbable that
they should at all agree, had so ardent a love of literature, so
acute an understanding, such elegance of manners, and so well
discerned the excellent qualities of Mr. Langton, a gentleman
eminent not only for worth and learning, but for an inexhaustible
fund of entertaining conversation, that they became intimate
friends.

Johnson, soon after this acquaintance began, passed a considerable
time at Oxford. He at first thought it strange that Langton should
associate so much with one who had the character of being loose,
both in his principles and practice; but, by degrees, he himself
was fascinated. Mr. Beauclerk's being of the St. Alban's family,
and having, in some particulars, a resemblance to Charles the
Second, contributed, in Johnson's imagination, to throw a lustre
upon his other qualities; and, in a short time, the moral, pious
Johnson, and the gay, dissipated Beauclerk, were companions. 'What
a coalition! (said Garrick, when he heard of this;) I shall have my
old friend to bail out of the Round-house.'  But I can bear
testimony that it was a very agreeable association. Beauclerk was
too polite, and valued learning and wit too much, to offend Johnson
by sallies of infidelity or licentiousness; and Johnson delighted
in the good qualities of Beauclerk, and hoped to correct the evil.
Innumerable were the scenes in which Johnson was amused by these
young men. Beauclerk could take more liberty with him, than any
body with whom I ever saw him; but, on the other hand, Beauclerk
was not spared by his respectable companion, when reproof was
proper. Beauclerk had such a propensity to satire, that at one
time Johnson said to him, 'You never open your mouth but with
intention to give pain; and you have often given me pain, not from
the power of what you said, but from seeing your intention.'  At
another time applying to him, with a slight alteration, a line of
Pope, he said,

    'Thy love of folly, and thy scorn of fools--

Every thing thou dost shews the one, and every thing thou say'st
the other.'  At another time he said to him, 'Thy body is all vice,
and thy mind all virtue.'  Beauclerk not seeming to relish the
compliment, Johnson said, 'Nay, Sir, Alexander the Great, marching
in triumph into Babylon, could not have desired to have had more
said to him.'

Johnson was some time with Beauclerk at his house at Windsor, where
he was entertained with experiments in natural philosophy. One
Sunday, when the weather was very fine, Beauclerk enticed him,
insensibly, to saunter about all the morning. They went into a
church-yard, in the time of divine service, and Johnson laid
himself down at his ease upon one of the tomb-stones. 'Now, Sir,
(said Beauclerk) you are like Hogarth's Idle Apprentice.'  When
Johnson got his pension, Beauclerk said to him, in the humorous
phrase of Falstaff, 'I hope you'll now purge and live cleanly like
a gentleman.'

One night when Beauclerk and Langton had supped at a tavern in
London, and sat till about three in the morning, it came into their
heads to go and knock up Johnson, and see if they could prevail on
him to join them in a ramble. They rapped violently at the door of
his chambers in the Temple, till at last he appeared in his shirt,
with his little black wig on the top of his head, instead of a
nightcap, and a poker in his hand, imagining, probably, that some
ruffians were coming to attack him. When he discovered who they
were, and was told their errand, he smiled, and with great good
humour agreed to their proposal: 'What, is it you, you dogs! I'll
have a frisk with you.'  He was soon drest, and they sallied forth
together into Covent-Garden, where the greengrocers and fruiterers
were beginning to arrange their hampers, just come in from the
country. Johnson made some attempts to help them; but the honest
gardeners stared so at his figure and manner, and odd interference,
that he soon saw his services were not relished. They then
repaired to one of the neighbouring taverns, and made a bowl of
that liquor called Bishop, which Johnson had always liked; while in
joyous contempt of sleep, from which he had been roused, he
repeated the festive lines,

    'Short, O short then be thy reign,
     And give us to the world again!'

They did not stay long, but walked down to the Thames, took a boat,
and rowed to Billingsgate. Beauclerk and Johnson were so well
pleased with their amusement, that they resolved to persevere in
dissipation for the rest of the day: but Langton deserted them,
being engaged to breakfast with some young Ladies. Johnson scolded
him for 'leaving his social friends, to go and sit with a set of
wretched UN-IDEA'D girls.'  Garrick being told of this ramble, said
to him smartly, 'I heard of your frolick t'other night. You'll be
in the Chronicle.'  Upon which Johnson afterwards observed, 'HE
durst not do such a thing. His WIFE would not LET him!'

1753: AETAT. 44.]--He entered upon this year 1753 with his usual
piety, as appears from the following prayer, which I transcribed
from that part of his diary which he burnt a few days before his
death:

'Jan. 1, 1753, N.S. which I shall use for the future.

'Almighty God, who hast continued my life to this day, grant that,
by the assistance of thy Holy Spirit, I may improve the time which
thou shalt grant me, to my eternal salvation. Make me to remember,
to thy glory, thy judgements and thy mercies. Make me so to
consider the loss of my wife, whom thou hast taken from me, that it
may dispose me, by thy grace, to lead the residue of my life in thy
fear. Grant this, O LORD, for JESUS CHRIST'S sake. Amen.'

He now relieved the drudgery of his Dictionary, and the melancholy
of his grief, by taking an active part in the composition of The
Adventurer, in which he began to write April 10.

In one of the books of his diary I find the following entry:

'Apr. 3, 1753. I began the second vol. of my Dictionary, room
being left in the first for Preface, Grammar, and History, none of
them yet begun.

'O God, who hast hitherto supported me, enable me to proceed in
this labour, and in the whole task of my present state; that when I
shall render up, at the last day, an account of the talent
committed to me, I may receive pardon, for the sake of JESUS
CHRIST. Amen.'

1754: AETAT. 45.]--The Dictionary, we may believe, afforded Johnson
full occupation this year. As it approached to its conclusion, he
probably worked with redoubled vigour, as seamen increase their
exertion and alacrity when they have a near prospect of their
haven.

Lord Chesterfield, to whom Johnson had paid the high compliment of
addressing to his Lordship the Plan of his Dictionary, had behaved
to him in such a manner as to excite his contempt and indignation.
The world has been for many years amused with a story confidently
told, and as confidently repeated with additional circumstances,
that a sudden disgust was taken by Johnson upon occasion of his
having been one day kept long in waiting in his Lordship's
antechamber, for which the reason assigned was, that he had company
with him; and that at last, when the door opened, out walked Colley
Cibber; and that Johnson was so violently provoked when he found
for whom he had been so long excluded, that he went away in a
passion, and never would return. I remember having mentioned this
story to George Lord Lyttelton, who told me, he was very intimate
with Lord Chesterfield; and holding it as a well-known truth,
defended Lord Chesterfield, by saying, that 'Cibber, who had been
introduced familiarly by the back-stairs, had probably not been
there above ten minutes.'  It may seem strange even to entertain a
doubt concerning a story so long and so widely current, and thus
implicitly adopted, if not sanctioned, by the authority which I
have mentioned; but Johnson himself assured me, that there was not
the least foundation for it. He told me, that there never was any
particular incident which produced a quarrel between Lord
Chesterfield and him; but that his Lordship's continued neglect was
the reason why he resolved to have no connection with him. When
the Dictionary was upon the eve of publication, Lord Chesterfield,
who, it is said, had flattered himself with expectations that
Johnson would dedicate the work to him, attempted, in a courtly
manner, to sooth, and insinuate himself with the Sage, conscious,
as it should seem, of the cold indifference with which he had
treated its learned authour; and further attempted to conciliate
him, by writing two papers in The World, in recommendation of the
work; and it must be confessed, that they contain some studied
compliments, so finely turned, that if there had been no previous
offence, it is probable that Johnson would have been highly
delighted.*  Praise, in general, was pleasing to him; but by praise
from a man of rank and elegant accomplishments, he was peculiarly
gratified.

* Boswell could not have read the second paper carefully. It is
silly and indecent and was certain to offend Johnson.--ED.

This courtly device failed of its effect. Johnson, who thought
that 'all was false and hollow,' despised the honeyed words, and
was even indignant that Lord Chesterfield should, for a moment,
imagine that he could be the dupe of such an artifice. His
expression to me concerning Lord Chesterfield, upon this occasion,
was, 'Sir, after making great professions, he had, for many years,
taken no notice of me; but when my Dictionary was coming out, he
fell a scribbling in The World about it. Upon which, I wrote him a
letter expressed in civil terms, but such as might shew him that I
did not mind what he said or wrote, and that I had done with him.'

This is that celebrated letter of which so much has been said, and
about which curiosity has been so long excited, without being
gratified. I for many years solicited Johnson to favour me with a
copy of it, that so excellent a composition might not be lost to
posterity. He delayed from time to time to give it me; till at
last in 1781, when we were on a visit at Mr. Dilly's, at Southill
in Bedfordshire, he was pleased to dictate it to me from memory.
He afterwards found among his papers a copy of it, which he had
dictated to Mr. Baretti, with its title and corrections, in his own
handwriting. This he gave to Mr. Langton; adding that if it were
to come into print, he wished it to be from that copy. By Mr.
Langton's kindness, I am enabled to enrich my work with a perfect
transcript of what the world has so eagerly desired to see.

'TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OR CHESTERFIELD

'February 7, 1755.

'MY LORD, I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of The
World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to
the publick, were written by your Lordship. To be so
distinguished, is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to
favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what
terms to acknowledge.

'When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your
Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the
enchantment of your address; and could not forbear to wish that I
might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre;--that I
might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but
I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor
modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed
your Lordship in publick, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing
which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all
that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected,
be it ever so little.

'Seven years, my Lord, have now past, since I waited in your
outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I
have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is
useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of
publication, without one act of assistance, one word of
encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not
expect, for I never had a Patron before.

'The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and
found him a native of the rocks.

'Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man
struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground,
encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to
take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has
been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am
solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want
it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess
obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling
that the Publick should consider me as owing that to a Patron,
which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

'Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to
any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I
should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been
long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted
myself with so much exultation, my Lord, your Lordship's most
humble, most obedient servant,

'SAM JOHNSON.'

'While this was the talk of the town, (says Dr. Adams, in a letter
to me) I happened to visit Dr. Warburton, who finding that I was
acquainted with Johnson, desired me earnestly to carry his
compliments to him, and to tell him that he honoured him for his
manly behaviour in rejecting these condescensions of Lord
Chesterfield, and for resenting the treatment he had received from
him, with a proper spirit. Johnson was visibly pleased with this
compliment, for he had always a high opinion of Warburton. Indeed,
the force of mind which appeared in this letter, was congenial with
that which Warburton himself amply possessed.'

There is a curious minute circumstance which struck me, in
comparing the various editions of Johnson's imitations of Juvenal.
In the tenth Satire, one of the couplets upon the vanity of wishes
even for literary distinction stood thus:

    'Yet think what ills the scholar's life assail,
     Pride, envy, want, the GARRET, and the jail.'

But after experiencing the uneasiness which Lord Chesterfield's
fallacious patronage made him feel, he dismissed the word garret
from the sad group, and in all the subsequent editions the line
stands

    'Pride, envy, want, the PATRON, and the jail.'

That Lord Chesterfield must have been mortified by the lofty
contempt, and polite, yet keen satire with which Johnson exhibited
him to himself in this letter, it is impossible to doubt. He,
however, with that glossy duplicity which was his constant study,
affected to he quite unconcerned. Dr. Adams mentioned to Mr.
Robert Dodsley that he was sorry Johnson had written his letter to
Lord Chesterfield. Dodsley, with the true feelings of trade, said
'he was very sorry too; for that he had a property in the
Dictionary, to which his Lordship's patronage might have been of
consequence.'  He then told Dr. Adams, that Lord Chesterfield had
shewn him the letter. 'I should have imagined (replied Dr. Adams)
that Lord Chesterfield would have concealed it.'  'Poh! (said
Dodsley) do you think a letter from Johnson could hurt Lord
Chesterfield? Not at all, Sir. It lay upon his table; where any
body might see it. He read it to me; said, "this man has great
powers," pointed out the severest passages, and observed how well
they were expressed.'  This air of indifference, which imposed upon
the worthy Dodsley, was certainly nothing but a specimen of that
dissimulation which Lord Chesterfield inculcated as one of the most
essential lessons for the conduct of life. His Lordship
endeavoured to justify himself to Dodsley from the charges brought
against him by Johnson; but we may judge of the flimsiness of his
defence, from his having excused his neglect of Johnson, by saying
that 'he had heard he had changed his lodgings, and did not know
where he lived;' as if there could have been the smallest
difficulty to inform himself of that circumstance, by inquiring in
the literary circle with which his Lordship was well acquainted,
and was, indeed, himself one of its ornaments.

Dr. Adams expostulated with Johnson, and suggested, that his not
being admitted when he called on him, was, probably, not to be
imputed to Lord Chesterfield; for his Lordship had declared to
Dodsley, that 'he would have turned off the best servant he ever
had, if he had known that he denied him to a man who would have
been always more than welcome;' and, in confirmation of this, he
insisted on Lord Chesterfield's general affability and easiness of
access, especially to literary men. 'Sir (said Johnson) that is
not Lord Chesterfield; he is the proudest man this day existing.'
'No, (said Dr. Adams) there is one person, at least, as proud; I
think, by your own account, you are the prouder man of the two.'
'But mine (replied Johnson, instantly) was DEFENSIVE pride.'  This,
as Dr. Adams well observed, was one of those happy turns for which
he was so remarkably ready.

Johnson having now explicitly avowed his opinion of Lord
Chesterfield, did not refrain from expressing himself concerning
that nobleman with pointed freedom: 'This man (said he) I thought
had been a Lord among wits; but, I find, he is only a wit among
Lords!'  And when his Letters to his natural son were published, he
observed, that 'they teach the morals of a whore, and the manners
of a dancing master.'

On the 6th of March came out Lord Bolingbroke's works, published by
Mr. David Mallet. The wild and pernicious ravings, under the name
of Philosophy, which were thus ushered into the world, gave great
offence to all well-principled men. Johnson, hearing of their
tendency, which nobody disputed, was roused with a just
indignation, and pronounced this memorable sentence upon the noble
authour and his editor. 'Sir, he was a scoundrel, and a coward: a
scoundrel, for charging a blunderbuss against religion and
morality; a coward, because he had not resolution to fire it off
himself, but left half a crown to a beggarly Scotchman, to draw the
trigger after his death!'

Johnson this year found an interval of leisure to make an excursion
to Oxford, for the purpose of consulting the libraries there.

Of his conversation while at Oxford at this time, Mr. Warton
preserved and communicated to me the following memorial, which,
though not written with all the care and attention which that
learned and elegant writer bestowed on those compositions which he
intended for the publick eye, is so happily expressed in an easy
style, that I should injure it by any alteration:

'When Johnson came to Oxford in 1754, the long vacation was
beginning, and most people were leaving the place. This was the
first time of his being there, after quitting the University. The
next morning after his arrival, he wished to see his old College,
Pembroke. I went with him. He was highly pleased to find all the
College-servants which he had left there still remaining,
particularly a very old butler; and expressed great satisfaction at
being recognised by them, and conversed with them familiarly. He
waited on the master, Dr. Radcliffe, who received him very coldly.
Johnson at least expected, that the master would order a copy of
his Dictionary, now near publication: but the master did not choose
to talk on the subject, never asked Johnson to dine, nor even to
visit him, while he stayed at Oxford. After we had left the
lodgings, Johnson said to me, "THERE lives a man, who lives by the
revenues of literature, and will not move a finger to support it.
If I come to live at Oxford, I shall take up my abode at Trinity."
We then called on the Reverend Mr. Meeke, one of the fellows, and
of Johnson's standing. Here was a most cordial greeting on both
sides. On leaving him, Johnson said, "I used to think Meeke had
excellent parts, when we were boys together at the College: but,
alas!

     'Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!'

I remember, at the classical lecture in the Hall, I could not bear
Meeke's superiority, and I tried to sit as far from him as I could,
that I might not hear him construe."

'As we were leaving the College, he said, "Here I translated Pope's
Messiah. Which do you think is the best line in it?--My own
favourite is,

     'Vallis aromaticas fundit Saronica nubes.'"

I told him, I thought it a very sonorous hexameter. I did not tell
him, it was not in the Virgilian style. He much regretted that his
FIRST tutor was dead; for whom he seemed to retain the greatest
regard. He said, "I once had been a whole morning sliding in
Christ-Church Meadow, and missed his lecture in logick. After
dinner, he sent for me to his room. I expected a sharp rebuke for
my idleness, and went with a beating heart. When we were seated,
he told me he had sent for me to drink a glass of wine with him,
and to tell me, he was NOT angry with me for missing his lecture.
This was, in fact, a most severe reprimand. Some more of the boys
were then sent for, and we spent a very pleasant afternoon."
Besides Mr. Meeke, there was only one other Fellow of Pembroke now
resident: from both of whom Johnson received the greatest
civilities during this visit, and they pressed him very much to
have a room in the College.

'In the course of this visit (1754), Johnson and I walked, three or
four times, to Ellsfield, a village beautifully situated about
three miles from Oxford, to see Mr. Wise, Radclivian librarian,
with whom Johnson was much pleased. At this place, Mr. Wise had
fitted up a house and gardens, in a singular manner, but with great
taste. Here was an excellent library; particularly, a valuable
collection of books in Northern literature, with which Johnson was
often very busy. One day Mr. Wise read to us a dissertation which
he was preparing for the press, intitled, "A History and Chronology
of the fabulous Ages."  Some old divinities of Thrace, related to
the Titans, and called the CABIRI, made a very important part of
the theory of this piece; and in conversation afterwards, Mr. Wise
talked much of his CABIRI. As we returned to Oxford in the
evening, I out-walked Johnson, and he cried out Sufflamina, a Latin
word which came from his mouth with peculiar grace, and was as much
as to say, Put on your drag chain. Before we got home, I again
walked too fast for him; and he now cried out, "Why, you walk as if
you were pursued by all the CABIRI in a body."  In an evening, we
frequently took long walks from Oxford into the country, returning
to supper. Once, in our way home, we viewed the ruins of the
abbies of Oseney and Rewley, near Oxford. After at least half an
hour's silence, Johnson said, "I viewed them with indignation!"  We
had then a long conversation on Gothick buildings; and in talking
of the form of old halls, he said, "In these halls, the fire place
was anciently always in the middle of the room, till the Whigs
removed it on one side."--About this time there had been an
execution of two or three criminals at Oxford on a Monday. Soon
afterwards, one day at dinner, I was saying that Mr. Swinton the
chaplain of the gaol, and also a frequent preacher before the
University, a learned man, but often thoughtless and absent,
preached the condemnation-sermon on repentance, before the
convicts, on the preceding day, Sunday; and that in the close he
told his audience, that he should give them the remainder of what
he had to say on the subject, the next Lord's Day. Upon which, one
of our company, a Doctor of Divinity, and a plain matter-of-fact
man, by way of offering an apology for Mr. Swinton, gravely
remarked, that he had probably preached the same sermon before the
University: "Yes, Sir, (says Johnson) but the University were not
to be hanged the next morning."

'I forgot to observe before, that when he left Mr. Meeke, (as I
have told above) he added, "About the same time of life, Meeke was
left behind at Oxford to feed on a Fellowship, and I went to London
to get my living: now, Sir, see the difference of our literary
characters!"'

The degree of Master of Arts, which, it has been observed, could
not be obtained for him at an early period of his life, was now
considered as an honour of considerable importance, in order to
grace the title-page of his Dictionary; and his character in the
literary world being by this time deservedly high, his friends
thought that, if proper exertions were made, the University of
Oxford would pay him the compliment.

To THE REVEREND THOMAS WARTON.

'DEAR SIR,--I am extremely sensible of the favour done me, both by
Mr. Wise and yourself. The book* cannot, I think, be printed in
less than six weeks, nor probably so soon; and I will keep back the
title-page, for such an insertion as you seem to promise me. . . .

'I had lately the favour of a letter from your brother, with some
account of poor Collins, for whom I am much concerned. I have a
notion, that by very great temperance, or more properly abstinence,
he may yet recover. . . .

'You know poor Mr. Dodsley has lost his wife; I believe he is much
affected. I hope he will not suffer so much as I yet suffer for
the loss of mine.

[Greek text omitted]

I have ever since seemed to myself broken off from mankind; a kind
of solitary wanderer in the wild of life, without any direction, or
fixed point of view: a gloomy gazer on a world to which I have
little relation. Yet I would endeavour, by the help of you and
your brother, to supply the want of closer union, by friendship:
and hope to have long the pleasure of being, dear Sir, most
affectionately your's,

'[London.] Dec. 21, 1754.'

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

* 'His Dictionary'--WARTON.

1755: AETAT. 46.]--In 1755 we behold him to great advantage; his
degree of Master of Arts conferred upon him, his Dictionary
published, his correspondence animated, his benevolence exercised.

Mr. Charles Burney, who has since distinguished himself so much in
the science of Musick, and obtained a Doctor's degree from the
University of Oxford, had been driven from the capital by bad
health, and was now residing at Lynne Regis, in Norfolk. He had
been so much delighted with Johnson's Rambler and the Plan of his
Dictionary, that when the great work was announced in the news-
papers as nearly finished,' he wrote to Dr. Johnson, begging to be
informed when and in what manner his Dictionary would be published;
intreating, if it should be by subscription, or he should have any
books at his own disposal, to be favoured with six copies for
himself and friends.

In answer to this application, Dr. Johnson wrote the following
letter, of which (to use Dr. Burney's own words) 'if it be
remembered that it was written to an obscure young man, who at this
time had not much distinguished himself even in his own profession,
but whose name could never have reached the authour of The Rambler,
the politeness and urbanity may be opposed to some of the stories
which have been lately circulated of Dr. Johnson's natural rudeness
and ferocity.'

