The Life of Samuel Johnson

‘This Life of Dr. Young was written by a friend of his son. What is crossed with black is expunged by the authour, what is crossed with red is expunged by me. If you find any thing more that can be well omitted, I shall not be sorry to see it yet shorter.’

It has always appeared to me to have a considerable share of merit, and to display a pretty successful imitation of Johnson’s style. When I mentioned this to a very eminent literary character,⁹⁹⁹ he opposed me vehemently, exclaiming, ‘No, no, it is not a good imitation of Johnson; it has all his pomp without his force; it has all the nodosities¹⁰⁰⁰ of the oak without its strength.’ This was an image so happy, that one might have thought he would have been satisfied with it; but he was not. And setting his mind again to work, he added, with exquisite felicity, ‘It has all the contortions of the Sybil,¹⁰⁰¹ without the inspiration.’

Mr. Croft very properly guards us against supposing that Young was a gloomy man; and mentions, that ‘his parish was indebted to the good-humour of the authour of the Night Thoughts for an Assembly and a Bowling-Green.’ A letter from a noble foreigner is quoted, in which he is said to have been ‘very pleasant in conversation.’

Mr. Langton, who frequently visited him, informs me, that there was an air of benevolence in his manner, but that he could obtain from him less information than he had hoped to receive from one who had lived so much in intercourse with the brightest men of what has been called the Augustan age of England; and that he shewed a degree of eager curiosity concerning the common occurrences that were then passing, which appeared somewhat remarkableinamanofsuch intellectual stores, ofsuchan advanced age, and who had retired from life with declared disappointment in his expectations.

An instance at once of his pensive turn of mind, and his cheerfulness of temper, appeared in a little story which he himself told to Mr. Langton, when they were walking in his garden: ‘Here (said he,) I had put a handsome sun-dial, with this inscription, Eheu fugaces!¹⁰⁰² which (speaking with a smile) was sadly verified, for by the next morning my dial had been carried off.’^a

It gives me much pleasure to observe, that however Johnson may have casually talked, yet when he sits, as ‘an ardent judge zealous to his trust, giving sentence’¹⁰⁰³ upon the excellent works of Young, he allows them the high praise to which they are justly entitled. ‘The Universal Passion (says he,) is indeed a very great performance, – his distichs¹⁰⁰⁴ have the weight of solid sentiment, and his points the sharpness of resistless truth.’

But I was most anxious concerning Johnson’s decision upon Night Thoughts, which I esteem as a mass of the grandest and richest poetry that human genius has ever produced; and was delighted to find this character of that work: ‘In his Night Thoughts, he has exhibited a very wide display of original poetry, variegated with deep reflections and striking allusions; a wilderness of thought, in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue and of every odour. This is one of the few poems in which blank verse could not be changed for rhime but with disadvantage.’ And afterwards, ‘Particular lines are not to be regarded; the power is in the whole; and in the whole there is a magnificence like that ascribed to Chinese plantation, the magnificence of vast extent and endless diversity.’

But there is in this Poem not only all that Johnson so well brings in view, but a power of the Pathetick beyond almost any example that I have seen. He who does not feel his nerves shaken, and his heart pierced by many passages in this extraordinary work, particularly by that most affecting one, which describes the gradual torment suffered by the contemplation of an object of affectionate attachment, visibly and certainly decaying into dissolution, must be of a hard and obstinate frame.

To all the other excellencies of Night Thoughts let me add the great and peculiar one, that they contain not only the noblest sentiments of virtue, and contemplations on immortality, but the Christian Sacrifice, the Divine Propitiation, with all its interesting circumstances, and consolations to ‘a wounded spirit,’ solemnly and poetically displayed in such imagery and language, as cannot fail to exalt, animate, and soothe the truly pious. No book whatever can be recommended to young persons, with better hopes of seasoning their minds with vital religion, than YOUNG’s Night Thoughts.

In the Life of SWIFT, it appears to me that Johnson had a certain degree of prejudice against that extraordinary man, of which I have elsewhere had occasion to speak. Mr. Thomas Sheridan imputed it to a supposed apprehension in Johnson, that Swift had not been sufficiently active in obtaining for him an Irish degree when it was solicited,^a but of this there was not sufficient evidence; and let me not presume to charge Johnson with injustice, because he did not think so highly of the writings of this authour, as I have done from my youth upwards. Yet that he had an unfavourable bias is evident, were it only from that passage in which he speaks of Swift’s practice of saving, as, ‘first ridiculous and at last detestable;’ and yet after some examination of circumstances, finds himself obliged to own, that ‘it will perhaps appear that he only liked one mode of expence better than another, and saved merely that he might have something to give.’

One observation which Johnson makes in Swift’s life should be often inculcated: –

‘It may be justly supposed, that there was in his conversation what appears so frequently in his letters, an affectation of familiarity with the great, an ambition of momentary equality, sought and enjoyed by the neglect of those ceremonies which custom has established as the barriers between one order of society and another. This transgression of regularity was by himself and his admirers termed greatness of soul; but a great mind disdains to hold any thing by courtesy, and therefore never usurps what a lawful claimant may take away. He that encroaches on another’s dignity puts himself in his power; he is either repelled with helpless indignity, or endured by clemency and condescension.’

Various Readings in the Life of SWIFT.

‘Charity may be persuaded to think that it might be written by a man of a peculiar [opinions] character, without ill intention.

‘He did not [disown] deny it.

‘[To] by whose kindness it is not unlikely that he was [indebted for] advanced to his benefices.

‘[With] for this purpose he had recourse to Mr. Harley.

‘Sharpe, whom he [represents] describes as “the harmless tool of others’ hate.”

‘Harley was slow because he was [irresolute] doubtful.

‘When [readers were not many] we were not yet a nation of readers.

‘[Every man who] he that could say he knew him.

‘Every man of known influence has so many [more] petitions [than] which he [can] cannot grant, that he must necessarily offend more than he [can gratify] gratifies.

‘Ecclesiastical [preferments] benefices.

‘Swift [procured] contrived an interview.

‘[As a writer] In his works he has given very different specimens.

‘On all common occasions he habitually [assumes] affects a style of [superiority] arrogance.

‘By the [omission] neglect of those ceremonies.

‘That their merits filled the world [and] or that there was no [room for] hope of more.’

I have not confined myself to the order of the Lives, in making my few remarks. Indeed a different order is observed in the original publication, and in the collection of Johnson’s Works. And should it be objected, that many of my various readings are inconsiderable, those who make the objection will be pleased to consider, that such small particulars are intended for those who are nicely critical in composition, to whom they will be an acceptable selection.

Spence’s Anecdotes, which are frequently quoted and referred to in Johnson’s Lives of the Poets, are in a manuscript collection, made by the Reverend Mr. Joseph Spence, containing a number of particulars concerning eminent men. To each anecdote is marked the name of the person on whose authority it is mentioned. This valuable collection is the property of the Duke of Newcastle, who upon the application of Sir Lucas Pepys, was pleased to permit it to be put into the hands of Dr. Johnson, who I am sorry to think made but an aukward return. ‘Great assistance (says he,) has been given me by Mr. Spence’s Collection, of which I consider the communication as a favour worthy of publick acknowledgement;’ but he has not owned to whom he was obliged; so that the acknowledgement is unappropriated to his Grace.

While the world in general was filled with admiration of Johnson’s Lives of the Poets, there were narrow circles in which prejudice and resentment were fostered, and from which attacks of different sorts issued against him.^a By some violent Whigs he was arraigned of injustice to Milton; by some Cambridge men of depreciating Gray; and his expressing with a dignified freedom what he really thought of George, Lord Lyttelton, gave offence to some of the friends of that nobleman, and particularly produced a declaration of war against him from Mrs. Montagu, the ingenious Essayist on Shakspeare, between whom and his Lordship a commerce of reciprocal compliments had long been carried on. In this war the smaller powers in alliance with him were of course led to engage, at least on the defensive, and thus I for one was excluded from the enjoyment of ‘A Feast of Reason,’ such as Mr. Cumberland has described, with a keen, yet just and delicate pen, in his Observer. These minute inconveniencies gave not the least disturbance to Johnson. He nobly said, when I talked to him of the feeble, though shrill outcry which had been raised, ‘Sir, I considered myself as entrusted with a certain portion of truth. I have given my opinion sincerely; let them shew where they think me wrong.’

While my friend is thus contemplated in the splendour derived from his last and perhaps most admirable work, I introduce him with peculiar propriety as the correspondent of Warren Hastings, a man whose regard reflects dignity even upon Johnson; a man, the extent of whose abilities was equal to that of his power; and who, by those who are fortunate enough to know him in private life, is admired for his literature and taste, and beloved for the candour, moderation, and mildness of his character. Were I capable of paying a suitable tribute of admiration to him, I should certainly not withhold it at a moment^b when it is not possible that I should be suspected of being an interested flatterer. But how weak would be my voice after that of the millions whom he governed. His condescending and obliging compliance with my solicitation, I with humble gratitude acknowledge; and while by publishing his letter to me, accompanying the valuable communication, I do eminent honour to my great friend, I shall entirely disregard any invidious suggestions, that as I in some degree participate in the honour, I have, at the same time, the gratification of my own vanity in view.

‘TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

‘SIR, ‘Park-lane, Dec. 2, 1790.

‘I have been fortunately spared the troublesome suspense of a long search, to which, in performance of my promise, I had devoted this morning, by lighting upon the objects of it among the first papers that I laid my hands on: my veneration for your great and good friend, Dr. Johnson, and the pride, or I hope something of a better sentiment, which I indulged in possessing such memorials of his good will towards me, having induced me to bind them in a parcel containing other select papers, and labelled with the titles appertaining to them. They consist but of three letters, which I believe were all that I ever received from Dr. Johnson. Of these, one, which was written in quadruplicate, under the different dates of its respective dispatches, has already been made publick, but not from any communication of mine. This, however, I have joined to the rest; and have now the pleasure of sending them to you for the use to which you informed me it was your desire to destine them.

‘My promise was pledged with the condition, that if the letters were found to contain any thing which should render them improper for the publick eye, you would dispense with the performance of it. You will have the goodness, I am sure, to pardon my recalling this stipulation to your recollection, as I should be loth to appear negligent of that obligation which is always implied in an epistolary confidence. In the reservation of that right I have read them over with the most scrupulous attention, but have not seen in them the slightest cause on that ground to withhold them from you. But, though not on that, yet on another ground I own I feel a little, yet but a little, reluctance to part with them: I mean on that of my own credit, which I fear will suffer by the information conveyed by them, that I was early in the possession of such valuable instructions for the beneficial employment of the influence of my late station, and (as it may seem), have so little availed myself of them. Whether I could, if it were necessary, defend myself against such an imputation, it little concerns the world to know. I look only to the effect which these relicks may produce, considered as evidences of the virtues of their authour: and believing that they will be found to display an uncommon warmth of private friendship, and a mind ever attentive to the improvement and extension of useful knowledge, and solicitous for the interests of mankind, I can cheerfully submit to the little sacrifice of my own fame, to contribute to the illustration of so great and venerable a character. They cannot be better applied, for that end, than by being entrusted to your hands. Allow me, with this offering, to infer from it a proof of the very great esteem with which I have the honour to profess myself, Sir, your most obedient and most humble servant,

‘WARREN HASTINGS.’

‘P.S. At some future time, and when you have no further occasion for these papers, I shall be obliged to you if you would return them.’

The last of the three letters thus graciously put into my hands, and which has already appeared in publick, belongs to this year; but I shall previously insert the first two in the order of their dates. They altogether form a grand group in my biographical picture.

To THE HONOURABLE WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ.

‘SIR, – Though I have had but little personal knowledge of you, I have had enough to make me wish for more; and though it be now a long time since I was honoured by your visit, I had too much pleasure from it to forget it. By those whom we delight to remember, we are unwilling to be forgotten; and therefore I cannot omit this opportunity of reviving myself in your memory by a letter which you will receive from the hands of my friend Mr. Chambers;^a a man, whose purity of manners and vigour of mind are sufficient to make every thing welcome that he brings.

‘That this is my only reason for writing, will be too apparent by the use-lessness of my letter to any other purpose. I have no questions to ask; not that I want curiosity after either the ancient or present state of regions in which have been seen all the power and splendour of wide-extended empire; and which, as by some grant of natural superiority, supply the rest of the world with almost all that pride desires, and luxury enjoys. But my knowledge of them is too scanty to furnish me with proper topicks of enquiry; I can only wish for information; and hope, that a mind comprehensive like yours will find leisure, amidst the cares of your important station, to enquire into many subjects of which the European world either thinks not at all, or thinks with deficient intelligence and uncertain conjecture. I shall hope, that he who once intended to increase the learning of his country by the introduction of the Persian language, will examine nicely the traditions and histories of the East; that he will survey the wonders of its ancient edifices, and trace the vestiges of its ruined cities; and that, at his return, we shall know the arts and opinions of a race of men, from whom very little has been hitherto derived.

‘You, Sir, have no need of being told by me, how much may be added by your attention and patronage to experimental knowledge and natural history. There are arts of manufacture practised in the countries in which you preside, which are yet very imperfectly known here, either to artificers or philosophers. Of the natural productions, animate and inanimate, we yet have so little intelligence, that our books are filled, I fear, with conjectures about things which an Indian peasant knows by his senses.

‘Many of those things my first wish is to see; my second to know by such accounts as a man like you will be able to give.

‘As I have not skill to ask proper questions, I have likewise no such access to great men as can enable me to send you any political information. Of the agitations of an unsettled government, and the struggles of a feeble ministry, care is doubtless taken to give you more exact accounts than I can obtain. If you are inclined to interest yourself much in publick transactions, it is no misfortune to you to be so distant from them.

‘That literature is not totally forsaking us, and that your favourite language is not neglected, will appear from the book^a, which I should have pleased myself more with sending, if I could have presented it bound: but time was wanting. I beg, however, Sir, that you will accept it from a man very desirous of your regard; and that if you think me able to gratify you by any thing more important, you will employ me.

‘I am now going to take leave, perhaps a very long leave, of my dear Mr. Chambers. That he is going to live where you govern, may justly alleviate the regret of parting; and the hope of seeing both him and you again, which I am not willing to mingle with doubt, must at present comfort as it can, Sir, your most humble servant,

‘March 30, 1774.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

To THE SAME

‘SIR, – Being informed that by the departure of a ship, there is now an opportunity of writing to Bengal, I am unwilling to slip out of your memory by my own negligence, and therefore take the liberty of reminding you of my existence, by sending you a book which is not yet made publick.

‘I have lately visited a region less remote, and less illustrious than India, which afforded some occasions for speculation; what has occurred to me, I have put into the volume^b, of which I beg your acceptance.

‘Men in your station seldom have presents totally disinterested; my book is received, let me now make my request.

‘There is, Sir, somewhere within your government, a young adventurer, one Chauncey Lawrence, whose father is one of my oldest friends. Be pleased to shew the young man what countenance is fit, whether he wants to be restrained by your authority, or encouraged by your favour. His father is now President of the College of Physicians, a man venerable for his knowledge, and more venerable for his virtue.

‘I wish you a prosperous government, a safe return, and a long enjoyment of plenty and tranquillity. I am, Sir, your most obedient and most humble servant,

‘London, Dec. 20, 1774.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

To THE SAME

‘SIR, ‘Jan. 9,¹⁰⁰⁵ 1781.

‘Amidst the importance and multiplicity of affairs in which your great office engages you, I take the liberty of recalling your attention for a moment to literature, and will not prolong the interruption by an apology, which your character makes needless.

‘Mr. Hoole, a gentleman long known, and long esteemed in the India-House, after having translated Tasso, has undertaken Ariosto. How well he is qualified for his undertaking he has already shewn. He is desirous, Sir, of your favour in promoting his proposals, and flatters me by supposing that my testimony may advance his interest.

‘It is a new thing for a clerk of the India-House to translate poets; – it is new for a Governour of Bengal to patronize learning. That he may find his ingenuity rewarded, and that learning may flourish under your protection, is the wish of, Sir, your most humble servant, ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

I wrote to him in February, complaining of having been troubled by a recurrence of the perplexing question of Liberty and Necessity; and mentioning that I hoped soon to meet him again in London.

‘To JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

‘DEAR SIR, – I hoped you had got rid of all this hypocrisy of misery. What have you to do with Liberty and Necessity? Or what more than to hold your tongue about it? Do not doubt but I shall be most heartily glad to see you here again, for I love every part about you but your affectation of distress.

‘I have at last finished my Lives, and have laid up for you a load of copy, all out of order, so that it will amuse you a long time to set it right. Come to me, my dear Bozzy, and let us be as happy as we can. We will go again to the Mitre, and talk old times over. I am, dear Sir, yours affectionately,

‘March 14, 1781.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

On Monday, March 19, I arrived in London, and on Tuesday, the 20th, met him in Fleet-street, walking, or rather indeed moving along; for his peculiar march is thus described in a very just and picturesque manner, in a short Life^a of him published very soon after his death: – ‘When he walked the streets, what with the constant roll of his head, and the concomitant motion of his body, he appeared to make his way by that motion, independent of his feet.’ That he was often much stared at while he advanced in this manner, may easily be believed; but it was not safe to make sport of one so robust as he was. Mr. Langton saw him one day, in a fit of absence, by a sudden start, drive the load off a porter’s back, and walk forward briskly, without being conscious of what he had done. The porter was very angry, but stood still, and eyed the huge figure with much earnestness, till he was satisfied that his wisest course was to be quiet, and take up his burthen again.

Our accidental meeting in the street after a long separation was a pleasing surprize to us both. He stepped aside with me into Falcon-court, and made kind inquiries about my family, and as we were in a hurry going different ways, I promised to call on him next day; he said he was engaged to go out in the morning. ‘Early, Sir?’ said I. Johnson. ‘Why, Sir, a London morning does not go with the sun.’

I waited on him next evening, and he gave me a great portion of his original manuscript of his Lives of the Poets, which he had preserved for me.

I found on visiting his friend, Mr. Thrale, that he was now very ill, and had removed, I suppose by the solicitation of Mrs. Thrale, to a house in Grosvenor-square. I was sorry to see him sadly changed in his appearance.

He told me I might now have the pleasure to see Dr. Johnson drink wine again, for he had lately returned to it. When I mentioned this to Johnson, he said, ‘I drink it now sometimes, but not socially.’ The first evening that I was with him at Thrale’s, I observed he poured a quantity of it into a large glass, and swallowed it greedily. Every thing about his character and manners was forcible and violent; there never was any moderation; many a day did he fast, many a year did he refrain from wine; but when he did eat, it was voraciously; when he did drink wine, it was copiously. He could practise abstinence, but not temperance.

Mrs. Thrale and I had a dispute, whether Shakspeare or Milton had drawn the most admirable picture of a man.^a I was for Shakspeare; Mrs. Thrale for Milton; and after a fair hearing, Johnson decided for my opinion.

I told him of one of Mr. Burke’s playful sallies upon Dean Marlay: ‘I don’t like the Deanery of Ferns, it sounds so like a barren title.’ – ‘Dr. Heath should have it;’ said I. Johnson laughed, and condescending to trifle in the same mode of conceit, suggested Dr. Moss.

He said, ‘Mrs. Montagu has dropt me. Now, Sir, there are people whom one should like very well to drop, but would not wish to be dropped by.’ He certainly was vain of the society of ladies, and could make himself very agreeable to them, when he chose it; Sir Joshua Reynolds agreed with me that he could. Mr. Gibbon, with his usual sneer, controverted it, perhaps in resentment of Johnson’s having talked with some disgust of his ugliness, which one would think a philosopher would not mind. Dean Marlay wittily observed, ‘A lady may be vain when she can turn a wolf-dog into a lap-dog.’

