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Title: Boswell's Life of Johnson

Author: James Boswell

Editor: Charles Grosvenor Osgood

Release date: May 12, 2006 [eBook #1564]
Most recently updated: January 24, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1564

Credits: Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOSWELL'S
LIFE OF JOHNSON ***

BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON

By James Boswell

Abridged and edited, with an introduction
by Charles Grosvenor Osgood
Professor of English at Princeton University

Contents
Preface
INTRODUCTION

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

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
gusto 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 energetic,
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. 31.]—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 OF 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 be 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," &c.

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 crowded 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 awkward 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 liar. 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 teazed 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 back 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 teazed 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.
'TO MR. FRANCIS BARBER.
'DEAR FRANCIS,—I have been very much out of order. I am glad to
hear that you are well, and design to come soon to see you. I would have
you stay at Mrs. Clapp's for the present, till I can determine what we shall
do. Be a good boy.
'My compliments to Mrs. Clapp and to Mr. Fowler. I am, your's
affectionately,
SAM. JOHNSON.'
'May 28, 1768.'
Soon afterwards, he supped at the Crown and Anchor tavern, in the
Strand, with a company whom I collected to meet him. They were Dr.
Percy, now Bishop of Dromore, Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of Salisbury, Mr.
Langton, Dr. Robertson the Historian, Dr. Hugh Blair, and Mr. Thomas

Davies, who wished much to be introduced to these eminent Scotch literati;
but on the present occasion he had very little opportunity of hearing them
talk, for with an excess of prudence, for which Johnson afterwards found
fault with them, they hardly opened their lips, and that only to say
something which they were certain would not expose them to the sword of
Goliath; such was their anxiety for their fame when in the presence of
Johnson. He was this evening in remarkable vigour of mind, and eager to
exert himself in conversation, which he did with great readiness and
fluency; but I am sorry to find that I have preserved but a small part of what
passed.
He was vehement against old Dr. Mounsey, of Chelsea College, as 'a
fellow who swore and talked bawdy.' 'I have been often in his company,
(said Dr. Percy,) and never heard him swear or talk bawdy.' Mr. Davies,
who sat next to Dr. Percy, having after this had some conversation aside
with him, made a discovery which, in his zeal to pay court to Dr. Johnson,
he eagerly proclaimed aloud from the foot of the table: 'O, Sir, I have found
out a very good reason why Dr. Percy never heard Mounsey swear or talk
bawdy; for he tells me, he never saw him but at the Duke of
Northumberland's table.' 'And so, Sir, (said Johnson loudly, to Dr. Percy,)
you would shield this man from the charge of swearing and talking bawdy,
because he did not do so at the Duke of Northumberland's table. Sir, you
might as well tell us that you had seen him hold up his hand at the Old
Bailey, and he neither swore nor talked bawdy; or that you had seen him in
the cart at Tyburn, and he neither swore nor talked bawdy. And is it thus,
Sir, that you presume to controvert what I have related?' Dr. Johnson's
animadversion was uttered in such a manner, that Dr. Percy seemed to be
displeased, and soon afterwards left the company, of which Johnson did not
at that time take any notice.
Swift having been mentioned, Johnson, as usual, treated him with little
respect as an authour. Some of us endeavoured to support the Dean of St.
Patrick's by various arguments. One in particular praised his Conduct of the
Allies. JOHNSON. 'Sir, his Conduct of the Allies is a performance of very
little ability.' 'Surely, Sir, (said Dr. Douglas,) you must allow it has strong
facts.' JOHNSON. 'Why yes, Sir; but what is that to the merit of the
composition? In the Sessions-paper of the Old Bailey, there are strong facts.
Housebreaking is a strong fact; robbery is a strong fact; and murder is a
MIGHTY strong fact; but is great praise due to the historian of those strong

facts? No, Sir. Swift has told what he had to tell distinctly enough, but that
is all. He had to count ten, and he has counted it right.' Then recollecting
that Mr. Davies, by acting as an INFORMER, had been the occasion of his
talking somewhat too harshly to his friend Dr. Percy, for which, probably,
when the first ebullition was over, he felt some compunction, he took an
opportunity to give him a hit; so added, with a preparatory laugh, 'Why, Sir,
Tom Davies might have written The Conduct of the Allies.' Poor Tom being
thus suddenly dragged into ludicrous notice in presence of the Scottish
Doctors, to whom he was ambitious of appearing to advantage, was
grievously mortified. Nor did his punishment rest here; for upon subsequent
occasions, whenever he, 'statesman all over,' assumed a strutting
importance, I used to hail him—'the Authour of The Conduct of the Allies.'
When I called upon Dr. Johnson next morning, I found him highly
satisfied with his colloquial prowess the preceding evening. 'Well, (said he,)
we had good talk.' BOSWELL. 'Yes, Sir; you tossed and gored several
persons.'
The late Alexander, Earl of Eglintoune, who loved wit more than wine,
and men of genius more than sycophants, had a great admiration of
Johnson; but from the remarkable elegance of his own manners, was,
perhaps, too delicately sensible of the roughness which sometimes appeared
in Johnson's behaviour. One evening about this time, when his Lordship did
me the honour to sup at my lodgings with Dr. Robertson and several other
men of literary distinction, he regretted that Johnson had not been educated
with more refinement, and lived more in polished society. 'No, no, my Lord,
(said Signor Baretti,) do with him what you would, he would always have
been a bear.' 'True, (answered the Earl, with a smile,) but he would have
been a DANCING bear.'
To obviate all the reflections which have gone round the world to
Johnson's prejudice, by applying to him the epithet of a BEAR, let me
impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of my friend Goldsmith,
who knew him well: 'Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner;
but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear but his
skin.'
1769: AETAT. 60.]—I came to London in the autumn, and having
informed him that I was going to be married in a few months, I wished to
have as much of his conversation as I could before engaging in a state of

life which would probably keep me more in Scotland, and prevent me
seeing him so often as when I was a single man; but I found he was at
Brighthelmstone with Mr. and Mrs. Thrale.
After his return to town, we met frequently, and I continued the practice
of making notes of his conversation, though not with so much assiduity as I
wish I had done. At this time, indeed, I had a sufficient excuse for not being
able to appropriate so much time to my Journal; for General Paoli, after
Corsica had been overpowered by the monarchy of France, was now no
longer at the head of his brave countrymen, but having with difficulty
escaped from his native island, had sought an asylum in Great-Britain; and
it was my duty, as well as my pleasure, to attend much upon him. Such
particulars of Johnson's conversation at this period as I have committed to
writing, I shall here introduce, without any strict attention to methodical
arrangement. Sometimes short notes of different days shall be blended
together, and sometimes a day may seem important enough to be separately
distinguished.
He said, he would not have Sunday kept with rigid severity and gloom,
but with a gravity and simplicity of behaviour.
I told him that David Hume had made a short collection of Scotticisms. 'I
wonder, (said Johnson,) that HE should find them.'
On the 30th of September we dined together at the Mitre. I attempted to
argue for the superior happiness of the savage life, upon the usual fanciful
topicks. JOHNSON. 'Sir, there can be nothing more false. The savages have
no bodily advantages beyond those of civilised men. They have not better
health; and as to care or mental uneasiness, they are not above it, but below
it, like bears. No, Sir; you are not to talk such paradox: let me have no more
on't. It cannot entertain, far less can it instruct. Lord Monboddo, one of your
Scotch Judges, talked a great deal of such nonsense. I suffered HIM; but I
will not suffer YOU.'—BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, does not Rousseau talk such
nonsense?' JOHNSON. 'True, Sir, but Rousseau KNOWS he is talking
nonsense, and laughs at the world for staring at him.' BOSWELL. 'How so,
Sir?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, a man who talks nonsense so well, must know
that he is talking nonsense. But I am AFRAID, (chuckling and laughing,)
Monboddo does NOT know that he is talking nonsense.' BOSWELL. 'Is it
wrong then, Sir, to affect singularity, in order to make people stare?'
JOHNSON. 'Yes, if you do it by propagating errour: and, indeed, it is wrong

in any way. There is in human nature a general inclination to make people
stare; and every wise man has himself to cure of it, and does cure himself. If
you wish to make people stare by doing better than others, why, make them
stare till they stare their eyes out. But consider how easy it is to make
people stare by being absurd. I may do it by going into a drawing-room
without my shoes. You remember the gentleman in The Spectator, who had
a commission of lunacy taken out against him for his extreme singularity,
such as never wearing a wig, but a night-cap. Now, Sir, abstractedly, the
night-cap was best; but, relatively, the advantage was overbalanced by his
making the boys run after him.'
Talking of a London life, he said, 'The happiness of London is not to be
conceived but by those who have been in it. I will venture to say, there is
more learning and science within the circumference of ten miles from
where we now sit, than in all the rest of the kingdom.' BOSWELL. 'The
only disadvantage is the great distance at which people live from one
another.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir; but that is occasioned by the largeness of it,
which is the cause of all the other advantages.' BOSWELL. 'Sometimes I
have been in the humour of wishing to retire to a desart.' JOHNSON. 'Sir,
you have desart enough in Scotland.'
Although I had promised myself a great deal of instructive conversation
with him on the conduct of the married state, of which I had then a near
prospect, he did not say much upon that topick. Mr. Seward heard him once
say, that 'a man has a very bad chance for happiness in that state, unless he
marries a woman of very strong and fixed principles of religion.' He
maintained to me, contrary to the common notion, that a woman would not
be the worse wife for being learned; in which, from all that I have observed
of Artemisias, I humbly differed from him.
When I censured a gentleman of my acquaintance for marrying a second
time, as it shewed a disregard of his first wife, he said, 'Not at all, Sir. On
the contrary, were he not to marry again, it might be concluded that his first
wife had given him a disgust to marriage; but by taking a second wife he
pays the highest compliment to the first, by shewing that she made him so
happy as a married man, that he wishes to be so a second time.' So
ingenious a turn did he give to this delicate question. And yet, on another
occasion, he owned that he once had almost asked a promise of Mrs.
Johnson that she would not marry again, but had checked himself. Indeed, I

cannot help thinking, that in his case the request would have been
unreasonable; for if Mrs. Johnson forgot, or thought it no injury to the
memory of her first love,—the husband of her youth and the father of her
children,—to make a second marriage, why should she be precluded from a
third, should she be so inclined? In Johnson's persevering fond
appropriation of his Tetty, even after her decease, he seems totally to have
overlooked the prior claim of the honest Birmingham trader. I presume that
her having been married before had, at times, given him some uneasiness;
for I remember his observing upon the marriage of one of our common
friends, 'He has done a very foolish thing, Sir; he has married a widow,
when he might have had a maid.'
We drank tea with Mrs. Williams. I had last year the pleasure of seeing
Mrs. Thrale at Dr. Johnson's one morning, and had conversation enough
with her to admire her talents, and to shew her that I was as Johnsonian as
herself. Dr. Johnson had probably been kind enough to speak well of me,
for this evening he delivered me a very polite card from Mr. Thrale and her,
inviting me to Streatham.
On the 6th of October I complied with this obliging invitation, and found,
at an elegant villa, six miles from town, every circumstance that can make
society pleasing. Johnson, though quite at home, was yet looked up to with
an awe, tempered by affection, and seemed to be equally the care of his host
and hostess. I rejoiced at seeing him so happy.
He played off his wit against Scotland with a good humoured pleasantry,
which gave me, though no bigot to national prejudices, an opportunity for a
little contest with him. I having said that England was obliged to us for
gardeners, almost all their good gardeners being Scotchmen. JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, that is because gardening is much more necessary amongst you
than with us, which makes so many of your people learn it. It is ALL
gardening with you. Things which grow wild here, must be cultivated with
great care in Scotland. Pray now (throwing himself back in his chair, and
laughing,) are you ever able to bring the SLOE to perfection?'
I boasted that we had the honour of being the first to abolish the
unhospitable, troublesome, and ungracious custom of giving vails to
servants. JOHNSON. 'Sir, you abolished vails, because you were too poor
to be able to give them.'

Mrs. Thrale disputed with him on the merit of Prior. He attacked him
powerfully; said he wrote of love like a man who had never felt it: his love
verses were college verses; and he repeated the song 'Alexis shunn'd his
fellow swains,' &c., in so ludicrous a manner, as to make us all wonder how
any one could have been pleased with such fantastical stuff. Mrs. Thrale
stood to her gun with great courage, in defence of amorous ditties, which
Johnson despised, till he at last silenced her by saying, 'My dear Lady, talk
no more of this. Nonsense can be defended but by nonsense.'
Mrs. Thrale then praised Garrick's talent for light gay poetry; and, as a
specimen, repeated his song in Florizel and Perdita, and dwelt with peculiar
pleasure on this line:
'I'd smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.'
JOHNSON. 'Nay, my dear Lady, this will never do. Poor David! Smile
with the simple;—What folly is that? And who would feed with the poor
that can help it? No, no; let me smile with the wise, and feed with the rich.'
I repeated this sally to Garrick, and wondered to find his sensibility as a
writer not a little irritated by it. To sooth him, I observed, that Johnson
spared none of us; and I quoted the passage in Horace, in which he
compares one who attacks his friends for the sake of a laugh, to a pushing
ox, that is marked by a bunch of hay put upon his horns: 'foenum habet in
cornu.' 'Ay, (said Garrick vehemently,) he has a whole MOW of it.'
He would not allow much merit to Whitefield's oratory. 'His popularity,
Sir, (said be,) is chiefly owing to the peculiarity of his manner. He would be
followed by crowds were he to wear a night-cap in the pulpit, or were he to
preach from a tree.'
On the evening of October 10, I presented Dr. Johnson to General Paoli. I
had greatly wished that two men, for whom I had the highest esteem, should
meet. They met with a manly ease, mutually conscious of their own
abilities, and of the abilities of each other. The General spoke Italian, and
Dr. Johnson English, and understood one another very well, with a little aid
of interpretation from me, in which I compared myself to an isthmus which
joins two great continents. Upon Johnson's approach, the General said,
'From what I have read of your works, Sir, and from what Mr. Boswell has
told me of you, I have long held you in great veneration.' The General
talked of languages being formed on the particular notions and manners of a
people, without knowing which, we cannot know the language. We may

know the direct signification of single words; but by these no beauty of
expression, no sally of genius, no wit is conveyed to the mind. All this must
be by allusion to other ideas. 'Sir, (said Johnson,) you talk of language, as if
you had never done any thing else but study it, instead of governing a
nation.' The General said, 'Questo e un troppo gran complimento;' this is too
great a compliment. Johnson answered, 'I should have thought so, Sir, if I
had not heard you talk.' The General asked him, what he thought of the
spirit of infidelity which was so prevalent. JOHNSON. 'Sir, this gloom of
infidelity, I hope, is only a transient cloud passing through the hemisphere,
which will soon be dissipated, and the sun break forth with his usual
splendour.' 'You think then, (said the General,) that they will change their
principles like their clothes.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, if they bestow no more
thought on principles than on dress, it must be so.' The General said, that 'a
great part of the fashionable infidelity was owing to a desire of shewing
courage. Men who have no opportunities of shewing it as to things in this
life, take death and futurity as objects on which to display it.' JOHNSON.
'That is mighty foolish affectation. Fear is one of the passions of human
nature, of which it is impossible to divest it. You remember that the
Emperour Charles V, when he read upon the tomb-stone of a Spanish
nobleman, "Here lies one who never knew fear," wittily said, "Then he
never snuffed a candle with his fingers."'
Dr. Johnson went home with me, and drank tea till late in the night. He
said, 'General Paoli had the loftiest port of any man he had ever seen.' He
denied that military men were always the best bred men. 'Perfect good
breeding,' he observed, 'consists in having no particular mark of any
profession, but a general elegance of manners; whereas, in a military man,
you can commonly distinguish the BRAND of a soldier, l'homme d'epee.'
Dr. Johnson shunned to-night any discussion of the perplexed question of
fate and free will, which I attempted to agitate. 'Sir, (said he,) we KNOW
our will is free, and THERE'S an end on't.'
He honoured me with his company at dinner on the 16th of October, at
my lodgings in Old Bond-street, with Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Garrick, Dr.
Goldsmith, Mr. Murphy, Mr. Bickerstaff, and Mr. Thomas Davies. Garrick
played round him with a fond vivacity, taking hold of the breasts of his
coat, and, looking up in his face with a lively archness, complimented him
on the good health which he seemed then to enjoy; while the sage, shaking

