THE LIFE OF Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

THE general ſenſe of mankind, and the practice of the learned in all ages, have given a ſanction to biographical hiſtory, and concurred to recommend that precept of the wiſe ſon of Sirach, in which we are exhorted to ‘'praiſe famous men, ſuch as by their counſels and by their knowledge of learning were meet for the people,—and were wiſe and eloquent in their in⯑ſtructions,—and ſuch as recited verſes in writing^*.'’ In each of theſe faculties did the perſon, whoſe hiſtory I am about to write, ſo greatly excel, that, except for my preſumption in the attempt to diſplay his worth, the undertaking may be thought to need no apology; eſpe⯑cially if we contemplate, together with his mental endow⯑ments, thoſe moral qualities which diſtinguiſhed him, and reflect that, in an age when literary acquiſitions and [2] ſcientific improvements are rated at their utmoſt value, he reſted not in the applauſe which theſe pro⯑cured him; but adorned the character of a ſcholar and a philoſopher with that of a chriſtian.

Juſtified, as I truſt, thus far in the opinion of the reader, I may, nevertheleſs, ſtand in need of his ex⯑cuſe; for that, in the narration of facts that reſpect others, I have oftener ſpoke of myſelf, and in my own perſon, than the practice of ſome writers will war⯑rant. To this objection, if any ſhall pleaſe to make it, I anſwer, that the reverſe of wrong is not always right. By the office I have undertaken I ſtand en⯑gaged to relate facts to which I was a witneſs, con⯑verſations in which I was a party, and to record me⯑morable ſayings uttered only to myſelf. Whoever attends to theſe circumſtances, muſt, beſides the diſguſt which ſuch an affectation of humility would excite, be convinced, that in ſome inſtances, the avoid⯑ing of egotiſms had been extremely difficult, and in many impoſſible.

SAMUEL JOHNSON, the ſubject of the following memoirs, was the elder of the two ſons of Michael Johnſon, of the city of Lichfield bookſeller, and of Sarah his wife, a ſiſter of Dr. Joſeph Ford, a phyſician of great eminence, and father of the famous Cornelius otherwiſe called Parſon Ford.^* He was born, as I [3] find it noted in his diary, on the ſeventh day of Sep⯑tember, 1709: his brother, named Nathanael, was born ſome years after. Mr. Johnſon was a man of eminence in his trade, and of ſuch reputation in the city abovementioned, that he, more than once, bore, for a year, the office of bailiff or chief magiſtrate thereof, and diſcharged the duties of that exalted ſtation with honour and applauſe. It may here be proper, as it will account for ſome particulars reſpect⯑ing the character of his ſon Samuel, to mention, that his political principles led him to favour the pretenſi⯑ons of the exiled family, and that though a very honeſt and ſenſible man, he, like many others inhabiting the county of Stafford, was a Jacobite.

It may farther be ſuppoſed, that he was poſſeſſed of ſome amiable qualities either moral or perſonal, from a circumſtance in his early life, of which evidence is yet remaining. While he was an apprentice at Leek in Staffordſhire, a young woman of the ſame town fell in love with him, and upon his removal to Lichfield fol⯑lowed him, and took lodgings oppoſite his houſe. Her paſſion was not unknown to Mr. Johnſon, but he had no inclination to return it, till he heard that it ſo affect⯑ed her mind that her life was in danger, when he viſited her, and made her a tender of his hand, but feeling the approach of death, ſhe declined it, and ſhortly after died, and was interred in Lichfield cathedral. In pity [4] to her ſufferings, Mr. Johnſon cauſed a ſtone to be placed over her grave with this inſcription:‘Here lies the body of
Mrs. ELIZABETH BLANEY, a ſtranger.
She departed this life,
2d of September, 1694.’

The firſt born child of Mr. Johnſon and his wife, their ſon Samuel, had the misfortune to receive, toge⯑ther with its nutriment derived from a hired nurſe, the ſeeds of that diſeaſe which troubled him through life, the ſtruma, or, as it is called, the king's-evil; for the cure whereof his mother, agreeable to the opinion then entertained of the efficacy of the royal touch, preſented him to Queen Anne, who, for the laſt time, as it is ſaid, that ſhe ever performed that office, with her accuſtomed grace and benignity adminiſtered to the child as much of that healing quality as it was in her power to diſpenſe, and hung about his neck the uſual amulet of an angel of gold, with the impreſs of St. Michael the archangel on the one ſide, and a ſhip under full ſail on the other.^* It was probably [5] this-diſeaſe that deprived him of the ſight of his left eye, for he has been heard to ſay, that he never re⯑membered to have enjoyed the uſe of it.

[6] It may ſeem a ridiculous attempt to trace the dawn of his poetical faculty ſo far back as to his very in⯑fancy; but the following incident I am compelled to mention, as it is well atteſted, and therefore makes part of his hiſtory. When he was about three years old, his mother had a brood of eleven ducklings, which ſhe permitted him to call his own. It hap⯑pened that in playing about he trod on and killed one of them, upon which running to his mother, he, in great emotion bid her write. Write, child? ſaid ſhe, what muſt I write? Why write, anſwered he, ſo: ‘Here lies good Maſter Duck,
That Samuel Johnſon trod on,
If't had liv'd 'twould have been good luck,
For then there'd been an odd one.’ and ſhe wrote accordingly.

Being arrived at a proper age for grammatical in⯑ſtruction, he was placed in the free ſchool of Lichfield, of which Mr. Hunter was then maſter. The progreſs he made in his learning ſoon attracted the notice of his teachers; and among other diſcernible qualities that diſtinguiſhed him from the reſt of the ſchool, he was bold, active and enterpriſing, ſo that without affecting it, the ſeniors in the ſchool looked on him as their head and leader, and readily acquieſced in whatever he propoſed or did. There dwelt at Lichfield a gen⯑tleman of the name of Butt, the father of the reverend Mr. Butt, now a King's Chaplain, to whoſe houſe on holidays and in ſchool-vacations he was ever welcome. The children in the family, perhaps offended with the rudeneſs of his behaviour, would frequently call him the great boy, which the father once overhearing, ſaid, [7] ‘'you call him the great boy, but take my word for it, he will one day prove a great man.'’

A more particular character of him while a ſchool⯑boy, and of his behaviour at ſchool, I find in a paper now before me, written by a perſon yet living, and of which the following is a copy:

In the autumn of the year 1725, he received an invitation from his uncle, Cornelius Ford, to ſpend a few days with him at his houſe, which I conjecture to have been on a living of his in one of the counties bor⯑dering upon Staffordſhire; but it ſeems that the uncle, diſcovering that the boy was poſſeſſed of uncommon parts, was unwilling to let him return, and to make up for the loſs he might ſuſtain by his abſence from ſchool, became his inſtructor in the claſſics, and far⯑ther aſſiſted him in his ſtudies; ſo that it was not till the Whitfuntide following, that Johnſon went back to Lichfield. Whether Mr. Hunter was diſpleaſed to find a viſit of a few days protracted into a vacation of many months, or that he reſented the interference of another perſon in the tuition of one of his ſcholars, and he one of the moſt promiſing of any under his care, cannot now be known; but, it ſeems, that at Johnſon's return to Lichfield, he was not received into the ſchool of that city; on the contrary, I am in⯑formed, by a perſon who was his ſchool-fellow there, that he was placed in one at Stourbridge in Worceſ⯑terſhire, under the care of a maſter named Winkworth, [9] but who, affecting to be thought allied to the Strafford family, aſſumed the name of Wentworth.

When his ſchool education was finiſhed, his father, whoſe circumſtances were far from affluent, was for ſome time at a loſs how to diſpoſe of him: he took him home, probably with a view to bring him up to his own trade; for I have heard Johnſon ſay, that he himſelf was able to bind a book. This ſuſpenſe continued about two years, at the end whereof, a neighbouring gentleman, Mr. Andrew Corbet, hav⯑ing a ſon, who had been educated in the ſame ſchool with Johnſon, whom he was about to ſend to Pem⯑broke college in Oxford, a propoſal was made and accepted, that Johnſon ſhould attend this ſon thither, in quality of aſſiſtant in his ſtudies; and accordingly, on the 31ſt day of October, 1728, they were both en⯑tered, Corbet as a gentleman-commoner, and Johnſon as a commoner.

The college tutor, at that time, was a man named Jordan, whom Johnſon, though he loved him for the goodneſs of his nature, ſo contemned for the mean⯑neſs of his abilities, that he would oftener riſque the payment of a ſmall fine than attend his lectures; nor was he ſtudious to conceal the reaſon of his abſence. Upon occaſion of one ſuch impoſition, he ſaid to Jor⯑dan, ‘'Sir, you have ſconced me two-pence for non|'attendance at a lecture not worth a penny.'’

Whether it was this diſcouragement in the outſet of their ſtudies, or any other ground of diſinclination that moved him to it, is not known, but this is certain, that young Corbet could not brook ſubmiſſion to a man who ſeemed to be little more learned than himſelf, and [10] that having a father living, who was able to diſpoſe of him in various other ways, he, after about two years ſtay, left the college, and went home.

But the caſe of Johnſon was far different: his fortunes were at ſea; his title to a ſtipend was gone, and all that he could obtain from the father of Mr. Corbet, was, an agreement, during his continuance at college, to pay for his commons. With no exhibition, or other means of ſupport in the proſecution of his ſtudies, he had no⯑thing to depend on, ſave the aſſiſtance of a kind and indulgent parent. At that time the trade of a country bookſeller, even in a city where was a cathedral and an incorporation of eccleſiaſtics, was leſs profitable than it is now; for though it may be ſaid, that during the reign of Queen Anne, multitudes of controverſial books and pamphlets were publiſhing, yet theſe yield⯑ed but ſmall advantage to the mere venders of them: there were then no ſuch publications for the mere amuſement of young readers or idle perſons as the preſs now daily ſends forth; nor had any bookſeller entertained in his mind the project of a circulating library: from hence it is evident, that his father, hav⯑ing no other means of ſubſiſting himſelf and his chil⯑dren, than the ordinary income of his ſhop, was but little able to afford him any other than a ſcanty main⯑tenance.

The want of that aſſiſtance, which ſcholars in gene⯑ral derive from their parents, relations, and friends, ſoon became viſible in the garb and appearance of Johnſon, which, though in ſome degree concealed by a ſcholar's gown, and that we know is never deemed the leſs honourable for being old, was ſo apparent as to [11] excite pity in ſome that ſaw and noticed him. Shall I be particular, and relate a circumſtance of his diſtreſs, that cannot be imputed to him as an effect of his own extravagance or irregularity, and conſequently reflects no diſgrace on his memory? He had ſcarce any change of raiment, and, in a ſhort time after Corbet left him, but one pair of ſhoes, and thoſe ſo old, that his feet were ſeen through them: a gentleman of his college, the father of an eminent clergyman now living, directed a ſervitor one morning to place a new pair at the door of Johnſon's chamber, who, ſeeing them upon his firſt go⯑ing out, ſo far forgot himſelf and the ſpirit that muſt have actuated his unknown benefactor, that, with all the indignation of an inſulted man, he threw them away.

He may be ſuppoſed to have been under the age of twenty, when this imaginary indignity was offered him, a period of life at which, ſo far as concerns the know⯑ledge of mankind, and the means of improving adverſe circumſtances, every one has much to learn: he had, doubtleſs, before this time, experienced ‘'the proud man's contumely;'’ and in this ſchool of affliction might have firſt had reaſon to ſay,—

his ſpirit was, nevertheleſs, too great to ſink under this depreſſion. His tutor, Jordan, in about a year's ſpace, went off to a living which he had been preſented to, upon giving a bond to reſign it in favour of a mi⯑nor, and Johnſon became the pupil of Mr. Adams, a perſon of far ſuperior endowments, who afterwards at⯑tained a doctor's degree, and is at this time head of his college. Encouraged, by a change ſo propitious to his [12] ſtudies, he proſecuted them with diligence, attended both public and private lectures, performed his exer⯑ciſes with alacrity, and in ſhort, neglected no means or opportunities of improvement. He had at this time a great emulation, to call it by no worſe a name, to excel his competitors in literature. There was a young gentleman of his college, named Meekes, whoſe exer⯑ciſes he could not bear to hear commended; and when⯑ever he declaimed or diſputed in the hall, Johnſon would retire to the fartheſt corner thereof, that he might be out of the reach of his voice.