The election for Ayrshire, my own county, was this spring tried upon a petition, before a Committee of the House of Commons. I was one of the Counsel for the sitting member, and took the liberty of previously stating different points to Johnson, who never failed to see them clearly, and to supply me with some good hints. He dictated to me the following note upon the registration of deeds: –

‘All laws are made for the convenience of the community; what is legally done, should be legally recorded, that the state of things may be known, and that wherever evidence is requisite, evidence may be had. For this reason, the obligation to frame and establish a legal register is enforced by a legal penalty, which penalty is the want of that perfection and plenitude of right which a register would give. Thence it follows, that this is not an objection merely legal; for the reason on which the law stands being equitable, makes it an equitable objection.’

‘This (said he,) you must enlarge on, when speaking to the Committee. You must not argue there as if you were arguing in the schools; close reasoning will not fix their attention; you must say the same thing over and over again, in different words. If you say it but once, they miss it in a moment of inattention. It is unjust, Sir, to censure lawyers for multiplying words when they argue; it is often necessary for them to multiply words.’

His notion of the duty of a member of Parliament, sitting upon an election-committee, was very high; and when he was told of a gentleman¹⁰⁰⁹upon one of those committees, who read the newspapers part of the time, and slept the rest, while the merits of a vote were examined by the counsel; and as an excuse, when challenged by the chairman for such behaviour, bluntly answered, ‘I had made up my mind upon that case;’ – Johnson, with an indignant contempt, said, ‘If he was such a rogue as to make up his mind upon a case without hearing it, he should not have been such a fool as to tell it.’ ‘I think (said Mr. Dudley Long, now North,) the Doctor has pretty plainly made him out to be both rogue and fool.’

Johnson’s profound reverence for the Hierarchy made him expect from bishops the highest degree of decorum; he was offended even at their going to taverns; ‘A bishop (said he,) has nothing to do at a tippling-house.¹⁰¹⁰ It is not indeed immoral in him to go to a tavern; neither would it be immoral in him to whip a top in Grosvenor-square. But, if he did, I hope the boys would fall upon him and apply the whip to him. There are gradations in conduct; there is morality, – decency, – propriety. None of these should be violated by a bishop. A bishop should not go to a house where he may meet a young fellow leading out a wench.’ BOSWELL. ‘But, Sir, every tavern does not admit women.’Johnson. ‘Depend upon it, Sir, any tavern will admit a well-drest man and a well-drest woman; they will not perhaps admit a woman whom they see every night walking by their door, in the street. But a well-drest man may lead in a well-drest woman to any tavern in London. Taverns sell meat and drink, and will sell them to any body who can eat and can drink. You may as well say that a mercer will not sell silks to a woman of the town.’

He also disapproved of bishops going to routs,¹⁰¹¹ at least of their staying at them longer than their presence commanded respect. He mentioned a particular bishop. ‘Poh! (said Mrs. Thrale,) the Bishop of —¹⁰¹² is never minded at a rout.’ BOSWELL. ‘When a bishop places himself in a situation where he has no distinct character, and is of no consequence, he degrades the dignity of his order.’ JOHNSON. ‘Mr. Boswell, Madam, has said it as correctly as could be.’

Nor was it only in the dignitaries of the Church that Johnson required a particular decorum and delicacy of behaviour; he justly considered that the clergy, as persons set apart for the sacred office of serving at the altar, and impressing the minds of men with the aweful concerns of a future state, should be somewhat more serious than the generality of mankind, and have a suitable composure of manners. A due sense of the dignity of their profession, independent of higher motives, will ever prevent them from losing their distinction in an indiscriminate sociality; and did such as affect this, know how much it lessens them in the eyes of those whom they think to please by it, they would feel themselves much mortified.

Johnson and his friend, Beauclerk, were once together in company with several clergymen, who thought that they should appear to advantage, by assuming the lax jollity of men of the world; which, as it may be observed in similar cases, they carried to noisy excess. Johnson, who they expected would be entertained, sat grave and silent for some time; at last, turning to Beauclerk, he said, by no means in a whisper, ‘This merriment of parsons is mighty offensive.’

Even the dress of a clergyman should be in character, and nothing can be more despicable than conceited attempts at avoiding the appearance of the clerical order; attempts, which are as ineffectual as they are pitiful. Dr. Porteus, now Bishop of London, in his excellent charge when presiding over the diocese of Chester, justly animadverts upon this subject; and observes of a reverend fop, that he ‘can be but half a beau.’

Addison, in The Spectator,¹⁰¹³ has given us a fine portrait of a clergyman, who is supposed to be a member of his Club; and Johnson has exhibited a model, in the character of Mr. Mudge,^a which has escaped the collectors of his works, but which he owned to me, and which indeed he shewed to Sir Joshua Reynolds at the time when it was written. It bears the genuine marks of Johnson’s best manner, and is as follows:–

‘The Reverend Mr. Zacariah Mudge, Prebendary of Exeter, and Vicar of St. Andrew’s in Plymouth; a man equally eminent for his virtues and abilities, and at once beloved as a companion and reverenced as a pastor. He had that general curiosity to which no kind of knowledge is indifferent or superfluous; and that general benevolence by which no order of men is hated or despised.

‘His principles both of thought and action were great and comprehensive. By a solicitous examination of objections, and judicious comparison of opposite arguments, he attained what enquiry never gives but to industry and perspicuity, a firm and unshaken settlement of conviction. But his firmness was without asperity; for, knowing with how much difficulty truth was sometimes found, he did not wonder that many missed it.

‘The general course of his life was determined by his profession; he studied the sacred volumes in the original languages; with what diligence and success, his Notes upon the Psalms give sufficient evidence. He once endeavoured to add the knowledge of Arabick to that of Hebrew; but finding his thoughts too much diverted from other studies, after some time, desisted from his purpose.

‘His discharge of parochial duties was exemplary. How his Sermons were composed, may be learned from the excellent volume which he has given to the publick; but how they were delivered, can be known only to those that heard them; for as he appeared in the pulpit, words will not easily describe him. His delivery, though unconstrained was not negligent, and though forcible was not turbulent; disdaining anxious nicety of emphasis, and laboured artifice of action, it captivated the hearer by its natural dignity, it roused the sluggish, and fixed the volatile, and detained the mind upon the subject, without directing it to the speaker.

‘The grandeur and solemnity of the preacher did not intrude upon his general behaviour; at the table of his friends he was a companion communicative and attentive, of unaffected manners, of manly cheerfulness, willing to please, and easy to be pleased. His acquaintance was universally solicited, and his presence obstructed no enjoyment which religion did not forbid. Though studious he was popular; though argumentative he was modest; though inflexible he was candid; and though metaphysical yet orthodox.’^a

On Friday, March 30, I dined with him at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, with the Earl of Charlemont, Sir Annesley Stewart, Mr. Eliot of Port-Eliot, Mr. Burke, Dean Marlay, Mr. Langton; a most agreeable day, of which I regret that every circumstance is not preserved; but it is unreasonable to require such a multiplication of felicity.

Mr. Eliot, with whom Dr. Walter Harte had travelled, talked to us of his History of Gustavus Adolphus, which he said was a very good book in the German translation. Johnson. ‘Harte was excessively vain. He put copies of his book in manuscript into the hands of Lord Chesterfield and Lord Granville, that they might revise it. Now, how absurd was it to suppose that two such noblemen would revise so big a manuscript. Poor man! he left London the day of the publication of his book, that he might be out of the way of the great praise he was to receive; and he was ashamed to return, when he found how ill his book had succeeded. It was unlucky in coming out on the same day with Robertson’s History of Scotland. His husbandry, however, is good.’ BOSWELL. ‘So he was fitter for that than for heroick history: he did well when he turned his sword into a plough-share.’

Mr. Eliot mentioned a curious liquor peculiar to his country, which the Cornish fishermen drink. They call it Mahogany; and it is made of two parts gin, and one part treacle, well beaten together. I begged to have some of it made, which was done with proper skill by Mr. Eliot. I thought it very good liquor; and said it was a counterpart of what is called Athol Porridge in the Highlands of Scotland, which is a mixture of whisky and honey. Johnson said, ‘that must be a better liquor than the Cornish, for both its component parts are better.’ He also observed, ‘Mahogany must be a modern name; for it is not long since the wood called mahogany was known in this country.’ I mentioned his scale of liquors; – claret for boys, – port for men, – brandy for heroes. ‘Then (said Mr. Burke,) let me have claret: I love to be a boy; to have the careless gaiety of boyish days.’ JOHNSON. ‘I should drink claret too, if it would give me that; but it does not: it neither makes boys men, nor men boys. You’ll be drowned by it, before it has any effect upon you.’

I ventured to mention a ludicrous paragraph in the newspapers, that Dr. Johnson was learning to dance of Vestris. Lord Charlemont, wishing to excite him to talk, proposed, in a whisper, that he should be asked, whether it was true. ‘Shall I ask him?’ said his Lordship. We were, by a great majority, clear for the experiment. Upon which his Lordship very gravely, and with a courteous air said, ‘Pray, Sir, is it true that you are taking lessons of Vestris?’ This was risking a good deal, and required the boldness of a General of Irish Volunteers to make the attempt. Johnson was at first startled, and in some heat answered, ‘How can your Lordship ask so simple a question?’ But immediately recovering himself, whether from unwillingness to be deceived, or to appear deceived, or whether from real good humour, he kept up the joke: ‘Nay, but if any body were to answer the paragraph, and contradict it, I’d have a reply, and would say, that he who contradicted it was no friend either to Vestris or me. For why should not Dr. Johnson add to his other powers a little corporeal agility? Socrates learnt to dance at an advanced age, and Cato learnt Greek at an advanced age. Then it might proceed to say, that this Johnson, not content with dancing on the ground, might dance on the rope; and they might introduce the elephant dancing on the rope. A nobleman^a wrote a play, called Love in a hollow Tree. He found out that it was a bad one, and therefore wished to buy up all the copies, and burn them. The Duchess of Marlborough had kept one; and when he was against her at an election, she had a new edition of it printed, and prefixed to it, as a frontispiece, an elephant dancing on a rope; to shew, that his Lordship’s writing comedy was as aukward as an elephant dancing on a rope.’

On Sunday, April 1, I dined with him at Mr. Thrale’s, with Sir Philip Jennings Clerk and Mr. Perkins,^a who had the superintendence of Mr. Thrale’s brewery, with a salary of five hundred pounds a year. Sir Philip had the appearance of a gentleman of ancient family, well advanced in life. He wore his own white hair in a bag¹⁰¹⁴ of goodly size, a black velvet coat, with an embroidered waistcoat, and very rich laced ruffles; which Mrs. Thrale said were old fashioned, but which, for that reason, I thought the more respectable, more like a Tory; yet Sir Philip was then in Opposition in Parliament. ‘Ah, Sir, (said Johnson,) ancient ruffles and modern principles do not agree.’ Sir Philip defended the Opposition to the American war ably and with temper, and I joined him. He said, the majority of the nation was against the ministry. JOHNSON. ‘I, Sir, am against the ministry; but it is for having too little of that, of which Opposition thinks they have too much. Were I minister, if any man wagged his finger against me, he should be turned out; for that which it is in the power of Government to give at pleasure to one or to another, should be given to the supporters of Government. If you will not oppose at the expence of losing your place, your opposition will not be honest, you will feel no serious grievance; and the present opposition is only a contest to get what others have. Sir Robert Walpole acted as I would do. As to the American war, the sense of the nation is with the ministry. The majority of those who can understand is with it; the majority of those who can only hear is against it; and as those who can only hear are more numerous than those who can understand, and Opposition is always loudest, a majority of the rabble will be for Opposition.’

This boisterous vivacity entertained us; but the truth in my opinion was, that those who could understand the best were against the American war, as almost every man now is, when the question has been coolly considered.

Mrs. Thrale gave high praise to Mr. Dudley Long, (now North). Johnson. ‘Nay, my dear lady, don’t talk so. Mr. Long’s character is very short. It is nothing. He fills a chair. He is a man of genteel appearance, and that is all.^b I know nobody who blasts by praise as you do: for whenever there is exaggerated praise, every body is set against a character. They are provoked to attack it. Now there is Pepys;^c you praised that man with such disproportion, that I was incited to lessen him, perhaps more than he deserves. His blood is upon your head. By the same principle, your malice defeats itself; for your censure is too violent. And yet, (looking to her with a leering smile,) she is the first woman in the world, could she but restrain that wicked tongue of hers; – she would be the only woman, could she but command that little whirligig.’

Upon the subject of exaggerated praise I took the liberty to say, that I thought there might be very high praise given to a known character which deserved it, and therefore it would not be exaggerated. Thus, one might say of Mr. Edmund Burke, He is a very wonderful man. Johnson. ‘No, Sir, you would not be safe if another man had a mind perversely to contradict. He might answer, “Where is all the wonder? Burke is, to be sure, a man of uncommon abilities, with a great quantity of matter in his mind, and a great fluency of language in his mouth. But we are not to be stunned and astonished by him.” So you see, Sir, even Burke would suffer, not from any fault of his own, but from your folly.’

Mrs. Thrale mentioned a gentleman¹⁰¹⁷ who had acquired a fortune of four thousand a year in trade, but was absolutely miserable, because he could not talk in company; so miserable, that he was impelled to lament his situation in the street to ∗∗∗∗∗∗,¹⁰¹⁸ whom he hates, and who he knows despises him. ‘I am a most unhappy man, (said he). I am invited to conversations. I go to conversations; but, alas! I have no conversation.’ JOHNSON. ‘Man commonly cannot be successful in different ways. This gentleman has spent, in getting four thousand pounds a year, the time in which he might have learnt to talk; and now he cannot talk.’ Mr. Perkins made a shrewd and droll remark: ‘If he had got his four thousand a year as a mountebank, he might have learnt to talk at the same time that he was getting his fortune.’

Some other gentlemen¹⁰¹⁹ came in. The conversation concerning the person whose character Dr. Johnson had treated so slightingly, as he did not know his merit, was resumed. Mrs. Thrale said, ‘You think so of him, Sir, because he is quiet, and does not exert himself with force. You’ll be saying the same thing of Mr. ∗∗∗∗∗¹⁰²⁰ there, who sits as quiet -.’ This was not well-bred; and Johnson did not let it pass without correction. ‘Nay, Madam, what right have you to talk thus? Both Mr. ∗∗∗∗∗ and I have reason to take it ill. You may talk so of Mr. ∗∗∗∗∗; but why do you make me do it? Have I said anything against Mr. ∗∗∗∗∗? You have set him, that I might shoot him: but I have not shot him.’

One of the gentlemen¹⁰²¹ said, he had seen three folio volumes of Dr. Johnson’s sayings collected by me. ‘I must put you right, Sir, (said I,) for I am very exact in authenticity. You could not see folio volumes, for I have none: you might have seen some in quarto and octavo. This is inattention which one should guard against.’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, it is a want of concern about veracity. He does not know that he saw any volumes. If he had seen them he could have remembered their size.’

Mr. Thrale appeared very lethargick to-day. I saw him again on Monday evening, at which time he was not thought to be in immediate danger; but early in the morning of Wednesday, the 4th, he expired. Johnson was in the house, and thus mentions the event: ‘I felt almost the last flutter of his pulse, and looked for the last time upon the face that for fifteen years had never been turned upon me but with respect and benignity.’^a Upon that day there was a Call of THE LITERARY CLUB; but Johnson apologised for his absence by the following note: –

‘MR. JOHNSON knows that Sir Joshua Reynolds and the other gentlemen will excuse his incompliance with the Call, when they are told that Mr. Thrale died this morning. – Wednesday.’

Mr. Thrale’s death was a very essential loss to Johnson, who, although he did not foresee all that afterwards happened, was sufficiently convinced that the comforts which Mr. Thrale’s family afforded him, would now in a great measure cease. He, however, continued to shew a kind attention to his widow and children as long as it was acceptable; and he took upon him, with a very earnest concern, the office of one of his executors, the importance of which seemed greater than usual to him, from his circumstances having been always such, that he had scarcely any share in the real business of life. His friends of THE CLUB were in hopes that Mr. Thrale might have made a liberal provision for him for his life, which, as Mr. Thrale left no son, and a very large fortune, it would have been highly to his honour to have done; and, considering Dr. Johnson’s age, could not have been of long duration; but he bequeathed him only two hundred pounds, which was the legacy given to each of his executors. I could not but be somewhat diverted by hearing Johnson talk in a pompous manner of his new office, and particularly of the concerns of the brewery, which it was at last resolved should be sold. Lord Lucan tells a very good story, which, if not precisely exact, is certainly characteristical: that when the sale of Thrale’s brewery was going forward, Johnson appeared bustling about, with an ink-horn and pen in his button-hole, like an excise-man; and on being asked what he really considered to be the value of the property which was to be disposed of, answered, ‘We are not here to sell a parcel of boilers and vats, but the potentiality of growing rich, beyond the dreams of avarice.’

On Friday, April 6, he carried me to dine at a club, which, at his desire, had been lately formed at the Queen’s Arms, in St. Paul’s Church-yard. He told Mr. Hoole, that he wished to have a City Club, and asked him to collect one; but, said he, ‘Don’t let them be patriots.’ The company to-day were very sensible, well-behaved men. I have preserved only two particulars of his conversation. He said he was glad Lord George Gordon had escaped, rather than that a precedent should be established for hanging a man for constructive treason; which, in consistency with his true, manly, constitutional Toryism, he considered would be a dangerous engine of arbitrary power. And upon its being mentioned that an opulent and very indolent Scotch nobleman, who totally resigned the management of his affairs to a man of knowledge and abilities, had claimed some merit by saying, ‘The next best thing to managing a man’s own affairs well is being sensible of incapacity, and not attempting it, but having full confidence in one who can do it:’ JOHNSON. ‘Nay, Sir, this is paltry. There is a middle course. Let a man give application; and depend upon it he will soon get above a despicable state of helplessness, and attain the power of acting for himself.’

On Saturday, April 7, I dined with him at Mr. Hoole’s, with Governour Bouchier and Captain Orme, both of whom had been long in the East-Indies; and being men of good sense and observation, were very entertaining. Johnson defended the oriental regulation of different casts of men, which was objected to as totally destructive of the hopes of rising in society by personal merit. He shewed that there was a principle in it sufficiently plausible by analogy. ‘We see (said he,) in metals that there are different species; and so likewise in animals, though one species may not differ very widely from another, as in the species of dogs, – the cur, the spaniel, the mastiff. The Bramins are the mastiffs of mankind.’

On Thursday, April 12, I dined with him at a Bishop’s,¹⁰²² where were Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Berrenger, and some more company. He had dined the day before at another Bishop’s.¹⁰²³ I have unfortunately recorded none of his conversation at the Bishop’s where we dined together: but I have preserved his ingenious defence of his dining twice abroad in Passion-week; a laxity, in which I am convinced he would not have indulged himself at the time when he wrote his solemn paper in The Rambler, upon that aweful season. It appeared to me, that by being much more in company, and enjoying more luxurious living, he had contracted a keener relish of pleasure, and was consequently less rigorous in his religious rites. This he would not acknowledge; but he reasoned, with admirable sophistry, as follows: ‘Why, Sir, a Bishop’s calling company together in this week is, to use the vulgar phrase, not the thing. But you must consider laxity is a bad thing; but preciseness is also a bad thing; and your general character may be more hurt by preciseness than by dining with a Bishop in Passion-week. There might be a handle for reflection. It might be said, “He refused to dine with a Bishop in Passion-week, but was three Sundays absent from Church.”’ BOSWELL. ‘Very true, Sir. But suppose a man to be uniformly of good conduct, would it not be better that he should refuse to dine with a Bishop in this week, and so not encourage a bad practice by his example?’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, you are to consider whether you might not do more harm by lessening the influence of a Bishop’s character by your disapprobation in refusing him, than by going to him.’