'TO MR. BURNEY, IN LYNNE REGIS, NORFOLK.

'SIR,--If you imagine that by delaying my answer I intended to shew
any neglect of the notice with which you have favoured me, you will
neither think justly of yourself nor of me. Your civilities were
offered with too much elegance not to engage attention; and I have
too much pleasure in pleasing men like you, not to feel very
sensibly the distinction which you have bestowed upon me.

'Few consequences of my endeavours to please or to benefit mankind
have delighted me more than your friendship thus voluntarily
offered, which now I have it I hope to keep, because I hope to
continue to deserve it.

'I have no Dictionaries to dispose of for myself, but shall be glad
to have you direct your friends to Mr. Dodsley, because it was by
his recommendation that I was employed in the work.

'When you have leisure to think again upon me, let me be favoured
with another letter; and another yet, when you have looked into my
Dictionary. If you find faults, I shall endeavour to mend them; if
you find none, I shall think you blinded by kind partiality: but to
have made you partial in his favour, will very much gratify the
ambition of, Sir, your most obliged and most humble servant,

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

'Gough-square, Fleet-street, April 8,1755.'

The Dictionary, with a Grammar and History of the English Language,
being now at length published, in two volumes folio, the world
contemplated with wonder so stupendous a work achieved by one man,
while other countries had thought such undertakings fit only for
whole academies. Vast as his powers were, I cannot but think that
his imagination deceived him, when he supposed that by constant
application he might have performed the task in three years.

The extensive reading which was absolutely necessary for the
accumulation of authorities, and which alone may account for
Johnson's retentive mind being enriched with a very large and
various store of knowledge and imagery, must have occupied several
years. The Preface furnishes an eminent instance of a double
talent, of which Johnson was fully conscious. Sir Joshua Reynolds
heard him say, 'There are two things which I am confident I can do
very well: one is an introduction to any literary work, stating
what it is to contain, and how it should be executed in the most
perfect manner; the other is a conclusion, shewing from various
causes why the execution has not been equal to what the authour
promised to himself and to the publick.'

A few of his definitions must be admitted to be erroneous. Thus,
Windward and Leeward, though directly of opposite meaning, are
defined identically the same way; as to which inconsiderable specks
it is enough to observe, that his Preface announces that he was
aware there might be many such in so immense a work; nor was he at
all disconcerted when an instance was pointed out to him. A lady
once asked him how he came to define Pastern the KNEE of a horse:
instead of making an elaborate defence, as she expected, he at once
answered, 'Ignorance, madam, pure ignorance.'  His definition of
Network* has been often quoted with sportive malignity, as
obscuring a thing in itself very plain. But to these frivolous
censures no other answer is necessary than that with which we are
furnished by his own Preface.

* Any thing reticulated or decussated, at equal distances, with
interstices between the intersections.'--ED.

His introducing his own opinions, and even prejudices, under
general definitions of words, while at the same time the original
meaning of the words is not explained, as his Tory, Whig, Pension,
Oats, Excise,* and a few more, cannot be fully defended, and must
be placed to the account of capricious and humorous indulgence.
Talking to me upon this subject when we were at Ashbourne in 1777,
he mentioned a still stronger instance of the predominance of his
private feelings in the composition of this work, than any now to
be found in it. 'You know, Sir, Lord Gower forsook the old
Jacobite interest. When I came to the word Renegado, after telling
that it meant "one who deserts to the enemy, a revolter," I added,
Sometimes we say a GOWER. Thus it went to the press; but the
printer had more wit than I, and struck it out.'

* Tory. 'One who adheres to the ancient constitution or the state
and the apostolical hierarchy of the church or England, opposed to
a whig.'  Whig. 'The name of a faction.'  Pension. 'An allowance
made to any one without an equivalent. In England it is generally
understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his
country.'  Oats. 'A grain which in England is generally given to
horses, but in Scotland supports the people.'  Excise. 'A hateful
tax levied upon commodities, and adjudged not by the common judges
of property, but wretches hired by those to whom excise is paid.'--
ED.

Let it, however, be remembered, that this indulgence does not
display itself only in sarcasm towards others, but sometimes in
playful allusion to the notions commonly entertained of his own
laborious task. Thus: 'Grub-street, the name of a street in
London, much inhabited by writers of small histories, dictionaries,
and temporary poems; whence any mean production is called Grub-
street.'--'Lexicographer, a writer of dictionaries, a harmless
drudge.'

It must undoubtedly seem strange, that the conclusion of his
Preface should be expressed in terms so desponding, when it is
considered that the authour was then only in his forty-sixth year.
But we must ascribe its gloom to that miserable dejection of
spirits to which he was constitutionally subject, and which was
aggravated by the death of his wife two years before. I have heard
it ingeniously observed by a lady of rank and elegance, that 'his
melancholy was then at its meridian.'  It pleased GOD to grant him
almost thirty years of life after this time; and once, when he was
in a placid frame of mind, he was obliged to own to me that he had
enjoyed happier days, and had many more friends, since that gloomy
hour than before.

It is a sad saying, that 'most of those whom he wished to please
had sunk into the grave;' and his case at forty-five was singularly
unhappy, unless the circle of his friends was very narrow. He said
to Sir Joshua Reynolds, 'If a man does not make new acquaintance as
he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone. A
man, Sir, should keep his friendship in constant repair.'

In July this year he had formed some scheme of mental improvement,
the particular purpose of which does not appear. But we find in
his Prayers and Meditations, p. 25, a prayer entitled 'On the Study
of Philosophy, as an Instrument of living;' and after it follows a
note, 'This study was not pursued.'

On the 13th of the same month he wrote in his Journal the following
scheme of life, for Sunday:

'Having lived' (as he with tenderness of conscience expresses
himself) 'not without an habitual reverence for the Sabbath, yet
without that attention to its religious duties which Christianity
requires;

'1. To rise early, and in order to it, to go to sleep early on
Saturday.

'2. To use some extraordinary devotion in the morning.

'3. To examine the tenour of my life, and particularly the last.
week; and to mark my advances in religion, or recession from it.

'4. To read the Scripture methodically with such helps as are at
hand.

'5. To go to church twice.

'6. To read books of Divinity, either speculative or practical.

'7. To instruct my family.

'8. To wear off by meditation any worldly soil contracted in the
week.'

1756: AETAT. 47.]--In 1756 Johnson found that the great fame of his
Dictionary had not set him above the necessity of 'making provision
for the day that was passing over him.'  No royal or noble patron
extended a munificent hand to give independence to the man who had
conferred stability on the language of his country. We may feel
indignant that there should have been such unworthy neglect; but we
must, at the same time, congratulate ourselves, when we consider
that to this very neglect, operating to rouse the natural indolence
of his constitution, we owe many valuable productions, which
otherwise, perhaps, might never have appeared.

He had spent, during the progress of the work, the money for which
he had contracted to write his Dictionary. We have seen that the
reward of his labour was only fifteen hundred and seventy-five
pounds; and when the expence of amanuenses and paper, and other
articles are deducted, his clear profit was very inconsiderable. I
once said to him, 'I am sorry, Sir, you did not get more for your
Dictionary.'  His answer was, 'I am sorry, too. But it was very
well. The booksellers are generous, liberal-minded men.'  He, upon
all occasions, did ample justice to their character in this
respect. He considered them as the patrons of literature; and,
indeed, although they have eventually been considerable gainers by
his Dictionary, it is to them that we owe its having been
undertaken and carried through at the risk of great expence, for
they were not absolutely sure of being indemnified.

He this year resumed his scheme of giving an edition of Shakspeare
with notes.*  He issued Proposals of considerable length, in which
he shewed that he perfectly well knew what a variety of research
such an undertaking required; but his indolence prevented him from
pursuing it with that diligence which alone can collect those
scattered facts that genius, however acute, penetrating, and
luminous, cannot discover by its own force. It is remarkable, that
at this time his fancied activity was for the moment so vigorous,
that he promised his work should be published before Christmas,
1757. Yet nine years elapsed before it saw the light. His throes
in bringing it forth had been severe and remittent; and at last we
may almost conclude that the Caesarian operation was performed by
the knife of Churchill, whose upbraiding satire, I dare say, made
Johnson's friends urge him to dispatch.

    'He for subscribers bates his hook,
     And takes your cash; but where's the book?
     No matter where; wise fear, you know,
     Forbids the robbing of a foe;
     But what, to serve our private ends,
     Forbids the cheating of our friends?'

* First proposed in 1745--ED.

About this period he was offered a living of considerable value in
Lincolnshire, if he were inclined to enter into holy orders. It
was a rectory in the gift of Mr. Langton, the father of his much
valued friend. But he did not accept of it; partly I believe from
a conscientious motive, being persuaded that his temper and habits
rendered him unfit for that assiduous and familiar instruction of
the vulgar and ignorant which he held to be an essential duty in a
clergyman; and partly because his love of a London life was so
strong, that he would have thought himself an exile in any other
place, particularly if residing in the country. Whoever would wish
to see his thoughts upon that subject displayed in their full
force, may peruse The Adventurer, Number 126.

1757: AETAT. 48.]--MR. BURNEY having enclosed to him an extract
from the review of his Dictionary in the Bibliotheque des Savans,
and a list of subscribers to his Shakspeare, which Mr. Burney had
procured in Norfolk, he wrote the following answer:

'TO MR. BURNEY, IN LYNNE, NORFOLK.

'SIR,--That I may shew myself sensible of your favours, and not
commit the same fault a second time, I make haste to answer the
letter which I received this morning. The truth is, the other
likewise was received, and I wrote an answer; but being desirous to
transmit you some proposals and receipts, I waited till I could
find a convenient conveyance, and day was passed after day, till
other things drove it from my thoughts; yet not so, but that I
remember with great pleasure your commendation of my Dictionary.
Your praise was welcome, not only because I believe it was sincere,
but because praise has been very scarce. A man of your candour
will be surprised when I tell you, that among all my acquaintance
there were only two, who upon the publication of my book did not
endeavour to depress me with threats of censure from the publick,
or with objections learned from those who had learned them from my
own Preface. Your's is the only letter of goodwill that I have
received; though, indeed, I am promised something of that sort from
Sweden.

'How my new edition will be received I know not; the subscription
has not been very successful. I shall publish about March.

'If you can direct me how to send proposals, I should wish that
they were in such hands.

'I remember, Sir, in some of the first letters with which you
favoured me, you mentioned your lady. May I enquire after her? In
return for the favours which you have shewn me, it is not much to
tell you, that I wish you and her all that can conduce to your
happiness. I am, Sir, your most obliged, and most humble servant,

SAM. JOHNSON.'

'Gough-square, Dec. 24, 1757.'

In 1758 we find him, it should seem, in as easy and pleasant a
state of existence, as constitutional unhappiness ever permitted
him to enjoy.

'TO BENNET LANGTON, ESQ., AT LANGTON, LINCOLNSHIRE.

'DEAREST SIR,--I must indeed have slept very fast, not to have been
awakened by your letter. None of your suspicions are true; I am
not much richer than when you left me; and, what is worse, my
omission of an answer to your first letter, will prove that I am
not much wiser. But I go on as I formerly did, designing to be
some time or other both rich and wise; and yet cultivate neither
mind nor fortune. Do you take notice of my example, and learn the
danger of delay. When I was as you are now, towering in the
confidence of twenty-one, little did I suspect that I should be at
forty-nine, what I now am.

'But you do not seem to need my admonition. You are busy in
acquiring and in communicating knowledge, and while you are
studying, enjoy the end of study, by making others wiser and
happier. I was much pleased with the tale that you told me of
being tutour to your sisters. I, who have no sisters nor brothers,
look with some degree of innocent envy on those who may be said to
be born to friends; and cannot see, without wonder, how rarely that
native union is afterwards regarded. It sometimes, indeed,
happens, that some supervenient cause of discord may overpower this
original amity; but it seems to me more frequently thrown away with
levity, or lost by negligence, than destroyed by injury or
violence. We tell the ladies that good wives make good husbands; I
believe it is a more certain position that good brothers make good
sisters.

'I am satisfied with your stay at home, as Juvenal with his
friend's retirement to Cumae: I know that your absence is best,
though it be not best for me.

    'Quamvis digressu veteris confusus amici,
     Laudo tamen vacuis quod sedem figere Cumis
     Destinet, atque unum civem donare Sibylloe.'

'Langton is a good Cumae, but who must be Sibylla? Mrs. Langton is
as wise as Sibyl, and as good; and will live, if my wishes can
prolong life, till she shall in time be as old. But she differs in
this, that she has not scattered her precepts in the wind, at least
not those which she bestowed upon you.

'The two Wartons just looked into the town, and were taken to see
Cleone, where, David* says, they were starved for want of company
to keep them warm. David and Doddy** have had a new quarrel, and,
I think, cannot conveniently quarrel any more. Cleone was well
acted by all the characters, but Bellamy left nothing to be
desired. I went the first night, and supported it, as well as I
might; for Doddy, you know, is my patron, and I would not desert
him. The play was very well received. Doddy, after the danger was
over, went every night to the stage-side, and cried at the distress
of poor Cleone.

* Mr. Garrick--BOSWELL.

** Mr. Dodsley, the Authour of Cleone.--BOSWELL.

'I have left off housekeeping, and therefore made presents of the
game which you were pleased to send me. The pheasant I gave to Mr.
Richardson,* the bustard to Dr. Lawrence, and the pot I placed with
Miss Williams, to be eaten by myself. She desires that her
compliments and good wishes may be accepted by the family; and I
make the same request for myself.

* Mr. Samuel Richardson, authour of Clarissa.--BOSWELL.

'Mr. Reynolds has within these few days raised his price to twenty
guineas a head, and Miss is much employed in miniatures. I know
not any body [else] whose prosperity has increased since you left
them.

'Murphy is to have his Orphan of China acted next month; and is
therefore, I suppose, happy. I wish I could tell you of any great
good to which I was approaching, but at present my prospects do not
much delight me; however, I am always pleased when I find that you,
dear Sir, remember, your affectionate, humble servant,

SAM. JOHNSON.'

'Jan. 9, 1758.'

Dr. Burney has kindly favoured me with the following memorandum,
which I take the liberty to insert in his own genuine easy style.
I love to exhibit sketches of my illustrious friend by various
eminent hands.

'Soon after this, Mr. Burney, during a visit to the capital, had an
interview with him in Gough-square, where he dined and drank tea
with him, and was introduced to the acquaintance of Mrs. Williams.
After dinner, Mr. Johnson proposed to Mr. Burney to go up with him
into his garret, which being accepted, he there found about five or
six Greek folios, a deal writing-desk, and a chair and a half.
Johnson giving to his guest the entire seat, tottered himself on
one with only three legs and one arm. Here he gave Mr. Burney Mrs.
Williams's history, and shewed him some volumes of his Shakspeare
already printed, to prove that he was in earnest. Upon Mr.
Burney's opening the first volume, at the Merchant of Venice, he
observed to him, that he seemed to be more severe on Warburton than
Theobald. "O poor Tib.! (said Johnson) he was ready knocked down
to my hands; Warburton stands between me and him."  "But, Sir,
(said Mr. Burney,) you'll have Warburton upon your bones, won't
you?"  "No, Sir; he'll not come out: he'll only growl in his den."
"But you think, Sir, that Warburton is a superiour critick to
Theobald?"  "O Sir he'd make two-and-fifty Theobalds, cut into
slices! The worst of Warburton is, that he has a rage for saying
something, when there's nothing to be said."  Mr. Burney then asked
him whether he had seen the letter which Warburton had written in
answer to a pamphlet addressed "To the most impudent Man alive."
He answered in the negative. Mr. Burney told him it was supposed
to be written by Mallet. The controversey now raged between the
friends of Pope and Bolingbroke; and Warburton and Mallet were the
leaders of the several parties. Mr. Burney asked him then if he
had seen Warburton's book against Bolingbroke's Philosophy? "No,
Sir, I have never read Bolingbroke's impiety, and therefore am not
interested about its confutation."'

On the fifteenth of April he began a new periodical paper, entitled
The Idler, which came out every Saturday in a weekly news-paper,
called The Universal Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette, published by
Newbery. These essays were continued till April 5, 1760. Of one
hundred and three, their total number, twelve were contributed by
his friends.

The Idler is evidently the work of the same mind which produced The
Rambler, but has less body and more spirit. It has more variety of
real life, and greater facility of language. He describes the
miseries of idleness, with the lively sensations of one who has
felt them; and in his private memorandums while engaged in it, we
find 'This year I hope to learn diligence.'  Many of these
excellent essays were written as hastily as an ordinary letter.
Mr. Langton remembers Johnson, when on a visit at Oxford, asking
him one evening how long it was till the post went out; and on
being told about half an hour, he exclaimed, 'then we shall do very
well.'  He upon this instantly sat down and finished an Idler,
which it was necessary should be in London the next day. Mr.
Langton having signified a wish to read it, 'Sir, (said he) you
shall not do more than I have done myself.'  He then folded it up
and sent it off.

1759: AETAT. 50.]--In 1759, in the month of January, his mother
died at the great age of ninety, an event which deeply affected
him; not that 'his mind had acquired no firmness by the
contemplation of mortality;' but that his reverential affection for
her was not abated by years, as indeed he retained all his tender
feelings even to the latest period of his life. I have been told
that he regretted much his not having gone to visit his mother for
several years, previous to her death. But he was constantly
engaged in literary labours which confined him to London; and
though he had not the comfort of seeing his aged parent, he
contributed liberally to her support.

Soon after this event, he wrote his Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia;
concerning the publication of which Sir John Hawkins guesses
vaguely and idly, instead of having taken the trouble to inform
himself with authentick precision. Not to trouble my readers with
a repetition of the Knight's reveries, I have to mention, that the
late Mr. Strahan the printer told me, that Johnson wrote it, that
with the profits he might defray the expence of his mother's
funeral, and pay some little debts which she had left. He told Sir
Joshua Reynolds that he composed it in the evenings of one week,
sent it to the press in portions as it was written, and had never
since read it over. Mr. Strahan, Mr. Johnston, and Mr. Dodsley
purchased it for a hundred pounds, but afterwards paid him twenty-
five pounds more, when it came to a second edition.

Voltaire's Candide, written to refute the system of Optimism, which
it has accomplished with brilliant success, is wonderfully similar
in its plan and conduct to Johnson's Rasselas; insomuch, that I
have heard Johnson say, that if they had not been published so
closely one after the other that there was not time for imitation,
it would have been in vain to deny that the scheme of that which
came latest was taken from the other. Though the proposition
illustrated by both these works was the same, namely, that in our
present state there is more evil than good, the intention of the
writers was very different. Voltaire, I am afraid, meant only by
wanton profaneness to obtain a sportive victory over religion, and
to discredit the belief of a superintending Providence; Johnson
meant, by shewing the unsatisfactory nature of things temporal, to
direct the hopes of man to things eternal. Rasselas, as was
observed to me by a very accomplished lady, may be considered as a
more enlarged and more deeply philosophical discourse in prose,
upon the interesting truth, which in his Vanity of Human Wishes he
had so successfully enforced in verse.

I would ascribe to this year the following letter to a son of one
of his early friends at Lichfield, Mr. Joseph Simpson, Barrister,
and authour of a tract entitled Reflections on the Study of the
Law.

'TO JOSEPH SIMPSON, ESQ.

'DEAR SIR,--Your father's inexorability not only grieves but amazes
me: he is your father; he was always accounted a wise man; nor do I
remember any thing to the disadvantage of his good-nature; but in
his refusal to assist you there is neither good-nature, fatherhood,
nor wisdom. It is the practice of good-nature to overlook faults
which have already, by the consequences, punished the delinquent.
It is natural for a father to think more favourably than others of
his children; and it is always wise to give assistance while a
little help will prevent the necessity of greater.

'If you married imprudently, you miscarried at your own hazard, at
an age when you had a right of choice. It would be hard if the man
might not choose his own wife, who has a right to plead before the
Judges of his country.

'If your imprudence has ended in difficulties and inconveniences,
you are yourself to support them; and, with the help of a little
better health, you would support them and conquer them. Surely,
that want which accident and sickness produces, is to be supported
in every region of humanity, though there were neither friends nor
fathers in the world. You have certainly from your father the
highest claim of charity, though none of right; and therefore I
would counsel you to omit no decent nor manly degree of
importunity. Your debts in the whole are not large, and of the
whole but a small part is troublesome. Small debts are like small
shot; they are rattling on every side, and can scarcely be escaped
without a wound: great debts are like cannon; of loud noise, but
little danger. You must, therefore, be enabled to discharge petty
debts, that you may have leisure, with security to struggle with
the rest. Neither the great nor little debts disgrace you. I am
sure you have my esteem for the courage with which you contracted
them, and the spirit with which you endure them. I wish my esteem
could be of more use. I have been invited, or have invited myself,
to several parts of the kingdom; and will not incommode my dear
Lucy by coming to Lichfield, while her present lodging is of any
use to her. I hope, in a few days, to be at leisure, and to make
visits. Whither I shall fly is matter of no importance. A man
unconnected is at home every where; unless he may be said to be at
home no where. I am sorry, dear Sir, that where you have parents,
a man of your merits should not have an home. I wish I could give
it you. I am, my dear Sir, affectionately yours,

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

He now refreshed himself by an excursion to Oxford, of which the
following short characteristical notice, in his own words, is
preserved

'* * * is now making tea for me. I have been in my gown ever since
I came here. It was, at my first coming, quite new and handsome.
I have swum thrice, which I had disused for many years. I have
proposed to Vansittart, climbing over the wall, but he has refused
me. And I have clapped my hands till they are sore, at Dr. King's
speech.'