his head, beheld him with a gentle complacency. One of the company not
being come at the appointed hour, I proposed, as usual upon such occasions,
to order dinner to be served; adding, 'Ought six people to be kept waiting
for one?' 'Why, yes, (answered Johnson, with a delicate humanity,) if the
one will suffer more by your sitting down, than the six will do by waiting.'
Goldsmith, to divert the tedious minutes, strutted about, bragging of his
dress, and I believe was seriously vain of it, for his mind was wonderfully
prone to such impressions. 'Come, come, (said Garrick,) talk no more of
that. You are, perhaps, the worst—eh, eh!'—Goldsmith was eagerly
attempting to interrupt him, when Garrick went on, laughing ironically,
'Nay, you will always LOOK like a gentleman; but I am talking of being
well or ILL DREST.' 'Well, let me tell you, (said Goldsmith,) when my
tailor brought home my bloom-coloured coat, he said, "Sir, I have a favour
to beg of you. When any body asks you who made your clothes, be pleased
to mention John Filby, at the Harrow, in Waterlane."' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir,
that was because he knew the strange colour would attract crowds to gaze at
it, and thus they might hear of him, and see how well he could make a coat
even of so absurd a colour.'
After dinner our conversation first turned upon Pope. Johnson said, his
characters of men were admirably drawn, those of women not so well. He
repeated to us, in his forcible melodious manner, the concluding lines of the
Dunciad. While he was talking loudly in praise of those lines, one of the
company* ventured to say, 'Too fine for such a poem:—a poem on what?'
JOHNSON, (with a disdainful look,) 'Why, on DUNCES. It was worth
while being a dunce then. Ah, Sir, hadst THOU lived in those days! It is not
worth while 'being a dunce now, when there are no wits.' Bickerstaff
observed, as a peculiar circumstance, that Pope's fame was higher when he
was alive than it was then. Johnson said, his Pastorals were poor things,
though the versification was fine. He told us, with high satisfaction, the
anecdote of Pope's inquiring who was the authour of his London, and
saying, he will be soon deterre. He observed, that in Dryden's poetry there
were passages drawn from a profundity which Pope could never reach. He
repeated some fine lines on love, by the former, (which I have now
forgotten,) and gave great applause to the character of Zimri. Goldsmith
said, that Pope's character of Addison shewed a deep knowledge of the
human heart. Johnson said, that the description of the temple, in The
Mourning Bride, was the finest poetical passage he had ever read; he

recollected none in Shakspeare equal to it. 'But, (said Garrick, all alarmed
for the 'God of his idolatry,') we know not the extent and variety of his
powers. We are to suppose there are such passages in his works. Shakspeare
must not suffer from the badness of our memories.' Johnson, diverted by
this enthusiastick jealousy, went on with greater ardour: 'No, Sir; Congreve
has NATURE;' (smiling on the tragick eagerness of Garrick;) but
composing himself, he added, 'Sir, this is not comparing Congreve on the
whole, with Shakspeare on the whole; but only maintaining that Congreve
has one finer passage than any that can be found in Shakspeare. Sir, a man
may have no more than ten guineas in the world, but he may have those ten
guineas in one piece; and so may have a finer piece than a man who has ten
thousand pounds: but then he has only one ten-guinea piece. What I mean
is, that you can shew me no passage where there is simply a description of
material objects, without any intermixture of moral notions, which produces
such an effect.' Mr. Murphy mentioned Shakspeare's description of the night
before the battle of Agincourt; but it was observed, it had MEN in it. Mr.
Davies suggested the speech of Juliet, in which she figures herself awaking
in the tomb of her ancestors. Some one mentioned the description of Dover
Cliff. JOHNSON. 'No, Sir; it should be all precipice,—all vacuum. The
crows impede your fall. The diminished appearance of the boats, and other
circumstances, are all very good descriptions; but do not impress the mind
at once with the horrible idea of immense height. The impression is divided;
you pass on by computation, from one stage of the tremendous space to
another. Had the girl in The Mourning Bride said, she could not cast her
shoe to the top of one of the pillars in the temple, it would not have aided
the idea, but weakened it.'
* Everyone guesses that 'one of the company' was Boswell.
—HILL.

Talking of a Barrister who had a bad utterance, some one, (to rouse
Johnson,) wickedly said, that he was unfortunate in not having been taught
oratory by Sheridan. JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, if he had been taught by
Sheridan, he would have cleared the room.' GARRICK. 'Sheridan has too
much vanity to be a good man.' We shall now see Johnson's mode of
DEFENDING a man; taking him into his own hands, and discriminating.
JOHNSON. 'No, Sir. There is, to be sure, in Sheridan, something to
reprehend, and every thing to laugh at; but, Sir, he is not a bad man. No,
Sir; were mankind to be divided into good and bad, he would stand

considerably within the ranks of good. And, Sir, it must be allowed that
Sheridan excels in plain declamation, though he can exhibit no character.'
Mrs. Montagu, a lady distinguished for having written an Essay on
Shakspeare, being mentioned; REYNOLDS. 'I think that essay does her
honour.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir: it does HER honour, but it would do nobody
else honour. I have, indeed, not read it all. But when I take up the end of a
web, and find it packthread, I do not expect, by looking further, to find
embroidery. Sir, I will venture to say, there is not one sentence of true
criticism in her book.' GARRICK. 'But, Sir, surely it shews how much
Voltaire has mistaken Shakspeare, which nobody else has done.'
JOHNSON. 'Sir, nobody else has thought it worth while. And what merit is
there in that? You may as well praise a schoolmaster for whipping a boy
who has construed ill. No, Sir, there is no real criticism in it: none shewing
the beauty of thought, as formed on the workings of the human heart.'
The admirers of this Essay may be offended at the slighting manner in
which Johnson spoke of it; but let it be remembered, that he gave his honest
opinion unbiassed by any prejudice, or any proud jealousy of a woman
intruding herself into the chair of criticism; for Sir Joshua Reynolds has told
me, that when the Essay first came out, and it was not known who had
written it, Johnson wondered how Sir Joshua could like it. At this time Sir
Joshua himself had received no information concerning the authour, except
being assured by one of our most eminent literati, that it was clear its
authour did not know the Greek tragedies in the original. One day at Sir
Joshua's table, when it was related that Mrs. Montagu, in an excess of
compliment to the authour of a modern tragedy, had exclaimed, 'I tremble
for Shakspeare;' Johnson said, 'When Shakspeare has got —— for his rival,
and Mrs. Montagu for his defender, he is in a poor state indeed.'
On Thursday, October 19, I passed the evening with him at his house. He
advised me to complete a Dictionary of words peculiar to Scotland, of
which I shewed him a specimen. 'Sir, (said he,) Ray has made a collection
of north-country words. By collecting those of your country, you will do a
useful thing towards the history of the language. He bade me also go on
with collections which I was making upon the antiquities of Scotland.
'Make a large book; a folio.' BOSWELL. 'But of what use will it be, Sir?'
JOHNSON. 'Never mind the use; do it.'

I complained that he had not mentioned Garrick in his Preface to
Shakspeare; and asked him if he did not admire him. JOHNSON. 'Yes, as "a
poor player, who frets and struts his hour upon the stage;"—as a shadow.'
BOSWELL. 'But has he not brought Shakspeare into notice?' JOHNSON.
'Sir, to allow that, would be to lampoon the age. Many of Shakspeare's
plays are the worse for being acted: Macbeth, for instance.' BOSWELL.
'What, Sir, is nothing gained by decoration and action? Indeed, I do wish
that you had mentioned Garrick.' JOHNSON. 'My dear Sir, had I mentioned
him, I must have mentioned many more: Mrs. Pritchard, Mrs. Cibber,—nay,
and Mr. Cibber too; he too altered Shakspeare.' BOSWELL. 'You have read
his apology, Sir?' JOHNSON. 'Yes, it is very entertaining. But as for Cibber
himself, taking from his conversation all that he ought not to have said, he
was a poor creature. I remember when he brought me one of his Odes to
have my opinion of it; I could not bear such nonsense, and would not let
him read it to the end; so little respect had I for THAT GREAT MAN!
(laughing.) Yet I remember Richardson wondering that I could treat him
with familiarity.'
I mentioned to him that I had seen the execution of several convicts at
Tyburn, two days before, and that none of them seemed to be under any
concern. JOHNSON. 'Most of them, Sir, have never thought at all.'
BOSWELL. 'But is not the fear of death natural to man?' JOHNSON. 'So
much so, Sir, that the whole of life is but keeping away the thoughts of it.'
He then, in a low and earnest tone, talked of his meditating upon the aweful
hour of his own dissolution, and in what manner he should conduct himself
upon that occasion: 'I know not (said he,) whether I should wish to have a
friend by me, or have it all between GOD and myself.'
Talking of our feeling for the distresses of others;—JOHNSON. 'Why,
Sir, there is much noise made about it, but it is greatly exaggerated. No, Sir,
we have a certain degree of feeling to prompt us to do good: more than that,
Providence does not intend. It would be misery to no purpose.' BOSWELL.
'But suppose now, Sir, that one of your intimate friends were apprehended
for an offence for which he might be hanged.' JOHNSON. 'I should do what
I could to bail him, and give him any other assistance; but if he were once
fairly hanged, I should not suffer.' BOSWELL. 'Would you eat your dinner
that day, Sir?' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir; and eat it as if he were eating it with
me. Why, there's Baretti, who is to be tried for his life to-morrow, friends
have risen up for him on every side; yet if he should be hanged, none of

them will eat a slice of plumb-pudding the less. Sir, that sympathetic feeling
goes a very little way in depressing the mind.'
I told him that I had dined lately at Foote's, who shewed me a letter
which he had received from Tom Davies, telling him that he had not been
able to sleep from the concern which he felt on account of 'This sad affair of
Baretti,' begging of him to try if he could suggest any thing that might be of
service; and, at the same time, recommending to him an industrious young
man who kept a pickle-shop. JOHNSON. 'Ay, Sir, here you have a specimen
of human sympathy; a friend hanged, and a cucumber pickled. We know not
whether Baretti or the pickle-man has kept Davies from sleep; nor does he
know himself. And as to his not sleeping, Sir; Tom Davies is a very great
man; Tom has been upon the stage, and knows how to do those things. I
have not been upon the stage, and cannot do those things.' BOSWELL. 'I
have often blamed myself, Sir, for not feeling for others as sensibly as many
say they do.' JOHNSON. 'Sir, don't be duped by them any more. You will
find these very feeling people are not very ready to do you good. They PAY
you by FEELING.'
BOSWELL. 'Foote has a great deal of humour?' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir.'
BOSWELL. 'He has a singular talent of exhibiting character.' JOHNSON.
'Sir, it is not a talent; it is a vice; it is what others abstain from. It is not
comedy, which exhibits the character of a species, as that of a miser
gathered from many misers: it is farce, which exhibits individuals.'
BOSWELL. 'Did not he think of exhibiting you, Sir?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, fear
restrained him; he knew I would have broken his bones. I would have saved
him the trouble of cutting off a leg; I would not have left him a leg to cut
off.' BOSWELL. 'Pray, Sir, is not Foote an infidel?' JOHNSON. 'I do not
know, Sir, that the fellow is an infidel; but if he be an infidel, he is an
infidel as a dog is an infidel; that is to say, he has never thought upon the
subject.'* BOSWELL. 'I suppose, Sir, he has thought superficially, and
seized the first notions which occurred to his mind.' JOHNSON. 'Why then,
Sir, still he is like a dog, that snatches the piece next him. Did you never
observe that dogs have not the power of comparing? A dog will take a small
bit of meat as readily as a large, when both are before him.'
* When Mr. Foote was at Edinburgh, he thought fit to
entertain a numerous Scotch company, with a great deal of
coarse jocularity, at the expense of Dr. Johnson, imagining
it would be acceptable. I felt this as not civil to me; but
sat very patiently till he had exhausted his merriment on

that subject; and then observed, that surely Johnson must be
allowed to have some sterling wit, and that I had heard him
say a very good thing of Mr. Foote himself. 'Ah, my old
friend Sam (cried Foote,) no man says better things; do let
us have it.' Upon which I told the above story, which
produced a very loud laugh from the company. But I never
saw Foote so disconcerted.—BOSWELL.

BOSWELL. 'What do you think of Dr. Young's Night Thoughts, Sir?'
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, there are very fine things in them.' BOSWELL. 'Is
there not less religion in the nation now, Sir, than there was formerly?'
JOHNSON. 'I don't know, Sir, that there is.' BOSWELL. 'For instance, there
used to be a chaplain in every great family, which we do not find now.'
JOHNSON. 'Neither do you find any of the state servants, which great
families used formerly to have. There is a change of modes in the whole
department of life.'
Next day, October 20, he appeared, for the only time I suppose in his life,
as a witness in a Court of Justice, being called to give evidence to the
character of Mr. Baretti, who having stabbed a man in the street, was
arraigned at the Old Bailey for murder. Never did such a constellation of
genius enlighten the aweful Sessions-House, emphatically called JUSTICE
HALL; Mr. Burke, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Beauclerk, and Dr. Johnson: and
undoubtedly their favourable testimony had due weight with the Court and
Jury. Johnson gave his evidence in a slow, deliberate, and distinct manner,
which was uncommonly impressive. It is well known that Mr. Baretti was
acquitted.
On the 26th of October, we dined together at the Mitre tavern. I found
fault with Foote for indulging his talent of ridicule at the expence of his
visitors, which I colloquially termed making fools of his company.
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, when you go to see Foote, you do not go to see a
saint: you go to see a man who will be entertained at your house, and then
bring you on a publick stage; who will entertain you at his house, for the
very purpose of bringing you on a publick stage. Sir, he does not make fools
of his company; they whom he exposes are fools already: he only brings
them into action.'
We went home to his house to tea. Mrs. Williams made it with sufficient
dexterity, notwithstanding her blindness, though her manner of satisfying
herself that the cups were full enough appeared to me a little aukward; for I
fancied she put her finger down a certain way, till she felt the tea touch it.*
In my first elation at being allowed the privilege of attending Dr. Johnson at

his late visits to this lady, which was like being e secretioribus consiliis, I
willingly drank cup after cup, as if it had been the Heliconian spring. But as
the charm of novelty went off, I grew more fastidious; and besides, I
discovered that she was of a peevish temper.
* Boswell afterwards learned that she felt the rising tea on
the outside of the cup.—ED.

There was a pretty large circle this evening. Dr. Johnson was in very
good humour, lively, and ready to talk upon all subjects. Mr. Fergusson, the
self-taught philosopher, told him of a new-invented machine which went
without horses: a man who sat in it turned a handle, which worked a spring
that drove it forward. 'Then, Sir, (said Johnson,) what is gained is, the man
has his choice whether he will move himself alone, or himself and the
machine too.' Dominicetti being mentioned, he would not allow him any
merit. 'There is nothing in all this boasted system. No, Sir; medicated baths
can be no better than warm water: their only effect can be that of tepid
moisture.' One of the company took the other side, maintaining that
medicines of various sorts, and some too of most powerful effect, are
introduced into the human frame by the medium of the pores; and,
therefore, when warm water is impregnated with salutiferous substances, it
may produce great effects as a bath. This appeared to me very satisfactory.
Johnson did not answer it; but talking for victory, and determined to be
master of the field, he had recourse to the device which Goldsmith imputed
to him in the witty words of one of Cibber's comedies: 'There is no arguing
with Johnson; for when his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the
butt end of it.' He turned to the gentleman, 'well, Sir, go to Dominicetti, and
get thyself fumigated; but be sure that the steam be directed to thy HEAD,
for THAT is the PECCANT PART.' This produced a triumphant roar of
laughter from the motley assembly of philosophers, printers, and
dependents, male and female.
I know not how so whimsical a thought came into my mind, but I asked,
'If, Sir, you were shut up in a castle, and a newborn child with you, what
would you do?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I should not much like my company.'
BOSWELL. 'But would you take the trouble of rearing it?' He seemed, as
may well be supposed, unwilling to pursue the subject: but upon my
persevering in my question, replied, 'Why yes, Sir, I would; but I must have
all conveniencies. If I had no garden, I would make a shed on the roof, and
take it there for fresh air. I should feed it, and wash it much, and with warm

water to please it, not with cold water to give it pain.' BOSWELL. 'But, Sir,
does not heat relax?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, you are not to imagine the water is to
be very hot. I would not CODDLE the child. No, Sir, the hardy method of
treating children does no good. I'll take you five children from London, who
shall cuff five Highland children. Sir, a man bred in London will carry a
burthen, or run, or wrestle, as well as a man brought up in the hardiest
manner in the country.' BOSWELL. 'Good living, I suppose, makes the
Londoners strong.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I don't know that it does. Our
Chairmen from Ireland, who are as strong men as any, have been brought
up upon potatoes. Quantity makes up for quality.' BOSWELL. 'Would you
teach this child that I have furnished you with, any thing?' JOHNSON. 'No,
I should not be apt to teach it.' BOSWELL. 'Would not you have a pleasure
in teaching it?' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, I should NOT have a pleasure in
teaching it.' BOSWELL. 'Have you not a pleasure in teaching men?—
THERE I have you. You have the same pleasure in teaching men, that I
should have in teaching children.' JOHNSON. 'Why, something about that.'
I had hired a Bohemian as my servant while I remained in London, and
being much pleased with him, I asked Dr. Johnson whether his being a
Roman Catholick should prevent my taking him with me to Scotland.
JOHNSON. 'Why no, Sir, if HE has no objection, you can have none.'
BOSWELL. 'So, Sir, you are no great enemy to the Roman Catholick
religion.' JOHNSON. 'No more, Sir, than to the Presbyterian religion.'
BOSWELL. 'You are joking.' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, I really think so. Nay,
Sir, of the two, I prefer the Popish.' BOSWELL. 'How so, Sir?' JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, the Presbyterians have no church, no apostolical ordination.'
BOSWELL. 'And do you think that absolutely essential, Sir?' JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, as it was an apostolical institution, I think it is dangerous to be
without it. And, Sir, the Presbyterians have no public worship: they have no
form of prayer in which they know they are to join. They go to hear a man
pray, and are to judge whether they will join with him.'
I proceeded: 'What do you think, Sir, of Purgatory, as believed by the
Roman Catholicks?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, it is a very harmless doctrine.
They are of opinion that the generality of mankind are neither so obstinately
wicked as to deserve everlasting punishment, nor so good as to merit being
admitted into the society of blessed spirits; and therefore that God is
graciously pleased to allow of a middle state, where they may be purified
by certain degrees of suffering. You see, Sir, there is nothing unreasonable