‘To MRS. LUCY PORTER, in Lichfield

‘DEAR MADAM, – Life is full of troubles. I have just lost my dear friend Thrale. I hope he is happy; but I have had a great loss. I am otherwise pretty well. I require some care of myself, but that care is not ineffectual; and when I am out of order, I think it often my own fault.

‘The spring is now making quick advances. As it is the season in which the whole world is enlivened and invigorated, I hope that both you and I shall partake of its benefits. My desire is to see Lichfield; but being left executor to my friend, I know not whether I can be spared; but I will try, for it is now long since we saw one another, and how little we can promise ourselves many more interviews, we are taught by hourly examples of mortality. Let us try to live so as that mortality may not be an evil. Write to me soon, my dearest; your letters will give me great pleasure.

‘I am sorry that Mr. Porter has not had his box; but by sending it to Mr. Mathias, who very readily undertook its conveyance, I did the best I could, and perhaps before now he has it.

‘Be so kind as to make my compliments to my friends; I have a great value for their kindness, and hope to enjoy it before summer is past. Do write to me. I am, dearest love, your most humble servant,

‘London, April 12, 1781.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

On Friday, April 13, being Good-Friday, I went to St. Clement’s church with him, as usual. There I saw again his old fellow-collegian, Edwards, to whom I said, ‘I think, Sir, Dr. Johnson and you meet only at Church.’ – ‘Sir, (said he,) it is the best place we can meet in, except Heaven, and I hope we shall meet there too.’ Dr. Johnson told me, that there was very little communication between Edwards and him, after their unexpected renewal of acquaintance. ‘But, (said he, smiling), he met me once, and said, “I am told you have written a very pretty book called The Rambler.” I was unwilling that he should leave the world in total darkness, and sent him a set.’

Mr. Berenger^a visited him to-day, and was very pleasing. We talked of an evening society for conversation at a house in town, of which we were all members, but of which Johnson said, ‘It will never do, Sir. There is nothing served about there, neither tea, nor coffee, nor lemonade, nor any thing whatever; and depend upon it, Sir, a man does not love to go to a place from whence he comes out exactly as he went in.’ I endeavoured, for argument’s sake, to maintain that men of learning and talents might have very good intellectual society, without the aid of any little gratifications of the senses. Berenger joined with Johnson, and said, that without these any meeting would be dull and insipid. He would therefore have all the slight refreshments; nay, it would not be amiss to have some cold meat, and a bottle of wine upon a side-board. ‘Sir, (said Johnson to me, with an air of triumph,) Mr. Berenger knows the world. Every body loves to have good things furnished to them without any trouble. I told Mrs. Thrale once, that as she did not choose to have card tables, she should have a profusion of the best sweetmeats, and she would be sure to have company enough come to her.’ I agreed with my illustrious friend upon this subject; for it has pleased God to make man a composite animal, and where there is nothing to refresh the body, the mind will languish.

On Sunday, April 15, being Easter-day, after solemn worship in St. Paul’s church, I found him alone; Dr. Scott, of the Commons, came in. He talked of its having been said, that Addison wrote some of his best papers in The Spectator when warm with wine. Dr. Johnson did not seem willing to admit this. Dr. Scott, as a confirmation of it, related, that Blackstone, a sober man, composed his Commentaries with a bottle of port before him; and found his mind invigorated and supported in the fatigue of his great work, by a temperate use of it.

I told him, that in a company where I had lately been, a desire was expressed to know his authority for the shocking story of Addison’s sending an execution into Steele’s house.^a ‘Sir, (said he,) it is generally known, it is known to all who are acquainted with the literary history of that period. It is as well known, as that he wrote Cato.’ Mr. Thomas Sheridan once defended Addison to me, by alledging that he did it in order to cover Steele’s goods from other creditors, who were going to seize them.

We talked of the difference between the mode of education at Oxford, and that in those Colleges where instruction is chiefly conveyed by lectures. JOHNSON. Lectures were once useful; but now, when all can read, and books are so numerous, lectures are unnecessary. If your attention fails, and you miss a part of a lecture, it is lost; you cannot go back as you do upon a book.’ Dr. Scott agreed with him. ‘But yet (said I), Dr. Scott, you yourself gave lectures at Oxford.’ He smiled. ‘You laughed (then said I,) at those who came to you.’

Dr. Scott left us, and soon afterwards we went to dinner. Our company consisted of Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Desmoulins, Mr. Levett, Mr. Allen, the printer, and Mrs. Hall, sister of the Reverend Mr. John Wesley, and resembling him, as I thought, both in figure and manner. Johnson produced now, for the first time, some handsome silver salvers, which he told me he had bought fourteen years ago; so it was a great day. I was not a little amused by observing Allen perpetually struggling to talkin the manner of Johnson, like the little frog in the fable blowing himself up to resemble the stately ox.

I mentioned a kind of religious Robinhood Society, which met every Sunday evening, at Coachmakers’–hall, for free debate; and that the subject for this night was, the text which relates, with other miracles, which happened at our Saviour’s death, ‘And the graves were opened, and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, and came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.’¹⁰²⁴ Mrs. Hall said it was a very curious subject, and she should like to hear it discussed. JOHNSON. (somewhat warmly,) ‘One would not go to such a place to hear it, – one would not be seen in such a place – to give countenance to such a meeting.’ I, however, resolved that I would go. ‘But, Sir, (said she to Johnson,) I should like to hear you discuss it.’ He seemed reluctant to engage in it. She talked of the resurrection of the human race in general, and maintained that we shall be raised with the same bodies. JOHNSON. ‘Nay, Madam, we see that it is not to be the same body; for the Scripture uses the illustration of grain sown,¹⁰²⁵ and we know that the grain which grows is not the same with what is sown. You cannot suppose that we shall rise with a diseased body; it is enough if there be such a sameness as to distinguish identity of person.’ She seemed desirous of knowing more, but he left the question in obscurity.

Of apparitions,^a he observed, ‘A total disbelief of them is adverse to the opinion of the existence of the soul between death and the last day; the question simply is, whether departed spirits ever have the power of making themselves perceptible to us; a man who thinks he has seen an apparition, can only be convinced himself; his authority will not convince another, and his conviction, if rational, must be founded on being told something which cannot be known but by supernatural means.’

He mentioned a thing as not unfrequent, of which I had never heard before, – being called, that is, hearing one’s name pronounced by the voice of a known person at a great distance, far beyond the possibility of being reached by any sound uttered by human organs. ‘An acquaintance,¹⁰²⁶ on whose veracity I can depend, told me, that walking home one evening to Kilmarnock he heard himself called from a wood, by the voice of a brother who had gone to America; and the next packet brought accounts of that brother’s death.’ Macbean asserted that this inexplicable calling was a thing very well known. Dr. Johnson said, that one day at Oxford, as he was turning the key of his chamber, he heard his mother distinctly call Sam. She was then at Lichfield; but nothing ensued. This phænomenon is, I think, as wonderful as any other mysterious fact, which many people are very slow to believe, or rather, indeed, reject with an obstinate contempt.

Some time after this, upon his making a remark which escaped my attention, Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Hall were both together striving to answer him. He grew angry, and called out loudly, ‘Nay, when you both speak at once, it is intolerable.’ But checking himself, and softening, he said, ‘This one may say, though you are ladies.’ Then he brightened into gay humour, and addressed them in the words of one of the songs in The Beggar’s Opera: –

‘But two at a time there’s no mortal can bear.’¹⁰²⁷

‘What, Sir, (said I,) are you going to turn Captain Macheath?’ There was something as pleasantly ludicrous in this scene as can be imagined. The contrast between Macheath, Polly, and Lucy – and Dr. Samuel Johnson, blind, peevish Mrs. Williams, and lean, lank, preaching Mrs. Hall, was exquisite.

I stole away to Coachmakers’–hall, and heard the difficult text of which we had talked, discussed with great decency, and some intelligence, by several speakers. There was a difference of opinion as to the appearance of ghosts in modern times, though the arguments for it, supported by Mr. Addison’s authority, preponderated. The immediate subject of debate was embarrassed by the bodies of the saints having been said to rise, and by the question what became of them afterwards; did they return again to their graves? or were they translated to heaven? Only one evangelist mentions the fact,^a and the commentators whom I have looked at, do not make the passage clear. There is, however, no occasion for our understanding it farther, than to know that it was one of the extraordinary manifestations of divine power, which accompanied the most important event that ever happened.

On Friday, April 20, I spent with him one of the happiest days that I remember to have enjoyed in the whole course of my life. Mrs. Garrick, whose grief for the loss of her husband was, I believe, as sincere as wounded affection and admiration could produce, had this day, for the first time since his death, a select party of his friends to dine with her. The company was Miss Hannah More, who lived with her, and whom she called her Chaplain; Mrs. Boscawen,^b Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Burney, Dr. Johnson, and myself. We found ourselves very elegantly entertained at her house in the Adelphi, where I have passed many a pleasing hour with him ‘who gladdened life.’¹⁰²⁸ She looked very well, talked of her husband with complacency, and while she cast her eyes on his portrait, which hung over the chimney-piece, said, that ‘death was now the most agreeable object to her.’ The very semblance of David Garrick was cheering. Mr. Beauclerk, with happy propriety, inscribed under that fine portrait of him, which by Lady Diana’s kindness is now the property of my friend Mr. Langton, the following passage from his beloved Shakspeare: –

‘A merrier man,

Within the limit of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour’s talk withal.

His eye begets occasion for his wit;

For every object that the one doth catch,

The other turns to a mirth-moving jest;

Which his fair tongue (Conceit’s expositor)

Delivers in such apt and gracious words,

That aged ears play truant at his tales,

And younger hearings are quite ravished:

So sweet and voluble is his discourse.’¹⁰²⁹

We were all in fine spirits; and I whispered to Mrs. Boscawen, ‘I believe this is as much as can be made of life.’ In addition to a splendid entertainment, we were regaled with Lichfield ale, which had a peculiar appropriated value. Sir Joshua, and Dr. Burney, and I, drank cordially of it to Dr. Johnson’s health; and though he would not join us, he as cordially answered, ‘Gentlemen, I wish you all as well as you do me.’

The general effect of this day dwells upon my mind in fond remembrance; but I do not find much conversation recorded. What I have preserved shall be faithfully given.

One of the company¹⁰³⁰ mentioned Mr. Thomas Hollis, the strenuous Whig, who used to send over Europe presents of democratical books, with their boards stamped with daggers and caps of liberty. Mrs. Carter said, ‘He was a bad man. He used to talk uncharitably.’ JOHNSON. ‘Poh! poh! Madam; who is the worse for being talked of uncharitably? Besides, he was a dull poor creature as ever lived: and I believe he would not have done harm to a man whom he knew to be of very opposite principles to his own. I remember once at the Society of Arts, when an advertisement was to be drawn up, he pointed me out as the man who could do it best. This, you will observe, was kindness to me. I however slipt away, and escaped it.’

Mrs. Carter having said of the same person, ‘I doubt he was an Atheist.’ JOHNSON. ‘I don’t know that. He might perhaps have become one, if he had had time to ripen, (smiling.) He might have exuberated into an Atheist.’

Sir Joshua Reynolds praised Mudge’s Sermons.^a JOHNSON. ‘Mudge’s Sermons are good, but not practical. He grasps more sense than he can hold; he takes more corn than he can make into meal; he opens a wide prospect, but it is so distant, it is indistinct. I love Blair’s Sermons. Though the dog is a Scotchman, and a Presbyterian, and every thing he should not be, I was the first to praise them. Such was my candour,’ (smiling.) Mrs. BOSCAWEN. ‘Such his great merit to get the better of all your prejudices.’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Madam, let us compound the matter; let us ascribe it to my candour, and his merit.’

In the evening we had a large company in the drawing-room, several ladies, the Bishop of Killaloe, Dr. Percy, Mr. Chamberlayne, of the Treasury, &c. &c. Somebody said the life of a mere literary man could not be very entertaining. Johnson. ‘But it certainly may. This is a remark which has been made, and repeated, without justice; why should the life of a literary man be less entertaining than the life of any other man? Are there not as interesting varieties in such a life? As a literary life it may be very entertaining.’ BOSWELL. ‘But it must be better surely, when it is diversified with a little active variety – such as his having gone to Jamaica; or – his having gone to the Hebrides.’ Johnson was not displeased at this.

Talking of a very respectable authour,¹⁰³¹ he told us a curious circumstance in his life, which was, that he had married a printer’s devil. REYNOLDS. ‘A printer’s devil, Sir! Why, I thought a printer’s devil was a creature with a black face and in rags.’ JOHNSON. ‘Yes, Sir. But I suppose, he had her face washed, and put clean clothes on her. (Then looking very serious, and very earnest.) And she did not disgrace him; the woman had a bottom of good sense.’ The word bottom thus introduced, was so ludicrous when contrasted with his gravity, that most of us could not forbear tittering and laughing; though I recollect that the Bishop of Killaloe kept his countenance with perfect steadiness, while Miss Hannah More slyly hid her face behind a lady’s back who sat on the same settee with her. His pride could not bear that any expression of his should excite ridicule, when he did not intend it; he therefore resolved to assume and exercise despotick power, glanced sternly around, and called out in a strong tone, ‘Where’s the merriment?’ Then collecting himself, and looking aweful, to make us feel how he could impose restraint, and as it were searching his mind for a still more ludicrous word, he slowly pronounced, ‘I say the woman was fundamentally sensible;’ as if he had said, hear this now, and laugh if you dare. We all sat composed as at a funeral.

He and I walked away together; we stopped a little while by the rails of the Adelphi, looking on the Thames, and I said to him with some emotion that I was now thinking of two friends we had lost, who once lived in the buildings behind us, Beauclerk and Garrick. ‘Ay, Sir, (said he, tenderly,) and two such friends as cannot be supplied.’

For some time after this day I did not see him very often, and of the conversation which I did enjoy, I am sorry to find I have preserved but little. I was at this time engaged in a variety of other matters, which required exertion and assiduity, and necessarily occupied almost all my time.

One day having spoken very freely of those who were then in power, he said to me, ‘Between ourselves, Sir, I do not like to give opposition the satisfaction of knowing how much I disapprove of the ministry.’ And when I mentioned that Mr. Burke had boasted how quiet the nation was in George the Second’s reign, when Whigs were in power, compared with the present reign, when Tories governed; – ‘Why, Sir, (said he,) you are to consider that Tories having more reverence for government, will not oppose with the same violence as Whigs, who being unrestrained by that principle, will oppose by any means.’

This month he lost not only Mr. Thrale, but another friend, Mr. William Strahan, Junior, printer, the eldest son of his old and constant friend, Printer to his Majesty.

‘To MRS. STRAHAN

‘DEAR MADAM, – The grief which I feel for the loss of a very kind friend is sufficient to make me know how much you must suffer by the death of an amiable son; a man, of whom I think it may truly be said, that no one knew him who does not lament him. I look upon myself as having a friend, another friend, taken from me.

‘Comfort, dear Madam, I would give you if I could, but I know how little the forms of consolation can avail. Let me, however, counsel you not to waste your health in unprofitable sorrow, but go to Bath, and endeavour to prolong your own life; but when we have all done all that we can, one friend must in time lose the other. I am, dear Madam, your most humble servant,

‘April 23, 1781.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

On Tuesday, May 8, I had the pleasure of again dining with him and Mr. Wilkes, at Mr. Dilly’s. No negociation was now required to bring them together; for Johnson was so well satisfied with the former interview, that he was very glad to meet Wilkes again, who was this day seated between Dr. Beattie and Dr. Johnson; (between Truth and Reason, as General Paoli said, when I told him of it.) WILKES. ‘I have been thinking, Dr. Johnson, that there should be a bill brought into parliament that the controverted elections for Scotland should be tried in that country, at their own abbey of Holy-Rood House, and not here; for the consequence of trying them here is, that we have an inundation of Scotchmen, who come up and never go back again. Now here is Boswell, who is come up upon the election for his own county, which will not last a fortnight.’ JOHNSON. ‘Nay, Sir, I see no reason why they should be tried at all; for, you know, one Scotchman is as good as another.’ WILKES. ‘Pray, Boswell, how much may be got in a year by an Advocate at the Scotch bar?’ BOSWELL. ‘I believe two thousand pounds.’ WILKES. ‘How can it be possible to spend that money in Scotland?’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, the money may be spent in England: but there is a harder question. If one man in Scotland gets possession of two thousand pounds, what remains for all the rest of the nation?’ WILKES. ‘You know, in the last war, the immense booty which Thurot carried off by the complete plunder of seven Scotch isles; he re-embarked with three and six-pence.’ Here again Johnson and Wilkes joined in extravagant sportive raillery upon the supposed poverty of Scotland, which Dr. Beattie and I did not think it worth our while to dispute.

The subject of quotation being introduced, Mr. Wilkes censured it as pedantry. Johnson. ‘No, Sir, it is a good thing; there is a community of mind in it. Classical quotation is the parole¹⁰³² of literary men all over the world.’ Wilkes. ‘Upon the continent they all quote the vulgate Bible. Shakspeare is chiefly quoted here; and we quote also Pope, Prior, Butler, Waller, and sometimes Cowley.’

We talked of Letter-writing. Johnson. ‘It is now become so much the fashion to publish letters, that in order to avoid it, I put as little into mine as Ican.’ BOSWELL. ‘Do what you will, Sir, you cannot avoid it. Should you even write as ill as you can, your letters would be published as curiosities:

‘Behold a miracle! instead of wit,

See two dull lines with Stanhope’s pencil writ.” ‘¹⁰³³

He gave us an entertaining account of Bet Flint, a woman of the town, who, with some eccentrick talents and much effrontery, forced herself upon his acquaintance. Bet (said he,) wrote her own Life in verse^a, which she brought to me, wishing that I would furnish her with a Preface to it. (Laughing.) I used to say of her that she was generally slut and drunkard; occasionally, whore and thief. She had, however, genteel lodgings, a spinnet on which she played, and a boy that walked before her chair. Poor Bet was taken up on a charge of stealing a counterpane, and tried at the Old Bailey. Chief Justice —,¹⁰³⁵ who loved a wench, summed up favourably, and she was acquitted. After which Bet said, with a gay and satisfied air, “Now that the counterpane is my own, I shall make a petticoat of it.”’

Talking of oratory, Mr. Wilkes described it as accompanied with all the charms of poetical expression. JOHNSON. ‘No, Sir; oratory is the power of beating down your adversary’s arguments, and putting better in their place.’ Wilkes. ‘But this does not move the passions.’ JOHNSON. ‘He must be a weak man, who is to be so moved.’ WILKES. (naming a celebrated orator,)¹⁰³⁶ ‘Amidst all the brilliancy of —’s imagination, and the exuberance of his wit, there is a strange want of taste. It was observed of Apelles’s Venus, that her flesh seemed as if she had been nourished by roses: his oratory would sometimes make one suspect that he eats potatoes and drinks whisky.’