His negro servant, Francis Barber, having left him, and been some
time at sea, not pressed as has been supposed, but with his own
consent, it appears from a letter to John Wilkes, Esq., from Dr.
Smollet, that his master kindly interested himself in procuring his
release from a state of life of which Johnson always expressed the
utmost abhorrence. He said, 'No man will be a sailor who has
contrivance enough to get himself into a jail; for being in a ship
is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.'  And at
another time, 'A man in a jail has more room, better food, and
commonly better company.'  The letter was as follows:--

'Chelsea, March 16, 1759.

'DEAR SIR, I am again your petitioner, in behalf of that great CHAM
of literature, Samuel Johnson. His black servant, whose name is
Francis Barber, has been pressed on board the Stag Frigate, Captain
Angel, and our lexicographer is in great distress. He says the boy
is a sickly lad, of a delicate frame, and particularly subject to a
malady in his throat, which renders him very unfit for his
Majesty's service. You know what manner of animosity the said
Johnson has against you; and I dare say you desire no other
opportunity of resenting it than that of laying him under an
obligation. He was humble enough to desire my assistance on this
occasion, though he and I were never cater-cousins; and I gave him
to understand that I would make application to my friend Mr.
Wilkes, who, perhaps, by his interest with Dr. Hay and Mr. Elliot,
might be able to procure the discharge of his lacquey. It would be
superfluous to say more on the subject, which I leave to your own
consideration; but I cannot let slip this opportunity of declaring
that I am, with the most inviolable esteem and attachment, dear
Sir, your affectionate, obliged, humble servant,

'T. SMOLLET.'

Mr. Wilkes, who upon all occasions has acted, as a private
gentleman, with most polite liberality, applied to his friend Sir
George Hay, then one of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty;
and Francis Barber was discharged, as he has told me, without any
wish of his own. He found his old master in Chambers in the Inner
Temple, and returned to his service.

1760: AETAT. 51.]--I take this opportunity to relate the manner in
which an acquaintance first commenced between Dr. Johnson and Mr.
Murphy. During the publication of The Gray's-Inn Journal, a
periodical paper which was successfully carried on by Mr. Murphy
alone, when a very young man, he happened to be in the country with
Mr. Foote; and having mentioned that he was obliged to go to London
in order to get ready for the press one of the numbers of that
Journal, Foote said to him, 'You need not go on that account. Here
is a French magazine, in which you will find a very pretty oriental
tale; translate that, and send it to your printer.'  Mr. Murphy
having read the tale, was highly pleased with it, and followed
Foote's advice. When he returned to town, this tale was pointed
out to him in The Rambler, from whence it had been translated into
the French magazine. Mr. Murphy then waited upon Johnson, to
explain this curious incident. His talents, literature, and
gentleman-like manners, were soon perceived by Johnson, and a
friendship was formed which was never broken.

1762: AETAT. 53.]--A lady having at this time solicited him to
obtain the Archbishop of Canterbury's patronage to have her son
sent to the University, one of those solicitations which are too
frequent, where people, anxious for a particular object, do not
consider propriety, or the opportunity which the persons whom they
solicit have to assist them, he wrote to her the following answer,
with a copy of which I am favoured by the Reverend Dr. Farmer,
Master of Emanuel College, Cambridge.

'MADAM,--I hope you will believe that my delay in answering your
letter could proceed only from my unwillingness to destroy any hope
that you had formed. Hope is itself a species of happiness, and,
perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords: but, like
all other pleasures immoderately enjoyed, the excesses of hope must
be expiated by pain; and expectations improperly indulged, must end
in disappointment. If it be asked, what is the improper
expectation which it is dangerous to indulge, experience will
quickly answer, that it is such expectation as is dictated not by
reason, but by desire; expectation raised, not by the common
occurrences of life, but by the wants of the expectant; an
expectation that requires the common course of things to be
changed, and the general rules of action to be broken.

'When you made your request to me, you should have considered,
Madam, what you were asking. You ask me to solicit a great man, to
whom I never spoke, for a young person whom I had never seen, upon
a supposition which I had no means of knowing to be true. There is
no reason why, amongst all the great, I should chuse to supplicate
the Archbishop, nor why, among all the possible objects of his
bounty, the Archbishop should chuse your son. I know, Madam, how
unwillingly conviction is admitted, when interest opposes it; but
surely, Madam, you must allow, that there is no reason why that
should be done by me, which every other man may do with equal
reason, and which, indeed no man can do properly, without some very
particular relation both to the Archbishop and to you. If I could
help you in this exigence by any proper means, it would give me
pleasure; but this proposal is so very remote from all usual
methods, that I cannot comply with it, but at the risk of such
answer and suspicions as I believe you do not wish me to undergo.

'I have seen your son this morning; he seems a pretty youth, and
will, perhaps, find some better friend than I can procure him; but,
though he should at last miss the University, he may still be wise,
useful, and happy. I am, Madam, your most humble servant,

'June 8, 1762.'

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

'TO MR. JOSEPH BARETTI, AT MILAN.

'London, July 20, 1762.

'SIR, However justly you may accuse me for want of punctuality in
correspondence, I am not so far lost in negligence as to omit the
opportunity of writing to you, which Mr. Beauclerk's passage
through Milan affords me.

'I suppose you received the Idlers, and I intend that you shall
soon receive Shakspeare, that you may explain his works to the
ladies of Italy, and tell them the story of the editor, among the
other strange narratives with which your long residence in this
unknown region has supplied you.

'As you have now been long away, I suppose your curiosity may pant
for some news of your old friends. Miss Williams and I live much
as we did. Miss Cotterel still continues to cling to Mrs. Porter,
and Charlotte is now big of the fourth child. Mr. Reynolds gets
six thousands a year. Levet is lately married, not without much
suspicion that he has been wretchedly cheated in his match. Mr.
Chambers is gone this day, for the first time, the circuit with the
Judges. Mr. Richardson is dead of an apoplexy, and his second
daughter has married a merchant.

'My vanity, or my kindness, makes me flatter myself, that you would
rather hear of me than of those whom I have mentioned; but of
myself I have very little which I care to tell. Last winter I went
down to my native town, where I found the streets much narrower and
shorter than I thought I had left them, inhabited by a new race of
people, to whom I was very little known. My play-fellows were
grown old, and forced me to suspect that I was no longer young. My
only remaining friend has changed his principles, and was become
the tool of the predominant faction. My daughter-in-law, from whom
I expected most, and whom I met with sincere benevolence, has lost
the beauty and gaiety of youth, without having gained much of the
wisdom of age. I wandered about for five days, and took the first
convenient opportunity of returning to a place, where, if there is
not much happiness, there is, at least, such a diversity of good
and evil, that slight vexations do not fix upon the heart. . . .

'May you, my Baretti, be very happy at Milan, or some other place
nearer to, Sir, your most affectionate humble servant,

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

The accession of George the Third to the throne of these kingdoms,
opened a new and brighter prospect to men of literary merit, who
had been honoured with no mark of royal favour in the preceding
reign. His present Majesty's education in this country, as well as
his taste and beneficence, prompted him to be the patron of science
and the arts; and early this year Johnson, having been represented
to him as a very learned and good man, without any certain
provision, his Majesty was pleased to grant him a pension of three
hundred pounds a year. The Earl of Bute, who was then Prime
Minister, had the honour to announce this instance of his
Sovereign's bounty, concerning which, many and various stories, all
equally erroneous, have been propagated: maliciously representing
it as a political bribe to Johnson, to desert his avowed
principles, and become the tool of a government which he held to be
founded in usurpation. I have taken care to have it in my power to
refute them from the most authentick information. Lord Bute told
me, that Mr. Wedderburne, now Lord Loughborough, was the person who
first mentioned this subject to him. Lord Loughborough told me,
that the pension was granted to Johnson solely as the reward of his
literary merit, without any stipulation whatever, or even tacit
understanding that he should write for administration. His
Lordship added, that he was confident the political tracts which
Johnson afterwards did write, as they were entirely consonant with
his own opinions, would have been written by him though no pension
had been granted to him.

Mr. Thomas Sheridan and Mr. Murphy, who then lived a good deal both
with him and Mr. Wedderburne, told me, that they previously talked
with Johnson upon this matter, and that it was perfectly understood
by all parties that the pension was merely honorary. Sir Joshua
Reynolds told me, that Johnson called on him after his majesty's
intention had been notified to him, and said he wished to consult
his friends as to the propriety of his accepting this mark of the
royal favour, after the definitions which he had given in his
Dictionary of pension and pensioners. He said he would not have
Sir Joshua's answer till next day, when he would call again, and
desired he might think of it. Sir Joshua answered that he was
clear to give his opinion then, that there could be no objection to
his receiving from the King a reward for literary merit; and that
certainly the definitions in his Dictionary were not applicable to
him. Johnson, it should seem, was satisfied, for he did not call
again till he had accepted the pension, and had waited on Lord Bute
to thank him. He then told Sir Joshua that Lord Bute said to him
expressly, 'It is not given you for anything you are to do, but for
what you have done.'  His Lordship, he said, behaved in the
handsomest manner, he repeated the words twice, that he might be
sure Johnson heard them, and thus set his mind perfectly at ease.
This nobleman, who has been so virulently abused, acted with great
honour in this instance and displayed a mind truly liberal. A
minister of a more narrow and selfish disposition would have
availed himself of such an opportunity to fix an implied obligation
on a man of Johnson's powerful talents to give him his support.

Mr. Murphy and the late Mr. Sheridan severally contended for the
distinction of having been the first who mentioned to Mr.
Wedderburne that Johnson ought to have a pension. When I spoke of
this to Lord Loughborough, wishing to know if he recollected the
prime mover in the business, he said, 'All his friends assisted:'
and when I told him that Mr. Sheridan strenuously asserted his
claim to it, his Lordship said, 'He rang the bell.'  And it is but
just to add, that Mr. Sheridan told me, that when he communicated
to Dr. Johnson that a pension was to be granted him, he replied in
a fervour of gratitude, 'The English language does not afford me
terms adequate to my feelings on this occasion. I must have
recourse to the French. I am penetre with his Majesty's goodness.'
When I repeated this to Dr. Johnson, he did not contradict it.

This year his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds paid a visit of some weeks
to his native country, Devonshire, in which he was accompanied by
Johnson, who was much pleased with this jaunt, and declared he had
derived from it a great accession of new ideas. He was entertained
at the seats of several noblemen and gentlemen in the West of
England; but the greatest part of the time was passed at Plymouth,
where the magnificence of the navy, the ship-building and all its
circumstances, afforded him a grand subject of contemplation. The
Commissioner of the Dock-yard paid him the compliment of ordering
the yacht to convey him and his friend to the Eddystone, to which
they accordingly sailed. But the weather was so tempestuous that
they could not land.

Reynolds and he were at this time the guests of Dr. Mudge, the
celebrated surgeon, and now physician of that place, not more
distinguished for quickness of parts and variety of knowledge, than
loved and esteemed for his amiable manners; and here Johnson formed
an acquaintance with Dr. Mudge's father, that very eminent divine,
the Reverend Zachariah Mudge, Prebendary of Exeter, who was
idolised in the west, both for his excellence as a preacher and the
uniform perfect propriety of his private conduct. He preached a
sermon purposely that Johnson might hear him; and we shall see
afterwards that Johnson honoured his memory by drawing his
character. While Johnson was at Plymouth, he saw a great many of
its inhabitants, and was not sparing of his very entertaining
conversation. It was here that he made that frank and truly
original confession, that 'ignorance, pure ignorance,' was the
cause of a wrong definition in his Dictionary of the word pastern,
to the no small surprise of the Lady who put the question to him;
who having the most profound reverence for his character, so as
almost to suppose him endowed with infallibility, expected to hear
an explanation (of what, to be sure, seemed strange to a common
reader,) drawn from some deep-learned source with which she was
unacquainted.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, to whom I was obliged for my information
concerning this excursion, mentions a very characteristical
anecdote of Johnson while at Plymouth. Having observed that in
consequence of the Dock-yard a new town had arisen about two miles
off as a rival to the old; and knowing from his sagacity, and just
observation of human nature, that it is certain if a man hates at
all, he will hate his next neighbour; he concluded that this new
and rising town could not but excite the envy and jealousy of the
old, in which conjecture he was very soon confirmed; he therefore
set himself resolutely on the side of the old town, the established
town, in which his lot was cast, considering it as a kind of duty
to stand by it. He accordingly entered warmly into its interests,
and upon every occasion talked of the dockers, as the inhabitants
of the new town were called, as upstarts and aliens. Plymouth is
very plentifully supplied with water by a river brought into it
from a great distance, which is so abundant that it runs to waste
in the town. The Dock, or New-town, being totally destitute of
water, petitioned Plymouth that a small portion of the conduit
might be permitted to go to them, and this was now under
consideration. Johnson, affecting to entertain the passions of the
place, was violent in opposition; and, half-laughing at himself for
his pretended zeal where he had no concern, exclaimed, 'No, no! I
am against the dockers; I am a Plymouth man. Rogues! let them die
of thirst. They shall not have a drop!'

1763: AETAT. 54.]--This is to me a memorable year; for in it I had
the happiness to obtain the acquaintance of that extraordinary man
whose memoirs I am now writing; an acquaintance which I shall ever
esteem as one of the most fortunate circumstances in my life.
Though then but two-and-twenty, I had for several years read his
works with delight and instruction, and had the highest reverence
for their authour, which had grown up in my fancy into a kind of
mysterious veneration, by figuring to myself a state of solemn
elevated abstraction, in which I supposed him to live in the
immense metropolis of London. Mr. Gentleman, a native of Ireland,
who passed some years in Scotland as a player, and as an instructor
in the English language, a man whose talents and worth were
depressed by misfortunes, had given me a representation of the
figure and manner of DICTIONARY JOHNSON! as he was then generally
called; and during my first visit to London, which was for three
months in 1760, Mr. Derrick the poet, who was Gentleman's friend
and countryman, flattered me with hopes that he would introduce me
to Johnson, an honour of which I was very ambitious. But he never
found an opportunity; which made me doubt that he had promised to
do what was not in his power; till Johnson some years afterwards
told me, 'Derrick, Sir, might very well have introduced you. I had
a kindness for Derrick, and am sorry he is dead.'

In the summer of 1761 Mr. Thomas Sheridan was at Edinburgh, and
delivered lectures upon the English Language and Publick Speaking
to large and respectable audiences. I was often in his company,
and heard him frequently expatiate upon Johnson's extraordinary
knowledge, talents, and virtues, repeat his pointed sayings,
describe his particularities, and boast of his being his guest
sometimes till two or three in the morning. At his house I hoped
to have many opportunities of seeing the sage, as Mr. Sheridan
obligingly assured me I should not be disappointed.

When I returned to London in the end of 1762, to my surprise and
regret I found an irreconcilable difference had taken place between
Johnson and Sheridan. A pension of two hundred pounds a year had
been given to Sheridan. Johnson, who, as has been already
mentioned, thought slightingly of Sheridan's art, upon hearing that
he was also pensioned, exclaimed, 'What! have they given HIM a
pension? Then it is time for me to give up mine.'

Johnson complained that a man who disliked him repeated his sarcasm
to Mr. Sheridan, without telling him what followed, which was, that
after a pause he added, 'However, I am glad that Mr. Sheridan has a
pension, for he is a very good man.'  Sheridan could never forgive
this hasty contemptuous expression. It rankled in his mind; and
though I informed him of all that Johnson said, and that he would
be very glad to meet him amicably, he positively declined repeated
offers which I made, and once went off abruptly from a house where
he and I were engaged to dine, because he was told that Dr. Johnson
was to be there.

This rupture with Sheridan deprived Johnson of one of his most
agreeable resources for amusement in his lonely evenings; for
Sheridan's well-informed, animated, and bustling mind never
suffered conversation to stagnate; and Mrs. Sheridan was a most
agreeable companion to an intellectual man. She was sensible,
ingenious, unassuming, yet communicative. I recollect, with
satisfaction, many pleasing hours which I passed with her under the
hospitable roof of her husband, who was to me a very kind friend.
Her novel, entitled Memoirs of Miss Sydney Biddulph, contains an
excellent moral while it inculcates a future state of retribution;
and what it teaches is impressed upon the mind by a series of as
deep distress as can affect humanity, in the amiable and pious
heroine who goes to her grave unrelieved, but resigned, and full of
hope of 'heaven's mercy.'  Johnson paid her this high compliment
upon it: 'I know not, Madam, that you have a right, upon moral
principles, to make your readers suffer so much.'

Mr. Thomas Davies the actor, who then kept a bookseller's shop in
Russel-street, Covent-garden, told me that Johnson was very much
his friend, and came frequently to his house, where he more than
once invited me to meet him; but by some unlucky accident or other
he was prevented from coming to us.

Mr. Thomas Davies was a man of good understanding and talents, with
the advantage of a liberal education. Though somewhat pompous, he
was an entertaining companion; and his literary performances have
no inconsiderable share of merit. He was a friendly and very
hospitable man. Both he and his wife, (who has been celebrated for
her beauty,) though upon the stage for many years, maintained an
uniform decency of character; and Johnson esteemed them, and lived
in as easy an intimacy with them, as with any family which he used
to visit. Mr. Davies recollected several of Johnson's remarkable
sayings, and was one of the best of the many imitators of his voice
and manner, while relating them. He increased my impatience more
and more to see the extraordinary man whose works I highly valued,
and whose conversation was reported to be so peculiarly excellent.

At last, on Monday the 16th of May, when I was sitting in Mr.
Davies's back-parlour, after having drunk tea with him and Mrs.
Davies, Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop; and Mr. Davies
having perceived him through the glass-door in the room in which we
were sitting, advancing towards us,--he announced his aweful
approach to me, somewhat in the manner of an actor in the part of
Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on the appearance of his father's
ghost, 'Look, my Lord, it comes.'  I found that I had a very
perfect idea of Johnson's figure, from the portrait of him painted
by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had published his Dictionary,
in the attitude of sitting in his easy chair in deep meditation,
which was the first picture his friend did for him, which Sir
Joshua very kindly presented to me, and from which an engraving has
been made for this work. Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and
respectfully introduced me to him. I was much agitated; and
recollecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard
much, I said to Davies, 'Don't tell where I come from.'--'From
Scotland,' cried Davies roguishly. 'Mr. Johnson, (said I) I do
indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.'  I am willing to
flatter myself that I meant this as light pleasantry to sooth and
conciliate him, and not as an humiliating abasement at the expence
of my country. But however that might be, this speech was somewhat
unlucky; for with that quickness of wit for which he was so
remarkable, he seized the expression 'come from Scotland,' which I
used in the sense of being of that country; and, as if I had said
that I had come away from it, or left it, retorted, 'That, Sir, I
find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.'
This stroke stunned me a good deal; and when we had sat down, I
felt myself not a little embarrassed, and apprehensive of what
might come next. He then addressed himself to Davies: 'What do you
think of Garrick? He has refused me an order for the play for Miss
Williams, because he knows the house will be full, and that an
order would be worth three shillings.'  Eager to take any opening
to get into conversation with him, I ventured to say, 'O, Sir, I
cannot think Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifle to you.'  'Sir,
(said he, with a stern look,) I have known David Garrick longer
than you have done: and I know no right you have to talk to me on
the subject.'  Perhaps I deserved this check; for it was rather
presumptuous in me, an entire stranger, to express any doubt of the
justice of his animadversion upon his old acquaintance and pupil.*
I now felt myself much mortified, and began to think that the hope
which I had long indulged of obtaining his acquaintance was
blasted. And, in truth, had not my ardour been uncommonly strong,
and my resolution uncommonly persevering, so rough a reception
might have deterred me for ever from making any further attempts.
Fortunately, however, I remained upon the field not wholly
discomfited.

* That this was a momentary sally against Garrick there can be no
doubt; for at Johnson's desire he had, some years before, given a
benefit-night at his theatre to this very person, by which she had
got two hundred pounds. Johnson, indeed, upon all other occasions,
when I was in his company praised the very liberal charity of
Garrick. I once mentioned to him, 'It is observed, Sir, that you
attack Garrick yourself, but will suffer nobody else to do it.'
Johnson, (smiling) 'Why, Sir, that is true.'--BOSWELL.

I was highly pleased with the extraordinary vigour of his
conversation, and regretted that I was drawn away from it by an
engagement at another place. I had, for a part of the evening,
been left alone with him, and had ventured to make an observation
now and then, which he received very civilly; so that I was
satisfied that though there was a roughness in his manner, there
was no ill-nature in his disposition. Davies followed me to the
door, and when I complained to him a little of the hard blows which
the great man had given me, he kindly took upon him to console me
by saying, 'Don't be uneasy. I can see he likes you very well.'