in this.' BOSWELL. 'But then, Sir, their masses for the dead?' JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, if it be once established that there are souls in purgatory, it is as
proper to pray for THEM, as for our brethren of mankind who are yet in this
life.' BOSWELL. 'The idolatry of the Mass?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, there is no
idolatry in the Mass. They believe god to be there, and they adore him.'
BOSWELL. 'The worship of Saints?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, they do not worship
saints; they invoke them; they only ask their prayers. I am talking all this
time of the DOCTRINES of the Church of Rome. I grant you that in
PRACTICE, Purgatory is made a lucrative imposition, and that the people
do become idolatrous as they recommend themselves to the tutelary
protection of particular saints. I think their giving the sacrament only in one
kind is criminal, because it is contrary to the express institution of CHRIST,
and I wonder how the Council of Trent admitted it.' BOSWELL.
'Confession?' JOHNSON. 'Why, I don't know but that is a good thing. The
scripture says, "Confess your faults one to another," and the priests confess
as well as the laity. Then it must be considered that their absolution is only
upon repentance, and often upon penance also. You think your sins may be
forgiven without penance, upon repentance alone.'
When we were alone, I introduced the subject of death, and endeavoured
to maintain that the fear of it might be got over. I told him that David Hume
said to me, he was no more uneasy to think he should NOT BE after this
life, than that he HAD NOT BEEN before he began to exist. JOHNSON.
Sir, if he really thinks so, his perceptions are disturbed; he is mad: if he
does not think so, he lies. He may tell you, he holds his finger in the flame
of a candle, without feeling pain; would you believe him? When he dies, he
at least gives up all he has.' BOSWELL. 'Foote, Sir, told me, that when he
was very ill he was not afraid to die.' JOHNSON. 'It is not true, Sir. Hold a
pistol to Foote's breast, or to Hume's breast, and threaten to kill them, and
you'll see how they behave.' BOSWELL. 'But may we not fortify our minds
for the approach of death?' Here I am sensible I was in the wrong, to bring
before his view what he ever looked upon with horrour; for although when
in a celestial frame, in his Vanity of Human Wishes he has supposed death
to be 'kind Nature's signal for retreat,' from this state of being to 'a happier
seat,' his thoughts upon this aweful change were in general full of dismal
apprehensions. His mind resembled the vast amphitheatre, the Colisaeum at
Rome. In the centre stood his judgement, which, like a mighty gladiator,
combated those apprehensions that, like the wild beasts of the Arena, were

all around in cells, ready to be let out upon him. After a conflict, he drives
them back into their dens; but not killing them, they were still assailing him.
To my question, whether we might not fortify our minds for the approach of
death, he answered, in a passion, 'No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a
man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so
short a time.' He added, (with an earnest look,) 'A man knows it must be so,
and submits. It will do him no good to whine.'
I attempted to continue the conversation. He was so provoked, that he
said, 'Give us no more of this;' and was thrown into such a state of agitation,
that he expressed himself in a way that alarmed and distressed me; shewed
an impatience that I should leave him, and when I was going away, called to
me sternly, 'Don't let us meet tomorrow.'
I went home exceedingly uneasy. All the harsh observations which I had
ever heard made upon his character, crowded into my mind; and I seemed
to myself like the man who had put his head into the lion's mouth a great
many times with perfect safety, but at last had it bit off.
Next morning I sent him a note, stating, that I might have been in the
wrong, but it was not intentionally; he was therefore, I could not help
thinking, too severe upon me. That notwithstanding our agreement not to
meet that day, I would call on him in my way to the city, and stay five
minutes by my watch. 'You are, (said I,) in my mind, since last night,
surrounded with cloud and storm. Let me have a glimpse of sunshine, and
go about my affairs in serenity and chearfulness.'
Upon entering his study, I was glad that he was not alone, which would
have made our meeting more awkward. There were with him, Mr. Steevens
and Mr. Tyers, both of whom I now saw for the first time. My note had, on
his own reflection, softened him, for he received me very complacently; so
that I unexpectedly found myself at ease, and joined in the conversation.
I whispered him, 'Well, Sir, you are now in good humour. JOHNSON.
'Yes, Sir.' I was going to leave him, and had got as far as the staircase. He
stopped me, and smiling, said, 'Get you gone IN;' a curious mode of inviting
me to stay, which I accordingly did for some time longer.
This little incidental quarrel and reconciliation, which, perhaps, I may be
thought to have detailed too minutely, must be esteemed as one of many
proofs which his friends had, that though he might be charged with bad
humour at times, he was always a good-natured man; and I have heard Sir

Joshua Reynolds, a nice and delicate observer of manners, particularly
remark, that when upon any occasion Johnson had been rough to any person
in company, he took the first opportunity of reconciliation, by drinking to
him, or addressing his discourse to him; but if he found his dignified
indirect overtures sullenly neglected, he was quite indifferent, and
considered himself as having done all that he ought to do, and the other as
now in the wrong.
I went to him early on the morning of the tenth of November. 'Now (said
he,) that you are going to marry, do not expect more from life, than life will
afford. You may often find yourself out of humour, and you may often think
your wife not studious enough to please you; and yet you may have reason
to consider yourself as upon the whole very happily married.'
1770: AETAT. 61.]—During this year there was a total cessation of all
correspondence between Dr. Johnson and me, without any coldness on
either side, but merely from procrastination, continued from day to day; and
as I was not in London, I had no opportunity of enjoying his company and
recording his conversation. To supply this blank, I shall present my readers
with some Collectanea, obligingly furnished to me by the Rev. Dr.
Maxwell, of Falkland, in Ireland, sometime assistant preacher at the
Temple, and for many years the social friend of Johnson, who spoke of him
with a very kind regard.
'His general mode of life, during my acquaintance, seemed to be pretty
uniform. About twelve o'clock I commonly visited him, and frequently
found him in bed, or declaiming over his tea, which he drank very
plentifully. He generally had a levee of morning visitors, chiefly men of
letters; Hawkesworth, Goldsmith, Murphy, Langton, Steevens, Beaucherk,
&c. &c., and sometimes learned ladies, particularly I remember a French
lady of wit and fashion doing him the honour of a visit. He seemed to me to
be considered as a kind of publick oracle, whom every body thought they
had a right to visit and consult; and doubtless they were well rewarded. I
never could discover how he found time for his compositions. He
declaimed all the morning, then went to dinner at a tavern, where he
commonly staid late, and then drank his tea at some friend's house, over
which he loitered a great while, but seldom took supper. I fancy he must
have read and wrote chiefly in the night, for I can scarcely recollect that he

ever refused going with me to a tavern, and he often went to Ranelagh,
which he deemed a place of innocent recreation.
'He frequently gave all the silver in his pocket to the poor, who watched
him, between his house and the tavern where he dined. He walked the
streets at all hours, and said he was never robbed, for the rogues knew he
had little money, nor had the appearance of having much.
'Though the most accessible and communicative man alive; yet when he
suspected he was invited to be exhibited, he constantly spurned the
invitation.
'Two young women from Staffordshire visited him when I was present, to
consult him on the subject of Methodism, to which they were inclined.
"Come, (said he,) you pretty fools, dine with Maxwell and me at the Mitre,
and we will talk over that subject;" which they did, and after dinner he took
one of them upon his knee, and fondled her for half an hour together.
'Johnson was much attached to London: he observed, that a man stored
his mind better there, than any where else; and that in remote situations a
man's body might be feasted, but his mind was starved, and his faculties apt
to degenerate, from want of exercise and competition. No place, (he said,)
cured a man's vanity or arrogance so well as London; for as no man was
either great or good per se, but as compared with others not so good or
great, he was sure to find in the metropolis many his equals, and some his
superiours. He observed, that a man in London was in less danger of falling
in love indiscreetly, than any where else; for there the difficulty of deciding
between the conflicting pretensions of a vast variety of objects, kept him
safe. He told me, that he had frequently been offered country preferment, if
he would consent to take orders; but he could not leave the improved
society of the capital, or consent to exchange the exhilarating joys and
splendid decorations of publick life, for the obscurity, insipidity, and
uniformity of remote situations.
'Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, he said, was the only book that ever
took him out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to rise.
'When exasperated by contradiction, he was apt to treat his opponents
with too much acrimony: as, "Sir, you don't see your way through that
question:"—"Sir, you talk the language of ignorance." On my observing to
him that a certain gentleman had remained silent the whole evening, in the

midst of a very brilliant and learned society, "Sir, (said he,) the conversation
overflowed, and drowned him."
'He observed, that the established clergy in general did not preach plain
enough; and that polished periods and glittering sentences flew over the
heads of the common people, without any impression upon their hearts.
Something might be necessary, he observed, to excite the affections of the
common people, who were sunk in languor and lethargy, and therefore he
supposed that the new concomitants of methodism might probably produce
so desirable an effect. The mind, like the body, he observed, delighted in
change and novelty, and even in religion itself, courted new appearances
and modifications. Whatever might be thought of some methodist teachers,
he said, he could scarcely doubt the sincerity of that man, who travelled
nine hundred miles in a month, and preached twelve times a week; for no
adequate reward, merely temporal, could be given for such indefatigable
labour.
'In a Latin conversation with the Pere Boscovitch, at the house of Mrs.
Cholmondeley, I heard him maintain the superiority of Sir Isaac Newton
over all foreign philosophers, with a dignity and eloquence that surprized
that learned foreigner. It being observed to him, that a rage for every thing
English prevailed much in France after Lord Chatham's glorious war, he
said, he did not wonder at it, for that we had drubbed those fellows into a
proper reverence for us, and that their national petulance required periodical
chastisement.
'Speaking of a dull tiresome fellow, whom he chanced to meet, he said,
"That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and that is a wrong one."
'Much enquiry having been made concerning a gentleman, who had
quitted a company where Johnson was, and no information being obtained;
at last Johnson observed, that "he did not care to speak ill of any man
behind his back, but he believed the gentleman was an ATTORNEY."
'A gentleman who had been very unhappy in marriage, married
immediately after his wife died: Johnson said, it was the triumph of hope
over experience.
'He observed, that a man of sense and education should meet a suitable
companion in a wife. It was a miserable thing when the conversation could
only be such as, whether the mutton should be boiled or roasted, and
probably a dispute about that.

'He did not approve of late marriages, observing that more was lost in
point of time, than compensated for by any possible advantages. Even ill
assorted marriages were preferable to cheerless celibacy.
'He said, foppery was never cured; it was the bad stamina of the mind,
which, like those of the body, were never rectified: once a coxcomb, and
always a coxcomb.
'Being told that Gilbert Cowper called him the Caliban of literature;
"Well, (said he,) I must dub him the Punchinello."
'He said few people had intellectual resources sufficient to forego the
pleasures of wine. They could not otherwise contrive how to fill the interval
between dinner and supper.
'One evening at Mrs. Montagu's, where a splendid company was
assembled, consisting of the most eminent literary characters, I thought he
seemed highly pleased with the respect and attention that were shewn him,
and asked him on our return home if he was not highly gratified by his visit:
"No, Sir, (said he,) not highly gratified; yet I do not recollect to have
passed many evenings with fewer objections."
'Though of no high extraction himself, he had much respect for birth and
family, especially among ladies. He said, "adventitious accomplishments
may be possessed by all ranks; but one may easily distinguish the born
gentlewoman."
'Speaking of Burke, he said, "It was commonly observed, he spoke too
often in parliament; but nobody could say he did not speak well, though too
frequently and too familiarly."
'We dined tete a tete at the Mitre, as I was preparing to return to Ireland,
after an absence of many years. I regretted much leaving London, where I
had formed many agreeable connexions: "Sir, (said he,) I don't wonder at it;
no man, fond of letters, leaves London without regret. But remember, Sir,
you have seen and enjoyed a great deal;—you have seen life in its highest
decorations, and the world has nothing new to exhibit. No man is so well
qualifyed to leave publick life as he who has long tried it and known it well.
We are always hankering after untried situations and imagining greater
felicity from them than they can afford. No, Sir, knowledge and virtue may
be acquired in all countries, and your local consequence will make you
some amends for the intellectual gratifications you relinquish."

'He then took a most affecting leave of me; said, he knew, it was a point
of DUTY that called me away. "We shall all be sorry to lose you," said he:
"laudo tamen."'
1771, AETAT. 62.]—
'To SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, IN LEICESTER-FIELDS.
'DEAR SIR,—When I came to Lichfield, I found that my portrait had
been much visited, and much admired. Every man has a lurking wish to
appear considerable in his native place; and I was pleased with the dignity
conferred by such a testimony of your regard.
'Be pleased, therefore, to accept the thanks of, Sir, your most obliged and
most humble servant,
'Ashbourn in Derbyshire,
'SAM. JOHNSON.
July 17, 1771.'
'Compliments to Miss Reynolds.'
In his religious record of this year, we observe that he was better than
usual, both in body and mind, and better satisfied with the regularity of his
conduct. But he is still 'trying his ways' too rigorously. He charges himself
with not rising early enough; yet he mentions what was surely a sufficient
excuse for this, supposing it to be a duty seriously required, as he all his life
appears to have thought it. 'One great hindrance is want of rest; my
nocturnal complaints grow less troublesome towards morning; and I am
tempted to repair the deficiencies of the night.' Alas! how hard would it be
if this indulgence were to be imputed to a sick man as a crime. In his
retrospect on the following Easter-Eve, he says, 'When I review the last
year, I am able to recollect so little done, that shame and sorrow, though
perhaps too weakly, come upon me.'
In 1772 he was altogether quiescent as an authour; but it will be found
from the various evidences which I shall bring together that his mind was
acute, lively, and vigorous.
'TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

'DEAR SIR,—That you are coming so soon to town I am very glad; and
still more glad that you are coming as an advocate. I think nothing more
likely to make your life pass happily away, than that consciousness of your
own value, which eminence in your profession will certainly confer. If I can
give you any collateral help, I hope you do not suspect that it will be
wanting. My kindness for you has neither the merit of singular virtue, nor
the reproach of singular prejudice. Whether to love you be right or wrong, I
have many on my side: Mrs. Thrale loves you, and Mrs. Williams loves
you, and what would have inclined me to love you, if I had been neutral
before, you are a great favourite of Dr. Beattie.*
'Of Dr. Beattie I should have thought much, but that his lady puts him out
of my head; she is a very lovely woman.
'The ejection which you come hither to oppose, appears very cruel,
unreasonable, and oppressive. I should think there could not be much doubt
of your success.
'My health grows better, yet I am not fully recovered. I believe it is held,
that men do not recover very fast after threescore. I hope yet to see Beattie's
College: and have not given up the western voyage. But however all this
may be or not, let us try to make each other happy when we meet, and not
refer our pleasure to distant times or distant places.
'How comes it that you tell me nothing of your lady? I hope to see her
some time, and till then shall be glad to hear of her. I am, dear Sir, &c.
'March 15, 1772.'
'SAM. JOHNSON.'
* Boswell had given Beattie a letter of introduction to
Johnson the preceding summer—ED.