In this courſe of learning, his favourite objects were claſſical literature, ethics, and theology, in the latter whereof he laid the foundation by ſtudying the Fa⯑thers. If we may judge from the magnitude of his Adverſaria, which I have now by me, his plan for ſtudy was a very extenſive one. The heads of ſcience, to the extent of ſix folio volumes, are copiouſly branched throughout it; but, as is generally the caſe with young ſtudents, the blank far exceed in number the written leaves.

To ſay the truth, the courſe of his ſtudies was far from regular: he read by fits and ſtarts, and, in the intervals, digeſted his reading by meditation, to which he was ever prone. Neither did he regard the hours of ſtudy, farther than the diſcipline of the college com⯑pelled him. It was the practice in his time, for a ſer⯑vitor, by order of the maſter, to go round to the rooms of the young men, and knocking at the door, to en⯑quire if they were within, and, if no anſwer was return⯑ed, to report them abſent: Johnſon could not endure this intruſion, and would frequently be ſilent, when the utterance of a word would have inſured him from cen⯑ſure; [13] and, farther to be revenged for being diſturbed when he was as profitably employed as perhaps he could be, would join with others of the young men in the college in hunting, as they called it, the ſervitor, who was thus diligent in his duty; and this they did with the noiſe of pots and candleſticks, ſinging to the tune of Chevy-chace, the words in that old ballad,

not ſeldom to the endangering the life and limbs of the unfortunate victim.

Theſe, and other ſuch levities, marked his behaviour for a ſhort time after his coming to college; but he ſoon convinced thoſe about him, that he came thither for other purpoſes than to make ſport either for him⯑ſelf or them. His exerciſes were applauded, and his tutor was not ſo ſhallow a man, but that he could diſco⯑ver in Johnſon great ſkill in the claſſics, and alſo a talent for Latin verſification, by ſuch compoſitions as few of his ſtanding could equal. Mr. Jordan taking advan⯑tage, therefore, of a tranſgreſſion of this his pupil, the abſenting himſelf from early prayers, impoſed on him for a vacation exerciſe, the taſk of tranſlating into Latin verſe the Meſſiah of Mr. Pope, which being ſhewn to the author of the original, by a ſon of Dr. Arbuthnot, then a gentleman-commoner of Chriſt-church, and bro⯑ther of the late Mr. Arbuthnot of the Exchequer-office, was read, and returned with this encomium: ‘'The writer of this poem will leave it a queſtion for poſte⯑rity, whether his or mine be the original.'^*’ This [14] tranſlation found its way into a miſcellany publiſhed by ſubſcription at Oxford, in the year 1731, under the name of J. Huſbands.

He had but little reliſh for mathematical learn⯑ing, and was content with ſuch a degree of know⯑ledge in phyſics, as he could not but acquire in the ordinary exerciſes of the place: his fortunes and circumſtances had determined him to no particular courſe of ſtudy, and were ſuch as ſeemed to exclude him from every one of the learned profeſſions. He, more than once, ſignified to a friend who had been educated at the ſame ſchool with him, then at Chriſt⯑church, and intended for the bar, an inclination to the practice of the civil or the common law; the for⯑mer of theſe required a long courſe of academical inſti⯑tution, and how to ſucceed in the latter, he had not learned;^* but his father's inability to ſupport him [15] checked theſe wiſhes, and left him to ſeek the means of a future ſubſiſtence. If nature could be ſaid to have pointed out a profeſſion for him, that of the bar ſeems to have been it: in that faculty, his acuteneſs and pe⯑netration, and above all, his nervous and manly elocu⯑tion, could ſcarcely have failed to diſtinguiſh him, and to have raiſed him to the higheſt honours of that lucra⯑tive profeſſion; but, whatever nature might have in⯑tended for him, fortune ſeems to have been the arbiter of his deſtiny, and by ſhutting up the avenues to wealth and civil honours, to have left him to diſplay his talents in the ſeveral characters of a moraliſt, a philoſopher, and a poet.

The time of his continuance at Oxford is diviſible into two periods, the former whereof commenced on the 31ſt day of October, 1728, and determined in Decem⯑ber, [16] 1729, when, as appears by a note in his diary in theſe words, ‘'1729 Dec. S. J. Oxonio rediir,'’ he left that place, the reaſon whereof, was a failure of pecuniary ſupplies from his father; but meeting with another ſource, the bounty, as it is ſuppoſed, of ſome one or more of the members of the cathedral, he returned, and made up the whole of his reſidence in the univerſity, about three years, during all which time his academical ſtudies, though not orderly, were to an aſtoniſhing de⯑gree intenſe. Whoever has peruſed Mr. Spence's life of Antonio Magliabechi, may diſcern a near reſemblance in their manner of reading, between that perſon and Johnſon: the former, ſays his author, ‘'ſeems never to have applied himſelf to any particular ſtudy. A paſ⯑ſion for reading was his ruling paſſion, and a prodi⯑gious memory his great talent: he read every book almoſt indifferently, as they happened to come into his hands: he read them with a ſurpriſing quick⯑neſs, and yet retained, not only the ſenſe of what he read, but, often, all the words and the very manner of ſpelling them, if there was any thing peculiar of that kind in any author.'’

A like propenſity to reading, and an equal celerity in the practice thereof, were obſervable in Johnſon: it was wonderful to ſee, when he took up a book, with what eagerneſs he peruſed, and with what haſte his eye, for it has been related, that he had the uſe of only one, travelled over it: he has been known to read a volume, and that not a ſmall one, at a ſitting; nor was he inferior in the power of memory to him with whom he is compared: whatever he read, became his own for ever, with all the advantages that a penetra⯑ting judgment and deep reflection could add to it. I [17] have heard him repeat, with ſcarce a miſtake of a word, paſſages from favourite authors, of three or four octavo pages in length. One inſtance of the greatneſs of his retentive faculty himſelf has thought fit to give, in his life of the Earl of Rocheſter, where may be ſeen a Latin poem upon Nothing, written by Paſſerat; for the infertion whereof he had, as it is ſaid, no other aid than his own recollection. How far he approved that method of reading, which he is above ſaid to have purſued, and what value he ſet on the powers of me⯑mory, may be inferred from his character of the former of thoſe perſons in his lives of the poets, of whom he thus ſpeaks:

It is little leſs than certain, that his own indigence, and the inability of his father to help him, called Johnſon from the univerſity ſooner than he meant to quit it: his father, either during his continuance there, or poſſibly before, had been by misfortunes rendered inſolvent, if not, as Johnſon told me, an actual bank⯑rupt. The non-attainment of a degree, which after a certain ſtanding is conferred almoſt of courſe, he regretted not: it is true, he ſoon felt the want of one; but ample amends were afterwards made him, by [18] the voluntary grant of the higheſt academical honours that two of the moſt learned ſeminaries in Europe could beſtow.

The advantages he derived from an univerſity edu⯑cation, ſmall as they may hitherto ſeem, went a great way towards fixing, as well his moral as his literary character: the order and diſcipline of a college life, the reading the beſt authors, the attendance on public exerciſes, the early calls to prayer, the frequent in⯑ſtructions from the pulpit, with all the other means of religious and moral improvement, had their proper effect; and though they left his natural temper much as they found it, they begat in his mind thoſe ſenti⯑ments of piety which were the rule of his conduct throughout his future life, and made ſo conſpicuous a part of his character.

He could not, at this early period of his life, diveſt himſelf of an opinion, that poverty was diſgraceful; and was very ſevere in his cenſures of that oeconomy in both our univerſities, which exacted at meals the attendance of poor ſcholars, under the ſeveral denomi⯑nations of ſervitors in the one, and ſizers in the other: he thought that the ſcholar's, like the chriſtian life, levelled all diſtinctions of rank and worldly pre-emi⯑nence; but in this he was miſtaken: civil policy had, long before his coming into the world, reduced the ſeveral claſſes of men to a regular ſubordination, and given ſervitude its ſanction. The feudal ſyſtem of government throughout Europe had ſo arranged the ſeveral orders of ſubjects, that the lower were uni⯑formly dependent on the higher; and in the hiſtory of the peerage of our own country, we find the retinues of the higher nobility made up of the ſons and daugh⯑ters [19] of thoſe of the lower: Wolſey had in his train, earls, barons, and knights; and the founder of the preſent Cavendiſh family was his gentleman-uſher, at a ſalary of ten pounds a year: and, to juſtify the practice of perſonal ſervitude at meals, we have an example of a child waiting on his parents while at dinner, in the Pietas Puerilis, among the colloquies of Eraſmus^*.

Upon his leaving the univerſity, he went home to the houſe of his father, which he found ſo nearly filled with relations, that is to ſay, the maiden ſiſters of his mother and uncle Cornelius Ford, whom his father, on the deceaſe of their brother in the ſummer of 1731, had taken in to board, that it would ſcarce receive him.

He brought with him a deep ſenſe of religion, a due reverence for the national church, and a reſpect for its miniſters; and theſe he retained, though he had been a witneſs to the profligacy of his uncle Ford, which was nearly enough to have effaced all ſuch impreſſions from a young mind. Having not then ſeen, as we now do, eccleſiaſtical benefices advertiſed for ſale, and conſi⯑dered by the purchaſers as lay-fees; nor beheld many of the beneficed clergy abandoning the duties of the cle⯑rical function to the loweſt of their order, themſelves becoming gentlemen at large, mixing in all public recreations and amuſements^†, neglecting their ſtudies [20] for cards, preaching the ſermons of others, and af⯑fecting, in many particulars of their dreſs, the garb of the laity, in diſobedience to the canon which en⯑joins decency of apparel to miniſters^*: I ſay, not having been a witneſs to theſe late refinements in manners, he, notwithſtanding the ferocity of his temper, reverenced the clergy as a body of men, who have been the greateſt improvers of learning, and to whom mankind have the higheſt obligations; but lamented that the race was nearly extinct.

As Johnſon's ſtay at the univerſity was not long enough for him to complete his ſtudies, it is natural to ſuppoſe, that at his return to Lichfield, he devoted his time to the improvement of them, and that having no call from thence, he continued there till the death of his father, which, as he has noted it, was in the month of December, 1731.

Being thus bereft of the little ſupport his father was able to afford him, and having, not only a profeſſion, but the means of ſubſiſtence to ſeek, he, in the month of March 1732, accepted of an invitation to the office of under-maſter or uſher of a free grammar-ſchool, at Market-Boſworth in Leiceſterſhire, founded and endowed by Sir Wolſtan Dixie, lord mayor of Lon⯑don in 1586, the upper maſter whereof was the reve⯑rend Anthony Blackwall, the author of a well-known book on the ſacred claſſics. The patron of this ſemi⯑nary was Sir Wolſtan Dixie, baronet, a deſcendant of the original founder; and the endowment being very ſmall, Johnſon's reſidence was in the manſion-houſe of Sir Wolſtan adjacent thereto; but the treatment he received from this perſon, who, in the pride of wealth, ſhewed no regard for learning or parts, nor reſpected [21] any man for his mental endowments, was ſuch that, preferring the chance of the wide world to his patro⯑nage, Johnſon, in the month of July, in the ſame year in which he went to Boſworth, reſigned his office, and took leave of a place, which he could never after ſpeak of but in terms of the utmoſt diſlike, and even of ab⯑horrence.

By the middle of June, in the year 1732, he was able to eſtimate that ſlender pittance which devolved to him upon the deceaſe of his father; the amount whereof I find aſcertained by a memorandum in his diary, which, as it is deſcriptive of his circumſtances at the time, I here tranſlate, and at the bottom of the page have in⯑ſerted verbatim.

1732, June 15, I laid by eleven guineas; on which day I received all of my father's effects which I can hope for till the death of my mother, (which I pray may be late), that is to ſay, twenty pounds; ſo that I have my fortune to make, and care muſt be taken, that in the mean time, the powers of my mind may not grow languid through poverty, nor want drive me into wickedneſs^*.