Mr. Wilkes observed, how tenacious we are of forms in this country, and gave as an instance, the vote of the House of Commons for remitting money to pay the army in America in Portugal pieces, when, in reality, the remittance is made not in Portugal money, but in our own specie. Johnson. ‘Is there not a law, Sir, against exporting the current coin of the realm?’ WILKES. ‘Yes, Sir: but might not the House of Commons, in case of real evident necessity, order our own current coin to be sent into our own colonies?’ Here Johnson, with that quickness of recollection which distinguished him so eminently, gave the Middlesex Patriot an admirable retort upon his own ground. ‘Sure, Sir, you don’t think a resolution of the House of Commons equal to the law of the land?’¹⁰³⁷ WILKES. (at once perceiving the application,) ‘GOD forbid, Sir.’ To hear what had been treated with such violence in The False Alarm, now turned into pleasant repartee, was extremely agreeable. Johnson went on; – ‘Locke observes well, that a prohibition to export the current coin is impolitick; for when the balance of trade happens to be against a state, the current coin must be exported.’

Mr. Beauclerk’s great library was this season sold in London by auction. Mr. Wilkes said, he wondered to find in it such a numerous collection of sermons; seeming to think it strange that a gentleman of Mr. Beauclerk’s character in the gay world should have chosen to have many compositions of that kind. Johnson. ‘Why, Sir, you are to consider, that sermons make a considerable branch of English literature; so that a library must be very imperfect if it has not a numerous collection of sermons;^a and in all collections, Sir, the desire of augmenting it grows stronger in proportion to the advance in acquisition; as motion is accelerated by the continuance of the impetus. Besides, Sir, (looking at Mr. Wilkes with a placid but significant smile,) a man may collect sermons with intention of making himself better by them. I hope Mr. Beauclerk intended, that some time or other that should be the case with him.’

Mr. Wilkes said to me, loud enough for Dr. Johnson to hear, ‘Dr. Johnson should make me a present of his Lives of the Poets, as I am a poor patriot, who cannot afford to buy them.’ Johnson seemed to take no notice of this hint; but in a little while, he called to Mr. Dilly, ‘Pray, Sir, be so good as to send a set of my Lives to Mr. Wilkes, with my compliments.’ This was accordingly done; and Mr. Wilkes paid Dr. Johnson a visit, was courteously received, and sat with him a long time.

The company gradually dropped away. Mr. Dilly himself was called down stairs upon business; I left the room for some time; when I returned, I was struck with observing Dr. Samuel Johnson and John Wilkes, Esq., literally t eˆte-à-teˆte; for they were reclined upon their chairs, with their heads leaning almost close to each other, and talking earnestly, in a kind of confidential whisper, of the personal quarrel between George the Second and the King of Prussia. Such a scene of perfectly easy sociality between two such opponents in the war of political controversy, as that which I now beheld, would have been an excellent subject for a picture. It presented to my mind the happy days which are foretold in Scripture, when the lion shall lie down with the kid.^a1039

After this day there was another pretty long interval, during which Dr. Johnson and I did not meet. When I mentioned it to him with regret, he was pleased to say, ‘Then, Sir, let us live double.’

About this time it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies, where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated Blue-stocking Clubs, the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stilling-fleet,^a whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed, that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We can do nothing without the blue stockings;’ and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a Blue-stocking Club, in her Bas Bleu, a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.

Johnson was prevailed with to come sometimes into these circles, and did not think himself too grave even for the lively Miss Monckton (now Countess of Corke), who used to have the finest bit of blue at the house of her mother, Lady Galway. Her vivacity enchanted the Sage, and they used to talk together with all imaginable ease. A singular instance happened one evening, when she insisted that some of Sterne’s writings were very pathetick. Johnson bluntly denied it. ‘I am sure (said she,) they have affected me.’ ‘Why, (said Johnson, smiling, and rolling himself about,) that is, because, dearest, you’re a dunce.’ When she some time afterwards mentioned this to him, he said with equal truth and politeness; ‘Madam, if I had thought so, I certainly should not have said it.’

Another evening Johnson’s kind indulgence towards me had a pretty difficult trial. I had dined at the Duke of Montrose’s, with a very agreeable party, and his Grace, according to his usual custom, had circulated the bottle very freely. Lord Graham and I went together to Miss Monckton’s, where I certainly was in extraordinary spirits, and above all fear or awe. In the midst of a great number of persons of the first rank, amongst whom I recollect with confusion, a noble lady of the most stately decorum, I placed myself next to Johnson, and thinking myself now fully his match, talked to him in a loud and boisterous manner, desirous to let the company know how I could contend with Ajax. I particularly remember pressing him upon the value of the pleasures of the imagination, and as an illustration of my argument, asking him, ‘What, Sir, supposing I were to fancy that the — (naming the most charming Duchess¹⁰⁴⁰ in his Majesty’s dominions) were in love with me, should I not be very happy?’ My friend with much address evaded my interrogatories, and kept me as quiet as possible; but it may easily be conceived how he must have felt.^b However, when a few days afterwards I waited upon him and made an apology, he behaved with the most friendly gentleness.

While I remained in London this year, Johnson and I dined together at several places. I recollect a placid day at Dr. Butter’s, who had now removed from Derby to Lower Grosvenor-street, London; but of his conversation on that and other occasions during this period, I neglected to keep any regular record, and shall therefore insert here some miscellaneous articles which I find in my Johnsonian notes.

His disorderly habits, when ‘making provision for the day that was passing over him,’ appear from the following anecdote, communicated to me by Mr. John Nichols: – ‘In the year 1763, a young bookseller, who was an apprentice to Mr. Whiston, waited on him with a subscription to his Shakspeare: and observing that the Doctor made no entry in any book of the subscriber’s name, ventured diffidently to ask, whether he would please to have the gentleman’s address, that it might be properly inserted in the printed list of subscribers.’ I shall print no list of subscribers;’ said Johnson, with great abruptness; but almost immediately recollecting himself, added, very complacently, ‘Sir, I have two very cogent reasons for not printing any list of subscribers; – one, that I have lost all the names, – the other, that I have spent all the money.’

Johnson could not brook appearing to be worsted in argument, even when he had taken the wrong side, to shew the force and dexterity of his talents. When, therefore, he perceived that his opponent gained ground, he had recourse to some sudden mode of robust sophistry. Once when I was pressing upon him with visible advantage, he stopped me thus: – ‘My dear Boswell, let’s have no more of this; you’ll make nothing of it. I’d rather have you whistle a Scotch tune.’

Care, however, must be taken to distinguish between Johnson when he ‘talked for victory,’ and Johnson when he had no desire but to inform and illustrate. ‘One of Johnson’s principal talents (says an eminent friend of his)¹⁰⁴¹ was shewn in maintaining the wrong side of an argument, and in a splendid perversion of the truth. If you could contrive to have his fair opinion on a subject, and without any bias from personal prejudice, or from a wish to be victorious in argument, it was wisdom itself, not only convincing, but overpowering.’

He had, however, all his life habituated himself to consider conversation as a trial of intellectual vigour and skill; and to this, I think, we may venture to ascribe that unexampled richness and brilliancy which appeared in his own. As a proof at once of his eagerness for colloquial distinction, and his high notion of this eminent friend, he once addressed him thus: – ‘—, we now have been several hours together; and you have said but one thing for which I envied you.’

He disliked much all speculative desponding considerations, which tended to discourage men from diligence and exertion. He was in this like Dr. Shaw, the great traveller, who, Mr. Daines Barrington told me, used to say, ‘I hate a cui bono¹⁰⁴² man.’ Upon being asked by a friend¹⁰⁴³ what he should think of a man who was apt to say non est tanti;¹⁰⁴⁴ – ‘That he’s a stupid fellow, Sir; (answered Johnson): What would these tanti men be doing the while?’ When I, in a low-spirited fit, was talking to him with indifference of the pursuits which generally engage us in a course of action, and inquiring a reason for taking so much trouble; ‘Sir, (said he, in an animated tone) it is driving on the system of life.’

He told me, that he was glad that I had, by General Oglethorpe’s means, become acquainted with Dr. Shebbeare. Indeed that gentleman, whatever objections were made to him, had knowledge and abilities much above the class of ordinary writers, and deserves to be remembered as a respectable name in literature, were it only for his admirable Letters on the English Nation, under the name of ‘Battista Angeloni, a Jesuit.’

Johnson and Shebbeare^a were frequently named together, as having in former reigns had no predilection for the family of Hanover. The authour¹⁰⁴⁵ of the celebrated Heroick Epistle to Sir William Chambers, introduces them in one line, in a list of those ‘who tasted the sweets of his present Majesty’s reign.’ Such was Johnson’s candid relish of the merit of that satire, that he allowed Dr. Goldsmith, as he told me, to read it to him from beginning to end, and did not refuse his praise to its execution.

Goldsmith could sometimes take adventurous liberties with him, and escape unpunished. Beauclerk told me that when Goldsmith talked of a project for having a third Theatre in London, solely for the exhibition of new plays, in order to deliver authours from the supposed tyranny of managers, Johnson treated it slightingly; upon which Goldsmith said, ‘Ay, ay, this may be nothing to you, who can now shelter yourself behind the corner of a pension;’ and that Johnson bore this with good-humour.

Johnson praised the Earl of Carlisle’s Poems, which his Lordship had published with his name, as not disdaining to be a candidate for literary fame. My friend was of opinion, that when a man of rank appeared in that character, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed.^a In this I think he was more liberal than Mr. William Whitehead, in his Elegy to Lord Villiers, in which under the pretext of ‘superiour toils, demanding all their care,’ he discovers a jealousy of the great paying their court to the Muses: –

‘—— to the chosen few

Who dare excel, thy fost’ring aid afford,

Their arts, their magick powers, with honours due

Exalt; – but be thyself what they record.’

Johnson had called twice on the Bishop of Killaloe before his Lordship set out for Ireland, having missed him the first time. He said, ‘It would have hung heavy on my heart if I had not seen him. No man ever paid more attention to another than he has done to me;^b and I have neglected him, not wilfully, but from being otherwise occupied. Always, Sir, set a high value on spontaneous kindness. He whose inclination prompts him to cultivate your friendship of his own accord, will love you more than one whom you have been at pains to attach to you.’

Johnson told me, that he was once much pleased to find that a carpenter, who lived near him, was very ready to shew him some things in his business which he wished to see: ‘It was paying (said he,) respect to literature.’

I asked him if he was not dissatisfied with having so small a share of wealth, and none of those distinctions in the state which are the objects of ambition. He had only a pension of three hundred a year. Why was he not in such circumstances as to keep his coach? Why had he not some considerable office? JOHNSON. ‘Sir, I have never complained of the world; nor do I think that I have reason to complain. It is rather to be wondered at that I have so much. My pension is more out of the usual course of things than any instance that I have known. Here, Sir, was a man avowedly no friend to Government at the time, who got a pension without asking for it. I never courted the great; they sent for me; but I think they now give me up. They are satisfied; they have seen enough of me.’ Upon my observing that I could not believe this, for they must certainly be highly pleased by his conversation; conscious of his own superiority, he answered, ‘No, Sir; great Lords and great Ladies don’t love to have their mouths stopped.’ This was very expressive of the effect which the force of his understanding and brilliancy of his fancy could not but produce; and, to be sure, they must have found themselves strangely diminished in his company. When I warmly declared how happy I was at all times to hear him; – ‘Yes, Sir, (said he); but if you were Lord Chancellor, it would not be so: you would then consider your own dignity.’

There was much truth and knowledge of human nature in this remark. But certainly one should think, that in whatever elevated state of life a man who knew the value of the conversation of Johnson might be placed, though he might prudently avoid a situation in which he might appear lessened by comparison; yet he would frequently gratify himself in private with the participation of the rich intellectual entertainment which Johnson could furnish. Strange, however, it is, to consider how few of the great sought his society; so that if one were disposed to take occasion for satire on that account, very conspicuous objects present themselves. His noble friend, Lord Elibank, well observed, that if a great man procured an interview with Johnson, and did not wish to see him more, it shewed a mere idle curiosity, and a wretched want of relish for extraordinary powers of mind. Mrs. Thrale justly and wittily accounted for such conduct by saying, that Johnson’s conversation was by much too strong for a person accustomed to obsequiousness and flattery; it was mustard in a young child’s mouth!

One day, when I told him that I was a zealous Tory, but not enough ‘according to knowledge,’ and should be obliged to him for ‘a reason,’ he was so candid, and expressed himself so well, that I begged of him to repeat what he had said, and I wrote down as follows: –

OF TORY AND WHIG.

‘A wise Tory and a wise Whig, I believe, will agree. Their principles are the same, though their modes of thinking are different. A high Tory makes government unintelligible: it is lost in the clouds. A violent Whig makes it impracticable: he is for allowing so much liberty to every man, that there is not power enough to govern any man. The prejudice of the Tory is for establishment; the prejudice of the Whig is for innovation. A Tory does not wish to give more real power to Government; but that Government should have more reverence. Then they differ as to the Church. The Tory is not for giving more legal power to the Clergy, but wishes they should have a considerable influence, founded on the opinion of mankind; the Whig is for limiting and watching them with a narrow jealousy.’

‘To MR. PERKINS

‘SIR, – However often I have seen you, I have hitherto forgotten the note, but I have now sent it: with my good wishes for the prosperity of you and your partner,^a of whom, from our short conversation, I could not judge otherwise than favourably. I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

‘June 2,1781.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

On Saturday, June 2, I set out for Scotland, and had promised to pay a visit in my way, as I sometimes did, at Southill, in Bedfordshire, at the hospitable mansion of ‘Squire Dilly, the elder brother of my worthy friends, the booksellers, in the Poultry. Dr. Johnson agreed to be of the party this year, with Mr. Charles Dilly and me, and to go and see Lord Bute’s seat at Luton Hoe. He talked little to us in the carriage, being chiefly occupied in reading Dr. Watson’s^b second volume of Chemical Essays, which he liked very well, and his own Prince of Abyssinia, on which he seemed to be intensely fixed; having told us, that he had not looked at it since it was first published. I happened to take it out of my pocket this day, and he seized upon it with avidity. He pointed out to me the following remarkable passage: -

‘By what means (said the prince) are the Europeans thus powerful; or why, since they can so easily visit Asia and Africa for trade or conquest, cannot the Asiaticks and Africans invade their coasts, plant colonies in their ports, and give laws to their natural princes? The same wind that carries them back would bring us thither.’ ‘They are more powerful, Sir, than we, (answered Imlac,) because they are wiser. Knowledge will always predominate over ignorance, as man governs the other animals. But why their knowledge is more than ours, I know not what reason can be given, but the unsearchable will of the Supreme Being.’

He said, ‘This, Sir, no man can explain otherwise.’

We stopped at Welwyn, where I wished much to see, in company with Dr. Johnson, the residence of the authour of Night Thoughts, which was then possessed by his son, Mr. Young. Here some address¹⁰⁴⁸ was requisite, for I was not acquainted with Mr. Young, and had I proposed to Dr. Johnson that we should send to him, he would have checked my wish, and perhaps been offended. I therefore concerted with Mr. Dilly, that I should steal away from Dr. Johnson and him, and try what reception I could procure from Mr. Young; if unfavourable, nothing was to be said; but if agreeable, I should return and notify it to them. I hastened to Mr. Young’s, found he was at home, sent in word that a gentleman desired to wait upon him, and was shewn into a parlour, where he and a young lady, his daughter, were sitting. He appeared to be a plain, civil, country gentleman; and when I begged pardon for presuming to trouble him, but that I wished much to see his place, if he would give me leave; he behaved very courteously, and answered, ‘By all means, Sir; we are just going to drink tea; will you sit down?’ I thanked him, but said, that Dr. Johnson had come with me from London, and I must return to the inn and drink tea with him; that my name was Boswell, I had travelled with him in the Hebrides. ‘Sir, (said he,) I should think it a great honour to see Dr. Johnson here. Will you allow me to send for him?’ Availing myself of this opening, I said that ‘I would go myself and bring him, when he had drunk tea; he knew nothing of my calling here.’ Having been thus successful, I hastened back to the inn, and informed Dr. Johnson that ‘Mr. Young, son of Dr. Young, the authour of Night Thoughts, whom I had just left, desired to have the honour of seeing him at the house where his father lived.’ Dr. Johnson luckily made no inquiry how this invitation had arisen, but agreed to go, and when we entered Mr. Young’s parlour, he addressed him with a very polite bow, ‘Sir, I had a curiosity to come and see this place. I had the honour to know that great man, your father.’ We went into the garden, where we found a gravel walk, on each side of which was a row of trees, planted by Dr. Young, which formed a handsome Gothick arch; Dr. Johnson called it a fine grove. I beheld it with reverence.

We sat some time in the summer-house, on the outside wall of which was inscribed, ‘Ambulantis in horto audiebant vocem Dei;’¹⁰⁴⁹ and in reference toabrookbywhichitissituated, ‘Vivendi recte qui prorogathoram, &c.’¹⁰⁵⁰I said to Mr. Young, that I had been told his father was cheerful. ‘Sir, (said he,) he was too well-bred a man not to be cheerful in company; but he was gloomy when alone. He never was cheerful after my mother’s death, and he had met with many disappointments.’ Dr. Johnson observed to me afterwards, ‘That this was no favourable account of Dr. Young; for it is not becoming in a man to have so little acquiescence in the ways of Providence, as to be gloomy because he has not obtained as much preferment as he expected; nor to continue gloomy for the loss of his wife. Grief has its time.’ The last part of this censure was theoretically made. Practically, we know that grief for the loss of a wife may be continued very long, in proportion as affection has been sincere. No man knew this better than Dr. Johnson.

We went into the church, and looked at the monument erected by Mr. Young to his father. Mr. Young mentioned an anecdote, that his father had received several thousand pounds of subscription-money for his Universal Passion, but had lost it in the South-Sea.^a Dr. Johnson thought this must be a mistake; for he had never seen a subscription-book.

Upon the road we talked of the uncertainty of profit with which authours and booksellers engage in the publication of literary works. JOHNSON. ‘My judgementI have Found is no certain ruleas tothe saleof abook.’ BOSWELL. ‘Pray, Sir, have you been much plagued with authours sending you their works to revise?’ JOHNSON. ‘No, Sir; I have been thought a sour, surly fellow.’ BOSWELL. ‘Very lucky for you, Sir, – in that respect.’ I must however observe, that notwithstanding what he now said, which he no doubt imagined at the time to be the fact, there was, perhaps, no man who more frequently yielded to the solicitations even of very obscure authours, to read their manuscripts, or more liberally assisted them with advice and correction.

He found himself very happy at ‘Squire Dilly’s, where there is always abundance of excellent fare, and hearty welcome.

On Sunday, June 3, we all went to Southill church, which is very near to Mr. Dilly’s house. It being the first Sunday of the month, the holy sacrament was administered, and I staid to partake of it. When I came afterwards into Dr. Johnson’s room, he said, ‘You did right to stay and receive the communion; I had not thought of it.’ This seemed to imply that he did not choose to approach the altar without a previous preparation, as to which good men entertain different opinions, some holding that it is irreverent to partake of that ordinance without considerable premeditation; others, that whoever is a sincere Christian, and in a proper frame of mind to discharge any other ritual duty of our religion, may, without scruple, discharge this most solemn one. A middle notion I believe to be the just one, which is, that communicants need not think a long train of preparatory forms indispensably necessary; but neither should they rashly and lightly venture upon so aweful and mysterious an institution. Christians must judge each for himself, what degree of retirement and self-examination is necessary upon each occasion.