A few days afterwards I called on Davies, and asked him if he
thought I might take the liberty of waiting on Mr. Johnson at his
Chambers in the Temple. He said I certainly might, and that Mr.
Johnson would take it as a compliment. So upon Tuesday the 24th of
May, after having been enlivened by the witty sallies of Messieurs
Thornton, Wilkes, Churchill and Lloyd, with whom I had passed the
morning, I boldly repaired to Johnson. His Chambers were on the
first floor of No. 1, Inner-Temple-lane, and I entered them with an
impression given me by the Reverend Dr. Blair, of Edinburgh, who
had been introduced to him not long before, and described his
having 'found the Giant in his den;' an expression, which, when I
came to be pretty well acquainted with Johnson, I repeated to him,
and he was diverted at this picturesque account of himself. Dr.
Blair had been presented to him by Dr. James Fordyce. At this time
the controversy concerning the pieces published by Mr. James
Macpherson, as translations of Ossian, was at its height. Johnson
had all along denied their authenticity; and, what was still more
provoking to their admirers, maintained that they had no merit.
The subject having been introduced by Dr. Fordyce, Dr. Blair,
relying on the internal evidence of their antiquity, asked Dr.
Johnson whether he thought any man of a modern age could have
written such poems? Johnson replied, 'Yes, Sir, many men, many
women, and many children.'  Johnson, at this time, did not know
that Dr. Blair had just published a Dissertation, not only
defending their authenticity, but seriously ranking them with the
poems of Homer and Virgil; and when he was afterwards informed of
this circumstance, he expressed some displeasure at Dr. Fordyce's
having suggested the topick, and said, 'I am not sorry that they
got thus much for their pains. Sir, it was like leading one to
talk of a book when the authour is concealed behind the door.'

He received me very courteously; but, it must be confessed, that
his apartment, and furniture, and morning dress, were sufficiently
uncouth. His brown suit of cloaths looked very rusty; he had on a
little old shrivelled unpowdered wig, which was too small for his
head; his shirt-neck and knees of his breeches were loose; his
black worsted stockings ill drawn up; and he had a pair of
unbuckled shoes by way of slippers. But all these slovenly
particularities were forgotten the moment that he began to talk.
Some gentlemen, whom I do not recollect, were sitting with him; and
when they went away, I also rose; but he said to me, 'Nay, don't
go.'  'Sir, (said I,) I am afraid that I intrude upon you. It is
benevolent to allow me to sit and hear you.'  He seemed pleased
with this compliment, which I sincerely paid him, and answered,
'Sir, I am obliged to any man who visits me.'  I have preserved the
following short minute of what passed this day:--

'Madness frequently discovers itself merely by unnecessary
deviation from the usual modes of the world. My poor friend Smart
shewed the disturbance of his mind, by falling upon his knees, and
saying his prayers in the street, or in any other unusual place.
Now although, rationally speaking, it is greater madness not to
pray at all, than to pray as Smart did, I am afraid there are so
many who do not pray, that their understanding is not called in
question.'

Concerning this unfortunate poet, Christopher Smart, who was
confined in a mad-house, he had, at another time, the following
conversation with Dr. Burney:--BURNEY. 'How does poor Smart do,
Sir; is he likely to recover?'  JOHNSON. 'It seems as if his mind
had ceased to struggle with the disease; for he grows fat upon it.'
BURNEY. 'Perhaps, Sir, that may be from want of exercise.'
JOHNSON. 'No, Sir; he has partly as much exercise as he used to
have, for he digs in the garden. Indeed, before his confinement,
he used for exercise to walk to the ale-house; but he was CARRIED
back again. I did not think he ought to be shut up. His
infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted on people
praying with him; and I'd as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one
else. Another charge was, that he did not love clean linen; and I
have no passion for it.'--Johnson continued. 'Mankind have a great
aversion to intellectual labour; but even supposing knowledge to be
easily attainable, more people would be content to be ignorant than
would take even a little trouble to acquire it.'

Talking of Garrick, he said, 'He is the first man in the world for
sprightly conversation.'

When I rose a second time he again pressed me to stay, which I did.

He told me, that he generally went abroad at four in the afternoon,
and seldom came home till two in the morning. I took the liberty
to ask if he did not think it wrong to live thus, and not make more
use of his great talents. He owned it was a bad habit. On
reviewing, at the distance of many years, my journal of this
period, I wonder how, at my first visit, I ventured to talk to him
so freely, and that he bore it with so much indulgence.

Before we parted, he was so good as to promise to favour me with
his company one evening at my lodgings; and, as I took my leave,
shook me cordially by the hand. It is almost needless to add, that
I felt no little elation at having now so happily established an
acquaintance of which I had been so long ambitious.

I did not visit him again till Monday, June 13, at which time I
recollect no part of his conversation, except that when I told him
I had been to see Johnson ride upon three horses, he said, 'Such a
man, Sir, should be encouraged; for his performances shew the
extent of the human powers in one instance, and thus tend to raise
our opinion of the faculties of man. He shews what may be attained
by persevering application; so that every man may hope, that by
giving as much application, although perhaps he may never ride
three horses at a time, or dance upon a wire, yet he may be equally
expert in whatever profession he has chosen to pursue.'

He again shook me by the hand at parting, and asked me why I did
not come oftener to him. Trusting that I was now in his good
graces, I answered, that he had not given me much encouragement,
and reminded him of the check I had received from him at our first
interview. 'Poh, poh! (said he, with a complacent smile,) never
mind these things. Come to me as often as you can. I shall be
glad to see you.'

I had learnt that his place of frequent resort was the Mitre tavern
in Fleet-street, where he loved to sit up late, and I begged I
might be allowed to pass an evening with him there soon, which he
promised I should. A few days afterwards I met him near Temple-
bar, about one o'clock in the morning, and asked if he would then
go to the Mitre. 'Sir, (said he) it is too late; they won't let us
in. But I'll go with you another night with all my heart.'

A revolution of some importance in my plan of life had just taken
place; for instead of procuring a commission in the foot-guards,
which was my own inclination, I had, in compliance with my father's
wishes, agreed to study the law, and was soon to set out for
Utrecht, to hear the lectures of an excellent Civilian in that
University, and then to proceed on my travels. Though very
desirous of obtaining Dr. Johnson's advice and instructions on the
mode of pursuing my studies, I was at this time so occupied, shall
I call it? or so dissipated, by the amusements of London, that our
next meeting was not till Saturday, June 25, when happening to dine
at Clifton's eating-house, in Butcher-row I was surprized to
perceive Johnson come in and take his seat at another table. The
mode of dining, or rather being fed, at such houses in London, is
well known to many to be particularly unsocial, as there is no
Ordinary, or united company, but each person has his own mess, and
is under no obligation to hold any intercourse with any one. A
liberal and full-minded man, however, who loves to talk, will break
through this churlish and unsocial restraint. Johnson and an Irish
gentleman got into a dispute concerning the cause of some part of
mankind being black. 'Why, Sir, (said Johnson,) it has been
accounted for in three ways: either by supposing that they are the
posterity of Ham, who was cursed; or that GOD at first created two
kinds of men, one black and another white; or that by the heat of
the sun the skin is scorched, and so acquires a sooty hue. This
matter has been much canvassed among naturalists, but has never
been brought to any certain issue.'  What the Irishman said is
totally obliterated from my mind; but I remember that he became
very warm and intemperate in his expressions; upon which Johnson
rose, and quietly walked away. When he had retired, his antagonist
took his revenge, as he thought, by saying, 'He has a most ungainly
figure, and an affectation of pomposity, unworthy of a man of
genius.'

Johnson had not observed that I was in the room. I followed him,
however, and he agreed to meet me in the evening at the Mitre. I
called on him, and we went thither at nine. We had a good supper,
and port wine, of which he then sometimes drank a bottle. The
orthodox high-church sound of the Mitre,--the figure and manner of
the celebrated SAMUEL JOHNSON,--the extraordinary power and
precision of his conversation, and the pride arising from finding
myself admitted as his companion, produced a variety of sensations,
and a pleasing elevation of mind beyond what I had ever before
experienced. I find in my journal the following minute of our
conversation, which, though it will give but a very faint notion of
what passed, is in some degree a valuable record; and it will be
curious in this view, as shewing how habitual to his mind were some
opinions which appear in his works.

'Colley Cibber, Sir, was by no means a blockhead; but by arrogating
to himself too much, he was in danger of losing that degree of
estimation to which he was entitled. His friends gave out that he
INTENDED his birth-day Odes should be bad: but that was not the
case, Sir; for he kept them many months by him, and a few years
before he died he shewed me one of them, with great solicitude to
render it as perfect as might be, and I made some corrections, to
which he was not very willing to submit. I remember the following
couplet in allusion to the King and himself:

    "Perch'd on the eagle's soaring wing,
     The lowly linnet loves to sing."

Sir, he had heard something of the fabulous tale of the wren
sitting upon the eagle's wing, and he had applied it to a linnet.
Cibber's familiar style, however, was better than that which
Whitehead has assumed. GRAND nonsense is insupportable. Whitehead
is but a little man to inscribe verses to players.

'Sir, I do not think Gray a first-rate poet. He has not a bold
imagination, nor much command of words. The obscurity in which he
has involved himself will not persuade us that he is sublime. His
Elegy in a Church-yard has a happy selection of images, but I don't
like what are called his great things. His Ode which begins

    "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King,
     Confusion on thy banners wait!"

has been celebrated for its abruptness, and plunging into the
subject all at once. But such arts as these have no merit, unless
when they are original. We admire them only once; and this
abruptness has nothing new in it. We have had it often before.
Nay, we have it in the old song of Johnny Armstrong:

    "Is there ever a man in all Scotland
     From the highest estate to the lowest degree," &e.;

And then, Sir,

    "Yes, there is a man in Westmoreland,
     And Johnny Armstrong they do him call."

There, now, you plunge at once into the subject. You have no
previous narration to lead you to it. The two next lines in that
Ode are, I think, very good:

    "Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,
     They mock the air with idle state."'

Finding him in a placid humour, and wishing to avail myself of the
opportunity which I fortunately had of consulting a sage, to hear
whose wisdom, I conceived in the ardour of youthful imagination,
that men filled with a noble enthusiasm for intellectual
improvement would gladly have resorted from distant lands;--I
opened my mind to him ingenuously, and gave him a little sketch of
my life, to which he was pleased to listen with great attention.

I acknowledged, that though educated very strictly in the
principles of religion, I had for some time been misled into a
certain degree of infidelity; but that I was come now to a better
way of thinking, and was fully satisfied of the truth of the
Christian revelation, though I was not clear as to every point
considered to be orthodox. Being at all times a curious examiner
of the human mind, and pleased with an undisguised display of what
had passed in it, he called to me with warmth, 'Give me your hand;
I have taken a liking to you.'  He then began to descant upon the
force of testimony, and the little we could know of final causes;
so that the objections of, why was it so? or why was it not so?
ought not to disturb us: adding, that he himself had at one period
been guilty of a temporary neglect of religion, but that it was not
the result of argument, but mere absence of thought.

After having given credit to reports of his bigotry, I was
agreeably surprized when he expressed the following very liberal
sentiment, which has the additional value of obviating an objection
to our holy religion, founded upon the discordant tenets of
Christians themselves: 'For my part, Sir, I think all Christians,
whether Papists or Protestants, agree in the essential articles,
and that their differences are trivial, and rather political than
religious.'

We talked of belief in ghosts. He said, 'Sir, I make a distinction
between what a man may experience by the mere strength of his
imagination, and what imagination cannot possibly produce. Thus,
suppose I should think that I saw a form, and heard a voice cry
"Johnson, you are a very wicked fellow, and unless you repent you
will certainly be punished;" my own unworthiness is so deeply
impressed upon my mind, that I might IMAGINE I thus saw and heard,
and therefore I should not believe that an external communication
had been made to me. But if a form should appear, and a voice
should tell me that a particular man had died at a particular
place, and a particular hour, a fact which I had no apprehension
of, nor any means of knowing, and this fact, with all its
circumstances, should afterwards be unquestionably proved, I
should, in that case, be persuaded that I had supernatural
intelligence imparted to me.'

Here it is proper, once for all, to give a true and fair statement
of Johnson's way of thinking upon the question, whether departed
spirits are ever permitted to appear in this world, or in any way
to operate upon human life. He has been ignorantly misrepresented
as weakly credulous upon that subject; and, therefore, though I
feel an inclination to disdain and treat with silent contempt so
foolish a notion concerning my illustrious friend, yet as I find it
has gained ground, it is necessary to refute it. The real fact
then is, that Johnson had a very philosophical mind, and such a
rational respect for testimony, as to make him submit his
understanding to what was authentically proved, though he could not
comprehend why it was so. Being thus disposed, he was willing to
inquire into the truth of any relation of supernatural agency, a
general belief of which has prevailed in all nations and ages. But
so far was he from being the dupe of implicit faith, that he
examined the matter with a jealous attention, and no man was more
ready to refute its falsehood when he had discovered it.
Churchill, in his poem entitled The Ghost, availed himself of the
absurd credulity imputed to Johnson, and drew a caricature of him
under the name of 'POMPOSO,' representing him as one of the
believers of the story of a Ghost in Cock-lane, which, in the year
1762, had gained very general credit in London. Many of my
readers, I am convinced, are to this hour under an impression that
Johnson was thus foolishly deceived. It will therefore surprize
them a good deal when they are informed upon undoubted authority,
that Johnson was one of those by whom the imposture was detected.
The story had become so popular, that he thought it should be
investigated; and in this research he was assisted by the Reverend
Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of Salisbury, the great detector of
impostures; who informs me, that after the gentlemen who went and
examined into the evidence were satisfied of its falsity, Johnson
wrote in their presence an account of it, which was published in
the newspapers and Gentleman's Magazine, and undeceived the world.

Our conversation proceeded. 'Sir, (said he) I am a friend to
subordination, as most conducive to the happiness of society.
There is a reciprocal pleasure in governing and being governed.'

'Dr. Goldsmith is one of the first men we now have as an authour,
and he is a very worthy man too. He has been loose in his
principles, but he is coming right.'

I complained to him that I had not yet acquired much knowledge, and
asked his advice as to my studies. He said, 'Don't talk of study
now. I will give you a plan; but it will require some time to
consider of it.'  'It is very good in you (I replied,) to allow me
to be with you thus. Had it been foretold to me some years ago
that I should pass an evening with the authour of The Rambler, how
should I have exulted!'  What I then expressed, was sincerely from
the heart. He was satisfied that it was, and cordially answered,
'Sir, I am glad we have met. I hope we shall pass many evenings
and mornings too, together.'  We finished a couple of bottles of
port, and sat till between one and two in the morning.

As Dr. Oliver Goldsmith will frequently appear in this narrative, I
shall endeavour to make my readers in some degree acquainted with
his singular character. He was a native of Ireland, and a
contemporary with Mr. Burke at Trinity College, Dublin, but did not
then give much promise of future celebrity. He, however, observed
to Mr. Malone, that 'though he made no great figure in
mathematicks, which was a study in much repute there, he could turn
an Ode of Horace into English better than any of them.'  He
afterwards studied physick at Edinburgh, and upon the Continent;
and I have been informed, was enabled to pursue his travels on
foot, partly by demanding at Universities to enter the lists as a
disputant, by which, according to the custom of many of them, he
was entitled to the premium of a crown, when luckily for him his
challenge was not accepted; so that, as I once observed to Dr.
Johnson, he DISPUTED his passage through Europe. He then came to
England, and was employed successively in the capacities of an
usher to an academy, a corrector of the press, a reviewer, and a
writer for a news-paper. He had sagacity enough to cultivate
assiduously the acquaintance of Johnson, and his faculties were
gradually enlarged by the contemplation of such a model. To me and
many others it appeared that he studiously copied the manner of
Johnson, though, indeed, upon a smaller scale.

At this time I think he had published nothing with his name, though
it was pretty generally known that one Dr. Goldsmith was the
authour of An Enquiry into the present State of polite Learning in
Europe, and of The Citizen of the World, a series of letters
supposed to be written from London by a Chinese. No man had the
art of displaying with more advantage as a writer, whatever
literary acquisitions he made. 'Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit.'
His mind resembled a fertile, but thin soil. There was a quick,
but not a strong vegetation, of whatever chanced to be thrown upon
it. No deep root could be struck. The oak of the forest did not
grow there; but the elegant shrubbery and the fragrant parterre
appeared in gay succession. It has been generally circulated and
believed that he was a mere fool in conversation; but, in truth,
this has been greatly exaggerated. He had, no doubt, a more than
common share of that hurry of ideas which we often find in his
countrymen, and which sometimes produces a laughable confusion in
expressing them. He was very much what the French call un etourdi,
and from vanity and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever
he was, he frequently talked carelessly without knowledge of the
subject, or even without thought. His person was short, his
countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar
aukwardly affecting the easy gentleman. Those who were in any way
distinguished, excited envy in him to so ridiculous an excess, that
the instances of it are hardly credible. When accompanying two
beautiful young ladies* with their mother on a tour in France, he
was seriously angry that more attention was paid to them than to
him; and once at the exhibition of the Fantoccini in London, when
those who sat next him observed with what dexterity a puppet was
made to toss a pike, he could not bear that it should have such
praise, and exclaimed with some warmth, 'Pshaw! I can do it better
myself.'

* These were the Misses Horneck, known otherwise as 'Little Comedy'
and 'The Jessamy Bride.'--ED.

He boasted to me at this time of the power of his pen in commanding
money, which I believe was true in a certain degree, though in the
instance he gave he was by no means correct. He told me that he
had sold a novel for four hundred pounds. This was his Vicar of
Wakefield. But Johnson informed me, that he had made the bargain
for Goldsmith, and the price was sixty pounds. 'And, Sir, (said
he,) a sufficient price too, when it was sold; for then the fame of
Goldsmith had not been elevated, as it afterwards was, by his
Traveller; and the bookseller had such faint hopes of profit by his
bargain, that he kept the manuscript by him a long time, and did
not publish it till after The Traveller had appeared. Then, to be
sure, it was accidentally worth more money.

Mrs. Piozzi and Sir John Hawkins have strangely misstated the
history of Goldsmith's situation and Johnson's friendly
interference, when this novel was sold. I shall give it
authentically from Johnson's own exact narration:--'I received one
morning a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great
distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging
that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea,
and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon
as I was drest, and found that his landlady had arrested him for
his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that
he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira
and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he
would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he
might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for
the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its
merit; told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to a
bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the
money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady
in a high tone for having used him so ill.'

My next meeting with Johnson was on Friday the 1st of July, when he
and I and Dr. Goldsmith supped together at the Mitre. I was before
this time pretty well acquainted with Goldsmith, who was one of the
brightest ornaments of the Johnsonian school. Goldsmith's
respectful attachment to Johnson was then at its height; for his
own literary reputation had not yet distinguished him so much as to
excite a vain desire of competition with his great Master. He had
increased my admiration of the goodness of Johnson's heart, by
incidental remarks in the course of conversation, such as, when I
mentioned Mr. Levet, whom he entertained under his roof, 'He is
poor and honest, which is recommendation enough to Johnson;' and
when I wondered that he was very kind to a man of whom I had heard
a very bad character, 'He is now become miserable; and that insures
the protection of Johnson.'

He talked very contemptuously of Churchill's poetry, observing,
that 'it had a temporary currency, only from its audacity of abuse,
and being filled with living names, and that it would sink into
oblivion.'  I ventured to hint that he was not quite a fair judge,
as Churchill had attacked him violently. JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, I am
a very fair judge. He did not attack me violently till he found I
did not like his poetry; and his attack on me shall not prevent me
from continuing to say what I think of him, from an apprehension
that it may be ascribed to resentment. No, Sir, I called the
fellow a blockhead at first, and I will call him a blockhead still.
However, I will acknowledge that I have a better opinion of him
now, than I once had; for he has shewn more fertility than I
expected. To be sure, he is a tree that cannot produce good fruit:
he only bears crabs. But, Sir, a tree that produces a great many
crabs is better than a tree which produces only a few.'

Let me here apologize for the imperfect manner in which I am
obliged to exhibit Johnson's conversation at this period. In the
early part of my acquaintance with him, I was so wrapt in
admiration of his extraordinary colloquial talents, and so little
accustomed to his peculiar mode of expression, that I found it
extremely difficult to recollect and record his conversation with
its genuine vigour and vivacity. In progress of time, when my mind
was, as it were, strongly impregnated with the Johnsonian oether, I
could, with much more facility and exactness, carry in my memory
and commit to paper the exuberant variety of his wisdom and wit.

At this time MISS Williams, as she was then called, though she did
not reside with him in the Temple under his roof, but had lodgings
in Bolt-court, Fleet-street, had so much of his attention, that he
every night drank tea with her before he went home, however late it
might be, and she always sat up for him. This, it may be fairly
conjectured, was not alone a proof of his regard for HER, but of
his own unwillingness to go into solitude, before that unseasonable
hour at which he had habituated himself to expect the oblivion of
repose. Dr. Goldsmith, being a privileged man, went with him this
night, strutting away, and calling to me with an air of
superiority, like that of an esoterick over an exoterick disciple
of a sage of antiquity, 'I go to Miss Williams.'  I confess, I then
envied him this mighty privilege, of which he seemed so proud; but
it was not long before I obtained the same mark of distinction.

On Tuesday the 5th of July, I again visited Johnson.

Talking of London, he observed, 'Sir, if you wish to have a just
notion of the magnitude of this city, you must not be satisfied
with seeing its great streets and squares, but must survey the
innumerable little lanes and courts. It is not in the showy
evolutions of buildings, but in the multiplicity of human
habitations which are crouded together, that the wonderful
immensity of London consists.'

On Wednesday, July 6, he was engaged to sup with me at my lodgings
in Downing-street, Westminster. But on the preceding night my
landlord having behaved very rudely to me and some company who were
with me, I had resolved not to remain another night in his house.
I was exceedingly uneasy at the aukward appearance I supposed I
should make to Johnson and the other gentlemen whom I had invited,
not being able to receive them at home, and being obliged to order
supper at the Mitre. I went to Johnson in the morning, and talked
of it as a serious distress. He laughed, and said, 'Consider, Sir,
how insignificant this will appear a twelvemonth hence.'--Were this
consideration to be applied to most of the little vexatious
incidents of life, by which our quiet is too often disturbed, it
would prevent many painful sensations. I have tried it frequently,
with good effect. 'There is nothing (continued he) in this mighty
misfortune; nay, we shall be better at the Mitre.'