In the month of June in the following year, 1733, I find him reſident in the houſe of a perſon named Jarvis, at Birmingham, where, as he has noted in his diary, he rendered into Engliſh from the French, a voyage to Abyſſinia, which has ſince appeared to be that of Padre Jerome Lobo, a Portugueſe Jeſuit, with [22] the additions of Monſ. l'Abbé Le Grand, very curious and entertaining, of which the following is a character:

It contains a narration of the endeavours of a com⯑pany of miſſionaries of the author's country to unite the Abyſſins to the church of Rome. It was tranſla⯑ted from the original Portugueſe into French by l'Abbé Le Grand, who, as Lobo had extended it no farther than his own concern in the miſſion, continued it down to the time when the Jeſuits were finally driven out of Aethiopia, with the addition of fifteen diſſertations on ſubjects relating to the hiſtory, antiquities, government, religion, manners, and natural hiſtory of Abyſſinia, and other countries mentioned by the original author.

The preface, which bears ſtronger marks of John⯑ſon's hand than any part of the work, is calculated to attract attention and credit: it commends the unaffect⯑ed ſimplicity of the original narrative, and the learn⯑ing of M. Le Grand; it acknowledges the omiſſions and deviations which the tranſlator thought it prudent to make, and it apologizes for any defects that may be diſcovered. Johnſon's diſquiſitive propenſity juſt dawns in an obſervation on the erroneous method of the Roman church, in making converts; but there is nothing ſtriking in the compoſition.

Were we to reſt our judgment on internal evidence, Johnſon's claim to the title of tranſlator of this work would be diſputable; it has ſcarce a feature reſembling him: the language is as ſimple and unornamented as John Bunyan's; the ſtyle is far from elegant, and ſometimes it is not even correct. Theſe circumſtan⯑ces, together with frequent miſtakes and various orthography, would almoſt ſtagger our belief, but [23] that we have the authority of Johnſon himſelf to rely on, who often acknowledged it for his own.

As this voyage to Abyſſinia, notwithſtanding the country and manners it deſcribes are wonderful and intereſting, has not been ſo much noticed as Johnſon's later and original productions, it may not be thought impertinent to give the outline of the relation.

About the beginning of the ſeventeenth century, the then reigning emperor of Abyſſinia, for conſidera⯑tions that favoured more of good policy than of religi⯑on, became a convert to the church of Rome: many of his ſubjects had followed his example; and the miſſi⯑onaries already in the country were in want of co-ad⯑jutors to extend their progreſs. Padre Jerome Lobo, who was then employed in the Eaſt-Indian miſſion at Goa, was one deputed to this enterpriſe, which, at length, proved too much for Romiſh zeal and Jeſuitical dexterity.

With much difficulty he and his companions reach⯑ed and got footing in the empire, where they had to endure a climate rendered by exceſſive heats and rains peſtiferous, and to engage in perilous journies acroſs deſarts infeſted by banditti, in perpetual fear of them and of wild beaſts, the tokens of whoſe depredations marked their way. When they arrived at the habita⯑tions of the people, their dangers were changed, but not diminiſhed; ſometimes they could not obtain proviſions, and at others, were confined to their houſes by the dread of aſſaſſination. Thoſe who were to be their diſciples, profeſſed, it is true, a ſuperſtitious religion, in ſome parts Judaical, in many others re⯑ſembling that of the church of Rome; but it had had little effect on their minds: moral virtues they had [24] ſcarcely any; in ſocial affections they were miſerably deficient, and their approaches to civilization and ele⯑gance were on a level with thoſe of their ſouthern neighbours at the Cape of Good Hope.

But labour and patience produced in time, a hope that the miſſion would not be fruitleſs: the number of their proſelytes was, at one period, ſo great, that the corporal ſtrength of the fathers was exhauſted in the exhortations previous to baptiſm. ‘'We erected our tent,' ſays Lobo, 'and placed our altar under ſome great trees, for the benefit of the ſhade; and every day before ſun-riſing, my companion and I began to catechiſe and inſtruct theſe new catholics, and uſed our utmoſt endeavours to make them abjure their errors. When we were weary with ſpeaking, we placed in ranks thoſe who were ſuffi⯑ciently inſtructed, and paſſing through them with great veſſels of water, baptized them according to the form preſcribed by the church. As their num⯑ber was very great, we cried aloud—thoſe of this rank are named Anthony—thoſe of that rank Peter;—and did the ſame among the women, whom we ſe⯑parated from among the men. We then confeſſed them, and admitted them to the communion. After maſs we applied ourſelves again to catechiſe, to in⯑ſtruct, and receive the renunciation of their errors, ſcarce allowing ourſelves time to make a ſcanty meal, which we never did more than once a day.'’

Zeal equal to this, and riſing in proportion to the oppoſition it met with, did theſe pious fathers exerciſe during nine years that they remained in Abyſſinia. Their ſucceſs was various and fluctuating; ſometimes it gave them ground to hope that all would be con⯑verted, [25] and ſometimes their patrons and proſelytes became their moſt inveterate perſecutors: their hard⯑ſhips were increaſed by civil commotions, and all their expectations were clouded by the death of the Empe⯑ror, whoſe ſucceſſor was a bigot in the religion of the country. They then put themſelves under the pro⯑tection of a prince, who had emancipated himſelf from the power of Abyſſinia, and thought, that as he had afforded them ſuccour, they ſhould be ſafe in his domi⯑nions; but they were ſoon convinced of their error, by receiving orders to prepare to ſerve, or in other words become ſlaves to the Turks:—‘'a meſſage,' ſays Lobo, 'which filled us with ſurpriſe; it having never been known that one of theſe lords had ever abandoned any whom he had taken under his protection; and it is, on the contrary, one of the higheſt points of honour amongſt them, to riſque their lives and their fortunes in the defence of their dependents who have implored their protection: but neither law nor juſtice were of any advantage to us, and the cuſtoms of the country were doomed to be broken when they would have contributed to our ſecurity.'’

From M. Le Grand's information it appears, that the conduct of theſe miſſionaries in Abyſſinia had been ſuch as tended rather to exaſperate than conciliate: they conſidered themſelves, not only figuratively, as the generals of Chriſt's church militant, and propa⯑gated their faith by meaſures that rendered them and their doctrine odious. The peace of the country and their reſidence in it were become incompatible: they were accordingly delivered into the hands of the Turks; and experienced, from a little troop ſent to convoy them, greater humanity than the Abyſſins had [26] ſhewn them: at Suaquem, an iſland in the Red Sea, terms of ranſom were propoſed to them, which, though exorbitant, they were forced to accept; and, after ſurmounting many obſtacles and perils, that part of the miſſion with which Lobo was engaged, returned to Goa.

The revenge, which it was reported in Abyſſinia, the court of Portugal meditated, rendered a people naturally inhuman, ferocious: the remaining miſſion⯑aries experienced ſtill harder fate than Lobo and his companions; many were put to death, and the whole fraternity ſo completely extirpated, that, after many efforts, all attempts to make a catholic people of the Abyſſins were abandoned, as chimerical and im⯑practicable.

The diſſertations at the end of this work, and which Johnſon ſeems to eſtimate highly, contain va⯑riety of information and controverſial learning, par⯑ticularly reſpecting the difference between the church that ſent the miſſion, and that which received it, and point out very clearly the inutility of endeavours founded on the principles of the Jeſuits.

Having completed this tranſlation, which I con⯑jecture he was paid for by ſome bookſeller of Birming⯑ham, who publiſhed it in an octavo volume, Johnſon, in February 1733-4, left that place, and returned to Lichfield, from whence, in the month of Auguſt fol⯑lowing, he iſſued a propoſal, ſoliciting a ſubſcription to an edition of Politian's Poems^*, with this title, ‘'Angeli Politiani Poemata Latina, quibus notas, cum [27] Hiſtoria Latinae Poeſeos a Petrarchae aevo ad Poli⯑tiani tempora deducta, et Vita Politiani fuſius quam antehac enarrata, addidit Sam. Johnſon.'’ The book was to be contained and printed in thirty octavo ſheets, and delivered at the price of five ſhillings; but not meeting with ſufficient encouragement, Johnſon drop⯑ped the deſign.

From the above particulars it evidently appears, that he had entertained a reſolution to depend for a livelihood upon what he ſhould be able, either in the way of original compoſition, or tranſlation, or in edit⯑ing the works of celebrated authors, to procure by his ſtudies, and, in ſhort, to become an author by profeſſion; an occupation, which, though it may, in ſome views of it, be deemed mercenary, as adapting itſelf to particular occaſions and conjunctures, nay, to the intereſts, paſſions and prejudices, and even hu⯑mours of mankind, has yet ſome illuſtrious examples, at leaſt in our times, to juſtify it. It is true, that many perſons diſtinguiſh between thoſe writings which are the effect of a natural impulſe of genius, and thoſe other that owe their exiſtence to intereſted motives, and, being the offspring of another parent, may, in ſome ſenſe, be ſaid to be illegitimate; but, Johnſon knew of no ſuch diſtinction, and would never acqui⯑eſce in it when made by others: on the contrary, I have, more than once, heard him aſſert, that he knew of no genuine motive for writing, other than ne⯑ceſſity.

In the proſecution of this his deſign, he, in the year, 1734, made a tender of aſſiſtance to Cave, the editor, printer, and publiſher of the Gentleman's Magazine; a man of whom I ſhall hereafter have [28] frequent occaſion to ſpeak. The letter of Johnſon to Cave, on this occaſion, is yet extant, and is here given as a literary curioſity:

To this letter Cave returned an anſwer, dated 2d December following, wherein he accepted the ſervices of Johnſon, and retained him as a correſpondent and a contributor to his Magazine.

This correſpondence exhibits a view of the Gentle⯑man's Magazine in its rudiments, and may excite a curioſity in the patrons thereof, to trace back to its origin the publication of a miſcellany, the fame where⯑of has extended itſelf to the moſt remote parts of the literary world. Hiſtories of the learned men of mo⯑dern times, and ſhort abridgments of their works, as alſo ſuch pieces as for their brevity required ſome vehicle to convey them to poſterity, it has been the practice of foreign countries, in their memoirs, and of univerſities and academies, in their acts and tranſactions, to give. The hiſtorical and memorable diurnal events of the paſſing times, have alſo been recorded in publi⯑cations variouſly denominated, particularly, in a work, entitled the Political State of Great Britain, begin⯑ning with the year 1711, and compiled by the well known Abel Boyer. In this are contained debates and ſpeeches in parliament; and alſo, abſtracts of po⯑litical [30] pamphlets; but of a work that ſhould com⯑prehend intelligence of both theſe kinds, we know of no exemplar in this country, earlier than the year 1716, when an eſſay towards ſuch a one was made in the publication of a book, entitled The Hiſtorical Regiſter, containing, an impartial relation of all tranſ⯑actions foreign and domeſtic, by a body of men, from whom few would have expected any thing of the kind. In ſhort, the editors of the Hiſtorical Regiſter, were the members of a ſociety, aſſociated about the year above-mentioned, for the purpoſe of inſurance from fire, which, from the badge aſſumed by them, obtained the denomination of the Sun-fire-Office, and is ſtill ſubſiſting in a flouriſhing ſtate. One of the managing perſons in this ſociety, was, if my informa⯑tion miſleads me not, a man of the name of Povey, who, by the way, was a great improver of that uſeful project, the Penny Poſt,^* and died within my memory. Having a ſcheming head, a plauſible tongue, and a ready pen, he prevailed on his fellow-members to un⯑dertake the above publication, foreign as it was to the nature of their inſtitution. In Strype's continuation of Stow's Survey, I find the following article reſpect⯑ing this ſociety: ‘'All perſons taking out policies for inſurance, muſt pay two ſhillings and ſix-pence per quarter; and, beſides their inſurance, ſhall have a book, called the Hiſtorical Regiſter, left every quarter at their houſe.'’

The Hiſtorical Regiſter gave alſo an account of the proceedings of Parliament: the firſt volume contains [31] the ſpeeches in both houſes, on the debate on the Septennial Bill; but, ſo great is the caution obſerved in drawing them up, that none of thoſe in the Houſe of Lords are appropriated, otherwiſe, than by ſuch words as theſe: ‘'A noble Duke ſtood up, and ſaid,' 'This ſpeech was anſwered by a Northern Peer,'’ and other ſuch vague deſignations. In thoſe in the Houſe of Commons, the names of the ſpeakers, Mr. Shippen, Mr. Hampden, Sir Richard Steele, and others are gi⯑ven, without any artifices of concealment.