Being in a frame of mind which, I hope for the felicity of human nature, many experience, – in fine weather, – at the country house of a friend, – consoled and elevated by pious exercises, – I expressed myself with an unrestrained fervour to my ‘Guide, Philosopher, and Friend;’ ‘My dear Sir, I would fain be a good man; and I am very good now. I fear God, and honour the King, I wish to do no ill, and to be benevolent to all mankind.’ He looked at me with a benignant indulgence; but took occasion to give me wise and salutary caution. ‘Do not, Sir, accustom yourself to trust to impressions. There is a middle state of mind between conviction and hypocrisy, of which many are conscious. By trusting to impressions, a man may gradually come to yield to them, and at length be subject to them, so as not to be a free agent, or what is the same thing in effect, to suppose that he is not a free agent. A man who is in that state, should not be suffered to live; if he declares he cannot help acting in a particular way, and is irresistibly impelled, there can be no confidence in him, no more than in a tyger. But, Sir, no man believes himself to be impelled irresistibly; we know that he who says he believes it, lies. Favourable impressions at particular moments, as to the state of our souls, may be deceitful and dangerous. In general no man can be sure of his acceptance with God; some, indeed, may have had it revealed to them. St. Paul, who wrought miracles, may have had a miracle wrought on himself, and may have obtained supernatural assurance of pardon, and mercy, and beatitude; yet St. Paul, though he expresses strong hope, also expresses fear, lest having preached to others, he himself should be a cast-away.’¹⁰⁵¹

The opinion of a learned Bishop¹⁰⁵² of our acquaintance, as to there being merit in religious faith, being mentioned; – Johnson. ‘Why, yes, Sir, the most licentious man, were hell open before him, would not take the most beautiful strumpet to his arms. We must, as the Apostle says, live by faith, not by sight.’¹⁰⁵³

I talked to him of original sin,^a in consequence of the fall of man, and of the atonement made by our Saviour. After some conversation, which he desired me to remember, he, at my request, dictated to me as follows: –

‘With respect to original sin, the inquiry is not necessary; for whatever is the cause of human corruption, men are evidently and confessedly so corrupt, that all the laws of heaven and earth are insufficient to restrain them from crimes.

‘Whatever difficulty there may be in the conception of vicarious punishments, it is an opinion which has had possession of mankind in all ages. There is no nation that has not used the practice of sacrifices. Whoever, therefore, denies the propriety of vicarious punishments, holds an opinion which the sentiments and practice of mankind have contradicted, from the beginning of the world. The great sacrifice for the sins of mankind was offered at the death of the MESSIAH, who is called in Scripture “The Lamb of GOD, that taketh away the sins of the world.”¹⁰⁵⁴ To judge of the reasonableness of the scheme of redemption, it must be considered as necessary to the government of the universe, that GOD should make known his perpetual and irreconcileable detestation of moral evil. He might indeed punish, and punish only the offenders; but as the end of punishment is not revenge of crimes, but propagation of virtue, it was more becoming the Divine clemency to find another manner of proceeding, less destructive to man, and at least equally powerful to promote goodness. The end of punishment is to reclaim and warn. That punishment will both reclaim and warn, which shews evidently such abhorrence of sin in God, as may deter us from it, or strike us with dread of vengeance when we have committed it. This is effected by vicarious punishment. Nothing could more testify the opposition between the nature of God and moral evil, or more amply display his justice, to men and angels, to all orders and successions of beings, than that it was necessary for the highest and purest nature, even for DIVINITY itself, to pacify the demands of vengeance, by a painful death; of which the natural effect will be, that when justice is appeased, there is a proper place for the exercise of mercy; and that such propitiation shall supply, in some degree, the imperfections of our obedience, and the inefficacy of our repentance: for, obedience and repentance, such as we can perform, are still necessary. Our SAVIOUR has told us, that he did not come to destroy the law, but to fulfill;¹⁰⁵⁵ to fulfill the typical law, by the performance of what those types had fore-shewn; and the moral law, by precepts of greater purity and higher exaltation.’

[Here he said, ‘GOD bless you with it.’ I acknowledged myself much obliged to him; but I begged that he would go on as to the propitiation being the chief object of our most holy faith. He then dictated this one other paragraph.]

‘The peculiar doctrine of Christianity is, that of an universal sacrifice, and perpetual propitiation. Other prophets only proclaimed the will and the threatenings of GOD. CHRIST satisfied his justice.’

The Reverend Mr. Palmer,^a Fellow of Queen’s-College, Cambridge, dined with us. He expressed a wish that a better provision were made for parish-clerks. JOHNSON. ‘Yes, Sir, a parish-clerk should be a man who is able to make a will, or write a letter for any body in the parish.’

I mentioned Lord Monboddo’s notion^b that the ancient Egyptians, with all their learning, and all their arts, were not only black, but woolly-haired. Mr. Palmer asked how did it appear upon examining the mummies? Dr. Johnson approved of this test.

Although upon most occasions I never heard a more strenuous advocate for the advantages of wealth, than Dr. Johnson: he this day, I know not from what caprice, took the other side. ‘I have not observed (said he,) that men of very large fortunes enjoy any thing extraordinary that makes happiness. What has the Duke of Bedford? What has the Duke of Devonshire? The only great instance that I have ever known of the enjoyment of wealth was, that of Jamaica Dawkins, who, going to visit Palmyra, and hearing that the way was infested by robbers, hired a troop of Turkish horse to guard him.’

Dr. Gibbons, the Dissenting minister, being mentioned, he said, ‘I took to Dr. Gibbons.’ And addressing himself to Mr. Charles Dilly, added, ‘I shall be glad to see him. Tell him, if he’ll call on me, and dawdle over a dish of tea in an afternoon, I shall take it kind.’

The Reverend Mr. Smith, Vicar of Southill, a very respectable man, with a very agreeable family, sent an invitation to us to drink tea. I remarked Dr. Johnson’s very respectful politeness. Though always fond of changing the scene, he said, ‘We must have Mr. Dilly’s leave. We cannot go from your house, Sir, without your permission.’ We all went, and were well satisfied with our visit. I however remember nothing particular, except a nice distinction which Dr. Johnson made with respect to the power of memory, maintaining that forgetfulness was a man’s own fault. ‘To remember and to recollect (said he,) are different things. A man has not the power to recollect what is not in his mind; but when a thing is in his mind he may remember it.’ The remark was occasioned by my leaning back on a chair, which a little before I had perceived to be broken, and pleading forgetfulness as an excuse. ‘Sir, (said he,) its being broken was certainly in your mind.’

When I observed that a housebreaker was in general very timorous; JOHNSON. ‘No wonder, Sir; he is afraid of being shot getting into a house, or hanged when he has got out of it.’

He told us, that he had in one day written six sheets of a translation from the French, adding, ‘I should be glad to see it now. I wish that I had copies of all the pamphlets written against me, as it is said Pope had. Had I known that I should make so much noise in the world, I should have been at pains to collect them. I believe there is hardly a day in which there is not something about me in the newspapers.’

On Monday, June 4, we all went to Luton-Hoe, to see Lord Bute’s magnificent seat, for which I had obtained a ticket. As we entered the park, I talked in a high style of my old friendship with Lord Mountstuart, and said, ‘I shall probably be much at this place.’ The Sage, aware of human vicissitudes, gently checked me: ‘Don’t you be too sure of that.’ He made two or three peculiar observations; as when shewn the botanical garden, ‘Is not every garden a botanical garden?’ When told that there was a shrubbery to the extent of several miles: ‘That is making a very foolish use of the ground; a little of it is very well.’ When it was proposed that we should walk on the pleasure-ground; ‘Don’t let us fatigue ourselves. Why should we walk there? Here’s a fine tree, let’s get to the top of it.’ But upon the whole, he was very much pleased. He said, ‘This is one of the places I do not regret having come to see. It is a very stately place, indeed; in the house magnificence is not sacrificed to convenience, nor convenience to magnificence. The library is very splendid: the dignity of the rooms is very great; and the quantity of pictures is beyond expectation, beyond hope.’

It happened without any previous concert, that we visited the seat of Lord Bute upon the King’s birth-day; we dined and drank his Majesty’s health at an inn, in the village of Luton.

In the evening I put him in mind of his promise to favour me with a copy of his celebrated Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield, and he was at last pleased to comply with this earnest request, by dictating it to me from his memory; for he believed that he himself had no copy. There was an animated glow in his countenance while he thus recalled his high-minded indignation.

He laughed heartily at a ludicrous action in the Court of Session, in which I was Counsel. The Society of Procurators, or Attornies, entitled to practise in the inferiour courts at Edinburgh, had obtained a royal charter, in which they had taken care to have their ancient designation of Procurators changed into that of Solicitors, from a notion, as they supposed, that it was more genteel; and this new title they displayed by a publick advertisement for a General Meeting at their HALL.

It has been said, that the Scottish nation is not distinguished for humour; and, indeed, what happened on this occasion may in some degree justify the remark: for although this society had contrived to make themselves a very prominent object for the ridicule of such as might stoop to it, the only joke to which it gave rise, was the following paragraph, sent to the newspaper called The Caledonian Mercury: –

‘A correspondent informs us, that the Worshipful Society of Chaldeans, Cadies, or Running Stationers of this city are resolved, in imitation, and encouraged by the singular success of their brethren, of an equally respectable Society, to apply for a Charter of their Privileges, particularly of the sole privilege of PROCURING, in the most extensive sense of the word, exclusive of chairmen, porters, penny-post men, and other inferiour ranks; their brethren the R–Y–L S–LL–RS, alias P-C-RS, before the INFERIOUR Courts of this City, always excepted.

‘Should the Worshipful Society be successful, they are farther resolved not to be puffed up thereby, but to demean themselves with more equanimity and decency than their R-y-l, learned, and very modest brethren above mentioned have done, upon their late dignification and exaltation.’

A majority of the members of the Society prosecuted Mr. Robertson, the publisher of the paper, for damages; and the first judgement of the whole Court very wisely dismissed the action: Solventur risu tabulæ, tu missus abibis.¹⁰⁵⁷ But a new trial or review was granted upon a petition, according to the forms in Scotland. This petition I was engaged to answer, and Dr. Johnson with great alacrity furnished me this evening with what follows: –

‘All injury is either of the person, the fortune, or the fame. Now it is a certain thing, it is proverbially known, that a jest breaks no bones. They never have gained half-a-crown less in the whole profession since this mischievous paragraph has appeared; and, as to their reputation, What is their reputation but an instrument of getting money? If, therefore, they have lost no money, the question upon reputation may be answered by a very old position, –De minimis non curat Pr&tor.¹⁰⁵⁸

‘Whether there was, or was not, an animus injuriandi,¹⁰⁵⁹ is not worth inquiring, if no injuria can be proved. But the truth is, there was no animus injuriandi. It was only an animus irritandi,^a1060 which, happening to be exercised upon a genus irritabile,¹⁰⁶¹ produced unexpected violence of resentment. Their irritability arose only from an opinion of their own importance, and their delight in their new exaltation. What might have been borne by a Procurator could not be borne by a Solicitor. Your Lordships well know, that honores mutant mores.¹⁰⁶² Titles and dignities play strongly upon the fancy. As a madman is apt to think himself grown suddenly great, so he that grows suddenly great is apt to borrow a little from the madman. To co-operate with their resentment would be to promote their phrenzy; nor is it possible to guess to what they might proceed, if to the new title of Solicitor, should be added the elation of victory and triumph.

‘We consider your Lordships as the protectors of our rights, and the guardians of our virtues; but believe it not included in your high office, that you should flatter our vices, or solace our vanity: and, as vanity only dictates this prosecution, it is humbly hoped your Lordships will dismiss it.

‘If every attempt, however light or ludicrous, to lessen another’s reputation, is to be punished by a judicial sentence, what punishment can be sufficiently severe for him who attempts to diminish the reputation of the Supreme Court of Justice, by reclaiming upon a cause already determined, without any change in the state of the question? Does it not imply hopes that the Judges will change their opinion? Is not uncertainty and inconstancy in the highest degree disreputable to a Court? Does it not suppose, that the former judgement was temerarious or negligent? Does it not lessen the confidence of the publick? Will it not be said, that jus est aut incognitum aut vagum? and will not the consequence be drawn, misera est servitus?¹⁰⁶³Will not the rules of action be obscure? Will not he who knows himself wrong to-day, hope that the Courts of Justice will think him right tomorrow? Surely, my Lords, these are attempts of dangerous tendency, which the Solicitors, as men versed in the law, should have foreseen and avoided. It was natural for an ignorant printer to appeal from the Lord Ordinary; but from lawyers, the descendants of lawyers, who have practised for three hundred years, and have now raised themselves to a higher denomination, it might be expected, that they should know the reverence due to a judicial determination; and, having been once dismissed, should sit down in silence.’

I am ashamed to mention, that the Court, by a plurality of voices, without having a single additional circumstance before them, reversed their own judgement, made a serious matter of this dull and foolish joke, and adjudged Mr. Robertson to pay to the Society five pounds (sterling money) and costs of suit. The decision will seem strange to English lawyers.

On Tuesday, June 5, Johnson was to return to London. He was very pleasant at breakfast; I mentioned a friend of mine¹⁰⁶⁴ having resolved never to marry a pretty woman. Johnson. ‘Sir, it is a very foolish resolution to resolve not to marry a pretty woman. Beauty is of itself very estimable. No, Sir, I would prefer a pretty woman, unless there are objections to her. A pretty woman may be foolish; a pretty woman may be wicked; a pretty woman may not like me. But there is no such danger in marrying a pretty woman as is apprehended: she will not be persecuted if she does not invite persecution. A pretty woman, if she has a mind to be wicked, can find a readier way than another; and that is all.’

I accompanied him in Mr. Dilly’s chaise to Shefford, where talking of Lord Bute’s never going to Scotland, he said, ‘As an Englishman, I should wish all the Scotch gentlemen to be educated in England; Scotland would become a province; they would spend all their rents in England.’ This is a subject of much consequence, and much delicacy. The advantage of an English education is unquestionably very great to Scotch gentlemen of talents and ambition; and regular visits to Scotland, and perhaps other means, might be effectually used to prevent them from being totally estranged from their native country, any more than a Cumberland or Northumberland gentleman who has been educated in the South of England. I own, indeed, that it is no small misfortune for Scotch gentlemen, who have neither talents nor ambition, to be educated in England, where they may be perhaps distinguished only by a nick-name, lavish their fortune in giving expensive entertainments to those who laugh at them, and saunter about as mere idle insignificant hangers on even upon the foolish great; when if they had been judiciously brought up at home, they might have been comfortable and creditable members of society.

At Shefford, I had another affectionate parting from my revered friend, who was taken up by the Bedford coach and carried to the metropolis. I went with Messieurs Dilly, to see some friends at Bedford; dined with the officers of the militia of the county, and next day proceeded on my journey.

‘To BENNET LANGTON, ESQ.

‘DEAR SIR, – How welcome your account of yourself and your invitation to your new house was to me, I need not tell you, who consider our friendship not only as formed by choice, but as matured by time. We have been now long enough acquainted to have many images in common; and, therefore, to have a source of conversation which neither the learning nor the wit of a new companion can supply.

‘My Lives are now published; and if you will tell me whither I shall send them, that they may come to you, I will take care that you shall not be without them.

‘You will, perhaps, be glad to hear, that Mrs. Thrale is disencumbered of her brewhouse; and that it seemed to the purchaser so far from an evil, that he was content to give for it an hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds. Is the nation ruined?

‘Please to make my respectful compliments to Lady Rothes, and keep me in the memory of all the little dear family, particularly pretty Mrs. Jane. I am, Sir, your affectionate humble servant,

‘Bolt-Court, June 16, 1781.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

Johnson’s charity to the poor was uniform and extensive, both from inclination and principle. He not only bestowed liberally out of his own purse, but what is more difficult as well as rare, would beg from others, when he had proper objects in view. This he did judiciously as well as humanely. Mr. Philip Metcalfe tells me, that when he has asked him for some money for persons in distress, and Mr. Metcalfe has offered what Johnson thought too much, he insisted on taking less, saying, ‘No, no, Sir; we must not pamper them.’

I am indebted to Mr. Malone, one of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s executors, for the following note, which was found among his papers after his death, and which, we may presume, his unaffected modesty prevented him from communicating to me with the other letters from Dr. Johnson with which he was pleased to furnish me. However slight in itself, as it does honour to that illustrious painter, and most amiable man, I am happy to introduce it.

‘To SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

‘DEAR SIR, – It was not before yesterday that I received your splendid benefaction. To a hand so liberal in distributing, I hope nobody will envy the power of acquiring. I am, dear Sir, your obliged and most humble servant,

June 23, 1781.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

‘To THOMAS ASTLE, ESQ.

‘SIR, – I am ashamed that you have been forced to call so often for your books, but it has been by no fault on either side. They have never been out of my hands, nor have I ever been at home without seeing you; for to see a man so skilful in the antiquities of my country, is an opportunity of improvement not willingly to be missed.

Your notes on Alfred^a appear to me very judicious and accurate, but they are too few. Many things familiar to you, are unknown to me, and to most others; and you must not think too favourably of your readers: by supposing them knowing, you will leave them ignorant. Measure of land, and value of money, it is of great importance to state with care. Had the Saxons any gold coin?

‘I have much curiosity after the manners and transactions of the middle ages, but have wanted either diligence or opportunity, or both. You, Sir, have great opportunities, and I wish you both diligence and success. I am, Sir, &c.,

July 17, 1781.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

The following curious anecdote I insert in Dr. Burney’s own words:-

‘Dr. Burney related to Dr. Johnson the partiality which his writings had excited in a friend of Dr. Burney’s, the late Mr. Bewley, well known in Norfolk by the name of the Philosopher of Massingham: who, from the Ramblers and Plan of his Dictionary, and long before the authour’s fame was established by the Dictionary itself, or any other work, had conceived such a reverence for him, that he urgently begged Dr. Burney to give him the cover of the first letter he had received from him, as a relick of so estimable a writer. This was in 1755. In 1760, when Dr. Burney visited Dr. Johnson at the Temple in London, where he had then chambers, he happened to arrive there before he was up; and being shewn into the room where he was to breakfast, finding himself alone, he examined the contents of the apartment, to try whether he could undiscovered steal anything to send to his friend Bewley, as another relick of the admirable Dr. Johnson. But finding nothing better to his purpose, he cut some bristles off his hearth-broom, and enclosed them in a letter to his country enthusiast, who received them with due reverence. The Doctor was so sensible of the honour done him by a man of genius and science, to whom he was an utter stranger, that he said to Dr. Burney, “Sir, there is no man possessed of the smallest portion of modesty, but must be flattered with the admiration of such a man. I’ll give him a set of my Lives, if he will do me the honour to accept of them.” In this he kept his word; and Dr. Burney had not only the pleasure of gratifying his friend with a present more worthy of his acceptance than the segment from the hearth-broom, but soon after of introducing him to Dr. Johnson himself in Bolt-court, with whom he had the satisfaction of conversing a considerable time, not a fortnight before his death; which happened in St. Martin’s-street, during his visit to Dr. Burney, in the house where the great Sir Isaac Newton had lived and died before.’

In one of his little memorandum-books is the following minute: –

‘August 9, 3 P.M. ætat. 72, in the summer-house at Streatham.

‘After innumerable resolutions formed and neglected, I have retired hither, to plan a life of greater diligence, in hope that I may yet be useful, and be daily better prepared to appear before my Creator and my Judge, from whose infinite mercy I humbly call for assistance and support.

‘My purpose is,

‘To pass eight hours every day in some serious employment.

‘Having prayed, I purpose to employ the next six weeks upon the Italian language, for my settled study.’

How venerably pious does he appear in these moments of solitude, and how spirited are his resolutions for the improvement of his mind, even in elegant literature, at a very advanced period of life, and when afflicted with many complaints.