I had as my guests this evening at the Mitre tavern, Dr. Johnson,
Dr. Goldsmith, Mr. Thomas Davies, Mr. Eccles, an Irish gentleman,
for whose agreeable company I was obliged to Mr. Davies, and the
Reverend Mr. John Ogilvie, who was desirous of being in company
with my illustrious friend, while I, in my turn, was proud to have
the honour of shewing one of my countrymen upon what easy terms
Johnson permitted me to live with him.

Goldsmith, as usual, endeavoured, with too much eagerness, to
SHINE, and disputed very warmly with Johnson against the well-known
maxim of the British constitution, 'the King can do no wrong;'
affirming, that 'what was morally false could not be politically
true; and as the King might, in the exercise of his regal power,
command and cause the doing of what was wrong, it certainly might
be said, in sense and in reason, that he could do wrong.'  JOHNSON.
'Sir, you are to consider, that in our constitution, according to
its true principles, the King is the head; he is supreme; he is
above every thing, and there is no power by which he can be tried.
Therefore, it is, Sir, that we hold the King can do no wrong; that
whatever may happen to be wrong in government may not be above our
reach, by being ascribed to Majesty. Redress is always to be had
against oppression, by punishing the immediate agents. The King,
though he should command, cannot force a Judge to condemn a man
unjustly; therefore it is the Judge whom we prosecute and punish.
Political institutions are formed upon the consideration of what
will most frequently tend to the good of the whole, although now
and then exceptions may occur. Thus it is better in general that a
nation should have a supreme legislative power, although it may at
times be abused. And then, Sir, there is this consideration, that
if the abuse be enormous, Nature will rise up, and claiming her
original rights, overturn a corrupt political system.'  I mark this
animated sentence with peculiar pleasure, as a noble instance of
that truly dignified spirit of freedom which ever glowed in his
heart, though he was charged with slavish tenets by superficial
observers; because he was at all times indignant against that false
patriotism, that pretended love of freedom, that unruly
restlessness, which is inconsistent with the stable authority of
any good government.

'Bayle's Dictionary is a very useful work for those to consult who
love the biographical part of literature, which is what I love
most.'

Talking of the eminent writers in Queen Anne's reign, he observed,
'I think Dr. Arbuthnot the first man among them. He was the most
universal genius, being an excellent physician, a man of deep
learning, and a man of much humour. Mr. Addison was, to be sure, a
great man; his learning was not profound; but his morality, his
humour, and his elegance of writing, set him very high.'

Mr. Ogilvie was unlucky enough to choose for the topick of his
conversation the praises of his native country. He began with
saying, that there was very rich land round Edinburgh. Goldsmith,
who had studied physick there, contradicted this, very untruly,
with a sneering laugh. Disconcerted a little by this, Mr. Ogilvie
then took new ground, where, I suppose, he thought himself
perfectly safe; for he observed, that Scotland had a great many
noble wild prospects. JOHNSON. 'I believe, Sir, you have a great
many. Norway, too, has noble wild prospects; and Lapland is
remarkable for prodigious noble wild prospects. But, Sir, let me
tell you, the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the
high road that leads him to England!'  This unexpected and pointed
sally produced a roar of applause. After all, however, those, who
admire the rude grandeur of Nature, cannot deny it to Caledonia.

On Saturday, July 9, I found Johnson surrounded with a numerous
levee, but have not preserved any part of his conversation. On the
14th we had another evening by ourselves at the Mitre. It
happening to be a very rainy night, I made some common-place
observations on the relaxation of nerves and depression of spirits
which such weather occasioned; adding, however, that it was good
for the vegetable creation. Johnson, who, as we have already seen,
denied that the temperature of the air had any influence on the
human frame, answered, with a smile of ridicule. 'Why yes, Sir, it
is good for vegetables, and for the animals who eat those
vegetables, and for the animals who eat those animals.'  This
observation of his aptly enough introduced a good supper; and I
soon forgot, in Johnson's company, the influence of a moist
atmosphere.

Feeling myself now quite at ease as his companion, though I had all
possible reverence for him, I expressed a regret that I could not
be so easy with my father, though he was not much older than
Johnson, and certainly however respectable had not more learning
and greater abilities to depress me. I asked him the reason of
this. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I am a man of the world. I live in the
world, and I take, in some degree, the colour of the world as it
moves along. Your father is a Judge in a remote part of the
island, and all his notions are taken from the old world. Besides,
Sir, there must always be a struggle between a father and son while
one aims at power and the other at independence.'

He enlarged very convincingly upon the excellence of rhyme over
blank verse in English poetry. I mentioned to him that Dr. Adam
Smith, in his lectures upon composition, when I studied under him
in the College of Glasgow, had maintained the same opinion
strenuously, and I repeated some of his arguments. JOHNSON. 'Sir,
I was once in company with Smith, and we did not take to each
other; but had I known that he loved rhyme as much as you tell me
he does, I should have HUGGED him.'

'Idleness is a disease which must be combated; but I would not
advise a rigid adherence to a particular plan of study. I myself
have never persisted in any plan for two days together. A man
ought to read just as inclination leads him; for what he reads as a
task will do him little good. A young man should read five hours
in a day, and so may acquire a great deal of knowledge.'

To such a degree of unrestrained frankness had he now accustomed
me, that in the course of this evening I talked of the numerous
reflections which had been thrown out against him on account of his
having accepted a pension from his present Majesty. 'Why, Sir,
(said he, with a hearty laugh,) it is a mighty foolish noise that
they make.*  I have accepted of a pension as a reward which has
been thought due to my literary merit; and now that I have this
pension, I am the same man in every respect that I have ever been;
I retain the same principles. It is true, that I cannot now curse
(smiling) the House of Hanover; nor would it be decent for me to
drink King James's health in the wine that King George gives me
money to pay for. But, Sir, I think that the pleasure of cursing
the House of Hanover, and drinking King James's health, are amply
overbalanced by three hundred pounds a year.'

* When I mentioned the same idle clamour to him several years
afterwards, he said, with a smile, 'I wish my pension were twice as
large, that they might make twice as much noise.'--BOSWELL.

There was here, most certainly, an affectation of more Jacobitism
than he really had. Yet there is no doubt that at earlier periods
he was wont often to exercise both his pleasantry and ingenuity in
talking Jacobitism. My much respected friend, Dr. Douglas, now
Bishop of Salisbury, has favoured me with the following admirable
instance from his Lordship's own recollection. One day, when
dining at old Mr. Langton's where Miss Roberts, his niece, was one
of the company, Johnson, with his usual complacent attention to the
fair sex, took her by the hand and said, 'My dear, I hope you are a
Jacobite.'  Old Mr. Langton, who, though a high and steady Tory,
was attached to the present Royal Family, seemed offended, and
asked Johnson, with great warmth, what he could mean by putting
such a question to his niece? 'Why, Sir, (said Johnson) I meant no
offence to your niece, I meant her a great compliment. A Jacobite,
Sir, believes in the divine right of Kings. He that believes in
the divine right of Kings believes in a Divinity. A Jacobite
believes in the divine right of Bishops. He that believes in the
divine right of Bishops believes in the divine authority of the
Christian religion. Therefore, Sir, a Jacobite is neither an
Atheist nor a Deist. That cannot be said of a Whig; for Whiggism
is a negation of all principle.'*

* He used to tell, with great humour, from my relation to him, the
following little story of my early years, which was literally true:
'Boswell, in the year 1745, was a fine boy, wore a white cockade,
and prayed for King James, till one of his uncles (General Cochran)
gave him a shilling on condition that he should pray for King
George, which he accordingly did. So you see (says Boswell) that
Whigs of all ages are made the same way.'--BOSWELL.

He advised me, when abroad, to be as much as I could with the
Professors in the Universities, and with the Clergy; for from their
conversation I might expect the best accounts of every thing in
whatever country I should be, with the additional advantage of
keeping my learning alive.

It will be observed, that when giving me advice as to my travels,
Dr. Johnson did not dwell upon cities, and palaces, and pictures,
and shows, and Arcadian scenes. He was of Lord Essex's opinion,
who advises his kinsman Roger Earl of Rutland, 'rather to go an
hundred miles to speak with one wise man, than five miles to see a
fair town.'

I described to him an impudent fellow from Scotland, who affected
to be a savage, and railed at all established systems. JOHNSON.
'There is nothing surprizing in this, Sir. He wants to make
himself conspicuous. He would tumble in a hogstye, as long as you
looked at him and called to him to come out. But let him alone,
never mind him, and he'll soon give it over.'

I added, that the same person maintained that there was no
distinction between virtue and vice. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, if the
fellow does not think as he speaks, he is lying; and I see not what
honour he can propose to himself from having the character of a
lyar. But if he does really think that there is no distinction
between virtue and vice, why, Sir, when he leaves our houses let us
count our spoons.'

He recommended to me to keep a journal of my life, full and
unreserved. He said it would be a very good exercise, and would
yield me great satisfaction when the particulars were faded from my
remembrance. I was uncommonly fortunate in having had a previous
coincidence of opinion with him upon this subject, for I had kept
such a journal for some time; and it was no small pleasure to me to
have this to tell him, and to receive his approbation. He
counselled me to keep it private, and said I might surely have a
friend who would burn it in case of my death. From this habit I
have been enabled to give the world so many anecdotes, which would
otherwise have been lost to posterity. I mentioned that I was
afraid I put into my journal too many little incidents. JOHNSON.
'There is nothing, Sir, too little for so little a creature as man.
It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of
having as little misery and as much happiness as possible.'

Next morning Mr. Dempster happened to call on me, and was so much
struck even with the imperfect account which I gave him of Dr.
Johnson's conversation, that to his honour be it recorded, when I
complained that drinking port and sitting up late with him affected
my nerves for some time after, he said, 'One had better be palsied
at eighteen than not keep company with such a man.'

On Tuesday, July 18, I found tall Sir Thomas Robinson sitting with
Johnson. Sir Thomas said, that the king of Prussia valued himself
upon three things;--upon being a hero, a musician, and an authour.
JOHNSON. 'Pretty well, Sir, for one man. As to his being an
authour, I have not looked at his poetry; but his prose is poor
stuff. He writes just as you might suppose Voltaire's footboy to
do, who has been his amanuensis. He has such parts as the valet
might have, and about as much of the colouring of the style as
might be got by transcribing his works.'  When I was at Ferney, I
repeated this to Voltaire, in order to reconcile him somewhat to
Johnson, whom he, in affecting the English mode of expression, had
previously characterised as 'a superstitious dog;' but after
hearing such a criticism on Frederick the Great, with whom he was
then on bad terms, he exclaimed, 'An honest fellow!'

Mr. Levet this day shewed me Dr. Johnson's library, which was
contained in two garrets over his Chambers, where Lintot, son of
the celebrated bookseller of that name, had formerly his warehouse.
I found a number of good books, but very dusty and in great
confusion. The floor was strewed with manuscript leaves, in
Johnson's own handwriting, which I beheld with a degree of
veneration, supposing they perhaps might contain portions of The
Rambler or of Rasselas. I observed an apparatus for chymical
experiments, of which Johnson was all his life very fond. The
place seemed to be very favourable for retirement and meditation.
Johnson told me, that he went up thither without mentioning it to
his servant, when he wanted to study, secure from interruption; for
he would not allow his servant to say he was not at home when he
really was. 'A servant's strict regard for truth, (said he) must
be weakened by such a practice. A philosopher may know that it is
merely a form of denial; but few servants are such nice
distinguishers. If I accustom a servant to tell a lie for ME, have
I not reason to apprehend that he will tell many lies for HIMSELF.'

Mr. Temple, now vicar of St. Gluvias, Cornwall, who had been my
intimate friend for many years, had at this time chambers in
Farrar's-buildings, at the bottom of Inner Temple-lane, which he
kindly lent me upon my quitting my lodgings, he being to return to
Trinity Hall, Cambridge. I found them particularly convenient for
me, as they were so near Dr. Johnson's.

On Wednesday, July 20, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Dempster, and my uncle Dr.
Boswell, who happened to be now in London, supped with me at these
Chambers. JOHNSON. 'Pity is not natural to man. Children are
always cruel. Savages are always cruel. Pity is acquired and
improved by the cultivation of reason. We may have uneasy
sensations from seeing a creature in distress, without pity; for we
have not pity unless we wish to relieve them. When I am on my way
to dine with a friend, and finding it late, have bid the coachman
make haste, if I happen to attend when he whips his horses, I may
feel unpleasantly that the animals are put to pain, but I do not
wish him to desist. No, Sir, I wish him to drive on.'

Rousseau's treatise on the inequality of mankind was at this time a
fashionable topick. It gave rise to an observation by Mr.
Dempster, that the advantages of fortune and rank were nothing to a
wise man, who ought to value only merit. JOHNSON. 'If man were a
savage, living in the woods by himself, this might be true; but in
civilized society we all depend upon each other, and our happiness
is very much owing to the good opinion of mankind. Now, Sir, in
civilized society, external advantages make us more respected. A
man with a good coat upon his back meets with a better reception
than he who has a bad one. Sir, you may analyse this, and say what
is there in it? But that will avail you nothing, for it is a part
of a general system. Pound St. Paul's Church into atoms, and
consider any single atom; it is, to be sure, good for nothing: but,
put all these atoms together, and you have St. Paul's Church. So
it is with human felicity, which is made up of many ingredients,
each of which may be shewn to be very insignificant. In civilized
society, personal merit will not serve you so much as money will.
Sir, you may make the experiment. Go into the street, and give one
man a lecture on morality, and another a shilling, and see which
will respect you most. If you wish only to support nature, Sir
William Petty fixes your allowance at three pounds a year; but as
times are much altered, let us call it six pounds. This sum will
fill your belly, shelter you from the weather, and even get you a
strong lasting coat, supposing it to be made of good bull's hide.
Now, Sir, all beyond this is artificial, and is desired in order to
obtain a greater degree of respect from our fellow-creatures. And,
Sir, if six hundred pounds a year procure a man more consequence,
and, of course, more happiness than six pounds a year, the same
proportion will hold as to six thousand, and so on as far as
opulence can be carried. Perhaps he who has a large fortune may
not be so happy as he who has a small one; but that must proceed
from other causes than from his having the large fortune: for,
coeteris paribus, he who is rich in a civilized society, must be
happier than he who is poor; as riches, if properly used, (and it
is a man's own fault if they are not,) must be productive of the
highest advantages. Money, to be sure, of itself is of no use; for
its only use is to part with it. Rousseau, and all those who deal
in paradoxes, are led away by a childish desire of novelty. When I
was a boy, I used always to choose the wrong side of a debate,
because most ingenious things, that is to say, most new things,
could be said upon it. Sir, there is nothing for which you may not
muster up more plausible arguments, than those which are urged
against wealth and other external advantages. Why, now, there is
stealing; why should it be thought a crime? When we consider by
what unjust methods property has been often acquired, and that what
was unjustly got it must be unjust to keep, where is the harm in
one man's taking the property of another from him? Besides, Sir,
when we consider the bad use that many people make of their
property, and how much better use the thief may make of it, it may
be defended as a very allowable practice. Yet, Sir, the experience
of mankind has discovered stealing to be so very bad a thing, that
they make no scruple to hang a man for it. When I was running
about this town a very poor fellow, I was a great arguer for the
advantages of poverty; but I was, at the same time, very sorry to
be poor. Sir, all the arguments which are brought to represent
poverty as no evil, shew it to be evidently a great evil. You
never find people labouring to convince you that you may live very
happily upon a plentiful fortune.--So you hear people talking how
miserable a King must be; and yet they all wish to be in his
place.'

It was suggested that Kings must be unhappy, because they are
deprived of the greatest of all satisfactions, easy and unreserved
society. JOHNSON. 'That is an ill-founded notion. Being a King
does not exclude a man from such society. Great Kings have always
been social. The King of Prussia, the only great King at present,
is very social. Charles the Second, the last King of England who
was a man of parts, was social; and our Henrys and Edwards were all
social.'

Mr. Dempster having endeavoured to maintain that intrinsick merit
OUGHT to make the only distinction amongst mankind. JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, mankind have found that this cannot be. How shall we
determine the proportion of intrinsick merit? Were that to be the
only distinction amongst mankind, we should soon quarrel about the
degrees of it. Were all distinctions abolished, the strongest
would not long acquiesce, but would endeavour to obtain a
superiority by their bodily strength. But, Sir, as subordination
is very necessary for society, and contentions for superiority very
dangerous, mankind, that is to say, all civilized nations, have
settled it upon a plain invariable principle. A man is born to
hereditary rank; or his being appointed to certain offices, gives
him a certain rank. Subordination tends greatly to human
happiness. Were we all upon an equality, we should have no other
enjoyment than mere animal pleasure.'

He took care to guard himself against any possible suspicion that
his settled principles of reverence for rank and respect for wealth
were at all owing to mean or interested motives; for he asserted
his own independence as a literary man. 'No man (said he) who ever
lived by literature, has lived more independently than I have
done.'  He said he had taken longer time than he needed to have
done in composing his Dictionary. He received our compliments upon
that great work with complacency, and told us that the Academia
della Crusca could scarcely believe that it was done by one man.

At night* Mr. Johnson and I supped in a private room at the Turk's
Head coffee-house, in the Strand. 'I encourage this house (said
he;) for the mistress of it is a good civil woman, and has not much
business.'

* July 21.

'Sir, I love the acquaintance of young people; because, in the
first place, I don't like to think myself growing old. In the next
place, young acquaintances must last longest, if they do last; and
then, Sir, young men have more virtue than old men: they have more
generous sentiments in every respect. I love the young dogs of
this age: they have more wit and humour and knowledge of life than
we had; but then the dogs are not so good scholars. Sir, in my
early years I read very hard. It is a sad reflection, but a true
one, that I knew almost as much at eighteen as I do now. My
judgement, to be sure, was not so good; but I had all the facts. I
remember very well, when I was at Oxford, an old gentleman said to
me, "Young man, ply your book diligently now, and acquire a stock
of knowledge; for when years come upon you, you will find that
poring upon books will be but an irksome task."'

He again insisted on the duty of maintaining subordination of rank.
'Sir, I would no more deprive a nobleman of his respect, than of
his money. I consider myself as acting a part in the great system
of society, and I do to others as I would have them to do to me. I
would behave to a nobleman as I should expect he would behave to
me, were I a nobleman and he Sam. Johnson. Sir, there is one Mrs.
Macaulay* in this town, a great republican. One day when I was at
her house, I put on a very grave countenance, and said to her,
"Madam, I am now become a convert to your way of thinking. I am
convinced that all mankind are upon an equal footing; and to give
you an unquestionable proof, Madam, that I am in earnest, here is a
very sensible, civil, well-behaved fellow-citizen, your footman; I
desire that he may be allowed to sit down and dine with us."  I
thus, Sir, shewed her the absurdity of the levelling doctrine. She
has never liked me since. Sir, your levellers wish to level DOWN
as far as themselves; but they cannot bear levelling UP to
themselves. They would all have some people under them; why not
then have some people above them?'  I mentioned a certain authour
who disgusted me by his forwardness, and by shewing no deference to
noblemen into whose company he was admitted. JOHNSON. 'Suppose a
shoemaker should claim an equality with him, as he does with a
Lord; how he would stare. "Why, Sir, do you stare? (says the
shoemaker,) I do great service to society. 'Tis true I am paid for
doing it; but so are you, Sir: and I am sorry to say it, paid
better than I am, for doing something not so necessary. For
mankind could do better without your books, than without my shoes."
Thus, Sir, there would be a perpetual struggle for precedence, were
there no fixed invariable rules for the distinction of rank, which
creates no jealousy, as it is allowed to be accidental.'

* This ONE Mrs. Macaulay was the same personage who afterwards made
herself so much known as the celebrated female historian.'--
BOSWELL.

He said he would go to the Hebrides with me, when I returned from
my travels, unless some very good companion should offer when I was
absent, which he did not think probable; adding, 'There are few
people to whom I take so much to as you.'  And when I talked of my
leaving England, he said with a very affectionate air, 'My dear
Boswell, I should be very unhappy at parting, did I think we were
not to meet again.'  I cannot too often remind my readers, that
although such instances of his kindness are doubtless very
flattering to me; yet I hope my recording them will be ascribed to
a better motive than to vanity; for they afford unquestionable
evidence of his tenderness and complacency, which some, while they
were forced to acknowledge his great powers, have been so strenuous
to deny.

He maintained that a boy at school was the happiest of human
beings. I supported a different opinion, from which I have never
yet varied, that a man is happier; and I enlarged upon the anxiety
and sufferings which are endured at school. JOHNSON. 'Ah! Sir, a
boy's being flogged is not so severe as a man's having the hiss of
the world against him.'

On Tuesday, July 26, I found Mr. Johnson alone. It was a very wet
day, and I again complained of the disagreeable effects of such
weather. JOHNSON. 'Sir, this is all imagination, which physicians
encourage; for man lives in air, as a fish lives in water; so that
if the atmosphere press heavy from above, there is an equal
resistance from below. To be sure, bad weather is hard upon people
who are obliged to be abroad; and men cannot labour so well in the
open air in bad weather, as in good: but, Sir, a smith or a taylor,
whose work is within doors, will surely do as much in rainy
weather, as in fair. Some very delicate frames, indeed, may be
affected by wet weather; but not common constitutions.'