On the 21st of March, I was happy to find myself again in my friend's
study, and was glad to see my old acquaintance, Mr. Francis Barber, who
was now returned home. Dr. Johnson received me with a hearty welcome;
saying, 'I am glad you are come.'
I thanked him for showing civilities to Beattie. 'Sir, (said he,) I should
thank YOU. We all love Beattie. Mrs. Thrale says, if ever she has another
husband, she'll have Beattie. He sunk upon us that he was married; else we
should have shewn his lady more civilities. She is a very fine woman. But
how can you shew civilities to a nonentity? I did not think he had been

married. Nay, I did not think about it one way or other; but he did not tell us
of his lady till late.'
He then spoke of St. Kilda, the most remote of the Hebrides. I told him, I
thought of buying it. JOHNSON. 'Pray do, Sir. We will go and pass a winter
amid the blasts there. We shall have fine fish, and we will take some dried
tongues with us, and some books. We will have a strong built vessel, and
some Orkney men to navigate her. We must build a tolerable house: but we
may carry with us a wooden house ready made, and requiring nothing but to
be put up. Consider, Sir, by buying St. Kilda, you may keep the people from
falling into worse hands. We must give them a clergyman, and he shall be
one of Beattie's choosing. He shall be educated at Marischal College. I'll be
your Lord Chancellor, or what you please.' BOSWELL. 'Are you serious,
Sir, in advising me to buy St. Kilda? for if you should advise me to go to
Japan, I believe I should do it.' JOHNSON. 'Why yes, Sir, I am serious.'
BOSWELL. 'Why then, I'll see what can be done.'
He was engaged to dine abroad, and asked me to return to him in the
evening at nine, which I accordingly did.
We drank tea with Mrs. Williams, who told us a story of second sight,
which happened in Wales where she was born. He listened to it very
attentively, and said he should be glad to have some instances of that
faculty well authenticated. His elevated wish for more and more evidence
for spirit, in opposition to the groveling belief of materialism, led him to a
love of such mysterious disquisitions. He again justly observed, that we
could have no certainty of the truth of supernatural appearances, unless
something was told us which we could not know by ordinary means, or
something done which could not be done but by supernatural power; that
Pharaoh in reason and justice required such evidence from Moses; nay, that
our Saviour said, 'If I had not done among them the works which none other
man did, they had not had sin.'
We talked of the Roman Catholick religion, and how little difference
there was in essential matters between ours and it. JOHNSON. 'True, Sir;
all denominations of Christians have really little difference in point of
doctrine, though they may differ widely in external forms. There is a
prodigious difference between the external form of one of your Presbyterian
churches in Scotland, and a church in Italy; yet the doctrine taught is
essentially the same.

In the morning we had talked of old families, and the respect due to
them. JOHNSON. 'Sir, you have a right to that kind of respect, and are
arguing for yourself. I am for supporting the principle, and am disinterested
in doing it, as I have no such right.' BOSWELL. 'Why, Sir, it is one more
incitement to a man to do well.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir, and it is a matter of
opinion, very necessary to keep society together. What is it but opinion, by
which we have a respect for authority, that prevents us, who are the rabble,
from rising up and pulling down you who are gentlemen from your places,
and saying, "We will be gentlemen in our turn?" Now, Sir, that respect for
authority is much more easily granted to a man whose father has had it, than
to an upstart, and so Society is more easily supported.' BOSWELL. 'At
present, Sir, I think riches seem to gain most respect.' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir,
riches do not gain hearty respect; they only procure external attention. A
very rich man, from low beginnings, may buy his election in a borough;
but, coeteris paribus, a man of family will be preferred. People will prefer a
man for whose father their fathers have voted, though they should get no
more money, or even less. That shows that the respect for family is not
merely fanciful, but has an actual operation. If gentlemen of family would
allow the rich upstarts to spend their money profusely, which they are ready
enough to do, and not vie with them in expence, the upstarts would soon be
at an end, and the gentlemen would remain: but if the gentlemen will vie in
expence with the upstarts, which is very foolish, they must be ruined.'
On Monday, March 23, I found him busy, preparing a fourth edition of
his folio Dictionary. Mr. Peyton, one of his original amanuenses, was
writing for him.
He seemed also to be intent on some sort of chymical operation. I was
entertained by observing how he contrived to send Mr. Peyton on an errand,
without seeming to degrade him. 'Mr. Peyton,—Mr. Peyton, will you be so
good as to take a walk to Temple-Bar? You will there see a chymist's shop;
at which you will be pleased to buy for me an ounce of oil of vitriol; not
spirit of vitriol, but oil of vitriol. It will cost three half-pence.' Peyton
immediately went, and returned with it, and told him it cost but a penny.
On Saturday, March 27, I introduced to him Sir Alexander Macdonald,
with whom he had expressed a wish to be acquainted. He received him very
courteously.

SIR A. 'I think, Sir, almost all great lawyers, such at least as have written
upon law, have known only law, and nothing else.' JOHNSON. 'Why no,
Sir; Judge Hale was a great lawyer, and wrote upon law; and yet he knew a
great many other things; and has written upon other things. Selden too.' SIR
A. 'Very true, Sir; and Lord Bacon. But was not Lord Coke a mere lawyer?'
JOHNSON. 'Why, I am afraid he was; but he would have taken it very ill if
you had told him so. He would have prosecuted you for scandal.'
BOSWELL. 'Lord Mansfield is not a mere lawyer. JOHNSON. 'No, Sir. I
never was in Lord Mansfield's company; but Lord Mansfield was
distinguished at the University. Lord Mansfield, when he first came to
town, "drank champagne with the wits," as Prior says. He was the friend of
Pope.' SIR A. 'Barristers, I believe, are not so abusive now as they were
formerly. I fancy they had less law long ago, and so were obliged to take to
abuse, to fill up the time. Now they have such a number of precedents, they
have no occasion for abuse.' JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, they had more law long
ago than they have now. As to precedents, to be sure they will increase in
course of time; but the more precedents there are, the less occasion is there
for law; that is to say, the less occasion is there for investigating principles.'
SIR A. 'I have been correcting several Scotch accents in my friend Boswell.
I doubt, Sir, if any Scotchman ever attains to a perfect English
pronunciation.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, few of them do, because they do not
persevere after acquiring a certain degree of it. But, Sir, there can be no
doubt that they may attain to a perfect English pronunciation, if they will.
We find how near they come to it; and certainly, a man who conquers
nineteen parts of the Scottish accent, may conquer the twentieth. But, Sir,
when a man has got the better of nine tenths he grows weary, he relaxes his
diligence, he finds he has corrected his accent so far as not to be
disagreeable, and he no longer desires his friends to tell him when he is
wrong; nor does he choose to be told. Sir, when people watch me narrowly,
and I do not watch myself, they will find me out to be of a particular
county. In the same manner, Dunning may be found out to be a Devonshire
man. So most Scotchmen may be found out. But, Sir, little aberrations are
of no disadvantage. I never catched Mallet in a Scotch accent; and yet
Mallet, I suppose, was past five-and-twenty before he came to London.'
I again visited him at night. Finding him in a very good humour, I
ventured to lead him to the subject of our situation in a future state, having
much curiosity to know his notions on that point. . . .

BOSWELL. 'I do not know whether there are any well-attested stories of
the appearance of ghosts. You know there is a famous story of the
appearance of Mrs. Veal, prefixed to Drelincourt on Death.' JOHNSON. 'I
believe, Sir, that is given up. I believe the woman declared upon her death-
bed that it was a lie.' BOSWELL. 'This objection is made against the truth
of ghosts appearing: that if they are in a state of happiness, it would be a
punishment to them to return to this world; and if they are in a state of
misery, it would be giving them a respite.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, as the
happiness or misery of embodied spirits does not depend upon place, but is
intellectual, we cannot say that they are less happy or less miserable by
appearing upon earth.'
We went down between twelve and one to Mrs. Williams's room, and
drank tea. I mentioned that we were to have the remains of Mr. Gray, in
prose and verse, published by Mr. Mason. JOHNSON. 'I think we have had
enough of Gray. I see they have published a splendid edition of Akenside's
works. One bad ode may be suffered; but a number of them together makes
one sick.' BOSWELL. 'Akenside's distinguished poem is his Pleasures of
Imagination; but for my part, I never could admire it so much as most
people do.' JOHNSON. 'Sir, I could not read it through.' BOSWELL. 'I have
read it through; but I did not find any great power in it.'
On Tuesday, March 31, he and I dined at General Paoli's.
Dr. Johnson went home with me to my lodgings in Conduit-street and
drank tea, previous to our going to the Pantheon, which neither of us had
seen before.
He said, 'Goldsmith's Life of Parnell is poor; not that it is poorly written,
but that he had poor materials; for nobody can write the life of a man, but
those who have eat and drunk and lived in social intercourse with him.'
I said, that if it was not troublesome and presuming too much, I would
request him to tell me all the little circumstances of his life; what schools he
attended, when he came to Oxford, when he came to London, &c. &c. He
did not disapprove of my curiosity as to these particulars; but said, 'They'll
come out by degrees as we talk together.'
We talked of the proper use of riches. JOHNSON. 'If I were a man of a
great estate, I would drive all the rascals whom I did not like out of the
county at an election.'

We then walked to the Pantheon. The first view of it did not strike us so
much as Ranelagh, of which he said, the 'coup d'oeil was the finest thing he
had ever seen.' The truth is, Ranelagh is of a more beautiful form; more of it
or rather indeed the whole rotunda, appears at once, and it is better lighted.
However, as Johnson observed, we saw the Pantheon in time of mourning,
when there was a dull uniformity; whereas we had seen Ranelagh when the
view was enlivened with a gay profusion of colours. Mrs. Bosville, of
Gunthwait, in Yorkshire, joined us, and entered into conversation with us.
Johnson said to me afterwards, 'Sir, this is a mighty intelligent lady.'
I said there was not half a guinea's worth of pleasure in seeing this place.
JOHNSON. 'But, Sir, there is half a guinea's worth of inferiority to other
people in not having seen it.' BOSWELL. 'I doubt, Sir, whether there are
many happy people here.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir, there are many happy
people here. There are many people here who are watching hundreds, and
who think hundreds are watching them.'
Happening to meet Sir Adam Fergusson, I presented him to Dr. Johnson.
Sir Adam expressed some apprehension that the Pantheon would encourage
luxury. 'Sir, (said Johnson,) I am a great friend to publick amusements; for
they keep people from vice. You now (addressing himself to me,) would
have been with a wench, had you not been here.—O! I forgot you were
married.'
Sir Adam suggested, that luxury corrupts a people, and destroys the spirit
of liberty. JOHNSON. 'Sir, that is all visionary. I would not give half a
guinea to live under one form of government rather than another. It is of no
moment to the happiness of an individual. Sir, the danger of the abuse of
power is nothing to a private man. What Frenchman is prevented from
passing his life as he pleases?' SIR ADAM. 'But, Sir, in the British
constitution it is surely of importance to keep up a spirit in the people, so as
to preserve a balance against the crown.' JOHNSON. 'Sir, I perceive you are
a vile Whig. Why all this childish jealousy of the power of the crown? The
crown has not power enough. When I say that all governments are alike, I
consider that in no government power can be abused long. Mankind will not
bear it. If a sovereign oppresses his people to a great degree, they will rise
and cut off his head. There is a remedy in human nature against tyranny,
that will keep us safe under every form of government. Had not the people
of France thought themselves honoured as sharing in the brilliant actions of

Lewis XIV, they would not have endured him; and we may say the same of
the King of Prussia's people.' Sir Adam introduced the ancient Greeks and
Romans. JOHNSON. 'Sir, the mass of both of them were barbarians. The
mass of every people must be barbarous where there is no printing, and
consequently knowledge is not generally diffused. Knowledge is diffused
among our people by the news-papers.' Sir Adam mentioned the orators,
poets, and artists of Greece. JOHNSON. 'Sir, I am talking of the mass of the
people. We see even what the boasted Athenians were. The little effect
which Demosthenes's orations had upon them, shews that they were
barbarians.'
On Sunday, April 5, after attending divine service at St. Paul's church, I
found him alone.
He said, he went more frequently to church when there were prayers
only, than when there was also a sermon, as the people required more an
example for the one than the other; it being much easier for them to hear a
sermon, than to fix their minds on prayer.
On Monday, April 6, I dined with him at Sir Alexander Macdonald's,
where was a young officer in the regimentals of the Scots Royal, who talked
with a vivacity, fluency, and precision so uncommon, that he attracted
particular attention. He proved to be the Honourable Thomas Erskine,
youngest brother to the Earl of Buchan, who has since risen into such
brilliant reputation at the bar in Westminster-hall.
Fielding being mentioned, Johnson exclaimed, 'he was a blockhead;' and
upon my expressing my astonishment at so strange an assertion, he said,
'What I mean by his being a blockhead is that he was a barren rascal.'
BOSWELL. 'Will you not allow, Sir, that he draws very natural pictures of
human life?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, it is of very low life. Richardson used to
say, that had he not known who Fielding was, he should have believed he
was an ostler. Sir, there is more knowledge of the heart in one letter of
Richardson's, than in all Tom Jones. I, indeed, never read Joseph Andrews.'
ERSKINE. 'Surely, Sir, Richardson is very tedious.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir,
if you were to read Richardson for the story, your impatience would be so
much fretted that you would hang yourself. But you must read him for the
sentiment, and consider the story as only giving occasion to the sentiment.'
We talked of gaming, and animadverted on it with severity. JOHNSON.
'Nay, gentlemen, let us not aggravate the matter. It is not roguery to play

with a man who is ignorant of the game, while you are master of it, and so
win his money; for he thinks he can play better than you, as you think you
can play better than he; and the superiour skill carries it.' ERSKINE. 'He is
a fool, but you are not a rogue.' JOHNSON. 'That's much about the truth,
Sir. It must be considered, that a man who only does what every one of the
society to which he belongs would do, is not a dishonest man. In the
republick of Sparta, it was agreed, that stealing was not dishonourable, if
not discovered. I do not commend a society where there is an agreement
that what would not otherwise be fair, shall be fair; but I maintain, that an
individual of any society, who practises what is allowed, is not a dishonest
man.' BOSWELL. 'So then, Sir, you do not think ill of a man who wins
perhaps forty thousand pounds in a winter?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, I do not call a
gamester a dishonest man; but I call him an unsocial man, an unprofitable
man. Gaming is a mode of transferring property without producing any
intermediate good. Trade gives employment to numbers, and so produces
intermediate good.'
On Thursday, April 9, I called on him to beg he would go and dine with
me at the Mitre tavern. He had resolved not to dine at all this day, I know
not for what reason; and I was so unwilling to be deprived of his company,
that I was content to submit to suffer a want, which was at first somewhat
painful, but he soon made me forget it; and a man is always pleased with
himself when he finds his intellectual inclinations predominate.
He observed, that to reason philosophically on the nature of prayer, was
very unprofitable.
Talking of ghosts, he said, he knew one friend, who was an honest man
and a sensible man, who told him he had seen a ghost, old Mr. Edward
Cave, the printer at St. John's Gate. He said, Mr. Cave did not like to talk of
it, and seemed to be in great horrour whenever it was mentioned.
BOSWELL. 'Pray, Sir, what did he say was the appearance?' JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, something of a shadowy being.'
On Friday, April 10, I dined with him at General Oglethorpe's, where we
found Dr. Goldsmith.
I started the question whether duelling was consistent with moral duty.
The brave old General fired at this, and said, with a lofty air, 'Undoubtedly
a man has a right to defend his honour.' GOLDSMITH. (turning to me,) 'I
ask you first, Sir, what would you do if you were affronted?' I answered I

should think it necessary to fight. 'Why then, (replied Goldsmith,) that
solves the question.' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, it does not solve the question. It
does not follow that what a man would do is therefore right.' I said, I wished
to have it settled, whether duelling was contrary to the laws of Christianity.
Johnson immediately entered on the subject, and treated it in a masterly
manner; and so far as I have been able to recollect, his thoughts were these:
'Sir, as men become in a high degree refined, various causes of offence
arise; which are considered to be of such importance, that life must be
staked to atone for them, though in reality they are not so. A body that has
received a very fine polish may be easily hurt. Before men arrive at this
artificial refinement, if one tells his neighbour he lies, his neighbour tells
him he lies; if one gives his neighbour a blow, his neighbour gives him a
blow: but in a state of highly polished society, an affront is held to be a
serious injury. It must therefore be resented, or rather a duel must be fought
upon it; as men have agreed to banish from their society one who puts up
with an affront without fighting a duel. Now, Sir, it is never unlawful to
fight in self-defence. He, then, who fights a duel, does not fight from
passion against his antagonist, but out of self-defence; to avert the stigma of
the world, and to prevent himself from being driven out of society. I could
wish there was not that superfluity of refinement; but while such notions
prevail, no doubt a man may lawfully fight a duel.'
The General told us, that when he was a very young man, I think only
fifteen, serving under Prince Eugene of Savoy, he was sitting in a company
at table with a Prince of Wirtemberg. The Prince took up a glass of wine,
and, by a fillip, made some of it fly in Oglethorpe's face. Here was a nice
dilemma. To have challenged him instantly, might have fixed a quarrelsome
character upon the young soldier: to have taken no notice of it might have
been considered as cowardice. Oglethorpe, therefore, keeping his eye upon
the Prince, and smiling all the time, as if he took what his Highness had
done in jest, said 'Mon Prince,—'. (I forget the French words he used, the
purport however was,) 'That's a good joke; but we do it much better in
England;' and threw a whole glass of wine in the Prince's face. An old
General who sat by, said, 'Il a bien fait, mon Prince, vous l'avez commence:'
and thus all ended in good humour.
Dr. Johnson said, 'Pray, General, give us an account of the siege of
Belgrade.' Upon which the General, pouring a little wine upon the table,