In autumn he went to Oxford, Birmingham, Lichfield, and Ashbourne, for which very good reasons might be given in the conjectural yet positive manner of writers, who are proud to account for every event which they relate. He himself, however, says, ‘The motives of my journey I hardly know; I omitted it last year, and am not willing to miss it again.’^a

But some good considerations arise, amongst which is the kindly recollection of Mr. Hector, surgeon, at Birmingham. ‘Hector is likewise an old friend, the only companion of my childhood that passed through the school with me. We have always loved one another; perhaps we may be made better by some serious conversation, of which however I have no distinct hope.’ He says too, ‘At Lichfield, my native place, I hope to shew a good example by frequent attendance on publick worship.’

My correspondence with him during the rest of this year was, I know not why, very scanty, and all on my side. I wrote him one letter to introduce Mr. Sinclair (now Sir John), the member for Caithness, to his acquaintance; and informed him in another that my wife had again been affected with alarming symptoms of illness.

1782: ætat. 73.] – IN 1782, his complaints increased, and the history of his life this year, is little more than a mournful recital of the variations of his illness, in the midst of which, however, it will appear from his letters, that the powers of his mind were in no degree impaired.

‘To JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

‘DEAR SIR, – I sit down to answer your letter on the same day in which I received it, and am pleased that my first letter of the year is to you. No man ought to be at ease while he knows himself in the wrong; and I have not satisfied myself with my long silence. The letter relating to Mr. Sinclair, however, was, I believe, never brought.

‘My health has been tottering this last year; and I can give no very laudable account of my time. I am always hoping to do better than I have ever hitherto done.

‘My journey to Ashbourne and Staffordshire was not pleasant; for what enjoyment has a sick man visiting the sick? – Shall we ever have another frolick like our journey to the Hebrides?

‘I hope that dear Mrs. Boswell will surmount her complaints; in losing her you would lose your anchor, and be tost, without stability, by the waves of life.^a I wish both her and you very many years, and very happy.

‘For some months past I have been so withdrawn from the world, that I can send you nothing particular. All your friends, however, are well, and will be glad of your return to London. I am, dear Sir, yours most affectionately,

‘January 5, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

At a time when he was less able than he had once been to sustain a shock, he was suddenly deprived of Mr. Levett, which event he thus communicated to Dr. Lawrence: –

‘SIR, – Our old friend, Mr. Levett, who was last night eminently cheerful, died this morning. The man who lay in the same room, hearing an uncommon noise, got up and tried to make him speak, but without effect. He then called Mr. Holder, the apothecary, who, though when he came he thought him dead, opened a vein, but could draw no blood. So has ended the long life of a very useful and very blameless man. I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

‘Jan. 17, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

In one of his memorandum-books in my possession, is the following entry:– ‘January 20, Sunday. Robert Levett was buried in the church-yard of Bridewell, between one and two in the afternoon. He died on Thursday 17, about seven in the morning, by an instantaneous death. He was an old and faithful friend; I have known him from about 46. Commendavi.¹⁰⁶⁵ May God have mercy on him. May he have mercy on me.’

Such was Johnson’s affectionate regard for Levett,^a that he honoured his memory with the following pathetick verses: –

‘CONDEMN’D to Hope’s delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day,

By sudden blast or slow decline

Our social comforts drop away.

Well try’d through many a varying year,

See LEVETT to the grave descend;

Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills Affection’s eye,

Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;

Nor, letter’d arrogance,^b deny

Thy praise to merit unrefin’d.

When fainting Nature call’d for aid,

And hov’ring Death prepar’d the blow,

His vigorous remedy display’d

The power of art without the show.

In Misery’s darkest caverns known,

His ready help was ever nigh,

Where hopeless Anguish pour’d his groan,

And lonely Want retir’d to die.^c

No summons mock’d by chill delay,

No petty gains disdain’d by pride;

The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supply’d.

His virtues walk’d their narrow round,

Nor made a pause, nor left a void;

And sure th’Eternal Master found

His single talent well employ’d.

The busy day, the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,

Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,

No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,

And freed his soul the nearest way.’

In one of Johnson’s registers of this year, there occurs the following curious passage: – ‘Jan. 20. The Ministry is dissolved. I prayed with Francis and gave thanks.’^a

It has been the subject of discussion, whether there are two distinct particulars mentioned here? or that we are to understand the giving of thanks to be in consequence of the dissolution of the Ministry? In support of the last of these conjectures may be urged his mean opinion of that Ministry, which has frequently appeared in the course of this work; and it is strongly confirmed by what he said on the subject to Mr. Seward: – ‘I am glad the Ministry is removed. Such a bunch of imbecility never disgraced a country. If they sent a messenger into the City to take up a printer, the messenger was taken up instead of the printer, and committed by the sitting Alderman. If they sent one army to the relief of another, the first army was defeated and taken before the second arrived. I will not say that what they did was always wrong; but it was always done at a wrong time.’

‘To MRS. STRAHAN

‘DEAR MADAM, – Mrs. Williams shewed me your kind letter. This little habitation is now but a melancholy place, clouded with the gloom of disease and death. Of the four inmates, one has been suddenly snatched away; two are oppressed by very afflictive and dangerous illness; and I tried yesterday to gain some relief by a third bleeding, from a disorder which has for some time distressed me, and I think myself to-day much better.

‘I am glad, dear Madam, to hear that you are so far recovered as to go to Bath. Let me once more entreat you to stay till your health is not only obtained, but confirmed. Your fortune is such as that no moderate expence deserves your care; and you have a husband, who, I believe, does not regard it. Stay, therefore, till you are quite well. I am, for my part, very much deserted; but complaint is useless. I hope God will bless you, and I desire you to form the same wish for me. I am, dear Madam, your most humble servant,

‘Feb. 4, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

‘To EDMOND MALONE, ESQ.

‘Sir, – I have for many weeks been so much out of order, that I have gone out only in a coach to Mrs. Thrale’s, where I can use all the freedom that sickness requires. Do not, therefore, take it amiss, that I am not with you and Dr. Farmer. I hope hereafter to see you often. I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

‘Feb. 27, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

To THE SAME

‘DEAR SIR, – I hope I grow better, and shall soon be able to enjoy the kindness of my friends. I think this wild adherence to^a Chatterton more unaccountable than the obstinate defence of Ossian. In Ossian there is a national pride, which may be forgiven, though it cannot be applauded. In Chatterton there is nothing but the resolution to say again what has once been said. I am, Sir, your humble servant,

‘March 7, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

These short letters shew the regard which Dr. Johnson entertained for Mr. Malone, who the more he is known is the more highly valued. It is much to be regretted that Johnson was prevented from sharing the elegant hospitality of that gentleman’s table, at which he would in every respect have been fully gratified. Mr. Malone, who has so ably succeeded him as an Editor of Shakspeare, has, in his Preface, done great and just honour to Johnson’s memory.

‘To MRS. LUCY PORTER, in Lichfield

‘DEAR MADAM, – I went away from Lichfield ill, and have had a troublesome time with my breath; for some weeks I have been disordered by a cold, of which I could not get the violence abated, till I had been let blood three times. I have not, however, been so bad but that I could have written, and I am sorry that I neglected it.

‘My dwelling is but melancholy; both Williams, and Desmoulins, and myself, are very sickly; Frank is not well; and poor Levett died in his bed the other day, by a sudden stroke; I suppose not one minute passed between health and death; so uncertain are human things.

‘Such is the appearance of the world about me; I hope your scenes are more cheerful. But whatever befalls us, though it is wise to be serious, it is useless and foolish, and perhaps sinful, to be gloomy. Let us, therefore, keep ourselves as easy as we can; though the loss of friends will be felt, and poor Levett had been a faithful adherent for thirty years.

‘Forgive me, my dear love, the omission of writing; I hope to mend that and my other faults. Let me have your prayers.

‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Cobb, and Miss Adey, and Mr. Pearson, and the whole company of my friends. I am, my dear, your most humble servant,

‘London, March 2, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

To THE SAME

‘DEAR MADAM, – My last was but a dull letter, and I know not that this will be much more cheerful; I am, however, willing to write, because you are desirous to hear from me.

‘My disorder has now begun its ninth week, for it is not yet over. I was last Thursday blooded for the fourth time, and have since found myself much relieved, but I am very tender and easily hurt; so that since we parted I have had but little comfort, but I hope that the spring will recover me; and that in the summer I shall see Lichfield again, for I will not delay my visit another year to the end of autumn.

‘I have, by advertising, found poor Mr. Levett’s brothers in Yorkshire, who will take the little that he has left: it is but little, yet it will be welcome, for I believe they are of very low condition.

‘To be sick, and to see nothing but sickness and death, is but a gloomy state; but I hope better times, even in this world, will come, and whatever this world may with-hold or give, we shall be happy in a better state. Pray for me, my dear Lucy.

‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Cobb, and Miss Adey, and my old friend Hetty Baily, and to all the Lichfield ladies. I am, dear Madam, yours, affectionately,

‘Bolt-court, Fleet-street, ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

March 19, 1782.’

On the day on which this letter was written, he thus feelingly mentions his respected friend and physician, Dr. Lawrence: – ‘Poor Lawrence has almost lost the sense of hearing; and I have lost the conversation of a learned, intelligent, and communicative companion, and a friend whom long familiarity has much endeared. Lawrence is one of the best men whom I have known. –Nostrum omnium miserere Deus.’^a1066

It was Dr. Johnson’s custom when he wrote to Dr. Lawrence concerning his own health, to use the Latin language. I have been favoured by Miss Lawrence with one of these letters as a specimen: –

‘T. Lawrencio, Medico, S.

‘Novum frigus, nova tussis, nova spirandi difficultas, novam sanguinis missionem suadent, quam tarnen te inconsulto nolim fieri. Ad te venire vix possum, nee est cur ad me venias. Licere vel non licere uno verbo dicendum est; cætera mihi et Holdero^a reliqueris. Si per te licet, imperetur nuncio Holderum ad me deducere.

‘Maiis Calendis, 1782.

‘Postquàm tu discesseris, quòme vertam?’^b1067

‘To CAPTAIN LANGTON,^c in Rochester

‘DEAR SIR, – It is now long since we saw one another; and whatever has been the reason neither you have written to me, nor I to you. To let friendship die away by negligence and silence, is certainly not wise. It is voluntarily to throw away one of the greatest comforts of this weary pilgrimage, of which when it is, as it must be, taken finally away, he that travels on alone, will wonder how his esteem could be so little. Do not forget me; you see that I do not forget you. It is pleasing in the silence of solitude to think, that there is one at least, however distant, of whose benevolence there is little doubt, and whom there is yet hope of seeing again.

‘Of my life, from the time we parted, the history is mournful. The spring of last year deprived me of Thrale, a man whose eye for fifteen years had scarcely been turned upon me but with respect or tenderness; for such another friend, the general course of human things will not suffer man to hope. I passed the summer at Streatham, but there was no Thrale; and having idled away the summer with a weakly body and neglected mind, I made a journey to Staffordshire on the edge of winter. The season was dreary, I was sickly, and found the friends sickly whom I went to see. After a sorrowful sojourn, I returned to a habitation possessed for the present by two sick women, where my dear old friend, Mr. Levett, to whom as he used to tell me, I owe your acquaintance, died a few weeks ago, suddenly in his bed: there passed not, I believe, a minute between health and death. At night, as at Mrs. Thrale’s I was musing in my chamber, I thought with uncommon earnestness, that however I might alter my mode of life, or whithersoever I might remove, I would endeavour to retain Levett about me; in the morning my servant brought me word that Levett was called to another state, a state for which, I think, he was not unprepared, for he was very useful to the poor. How much soever I valued him, I now wish that I had valued him more.

‘I have myself been ill more than eight weeks of a disorder, from which at the expence of about fifty ounces of blood, I hope I am now recovering.

‘You, dear Sir, have, I hope, a more cheerful scene; you see George fond of his book, and the pretty misses airy and lively, with my own little Jenny equal to the best: and in whatever can contribute to your quiet or pleasure, you have Lady Rothes ready to concur. May whatever you enjoy of good be encreased, and whatever you suffer of evil be diminished. I am, dear Sir, your humble servant, ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

‘Bolt-court, Fleet-street, March 20, 1782.’

‘To MR. HECTOR, in Birmingham^a

‘DEAR SIR, – I hope I do not very grossly flatter myself to imagine that you and dear Mrs. Careless^b will be glad to hear some account of me. I performed the journey to London with very little inconvenience, and came safe to my habitation, where I found nothing but ill health, and, of consequence, very little cheerfulness. I then went to visit a little way into the country, where I got a complaint by a cold which has hung eight weeks upon me, and from which I am, at the expence of fifty ounces of blood, not yet free. I am afraid I must once more owe my recovery to warm weather, which seems to make no advances towards us.

‘Such is my health, which will, I hope, soon grow better. In other respects I have no reason to complain. I know not that I have written anything more generally commended than the Lives of the Poets; and have found the world willing enough to caress me, if my health had invited me to be in much company; but this season I have been almost wholly employed in nursing myself.

‘When summer comes I hope to see you again, and will not put off my visit to the end of the year. I have lived so long in London, that I did not remember the difference of seasons.

‘Your health, when I saw you, was much improved. You will be prudent enough not to put it in danger. I hope, when we meet again, we shall all congratulate each other upon fair prospects of longer life; though what are the pleasures of the longest life, when placed in comparison with a happy death? I am, dear Sir, yours most affectionately,

‘London, March 21, 1782. ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

To THE SAME

[Without a date, but supposed

to be about this time.]¹⁰⁶⁸

‘DEAR SIR,

‘That you and dear Mrs. Careless should have care or curiosity about my health, gives me that pleasure which every man feels from finding himself not forgotten. In age we feel again that love of our native place and our early friends, which in the bustle or amusements of middle life were overborne and suspended. You and I should now naturally cling to one another: we have outlived most of those who could pretend to rival us in each other’s kindness. In our walk through life we have dropped our companions, and are now to pick up such as chance may offer us, or to travel on alone. You, indeed, have a sister, with whom you can divide the day: I have no natural friend left; but Providence has been pleased to preserve me from neglect; I have not wanted such alleviations of life as friendship could supply. My health has been, from my twentieth year, such as has seldom afforded me a single day of ease; but it is at least not worse: and I sometimes make myself believe that it is better. My disorders are, however, still sufficiently oppressive.

‘I think of seeing Staffordshire again this autumn, and intend to find my way through Birmingham, where I hope to see you and dear Mrs. Careless well. I am, Sir, your affectionate friend, ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

I wrote to him at different dates; regretted that I could not come to London this spring, but hoped we should meet somewhere in the summer; mentioned the state of my affairs, and suggested hopes of some preferment; informed him, that as The Beauties of Johnson had been published in London, some obscure scribbler¹⁰⁶⁹ had published at Edinburgh what he called The deformities of Johnson.

‘To JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

‘DEAR SIR, – The pleasure which we used to receive from each other on Good-Friday and Easter-day, we must be this year content to miss. Let us, however, pray for each other, and hope to see one another yet from time to time with mutual delight. My disorder has been a cold, which impeded the organs of respiration, and kept me many weeks in a state of great uneasiness; but by repeated phlebotomy¹⁰⁷⁰ it is now relieved; and next to the recovery of Mrs. Boswell, I flatter myself, that you will rejoice at mine.

‘What we shall do in the summer it is yet too early to consider. You want to know what you shall do now; I do not think this time of bustle and confusion likely to produce any advantage to you. Every man has those to reward and gratify who have contributed to his advancement. To come hither with such expectations at the expence of borrowed money, which, I find, you know not where to borrow, can hardly be considered as prudent. I am sorry to find, what your solicitation seems to imply, that you have already gone the whole length of your credit. This is to set the quiet of your whole life at hazard. If you anticipate your inheritance, you can at last inherit nothing; all that you receive must pay for the past. You must get a place, or pine in penury, with the empty name of a great estate. Poverty, my dear friend, is so great an evil, and pregnant with so much temptation, and so much misery, that I cannot but earnestly enjoin you to avoid it. Live on what you have; live if you can on less; do not borrow either for vanity or pleasure; the vanity will end in shame, and the pleasure in regret: stay therefore at home, till you have saved money for your journey hither.

‘The Beauties of Johnson are said to have got money to the collector; if the Deformities have the same success, I shall be still a more extensive benefactor.

‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Boswell, who is, I hope, reconciled to me; and to the young people, whom I never have offended.

‘You never told me the success of your plea against the Solicitors. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate,

‘London, March 28, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

Notwithstanding his afflicted state of body and mind this year, the following correspondence affords a proof not only of his benevolence and conscientious readiness to relieve a good man from errour, but by his cloathing one of the sentiments in his Rambler in different language, not inferiour to that of the original, shews his extraordinary command of clear and forcible expression.

A clergyman at Bath wrote to him, that in The Morning Chronicle, a passage in The Beauties of Johnson, article Death, had been pointed out as supposed by some readers to recommend suicide, the words being, ‘To die is the fate of man; but to die with lingering anguish is generally his folly;’ and respectfully suggesting to him, that such an erroneous notion of any sentence in the writings of an acknowledged friend of religion and virtue, should not pass uncontradicted.

Johnson thus answered the clergyman’s letter:–

To THE REVEREND MR. —,¹⁰⁷¹ at Bath

‘SIR, – Being now in the country in a state of recovery, as I hope, from a very oppressive disorder, I cannot neglect the acknowledgement of your Christian letter. The book called The Beauties of Johnson is the production of I know not whom: I never saw it but by casual inspection, and considered myself as utterly disengaged from its consequences. Of the passage you mention, I remember some notice in some paper; but, knowing that it must be misrepresented, I thought of it no more, nor do I know where to find it in my own books. I am accustomed to think little of newspapers; but an opinion so weighty and serious as yours has determined me to do, what I should, without your seasonable admonition, have omitted; and I will direct my thought to be shewn in its true state.^a If I could find the passage, I would direct you to it. I suppose the tenour is this: – “Acute diseases are the immediate and inevitable strokes of Heaven; but of them the pain is short, and the conclusion speedy: chronical disorders, by which we are suspended in tedious torture between life and death, are commonly the effect of our own misconduct and intemperance. To die, &c.” – This, Sir, you see, is all true and all blameless. I hope, some time in the next week, to have all rectified. My health has been lately much shaken; if you favour this with any answer, it will be a comfort to me to know that I have your prayers. I am, &c.,

‘May 15, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

This letter, as might be expected, had its full effect, and the clergyman acknowledged it in grateful and pious terms.^b

The following letters require no extracts from mine to introduce them:–

‘To James Boswell, Esq.

‘Dear Sir, – The earnestness and tenderness of your letter is such, that I cannot think myself shewing it more respect than it claims by sitting down to answer it the day on which I received it.

‘This year has afflicted me with a very irksome and severe disorder. My respiration has been much impeded, and much blood has been taken away. I am now harrassed by a catarrhous cough, from which my purpose is to seek relief by change of air; and I am, therefore, preparing to go to Oxford.

‘Whether I did right in dissuading you from coming to London this spring, I will not determine. You have not lost much by missing my company; I have scarcely been well for a single week. I might have received comfort from your kindness; but you would have seen me afflicted, and, perhaps, found me peevish. Whatever might have been your pleasure or mine, I know not how I could have honestly advised you to come hither with borrowed money. Do not accustom yourself to consider debt only as an inconvenience; you will find it a calamity. Poverty takes away so many means of doing good, and produces so much inability to resist evil, both natural and moral, that it is by all virtuous means to be avoided. Consider a man whose fortune is very narrow; whatever be his rank by birth, or whatever his reputation by intellectual excellence, what good can he do? or what evil can he prevent? That he cannot help the needy is evident; he has nothing to spare. But, perhaps, his advice or admonition may be useful. His poverty will destroy his influence: many more can find that he is poor, than that he is wise; and few will reverence the understanding that is of so little advantage to its owner. I say nothing of the personal wretchedness of a debtor, which, however, has passed into a proverb. Of riches, it is not necessary to write the praise. Let it, however, be remembered, that he who has money to spare, has it always in his power to benefit others; and of such power a good man must always be desirous.