We talked of the education of children; and I asked him what he
thought was best to teach them first. JOHNSON. 'Sir, it is no
matter what you teach them first, any more than what leg you shall
put into your breeches first. Sir, you may stand disputing which
is best to put in first, but in the mean time your breech is bare.
Sir, while you are considering which of two things you should teach
your child first, another boy has learnt them both.'

On Thursday, July 28, we again supped in private at the Turk's Head
coffee-house. JOHNSON. 'Swift has a higher reputation than he
deserves. His excellence is strong sense; for his humour, though
very well, is not remarkably good. I doubt whether The Tale of a
Tub be his; for he never owned it, and it is much above his usual
manner.'

'Thomson, I think, had as much of the poet about him as most
writers. Every thing appeared to him through the medium of his
favourite pursuit. He could not have viewed those two candles
burning but with a poetical eye.'

'As to the Christian religion, Sir, besides the strong evidence
which we have for it, there is a balance in its favour from the
number of great men who have been convinced of its truth, after a
serious consideration of the question. Grotius was an acute man, a
lawyer, a man accustomed to examine evidence, and he was convinced.
Grotius was not a recluse, but a man of the world, who certainly
had no bias to the side of religion. Sir Isaac Newton set out an
infidel, and came to be a very firm believer.'

He this evening recommended to me to perambulate Spain. I said it
would amuse him to get a letter from me dated at Salamancha.
JOHNSON. 'I love the University of Salamancha; for when the
Spaniards were in doubt as to the lawfulness of their conquering
America, the University of Salamancha gave it as their opinion that
it was not lawful.'  He spoke this with great emotion, and with
that generous warmth which dictated the lines in his London,
against Spanish encroachment.

I expressed my opinion of my friend Derrick as but a poor writer.
JOHNSON. 'To be sure, Sir, he is; but you are to consider that his
being a literary man has got for him all that he has. It has made
him King of Bath. Sir, he has nothing to say for himself but that
he is a writer. Had he not been a writer, he must have been
sweeping the crossings in the streets, and asking halfpence from
every body that past.'

In justice however, to the memory of Mr. Derrick, who was my first
tutor in the ways of London, and shewed me the town in all its
variety of departments, both literary and sportive, the particulars
of which Dr. Johnson advised me to put in writing, it is proper to
mention what Johnson, at a subsequent period, said of him both as a
writer and an editor: 'Sir, I have often said, that if Derrick's
letters had been written by one of a more established name, they
would have been thought very pretty letters.'  And, 'I sent Derrick
to Dryden's relations to gather materials for his life; and I
believe he got all that I myself should have got.'

Johnson said once to me, 'Sir, I honour Derrick for his presence of
mind. One night, when Floyd, another poor authour, was wandering
about the streets in the night, he found Derrick fast asleep upon a
bulk; upon being suddenly waked, Derrick started up, "My dear
Floyd, I am sorry to see you in this destitute state; will you go
home with me to MY LODGINGS?"'

I again begged his advice as to my method of study at Utrecht.
'Come, (said he) let us make a day of it. Let us go down to
Greenwich and dine, and talk of it there.'  The following Saturday
was fixed for this excursion.

As we walked along the Strand to-night, arm in arm, a woman of the
town accosted us, in the usual enticing manner. 'No, no, my girl,
(said Johnson) it won't do.'  He, however, did not treat her with
harshness, and we talked of the wretched life of such women; and
agreed, that much more misery than happiness, upon the whole, is
produced by illicit commerce between the sexes.

On Saturday, July 30, Dr. Johnson and I took a sculler at the
Temple-stairs, and set out for Greenwich. I asked him if he really
thought a knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages an essential
requisite to a good education. JOHNSON. 'Most certainly, Sir; for
those who know them have a very great advantage over those who do
not. Nay, Sir, it is wonderful what a difference learning makes
upon people even in the common intercourse of life, which does not
appear to be much connected with it.'  'And yet, (said I) people go
through the world very well, and carry on the business of life to
good advantage, without learning.'  JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, that may
be true in cases where learning cannot possibly be of any use; for
instance, this boy rows us as well without learning, as if he could
sing the song of Orpheus to the Argonauts, who were the first
sailors.'  He then called to the boy, 'What would you give, my lad,
to know about the Argonauts?'  'Sir, (said the boy,) I would give
what I have.'  Johnson was much pleased with his answer, and we
gave him a double fare. Dr. Johnson then turning to me, 'Sir,
(said he) a desire of knowledge is the natural feeling of mankind;
and every human being, whose mind is not debauched, will be willing
to give all that he has to get knowledge.'

We landed at the Old Swan, and walked to Billingsgate, where we
took oars, and moved smoothly along the silver Thames. It was a
very fine day. We were entertained with the immense number and
variety of ships that were lying at anchor, and with the beautiful
country on each side of the river.

I talked of preaching, and of the great success which those called
Methodists have. JOHNSON. 'Sir, it is owing to their expressing
themselves in a plain and familiar manner, which is the only way to
do good to the common people, and which clergymen of genius and
learning ought to do from a principle of duty, when it is suited to
their congregations; a practice, for which they will be praised by
men of sense. To insist against drunkenness as a crime, because it
debases reason, the noblest faculty of man, would be of no service
to the common people: but to tell them that they may die in a fit
of drunkenness, and shew them how dreadful that would be, cannot
fail to make a deep impression. Sir, when your Scotch clergy give
up their homely manner, religion will soon decay in that country.'
Let this observation, as Johnson meant it, be ever remembered.

I was much pleased to find myself with Johnson at Greenwich, which
he celebrates in his London as a favourite scene. I had the poem
in my pocket, and read the lines aloud with enthusiasm:

    'On Thames's banks in silent thought we stood:
     Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood:
     Pleas'd with the seat which gave ELIZA birth,
     We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth.'

Afterwards he entered upon the business of the day, which was to
give me his advice as to a course of study.

We walked in the evening in Greenwich Park. He asked me, I
suppose, by way of trying my disposition, 'Is not this very fine?'
Having no exquisite relish of the beauties of Nature, and being
more delighted with 'the busy hum of men,' I answered, 'Yes, Sir;
but not equal to Fleet-street.'  JOHNSON. 'You are right, Sir.'

I am aware that many of my readers may censure my want of taste.
Let me, however, shelter myself under the authority of a very
fashionable Baronet in the brilliant world, who, on his attention
being called to the fragrance of a May evening in the country,
observed, 'This may be very well; but, for my part, I prefer the
smell of a flambeau at the playhouse.'

We staid so long at Greenwich, that our sail up the river, in our
return to London, was by no means so pleasant as in the morning;
for the night air was so cold that it made me shiver. I was the
more sensible of it from having sat up all the night before,
recollecting and writing in my journal what I thought worthy of
preservation; an exertion, which, during the first part of my
acquaintance with Johnson, I frequently made. I remember having
sat up four nights in one week, without being much incommoded in
the day time.

Johnson, whose robust frame was not in the least affected by the
cold, scolded me, as if my shivering had been a paltry effeminacy,
saying, 'Why do you shiver?'  Sir William Scott, of the Commons,
told me, that when he complained of a head-ache in the post-chaise,
as they were travelling together to Scotland, Johnson treated him
in the same manner:

'At your age, Sir, I had no head-ache.'

We concluded the day at the Turk's Head coffee-house very socially.
He was pleased to listen to a particular account which I gave him
of my family, and of its hereditary estate, as to the extent and
population of which he asked questions, and made calculations;
recommending, at the same time, a liberal kindness to the tenantry,
as people over whom the proprietor was placed by Providence. He
took delight in hearing my description of the romantick seat of my
ancestors. 'I must be there, Sir, (said he) and we will live in
the old castle; and if there is not a room in it remaining, we will
build one.'  I was highly flattered, but could scarcely indulge a
hope that Auchinleck would indeed be honoured by his presence, and
celebrated by a description, as it afterwards was, in his Journey
to the Western Islands.

After we had again talked of my setting out for Holland, he said,
'I must see thee out of England; I will accompany you to Harwich.'
I could not find words to express what I felt upon this unexpected
and very great mark of his affectionate regard.

Next day, Sunday, July 31, I told him I had been that morning at a
meeting of the people called Quakers, where I had heard a woman
preach. JOHNSON. 'Sir, a woman's preaching is like a dog's
walking on his hinder legs. It is not done well; but you are
surprized to find it done at all.'

On Tuesday, August 2 (the day of my departure from London having
been fixed for the 5th,) Dr. Johnson did me the honour to pass a
part of the morning with me at my Chambers. He said, that 'he
always felt an inclination to do nothing.'  I observed, that it was
strange to think that the most indolent man in Britain had written
the most laborious work, The English Dictionary.

I had now made good my title to be a privileged man, and was
carried by him in the evening to drink tea with Miss Williams,
whom, though under the misfortune of having lost her sight, I found
to be agreeable in conversation; for she had a variety of
literature, and expressed herself well; but her peculiar value was
the intimacy in which she had long lived with Johnson, by which she
was well acquainted with his habits, and knew how to lead him on to
talk.

After tea he carried me to what he called his walk, which was a
long narrow paved court in the neighbourhood, overshadowed by some
trees. There we sauntered a considerable time; and I complained to
him that my love of London and of his company was such, that I
shrunk almost from the thought of going away, even to travel, which
is generally so much desired by young men. He roused me by manly
and spirited conversation. He advised me, when settled in any
place abroad, to study with an eagerness after knowledge, and to
apply to Greek an hour every day; and when I was moving about, to
read diligently the great book of mankind.

On Wednesday, August 3, we had our last social evening at the
Turk's Head coffee-house, before my setting out for foreign parts.
I had the misfortune, before we parted, to irritate him
unintentionally. I mentioned to him how common it was in the world
to tell absurd stories of him, and to ascribe to him very strange
sayings. JOHNSON. 'What do they make me say, Sir?'  BOSWELL.
'Why, Sir, as an instance very strange indeed, (laughing heartily
as I spoke,) David Hume told me, you said that you would stand
before a battery of cannon, to restore the Convocation to its full
powers.'  Little did I apprehend that he had actually said this:
but I was soon convinced of my errour; for, with a determined look,
he thundered out 'And would I not, Sir? Shall the Presbyterian
KIRK of Scotland have its General Assembly, and the Church of
England be denied its Convocation?'  He was walking up and down the
room while I told him the anecdote; but when he uttered this
explosion of high-church zeal, he had come close to my chair, and
his eyes flashed with indignation. I bowed to the storm, and
diverted the force of it, by leading him to expatiate on the
influence which religion derived from maintaining the church with
great external respectability.

On Friday, August 5, we set out early in the morning in the Harwich
stage coach. A fat elderly gentlewoman, and a young Dutchman,
seemed the most inclined among us to conversation. At the inn
where we dined, the gentlewoman said that she had done her best to
educate her children; and particularly, that she had never suffered
them to be a moment idle. JOHNSON. 'I wish, madam, you would
educate me too; for I have been an idle fellow all my life.'  'I am
sure, Sir, (said she) you have not been idle.'  JOHNSON. 'Nay,
Madam, it is very true; and that gentleman there (pointing to me,)
has been idle. He was idle at Edinburgh. His father sent him to
Glasgow, where he continued to be idle. He then came to London,
where he has been very idle; and now he is going to Utrecht, where
he will be as idle as ever. I asked him privately how he could
expose me so. JOHNSON. 'Poh, poh! (said he) they knew nothing
about you, and will think of it no more.'  In the afternoon the
gentlewoman talked violently against the Roman Catholicks, and of
the horrours of the Inquisition. To the utter astonishment of all
the passengers but myself, who knew that he could talk upon any
side of a question, he defended the Inquisition, and maintained,
that 'false doctrine should be checked on its first appearance;
that the civil power should unite with the church in punishing
those who dared to attack the established religion, and that such
only were punished by the Inquisition.'  He had in his pocket
Pomponius Mela de situ Orbis, in which he read occasionally, and
seemed very intent upon ancient geography. Though by no means
niggardly, his attention to what was generally right was so minute,
that having observed at one of the stages that I ostentatiously
gave a shilling to the coachman, when the custom was for each
passenger to give only six-pence, he took me aside and scolded me,
saying that what I had done would make the coachman dissatisfied
with all the rest of the passengers, who gave him no more than his
due. This was a just reprimand; for in whatever way a man may
indulge his generosity or his vanity in spending his money, for the
sake of others he ought not to raise the price of any article for
which there is a constant demand.

At supper this night* he talked of good eating with uncommon
satisfaction. 'Some people (said he,) have a foolish way of not
minding, or pretending not to mind, what they eat. For my part, I
mind my belly very studiously, and very carefully; for I look upon
it, that he who does not mind his belly will hardly mind anything
else.'  He now appeared to me Jean Bull philosophe, and he was, for
the moment, not only serious but vehement. Yet I have heard him,
upon other occasions, talk with great contempt of people who were
anxious to gratify their palates; and the 206th number of his
Rambler is a masterly essay against gulosity. His practice,
indeed, I must acknowledge, may be considered as casting the
balance of his different opinions upon this subject; for I never
knew any man who relished good eating more than he did. When at
table, he was totally absorbed in the business of the moment; his
looks seemed rivetted to his plate; nor would he, unless when in
very high company, say one word, or even pay the least attention to
what was said by others, till he had satisfied his appetite, which
was so fierce, and indulged with such intenseness, that while in
the act of eating, the veins of his forehead swelled, and generally
a strong perspiration was visible. To those whose sensations were
delicate, this could not but be disgusting; and it was doubtless
not very suitable to the character of a philosopher, who should be
distinguished by self-command. But it must be owned, that Johnson,
though he could be rigidly ABSTEMIOUS, was not a TEMPERATE man
either in eating or drinking. He could refrain, but he could not
use moderately. He told me, that he had fasted two days without
inconvenience, and that he had never been hungry but once. They
who beheld with wonder how much he eat upon all occasions when his
dinner was to his taste, could not easily conceive what he must
have meant by hunger; and not only was he remarkable for the
extraordinary quantity which he eat, but he was, or affected to be,
a man of very nice discernment in the science of cookery. He used
to descant critically on the dishes which had been at table where
he had dined or supped, and to recollect very minutely what he had
liked. I remember, when he was in Scotland, his praising 'Gordon's
palates,' (a dish of palates at the Honourable Alexander Gordon's)
with a warmth of expression which might have done honour to more
important subjects. 'As for Maclaurin's imitation of a MADE DISH,
it was a wretched attempt.'  He about the same time was so much
displeased with the performances of a nobleman's French cook, that
he exclaimed with vehemence, 'I'd throw such a rascal into the
river, and he then proceeded to alarm a lady at whose house he was
to sup, by the following manifesto of his skill: 'I, Madam, who
live at a variety of good tables, am a much better judge of
cookery, than any person who has a very tolerable cook, but lives
much at home; for his palate is gradually adapted to the taste of
his cook; whereas, Madam, in trying by a wider range, I can more
exquisitely judge.'  When invited to dine, even with an intimate
friend, he was not pleased if something better than a plain dinner
was not prepared for him. I have heard him say on such an
occasion, 'This was a good dinner enough, to be sure; but it was
not a dinner to ASK a man to.'  On the other hand, he was wont to
express, with great glee, his satisfaction when he had been
entertained quite to his mind. One day when we had dined with his
neighbour and landlord in Bolt-court, Mr. Allen, the printer, whose
old housekeeper had studied his taste in every thing, he pronounced
this eulogy: 'Sir, we could not have had a better dinner had there
been a Synod of Cooks.'

* At Colchester.--ED.

While we were left by ourselves, after the Dutchman had gone to
bed, Dr. Johnson talked of that studied behaviour which many have
recommended and practised. He disapproved of it; and said, 'I
never considered whether I should be a grave man, or a merry man,
but just let inclination, for the time, have its course.'

I teized him with fanciful apprehensions of unhappiness. A moth
having fluttered round the candle, and burnt itself, he laid hold
of this little incident to admonish me; saying, with a sly look,
and in a solemn but quiet tone, 'That creature was its own
tormentor, and I believe its name was BOSWELL.'

Next day we got to Harwich to dinner; and my passage in the packet-
boat to Helvoetsluys being secured, and my baggage put on board, we
dined at our inn by ourselves. I happened to say it would be
terrible if he should not find a speedy opportunity of returning to
London, and be confined to so dull a place. JOHNSON. 'Don't Sir,
accustom yourself to use big words for little matters. It would
NOT be TERRIBLE, though I WERE to be detained some time here.'

We went and looked at the church, and having gone into it and
walked up to the altar, Johnson, whose piety was constant and
fervent, sent me to my knees, saying, 'Now that you are going to
leave your native country, recommend yourself to the protection of
your CREATOR and REDEEMER.'

After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time
together of Bishop Berkeley's ingenious sophistry to prove the non-
existence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely
ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is
not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the
alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty
force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it, 'I refute
it THUS.'

My revered friend walked down with me to the beach, where we
embraced and parted with tenderness, and engaged to correspond by
letters. I said, 'I hope, Sir, you will not forget me in my
ahsence.'  JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, it is more likely you should forget
me, than that I should forget you.'  As the vessel put out to sea,
I kept my eyes upon him for a considerable time, while he remained
rolling his majestick frame in his usual manner: and at last I
perceived him walk hack into the town, and he disappeared.

1764: AETAT. 55.]--Early in 1764 Johnson paid a visit to the
Langton family, at their seat of Langton, in Lincolnshire, where he
passed some time, much to his satisfaction. His friend Bennet
Langton, it will not he doubted, did every thing in his power to
make the place agreeable to so illustrious a guest; and the elder
Mr. Langton and his lady, being fully capable of understanding his
value, were not wanting in attention.

Johnson, during his stay at Langton, had the advantage of a good
library, and saw several gentlemen of the neighbourhood. I have
obtained from Mr. Langton the following particulars of this period.

He was now fully convinced that he could not have been satisfied
with a country living; for, talking of a respectable clergyman in
Lincolnshire, he observed, 'This man, Sir, fills up the duties of
his life well. I approve of him, but could not imitate him.'

To a lady who endeavoured to vindicate herself from blame for
neglecting social attention to worthy neighbours, by saying, 'I
would go to them if it would do them any good,' he said, 'What
good, Madam, do you expect to have in your power to do them? It is
shewing them respect, and that is doing them good.'

So socially accommodating was he, that once when Mr. Langton and he
were driving together in a coach, and Mr. Langton complained of
being sick, he insisted that they should go out and sit on the back
of it in the open air, which they did. And being sensible how
strange the appearance must be, observed, that a countryman whom
they saw in a field, would probably be thinking, 'If these two
madmen should come down, what would become of me?'

Soon after his return to London, which was in February, was founded
that CLUB which existed long without a name, but at Mr. Garrick's
funeral became distinguished by the title of THE LITERARY CLUB.
Sir Joshua Reynolds had the merit of being the first proposer of
it, to which Johnson acceded, and the original members were, Sir
Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Edmund Burke, Dr. Nugent, Mr.
Beauclerk, Mr. Langton, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr. Chamier, and Sir John
Hawkins. They met at the Turk's Head, in Gerrard-street, Soho, one
evening in every week, at seven, and generally continued their
conversation till a pretty late hour. This club has been gradually
increased to its present number, thirty-five: After about ten
years, instead of supping weekly, it was resolved to dine together
once a fortnight during the meeting of Parliament. Their original
tavern having been converted into a private house, they moved first
to Prince's in Sackville-street, then to Le Telier's in Dover-
street, and now meet at Parsloe's, St. James's-street. Between the
time of its formation, and the time at which this work is passing
through the press, (June 1792,) the following persons, now dead,
were members of it: Mr. Dunning, (afterwards Lord Ashburton,) Mr.
Samuel Dyer, Mr. Garrick, Dr. Shipley Bishop of St. Asaph, Mr.
Vesey, Mr. Thomas Warton and Dr. Adam Smith. The present members
are,--Mr. Burke, Mr. Langton, Lord Charlemont, Sir Robert Chambers,
Dr. Percy Bishop of Dromore, Dr. Barnard Bishop of Killaloc, Dr.
Marlay Bishop of Clonfert, Mr. Fox, Dr. George Fordyce, Sir William
Scott, Sir Joseph Banks, Sir Charles Bunbury, Mr. Windham of
Norfolk, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Gibbon, Sir William Jones, Mr. Colman,
Mr. Steevens, Dr. Burney, Dr. Joseph Warton, Mr. Malone, Lord
Ossory, Lord Spencer, Lord Lucan, Lord Palmerston, Lord Eliot, Lord
Macartney, Mr. Richard Burke junior, Sir William Hamilton, Dr.
Warren, Mr. Courtenay, Dr. Hinchcliffe Bishop of Peterborough, the
Duke of Leeds, Dr. Douglas Bishop of Salisbury, and the writer of
this account.

Not very long after the institution of our club, Sir Joshua
Reynolds was speaking of it to Garrick. 'I like it much, (said
he), I think I shall be of you.'  When Sir Joshua mentioned this to
Dr. Johnson, he was much displeased with the actor's conceit.
'HE'LL BE OF US, (said Johnson) how does he know we will PERMIT
him? The first Duke in England has no right to hold such
language.'  However, when Garrick was regularly proposed some time
afterwards, Johnson, though he had taken a momentary offence at his
arrogance, warmly and kindly supported him, and he was accordingly
elected, was a most agreeable member, and continued to attend our
meetings to the time of his death.