described every thing with a wet finger: 'Here we were, here were the
Turks,' &c. &c. Johnson listened with the closest attention.
A question was started, how far people who disagree in a capital point
can live in friendship together. Johnson said they might. Goldsmith said
they could not, as they had not the idem velle atque idem nolle—the same
likings and the same aversions. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, you must shun the
subject as to which you disagree. For instance, I can live very well with
Burke: I love his knowledge, his genius, his diffusion, and affluence of
conversation; but I would not talk to him of the Rockingham party.'
GOLDSMITH. 'But, Sir, when people live together who have something as
to which they disagree, and which they want to shun, they will be in the
situation mentioned in the story of Bluebeard: "You may look into all the
chambers but one." But we should have the greatest inclination to look into
that chamber, to talk of that subject.' JOHNSON. (with a loud voice,) 'Sir, I
am not saying that YOU could live in friendship with a man from whom
you differ as to some point: I am only saying that I could do it. You put me
in mind of Sappho in Ovid.'
Goldsmith told us, that he was now busy in writing a natural history, and,
that he might have full leisure for it, he had taken lodgings, at a farmer's
house, near to the six milestone, on the Edgeware road, and had carried
down his books in two returned post-chaises. He said, he believed the
farmer's family thought him an odd character, similar to that in which the
Spectator appeared to his landlady and her children: he was The Gentleman.
Mr. Mickle, the translator of The Lusiad, and I went to visit him at this
place a few days afterwards. He was not at home; but having a curiosity to
see his apartment, we went in and found curious scraps of descriptions of
animals, scrawled upon the wall with a black lead pencil.
On Saturday, April 11, he appointed me to come to him in the evening,
when he should be at leisure to give me some assistance for the defence of
Hastie, the schoolmaster of Campbelltown, for whom I was to appear in the
house of Lords. When I came, I found him unwilling to exert himself. I
pressed him to write down his thoughts upon the subject. He said, 'There's
no occasion for my writing. I'll talk to you.' . . .
Of our friend, Goldsmith, he said, 'Sir, he is so much afraid of being
unnoticed, that he often talks merely lest you should forget that he is in the
company.' BOSWELL. 'Yes, he stands forward.' JOHNSON. 'True, Sir; but

if a man is to stand forward, he should wish to do it not in an aukward
posture, not in rags, not so as that he shall only be exposed to ridicule.'
BOSWELL. 'For my part, I like very well to hear honest Goldsmith talk
away carelessly.' JOHNSON. 'Why yes, Sir; but he should not like to hear
himself.' . . .
On Tuesday, April 14, the decree of the Court of Session in the
schoolmaster's cause was reversed in the House of Lords, after a very
eloquent speech by Lord Mansfield, who shewed himself an adept in school
discipline, but I thought was too rigorous towards my client. On the evening
of the next day I supped with Dr. Johnson, at the Crown and Anchor tavern,
in the Strand, in company with Mr. Langton and his brother-in-law, Lord
Binning.
I talked of the recent expulsion of six students from the University of
Oxford, who were methodists and would not desist from publickly praying
and exhorting. JOHNSON. 'Sir, that expulsion was extremely just and
proper. What have they to do at an University who are not willing to be
taught, but will presume to teach? Where is religion to be learnt but at an
University? Sir, they were examined, and found to be mighty ignorant
fellows.' BOSWELL. 'But, was it not hard, Sir, to expel them, for I am told
they were good beings?' JOHNSON. 'I believe they might be good beings;
but they were not fit to be in the University of Oxford. A cow is a very good
animal in the field; but we turn her out of a garden.' Lord Elibank used to
repeat this as an illustration uncommonly happy.
Desirous of calling Johnson forth to talk, and exercise his wit, though I
should myself be the object of it, I resolutely ventured to undertake the
defence of convivial indulgence in wine, though he was not to-night in the
most genial humour. After urging the common plausible topicks, I at last
had recourse to the maxim, in vino veritas, a man who is well warmed with
wine will speak truth. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, that may be an argument for
drinking, if you suppose men in general to be liars. But, Sir, I would not
keep company with a fellow, who lyes as long as he is sober, and whom you
must make drunk before you can get a word of truth out of him.'
At this time it appears from his Prayers and Meditations, that he had been
more than commonly diligent in religious duties, particularly in reading the
Holy Scriptures. It was Passion Week, that solemn season which the
Christian world has appropriated to the commemoration of the mysteries of

our redemption, and during which, whatever embers of religion are in our
breasts, will be kindled into pious warmth.
I paid him short visits both on Friday and Saturday, and seeing his large
folio Greek Testament before him, beheld him with a reverential awe, and
would not intrude upon his time. While he was thus employed to such good
purpose, and while his friends in their intercourse with him constantly
found a vigorous intellect and a lively imagination, it is melancholy to read
in his private register, 'My mind is unsettled and my memory confused. I
have of late turned my thoughts with a very useless earnestness upon past
incidents. I have yet got no command over my thoughts; an unpleasing
incident is almost certain to hinder my rest.' What philosophick heroism
was it in him to appear with such manly fortitude to the world while he was
inwardly so distressed! We may surely believe that the mysterious principle
of being 'made perfect through suffering' was to be strongly exemplified in
him.
On Sunday, April 19, being Easter-day, General Paoli and I paid him a
visit before dinner.
We talked of sounds. The General said, there was no beauty in a simple
sound, but only in an harmonious composition of sounds. I presumed to
differ from this opinion, and mentioned the soft and sweet sound of a fine
woman's voice. JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, if a serpent or a toad uttered it, you
would think it ugly.' BOSWELL. 'So you would think, Sir, were a beautiful
tune to be uttered by one of those animals.' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, it would be
admired. We have seen fine fiddlers whom we liked as little as toads.'
(laughing.)
While I remained in London this spring, I was with him at several other
times, both by himself and in company. I dined with him one day at the
Crown and Anchor tavern, in the Strand, with Lord Elibank, Mr. Langton,
and Dr. Vansittart of Oxford. Without specifying each particular day, I have
preserved the following memorable things.
I regretted the reflection in his Preface to Shakspeare against Garrick, to
whom we cannot but apply the following passage: 'I collated such copies as
I could procure, and wished for more, but have not found the collectors of
these rarities very communicative.' I told him, that Garrick had complained
to me of it, and had vindicated himself by assuring me, that Johnson was
made welcome to the full use of his collection, and that he left the key of it

with a servant, with orders to have a fire and every convenience for him. I
found Johnson's notion was, that Garrick wanted to be courted for them,
and that, on the contrary, Garrick should have courted him, and sent him the
plays of his own accord. But, indeed, considering the slovenly and careless
manner in which books were treated by Johnson, it could not be expected
that scarce and valuable editions should have been lent to him.
A gentleman* having to some of the usual arguments for drinking added
this: 'You know, Sir, drinking drives away care, and makes us forget
whatever is disagreeable. Would not you allow a man to drink for that
reason?' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir, if he sat next YOU.'
* The gentleman most likely is Boswell.—HILL.

A learned gentleman who in the course of conversation wished to inform
us of this simple fact, that the Counsel upon the circuit at Shrewsbury were
much bitten by fleas, took, I suppose, seven or eight minutes in relating it
circumstantially. He in a plenitude of phrase told us, that large bales of
woollen cloth were lodged in the town-hall;—that by reason of this, fleas
nestled there in prodigious numbers; that the lodgings of the counsel were
near to the town-hall;—and that those little animals moved from place to
place with wonderful agility. Johnson sat in great impatience till the
gentleman had finished his tedious narrative, and then burst out (playfully
however), 'It is a pity, Sir, that you have not seen a lion; for a flea has taken
you such a time, that a lion must have served you a twelvemonth.'
He would not allow Scotland to derive any credit from Lord Mansfield;
for he was educated in England. 'Much (said he,) may be made of a
Scotchman, if he be CAUGHT young.'
He said, 'I am very unwilling to read the manuscripts of authours, and
give them my opinion. If the authours who apply to me have money, I bid
them boldly print without a name; if they have written in order to get
money, I tell them to go to the booksellers, and make the best bargain they
can.' BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, if a bookseller should bring you a manuscript to
look at?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I would desire the bookseller to take it
away.'
I mentioned a friend of mine who had resided long in Spain, and was
unwilling to return to Britain. JOHNSON. 'Sir, he is attached to some
woman.' BOSWELL. 'I rather believe, Sir, it is the fine climate which keeps
him there.' JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, how can you talk so? What is CLIMATE

to happiness? Place me in the heart of Asia, should I not be exiled? What
proportion does climate bear to the complex system of human life? You
may advise me to go to live at Bologna to eat sausages. The sausages there
are the best in the world; they lose much by being carried.'
On Saturday, May 9, Mr. Dempster and I had agreed to dine by ourselves
at the British Coffee-house. Johnson, on whom I happened to call in the
morning, said he would join us, which he did, and we spent a very
agreeable day, though I recollect but little of what passed.
He said, 'Walpole was a minister given by the King to the people: Pitt
was a minister given by the people to the King,—as an adjunct.'
'The misfortune of Goldsmith in conversation is this: he goes on without
knowing how he is to get off. His genius is great, but his knowledge is
small. As they say of a generous man, it is a pity he is not rich, we may say
of Goldsmith, it is a pity he is not knowing. He would not keep his
knowledge to himself.'
1773: AETAT. 64.]—In 1773 his only publication was an edition of his
folio Dictionary, with additions and corrections; nor did he, so far as is
known, furnish any productions of his fertile pen to any of his numerous
friends or dependants, except the Preface to his old amanuensis Macbean's
Dictionary of Ancient Geography.
'TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.
'DEAR SIR,— . . . A new edition of my great Dictionary is printed, from
a copy which I was persuaded to revise; but having made no preparation, I
was able to do very little. Some superfluities I have expunged, and some
faults I have corrected, and here and there have scattered a remark; but the
main fabrick of the work remains as it was. I had looked very little into it
since I wrote it, and, I think, I found it full as often better, as worse, than I
expected.
'Baretti and Davies have had a furious quarrel; a quarrel, I think,
irreconcileable. Dr. Goldsmith has a new comedy, which is expected in the
spring. No name is yet given it. The chief diversion arises from a stratagem
by which a lover is made to mistake his future father-in-law's house for an
inn. This, you see, borders upon farce. The dialogue is quick and gay, and
the incidents are so prepared as not to seem improbable. . . .

'My health seems in general to improve; but I have been troubled for
many weeks with a vexatious catarrh, which is sometimes sufficiently
distressful. I have not found any great effects from bleeding and physick;
and am afraid, that I must expect help from brighter days and softer air.
'Write to me now and then; and whenever any good befalls you, make
haste to let me know it, for no one will rejoice at it more than, dear Sir, your
most humble servant,
'SAM. JOHNSON.'
'London, Feb. 24, 1773.'
'You continue to stand very high in the favour of Mrs. Thrale.'
While a former edition of my work was passing through the press, I was
unexpectedly favoured with a packet from Philadelphia, from Mr. James
Abercrombie, a gentleman of that country, who is pleased to honour me
with very high praise of my Life of Dr. Johnson. To have the fame of my
illustrious friend, and his faithful biographer, echoed from the New World is
extremely flattering; and my grateful acknowledgements shall be wafted
across the Atlantick. Mr. Abercrombie has politely conferred on me a
considerable additional obligation, by transmitting to me copies of two
letters from Dr. Johnson to American gentlemen.
On Saturday, April 3, the day after my arrival in London this year, I went
to his house late in the evening, and sat with Mrs. Williams till he came
home. I found in the London Chronicle, Dr. Goldsmith's apology to the
publick for beating Evans, a bookseller, on account of a paragraph in a
newspaper published by him, which Goldsmith thought impertinent to him
and to a lady of his acquaintance. The apology was written so much in Dr.
Johnson's manner, that both Mrs. Williams and I supposed it to be his; but
when he came home, he soon undeceived us. When he said to Mrs.
Williams, 'Well, Dr. Goldsmith's manifesto has got into your paper;' I asked
him if Dr. Goldsmith had written it, with an air that made him see I
suspected it was his, though subscribed by Goldsmith. JOHNSON. 'Sir, Dr.
Goldsmith would no more have asked me to write such a thing as that for
him, than he would have asked me to feed him with a spoon, or to do
anything else that denoted his imbecility. I as much believe that he wrote it,
as if I had seen him do it. Sir, had he shewn it to any one friend, he would
not have been allowed to publish it. He has, indeed, done it very well; but it
is a foolish thing well done. I suppose he has been so much elated with the

success of his new comedy, that he has thought every thing that concerned
him must be of importance to the publick.' BOSWELL. 'I fancy, Sir, this is
the first time that he has been engaged in such an adventure.' JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, I believe it is the first time he has BEAT; he may have BEEN
BEATEN before. This, Sir, is a new plume to him.'
At Mr. Thrale's, in the evening, he repeated his usual paradoxical
declamation against action in publick speaking. 'Action can have no effect
upon reasonable minds. It may augment noise, but it never can enforce
argument.'
Lord Chesterfield being mentioned, Johnson remarked, that almost all of
that celebrated nobleman's witty sayings were puns. He, however, allowed
the merit of good wit to his Lordship's saying of Lord Tyrawley and
himself, when both very old and infirm: 'Tyrawley and I have been dead
these two years; but we don't choose to have it known.'
The conversation having turned on modern imitations of ancient ballads,
and some one having praised their simplicity, he treated them with that
ridicule which he always displayed when that subject was mentioned.
He disapproved of introducing scripture phrases into secular discourse.
This seemed to me a question of some difficulty. A scripture expression
may be used, like a highly classical phrase, to produce an instantaneous
strong impression; and it may be done without being at all improper. Yet I
own there is danger, that applying the language of our sacred book to
ordinary subjects may tend to lessen our reverence for it. If therefore it be
introduced at all, it should be with very great caution.
On Thursday, April 8, I sat a good part of the evening with him, but he
was very silent.
Though he was not disposed to talk, he was unwilling that I should leave
him; and when I looked at my watch, and told him it was twelve o'clock, he
cried, What's that to you and me?' and ordered Frank to tell Mrs. Williams
that we were coming to drink tea with her, which we did. It was settled that
we should go to church together next day.
On the 9th of April, being Good Friday, I breakfasted with him on tea and
cross-buns; DOCTOR Levet, as Frank called him, making the tea. He
carried me with him to the church of St. Clement Danes, where he had his
seat; and his behaviour was, as I had imaged to myself, solemnly devout. I
never shall forget the tremulous earnestness with which he pronounced the

awful petition in the Litany: 'In the hour of death, and at the day of
judgement, good LORD deliver us.
We went to church both in the morning and evening. In the interval
between the two services we did not dine; but he read in the Greek New
Testament, and I turned over several of his books.
I told him that Goldsmith had said to me a few days before, 'As I take my
shoes from the shoemaker, and my coat from the taylor, so I take my
religion from the priest.' I regretted this loose way of talking. JOHNSON.
'Sir, he knows nothing; he has made up his mind about nothing.'
To my great surprize he asked me to dine with him on Easter-day. I never
supposed that he had a dinner at his house; for I had not then heard of any
one of his friends having been entertained at his table. He told me, 'I
generally have a meat pye on Sunday: it is baked at a publick oven, which
is very properly allowed, because one man can attend it; and thus the
advantage is obtained of not keeping servants from church to dress dinners.'
April 11, being Easter-Sunday, after having attended Divine Service at St.
Paul's, I repaired to Dr. Johnson's. I had gratified my curiosity much in
dining with JEAN JAQUES ROUSSEAU, while he lived in the wilds of
Neufchatel: I had as great a curiosity to dine with DR. SAMUEL
JOHNSON, in the dusky recess of a court in Fleet-street. I supposed we
should scarcely have knives and forks, and only some strange, uncouth, ill-
drest dish: but I found every thing in very good order. We had no other
company but Mrs. Williams and a young woman whom I did not know. As
a dinner here was considered as a singular phaenomenon, and as I was
frequently interrogated on the subject, my readers may perhaps be desirous
to know our bill of fare. Foote, I remember, in allusion to Francis, the
NEGRO, was willing to suppose that our repast was BLACK BROTH. But
the fact was, that we had a very good soup, a boiled leg of lamb and
spinach, a veal pye, and a rice pudding.
He owned that he thought Hawkesworth was one of his imitators, but he
did not think Goldsmith was. Goldsmith, he said, had great merit.
BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, he is much indebted to you for his getting so high in
the publick estimation.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, he has perhaps got SOONER
to it by his intimacy with me.'
Goldsmith, though his vanity often excited him to occasional
competition, had a very high regard for Johnson, which he at this time