This publication was continued to the year 1737, incluſive, and may be ſuppoſed to have been ſuper⯑ſeded by the Gentleman's Magazine, which was then riſing very faſt in its reputation.

From the Hiſtorical Regiſter the hint was taken, of a publication, entitled The Grub-ſtreet Journal,^* which, beſides a brief account of public occurrences, contained criticiſms and cenſures of dull and profane [32] or immoral books and pamphlets, as alſo, original eſſays and letters to the editors. The chief conductors of it, were, Dr. John Martyn, then a young phyſician, afterwards profeſſor of botany in the univerſity of Cam⯑bridge, and Dr. Ruſſel, alſo a phyſician; the former aſ⯑ſumed the name Bavius, and the latter Maevius. Its firſt publication was in January, 1730, and it meeting with encouragement, Cave projected an improvement there⯑on in a pamphlet of his own, and in the following year gave to the world the firſt number of the Gentleman's Magazine, with a notification that the ſame would be continued monthly, incurring thereby a charge of plagiariſm, which, as he is ſaid to have confeſſed it, we may ſuppoſe he did not look upon as criminal^*.

Johnſon had not by his letter, herein before inſerted, ſo attached himſelf to Cave, as not to be at liberty to enter into a cloſer engagement with any other perſon: he, therefore, in 1736, made overtures to the Rev. Mr. Budworth, then maſter of the grammar ſchool at Brerewood, in Staffordſhire, and who had been bred under Mr. Blackwall, at Market Boſworth, to become his aſſiſtant; but Mr. Budworth thought him⯑ſelf under a neceſſity of declining them, from an ap⯑prehenſion that thoſe convulſive motions to which Johnſon through life was ſubject, might render him an object of imitation, and poſſibly of ridicule, with his pupils.

It may be remembered that in a preceding page, Johnſon is ſaid to have reſided for ſome months, in the year 1734, in the houſe of a perſon named [33] Jarvis, at Birmingham. To this circumſtance, by a conjecture not improbable, may be referred an impor⯑tant event of his life. At that time there dwelt at Bir⯑mingham a widow, the relict of Mr. Porter a mercer, who dying, left her, if not well jointured, ſo provided for, as made a match with her to a man in Johnſon's circumſtances deſirable: report ſays, ſhe was rather advanced in years; it is certain that ſhe had a ſon and daughter grown up; the former was in the laſt war a captain in the navy, and his ſiſter, lately dead, inherited from him a handſome fortune, acquired in the courſe of a long ſervice. Of her perſonal charms little can now be remembered: Johnſon has celebrated them in an in⯑ſcription on her tomb at Bromley; but, conſidering his infirmity, and admitting the truth of a confeſſion, ſaid to have been made by him, that he never ſaw ‘'the human face divine,'’ it may be queſtioned, whether himſelf was ever an eye-witneſs to them. The in⯑ſcription further declares her to have been of the family of Jarvis, and gives colour to a ſuppoſition that ſhe was either a ſiſter or other relation of the Jarvis above-mentioned.

With this perſon he married, his age being then about twenty-ſeven. Her fortune, which is conjectured to have been about eight hundred pounds, placed him in a ſtate of affluence, to which before he had been a ſtranger. He was not ſo imprudent as to think it an inexhauſtable mine; on the contrary, he reflected on the means of improving it. His acquiſitions at ſchool and at the univerſity, and the improvement he had made of his talents in the ſtudy of the French and Italian languages, qualified him, in an eminent degree, for an inſtructor of youth in claſſical litera⯑ture; [34] and the reputation of his father, [...]d the con⯑nections he had formed in and about Lichfield, pointed out to him a fair proſpect of ſucceeding in that uſeful profeſſion.

There dwelt in the above-mentioned city, a very reſpectable gentleman, Mr. Gilbert Walmſley, regiſter of the eccleſiaſtical court of the biſhop thereof, to whoſe houſe, in his ſchool and alſo in his univerſity vacations, Johnſon was a welcome gueſt: the ſame perſon was alſo a friend of captain Garrick, who had for ſome time been reſident at Lichfield, and, by con⯑ſequence, of Mr. David Garrick, his ſon. His cha⯑racter is ſo well pourtrayed by Johnſon, and repreſents in ſuch lively colours his friendſhip for him, that it would be injuſtice to omit the inſertion of it, as given in the life of Edmund Smith:—

The benevolent perſon, ſo gratefully remembered in the above encomium, knowing the abilities of Johnſon, encouraged him in his deſign of becoming a teacher of literature: he ſuggeſted to him the taking a large houſe, ſituate in a place adjacent to Lichfield; which, however the name of it be ſpelt, the common people call Edjal: thither Johnſon went, and with him young Garrick, who, though he had been educated in Lichfield ſchool, and was then near eighteen years old, having been diverted in the courſe of his ſtudies by a call to Liſbon, ſtood in need of improvement in the Latin and French languages.

The placing Garrick under the tuition of Johnſon, was an act of Mr. Walmſley's, and reſembles that [36] politic device of country houſe-wives, the placing one egg in the neſt of a hen to induce her to lay more: it ſucceeded ſo far, as to draw from the families of the neighbouring gentry a few pupils, and among the reſt, a ſon of Mr. Offley, of Staffordſhire; a name, that for centuries paſt, may be traced in the hiſtory and records of that county. But, ſo adverſe were his fortunes in this early period, that this well-planned ſcheme of a ſettlement diſappointed the hopes of Johnſon and his friends; for, neither his own abilities; nor the patronage of Mr. Walmſley, nor the exertions of Mrs. Johnſon and her relations, ſucceeded farther than to produce an acceſſion of about five or ſix pupils; ſo that his number, at no time, exceeded eight, and of thoſe not all were boarders.

After waiting a reaſonable time in hopes of more pupils, Johnſon, finding they came in but ſlowly, had recourſe to the uſual method of raiſing a ſchool. In the year, 1736, he advertiſed the inſtructing young gentlemen in the Greek and Latin languages, by him⯑ſelf, at his houſe, deſcribing it near Lichfield.^* That this notification failed of its end, we can ſcarce wonder, if we reflect, that he was little more than twenty-ſeven years of age when he publiſhed it, and that he had not the vanity to profeſs teaching all ſciences, nor the effrontery of thoſe, who, in theſe more modern times, undertake, in private boarding-ſchools to qualify young men for holy orders.

[37] By means of a paper which I have now before me, I am able to furniſh, what I take to have been his me⯑thod or plan of inſtitution; and, as it may be deemed a curioſity, and may ſerve the purpoſe of future in⯑ſtructors of youth, I here inſert it:

When the introduction or formation of nouns and verbs is perfectly maſtered, the pupils learn

Corderius, by Mr. Clarke; beginning at the ſame time to tranſlate out of his introduction. They then proceed to

Eraſmus, reading him with Clarke's tranſlation. Theſe books form the firſt claſs.

• Claſs II.

  Read Eutropius and Cornelius Nepos, or Juſtin with the tranſlation. The firſt claſs to repeat by memory, in the morning, the rules they had learned before; and, in the afternoon, the Latin rules of the nouns and verbs. They are alſo, on Thurſdays and Saturdays to be examined in the rules they have learned.

  The ſecond claſs does the ſame while in Eutropius; afterwards, they are to get and repeat the irregular nouns and verbs; and alſo, the rules for making and ſcanning verſes, in which they are to be examined as the firſt claſs.

• Claſs III.

  Read Ovid's Metamorphoſes in the morn⯑ing, and Caeſar's Commentaries in the afternoon. Continue the Latin rules till they are perfect in them. Proceed then to Leeds's Greek Grammar, and are ex⯑amined as before.

  [38] They then proceed to Virgil, beginning at the ſame time to compoſe themes and verſes,^* and learn Greek, and from thence paſs on to Horace, Terence, and Salluſt. The Greek authors afterwards read are, firſt, thoſe in the Attic dialect, which are Cebes, Aelian, Lucian by Leeds, and Xenophon: next Homer in the Ionic, Theocritus Doric, Euripides Attic and Doric.

From two letters, firſt inſerted in the Gentleman's Magazine, and ſince in ſundry other publications, from Mr. Walmſley to his friend the reverend Mr. Colſon, a mathematician, and, in his later years, Lucaſian profeſſor at Cambridge, little is to be learnt reſpecting the hiſtory of Johnſon and Garrick, at this period: the one wants the date of the month, the other that of the year; and though, in the order of their pub⯑lication, the one immediately follows the other, there muſt have been ſome interval between the times of writing the firſt and the laſt. The firſt is dated in 1737, and, as it contains a recommendation of Gar⯑rick to Mr. Colſon, for inſtruction in mathematics, philoſophy, and human learning, leads us to ſuppoſe, that before the time of writing it, Johnſon's ſcheme of taking in boarders had proved abortive. The latter, written in what year we know not, and inſerted below, recommends both Johnſon and Garrick to his notice, the former as a good ſcholar and one that gave hopes [39] of turning out a fine tragedy-writer; and, we are from good authority aſſured, that in March, in the year laſt above-mentioned, they, on horſe-back, arrived in town together.

The hope ſuggeſted in this letter is grounded on a circumſtance which will lead us back to about the year before he quitted his ſchool at Edial. It muſt be ima⯑gined, the inſtruction of ſo ſmall a number of ſcholars as were under his care, left him at leiſure to purſue his [40] private ſtudies and amuſements, which, for the moſt part, conſiſted in deſultory reading. Let it not excite wonder in any that ſhall peruſe theſe memoirs, to be told, that Burton on Melancholy was a book that he frequently reſorted to for the purpoſe of exhilara⯑tion, or that, at times, he ſhould find entertainment in turning over Knolles's voluminous and neglected hiſ⯑tory of the Turks. In the many hours of leiſure which he may be ſaid rather to have endured than enjoyed, we muſt ſuppoſe ſome employed in the contemplation of his fortunes, the means of improving them, and of reſiſting the adverſe accidents to which human life is expoſed, and of which he had already had ſome experience. The ſtage holds forth temptations to men of genius, which many have been glad to embrace: the profits ariſing from a tragedy, including the re⯑preſentation and printing of it, and the connections it ſometimes enables the author to form, were in John⯑ſon's idea ineſtimable; and, it is not impoſſible, but that Garrick, who, before this time, had manifeſted a propenſity towards the ſtage, had ſuggeſted to him the thought of writing one: certain it is, that during his reſidence at Edial, and under the eye of his friend Mr. Walmſley, he planned and completed that poem which gave this gentleman occaſion to ſay, he was likely to become a fine tragedy-writer.

He choſe for his ſtory an action related by Knolles in his hiſtory above-mentioned with all the powers of the moſt affecting eloquence: to give it at large would be to tranſgreſs the limits I have preſcribed myſelf, and to abridge it would injure it: I will do neither; but referring the reader to the hiſtorian himſelf, will relate it as a bare hiſtorical fact.

[41] Mahomet the Great, firſt emperor of the Turks, in the year 1453 laid ſiege to the city of Conſtantinople, then poſſeſſed by the Greeks, and, after an obſtinate reſiſt⯑ance, took and ſacked it. Among the many young women whom his commanders thought fit to lay hands on and preſent to him, was one, named Irene, a Greek, of incomparable beauty and ſuch rare per⯑fection of body and mind, that the emperor becoming enamoured of her, neglected the care of his govern⯑ment and empire for two whole years, and thereby ſo exaſperated the Janizaries and other of his warlike ſubjects, that they mutinied, and threatened to dethrone him. To prevent this miſchief, Muſtapha Baſſa, a perſon of great credit with him, undertook to repre⯑ſent to him the great danger to which he lay expoſed by the indulgence of his paſſion: he called to his re⯑membrance the characters, actions, and atchievements of many of his predeceſſors, and the ſtate of his govern⯑ment; and, in ſhort, ſo rouſed him from his lethargy, that he took a horrible reſolution to ſilence the clamours of his people, by the ſacrifice of this ad⯑mirable creature: accordingly, on a future day, he commanded her to be dreſſed and adorned in the richeſt manner that ſhe and her attendants could de⯑viſe, and againſt a certain hour iſſued orders for the nobility and leaders of his army to attend him in the great hall of his palace. When they were all aſſembled, himſelf appeared with great pomp and magnificence, leading his late captive, but now ab⯑ſolute miſtreſs, by the hand, unconſcious of guilt and ignorant of his deſign. With a furious and menacing look, he gave the beholders to underſtand, that he knew the cauſe of their diſcontent, and that he meant [42] to remove it; but bade them firſt view that lady, whom he ſtill held with his left hand, and ſay whe⯑ther any of them being poſſeſſed of a jewel ſo rare and precious, a woman ſo lovely and fair, would for any cauſe forego her; to which they anſwered, that he had great reaſon for his affection towards her.