It was Johnson's custom to observe certain days with a pious
abstraction; viz. New-year's-day, the day of his wife's death, Good
Friday, Easter-day, and his own birth-day. He this year says:--'I
have now spent fifty-five years in resolving; having, from the
earliest time almost that I can remember, been forming schemes of a
better life. I have done nothing. The need of doing, therefore,
is pressing, since the time of doing is short. O GOD, grant me to
resolve aright, and to keep my resolutions, for JESUS CHRIST'S
sake. Amen.'

About this time he was afflicted with a very severe return of the
hypochondriack disorder, which was ever lurking about him. He was
so ill, as, notwithstanding his remarkable love of company, to be
entirely averse to society, the most fatal symptom of that malady.
Dr. Adams told me, that as an old friend he was admitted to visit
him, and that he found him in a deplorable state, sighing,
groaning, talking to himself, and restlessly walking from room to
room. He then used this emphatical expression of the misery which
he felt: 'I would consent to have a limb amputated to recover my
spirits.'

Talking to himself was, indeed, one of his singularities ever since
I knew him. I was certain that he was frequently uttering pious
ejaculations; for fragments of the Lord's Prayer have been
distinctly overheard. His friend Mr. Thomas Davies, of whom
Churchill says,

     'That Davies hath a very pretty wife,'

when Dr. Johnson muttered 'lead us not into temptation,' used with
waggish and gallant humour to whisper Mrs. Davies, 'You, my dear,
are the cause of this.'

He had another particularity, of which none of his friends ever
ventured to ask an explanation. It appeared to me some
superstitious habit, which he had contracted early, and from which
he had never called upon his reason to disentangle him. This was
his anxious care to go out or in at a door or passage by a certain
number of steps from a certain point, or at least so as that either
his right or his left foot, (I am not certain which,) should
constantly make the first actual movement when he came close to the
door or passage. Thus I conjecture: for I have, upon innumerable
occasions, observed him suddenly stop, and then seem to count his
steps with a deep earnestness; and when he had neglected or gone
wrong in this sort of magical movement, I have seen him go back
again, put himself in a proper posture to begin the ceremony, and,
having gone through it, break from his abstraction, walk briskly
on, and join his companion. A strange instance of something of
this nature, even when on horseback, happened when he was in the
isle of Sky. Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed him to go a good way
about, rather than cross a particular alley in Leicester-fields;
but this Sir Joshua imputed to his having had some disagreeable
recollection associated with it.

That the most minute singularities which belonged to him, and made
very observable parts of his appearance and manner, may not be
omitted, it is requisite to mention, that while talking or even
musing as he sat in his chair, he commonly held his head to one
side towards his right shoulder, and shook it in a tremulous
manner, moving his body backwards and forwards, and rubbing his
left knee in the same direction, with the palm of his hand. In the
intervals of articulating he made various sounds with his mouth,
sometimes as if ruminating, or what is called chewing the cud,
sometimes giving a half whistle, sometimes making his tongue play
backwards from the roof of his mouth, as if clucking like a hen,
and sometimes protruding it against his upper gums in front, as if
pronouncing quickly under his breath, TOO, TOO, TOO: all this
accompanied sometimes with a thoughtful look, but more frequently
with a smile. Generally when he had concluded a period, in the
course of a dispute, by which time he was a good deal exhausted by
violence and vociferation, he used to blow out his breath like a
Whale. This I supposed was a relief to his lungs; and seemed in
him to be a contemptuous mode of expression, as if he had made the
arguments of his opponent fly like chaff before the wind.

1765: AETAT. 56.]--Trinity College, Dublin, at this time surprised
Johnson with a spontaneous compliment of the highest academical
honours, by creating him Doctor of Laws.

He appears this year to have been seized with a temporary fit of
ambition, for he had thoughts both of studying law and of engaging
in politics. His 'Prayer before the Study of Law' is truly
admirable:--

'Sept. 26, 1765.

'Almighty GOD, the giver of wisdom, without whose help resolutions
are vain, without whose blessing study is ineffectual; enable me,
if it be thy will, to attain such knowledge as may qualify me to
direct the doubtful, and instruct the ignorant; to prevent wrongs
and terminate contentions; and grant that I may use that knowledge
which I shall attain, to thy glory and my own salvation, for JESUS
CHRIST'S sake. Amen.'

This year was distinguished by his being introduced into the family
of Mr. Thrale, one of the most eminent brewers in England, and
Member of Parliament for the borough of Southwark. Foreigners are
not a little amazed when they hear of brewers, distillers, and men
in similar departments of trade, held forth as persons of
considerable consequence. In this great commercial country it is
natural that a situation which produces much wealth should be
considered as very respectable; and, no doubt, honest industry is
entitled to esteem. But, perhaps, the too rapid advance of men of
low extraction tends to lessen the value of that distinction by
birth and gentility, which has ever been found beneficial to the
grand scheme of subordination. Johnson used to give this account
of the rise of Mr. Thrale's father: 'He worked at six shillings a
week for twenty years in the great brewery, which afterwards was
his own. The proprietor of it had an only daughter, who was
married to a nobleman. It was not fit that a peer should continue
the business. On the old man's death, therefore, the brewery was
to be sold. To find a purchaser for so large a property was a
difficult matter; and, after some time, it was suggested, that it
would be adviseable to treat with Thrale, a sensible, active,
honest man, who had been employed in the house, and to transfer the
whole to him for thirty thousand pounds, security being taken upon
the property. This was accordingly settled. In eleven years
Thrale paid the purchase-money. He acquired a large fortune, and
lived to be Member of Parliament for Southwark. But what was most
remarkable was the liberality with which he used his riches. He
gave his son and daughters the best education. The esteem which
his good conduct procured him from the nobleman who had married his
master's daughter, made him be treated with much attention; and his
son, both at school and at the University of Oxford, associated
with young men of the first rank. His allowance from his father,
after he left college, was splendid; no less than a thousand a
year. This, in a man who had risen as old Thrale did, was a very
extraordinary instance of generosity. He used to say, "If this
young dog does not find so much after I am gone as he expects, let
him remember that he has had a great deal in my own time."'

The son, though in affluent circumstances, had good sense enough to
carry on his father's trade, which was of such extent, that I
remember he once told me, he would not quit it for an annuity of
ten thousand a year; 'Not (said he,) that I get ten thousand a year
by it, but it is an estate to a family.'  Having left daughters
only, the property was sold for the immense sum of one hundred and
thirty-five thousand pounds; a magnificent proof of what may be
done by fair trade in no long period of time.

Mr. Thrale had married Miss Hesther Lynch Salusbury, of good Welsh
extraction, a lady of lively talents, improved by education. That
Johnson's introduction into Mr. Thrale's family, which contributed
so much to the happiness of his life, was owing to her desire for
his conversation, is very probable and a general supposition: but
it is not the truth. Mr. Murphy, who was intimate with Mr. Thrale,
having spoken very highly of Dr. Johnson, he was requested to make
them acquainted. This being mentioned to Johnson, he accepted of
an invitation to dinner at Thrale's, and was so much pleased with
his reception, both by Mr. and Mrs. Thrale, and they so much
pleased with him, that his invitations to their house were more and
more frequent, till at last he became one of the family, and an
apartment was appropriated to him, both in their house in
Southwark, and in their villa at Streatham.

Johnson had a very sincere esteem for Mr. Thrale, as a man of
excellent principles, a good scholar, well skilled in trade, of a
sound understanding, and of manners such as presented the character
of a plain independent English Squire. As this family will
frequently be mentioned in the course of the following pages, and
as a false notion has prevailed that Mr. Thrale was inferiour, and
in some degree insignificant, compared with Mrs. Thrale, it may be
proper to give a true state of the case from the authority of
Johnson himself in his own words.

'I know no man, (said he,) who is more master of his wife and
family than Thrale. If he but holds up a finger, he is obeyed. It
is a great mistake to suppose that she is above him in literary
attainments. She is more flippant; but he has ten times her
learning: he is a regular scholar; but her learning is that of a
school-boy in one of the lower forms.'  My readers may naturally
wish for some representation of the figures of this couple. Mr.
Thrale was tall, well proportioned, and stately. As for Madam, or
my Mistress, by which epithets Johnson used to mention Mrs. Thrale,
she was short, plump, and brisk. She has herself given us a lively
view of the idea which Johnson had of her person, on her appearing
before him in a dark-coloured gown: 'You little creatures should
never wear those sort of clothes, however; they are unsuitable in
every way. What! have not all insects gay colours?'  Mr. Thrale
gave his wife a liberal indulgence, both in the choice of their
company, and in the mode of entertaining them. He understood and
valued Johnson, without remission, from their first acquaintance to
the day of his death. Mrs. Thrale was enchanted with Johnson's
conversation, for its own sake, and had also a very allowable
vanity in appearing to be honoured with the attention of so
celebrated a man.

Nothing could be more fortunate for Johnson than this connection.
He had at Mr. Thrale's all the comforts and even luxuries of life;
his melancholy was diverted, and his irregular habits lessened by
association with an agreeable and well-ordered family. He was
treated with the utmost respect, and even affection. The vivacity
of Mrs. Thrale's literary talk roused him to cheerfulness and
exertion, even when they were alone. But this was not often the
case; for he found here a constant succession of what gave him the
highest enjoyment: the society of the learned, the witty, and the
eminent in every way, who were assembled in numerous companies,
called forth his wonderful powers, and gratified him with
admiration, to which no man could be insensible.

In the October of this year he at length gave to the world his
edition of Shakspeare, which, if it had no other merit but that of
producing his Preface, in which the excellencies and defects of
that immortal bard are displayed with a masterly hand, the nation
would have had no reason to complain.

In 1764 and 1765 it should seem that Dr. Johnson was so busily
employed with his edition of Shakspeare, as to have had little
leisure for any other literary exertion, or, indeed, even for
private correspondence. He did not favour me with a single letter
for more than two years, for which it will appear that he
afterwards apologised.

He was, however, at all times ready to give assistance to his
friends, and others, in revising their works, and in writing for
them, or greatly improving their Dedications. In that courtly
species of composition no man excelled Dr. Johnson. Though the
loftiness of his mind prevented him from ever dedicating in his own
person, he wrote a very great number of Dedications for others.
Some of these, the persons who were favoured with them are
unwilling should be mentioned, from a too anxious apprehension, as
I think, that they might be suspected of having received larger
assistance; and some, after all the diligence I have bestowed, have
escaped my enquiries. He told me, a great many years ago, 'he
believed he had dedicated to all the Royal Family round;' and it
was indifferent to him what was the subject of the work dedicated,
provided it were innocent. He once dedicated some Musick for the
German Flute to Edward, Duke of York. In writing Dedications for
others, he considered himself as by no means speaking his own
sentiments.

I returned to London in February,* and found Dr. Johnson in a good
house in Johnson's Court, Fleet-street, in which he had
accommodated Miss Williams with an apartment on the ground floor,
while Mr. Levet occupied his post in the garret: his faithful
Francis was still attending upon him. He received me with much
kindness. The fragments of our first conversation, which I have
preserved, are these:

I told him that Voltaire, in a conversation with me, had
distinguished Pope and Dryden thus:--'Pope drives a handsome
chariot, with a couple of neat trim nags; Dryden a coach, and six
stately horses.'  JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, the truth is, they both
drive coaches and six; but Dryden's horses are either galloping or
stumbling: Pope's go at a steady even trot.'  He said of
Goldsmith's Traveller, which had been published in my absence,
'There has not been so fine a poem since Pope's time.'

* 1766.

Talking of education, 'People have now a-days, (said he,) got a
strange opinion that every thing should be taught by lectures.
Now, I cannot see that lectures can do so much good as reading the
books from which the lectures are taken. I know nothing that can
be best taught by lectures, except where experiments are to be
shewn. You may teach chymistry by lectures.--You might teach
making of shoes by lectures!'

At night I supped with him at the Mitre tavern, that we might renew
our social intimacy at the original place of meeting. But there
was now a considerable difference in his way of living. Having had
an illness, in which he was advised to leave off wine, he had, from
that period, continued to abstain from it, and drank only water, or
lemonade.

I told him that a foreign friend of his, whom I had met with
abroad, was so wretchedly perverted to infidelity, that he treated
the hopes of immortality with brutal levity; and said, 'As man dies
like a dog, let him lie like a dog.'  JOHNSON. 'IF he dies like a
dog, LET him lie like a dog.'  I added, that this man said to me,
'I hate mankind, for I think myself one of the best of them, and I
know how bad I am.'  JOHNSON. 'Sir, he must be very singular in
his opinion, if he thinks himself one of the best of men; for none
of his friends think him so.'--He said, 'no honest man could be a
Deist; for no man could be so after a fair examination of the
proofs of Christianity.'  I named Hume. JOHNSON. 'No, Sir; Hume
owned to a clergyman in the bishoprick of Durham, that he had never
read the New Testament with attention.'  I mentioned Hume's notion,
that all who are happy are equally happy; a little miss with a new
gown at a dancing school ball, a general at the head of a
victorious army, and an orator, after having made an eloquent
speech in a great assembly. JOHNSON. 'Sir, that all who are
happy, are equally happy, is not true. A peasant and a philosopher
may be equally SATISFIED, but not equally HAPPY. Happiness
consists in the multiplicity of agreeable consciousness. A peasant
has not capacity for having equal happiness with a philosopher.'

Dr. Johnson was very kind this evening, and said to me 'You have
now lived five-and-twenty years, and you have employed them well.'
'Alas, Sir, (said I,) I fear not. Do I know history? Do I know
mathematicks? Do I know law?'  JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, though you may
know no science so well as to be able to teach it, and no
profession so well as to be able to follow it, your general mass of
knowledge of books and men renders you very capable to make
yourself master of any science, or fit yourself for any
profession.'  I mentioned that a gay friend had advised me against
being a lawyer, because I should be excelled by plodding block-
heads. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, in the formulary and statutory part of
law, a plodding block-head may excel; but in the ingenious and
rational part of it a plodding block-head can never excel.'

I talked of the mode adopted by some to rise in the world, by
courting great men, and asked him whether he had ever submitted to
it. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I never was near enough to great men, to
court them. You may be prudently attached to great men and yet
independent. You are not to do what you think wrong; and, Sir, you
are to calculate, and not pay too dear for what you get. You must
not give a shilling's worth of court for six-pence worth of good.
But if you can get a shilling's worth of good for six-pence worth
of court, you are a fool if you do not pay court.'

I talked to him a great deal of what I had seen in Corsica, and of
my intention to publish an account of it. He encouraged me by
saying, 'You cannot go to the bottom of the subject; but all that
you tell us will be new to us. Give us as many anecdotes as you
can.'

Our next meeting at the Mitre was on Saturday the 15th of February,
when I presented to him my old and most intimate friend, the
Reverend Mr. Temple, then of Cambridge. I having mentioned that I
had passed some time with Rousseau in his wild retreat, and having
quoted some remark made by Mr. Wilkes, with whom I had spent many
pleasant hours in Italy, Johnson said (sarcastically,) 'It seems,
Sir, you have kept very good company abroad, Rousseau and Wilkes!'
Thinking it enough to defend one at a time, I said nothing as to my
gay friend, but answered with a smile, 'My dear Sir, you don't call
Rousseau bad company. Do you really think HIM a bad man?'
JOHNSON. 'Sir, if you are talking jestingly of this, I don't talk
with you. If you mean to be serious, I think him one of the worst
of men; a rascal who ought to be hunted out of society, as he has
been. Three or four nations have expelled him; and it is a shame
that he is protected in this country.'  BOSWELL. 'I don't deny,
Sir, but that his novel may, perhaps, do harm; but I cannot think
his intention was bad.'  JOHNSON. 'Sir, that will not do. We
cannot prove any man's intention to be bad. You may shoot a man
through the head, and say you intended to miss him; but the Judge
will order you to be hanged. An alleged want of intention, when
evil is committed, will not be allowed in a court of justice.
Rousseau, Sir, is a very bad man. I would sooner sign a sentence
for his transportation, than that of any felon who has gone from
the Old Bailey these many years. Yes, I should like to have him
work in the plantations.'  BOSWELL. 'Sir, do you think him as bad
a man as Voltaire?'  JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, it is difficult to settle
the proportion of iniquity between them.'

On his favourite subject of subordination, Johnson said, 'So far is
it from being true that men are naturally equal, that no two people
can be half an hour together, but one shall acquire an evident
superiority over the other.'

I mentioned the advice given us by philosophers, to console
ourselves, when distressed or embarrassed, by thinking of those who
are in a worse situation than ourselves. This, I observed, could
not apply to all, for there must be some who have nobody worse than
they are. JOHNSON. 'Why, to be sure, Sir, there are; but they
don't know it. There is no being so poor and so contemptible, who
does not think there is somebody still poorer, and still more
contemptible.'

As my stay in London at this time was very short, I had not many
opportunities of being with Dr. Johnson; but I felt my veneration
for him in no degree lessened, by my having seen multoram hominum
mores et urbes. On the contrary, by having it in my power to
compare him with many of the most celebrated persons of other
countries, my admiration of his extraordinary mind was increased
and confirmed.

The roughness, indeed, which sometimes appeared in his manners, was
more striking to me now, from my having been accustomed to the
studied smooth complying habits of the Continent; and I clearly
recognised in him, not without respect for his honest conscientious
zeal, the same indignant and sarcastical mode of treating every
attempt to unhinge or weaken good principles.

One evening when a young gentleman teized him with an account of
the infidelity of his servant, who, he said, would not believe the
scriptures, because he could not read them in the original tongues,
and be sure that they were not invented, 'Why, foolish fellow,
(said Johnson,) has he any better authority for almost every thing
that he believes?'  BOSWELL. 'Then the vulgar, Sir, never can know
they are right, but must submit themselves to the learned.'
JOHNSON. 'To be sure, Sir. The vulgar are the children of the
State, and must be taught like children.'  BOSWELL. 'Then, Sir, a
poor Turk must be a Mahometan, just as a poor Englishman must be a
Christian?'  JOHNSON. 'Why, yes, Sir; and what then? This now is
such stuff as I used to talk to my mother, when I first began to
think myself a clever fellow; and she ought to have whipt me for
it.'

Another evening Dr. Goldsmith and I called on him, with the hope of
prevailing on him to sup with us at the Mitre. We found him
indisposed, and resolved not to go abroad. 'Come then, (said
Goldsmith,) we will not go to the Mitre to-night, since we cannot
have the big man with us.'  Johnson then called for a bottle of
port, of which Goldsmith and I partook, while our friend, now a
water-drinker, sat by us. GOLDSMITH. 'I think, Mr. Johnson, you
don't go near the theatres now. You give yourself no more concern
about a new play, than if you had never had any thing to do with
the stage.'  JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, our tastes greatly alter. The
lad does not care for the child's rattle, and the old man does not
care for the young man's whore.'  GOLDSMITH. 'Nay, Sir, but your
Muse was not a whore.'  JOHNSON. 'Sir, I do not think she was.
But as we advance in the journey of life, we drop some of the
things which have pleased us; whether it be that we are fatigued
and don't choose to carry so many things any farther, or that we
find other things which we like better.'  BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, why
don't you give us something in some other way?'  GOLDSMITH. 'Ay,
Sir, we have a claim upon you.'  JOHNSON. No, Sir, I am not
obliged to do any more. No man is obliged to do as much as he can
do. A man is to have part of his life to himself. If a soldier
has fought a good many campaigns, he is not to be blamed if he
retires to ease and tranquillity. A physician, who has practised
long in a great city, may be excused if he retires to a small town,
and takes less practice. Now, Sir, the good I can do by my
conversation bears the same proportion to the good I can do by my
writings, that the practice of a physician, retired to a small
town, does to his practice in a great city.'  BOSWELL. 'But I
wonder, Sir, you have not more pleasure in writing than in not
writing.'  JOHNSON. 'Sir, you MAY wonder.'

He talked of making verses, and observed, 'The great difficulty is
to know when you have made good ones. When composing, I have
generally had them in my mind, perhaps fifty at a time, walking up
and down in my room; and then I have written them down, and often,
from laziness, have written only half lines. I have written a
hundred lines in a day. I remember I wrote a hundred lines of The
Vanity of Human Wishes in a day. Doctor, (turning to Goldsmith,) I
am not quite idle; I made one line t'other day; but I made no
more.'  GOLDSMITH. 'Let us hear it; we'll put a bad one to it.'
JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, I have forgot it.'

'TO BENNET LANGTON, ESQ., AT LANGTON, NEAR SPILSBY, LINCOLNSHIRE

'DEAR SIR,--What your friends have done, that from your departure
till now nothing has been heard of you, none of us are able to
inform the rest; but as we are all neglected alike, no one thinks
himself entitled to the privilege of complaint.

'I should have known nothing of you or of Langton, from the time
that dear Miss Langton left us, had not I met Mr. Simpson, of
Lincoln, one day in the street, by whom I was informed that Mr.
Langton, your Mamma, and yourself, had been all ill, but that you
were all recovered.

'That sickness should suspend your correspondence, I did not
wonder; but hoped that it would be renewed at your recovery.

'Since you will not inform us where you are, or how you live, I
know not whether you desire to know any thing of us. However, I
will tell you that THE CLUB subsists; but we have the loss of
Burke's company since he has been engaged in publick business, in
which he has gained more reputation than perhaps any man at his
[first] appearance ever gained before. He made two speeches in the
House for repealing the Stamp-act, which were publickly commended
by Mr. Pitt, and have filled the town with wonder.