expressed in the strongest manner in the Dedication of his comedy, entitled,
She Stoops to Conquer.
He told me that he had twelve or fourteen times attempted to keep a
journal of his life, but never could persevere. He advised me to do it. 'The
great thing to be recorded, (said he,) is the state of your own mind; and you
should write down every thing that you remember, for you cannot judge at
first what is good or bad; and write immediately while the impression is
fresh, for it will not be the same a week afterwards.'
I again solicited him to communicate to me the particulars of his early
life. He said, 'You shall have them all for two-pence. I hope you shall know
a great deal more of me before you write my Life.' He mentioned to me this
day many circumstances, which I wrote down when I went home, and have
interwoven in the former part of this narrative.
On Tuesday, April 13, he and Dr. Goldsmith and I dined at General
Oglethorpe's. Goldsmith expatiated on the common topick, that the race of
our people was degenerated, and that this was owing to luxury. JOHNSON.
'Sir, in the first place, I doubt the fact. I believe there are as many tall men
in England now, as ever there were. But, secondly, supposing the stature of
our people to be diminished, that is not owing to luxury; for, Sir, consider to
how very small a proportion of our people luxury can reach. Our soldiery,
surely, are not luxurious, who live on sixpence a day; and the same remark
will apply to almost all the other classes. Luxury, so far as it reaches the
poor, will do good to the race of people; it will strengthen and multiply
them. Sir, no nation was ever hurt by luxury; for, as I said before, it can
reach but to a very few. I admit that the great increase of commerce and
manufactures hurts the military spirit of a people; because it produces a
competition for something else than martial honours,—a competition for
riches. It also hurts the bodies of the people; for you will observe, there is
no man who works at any particular trade, but you may know him from his
appearance to do so. One part or other of his body being more used than the
rest, he is in some degree deformed: but, Sir, that is not luxury. A tailor sits
cross-legged; but that is not luxury.' GOLDSMITH. 'Come, you're just
going to the same place by another road.' JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, I say that is
not LUXURY. Let us take a walk from Charing-cross to White-chapel,
through, I suppose, the greatest series of shops in the world; what is there in
any of these shops (if you except gin-shops,) that can do any human being

any harm?' GOLDSMITH. 'Well, Sir, I'll accept your challenge. The very
next shop to Northumberland-house is a pickle-shop.' JOHNSON. 'Well,
Sir: do we not know that a maid can in one afternoon make pickles
sufficient to serve a whole family for a year? nay, that five pickle-shops can
serve all the kingdom? Besides, Sir, there is no harm done to any body by
the making of pickles, or the eating of pickles.'
We drank tea with the ladies; and Goldsmith sung Tony Lumpkin's song
in his comedy, She Stoops to Conquer, and a very pretty one, to an Irish
tune, which he had designed for Miss Hardcastle; but as Mrs. Bulkeley, who
played the part, could not sing, it was left out. He afterwards wrote it down
for me, by which means it was preserved, and now appears amongst his
poems. Dr. Johnson, in his way home, stopped at my lodgings in Piccadilly,
and sat with me, drinking tea a second time, till a late hour.
I told him that Mrs. Macaulay said, she wondered how he could reconcile
his political principles with his moral; his notions of inequality and
subordination with wishing well to the happiness of all mankind, who might
live so agreeably, had they all their portions of land, and none to domineer
over another. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I reconcile my principles very well,
because mankind are happier in a state of inequality and subordination.
Were they to be in this pretty state of equality, they would soon degenerate
into brutes;—they would become Monboddo's nation;—their tails would
grow. Sir, all would be losers were all to work for all—they would have no
intellectual improvement. All intellectual improvement arises from leisure;
all leisure arises from one working for another.'
Talking of the family of Stuart, he said, 'It should seem that the family at
present on the throne has now established as good a right as the former
family, by the long consent of the people; and that to disturb this right might
be considered as culpable. At the same time I own, that it is a very difficult
question, when considered with respect to the house of Stuart. To oblige
people to take oaths as to the disputed right, is wrong. I know not whether I
could take them: but I do not blame those who do.' So conscientious and so
delicate was he upon this subject, which has occasioned so much clamour
against him.
On Thursday, April 15, I dined with him and Dr. Goldsmith at General
Paoli's.

I spoke of Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, in the Scottish dialect, as the
best pastoral that had ever been written; not only abounding with beautiful
rural imagery, and just and pleasing sentiments, but being a real picture of
manners; and I offered to teach Dr. Johnson to understand it. 'No, Sir, (said
he,) I won't learn it. You shall retain your superiority by my not knowing it.'
It having been observed that there was little hospitality in London;—
JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, any man who has a name, or who has the power of
pleasing, will be very generally invited in London. The man, Sterne, I have
been told, has had engagements for three months.' GOLDSMITH. 'And a
very dull fellow.' JOHNSON. 'Why, no, Sir.'
Martinelli told us, that for several years he lived much with Charles
Townshend, and that he ventured to tell him he was a bad joker. JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, thus much I can say upon the subject. One day he and a few more
agreed to go and dine in the country, and each of them was to bring a friend
in his carriage with him. Charles Townshend asked Fitzherbert to go with
him, but told him, "You must find somebody to bring you back: I can only
carry you there." Fitzherbert did not much like this arrangement. He
however consented, observing sarcastically, "It will do very well; for then
the same jokes will serve you in returning as in going."'
An eminent publick character being mentioned;—JOHNSON. 'I
remember being present when he shewed himself to be so corrupted, or at
least something so different from what I think right, as to maintain, that a
member of parliament should go along with his party right or wrong. Now,
Sir, this is so remote from native virtue, from scholastick virtue, that a good
man must have undergone a great change before he can reconcile himself to
such a doctrine. It is maintaining that you may lie to the publick; for you lie
when you call that right which you think wrong, or the reverse. A friend of
ours, who is too much an echo of that gentleman, observed, that a man who
does not stick uniformly to a party, is only waiting to be bought. Why then,
said I, he is only waiting to be what that gentleman is already.'
We talked of the King's coming to see Goldsmith's new play.—'I wish he
would,' said Goldsmith; adding, however, with an affected indifference,
'Not that it would do me the least good.' JOHNSON. 'Well then, Sir, let us
say it would do HIM good, (laughing.) No, Sir, this affectation will not
pass;—it is mighty idle. In such a state as ours, who would not wish to

please the Chief Magistrate?' GOLDSMITH. 'I DO wish to please him. I
remember a line in Dryden,—
"And every poet is the monarch's friend."

It ought to be reversed.' JOHNSON. 'Nay, there are finer lines in Dryden
on this subject:—
"For colleges on bounteous Kings depend,
And never rebel was to arts a friend."'

General Paoli observed, that 'successful rebels might.' MARTINELLI.
'Happy rebellions.' GOLDSMITH. 'We have no such phrase.' GENERAL
PAOLI. 'But have you not the THING?' GOLDSMITH. 'Yes; all our
HAPPY revolutions. They have hurt our constitution, and will hurt it, till we
mend it by another HAPPY REVOLUTION.' I never before discovered that
my friend Goldsmith had so much of the old prejudice in him.
General Paoli, talking of Goldsmith's new play, said, 'Il a fait un
compliment tres gracieux a une certaine grande dame;' meaning a Duchess
of the first rank.
I expressed a doubt whether Goldsmith intended it, in order that I might
hear the truth from himself. It, perhaps, was not quite fair to endeavour to
bring him to a confession, as he might not wish to avow positively his
taking part against the Court. He smiled and hesitated. The General at once
relieved him, by this beautiful image: 'Monsieur Goldsmith est comme la
mer, qui jette des perles et beaucoup d'autres belles choses, sans s'en
appercevoir.' GOLDSMITH. 'Tres bien dit et tres elegamment.'
A person was mentioned, who it was said could take down in short hand
the speeches in parliament with perfect exactness. JOHNSON. 'Sir, it is
impossible. I remember one, Angel, who came to me to write for him a
Preface or Dedication to a book upon short hand, and he professed to write
as fast as a man could speak. In order to try him, I took down a book, and
read while he wrote; and I favoured him, for I read more deliberately than
usual. I had proceeded but a very little way, when he begged I would desist,
for he could not follow me.' Hearing now for the first time of this Preface or
Dedication, I said, 'What an expense, Sir, do you put us to in buying books,
to which you have written Prefaces or Dedications.' JOHNSON. 'Why, I
have dedicated to the Royal family all round; that is to say, to the last
generation of the Royal family.' GOLDSMITH. 'And perhaps, Sir, not one
sentence of wit in a whole Dedication.' JOHNSON. 'Perhaps not, Sir.'

BOSWELL. 'What then is the reason for applying to a particular person to
do that which any one may do as well?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, one man has
greater readiness at doing it than another.'
I spoke of Mr. Harris, of Salisbury, as being a very learned man, and in
particular an eminent Grecian. JOHNSON. 'I am not sure of that. His
friends give him out as such, but I know not who of his friends are able to
judge of it.' GOLDSMITH. 'He is what is much better: he is a worthy
humane man.' JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, that is not to the purpose of our
argument: that will as much prove that he can play upon the fiddle as well
as Giardini, as that he is an eminent Grecian.' GOLDSMITH. 'The greatest
musical performers have but small emoluments. Giardini, I am told, does
not get above seven hundred a year.' JOHNSON. 'That is indeed but little
for a man to get, who does best that which so many endeavour to do. There
is nothing, I think, in which the power of art is shown so much as in playing
on the fiddle. In all other things we can do something at first. Any man will
forge a bar of iron, if you give him a hammer; not so well as a smith, but
tolerably. A man will saw a piece of wood, and make a box, though a
clumsy one; but give him a fiddle and a fiddle-stick, and he can do nothing.'
On Monday, April 19, he called on me with Mrs. Williams, in Mr.
Strahan's coach, and carried me out to dine with Mr. Elphinston, at his
academy at Kensington. A printer having acquired a fortune sufficient to
keep his coach, was a good topick for the credit of literature. Mrs. Williams
said, that another printer, Mr. Hamilton, had not waited so long as Mr.
Strahan, but had kept his coach several years sooner. JOHNSON. 'He was in
the right. Life is short. The sooner that a man begins to enjoy his wealth the
better.'
Mr. Elphinston talked of a new book that was much admired, and asked
Dr. Johnson if he had read it. JOHNSON. 'I have looked into it.' 'What,
(said Elphinston,) have you not read it through?' Johnson, offended at being
thus pressed, and so obliged to own his cursory mode of reading, answered
tartly, 'No, Sir, do YOU read books THROUGH?'
On Wednesday, April 21, I dined with him at Mr. Thrale's. A gentleman
attacked Garrick for being vain. JOHNSON. 'No wonder, Sir, that he is
vain; a man who is perpetually flattered in every mode that can be
conceived. So many bellows have blown the fire, that one wonders he is not
by this time become a cinder.' BOSWELL. 'And such bellows too. Lord

Mansfield with his cheeks like to burst: Lord Chatham like an Aeolus. I
have read such notes from them to him, as were enough to turn his head.'
JOHNSON. 'True. When he whom every body else flatters, flatters me, I
then am truly happy.' Mrs. THRALE. 'The sentiment is in Congreve, I
think.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Madam, in The Way of the World:
"If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see
That heart which others bleed for, bleed for me."

No, Sir, I should not be surprized though Garrick chained the ocean, and
lashed the winds.' BOSWELL. 'Should it not be, Sir, lashed the ocean and
chained the winds?' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, recollect the original:
"In Corum atque Eurum solitus saevire flagellis
Barbarus, Aeolia nunquam hoc in carcere passos,
Ipsum compedibus qui vinxerat Ennosigaeum."

The modes of living in different countries, and the various views with
which men travel in quest of new scenes, having been talked of, a learned
gentleman who holds a considerable office in the law, expatiated on the
happiness of a savage life; and mentioned an instance of an officer who had
actually lived for some time in the wilds of America, of whom, when in that
state, he quoted this reflection with an air of admiration, as if it had been
deeply philosophical: 'Here am I, free and unrestrained, amidst the rude
magnificence of Nature, with this Indian woman by my side, and this gun
with which I can procure food when I want it; what more can be desired for
human happiness?' It did not require much sagacity to foresee that such a
sentiment would not be permitted to pass without due animadversion.
JOHNSON. 'Do not allow yourself, Sir, to be imposed upon by such gross
absurdity. It is sad stuff; it is brutish. If a bull could speak, he might as well
exclaim,—Here am I with this cow and this grass; what being can enjoy
greater felicity?'
We talked of the melancholy end of a gentleman who had destroyed
himself. JOHNSON. 'It was owing to imaginary difficulties in his affairs,
which, had he talked with any friend, would soon have vanished.'
BOSWELL. 'Do you think, Sir, that all who commit suicide are mad?'
JOHNSON. 'Sir, they are often not universally disordered in their intellects,
but one passion presses so upon them, that they yield to it, and commit
suicide, as a passionate man will stab another.' He added, 'I have often
thought, that after a man has taken the resolution to kill himself, it is not
courage in him to do any thing, however desperate, because he has nothing

to fear.' GOLDSMITH. 'I don't see that.' JOHNSON. 'Nay, but my dear Sir,
why should not you see what every one else sees?' GOLDSMITH. 'It is for
fear of something that he has resolved to kill himself; and will not that timid
disposition restrain him?' JOHNSON. 'It does not signify that the fear of
something made him resolve; it is upon the state of his mind, after the
resolution is taken, that I argue. Suppose a man, either from fear, or pride,
or conscience, or whatever motive, has resolved to kill himself; when once
the resolution is taken, he has nothing to fear. He may then go and take the
King of Prussia by the nose, at the head of his army. He cannot fear the
rack, who is resolved to kill himself. When Eustace Budgel was walking
down to the Thames, determined to drown himself, he might, if he pleased,
without any apprehension of danger, have turned aside, and first set fire to
St. James's palace.'
On Tuesday, April 27, Mr. Beauclerk and I called on him in the morning.
As we walked up Johnson's-court, I said, 'I have a veneration for this court;'
and was glad to find that Beauclerk had the same reverential enthusiasm.
We found him alone. We talked of Mr. Andrew Stuart's elegant and
plausible Letters to Lord Mansfield: a copy of which had been sent by the
authour to Dr. Johnson. JOHNSON. 'They have not answered the end. They
have not been talked of; I have never heard of them. This is owing to their
not being sold. People seldom read a book which is given to them; and few
are given. The way to spread a work is to sell it at a low price. No man will
send to buy a thing that costs even sixpence, without an intention to read it.'
He said, 'Goldsmith should not be for ever attempting to shine in
conversation: he has not temper for it, he is so much mortified when he
fails. Sir, a game of jokes is composed partly of skill, partly of chance, a
man may be beat at times by one who has not the tenth part of his wit. Now
Goldsmith's putting himself against another, is like a man laying a hundred
to one who cannot spare the hundred. It is not worth a man's while. A man
should not lay a hundred to one, unless he can easily spare it, though he has
a hundred chances for him: he can get but a guinea, and he may lose a
hundred. Goldsmith is in this state. When he contends, if he gets the better,
it is a very little addition to a man of his literary reputation: if he does not
get the better, he is miserably vexed.'
Johnson's own superlative powers of wit set him above any risk of such
uneasiness. Garrick had remarked to me of him, a few days before,

'Rabelais and all other wits are nothing compared with him. You may be
diverted by them; but Johnson gives you a forcible hug, and shakes laughter
out of you, whether you will or no.'
Goldsmith, however, was often very fortunate in his witty contests, even
when he entered the lists with Johnson himself. Sir Joshua Reynolds was in
company with them one day, when Goldsmith said, that he thought he could
write a good fable, mentioned the simplicity which that kind of composition
requires, and observed, that in most fables the animals introduced seldom
talk in character. 'For instance, (said he,) the fable of the little fishes, who
saw birds fly over their heads, and envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be
changed into birds. The skill (continued he,) consists in making them talk
like little fishes.' While he indulged himself in this fanciful reverie, he
observed Johnson shaking his sides, and laughing. Upon which he smartly
proceeded, 'Why, Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think; for if
you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like WHALES.'
On Thursday, April 29, I dined with him at General Oglethorpe's, where
were Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Langton, Dr. Goldsmith, and Mr. Thrale. I
was very desirous to get Dr. Johnson absolutely fixed in his resolution to go
with me to the Hebrides this year; and I told him that I had received a letter
from Dr. Robertson the historian, upon the subject, with which he was much
pleased; and now talked in such a manner of his long-intended tour, that I
was satisfied he meant to fulfil his engagement.
The character of Mallet having been introduced, and spoken of
slightingly by Goldsmith; JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, Mallet had talents enough
to keep his literary reputation alive as long as he himself lived; and that, let
me tell you, is a good deal.' GOLDSMITH. 'But I cannot agree that it was
so. His literary reputation was dead long before his natural death. I consider
an authour's literary reputation to be alive only while his name will ensure a
good price for his copy from the booksellers. I will get you (to Johnson,) a
hundred guineas for any thing whatever that you shall write, if you put your
name to it.'
Dr. Goldsmith's new play, She Stoops to Conquer, being mentioned;
JOHNSON. 'I know of no comedy for many years that has so much
exhilarated an audience, that has answered so much the great end of
comedy—making an audience merry.'