To this the emperor replied, that this being their opinion, he would convince them that his actions were in his own power, and that he was yet maſter of himſelf. ‘'And having ſo ſaid,' ſays my author, 'preſently with one of his hands catching the fair Greek by the hair of the head, and drawing his falchion with the other, he, at one blow, ſtruck off her head, to the great terror of them all; and having ſo done, ſaid unto them, ‘"Now by this, judge whether your emperor is able to bridle his affections or not."^*’’

It no where appears that, in this journey to London, Mrs. Johnſon was one of the company; it is rather to be conjectured, that her huſband, having abandoned the hope of ſucceeding in his attempt to raiſe a ſchool, left to her the care of the houſe, and the management of the ſmall part of her fortune, which, after the fitting [43] up and furniſhing the ſame, together with two years' expenditure, muſt be ſuppoſed to be left; and, that this could be no other than ſmall, may be inferred from her natural temper, which it is ſaid was as little diſpoſed to parſimony as that of her huſband.

It is not my intention to purſue the hiſtory of Mr. Garrick's progreſs in life, both becauſe I have not taken upon me to be his biographer, and, becauſe the principal events of it occur in the memoirs of him, written with great candour and, I dare ſay, truth, by Mr. Thomas Davies, and by him publiſhed in two volumes, octavo; but the courſe of this narration re⯑quires me occaſionally to mention ſuch particulars concerning him, as in any manner connect him with the ſubject I am engaged in; and this leads me to mention a fact concerning them both, that I had from a perſon now living, who was a witneſs to it, and of whoſe veracity the leaſt doubt cannot be entertained. They had been but a ſhort time in London before the ſtock of money that each ſet out with, was nearly exhauſted; and, though they had not, like the pro⯑digal ſon, ‘'waſted their ſubſtance in riotous living,'’ they began, like him, ‘'to be in want.'’ In this ex⯑tremity, Garrick ſuggeſted the thought of obtaining credit from a tradeſman, whom he had a ſlight know⯑ledge of, Mr. Wilcox a bookſeller, in the Strand: to him they applied, and repreſenting themſelves to him, as they really were, two young men, friends, and travellers from the ſame place, and juſt arrived with a view to ſettle here, he was ſo moved with their art⯑leſs tale, that, on their joint note, he advanced them all that their modeſty would permit them to aſk, (five pounds), which was, ſoon after, punctually re⯑paid.

[44] It has been before related, that Johnſon had en⯑gaged his pen in the ſervice of Cave; as it ſeems, under ſome fictitious name, perhaps, that common one of Smith, which he directs Cave to addreſs him by, in his letter of 25th Nov. 1734. Being now come to town, and determined, or rather conſtrained, to rely on the labour of his brain for ſupport, he, to improve the correſpondence he had formed, thought proper to diſcover himſelf, and in his real name to communicate to Cave a project which he had form⯑ed, and which the following letter will explain:

Cave's acquieſcence, in the above propoſal, drew Johnſon into a cloſe intimacy with him: he was much at St. John's Gate, and taught Garrick the way thi⯑ther. Cave had no great reliſh for mirth, but he could bear it; and having been told by Johnſon, that his friend had talents for the theatre, and was come to London with a view to the profeſſion of an actor, ex⯑preſſed a wiſh to ſee him in ſome comic character: Garrick readily complied; and, as Cave himſelf told me, with a little preparation of the room over the great arch of St. John's gate, and, with the aſſiſtance of a few journeymen printers, who were called together for the purpoſe of reading the other parts, repreſented, with all the graces of comic humor, the principal cha⯑racter in Fielding's farce of the Mock-Doctor.

[46] Cave's temper was phlegmatic: though he aſſumed, as the publiſher of the Magazine, the name of Sylva⯑nus Urban, he had few of thoſe qualities that conſti⯑tute the character of urbanity. Judge of his want of them by this queſtion, which he once put to an author: ‘'Mr. —, I hear you have juſt publiſhed a pam⯑phlet, and am told there is a very good paragraph in it, upon the ſubject of muſic: did you write that yourſelf?'’ His diſcernment was alſo ſlow; and as he had already at his command ſome writers of proſe and verſe, who, in the language of bookſellers are called good hands,^* he was the backwarder in making [47] advances, or courting an intimacy with Johnſon. Up⯑on the firſt approach of a ſtranger, his practice was to continue ſitting, a poſture in which he was ever to be found, and, for a few minutes, to continue ſilent: [48] if at any time he was inclined to begin the diſcourſe, it was generally by putting a leaf of the Magazine, then in the preſs, into the hand of his viſitor, and aſking his opinion of it. I remember that, calling in on [49] him once, he gave me to read the beautiful poem of Collins, written for Shakeſpeare's Cymbeline, ‘'To fair Fidele's graſſy tomb,'’ which, though adapted to a particular circumſtance in the play, Cave was for inſerting in his Magazine, without any reference to the ſubject: I told him it would loſe of its beauty if it were ſo publiſhed: this he could not ſee; nor could he be convinced of the propriety of the name Fidele: he thought Paſtora a better, and ſo printed it.

He was ſo incompetent a judge of Johnſon's abili⯑ties, that, meaning at one time to dazzle him with the ſplendor of ſome of thoſe luminaries in literature who favoured him with their correſpondence, he told him that, if he would, in the evening, be at a certain ale⯑houſe in the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, he might have a chance of ſeeing Mr. Browne and another or [50] two of the perſons mentioned in the preceding note: Johnſon accepted the invitation; and being introdu⯑ced by Cave, dreſſed in a looſe horſeman's coat, and ſuch a great buſhy uncombed wig as he conſtantly wore, to the ſight of Mr. Browne, whom he found ſitting at the upper end of a long table, in a cloud of tobacco-ſmoke, had his curioſity gratified.

Johnſon ſaw very clearly thoſe offenſive particulars that made a part of Cave's character; but, as he was one of the moſt quick-ſighted men I ever knew in diſcovering the good and amiable qualities of others, a faculty which he has diſplayed, as well in the life of Cave, as in that of Savage, printed among his works, ſo was he ever inclined to palliate their defects; and, though he was above courting the patronage of a man, whom, for many reaſons, he could not but hold cheap, he diſdained not to accept it, when tendered with any degree of complacency.

And this was the general tenor of Johnſon's beha⯑viour; for, though his character through life was marked with a roughneſs that approached to ferocity, it was in the power of almoſt every one to charm him into mildneſs, and to render him gentle and placid, and even courteous, by ſuch a patient and reſpectful at⯑tention as is due to every one, who, in his diſcourſe, ſignifies a deſire either to inſtruct or delight. Bred to no profeſſion, without relations, friends, or inte⯑reſt, Johnſon was an adventurer in the wide world, and had his fortunes to make: the arts of inſinuation and addreſs were, in his opinion, too ſlow in their operation to anſwer his purpoſe; and, he rather choſe to diſplay his parts to all the world, at the riſque of being thought arrogant, than to wait for the aſſiſtance [51] of ſuch friends as he could make, or the patronage of ſome individual that had power or influence, and who might have the kindneſs to take him by the hand, and lift him into notice. With all that aſperity of manners with which he has been charged, and which kept at a diſtance many, who, to my knowledge, would have been glad of an intimacy with him, he poſſeſſed the affections of pity and compaſſion in a moſt eminent de⯑gree. In a mixed company, of which I was one, the converſation turned on the peſtilence which raged in London, in the year 1665, and gave occaſion to John⯑ſon to ſpeak of Dr. Nathanael Hodges, who, in the height of that calamity, continued in the city, and was almoſt the only one of his profeſſion that had the cou⯑rage to oppoſe the endeavours of his art to the ſpread⯑ing of the contagion. It was the hard fate of this per⯑ſon, a ſhort time after, to die a priſoner for debt, in Ludgate: Johnſon related this circumſtance to us, with the tears ready to ſtart from his eyes; and, with great energy, ſaid, ‘'Such a man would not have been ſuffered to periſh in theſe times.'’

It ſeems by the event of this firſt expedition, that Johnſon came to London for little elſe than to look about him: it affored him no opportunity of forming connections, either valuable in themſelves, or available to any future purpoſe of his life. Mr. Pope had ſeen and commended his tranſlation of the Meſſiah; but Johnſon had not the means of acceſs to him; and, be⯑ing a ſtranger to his perſon, his ſpirit would not per⯑mit him to ſolicit ſo great a favour from one, who muſt be ſuppoſed to have been troubled with ſuch kind of applications. With one perſon, however, he com⯑menced an intimacy, the motives to which at firſt [52] view, may probably ſeem harder to be accounted for, than any one particular in his life. This perſon was Mr. Richard Savage, whoſe misfortunes, together with his vices, had driven him to St. John's gate, and thereby introduced him to the acquaintance of Johnſon, which, founded on his part in compaſſion, ſoon improv⯑ed into friendſhip and a mutual communication of ſen⯑timents and counſels. The hiſtory of this man is well known by the life of him written by Johnſon; which, if in no other reſpect valuable, is curious, in that it gives to view a character ſelf-formed, as owing nothing to parental nurture, and ſcarce any thing to moral tuition, and deſcribes a mind, in which, as in a ne⯑glected garden, weeds, without the leaſt obſtruction, were ſuffered to grow into luxuriance: nature had en⯑dowed him with fine parts, and thoſe he cultivated as well as he was able; but his mind had received no moral culture, and for want thereof, we find him to have been a ſtranger to humility, gratitude, and thoſe other virtues that tend to conciliate the affections of men, and inſure the continuance of friendſhip.

It may be conjectured that Johnſon was captivated by the addreſs and demeanour of Savage, at his firſt approach; for it muſt be noted of him, that, though he was always an admirer of genteel manners, he a [...] this time had not been accuſtomed to the converſation of gentlemen; and Savage, as to his exterior, was, to a remarkable degree, accompliſhed: he was a handſome well-made man, and very courteous in the modes o [...] ſalutation. I have been told, that in the taking off hi [...] hat and diſpoſing it under his arm, and in his bow, h [...] diſplayed as much grace as thoſe actions were capabl [...] of; and that he underſtood the exerciſe of a gentle⯑man's [53] weapon, may be inferred from the uſe he made of it in that raſh encounter which is related in his life, and to which his greateſt misfortunes were owing. Theſe accompliſhments, and the eaſe and pleaſantry of his converſation, were, probably, the charms that wrought on Johnſon, and hid from his view thoſe baſer qualities of Savage, with which, as his hiſtorian, he has nevertheleſs been neceſſitated to mark his cha⯑racter. The ſimilarity of their circumſtances might farther conduce to beget an unreſerved confidence in each other; they had both felt the pangs of poverty, and the want of patronage: Savage had let looſe his reſent⯑ment againſt the poſſeſſors of wealth, in a collection of poems printed about the year 1727, and Johnſon was ripe for an avowal of the ſame ſentiments: they ſeemed both to agree in the vulgar opinion, that the world is divided into two claſſes, of men of merit with⯑out riches, and men of wealth without merit; never conſidering the poſſibility that both might concenter in the ſame perſon, juſt as when, in the compariſon of women, we ſay, that virtue is of more value than beauty, we forget that many are poſſeſſed of both.

In ſpeculations of this kind, and a mutual condo⯑lence of their fortunes, they paſſed many a melancholy hour, and thoſe at a time when, it might be ſuppoſed, the reflection on them had made repoſe deſirable: on the contrary, that very reflection is known to have in⯑terrupted it. Johnſon has told me, that whole nights have been ſpent by him and Savage in converſations of this kind, not under the hoſpitable roof of a tavern, where warmth might have invigorated their ſpirits, and wine diſpelled their care; but in a perambulation round the ſquares of Weſtminſter, St. James's in [54] particular, when all the money they could both raiſe was leſs than ſufficient to purchaſe for them the ſhelter and fordid comforts of a night cellar.