'Burke is a great man by nature, and is expected soon to attain
civil greatness. I am grown greater too, for I have maintained the
news-papers these many weeks; and what is greater still, I have
risen every morning since New-year's day, at about eight; when I
was up, I have indeed done but little; yet it is no slight
advancement to obtain for so many hours more, the consciousness of
being.

'I wish you were in my new study; I am now writing the first letter
in it. I think it looks very pretty about me.

'Dyer is constant at THE CLUB; Hawkins is remiss; I am not over
diligent. Dr. Nugent, Dr. Goldsmith, and Mr. Reynolds, are very
constant. Mr. Lye is printing his Saxon and Gothick Dictionary;
all THE CLUB subscribes.

'You will pay my respects to all my Lincolnshire friends. I am,
dear Sir, most affectionately your's,

'March 9, 1766.

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

Johnson's-court, Fleet-street.'

The Honourable Thomas Hervey and his lady having unhappily
disagreed, and being about to separate, Johnson interfered as their
friend, and wrote him a letter of expostulation, which I have not
been able to find; but the substance of it is ascertained by a
letter to Johnson in answer to it, which Mr. Hervey printed. The
occasion of this correspondence between Dr. Johnson and Mr. Harvey,
was thus related to me by Mr. Beauclerk. 'Tom Harvey had a great
liking for Johnson, and in his will had left him a legacy of fifty
pounds. One day he said to me, "Johnson may want this money now,
more than afterwards. I have a mind to give it him directly. Will
you be so good as to carry a fifty pound note from me to him?"
This I positively refused to do, as he might, perhaps, have knocked
me down for insulting him, and have afterwards put the note in his
pocket. But I said, if Harvey would write him a letter, and
enclose a fifty pound note, I should take care to deliver it. He
accordingly did write him a letter, mentioning that he was only
paying a legacy a little sooner. To his letter he added, "P. S. I
am going to part with my wife."  Johnson then wrote to him, saying
nothing of the note, but remonstrating with him against parting
with his wife.'

In February, 1767, there happened one of the most remarkable
incidents of Johnson's life, which gratified his monarchical
enthusiasm, and which he loved to relate with all its
circumstances, when requested by his friends. This was his being
honoured by a private conversation with his Majesty, in the library
at the Queen's house. He had frequently visited those splendid
rooms and noble collection of books, which he used to say was more
numerous and curious than he supposed any person could have made in
the time which the King had employed. Mr. Barnard, the librarian,
took care that he should have every accommodation that could
contribute to his ease and convenience, while indulging his
literary taste in that place; so that he had here a very agreeable
resource at leisure hours.

His Majesty having been informed of his occasional visits, was
pleased to signify a desire that he should be told when Dr. Johnson
came next to the library. Accordingly, the next time that Johnson
did come, as soon as he was fairly engaged with a book, on which,
while he sat by the fire, he seemed quite intent, Mr. Barnard stole
round to the apartment where the King was, and, in obedience to his
Majesty's commands, mentioned that Dr. Johnson was then in the
library. His Majesty said he was at leisure, and would go to him;
upon which Mr. Barnard took one of the candles that stood on the
King's table, and lighted his Majesty through a suite of rooms,
till they came to a private door into the library, of which his
Majesty had the key. Being entered, Mr. Barnard stepped forward
hastily to Dr. Johnson, who was still in a profound study, and
whispered him, 'Sir, here is the King.'  Johnson started up, and
stood still. His Majesty approached him, and at once was
courteously easy.

His Majesty began by observing, that he understood he came
sometimes to the library; and then mentioning his having heard that
the Doctor had been lately at Oxford, asked him if he was not fond
of going thither. To which Johnson answered, that he was indeed
fond of going to Oxford sometimes, but was likewise glad to come
back again. The King then asked him what they were doing at
Oxford. Johnson answered, he could not much commend their
diligence, but that in some respects they were mended, for they had
put their press under better regulations, and were at that time
printing Polybius. He was then asked whether there were better
libraries at Oxford or Cambridge. He answered, he believed the
Bodleian was larger than any they had at Cambridge; at the same
time adding, 'I hope, whether we have more books or not than they
have at Cambridge, we shall make as good use of them as they do.'
Being asked whether All-Souls or Christ-Church library was the
largest, he answered, 'All-Souls library is the largest we have,
except the Bodleian.'  'Aye, (said the King,) that is the publick
library.'

His Majesty enquired if he was then writing any thing. He
answered, he was not, for he had pretty well told the world what he
knew, and must now read to acquire more knowledge. The King, as it
should seem with a view to urge him to rely on his own stores as an
original writer, and to continue his labours, then said 'I do not
think you borrow much from any body.'  Johnson said, he thought he
had already done his part as a writer. 'I should have thought so
too, (said the King,) if you had not written so well.'--Johnson
observed to me, upon this, that 'No man could have paid a handsomer
compliment; and it was fit for a King to pay. It was decisive.'
When asked by another friend, at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, whether he
made any reply to this high compliment, he answered, 'No, Sir.
When the King had said it, it was to be so. It was not for me to
bandy civilities with my Sovereign.'  Perhaps no man who had spent
his whole life in courts could have shewn a more nice and dignified
sense of true politeness, than Johnson did in this instance.

His Majesty having observed to him that he supposed he must have
read a great deal; Johnson answered, that he thought more than he
read; that he had read a great deal in the early part of his life,
but having fallen into ill health, he had not been able to read
much, compared with others: for instance, he said he had not read
much, compared with Dr. Warburton. Upon which the King said, that
he heard Dr. Warburton was a man of such general knowledge, that
you could scarce talk with him on any subject on which he was not
qualified to speak; and that his learning resembled Garrick's
acting, in its universality. His Majesty then talked of the
controversy between Warburton and Lowth, which he seemed to have
read, and asked Johnson what he thought of it. Johnson answered,
'Warburton has most general, most scholastick learning; Lowth is
the more correct scholar. I do not know which of them calls names
best.'  The King was pleased to say he was of the same opinion;
adding, 'You do not think, then, Dr. Johnson, that there was much
argument in the case.'  Johnson said, he did not think there was.
'Why truly, (said the King,) when once it comes to calling names,
argument is pretty well at an end.'

His Majesty then asked him what he thought of Lord Lyttelton's
History, which was then just published. Johnson said, he thought
his style pretty good, but that he had blamed Henry the Second
rather too much. 'Why, (said the King,) they seldom do these
things by halves.'  'No, Sir, (answered Johnson,) not to Kings.'
But fearing to be misunderstood, he proceeded to explain himself;
and immediately subjoined, 'That for those who spoke worse of Kings
than they deserved, he could find no excuse; but that he could more
easily conceive how some might speak better of them than they
deserved, without any ill intention; for, as Kings had much in
their power to give, those who were favoured by them would
frequently, from gratitude, exaggerate their praises; and as this
proceeded from a good motive, it was certainly excusable, as far as
errour could be excusable.'

The King then asked him what he thought of Dr. Hill. Johnson
answered, that he was an ingenious man, but had no veracity; and
immediately mentioned, as an instance of it, an assertion of that
writer, that he had seen objects magnified to a much greater degree
by using three or four microscopes at a time, than by using one.
'Now, (added Johnson,) every one acquainted with microscopes knows,
that the more of them he looks through, the less the object will
appear.'  'Why, (replied the King,) this is not only telling an
untruth, but telling it clumsily; for, if that be the case, every
one who can look through a microscope will be able to detect him.'

'I now, (said Johnson to his friends, when relating what had
passed) began to consider that I was depreciating this man in the
estimation of his Sovereign, and thought it was time for me to say
something that might be more favourable.'  He added, therefore,
that Dr. Hill was, notwithstanding, a very curious observer; and if
he would have been contented to tell the world no more than he
knew, he might have been a very considerable man, and needed not to
have recourse to such mean expedients to raise his reputation.

The King then talked of literary journals, mentioned particularly
the Journal des Savans, and asked Johnson if it was well done.
Johnson said, it was formerly very well done, and gave some account
of the persons who began it, and carried it on for some years;
enlarging, at the same time, on the nature and use of such works.
The King asked him if it was well done now. Johnson answered, he
had no reason to think that it was. The King then asked him if
there were any other literary journals published in this kingdom,
except the Monthly and Critical Reviews; and on being answered
there were no other, his Majesty asked which of them was the best:
Johnson answered, that the Monthly Review was done with most care,
the Critical upon the best principles; adding that the authours of
the Monthly Review were enemies to the Church. This the King said
he was sorry to hear.

The conversation next turned on the Philosophical Transactions,
when Johnson observed, that they had now a better method of
arranging their materials than formerly. 'Aye, (said the King,)
they are obliged to Dr. Johnson for that;' for his Majesty had
heard and remembered the circumstance, which Johnson himself had
forgot.

His Majesty expressed a desire to have the literary biography of
this country ably executed, and proposed to Dr. Johnson to
undertake it. Johnson signified his readiness to comply with his
Majesty's wishes.

During the whole of this interview, Johnson talked to his Majesty
with profound respect, but still in his firm manly manner, with a
sonorous voice, and never in that subdued tone which is commonly
used at the levee and in the drawing-room. After the King
withdrew, Johnson shewed himself highly pleased with his Majesty's
conversation, and gracious behaviour. He said to Mr. Barnard,
'Sir, they may talk of the King as they will; but he is the finest
gentleman I have ever seen.'  And he afterwards observed to Mr.
Langton, 'Sir, his manners are those of as fine a gentleman as we
may suppose Lewis the Fourteenth or Charles the Second.'

At Sir Joshua Reynolds's, where a circle of Johnson's friends was
collected round him to hear his account of this memorable
conversation, Dr. Joseph Warton, in his frank and lively manner,
was very active in pressing him to mention the particulars. 'Come
now, Sir, this is an interesting matter; do favour us with it.'
Johnson, with great good humour, complied.

He told them, 'I found his Majesty wished I should talk, and I made
it my business to talk. I find it does a man good to be talked to
by his Sovereign. In the first place, a man cannot be in a
passion--.'  Here some question interrupted him, which is to be
regretted, as he certainly would have pointed out and illustrated
many circumstances of advantage, from being in a situation, where
the powers of the mind are at once excited to vigorous exertion,
and tempered by reverential awe.

During all the time in which Dr. Johnson was employed in relating
to the circle at Sir Joshua Reynolds's the particulars of what
passed between the King and him, Dr. Goldsmith remained unmoved
upon a sopha at some distance, affecting not to join in the least
in the eager curiosity of the company. He assigned as a reason for
his gloom and seeming inattention, that he apprehended Johnson had
relinquished his purpose of furnishing him with a Prologue to his
play, with the hopes of which he had been flattered; but it was
strongly suspected that he was fretting with chagrin and envy at
the singular honour Dr. Johnson had lately enjoyed. At length, the
frankness and simplicity of his natural character prevailed. He
sprung from the sopha, advanced to Johnson, and in a kind of
flutter, from imagining himself in the situation which he had just
been hearing described, exclaimed, 'Well, you acquitted yourself in
this conversation better than I should have done; for I should have
bowed and stammered through the whole of it.'

His diary affords no light as to his employment at this time. He
passed three months at Lichfield; and I cannot omit an affecting
and solemn scene there, as related by himself:--

'Sunday, Oct. 18, 1767. Yesterday, Oct. 17, at about ten in the
morning, I took my leave for ever of my dear old friend, Catharine
Chambers, who came to live with my mother about 1724, and has been
but little parted from us since. She buried my father, my brother,
and my mother. She is now fifty-eight years old.

'I desired all to withdraw, then told her that we were to part for
ever; that as Christians, we should part with prayer; and that I
would, if she was willing, say a short prayer beside her. She
expressed great desire to hear me; and held up her poor hands, as
she lay in bed, with great fervour, while I prayed, kneeling by
her, nearly in the following words:

'Almighty and most merciful Father, whose loving kindness is over
all thy works, behold, visit, and relieve this thy servant, who is
grieved with sickness. Grant that the sense of her weakness may
add strength to her faith, and seriousness to her repentance. And
grant that by the help of thy Holy Spirit, after the pains and
labours of this short life, we may all obtain everlasting
happiness, through JESUS CHRIST our Lord; for whose sake hear our
prayers. Amen. Our Father, &c.;

'I then kissed her. She told me, that to part was the greatest
pain that she had ever felt, and that she hoped we should meet
again in a better place. I expressed, with swelled eyes, and great
emotion of tenderness, the same hopes. We kissed, and parted. I
humbly hope to meet again, and to part no more.'

1768: AETAT. 59]--It appears from his notes of the state of his
mind, that he suffered great perturbation and distraction in 1768.
Nothing of his writing was given to the publick this year, except
the Prologue to his friend Goldsmith's comedy of The Good-natured
Man. The first lines of this Prologue are strongly
characteristical of the dismal gloom of his mind; which in his
case, as in the case of all who are distressed with the same malady
of imagination, transfers to others its own feelings. Who could
suppose it was to introduce a comedy, when Mr. Bensley solemnly
began,

    'Press'd with the load of life, the weary mind
     Surveys the general toil of human kind.'

But this dark ground might make Goldsmith's humour shine the more.

In the spring of this year, having published my Account of Corsica,
with the Journal of a Tour to that Island, I returned to London,
very desirous to see Dr. Johnson, and hear him upon the subject. I
found he was at Oxford, with his friend Mr. Chambers, who was now
Vinerian Professor, and lived in New Inn Hall. Having had no
letter from him since that in which he criticised the Latinity of
my Thesis, and having been told by somebody that he was offended at
my having put into my Book an extract of his letter to me at Paris,
I was impatient to be with him, and therefore followed him to
Oxford, where I was entertained by Mr. Chambers, with a civility
which I shall ever gratefully remember. I found that Dr. Johnson
had sent a letter to me to Scotland, and that I had nothing to
complain of but his being more indifferent to my anxiety than I
wished him to be. Instead of giving, with the circumstances of
time and place, such fragments of his conversation as I preserved
during this visit to Oxford, I shall throw them together in
continuation.

Talking of some of the modern plays, he said False Delicacy was
totally void of character. He praised Goldsmith's Good-natured
Man; said, it was the best comedy that had appeared since The
Provoked Husband, and that there had not been of late any such
character exhibited on the stage as that of Croaker. I observed it
was the Suspirius of his Rambler. He said, Goldsmith had owned he
had borrowed it from thence. 'Sir, (continued he,) there is all
the difference in the world between characters of nature and
characters of manners; and THERE is the difference between the
characters of Fielding and those of Richardson. Characters of
manners are very entertaining; but they are to be understood by a
more superficial observer than characters of nature, where a man
must dive into the recesses of the human heart.'

It always appeared to me that he estimated the compositions of
Richardson too highly, and that he had an unreasonable prejudice
against Fielding. In comparing those two writers, he used this
expression: 'that there was as great a difference between them as
between a man who knew how a watch was made, and a man who could
tell the hour by looking on the dial-plate.'

'I have not been troubled for a long time with authours desiring my
opinion of their works. I used once to be sadly plagued with a man
who wrote verses, but who literally had no other notion of a verse,
but that it consisted of ten syllables. Lay your knife and your
fork, across your plate, was to him a verse:

     Lay your knife and your fork, across your plate.

As he wrote a great number of verses, he sometimes by chance made
good ones, though he did not know it.'

Johnson expatiated on the advantages of Oxford for learning.
'There is here, Sir, (said he,) such a progressive emulation. The
students are anxious to appear well to their tutors; the tutors are
anxious to have their pupils appear well in the college; the
colleges are anxious to have their students appear well in the
University; and there are excellent rules of discipline in every
college. That the rules are sometimes ill observed, may be true;
but is nothing against the system. The members of an University
may, for a season, be unmindful of their duty. I am arguing for
the excellency of the institution.'

He said he had lately been a long while at Lichfield, but had grown
very weary before he left it. BOSWELL. 'I wonder at that, Sir; it
is your native place.'  JOHNSON. 'Why, so is Scotland YOUR native
place.'

His prejudice against Scotland appeared remarkably strong at this
time. When I talked of our advancement in literature, 'Sir, (said
he,) you have learnt a little from us, and you think yourselves
very great men. Hume would never have written History, had not
Voltaire written it before him. He is an echo of Voltaire.'
BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, we have Lord Kames.'  JOHNSON. 'You HAVE Lord
Kames. Keep him; ha, ha, ha! We don't envy you him. Do you ever
see Dr. Robertson?'  BOSWELL. 'Yes, Sir.'  JOHNSON. 'Does the dog
talk of me?'  BOSWELL. 'Indeed, Sir, he does, and loves you.'
Thinking that I now had him in a corner, and being solicitous for
the literary fame of my country, I pressed him for his opinion on
the merit of Dr. Robertson's History of Scotland. But, to my
surprize, he escaped.--'Sir, I love Robertson, and I won't talk of
his book.'

An essay, written by Mr. Deane, a divine of the Church of England,
maintaining the future life of brutes, by an explication of certain
parts of the scriptures, was mentioned, and the doctrine insisted
on by a gentleman who seemed fond of curious speculation. Johnson,
who did not like to hear of any thing concerning a future state
which was not authorised by the regular canons of orthodoxy,
discouraged this talk; and being offended at its continuation, he
watched an opportunity to give the gentleman a blow of
reprehension. So, when the poor speculatist, with a serious
metaphysical pensive face, addressed him, 'But really, Sir, when we
see a very sensible dog, we don't know what to think of him;'
Johnson, rolling with joy at the thought which beamed in his eye,
turned quickly round, and replied, 'True, Sir: and when we see a
very foolish FELLOW, we don't know what to think of HIM.'  He then
rose up, strided to the fire, and stood for some time laughing and
exulting.

I asked him if it was not hard that one deviation from chastity
should so absolutely ruin a young woman. Johnson. 'Why, no, Sir;
it is the great principle which she is taught. When she has given
up that principle, she has given up every notion of female honour
and virtue, which are all included in chastity.'

A gentleman talked to him of a lady whom he greatly admired and
wished to marry, but was afraid of her superiority of talents.
'Sir, (said he,) you need not be afraid; marry her. Before a year
goes about, you'll find that reason much weaker, and that wit not
so bright.'  Yet the gentleman may be justified in his apprehension
by one of Dr. Johnson's admirable sentences in his life of Waller:
'He doubtless praised many whom he would have been afraid to marry;
and, perhaps, married one whom he would have been ashamed to
praise. Many qualities contribute to domestic happiness, upon
which poetry has no colours to bestow; and many airs and sallies
may delight imagination, which he who flatters them never can
approve.'

He praised Signor Baretti. 'His account of Italy is a very
entertaining book; and, Sir, I know no man who carries his head
higher in conversation than Baretti. There are strong powers in
his mind. He has not, indeed, many hooks; but with what hooks he
has, he grapples very forcibly.'

At this time I observed upon the dial-plate of his watch a short
Greek inscription, taken from the New Testament, [Greek text omitted],
being the first words of our SAVIOUR'S solemn admonition to the
improvement of that time which is allowed us to prepare for eternity:
'the night cometh when no man can work.'  He sometime afterwards laid
aside this dial-plate; and when I asked him the reason, he said,
'It might do very well upon a clock which a man keeps in his
closet; but to have it upon his watch which he carries about with
him, and which is often looked at by others, might be censured as
ostentatious.'  Mr. Steevens is now possessed of the dial-plate
inscribed as above.

He remained at Oxford a considerable time; I was obliged to go to
London, where I received his letter, which had been returned from
Scotland.

'TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

'MY DEAR BOSWELL,--I have omitted a long time to write to you,
without knowing very well why. I could now tell why I should not
write; for who would write to men who publish the letters of their
friends, without their leave? Yet I write to you in spite of my
caution, to tell you that I shall be glad to see you, and that I
wish you would empty your head of Corsica, which I think has filled
it rather too long. But, at all events, I shall be glad, very glad
to see you. I am, Sir, yours affectionately,

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

'Oxford, March 23, 1768.'

Upon his arrival in London in May, he surprized me one morning with
a visit at my lodgings in Half-Moon-street, was quite satisfied
with my explanation, and was in the kindest and most agreeable
frame of mind. As he had objected to a part of one of his letters
being published, I thought it right to take this opportunity of
asking him explicitly whether it would be improper to publish his
letters after his death. His answer was, 'Nay, Sir, when I am
dead, you may do as you will.'

He talked in his usual style with a rough contempt of popular
liberty. 'They make a rout about UNIVERSAL liberty, without
considering that all that is to be valued, or indeed can be enjoyed
by individuals, is PRIVATE liberty. Political liberty is good only
so far as it produces private liberty. Now, Sir, there is the
liberty of the press, which you know is a constant topick. Suppose
you and I and two hundred more were restrained from printing our
thoughts: what then? What proportion would that restraint upon us
bear to the private happiness of the nation?'

This mode of representing the inconveniences of restraint as light
and insignificant, was a kind of sophistry in which he delighted to
indulge himself, in opposition to the extreme laxity for which it
has been fashionable for too many to argue, when it is evident,
upon reflection, that the very essence of government is restraint;
and certain it is, that as government produces rational happiness,
too much restraint is better than too little. But when restraint
is unnecessary, and so close as to gall those who are subject to
it, the people may and ought to remonstrate; and, if relief is not
granted, to resist. Of this manly and spirited principle, no man
was more convinced than Johnson himself.

His sincere regard for Francis Barber, his faithful negro servant,
made him so desirous of his further improvement, that he now placed
him at a school at Bishop Stortford, in Hertfordshire. This humane
attention does Johnson's heart much honour. Out of many letters
which Mr. Barber received from his master, he has preserved three,
which he kindly gave me, and which I shall insert according to
their dates.