Goldsmith having said, that Garrick's compliment to the Queen, which he
introduced into the play of The Chances, which he had altered and revised
this year, was mean and gross flattery; JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I would not
WRITE, I would not give solemnly under my hand, a character beyond
what I thought really true; but a speech on the stage, let it flatter ever so
extravagantly, is formular. It has always been formular to flatter Kings and
Queens; so much so, that even in our church-service we have "our most
religious King," used indiscriminately, whoever is King. Nay, they even
flatter themselves;—"we have been graciously pleased to grant." No
modern flattery, however, is so gross as that of the Augustan age, where the
Emperour was deified. "Proesens Divus habebitur Augustus." And as to
meanness, (rising into warmth,) how is it mean in a player,—a showman,—
a fellow who exhibits himself for a shilling, to flatter his Queen? The
attempt, indeed, was dangerous; for if it had missed, what became of
Garrick, and what became of the Queen? As Sir William Temple says of a
great General, it is necessary not only that his designs be formed in a
masterly manner, but that they should be attended with success. Sir, it is
right, at a time when the Royal Family is not generally liked, to let it be
seen that the people like at least one of them.' SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
'I do not perceive why the profession of a player should be despised; for the
great and ultimate end of all the employments of mankind is to produce
amusement. Garrick produces more amusement than any body.'
BOSWELL. 'You say, Dr. Johnson, that Garrick exhibits himself for a
shilling. In this respect he is only on a footing with a lawyer who exhibits
himself for his fee, and even will maintain any nonsense or absurdity, if the
case requires it. Garrick refuses a play or a part which he does not like; a
lawyer never refuses.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, what does this prove? only
that a lawyer is worse. Boswell is now like Jack in The Tale of a Tub, who,
when he is puzzled by an argument, hangs himself. He thinks I shall cut him
down, but I'll let him hang.' (laughing vociferously.) SIR JOSHUA
REYNOLDS. 'Mr. Boswell thinks that the profession of a lawyer being
unquestionably honourable, if he can show the profession of a player to be
more honourable, he proves his argument.'
On Friday, April 30, I dined with him at Mr. Beauclerk's, where were
Lord Charlemont, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and some more members of the
LITERARY CLUB, whom he had obligingly invited to meet me, as I was
this evening to be balloted for as candidate for admission into that

distinguished society. Johnson had done me the honour to propose me, and
Beauclerk was very zealous for me.
Goldsmith being mentioned; JOHNSON. 'It is amazing how little
Goldsmith knows. He seldom comes where he is not more ignorant than
any one else.' SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 'Yet there is no man whose
company is more liked.' JOHNSON. 'To be sure, Sir. When people find a
man of the most distinguished abilities as a writer, their inferiour while he is
with them, it must be highly gratifying to them. What Goldsmith comically
says of himself is very true,—he always gets the better when he argues
alone; meaning, that he is master of a subject in his study, and can write
well upon it; but when he comes into company, grows confused, and unable
to talk. Take him as a poet, his Traveller is a very fine performance; ay, and
so is his Deserted Village, were it not sometimes too much the echo of his
Traveller. Whether, indeed, we take him as a poet,—as a comick writer,—or
as an historian, he stands in the first class.' BOSWELL. 'An historian! My
dear Sir, you surely will not rank his compilation of the Roman History
with the works of other historians of this age?' JOHNSON. 'Why, who are
before him?' BOSWELL. 'Hume,—Robertson,—Lord Lyttelton.'
JOHNSON (his antipathy to the Scotch beginning to rise). 'I have not read
Hume; but, doubtless, Goldsmith's History is better than the VERBIAGE of
Robertson, or the foppery of Dalrymple.' BOSWELL. 'Will you not admit
the superiority of Robertson, in whose History we find such penetration—
such painting?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, you must consider how that penetration
and that painting are employed. It is not history, it is imagination. He who
describes what he never saw, draws from fancy. Robertson paints minds as
Sir Joshua paints faces in a history-piece: he imagines an heroic
countenance. You must look upon Robertson's work as romance, and try it
by that standard. History it is not. Besides, Sir, it is the great excellence of a
writer to put into his book as much as his book will hold. Goldsmith has
done this in his History. Now Robertson might have put twice as much into
his book. Robertson is like a man who has packed gold in wool: the wool
takes up more room than the gold. No, Sir; I always thought Robertson
would be crushed by his own weight,—would be buried under his own
ornaments. Goldsmith tells you shortly all you want to know: Robertson
detains you a great deal too long. No man will read Robertson's cumbrous
detail a second time; but Goldsmith's plain narrative will please again and
again. I would say to Robertson what an old tutor of a college said to one of

his pupils: "Read over your compositions, and where ever you meet with a
passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out." Goldsmith's
abridgement is better than that of Lucius Florus or Eutropius; and I will
venture to say, that if you compare him with Vertot, in the same places of
the Roman History, you will find that he excels Vertot. Sir, he has the art of
compiling, and of saying every thing he has to say in a pleasing manner. He
is now writing a Natural History and will make it as entertaining as a
Persian Tale.'
I cannot dismiss the present topick without observing, that it is probable
that Dr. Johnson, who owned that he often 'talked for victory,' rather urged
plausible objections to Dr. Robertson's excellent historical works, in the
ardour of contest, than expressed his real and decided opinion; for it is not
easy to suppose, that he should so widely differ from the rest of the literary
world.
JOHNSON. 'I remember once being with Goldsmith in Westminster-
abbey. While we surveyed the Poets' Corner, I said to him,
"Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis."
when we got to Temple-bar he stopped me, pointed to the heads upon it,
and slily whispered me,
"Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur ISTIS."'*
* In allusion to Dr. Johnson's supposed political
principles, and perhaps his own. Boswell.

Johnson praised John Bunyan highly. 'His Pilgrim's Progress has great
merit, both for invention, imagination, and the conduct of the story; and it
has had the best evidence of its merit, the general and continued
approbation of mankind. Few books, I believe, have had a more extensive
sale. It is remarkable, that it begins very much like the poem of Dante; yet
there was no translation of Dante when Bunyan wrote. There is reason to
think that he had read Spenser.'
A proposition which had been agitated, that monuments to eminent
persons should, for the time to come, be erected in St. Paul's church as well
as in Westminster-abbey, was mentioned; and it was asked, who should be
honoured by having his monument first erected there. Somebody suggested
Pope. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, as Pope was a Roman Catholick, I would not
have his to be first. I think Milton's rather should have the precedence. I

think more highly of him now than I did at twenty. There is more thinking
in him and in Butler, than in any of our poets.'
The gentlemen went away to their club, and I was left at Beauclerk's till
the fate of my election should be announced to me. I sat in a state of anxiety
which even the charming conversation of Lady Di Beauclerk could not
entirely dissipate. In a short time I received the agreeable intelligence that I
was chosen. I hastened to the place of meeting, and was introduced to such
a society as can seldom be found. Mr. Edmund Burke, whom I then saw for
the first time, and whose splendid talents had long made me ardently wish
for his acquaintance; Dr. Nugent, Mr. Garrick, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr.
(afterwards Sir William) Jones, and the company with whom I had dined.
Upon my entrance, Johnson placed himself behind a chair, on which he
leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and with humorous formality gave me a
Charge, pointing out the conduct expected from me as a good member of
this club.
Goldsmith produced some very absurd verses which had been publickly
recited to an audience for money. JOHNSON. 'I can match this nonsense.
There was a poem called Eugenio, which came out some years ago, and
concludes thus:
"And now, ye trifling, self-assuming elves,
Brimful of pride, of nothing, of yourselves,
Survey Eugenio, view him o'er and o'er,
Then sink into yourselves, and be no more."

Nay, Dryden in his poem on the Royal Society, has these lines:
"Then we upon our globe's last verge shall go,
And see the ocean leaning on the sky;
From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know,
And on the lunar world securely pry."'

Much pleasant conversation passed, which Johnson relished with great
good humour. But his conversation alone, or what led to it, or was
interwoven with it, is the business of this work.
On Saturday, May 1, we dined by ourselves at our old rendezvous, the
Mitre tavern. He was placid, but not much disposed to talk. He observed
that 'The Irish mix better with the English than the Scotch do; their
language is nearer to English; as a proof of which, they succeed very well
as players, which Scotchmen do not. Then, Sir, they have not that extreme
nationality which we find in the Scotch. I will do you, Boswell, the justice

to say, that you are the most UNSCOTTIFIED of your countrymen. You are
almost the only instance of a Scotchman that I have known, who did not at
every other sentence bring in some other Scotchman.'
On Friday, May 7, I breakfasted with him at Mr. Thrale's in the Borough.
While we were alone, I endeavoured as well as I could to apologise for a
lady who had been divorced from her husband by act of Parliament. I said,
that he had used her very ill, had behaved brutally to her, and that she could
not continue to live with him without having her delicacy contaminated;
that all affection for him was thus destroyed; that the essence of conjugal
union being gone, there remained only a cold form, a mere civil obligation;
that she was in the prime of life, with qualities to produce happiness; that
these ought not to be lost; and, that the gentleman on whose account she
was divorced had gained her heart while thus unhappily situated. Seduced,
perhaps, by the charms of the lady in question, I thus attempted to palliate
what I was sensible could not be justified; for when I had finished my
harangue, my venerable friend gave me a proper check: 'My dear Sir, never
accustom your mind to mingle virtue and vice. The woman's a whore, and
there's an end on't.'
He described the father of one of his friends thus: 'Sir, he was so
exuberant a talker at publick meeting, that the gentlemen of his county were
afraid of him. No business could be done for his declamation.'
He did not give me full credit when I mentioned that I had carried on a
short conversation by signs with some Esquimaux who were then in
London, particularly with one of them who was a priest. He thought I could
not make them understand me. No man was more incredulous as to
particular facts, which were at all extraordinary; and therefore no man was
more scrupulously inquisitive, in order to discover the truth.
I dined with him this day at the house of my friends, Messieurs Edward
and Charles Dilly, booksellers in the Poultry: there were present, their elder
brother Mr. Dilly of Bedfordshire, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr. Langton, Mr.
Claxton, Reverend Dr. Mayo a dissenting minister, the Reverend Mr.
Toplady, and my friend the Reverend Mr. Temple.
BOSWELL. 'I am well assured that the people of Otaheite who have the
bread tree, the fruit of which serves them for bread, laughed heartily when
they were informed of the tedious process necessary with us to have bread;
—plowing, sowing, harrowing, reaping, threshing, grinding, baking.'

JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, all ignorant savages will laugh when they are told of
the advantages of civilized life. Were you to tell men who live without
houses, how we pile brick upon brick, and rafter upon rafter, and that after a
house is raised to a certain height, a man tumbles off a scaffold, and breaks
his neck; he would laugh heartily at our folly in building; but it does not
follow that men are better without houses. No, Sir, (holding up a slice of a
good loaf,) this is better than the bread tree.'
I introduced the subject of toleration. JOHNSON. 'Every society has a
right to preserve publick peace and order, and therefore has a good right to
prohibit the propagation of opinions which have a dangerous tendency. To
say the MAGISTRATE has this right, is using an inadequate word: it is the
SOCIETY for which the magistrate is agent. He may be morally or
theologically wrong in restraining the propagation of opinions which he
thinks dangerous, but he is politically right.' MAYO. 'I am of opinion, Sir,
that every man is entitled to liberty of conscience in religion; and that the
magistrate cannot restrain that right.' JOHNSON. 'Sir, I agree with you.
Every man has a right to liberty of conscience, and with that the magistrate
cannot interfere. People confound liberty of thinking with liberty of talking;
nay, with liberty of preaching. Every man has a physical right to think as he
pleases; for it cannot be discovered how he thinks. He has not a moral right,
for he ought to inform himself, and think justly. But, Sir, no member of a
society has a right to TEACH any doctrine contrary to what the society
holds to be true. The magistrate, I say, may be wrong in what he thinks: but
while he thinks himself right, he may and ought to enforce what he thinks.'
MAYO. 'Then, Sir, we are to remain always in errour, and truth never can
prevail; and the magistrate was right in persecuting the first Christians.'
JOHNSON. 'Sir, the only method by which religious truth can be
established is by martyrdom. The magistrate has a right to enforce what he
thinks; and he who is conscious of the truth has a right to suffer. I am afraid
there is no other way of ascertaining the truth, but by persecution on the one
hand and enduring it on the other.' GOLDSMITH. 'But how is a man to act,
Sir? Though firmly convinced of the truth of his doctrine, may he not think
it wrong to expose himself to persecution? Has he a right to do so? Is it not,
as it were, committing voluntary suicide?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, as to voluntary
suicide, as you call it, there are twenty thousand men in an army who will
go without scruple to be shot at, and mount a breach for five-pence a day.'
GOLDSMITH. 'But have they a moral right to do this?' JOHNSON. 'Nay,

Sir, if you will not take the universal opinion of mankind, I have nothing to
say. If mankind cannot defend their own way of thinking, I cannot defend it.
Sir, if a man is in doubt whether it would be better for him to expose
himself to martyrdom or not, he should not do it. He must be convinced that
he has a delegation from heaven.' GOLDSMITH. 'I would consider whether
there is the greater chance of good or evil upon the whole. If I see a man
who had fallen into a well, I would wish to help him out; but if there is a
greater probability that he shall pull me in, than that I shall pull him out, I
would not attempt it. So were I to go to Turkey, I might wish to convert the
Grand Signor to the Christian faith; but when I considered that I should
probably be put to death without effectuating my purpose in any degree, I
should keep myself quiet.' JOHNSON. 'Sir, you must consider that we have
perfect and imperfect obligations. Perfect obligations, which are generally
not to do something, are clear and positive; as, "thou shalt not kill?' But
charity, for instance, is not definable by limits. It is a duty to give to the
poor; but no man can say how much another should give to the poor, or
when a man has given too little to save his soul. In the same manner it is a
duty to instruct the ignorant, and of consequence to convert infidels to
Christianity; but no man in the common course of things is obliged to carry
this to such a degree as to incur the danger of martyrdom, as no man is
obliged to strip himself to the shirt in order to give charity. I have said, that
a man must be persuaded that he has a particular delegation from heaven.'
GOLDSMITH. 'How is this to be known? Our first reformers, who were
burnt for not believing bread and wine to be CHRIST'—JOHNSON.
(interrupting him,) 'Sir, they were not burnt for not believing bread and
wine to be CHRIST, but for insulting those who did believe it. And, Sir,
when the first reformers began, they did not intend to be martyred: as many
of them ran away as could.' BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, there was your
countryman, Elwal, who you told me challenged King George with his
black-guards, and his red-guards.' JOHNSON. 'My countryman, Elwal, Sir,
should have been put in the stocks; a proper pulpit for him; and he'd have
had a numerous audience. A man who preaches in the stocks will always
have hearers enough.' BOSWELL. 'But Elwal thought himself in the right.'
JOHNSON. 'We are not providing for mad people; there are places for them
in the neighbourhood.' (meaning moorfields.) MAYO. 'But, Sir, is it not
very hard that I should not be allowed to teach my children what I really
believe to be the truth?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, you might contrive to teach

your children extra scandalum; but, Sir, the magistrate, if he knows it, has a
right to restrain you. Suppose you teach your children to be thieves?'
MAYO. 'This is making a joke of the subject.' JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, take it
thus:—that you teach them the community of goods; for which there are as
many plausible arguments as for most erroneous doctrines. You teach them
that all things at first were in common, and that no man had a right to any
thing but as he laid his hands upon it; and that this still is, or ought to be,
the rule amongst mankind. Here, Sir, you sap a great principle in society,—
property. And don't you think the magistrate would have a right to prevent
you? Or, suppose you should teach your children the notion of the
Adamites, and they should run naked into the streets, would not the
magistrate have a right to flog 'em into their doublets?' MAYO. 'I think the
magistrate has no right to interfere till there is some overt act.' BOSWELL.
'So, Sir, though he sees an enemy to the state charging a blunderbuss, he is
not to interfere till it is fired off?' MAYO. 'He must be sure of its direction
against the state.' JOHNSON. 'The magistrate is to judge of that.—He has
no right to restrain your thinking, because the evil centers in yourself. If a
man were sitting at this table, and chopping off his fingers, the magistrate,
as guardian of the community, has no authority to restrain him, however he
might do it from kindness as a parent.—Though, indeed, upon more
consideration, I think he may; as it is probable, that he who is chopping off
his own fingers, may soon proceed to chop off those of other people. If I
think it right to steal Mr. Dilly's plate, I am a bad man; but he can say
nothing to me. If I make an open declaration that I think so, he will keep me
out of his house. If I put forth my hand, I shall be sent to Newgate. This is
the gradation of thinking, preaching, and acting: if a man thinks
erroneously, he may keep his thoughts to himself, and nobody will trouble
him; if he preaches erroneous doctrine, society may expel him; if he acts in
consequence of it, the law takes place, and he is hanged.' MAYO. 'But, Sir,
ought not Christians to have liberty of conscience?' JOHNSON. 'I have
already told you so, Sir. You are coming back to where you were.'
BOSWELL. 'Dr. Mayo is always taking a return post-chaise, and going the
stage over again. He has it at half price.' JOHNSON. 'Dr. Mayo, like other
champions for unlimited toleration, has got a set of words. Sir, it is no
matter, politically, whether the magistrate be right or wrong. Suppose a club
were to be formed, to drink confusion to King George the Third, and a
happy restoration to Charles the Third, this would be very bad with respect