Of the reſult of their converſations little can now be known, ſave, that they gave riſe to thoſe principles of patriotiſm, that both, for ſome years after, avowed; they both with the ſame eye ſaw, or believed they ſaw, that the then miniſter meditated the ruin of this coun⯑try; that exciſe laws, ſtanding armies, and penal ſtatutes, were the means by which he meant to effect it; and, at the riſque of their liberty, they were bent to oppoſe his meaſures; but Savage's ſpirit was broken by the ſenſe of his indigence, and the preſſure of thoſe misfor⯑tunes which his imprudence had brought on him, and Johnſon was left alone to maintain the conteſt.

The character and manners of Savage were ſuch, as leave us little room to think, that Johnſon could pro⯑fit by his converſation: whatever were his parts and accompliſhments, he had no reading, and could fur⯑niſh no intelligence to ſuch a mind as Johnſon's: his vagrant courſe of life had made him acquainted with the town and its vices; and though I am not warranted to ſay, that Johnſon was infected with them, I have reaſon to think, that he reflected with as little appro⯑bation on the hours he ſpent with Savage as on any period of his life.

Doubtleſs there is in the example and converſation of ſome men a power that faſcinates, and ſuſpends the operation of our own will: to this power in Savage, which conſiſted in the gentleneſs of his man⯑ners, the elegance of his diſcourſe, and the viva⯑city of his imagination, we muſt attribute the aſcen⯑dant which he maintained over the affections of [55] Johnſon, and the inability of the latter to purſue the ſuggeſtions of his own ſuperior underſtanding. To the purpoſe of this ſentiment, I am tempted to relate a fact which Mr. Garrick once communicated to me in converſation, who, ſpeaking of the irreſiſtible charm of engaging manners, told me, that being an actor at Drury-lane theatre, under Mr. Fleetwood, the patentee thereof, whoſe extravagances rendered him incapable of fulfilling his engagements, his ſalary became deeply in arrear, and he began to feel the want of money: in anſwer to his many applications for payment, he had obtained promiſes, and even oaths; but theſe had been ſo often broken, that, preſſed by neceſſity, and provok⯑ed by ill uſage, he was determined to have recourſe to law for payment: he however thought it but right to declare his intention; and, for that purpoſe, invited himſelf to breakfaſt with Fleetwood. ‘'It was on a Sunday,' ſaid Mr. Garrick, 'that he appointed to ſee me; he received me with great courteſy and affability, and entertained me for ſome hours with diſcourſe, foreign to the ſubject of our meeting, but ſo bewitching in its kind, that it deprived me of the power of telling him that he owed me ſix hundred pounds, and that my neceſſities compelled me to de⯑mand it.'’

The intimacy between Savage and Johnſon conti⯑nued till the beginning of the year 1738, when the diſtreſſes of the former, and the ceſſation, by the death of Queen Caroline, of a penſion, which, for ſome years, ſhe had directed to be paid him, moved ſome of his friends to a ſubſcription for his ſupport, in a place ſo far diſtant from the metropolis, as to be out of the reach of its temptations; where he might beget [56] new habits, and indulge himſelf in thoſe exerciſes of his imagination, which had been the employment of his happieſt hours. The place fixed on for his reſi⯑dence was Swanſea in Wales; but as it was ſome time before the ſubſcription could be completed, his re⯑tirement thither was retarded.

In this ſuſpenſe of Savage's fortunes, Johnſon ſeems to have confirmed himſelf in a reſolution of quarrelling with the adminiſtration of public affairs, and becoming a ſatiriſt on the manners of the times; and becauſe he thought he ſaw a reſemblance between his own and thoſe of Rome in its decline, he choſe to expreſs his ſenſe of modern depravity by an imitation of the third ſatire of Juvenal, in which, with great judgment, and no leſs aſperity, he drew a parallel between the cor⯑ruptions of each, and exemplified it by characters, then ſubſiſting. In it he anticipated the departure of his friend Thales, i. e. Savage, whom he deſcribes as

To this exerciſe of his talent he was, probably, ex⯑cited by the ſucceſs of Mr. Pope, who had done the ſame by ſome of the ſatires of Horace, and had vin⯑dicated, by the example of Dr. Donne a divine, that ſpecies of writing, even in Chriſtian times, from the imputation of malevolence and the want of that cha⯑rity ‘'which is not eaſily provoked, and endureth all things.'’

[57] The poem was finiſhed, as appears by a manuſcript note of the author in his own corrected copy, in 1738. While he was writing it, he lodged in an upper room of a houſe in Exeter ſtreet, behind Exeter 'change, inhabited by one Norris, a ſtay-maker; a particular which would have been hardly worth noticing, but that it, in ſome meaſure, beſpeaks his circumſtances at the time, and accounts for his having, more than once, mentioned in the poem, and that with ſeeming abhorrence, the dungeons of the Strand. It is not unlikely that his averſion to ſuch an abode was increaſ⯑ed by the reflection on that diſtreſs, which by this time had brought his wife to town, and obliged her to par⯑ticipate in the inconveniences of a dwelling too ob⯑ſcure to invite reſort, and to be a witneſs of the diffi⯑culties with which he was ſtruggling.

Having completed his poem, he looked round for a bookſeller, to whom, with a likelihood of ob⯑taining the value of it, he might treat for the ſale of it. His friend Cave, in reſpect of publications, was a haberdaſher of ſmall wares; the greateſt of his un⯑dertakings being a tranſlation of Du Halde's Hiſtory of China, which was never completed.

Johnſon thinking him a man for his purpoſe, made him an offer of his poem, in a letter in which, with great art, but without the leaſt violation of truth, he conceals that himſelf was the author of it. The letter I here inſert, as alſo another of his on the ſame ſubject.

[60] Johnſon and Dodſley were ſoon agreed; the price aſked by the one and aſſented to by the other, was, as I have been informed, fifty pounds; a reward for his labour and ingenuity, that induced Johnſon ever after to call Dodſley his patron. It is pretty certain that in his offer of the poem to Dodſley, Cave ſtipulated for the printing of it, for it came abroad in the year above⯑mentioned with the name of Cave as the printer, though without that of the author. Lord Lyttelton, the inſtant it was publiſhed, carried it in rapture to Mr. Pope, who, having read it, commended it highly, and was very importunate with Dodſley to know the author's name; but, that being a ſecret the latter was bound not to reveal, Pope aſſured him that he could not long be unknown, recollecting, perhaps, a paſſage recorded of Milton, who, ſeeing a beautiful young lady paſs him whom he never had ſeen before, turned to look at her, and ſaid, ‘'Whoever thou art, thou canſt not long be concealed.'’

The topics of this ſpirited poem, ſo far as it reſpects this country, or the time when it was written, are evi⯑dently drawn from thoſe weekly publications, which, to anſwer the view of a malevolent faction, firſt created, and for ſome years ſupported, a diſtinction between the intereſts of the government and the people, under the ſeveral denominations of the court and the country parties: theſe publications were carried on under the direction of men, profeſſing themſelves to be whigs and friends of the people, in a paper intitled, ‘'The Country Journal or the Craftſman,'’ now deſervedly forgotten, the end whereof was, to blow the flame of national diſcontent, to delude the honeſt and well-meaning people of this country into a belief that the miniſter [61] was its greateſt enemy, and that his opponents, only, meant its welfare. To this end it was neceſſary to fur⯑niſh them with ſubjects of complaint, and theſe were plentifully diſſeminated among them; the chief of them were, that ſcience was unrewarded, and the arts neglected; that the objects of our politics were peace and the extenſion of commerce; that the wealth of the nation was unequally divided, for that, while ſome were poor, others were able to raiſe palaces and pur⯑chaſe manors; that reſtraints were laid on the ſtage; that the land was plundered, and the nation cheated; our ſenators hirelings, and our nobility venal; and, laſtly, that in his viſits to his native country, the king drained this of its wealth.

That Johnſon has adopted theſe vulgar complaints, his poem muſt witneſs. I ſhall not take upon me to demonſtrate the fallacy of moſt of the charges contain⯑ed in it, nor animadvert on the wickedneſs of thoſe, who, to effect their own ambitious deſigns, ſcruple not to oppoſe the beſt endeavours of the perſon in power, nor ſhall I mark the folly of thoſe who ſuffer themſelves to be ſo deluded: the ſucceſſion of knave to knave, and fool to fool, is hereditary and inter⯑minable: our fathers were deceived by the pre⯑tenſions of falſe patriots; the deluſion ſtopped not with their children, nor will it with our's.

The publication of this poem was of little advan⯑tage to Johnſon, other than the relief of his immediate wants: it procured him fame, but no patronage. He was therefore diſpoſed to embrace any other pro⯑ſpect of advantage that might offer; for, a ſhort time after, viz. in Auguſt 1738, hearing that the maſter⯑ſhip [62] of Appleby ſchool in Leiceſterſhire was become vacant, he, by the advice of Sir Thomas Grieſly a Derbyſhire baronet, and other friends, went to Appleby, and offered himſelf as a candidate for that employment; but the ſtatutes of the ſchool requiring, that the perſon choſen ſhould be a Maſter of Arts, his application was checked. To get over this difficulty, he found means to obtain from the late Lord Gower, a letter to a friend of his, ſoliciting his intereſt with Dean Swift towards procuring him a maſter's degree from the univerſity of Dublin: the letter has appeared in print, but with a miſtaken date of the year, viz. 1737; for it mentions Johnſon's being the author of the poem of ‘'London,'’ which, as I have above fixed it, was writ⯑ten in 1738. It is as follows:

If ever Johnſon had reaſon to lament the ſhortneſs of his ſtay at the univerſity, it was now. The want of an honour, which, after a ſhort efflux of years, is con⯑ferred almoſt of courſe, was, at this criſis, his greateſt misfortune: it ſtood between him and the acquiſition of an income of 60l. a year, in a country and at a [64] time that made it equivalent to a much larger ſum at preſent.

The letter of Lord Gower failing of its effect, Johnſon returned to London, reſolving on a vigorous effort to ſupply his wants: this was a tranſlation into Engliſh of Father Paul's Hiſtory of the Council of Trent^*: the former by Sir Nathaniel Brent, though a faithful one, being, in the judgment of ſome perſons, rather obſolete. Johnſon was well enough ſkilled in the Italian language for the undertaking, and was encou⯑raged to it by many of his friends; as namely, Mr. Walmſley, Mr. Caſlon the letter-founder, Mr. [after⯑wards Dr.] Birch, and others; but he choſe to make it a joint project, and take Cave into the adventure, who, as the work proceeded, advanced him ſmall ſums, at two or three guineas a week, amounting to⯑gether to near fifty pounds.^†

It happened at this time that another perſon of the ſame chriſtian and ſurname, the then keeper of Dr. Teniſon's library in St. Martin's pariſh, had engaged in the like deſign, and was ſupported therein by Dr. Zachary Pearce, and alſo by moſt of the biſhops, and by many of the dignified clergy, which being the caſe, the ſolicitations in behalf of the two verſions croſſed [65] each other, and rendered both abortive. Twelve quarto ſheets of Johnſon's were printed off; but what became of the other is not known. This diſappoint⯑ment, however mortifying, did not hinder Johnſon from proſecuting a part of his original deſign, and writing the life of the author, which, with the aſſiſtance of a life of him, written by an Italian nobleman, whoſe name I could never learn, and publiſhed in a cloſely printed duodecimo, he was enabled to complete, and in an abridgment to inſert in Cave's Maga⯑zine.

Various other projects about this time did he form of publications on literary ſubjects, which, in a ſubſe⯑quent page, by the help of a liſt in his own hand-writ⯑ing, I have enumerated, but they were either blaſted by other publications of a ſimilar nature, or abandoned for want of encouragement.