‘I am pleased with your account of Easter^a. We shall meet, I hope, in Autumn, both well and both cheerful; and part each the better for the other’s company.

‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Boswell, and to the young charmers. I am, &c.

‘London, June 3, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

‘To MR. PERKINS

‘Dear Sir, – I am much pleased that you are going a very long journey, which may by proper conduct restore your health and prolong your life.

‘Observe these rules:

‘1. Turn all care out of your head as soon as you mount the chaise.

‘2. Do not think about frugality; your health is worth more than it can cost.

‘3. Do not continue any day’s journey to fatigue.

‘4. Take now and then a day’s rest.

‘5. Get a smart sea-sickness, if you can.

‘6. Cast away all anxiety, and keep your mind easy.

‘This last direction is the principal; with an unquiet mind, neither exercise, nor diet, nor physick, can be of much use.

‘I wish you, dear Sir, a prosperous journey, and a happy recovery. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate, humble servant,

‘July 28, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

‘To JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

‘Dear Sir, – Being uncertain whether I should have any call this autumn into the country, I did not immediately answer your kind letter. I have no call; but if you desire to meet me at Ashbourne, I believe I can come thither; if you had rather come to London, I can stay at Streatham; take your choice.

‘This year has been very heavy. From the middle of January to the middle of June I was battered by one disorder after another; I am now very much recovered, and hope still to be better. What happiness it is that Mrs. Boswell has escaped.

‘My Lives are reprinting, and I have forgotten the authour of Gray’s character^b: write immediately, and it may be perhaps yet inserted.

‘Of London or Ashbourne you have your free choice; at any place I shall be glad to see you. I am, dear Sir, yours, &c.

‘Aug. 24, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

On the 30th of August, I informed him that my honoured father had died that morning; a complaint under which he had long laboured having suddenly come to a crisis, while I was upon a visit at the seat of Sir Charles Preston, from whence I had hastened the day before, upon receiving a letter by express.

‘To James Boswell, Esq.

‘Dear Sir, – I have struggled through this year with so much infirmity of body, and such strong impressions of the fragility of life, that death, wherever it appears, fills me with melancholy; and I cannot hear without emotion, of the removal of any one, whom I have known, into another state.

‘Your father’s death had every circumstance that could enable you to bear it; it was at a mature age, and it was expected; and as his general life had been pious, his thoughts had doubtless for many years past been turned upon eternity. That you did not find him sensible must doubtless grieve you; his disposition towards you was undoubtedly that of a kind, though not of a fond father. Kindness, at least actual, is in our power, but fondness is not; and if by negligence or imprudence you had extinguished his fondness, he could not at will rekindle it. Nothing then remained between you but mutual forgiveness of each other’s faults, and mutual desire of each other’s happiness.

‘I shall long to know his final disposition of his fortune.

‘You, dear Sir, have nowa new station, and have therefore new cares, and new employments. Life, as Cowley seems to say, ought to resemble a well-ordered poem;¹⁰⁷³ of which one rule generally received is, that the exordium should be simple, and should promise little. Begin your new course of life with the least show, and the least expence possible; you may at pleasure encrease both, but you cannot easily diminish them. Do not think your estate your own, while any man can call upon you for money which you cannot pay; therefore, begin with timorous parsimony. Let it be your first care not to be in any man’s debt.

‘When the thoughts are extended to a future state, the present life seems hardly worthy of all those principles of conduct, and maxims of prudence, which one generation of men has transmitted to another; but upon a closer view, when it is perceived how much evil is produced, and how much good is impeded by embarrassment and distress, and how little room the expedients of poverty leave for the exercise of virtue, it grows manifest that the boundless importance of the next life enforces some attention to the interests of this.

‘Be kind to the old servants, and secure the kindness of the agents and factors; do not disgust them by asperity, or unwelcome gaiety, or apparent suspicion. From them you must learn the real state of your affairs, the characters of your tenants, and the value of your lands.

‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Boswell; I think her expectations from airand exercise are the best that she can form. I hope she will live long and happily.

‘I forget whether I told you that Rasay has been here; we dined cheerfully together. I entertained lately a young gentleman from Corrichatachin. ‘I received your letters only this morning. I am, dear Sir, yours, &c.

‘London, Sept. 7, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

In answer to my next letter, I received one from him, dissuading me from hastening to him as I had proposed; what is proper for publication is the following paragraph, equally just and tender: – ‘One expence, however, I would not have you to spare: let nothing be omitted that can preserve Mrs. Boswell, though it should be necessary to transplant her for a time into a softer climate. She is the prop and stay of your life. How much must your children suffer by losing her.’

My wife was now so much convinced of his sincere friendship for me, and regard for her, that, without any suggestion on my part, she wrote him a very polite and grateful letter: –

‘DR. JOHNSON to MRS. BOSWELL.

‘DEAR LADY, – I have not often received so much pleasure as from your invitation to Auchinleck. The journey thither and back is, indeed, too great for the latter part of the year; but if my health were fully recovered, I would suffer no little heat and cold, nor a wet or a rough road to keep me from you. I am, indeed, not without hope of seeing Auchinleck again; but to make it a pleasant place I must see its lady well, and brisk, and airy. For my sake, therefore, among many greater reasons, take care, dear Madam, of your health, spare no expence, and want no attendance that can procure ease, or preserve it. Be very careful to keep your mind quiet; and do not think it too much to give an account of your recovery to, Madam, your, &c.

‘London, Sept. 7, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

‘To James Boswell, Esq.

‘Dear Sir, – Having passed almost this whole year in a succession of disorders, I went in October to Brighthelmston, whither I came in a state of so much weakness, that I rested four times in walking between the inn and the lodging. By physick and abstinence I grew better, and am now reasonably easy, though at a great distance from health. I am afraid, however, that health begins, after seventy, and often long before, to have a meaning different from that which it had at thirty. But it is culpable to murmur at the established order of the creation, as it is vain to oppose it. He that lives must grow old; and he that would rather grow old than die, has God to thank for the infirmities of old age.

‘At your long silence I am rather angry. You do not, since now you are the head of your house, think it worth your while to try whether you or your friend can live longer without writing, nor suspect that after so many years of friendship, that when I do not write to you, I forget you. Put all such useless jealousies out of your head, and disdain to regulate your own practice by the practice of another, or by any other principle than the desire of doing right.

‘Your œconomy, I suppose, begins now to be settled; your expences are adjusted to your revenue, and all your people in their proper places. Resolve not to be poor: whatever you have, spend less. Poverty is a great enemy to human happiness; it certainly destroys liberty, and it makes some virtues impracticable, and others extremely difficult.

‘Let me know the history of your life, since your accession to your estate. How many houses, how many cows, how much land, in your own hand, and what bargains you make with your tenants.…

‘Of my Lives of the Poets, they have printed a new edition in octavo, I hear, of three thousand. Did I give a set to Lord Hailes? If I did not, I will do it out of these. What did you make of all your copy?

‘Mrs. Thrale and the three Misses are now for the winter in Argyll-street. Sir Joshua Reynolds has been out of order, but is well again; and I am, dear Sir, your affectionate humble servant,

‘London, Dec.7,1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

‘To DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

‘Dear Sir, ‘Edinburgh, Dec. 20, 1782.

‘I was made happy by your kind letter, which gave us the agreeable hopes of seeing you in Scotland again.

‘I am much flattered by the concern you are pleased to take in my recovery. I am better, and hope to have it in my power to convince you by my attention of how much consequence I esteem your health to the world and to myself. I remain, Sir, with grateful respect, your obliged and obedient servant,

‘MARGARET BOSWELL.’

The death of Mr. Thrale had made a very material alteration with respect to Johnson’s reception in that family. The manly authority of the husband no longer curbed the lively exuberance of the lady; and as her vanity had been fully gratified, by having the Colossus of Literature attached to her for many years, she gradually became less assiduous to please him. Whether her attachment to him was already divided by another object, I am unable to ascertain; but it is plain that Johnson’s penetration was alive to her neglect or forced attention; for on the 6th of October this year, we find him making a ‘parting use of the library’ at Streatham, and pronouncing a prayer, which he composed on leaving Mr. Thrale’s family.^a

‘Almighty God, Father of all mercy, help me by thy grace, that I may, with humble and sincere thankfulness, remember the comforts and conveniences which I have enjoyed at this place; and that I may resign them with holy submission, equally trusting in thy protection when Thou givest, and when Thou takest away. Have mercy upon me, O Lord, have mercy upon me.

‘To thy fatherly protection, O Lord, I commend this family. Bless, guide, and defend them, that they may so pass through this world, as finally to enjoy in thy presence everlasting happiness, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.’

One cannot read this prayer, without some emotions not very favourable to the lady whose conduct occasioned it.

In one of his memorandum-books I find, ‘Sunday, went to church at Streatham. Templo valedixi cum osculo.’¹⁰⁷⁴

He met Mr. Philip Metcalfe often at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, and other places, and was a good deal with him at Brighthelmston this autumn, being pleased at once with his excellent table and animated conversation. Mr. Metcalfe shewed him great respect, and sent him a note that he might have the use of his carriage whenever he pleased. Johnson (3rd October, 1782) returned this polite answer: – ‘Mr. Johnson is very much obliged by the kind offer of the carriage; but he has no desire of using Mr. Metcalfe’s carriage, except when he can have the pleasure of Mr. Metcalfe’s company.’ Mr. Metcalfe could not but be highly pleased that his company was thus valued by Johnson, and he frequently attended him in airings. They also went together to Chichester, and they visited Petworth, and Cowdry, the venerable seat of the Lords Montacute. ‘Sir, (said Johnson,) I should like to stay here four-and-twenty hours. We see here how our ancestors lived.’

That his curiosity was still unabated, appears from two letters to Mr. John Nichols, of the 10th and 20th of October this year. In one he says, ‘I have looked into your Anecdotes, and you will hardly thank a lover of literary history for telling you, that he has been much informed and gratified. I wish you would add your own discoveries and intelligence to those of Dr. Rawlinson, and undertake the Supplement to Wood. Think of it.’ In the other, ‘I wish, Sir, you could obtain some fuller information of Jortin, Markland, and Thirlby. They were three contemporaries of great eminence.’

‘To SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

‘Dear Sir, – I heard yesterday of your late disorder, and should think ill of myself if I had heard of it without alarm. I heard likewise of your recovery, which I sincerely wish to be complete and permanent. Your country has been in danger of losing one of its brightest ornaments, and I of losing one of my oldest and kindest friends: but I hope you will still live long, for the honour of the nation: and that more enjoyment of your elegance, your intelligence, and your benevolence, is still reserved for, dear Sir, your most affectionate, &c.

‘Brighthelmston, Nov. 14, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

The Reverend Mr. Wilson having dedicated to him his Archaeological Dictionary, that mark of respect was thus acknowledged: –

‘To THE REVEREND MR. WILSON, Clitberoe, Lancashire

‘Reverend Sir, – That I have long omitted to return you thanks for the honour conferred upon me by your Dedication, I intreat you with great earnestness not to consider as more faulty than it is. A very importunate and oppressive disorder has for some time debarred me from the pleasures, and obstructed me in the duties of life. The esteem and kindness of wise and good men is one of the last pleasures which I can be content to lose; and gratitude to those from whom this pleasure is received, is a duty of which I hope never to be reproached with the final neglect. I therefore now return you thanks for the notice which I have received from you, and which I consider as giving to my name not only more bulk, but more weight; not only as extending its superficies, but as increasing its value. Your book was evidently wanted, and will, I hope, find its way into the school, to which, however, I do not mean to confine it; for no man has so much skill in ancient rites and practices as not to want it. As I suppose myself to owe part of your kindness to my excellent friend, Dr. Patten, he has likewise a just claim to my acknowledgements, which I hope you, Sir, will transmit. There will soon appear a new edition of my Poetical Biography; if you will accept of a copy to keep me in your mind, be pleased to let me know how it may be conveniently conveyed to you. The present is small, but it is given with good will by, Reverend Sir, your most, &c.

‘December 31, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

1783: ætat. 74.] – IN 1783, he was more severely afflicted than ever, as will appear in the course of his correspondence; but still the same ardour for literature, the same constant piety, the same kindness for his friends, and the same vivacity both in conversation and writing, distinguished him.

Having given Dr. Johnson a full account of what I was doing at Auchinleck, and particularly mentioned what I knew would please him, – my having brought an old man¹⁰⁷⁵ of eighty-eight from a lonely cottage to a comfortable habitation within my enclosures, where he had good neighbours near to him, – I received an answer in February, of which I extract what follows: –

‘I am delighted with your account of your activity at Auchinleck, and wish the old gentleman, whom you have so kindly removed, may live long to promote your prosperity by his prayers. You have now a new character and new duties; think on them and practise them.

‘Make an impartial estimate of your revenue, and whatever it is, live upon less. Resolve never to be poor. Frugality is not only the basis of quiet, but of beneficence. No man can help others that wants help himself; we must have enough before we have to spare.

‘I am glad to find that Mrs. Boswell grows well; and hope that to keep her well, no care nor caution will be omitted. May you long live happily together.

‘When you come hither, pray bring with you Baxter’s Anacreon. I cannot get that edition in London.’

On Friday, March 21, having arrived in London the night before, I was glad to find him at Mrs. Thrale’s house, in Argyll-street, appearances of friendship between them being still kept up. I was shewn into his room, and after the first salutation he said, ‘I am glad you are come. I am very ill.’ He looked pale, and was distressed with a difficulty of breathing; but after the common inquiries he assumed his usual strong animated style of conversation. Seeing me now for the first time as a Laird, or proprietor of land, he began thus: ‘Sir, the superiority of a country-gentleman over the people upon his estate is very agreeable; and he who says he does not feel it to be agreeable, lies; for it must be agreeable to have a casual superiority over those who are by nature equal with us.’ BOSWELL. ‘Yet, Sir, we see great proprietors of land who prefer living in London.’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, the pleasure of living in London, the intellectual superiority that is enjoyed there, may counterbalance the other. Besides, Sir, a man may prefer the state of the country-gentleman upon the whole, and yet there may never be a moment when he is willing to make the change to quit London for it.’ He said, ‘It is better to have five per cent. out of land than out of money, because it is more secure; but the readiness of transfer, and promptness of interest, make many people rather choose the funds. Nay, there is another disadvantage belonging to land, compared with money. A man is not so much afraid of being a hard creditor, as of being a hard landlord.’ BOSWELL. ‘Because there is a sort of kindly connection between a landlord and his tenants.’ JOHNSON. ‘No, Sir; many landlords with us never see their tenants. It is because if a landlord drives away his tenants, he may not get others; whereas the demand for money is so great, it may always be lent.’

He talked with regret and indignation of the factious opposition to Government at this time, and imputed it, in a great measure, to the Revolution. ‘Sir, (said he, in a low voice, having come nearer to me, while his old prejudices seemed to be fermenting in his mind,) this Hanoverian family is isolee¹⁰⁷⁶ here. They have no friends. Now the Stuarts had friends who stuck by them so late as 1745. When the right of the King is not reverenced, there will not be reverence for those appointed by the King.’

His observation that the present royal family has no friends, has been too much justified by the very ungrateful behaviour of many who were under great obligations to his Majesty; at the same time there are honourable exceptions; and the very next year after this conversation, and ever since, the King has had as extensive and generous support as ever was given to any monarch, and has had the satisfaction of knowing that he was more and more endeared to his people.

He repeated to me his verses on Mr. Levett, with an emotion which gave them full effect; and then he was pleased to say, ‘You must be as much with me as you can. You have done me good. You cannot think how much better I am since you came in.’

He sent a message to acquaint Mrs. Thrale that I was arrived. I had not seen her since her husband’s death. She soon appeared, and favoured me with an invitation to stay to dinner, which I accepted. There was no other company but herself and three of her daughters, Dr. Johnson, and I. She too said, she was very glad I was come, for she was going to Bath, and should have been sorry to leave Dr. Johnson before I came. This seemed to be attentive and kind; and I who had not been informed of any change, imagined all to be as well as formerly. He was little inclined to talk at dinner, and went to sleep after it; but when he joined us in the drawing-room, he seemed revived, and was again himself.

Talking of conversation, he said, ‘There must, in the first place, be knowledge, there must be materials; in the second place, there must be a command of words; in the third place, there must be imagination, to place things in such views as they are not commonly seen in; and in the fourth place, there must be presence of mind, and a resolution that is not to be overcome by failures: this last is an essential requisite; for want of it many people do not excel in conversation. Now I want it: I throw up the game upon losing a trick.’ I wondered to hear him talk thus of himself, and said, ‘I don’t know, Sir, how this may be; but I am sure you beat other people’s cards out of their hands.’ I doubt whether he heard this remark. While he went on talking triumphantly, I was fixed in admiration, and said to Mrs. Thrale, ‘O, for short-hand to take this down!’ ‘You’ll carry it all in your head, (said she;) a long head is as good as short-hand.’

It has been observed and wondered at, that Mr. Charles Fox never talked with any freedom in the presence of Dr. Johnson, though it is well known, and I myself can witness, that his conversation is various, fluent, and exceedingly agreeable. Johnson’s own experience, however, of that gentleman’s reserve was a sufficient reason for his going on thus: ‘Fox never talks in private company; not from any determination not to talk, but because he has not the first motion. A man who is used to the applause of the House of Commons, has no wish for that of a private company. A man accustomed to throw for a thousand pounds, if set down to throw for sixpence, would not be at the pains to count his dice. Burke’s talk is the ebullition¹⁰⁷⁷ of his mind; he does not talk from a desire of distinction, but because his mind is full.’

He thus curiously characterised one of our old acquaintance:¹⁰⁷⁸‘∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗isa good man, Sir; but he is a vain man and a liar. He, however, only tells lies of vanity; of victories, for instance, in conversation, which never happened.’ This alluded to a story which I had repeated from that gentleman, to entertain Johnson with its wild bravado: ‘This Johnson, Sir, (said he,) whom you are all afraid of, will shrink if you come close to him in argument, and roar as loud as he. He once maintained the paradox, that there is no beauty but in utility. “Sir, (said I,) what say you to the peacock’s tail, which is one of the most beautiful objects in nature, but would have as much utility if its feathers were all of one colour.” He felt what I thus produced, and had recourse to his usual expedient, ridicule; exclaiming, “A peacock has a tail, and a fox has a tail;” and then he burst out into a laugh. “Well, Sir, (said I, with a strong voice, looking him full in the face,) you have unkennelled your fox; pursue him if you dare.” He had not a word to say, Sir.’ Johnson told me, that this was a fiction from beginning to end.^a

After musing for some time, he said, ‘I wonder how I should have any enemies; for I do harm to nobody.’^a Boswell. ‘In the first place, Sir, you will be pleased to recollect, that you set out with attacking the Scotch; so you got a whole nation for your enemies.’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, I own, that by my definition of oats I meant to vex them.’ BOSWELL. ‘Pray, Sir, can you trace the cause of your antipathy to the Scotch?’ JOHNSON. ‘I cannot, Sir.’ BOSWELL. ‘Old Mr. Sheridan says, it was because they sold Charles the First.’ JOHNSON. ‘Then, Sir, old Mr. Sheridan has found out a very good reason.’