to the State; but every member of that club must either conform to its rules,
or be turned out of it. Old Baxter, I remember, maintains, that the magistrate
should "tolerate all things that are tolerable." This is no good definition of
toleration upon any principle; but it shows that he thought some things were
not tolerable.' TOPLADY. 'Sir, you have untwisted this difficult subject
with great dexterity.'
During this argument, Goldsmith sat in restless agitation, from a wish to
get in and SHINE. Finding himself excluded, he had taken his hat to go
away, but remained for some time with it in his hand, like a gamester, who
at the close of a long night, lingers for a little while, to see if he can have a
favourable opening to finish with success. Once when he was beginning to
speak, he found himself overpowered by the loud voice of Johnson, who
was at the opposite end of the table, and did not perceive Goldsmith's
attempt. Thus disappointed of his wish to obtain the attention of the
company, Goldsmith in a passion threw down his hat, looking angrily at
Johnson, and exclaiming in a bitter tone, 'TAKE IT.' When Toplady was
going to speak, Johnson uttered some sound, which led Goldsmith to think
that he was beginning again, and taking the words from Toplady. Upon
which, he seized this opportunity of venting his own envy and spleen, under
the pretext of supporting another person:
'Sir, (said he to Johnson,) the gentleman has heard you patiently for an
hour; pray allow us now to hear him.' JOHNSON. (sternly,) 'Sir, I was not
interrupting the gentleman. I was only giving him a signal of my attention.
Sir, you are impertinent.' Goldsmith made no reply, but continued in the
company for some time.
A gentleman present ventured to ask Dr. Johnson if there was not a
material difference as to toleration of opinions which lead to action, and
opinions merely speculative; for instance, would it be wrong in the
magistrate to tolerate those who preach against the doctrine of the
TRINITY? Johnson was highly offended, and said, 'I wonder, Sir, how a
gentleman of your piety can introduce this subject in a mixed company.' He
told me afterwards, that the impropriety was, that perhaps some of the
company might have talked on the subject in such terms as might have
shocked him; or he might have been forced to appear in their eyes a narrow-
minded man. The gentleman, with submissive deference, said, he had only
hinted at the question from a desire to hear Dr. Johnson's opinion upon it.

JOHNSON. 'Why then, Sir, I think that permitting men to preach any
opinion contrary to the doctrine of the established church tends, in a certain
degree, to lessen the authority of the church, and consequently, to lessen the
influence of religion.' 'It may be considered, (said the gentleman,) whether
it would not be politick to tolerate in such a case.' JOHNSON. 'Sir, we have
been talking of RIGHT: this is another question. I think it is NOT politick to
tolerate in such a case.'
BOSWELL. 'Pray, Mr. Dilly, how does Dr. Leland's History of Ireland
sell?' JOHNSON. (bursting forth with a generous indignation,) 'The Irish
are in a most unnatural state; for we see there the minority prevailing over
the majority. There is no instance, even in the ten persecutions, of such
severity as that which the protestants of Ireland have exercised against the
Catholicks. Did we tell them we have conquered them, it would be above
board: to punish them by confiscation and other penalties, as rebels, was
monstrous injustice. King William was not their lawful sovereign: he had
not been acknowledged by the Parliament of Ireland, when they appeared in
arms against him.'
He and Mr. Langton and I went together to THE CLUB, where we found
Mr. Burke, Mr. Garrick, and some other members, and amongst them our
friend Goldsmith, who sat silently brooding over Johnson's reprimand to
him after dinner. Johnson perceived this, and said aside to some of us, 'I'll
make Goldsmith forgive me;' and then called to him in a loud voice, 'Dr.
Goldsmith,—something passed to-day where you and I dined; I ask your
pardon.' Goldsmith answered placidly, 'It must be much from you, Sir, that I
take ill.' And so at once the difference was over, and they were on as easy
terms as ever, and Goldsmith rattled away as usual.
In our way to the club to-night, when I regretted that Goldsmith would,
upon every occasion, endeavour to shine, by which he often exposed
himself, Mr. Langton observed, that he was not like Addison, who was
content with the fame of his writings, and did not aim also at excellency in
conversation, for which he found himself unfit; and that he said to a lady
who complained of his having talked little in company, 'Madam, I have but
ninepence in ready money, but I can draw for a thousand pounds.' I
observed, that Goldsmith had a great deal of gold in his cabinet, but, not
content with that, was always taking out his purse. JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir,
and that so often an empty purse!'

Goldsmith's incessant desire of being conspicuous in company, was the
occasion of his sometimes appearing to such disadvantage as one should
hardly have supposed possible in a man of his genius. When his literary
reputation had risen deservedly high, and his society was much courted, he
became very jealous of the extraordinary attention which was every where
paid to Johnson. One evening, in a circle of wits, he found fault with me for
talking of Johnson as entitled to the honour of unquestionable superiority.
'Sir, (said he,) you are for making a monarchy of what should be a
republick.'
He was still more mortified, when talking in a company with fluent
vivacity, and, as he flattered himself, to the admiration of all who were
present; a German who sat next him, and perceived Johnson rolling himself,
as if about to speak, suddenly stopped him, saying, 'Stay, stay,—Toctor
Shonson is going to say something.' This was, no doubt, very provoking,
especially to one so irritable as Goldsmith, who frequently mentioned it
with strong expressions of indignation.
It may also be observed, that Goldsmith was sometimes content to be
treated with an easy familiarity, but, upon occasions, would be
consequential and important. An instance of this occurred in a small
particular. Johnson had a way of contracting the names of his friends; as
Beauclerk, Beau; Boswell, Bozzy; Langton, Lanky; Murphy, Mur;
Sheridan, Sherry. I remember one day, when Tom Davies was telling that
Dr. Johnson said, 'We are all in labour for a name to GOLDY'S play,'
Goldsmith seemed displeased that such a liberty should be taken with his
name, and said, 'I have often desired him not to call me GOLDY.' Tom was
remarkably attentive to the most minute circumstance about Johnson. I
recollect his telling me once, on my arrival in London, 'Sir, our great friend
has made an improvement on his appellation of old Mr. Sheridan. He calls
him now Sherry derry.'
On Monday, May 9, as I was to set out on my return to Scotland next
morning, I was desirous to see as much of Dr. Johnson as I could. But I first
called on Goldsmith to take leave of him. The jealousy and envy which,
though possessed of many most amiable qualities, he frankly avowed, broke
out violently at this interview. Upon another occasion, when Goldsmith
confessed himself to be of an envious disposition, I contended with Johnson
that we ought not to be angry with him, he was so candid in owning it. 'Nay,

Sir, (said Johnson,) we must be angry that a man has such a superabundance
of an odious quality, that he cannot keep it within his own breast, but it
boils over.' In my opinion, however, Goldsmith had not more of it than
other people have, but only talked of it freely.
He now seemed very angry that Johnson was going to be a traveller; said
'he would be a dead weight for me to carry, and that I should never be able
to lug him along through the Highlands and Hebrides.' Nor would he
patiently allow me to enlarge upon Johnson's wonderful abilities; but
exclaimed, 'Is he like Burke, who winds into a subject like a serpent?' 'But,
(said I,) Johnson is the Hercules who strangled serpents in his cradle.'
I dined with Dr. Johnson at General Paoli's. He was obliged, by
indisposition, to leave the company early; he appointed me, however, to
meet him in the evening at Mr. (now Sir Robert) Chambers's in the Temple,
where he accordingly came, though he continued to be very ill. Chambers,
as is common on such occasions, prescribed various remedies to him.
JOHNSON. (fretted by pain,) 'Pr'ythee don't tease me. Stay till I am well,
and then you shall tell me how to cure myself.' He grew better, and talked
with a noble enthusiasm of keeping up the representation of respectable
families. His zeal on this subject was a circumstance in his character
exceedingly remarkable, when it is considered that he himself had no
pretensions to blood. I heard him once say, 'I have great merit in being
zealous for subordination and the honours of birth; for I can hardly tell who
was my grandfather.' He maintained the dignity and propriety of male
succession, in opposition to the opinion of one of our friends, who had that
day employed Mr. Chambers to draw his will, devising his estate to his
three sisters, in preference to a remote heir male. Johnson called them 'three
DOWDIES,' and said, with as high a spirit as the boldest Baron in the most
perfect days of the feudal system, 'An ancient estate should always go to
males. It is mighty foolish to let a stranger have it because he marries your
daughter, and takes your name. As for an estate newly acquired by trade,
you may give it, if you will, to the dog Towser, and let him keep his OWN
name.'
I have known him at times exceedingly diverted at what seemed to others
a very small sport. He now laughed immoderately, without any reason that
we could perceive, at our friend's making his will; called him the
TESTATOR, and added, 'I dare say, he thinks he has done a mighty thing.

He won't stay till he gets home to his seat in the country, to produce this
wonderful deed: he'll call up the landlord of the first inn on the road; and,
after a suitable preface upon mortality and the uncertainty of life, will tell
him that he should not delay making his will; and here, Sir, will he say, is
my will, which I have just made, with the assistance of one of the ablest
lawyers in the kingdom; and he will read it to him (laughing all the time).
He believes he has made this will; but he did not make it: you, Chambers,
made it for him. I trust you have had more conscience than to make him
say, "being of sound understanding;" ha, ha, ha! I hope he has left me a
legacy. I'd have his will turned into verse, like a ballad.'
Mr. Chambers did not by any means relish this jocularity upon a matter
of which pars magna fuit, and seemed impatient till he got rid of us.
Johnson could not stop his merriment, but continued it all the way till we
got without the Temple-gate. He then burst into such a fit of laughter, that
he appeared to be almost in a convulsion; and, in order to support himself,
laid hold of one of the posts at the side of the foot pavement, and sent forth
peals so loud, that in the silence of the night his voice seemed to resound
from Temple-bar to Fleet-ditch.
This most ludicrous exhibition of the aweful, melancholy, and venerable
Johnson, happened well to counteract the feelings of sadness which I used
to experience when parting with him for a considerable time. I accompanied
him to his door, where he gave me his blessing.
'TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.
'DEAR Sir,—I shall set out from London on Friday the sixth of this
month, and purpose not to loiter much by the way. Which day I shall be at
Edinburgh, I cannot exactly tell. I suppose I must drive to an inn, and send a
porter to find you.
'I am afraid Beattie will not be at his College soon enough for us, and I
shall be sorry to miss him; but there is no staying for the concurrence of all
conveniences. We will do as well as we can. I am, Sir, your most humble
servant,
'August 3, 1773.'
'SAM. JOHNSON.' TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.
'Newcastle, Aug. 11, 1773.

'DEAR SIR, I came hither last night, and hope, but do not absolutely
promise, to be in Edinburgh on Saturday. Beattie will not come so soon. I
am, Sir, your most humble servant,
'My compliments to your lady.'
'SAM. JOHNSON.' TO THE SAME.
'Mr. Johnson sends his compliments to Mr. Boswell, being just arrived at
Boyd's.—Saturday night.'
His stay in Scotland was from the 18th of August, on which day he
arrived, till the 22nd of November, when he set out on his return to London;
and I believe ninety-four days were never passed by any man in a more
vigorous exertion.*
* In his Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, published the
year after Johnson died, Boswell gives a detailed account of
Johnson's conversation and adventures with him throughout
the journey of 1773. Partly owing to their uninterrupted
association, partly to the strangeness and variation of
background and circumstances, and partly to Boswell's larger
leisure during the tour for the elaboration of his account,
the journal is even more racy, picturesque, and interesting
than any equal part of the Life. No reader who enjoys the
Life should fail to read the Tour—unabridged!—ED.

His humane forgiving disposition was put to a pretty strong test on his
return to London, by a liberty which Mr. Thomas Davies had taken with
him in his absence, which was, to publish two volumes, entitled,
Miscellaneous and fugitive Pieces, which he advertised in the news-papers,
'By the Authour of the Rambler.' In this collection, several of Dr. Johnson's
acknowledged writings, several of his anonymous performances, and some
which he had written for others, were inserted; but there were also some in
which he had no concern whatever. He was at first very angry, as he had
good reason to be. But, upon consideration of his poor friend's narrow
circumstances, and that he had only a little profit in view, and meant no
harm, he soon relented, and continued his kindness to him as formerly.
In the course of his self-examination with retrospect to this year, he
seems to have been much dejected; for he says, January 1, 1774, 'This year
has passed with so little improvement, that I doubt whether I have not rather
impaired than increased my learning'; and yet we have seen how he READ,
and we know how he TALKED during that period.
He was now seriously engaged in writing an account of our travels in the
Hebrides, in consequence of which I had the pleasure of a more frequent

correspondence with him.
'TO BENNET LANGTON, ESQ., AT LANGTON, NEAR SPILSBY,
LINCOLNSHIRE.
'DEAR SIR,—You have reason to reproach me that I have left your last
letter so long unanswered, but I had nothing particular to say. Chambers,
you find, is gone far, and poor Goldsmith is gone much further. He died of a
fever, exasperated, as I believe, by the fear of distress. He had raised money
and squandered it, by every artifice of acquisition, and folly of expence. But
let not his frailties be remembered; he was a very great man.
'I have just begun to print my Journey to the Hebrides, and am leaving
the press to take another journey into Wales, whither Mr. Thrale is going, to
take possession of, at least, five hundred a year, fallen to his lady. All at
Streatham, that are alive, are well.
'I have never recovered from the last dreadful illness, but flatter myself
that I grow gradually better; much, however, yet remains to mend. [Greek
text omitted].
'If you have the Latin version of Busy, curious, thirsty fly, be so kind as
to transcribe and send it; but you need not be in haste, for I shall be I know
not where, for at least five weeks. I wrote the following tetastrick on poor
Goldsmith:—
[Greek text omitted]
'Please to make my most respectful compliments to all the ladies, and
remember me to young George and his sisters. I reckon George begins to
shew a pair of heels.
'Do not be sullen now, but let me find a letter when I come back. I am,
dear Sir, your affectionate, humble servant,
'SAM. JOHNSON.
'July 5,1774.'
In his manuscript diary of this year, there is the following entry:—
'Nov. 27. Advent Sunday. I considered that this day, being the beginning
of the ecclesiastical year, was a proper time for a new course of life. I began
to read the Greek Testament regularly at 160 verses every Sunday. This day
I began the Acts.

'In this week I read Virgil's Pastorals. I learned to repeat the Pollio and
Gallus. I read carelessly the first Georgick.'
Such evidences of his unceasing ardour, both for 'divine and human lore,'
when advanced into his sixty-fifth year, and notwithstanding his many
disturbances from disease, must make us at once honour his spirit, and
lament that it should be so grievously clogged by its material tegument.
1775: AETAT. 66.]— 'MR. BOSWELL TO DR. JOHNSON.
'Edinburgh, Feb. 2,1775.
'. . . As to Macpherson,' I am anxious to have from yourself a full and
pointed account of what has passed between you and him. It is confidently
told here, that before your book came out he sent to you, to let you know
that he understood you meant to deny the authenticity of Ossian's poems;
that the originals were in his possession; that you might have inspection of
them, and might take the evidence of people skilled in the Erse language;
and that he hoped, after this fair offer, you would not be so uncandid as to
assert that he had refused reasonable proof. That you paid no regard to his
message, but published your strong attack upon him; and then he wrote a
letter to you, in such terms as he thought suited to one who had not acted as
a man of veracity.' . . .
What words were used by Mr. Macpherson in his letter to the venerable
Sage, I have never heard; but they are generally said to have been of a
nature very different from the language of literary contest. Dr. Johnson's
answer appeared in the news-papers of the day, and has since been
frequently re-published; but not with perfect accuracy. I give it as dictated
to me by himself, written down in his presence, and authenticated by a note
in his own handwriting, 'This, I think, is a true copy.'
'MR. JAMES MACPHERSON,—I received your foolish and impudent
letter. Any violence offered me I shall do my best to repel; and what I
cannot do for myself, the law shall do for me. I hope I shall never be
deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian.
'What would you have me retract? I thought your book an imposture; I
think it an imposture still. For this opinion I have given my reasons to the
publick, which I here dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your abilities,
since your Homer, are not so formidable; and what I hear of your morals,
inclines me to pay regard not to what you shall say, but to what you shall
prove. You may print this if you will.'