However, that he might not be totally unemployed, Cave engaged him to undertake a tranſlation of an Ex⯑amen of Pope's Eſſay on Man, written by Mr. Crouſaz, a profeſſor in Switzerland, who had acquired ſome eminence by a treatiſe on Logic of his writing, and alſo, by his Examen de Pyrrhoniſme; and of whom Johnſon, after obſerving that he was no mean anta⯑goniſt, has given this character:—‘'His mind was one of thoſe in which philoſophy and piety are happily united. He was accuſtomed to argument and diſqui⯑ſition, and perhaps was grown too deſirous of detect⯑ing faults, but his intention was always right, his opinions were ſolid, and his religion pure. His in⯑ceſſant vigilance for the promotion of piety diſpoſed him to look with diſtruſt upon all metaphyſical ſyſ⯑tems of Theology, and all ſchemes of virtue and hap⯑pineſs purely rational; and therefore, it was not long [66] before he was perſuaded that the poſitions of Pope, as they terminated for the moſt part in natural reli⯑gion, were intended to draw mankind away from Revelation, and to repreſent the whole courſe of things as a neceſſary concatenation of indiſſoluble fatality; and it is undeniable, that in many paſſages, a religious eye may eaſily diſcover expreſſions not very favourable to morals or to liberty.'^*’

The reputation of the Eſſay on Man ſoon after its publication invited a tranſlation of it into French, which was undertaken and completed by the Abbé Reſnel, and falling into the hands of Crouſaz, drew from him firſt a general cenſure of the principles maintained in the poem, and afterwards, a commen⯑tary thereon containing particular remarks on every paragraph. The former of theſe it was that Johnſon tranſlated, as appears by the following letter of his to Cave, which is rendered ſomewhat remarkable by his ſtiling himſelf Impranſus.

Johnſon's tranſlation of the Examen was printed by Cave, and came abroad, but without a name, in No⯑vember, 1738, bearing the title of, ‘'An Examination of Mr. Pope's Eſſay on Man, containing a ſuccinct view of the ſyſtem of the Fataliſts, and a confutation of their opinions; with an illuſtration of the doctrine of Free-Will, and an enquiry what view Mr. Pope might have in touching upon the Leibnitzian Philo⯑ſophy and Fataliſm. By Mr. Crouſaz, profeſſor of Philoſophy and Mathematics at Lauſanne, &c.'’

All the world knows that the Eſſay on Man was compoſed from the dictamen of Lord Bolingbroke, and it is little leſs notorious that Pope was but mean⯑ly ſkilled in that ſort of learning to which the ſubject of his poem related: he had not been converſant with the writings or opinions of the different ſects of phi⯑loſophers [68] of whom ſome maintained and others denied the freedom of the will, and knew little more of the arguments for and againſt human liberty in oppoſi⯑tion to what is called Neceſſity, than he was able to gather from the controverſy between Anthony Collins and his opponents, or that between Dr. Clarke and Leibnitz. He was therefore unable to defend what he had written, and ſtood a dead mark for his adverſaries to ſhoot at. Fortunate for him it was, that at this criſis there was living ſuch a perſon as Mr. Warburton; and Pope had for all the remainder of his life reaſon to reflect with pleaſure on the accident that brought them acquainted, and which I will preſently relate.

Warburton's origin and riſe into literary reputation are pretty well known. He had ſerved a clerkſhip to an attorney the town-clerk of Newark upon Trent, and for a ſhort time was himſelf a practiſer in that profeſſion; but having a ſtrong propenſity to learning, he determined to quit it, and purſue a courſe of ſtudy ſuch as was neceſſary to qualify him for the miniſterial function, and having completed it, got admitted into holy orders, and ſettled in London, where, upon his arrival, he became acquainted with ſome of the inferior wits, Concannen, Theobald, and others the enemies of Pope, and adopted many of their ſentiments. In a letter to the former of theſe he writes, ‘'Dryden I obſerve borrows for want of leiſure, and Pope for want of genius; Milton out of pride, and Addi⯑ſon out of modeſty;'’ further he aſſiſted Theobald with notes on many paſſages in his edition of Shake⯑ſpeare, which charge Mr. Pope with ignorance, and incapacity for the office of an editor.

[69] But leaving literal criticiſm to theſe his firſt aſſoci⯑ates, Warburton betook himſelf to ſtudies of greater importance, and before the publication of the Examen of the Eſſay on Man, had made himſelf known, as an original thinker, by his Divine Legation of Moſes, a work which, as it met with great oppoſition, gave him occaſion to diſplay a ſingular talent in controverſy. As there was nothing congenial in the minds of him and Pope, they neither of them ſought the acquain⯑tance of the other, but mere chance brought them to⯑gether, a chance ſo propitious to Warburton's fortunes that it became an epoch in his life, and was the leading circumſtance to his becoming the owner of a fair eſtate, and his promotion to a biſhopric.

The friendſhip of theſe two perſons had its com⯑mencement in that bookſeller's ſhop which is ſituate on the Weſt ſide of the gate-way leading down the Inner Temple-lane. Warburton had ſome dealings with Jacob Robinſon the publiſher, to whom the ſhop belonged, and may be ſuppoſed to have been drawn there on buſineſs; Pope might have a call of the like kind: however that be, there they met, and entering into a converſation which was not ſoon ended, con⯑ceived a mutual liking, and as we may ſuppoſe, plighted their faith to each other. The fruit of this interview and the ſubſequent communications of the parties was, the publication, in November 1739, of a pamphlet with this title, ‘'A Vindication of Mr. Pope's Eſſay on Man. By the author of the Divine Legation of Moſes. Printed for J. Robinſon.'’

Whether or not Crouſaz ever replied to this vindi⯑cation, I am not at leiſure to enquire. I incline to [70] think he did not, and that the controverſy reſted on the foot of the Examen and the Commentary on the one part, and the Vindication on the other. In the year 1743, Johnſon took it into his head to review the argument, and became a moderator in a diſpute which, on the ſide of Warburton, had been conducted with a great degree of that indignation and contempt of his adverſary, which is viſible in moſt of his writ⯑ings. This he did in two letters ſeverally publiſhed in the Gentleman's Magazine for the months of March and November in the above year, with a promiſe of more, but proceeded no farther than to ſtate the ſen⯑timents of Mr. Crouſaz reſpecting the poem, from a ſeeming conviction that he was diſcuſſing an uninter⯑eſting queſtion.

Johnſon had already tried his hand at political ſatire, and had ſucceeded in it; and though no new occaſion offered, he was either urged by diſtreſs or prompted by that clamour againſt the miniſter which in the year 1739 was become very loud, to join in the popular cry, and as it were, to carry war into his own quarters. This he did in a pamphlet, intitled, ‘'Marmor Norfol⯑cienſe, or an eſſay on an ancient prophetical inſcrip⯑tion, in Monkiſh rhyme, lately diſcovered near Lynn in Norfolk, by Probus Britannicus.'’

This mode of ſatire, the publication of prophecies adapted to the incidents of the time when written, and not ſo genuine as that of Nixon, the Cheſhire ſeer, which ſome thought was fulfilled in 1745, is not an invention ſo new as many may think. In ſome in⯑ſtances it has been a mere exerciſe of wit; in others it has been uſed as a means to excite a people to [71] ſedition. Under the firſt claſs is noted that mentioned by Lord Bacon;

whereby, as his lordſhip ſays, it was generally con⯑ceived, that after the princes had reigned which had the principal letters of that word Hempe, (which were Henry, Edward, Mary, Philip and Elizabeth) England ſhould come to utter confuſion; which, adds he, thanks be to God, is verified only in the change of name, for the king's ſtile is now no more, of Eng⯑land, but of Britain. Of the latter claſs of feigned prophecies many have, within theſe few years, been publiſhed by authors who had not wit enough to put them into verſe.

The inſcription mentioned in the title-page of the Marmor Norfolcienſe, as alſo the relation of the man⯑ner of finding it, are, as will be readily ſuppoſed, equally fictitious, as the ſole end of writing and publiſhing it was to give occaſion for a comment, which ſhould concentrate all the topics of popular diſcontent: ac⯑cordingly it is inſinuated, becauſe an act of parliament had then lately paſſed, by which it was enacted that all law proceedings ſhould be in Engliſh, that therefore few lawyers underſtood Latin; and the people are taught to look on the deſcendants of the Princeſs So⯑phia as intruders of yeſterday, receiving an eſtate by voluntary grant, and erecting thereon a claim of here⯑ditary right. The explanation of the prophecy, which is all ironical, reſolves itſelf into an invective againſt a ſtanding army, a ridicule of the balance of power, complaints of the inactivity of the Britiſh lion, and that the Hanover horſe was ſuffered to ſuck his blood.

[72] A publication ſo inflammatory as this, could hardly eſcape the notice of any government, under which the legal idea of a libel might be ſuppoſed to exiſt. The principles it contained were ſuch as the Jacobites of the time openly avowed; and warrants were iſſued and meſſengers employed to apprehend the author, who, though he had forborne to ſubſcribe his name to the pamphlet, the vigilance of thoſe in purſuit of him had diſcovered. To elude the ſearch after him, he, toge⯑ther with his wife, took an obſcure lodging in a houſe in Lambeth marſh, and lay there concealed till the ſcent after him was grown cold.

In the ſame year, 1739, an event aroſe that gave oc⯑caſion to Johnſon again to exerciſe his talent of ſatire; viz. the refuſal of a licence for acting a tragedy inti⯑tled, ‘'Guſtavus Vaſa, or the deliverer of his country,'’ written by Henry Brooke, to account for which ſeeming injury, ſome previous information, ſuch as I am now about to give, appears neceſſary.

The places for theatrical repreſentations in this country were anciently the king's palace, and the man⯑ſions of the nobility; but, as the love of them increaſed, taverns and other public houſes in different parts of the city and ſuburbs, were fitted up for the purpoſe, and called play-houſes. The uſurpation and the principles of the times put a ſtop to ſtage entertainments: at the reſtoration they were revived, and the places for repre⯑ſentation conſtructed in the form of theatres: their number, at no time after that period, exceeded four, and in the year 1728, and long before, it was reduced to three, namely, Drury lane, Lincoln's-inn fields, and the French playhouſe in the Hay-market. In that [73] year, a man, of the name of Odell, took a throwſter's ſhop in Ayliffe ſtreet, Goodman's fields, and collecting together a number of ſtrolling players of both ſexes, opened it as a theatre. Its contiguity to the city, ſoon made it a place of great reſort, and what was ap⯑prehended from the advertiſement of plays to be ex⯑hibited in that quarter of the town, ſoon followed: the adjacent houſes became taverns, in name, but in truth they were houſes of lewd reſort^*; and the former oc⯑cupiers of them, uſeful manufacturers and induſtrious artificers, were driven to ſeek elſewhere for a reſidence. In the courſe of the entertainments of this place, the manager ventured to exhibit ſome few new plays; among the reſt a tragedy, intitled, ‘'King Charles the Firſt,'’ containing ſentiments ſuited to the characters of republicans, ſectaries and enthuſiaſts, and a ſcenical repreſentation of the events of that prince's diſaſtrous reign, better forgotten than remembered. Sober per⯑ſons thought that the revival of the memory of paſt tranſactions of ſuch a kind as theſe were, would ſerve no good purpoſe, but, on the contrary, perpetuate that enmity between the friends to and opponents of our eccleſiaſtical and civil eſtabliſhment, which they [74] had heretofore excited; and for ſuffering ſuch repre⯑ſentations as theſe, they execrated not ſo much the author as the manager. In this inſtance, the indigna⯑tion of the public was ill-directed: the arguments ariſing from this ſuppoſed abuſe of hiſtrionical liberty were not local; they proved too much, and rather ap⯑plied to ſtage entertainments in general than to the conduct of a particular manager.