Surely the most obstinate and sulky nationality, the most determined aversion to this great and good man, must be cured, when he is seen thus playing with one of his prejudices, of which he candidly admitted that he could not tell the reason. It was, however, probably owing to his having had in his view the worst part of the Scottish nation, the needy adventurers, many of whom he thought were advanced above their merits by means which he did not approve. Had he in his early life been in Scotland, and seen the worthy, sensible, independent gentlemen, who live rationally and hospitably at home, he never could have entertained such unfavourable and unjust notions of his fellow-subjects. And accordingly we find, that when he did visit Scotland, in the latter period of his life, he was fully sensible of all that it deserved, as I have already pointed out, when speaking of his Journey to the Western Islands.

Next day, Saturday, March 22, I found him still at Mrs. Thrale’s, but he told me that he was to go to his own house in the afternoon. He was better, but I perceived he was but an unruly patient, for Sir Lucas Pepys, who visited him, while I was with him said, ‘If you were tractable, Sir, I should prescribe for you.’

I related to him a remark which a respectable friend¹⁰⁷⁹ had made to me, upon the then state of Government, when those who had been long in opposition had attained to power, as it was supposed, against the inclination of the Sovereign. ‘You need not be uneasy (said this gentleman,) about the King. He laughs at them all; he plays them one against another.’ JOHNSON. ‘Don’t think so, Sir. The King is as much oppressed as a man can be. If he plays them one against another, he wins nothing.’

I had paid a visit to General Oglethorpe in the morning, and was told by him that Dr. Johnson saw company on Saturday evenings, and he would meet me at Johnson’s, that night. When I mentioned this to Johnson, not doubting that it would please him, as he had a great value for Oglethorpe, the fretfulness of his disease unexpectedly shewed itself; his anger suddenly kindled, and he said, with vehemence, ‘Did not you tell him not to come? Am I to be hunted in this manner?’ I satisfied him that I could not divine that the visit would not be convenient, and that I certainly could not take it upon me of my own accord to forbid the General.

I found Dr. Johnson in the evening in Mrs. Williams’s room, at tea and coffee with her and Mrs. Desmoulins, who were also both ill; it was a sad scene, and he was not in a very good humour. He said of a performance^a that had lately come out, ‘Sir, if you should search all the mad-houses in England, you would not find ten men who would write so, and think it sense.’

I was glad when General Oglethorpe’s arrival was announced, and we left the ladies. Dr. Johnson attended him in the parlour, and was as courteous as ever. The General said he was busy reading the writers of the middle age. Johnson said they were very curious. OGLETHORPE. ‘The House of Commons has usurped the power of the nation’s money, and used it tyrannically. Government is now carried on by corrupt influence, instead of the inherent right in the King.’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, the want of inherent right in the King occasions all this disturbance. What we did at the Revolution was necessary: but it broke our constitution.’^b OGLETHORPE. ‘My father did not think it necessary.’

On Sunday, March 23, I breakfasted with Dr. Johnson, who seemed much relieved, having taken opium the night before. He however protested against it, as a remedy that should be given with the utmost reluctance, and only in extreme necessity. I mentioned how commonly it was used in Turkey, and that therefore it could not be so pernicious as he apprehended. He grew warm and said, ‘Turks take opium, and Christians take opium; but Russel, in his account of Aleppo, tells us, that it is as disgraceful in Turkey to take too much opium, as it is with us to get drunk. Sir, it is amazing how things are exaggerated. A gentleman was lately telling in a company where I was present, that in France, as soon as a man of fashion marries, he takes an opera girl into keeping; and this he mentioned as a general custom. “Pray, Sir, (said I,) how many opera girls may there be?” He answered, “About fourscore.” “ Well then, Sir, (said I,) you see there can be no more than fourscore men of fashion who can do this.”’

Mrs. Desmoulins made tea; and she and I talked before him upon a topick which he had once borne patiently from me when we were by ourselves, – his not complaining of the world, because he was not called to some great office, nor had attained to great wealth. He flew into a violent passion, I confess with some justice, and commanded us to have done. ‘Nobody, (said he,) has a right to talk in this manner, to bring before a man his own character, and the events of his life, when he does not choose it should be done. I never have sought the world; the world was not to seek me. It is rather wonderful that so much has been done for me. All the complaints which are made of the world are unjust. I never knew a man of merit neglected: it was generally by his own fault that he failed of success. A man may hide his head in a hole: he may go into the country, and publish a book now and then, which nobody reads, and then complain he is neglected. There is no reason why any person should exert himself for a man who has written a good book: he has not written it for any individual. I may as well make a present to the postman who brings me a letter. When patronage was limited, an authour expected to find a Maecenas,¹⁰⁸⁰ and complained if he did not find one. Why should he complain? This Maecenas has others as good as he, or others who have got the start of him.’ Boswell. ‘But surely, Sir, you will allow that there are men of merit at the bar who never get practice.’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, you are sure that practice is got from an opinion that the person employed deserves it best; so that if a man of merit at the bar does not get practice, it is from errour, not from injustice. He is not neglected. A horse that is brought to market may not be bought, though he is a very good horse: but that is from ignorance, not from intention.’

There was in this discourse much novelty, ingenuity, and discrimination, such as is seldom to be found. Yet I cannot help thinking that men of merit, who have no success in life, may be forgiven for lamenting, if they are not allowed to complain. They may consider it as hard that their merit should not have its suitable distinction. Though there is no intentional injustice towards them on the part of the world, their merit not having been perceived, they may yet repine against fortune, or fate, or by whatever name they choose to call the supposed mythological power of Destiny. It has, however, occurred to me, as a consolatory thought, that men of merit should consider thus: – How much harder would it be if the same persons had both all the merit and all the prosperity. Would not this be a miserable distribution for the poor dunces? Would men of merit exchange their intellectual superiority, and the enjoyments arising from it, for external distinction and the pleasures of wealth? If they would not, let them not envy others, who are poor where they are rich, a compensation which is made to them. Let them look inwards and be satisfied; recollecting with conscious pride what Virgil finely says of the Corycius Senex,¹⁰⁸¹ and which I have, in another place,^a with truth and sincerity applied to Mr. Burke:-

‘Regum cequabat opes animis.’¹⁰⁸²

On the subject of the right employment of wealth, Johnson observed, ‘A man cannot make a bad use of his money, so far as regards Society, if he does not hoard it; for if he either spends it or lends it out, Society has the benefit. It is in general better to spend money than to give it away; for industry is more promoted by spending money than by giving it away. A man who spends his money is sure he is doing good with it: he is not so sure when he gives it away. A man who spends ten thousand a year will do more good than a man who spends two thousand and gives away eight.’

In the evening I came to him again. He was somewhat fretful from his illness. A gentleman¹⁰⁸³ asked him, whether he had been abroad to-day. ‘Don’t talk so childishly, (said he.) You may as well ask if I hanged myself to-day.’ I mentioned politicks. Johnson. ‘Sir, I’d as soon have a man to break my bones as talk to me of publick affairs, internal or external. I have lived to see things all as bad as they can be.’

Having mentioned his friend the second Lord Southwell, he said, ‘Lord Southwell was the highest-bred man without insolence that I ever was in company with; the most qualitied I ever saw. Lord Orrery was not dignified: Lord Chesterfield was, but he was insolent. Lord∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗¹⁰⁸⁴ is a man of coarse manners, but a man of abilities and information. I don’t say he is a man I would set at the head of a nation, though perhaps he may be as good as the next Prime Minister that comes; but he is a man to be at the head of a Club; I don’t say our Club; for there’s no such Club.’ Boswell. ‘But, Sir, was he not once a factious man?’ JOHNSON. ‘O yes, Sir; as factious a fellow as could be found: one who was for sinking us all into the mob.’ BOSWELL. ‘How then, Sir, did he get into favour with the King?’ JOHNSON. ‘Because, Sir, I suppose he promised the King to do whatever the King pleased.’

He said, ‘Goldsmith’s blundering speech to Lord Shelburne, which has been so often mentioned, and which he really did make to him, was only a blunder in emphasis: “I wonder they should call your Lordship Malagrida, for Malagrida was a very good man;” meant, I wonder they should use Malagrida as a term of reproach.’¹⁰⁸⁵

Soon after this time I had an opportunity of seeing, by means of one of his friends,¹⁰⁸⁶ a proof that his talents, as well as his obliging service to authours, were ready as ever. He had revised The Village, an admirable poem, by the Reverend Mr. Crabbe. Its sentiments as to the false notions of rustick happiness and rustick virtue were quite congenial with his own; and he had taken the trouble not only to suggest slight corrections and variations, but to furnish some lines, when he thought he could give the writer’s meaning better than in the words of the manuscript.^a

On Sunday, March 30, I found him at home in the evening, and had the pleasure to meet with Dr. Brocklesby, whose reading, and knowledge of life, and good spirits, supply him with a never-failing source of conversation. He mentioned a respectable gentleman,¹⁰⁸⁷ who became extremely penurious near the close of his life. Johnson said there must have been a degree of madness about him. ‘Not at all, Sir, (said Dr. Brocklesby,) his judgement was entire.’ Unluckily, however, he mentioned that although he had a fortune of twenty-seven thousand pounds, he denied himself many comforts, from an apprehension that he could not afford them. ‘Nay, Sir, (cried Johnson,) when the judgement is so disturbed that a man cannot count, that is pretty well.’

I shall here insert a few of Johnson’s sayings, without the formality of dates, as they have no reference to any particular time or place.

‘The more a man extends and varies his acquaintance the better.’ This, however, was meant with a just restriction; for, he on another occasion said to me, ‘Sir, a man may be so much of every thing, that he is nothing of any thing.’

‘Raising the wages of day-labourers is wrong; for it does not make them live better, but only makes them idler, and idleness is a very bad thing for human nature.’

‘It is a very good custom to keep a journal for a man’s own use; he may write upon a card a day all that is necessary to be written, after he has had experience of life. At first there is a great deal to be written, because there is a great deal of novelty; but when once a man has settled his opinions, there is seldom much to be set down.’

‘There is nothing wonderful in the journal which we see Swift kept in London, for it contains slight topicks, and it might soon be written.’

I praised the accuracy of an account-book of a lady whom I mentioned.¹⁰⁸⁸ Johnson. ‘Keeping accounts, Sir, is of no use when a man is spending his own money, and has nobody to whom he is to account. You won’t eat less beef to-day, because you have written down what it cost yesterday.’ I mentioned another lady¹⁰⁸⁹ who thought as he did, so that her husband could not get her to keep an account of the expence of the family, as she thought it enough that she never exceeded the sum allowed her. Johnson. ‘Sir, it is fit she should keep an account, because her husband wishes it; but I do not see its use.’ I maintained that keeping an account has this advantage, that it satisfies a man that his money has not been lost or stolen, which he might sometimes be apt to imagine, were there no written state of his expence; and besides, a calculation of œconomy so as not to exceed one’s income, cannot be made without a view of the different articles in figures, that one may see how to retrench in some particulars less necessary than others. This he did not attempt to answer.

Talking of an acquaintance of ours,¹⁰⁹⁰ whose narratives, which abounded in curious and interesting topicks, were unhappily found to be very fabulous; I mentioned Lord Mansfield’s having said to me, ‘Suppose we believe one half of what he tells.’ JOHNSON. ‘Ay: but we don’t know which half to believe. By his lying we lose not only our reverence for him, but all comfort in his conversation.’ BOSWELL. ‘May we not take it as amusing fiction?’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, the misfortune is, that you will insensibly believe as much of it as you incline to believe.’

It is remarkable, that notwithstanding their congeniality in politicks, he never was acquainted with a late eminent noble judge,¹⁰⁹¹ whom I have heard speak of him as a writer, with great respect. Johnson, I know not upon what degree of investigation, entertained no exalted opinion of his Lordship’s intellectual character. Talking of him to me one day, he said, ‘It is wonderful, Sir, with how little real superiority of mind men can make an eminent figure in publick life.’ He expressed himself to the same purpose concerning another law-Lord,¹⁰⁹² who, it seems, once took a fancy to associate with the wits of London; but with so little success, that Foote said, ‘What can he mean by coming among us? He is not only dull himself, but the cause of dullness in others.’ Trying him by the test of his colloquial powers, Johnson had found him very defective. He once said to Sir Joshua Reynolds, ‘This man now has been ten years about town, and has made nothing of it;’ meaning as a companion.^a He said to me, ‘I never heard any thing from him in company that was at all striking; and depend upon it, Sir, it is when you come close to a man in conversation, that you discover what his real abilities are; to make a speech in a publick assembly is a knack. Now I honour Thurlow, Sir; Thurlow is a fine fellow; he fairly puts his mind to yours.’

After repeating to him some of his pointed, lively sayings, I said, ‘It is a pity, Sir, you don’t always remember your own good things, that you may have a laugh when you will.’ JOHNSON. ‘Nay, Sir, it is better that I forget them, that I may be reminded of them, and have a laugh on their being brought to my recollection.’

When I recalled to him his having said as we sailed upon Loch-lomond, ‘That if he wore any thing fine, it should be very fine;’ I observed that all his thoughts were upon a great scale. Johnson. ‘Depend upon it, Sir, every man will have as fine a thing as he can get; as a large diamond for his ring.’ BOSWELL. ‘Pardon me, Sir: a man of a narrow mind will not think of it, a slight trinket will satisfy him:

“Nec sufferre queat majoris pondera gemmce.” ‘¹⁰⁹³

I told him I should send him some Essays which I had written,¹⁰⁹⁴ which I hoped he would be so good as to read, and pick out the good ones. Johnson. ‘Nay, Sir, send me only the good ones; don’t make me pick them.’

I heard him once say, ‘Though the proverb Nullum numen abest, si sit prudentia,¹⁰⁹⁵ does not always prove true, we may be certain of the converse of it, Nullum numen adest, si sit imprudentia.,¹⁰⁹⁶

Once, when Mr. Seward was going to Bath, and asked his commands, he said, ‘Tell Dr. Harrington that I wish he would publish another volume of the Nugte antiqu&;^a1097 It is a very pretty book.’ Mr. Seward seconded this wish, and recommended to Dr. Harrington to dedicate it to Johnson, and take for his motto, what Catullus says to Cornelius Nepos: –

‘––––––namque tu solebas,

Meas esse aliquid putare nugas.’¹⁰⁹⁸

As a small proof of his kindliness and delicacy of feeling, the following circumstance may be mentioned: One evening when we were in the street together, and I told him I was going to sup at Mr. Beauclerk’s, he said, ‘I’ll go with you.’ After having walked part of the way, seeming to recollect something, he suddenly stopped and said, I cannot go, – but I do not love Beauclerk the less.’

On the frame of his portrait, Mr. Beauclerk had inscribed, –

‘––––––Ingenium ingens

Inculto latet hoc sub corpore.’¹⁰⁹⁹

After Mr. Beauclerk’s death, when it became Mr. Langton’s property, he made the inscription be defaced. Johnson said complacently, ‘It was kind in you to take it off;’ and then after a short pause, added, ‘and not unkind in him to put it on.’

He said, ‘How few of his friends’ houses would a man choose to be at when he is sick.’ He mentioned one or two. I recollect only Thrale’s.

He observed, ‘There is a wicked inclination in most people to suppose an old man decayed in his intellects. If a young or middle-aged man, when leaving a company, does not recollect where he laid his hat, it is nothing; but if the same inattention is discovered in an old man, people will shrug up their shoulders, and say, “His memory is going.”’

When I once talked to him of some of the sayings which every body repeats, but nobody knows where to find, such as Quos DEUS vult perdere, prius dementat;¹¹⁰⁰ he told me that he was once offered ten guineas to point out from whence Semel insanivimus omnes¹¹⁰¹ was taken. He could not do it; but many years afterwards met with it by chance in Johannes Baptista Mantuanus.¹¹⁰²

I am very sorry that I did not take a note of an eloquent argument in which he maintained that the situation of Prince of Wales was the happiest of any person’s in the kingdom, even beyond that of the Sovereign. I recollect only – the enjoyment of hope, – the high superiority of rank, without the anxious cares of government, – and a great degree of power, both from natural influence wisely used, and from the sanguine expectations of those who look forward to the chance of future favour.

Sir Joshua Reynolds communicated to me the following particulars: –

Johnson thought the poems published as translations from Ossian had so little merit, that he said, ‘Sir, a man might write such stuff for ever, if he would abandon his mind to it.’

He said, ‘A man should pass a part of his time with the laughers, by which means any thing ridiculous or particular about him might be presented to his view, and corrected.’ I observed, he must have been a bold laugher who would have ventured to tell Dr. Johnson of any of his particularities.^a

Having observed the vain ostentatious importance of many people in quoting the authority of Dukes and Lords, as having been in their company, he said, he went to the other extreme, and did not mention his authority when he should have done it, had it not been that of a Duke or a Lord.

Dr. Goldsmith said once to Dr. Johnson, that he wished for some additional members to the LITERARY CLUB, to give it an agreeable variety; for (said he,) there can now be nothing new among us; we have travelled over one another’s minds. Johnson seemed a little angry, and said, ‘Sir, you have not travelled over my mind, I promise you.’ Sir Joshua, however, thought Goldsmith right; observing, that ‘when people have lived a great deal together, they know what each of them will say on every subject. A new understanding, therefore, is desirable; because though it may only furnish the same sense upon a question which would have been furnished by those with whom we are accustomed to live, yet this sense will have a different colouring; and colouring is of much effect in every thing else as well as in painting.’

Johnson used to say that he made it a constant rule to talk as well as he could both as to sentiment and expression, by which means, what had been originally effort became familiar and easy. The consequence of this, Sir Joshua observed, was, that his common conversation in all companies was such as to secure him universal attention, as something above the usual colloquial style was expected.

Yet, though Johnson had this habit in company, when another mode was necessary, in order to investigate truth, he could descend to a language intelligible to the meanest capacity. An instance of this was witnessed by Sir Joshua Reynolds, when they were present at an examination of a little blackguard boy, by Mr. Saunders Welch, the late Westminster Justice. Welch, who imagined that he was exalting himself in Dr. Johnson’s eyes by using big words, spoke in a manner that was utterly unintelligible to the boy; Dr. Johnson perceiving it, addressed himself to the boy, and changed the pompous phraseology into colloquial language. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was much amused by this procedure, which seemed a kind of reversing of what might have been expected from the two men, took notice of it to Dr. Johnson, as they walked away by themselves. Johnson said, that it was continually the case; and that he was always obliged to translate the Justice’s swelling diction, (smiling,) so as that his meaning might be understood by the vulgar, from whom information was to be obtained.

Sir Joshua once observed to him, that he had talked above the capacity of some people with whom they had been in company together. ‘No matter, Sir, (said Johnson;) they consider it as a compliment to be talked to, as if they were wiser than they are. So true is this, Sir, that Baxter made it a rule in every sermon that he preached, to say something that was above the capacity of his audience.^a

Johnson’s dexterity in retort, when he seemed to be driven to an extremity by his adversary, was very remarkable. Of his power in this respect, our common friend, Mr. Windham, of Norfolk, has been pleased to furnish me with an eminent instance. However unfavourable to Scotland, he uniformly gave liberal praise to George Buchanan, as a writer. In a conversation concerning the literary merits of the two countries, in which Buchanan was introduced, a Scotchman, imagining that on this ground he should have an undoubted triumph over him, exclaimed, ‘Ah, Dr. Johnson, what would you have said of Buchanan, had he been an Englishman?’ ‘Why, Sir, (said Johnson, after a little pause,) I should not have said of Buchanan, had he been an Englishman, what I will now say of him as a Scotchman, – that he was the only man of genius his country ever produced.’