But others looked on this new-erected theatre with an eye more penetrating: the merchants of London, then a grave ſagacious body of men, found that it was a temptation to idleneſs and to pleaſure that their clerks could not reſiſt: they regretted to ſee the corruptions of Covent-garden extended, and the ſeats of induſtry hold forth allurements to vice and debauchery. The principal of theſe was Sir John Barnard, a wiſe and venerable man, and a good citizen: he, as a magiſtrate, had for ſome time been watching for ſuch information as would bring the actors at Goodman's-fields play⯑houſe within the reach of the vagrant laws; but none was laid before him that he could, with prudence, act upon. At length, however, an opportunity offered, which he not only embraced, but made an admirable uſe of: Mr. Henry Fielding, then a young barriſter without practice, a dramatic poet, and a patriot, under the extreme preſſure of neceſſity, had, in the year 1736, written a comedy, or a farce, we may call it either or both, intitled, ‘'Paſquin,'’ a dramatic ſatire on the times, and brought it on the ſtage of the little play⯑houſe in the Hay-market, which, being calculated to encourage popular clamour, and containing in it many reflections on the public councils, furniſhed reaſons for bringing a bill into the houſe of commons for prohibit⯑ing [75] the acting of any interlude, tragedy, comedy, opera, play, farce, &c. without the authority of his Majeſty's letters-patent or a licence from the lord-chamberlain. In this bill a clauſe was inſerted on the motion of Sir John Barnard, and a very judicious one it was, by which it was made penal, even with any ſuch patent or licence, to act or repreſent any ſuch interlude, &c. in any part of Great Britain, except in the city of Weſt⯑minſter and ſuch other places as his Majeſty, in perſon, ſhould reſide in.

Before 1737, the year in which this bill was brought in, the property of Goodman's-fields playhouſe had paſſed into the hands of Mr. Henry Giffard, who, en⯑couraged by a ſubſcription, pulled it down, and, under the direction of Shephard, the architect, the ſame that afterwards built Covent-garden theatre, had erected a new one. This man, while the bill was depending, pe⯑titioned againſt it, and, in his printed caſe, repreſented the injury he was likely to ſuſtain: all the ſpecious ar⯑guments of the great ſums he had expended on the pur⯑chaſe of the houſe, and rebuilding it, in ſcenes, cloaths, &c. were urged with their utmoſt force, and his right to an equivalent ſtated; but all to no effect: the bill paſſed, and the ſtatute is now part of the law of the land. It is true, an evaſion of it was afterwards con⯑trived by an advertiſement of a concert, with a play given gratis, but that ſubterfuge was ſoon aban⯑doned.

The operation of this ſtatute was two-fold; it ſub⯑jected theatrical repreſentations to a licence, and ſup⯑preſſed a nuiſance. And here let me obſerve, that although of plays it is ſaid that they teach morality, and [76] of the ſtage that it is the mirror of human life, theſe aſſertions are mere declamation, and have no founda⯑tion in truth or experience: on the contrary, a play⯑houſe, and the regions about it, are the very hot-beds of vice: how elſe comes it to paſs that no ſooner is a playhouſe opened in any part of the kingdom, than it becomes ſurrounded by an halo of brothels? Of this truth, the neighbourhood of the place I am now ſpeak⯑ing of has had experience; one pariſh alone, adjacent thereto, having to my knowledge, expended the ſum of 1300l. in proſecutions for the purpoſe of removing thoſe inhabitants, whom, for inſtruction in the ſcience of human life, the playhouſe had drawn thither.

Mr. Brooke, the author above-mentioned, having with his eyes open, and the ſtatute of the tenth of George the ſecond ſtaring him in the face, written a tragedy, in which, as will be preſently ſhewn, under pretence of a laudable zeal for the cauſe of liberty, he inculcates principles, not only anti-monarchical, but ſcarcely conſiſtent with any ſyſtem of civil ſubordina⯑tion; what wonder is it, that, under a monarchical government, a licence for ſuch a theatrical repreſen⯑tation ſhould be refuſed? or that ſuch a refuſal ſhould be followed by a prohibition of the acting it?

This interpoſition of legal authority was looked upon by the author's friends, in which number were included all the Jacobites in the kingdom, as an in⯑fraction of a natural right, and as affecting the cauſe of liberty. To expreſs their reſentment of this injury, they adviſed him to ſend it to the preſs, and by a ſub⯑ſcription to the publication, of near a thouſand perſons, encouraged others to the like attempts. By means of the printed copy any one is enabled to judge of its [77] general tendency, and, by reflecting on the ſentiments inculcated in the following ſpeeches therein to be found, to meaſure the injuſtice done him:

The dedication to the play, addreſſed to the ſub⯑ſcribers, gives the reader to underſtand, that the au⯑thor had ‘'ſtudied the ancient laws of his country, though not converſant with her preſent political ſtate,' that he is 'a friend to national liberty and perſonal free⯑dom,' (meaning by the firſt, 'a ſtate reſulting from virtue or reaſon ruling in a breaſt ſuperior to appetite and paſſion,' and, by the laſt, 'a ſecurity ariſing from the nature of a well-ordered conſtitution, for thoſe ad⯑vantages [78] and privileges that each man has a right to by contributing as a member to the weal of that com⯑munity;')’ theſe declarations are interſperſed with re⯑flections on the lord-chamberlain, and a complaint that his treatment of the author ‘'was ſingular and un⯑precedented;'’ after which follows an effuſion of patri⯑otic ſentiments ſerving to ſhew, that a monarch or head of ſuch a conſtitution as he above has deſcribed, is ‘'ſceptered in the hearts of his people.'’

Upon occaſion of this publication, Johnſon was em⯑ployed by one Corbet, a bookſeller of ſmall note, to take up the cauſe of this injured author, and he did it in a pamphlet, intitled, ‘'A Compleat Vindication of the Licenſers of the Stage from the malicious and ſcandalous aſperſions of Mr. Brooke, author of Guſtavus Vaſa.'’ 4to. 1739.

Criticiſm would be ill employed in a minute exami⯑nation of the Marmor Norfolcienſe, and the Vindicati⯑on of the Licenſers: in general it may ſuffice to ſay that they are both ironical, that they diſplay neither learn⯑ing nor wit, and that in neither of them is there to be diſcovered a ſingle ray of that brightneſs which beams ſo ſtrongly in the author's moral and po⯑litical eſſays. Did it become a man of his diſcern⯑ment, endowed with ſuch powers of reaſoning and eloquence as he poſſeſſed, to adopt vulgar preju⯑dices, or, in the cant of the oppoſition, to clamor againſt place-men, and penſioners and ſtanding ar⯑mies? to ridicule the apprehenſion of that invaſion in favour of the pretender, which himſelf, but a few years after became a witneſs to, or to compare the improbability of ſuch an event with that of a general inſurrection of all who were prohibited the uſe of gin?

[79] Of all the modes of ſatire, I know none ſo feeble as that of uninterrupted irony. The reaſon of this ſeems to be, that in that kind of writing the author is compelled to advance poſitions which no reader can think he believes, and to put queſtions that can be anſwered in but one way, and that ſuch an one as thwarts the ſenſe of the propounder. Of this kind of interrogatories the pamphlet I am ſpeaking of ſeems to be an example; ‘'Is the man without penſion or place to ſuſpect the impartiality or the judgment of thoſe who are entruſted with the adminiſtration of public affairs? Is he, when the law is not ſtrictly obſerved in regard to him, to think himſelf aggrieved, to tell his ſentiments in print, to aſſert his claim to better uſage, and fly for redreſs to another tri⯑bunal?'’

Who does not ſee that to theſe ſeveral queries the anſwer muſt be in the affirmative? and, if ſo, the point of the writer's wit is, in this inſtance, blunted, and his argument baffled.

In the courſe of this mock vindication of power, Johnſon has taken a wide ſcope, and adopted all the vulgar topics of complaint as they were vented weekly in the public papers, and in the writings of Boling⯑broke, flimſy and malignant as they are. And here let me note a curious ſophiſm of that ſuperficial thinker, which I remember to have ſeen in his celebrated Diſſer⯑tation on Parties; but which, not having the book by me, I cite by memory: it is to this purpoſe: ‘'The advocates of the miniſter,' ſays his Lordſhip, 'defy us to ſhew, that, under his adminiſtration, any infraction had been made of the original contract.'’ To this we anſwer, that between ſuch an infraction and the loſs of [80] our liberties, there can no point of time intervene; ſuch a cauſe and ſuch an effect being ſo cloſely con⯑nected, that we cannot ſee the one till we feel the other.

Such was the conduct of oppoſition at this time, and by ſuch futile arguments as the above were the ſilly people of three kingdoms deluded into a belief, that their liberties were in danger, and that nothing could ſave this country from impending ruin, and that the moſt formidable of all the evils they had to dread, was the continuance of the then adminiſtration, of which they had nothing worſe to ſay than that they hated it.

The truth is, that Johnſon's political prejudices were a miſt that the eye of his judgment could not penetrate: in all the meaſures of government he could ſee nothing right; nor could he be convinced, in his invectives againſt a ſtanding army, as the Jacobites affected to call it, that the peaſantry of a country was not an ade⯑quate defence againſt an invaſion of it by an armed force. He almoſt aſſerted in terms, that the ſucceſſion to the crown had been illegally interrupted, and that from whig-politics none of the benefits of government could be expected. He could but juſt endure the op⯑poſition to the miniſter becauſe conducted on whig principles; and I have heard him ſay, that during the whole courſe of it, the two parties were bidding for the people. At other times, and in the heat of his re⯑ſentment, I have heard him aſſert, that, ſince the death of Queen Anne, it had been the policy of the admi⯑niſtration to promote to eccleſiaſtical dignities none but the moſt worthleſs and undeſerving men: nor would he then exclude from this bigotted cenſure thoſe illuſtrious divines, Wake, Gibſon, Sherlock, Butler, Herring, Pearce, and leaſt of all Hoadly; [81] in competition with whom he would ſet Hickes, Brett, Leſlie, and others of the nonjurors, whoſe names are ſcarcely now remembered. From hence it appears, and to his honour be it ſaid, that his principles co⯑operated with his neceſſities, and that the proſtitution of his talents, taking the term in one and that its worſt ſenſe, could not, in juſtice, be imputed to him.

But there is another, and a leſs criminal ſenſe of the word proſtitution, in which, in common with all who are called authors by profeſſion, he may be ſaid to ſtand in need of an excuſe. When Milton wrote the Para⯑diſe Loſt, the ſum he received for the copy was not his motive, but was an adventitious benefit that reſulted from the exerciſe of his poetical faculty. In Johnſon's caſe, as well in the inſtances above given as almoſt all the others that occurred during the courſe of his life, the impulſe of genius was wanting: had that alone operated in his choice of ſubjects to write on, mankind would have been indebted to him for a variety of ori⯑ginal, intereſting and uſeful compoſitions; and tran⯑ſlations of ſome, and new editions of others of the ancient authors. The truth of which aſſertion I think I may ſafely ground on a catalogue of publica⯑tions projected by him at different periods, and now ly⯑ing before me, a copy whereof is given below:^*

[82] Under this notion of works written with a view to gain, and thoſe that owe their exiſtence to a more libe⯑ral motive, a diſtinction of literary productions ariſes [83] which Johnſon would never allow; on the contrary, to the aſtoniſhment of myſelf who have heard him, and many others, he has frequently declared, that the [84] only true and genuine motive to the writing of books was the aſſurance of pecuniary profit. Notwithſtanding the boldneſs of this aſſertion, there are but few that can be perſuaded to yield to it; and, after all, the beſt apology for Johnſon will be found to conſiſt in his want of a profeſſion, the preſſure of his neceſſities, and the example of ſuch men as Caſtalio, Geſner, and Sal⯑maſius, among foreigners; and Fuller, Howel, L'Eſtrange, Dryden, Chambers, and Hume, not to mention others now living, among ourſelves.

The principle here noted was not only in the above inſtance avowed by Johnſon, but ſeems to have been wrought by him into a habit. He was never greedy of money, but without money could not be ſtimu⯑lated to write. I have been told by a clergyman of ſome eminence with whom he had been long ac⯑quainted, that, being to preach on a particular occa⯑ſion, he applied, as others under a like neceſſity had frequently done, to Johnſon for help. ‘'I will write a [85] ſermon for thee,' ſaid Johnſon, 'but thou muſt pay me for it.'’

Yet was he not ſo indifferent to the ſubjects that he was requeſted to write on, as at any time to abandon either his religious or political principles. He would no more have put his name to an Arian or Socinian tract than to a defence of Atheiſm. At the time when ‘'Faction Detected'’ came out, a pamphlet of which the late lord Egmont is now generally underſtood to have been the author, Oſborne the bookſeller, held out to him a ſtrong temptation to anſwer it, which he refuſed, being convinced, as he aſſured me, that the charge contained in it was made good, and that the argument grounded thereon was unanſwerable.

Indeed whoever peruſes that maſterly performance muſt be convinced that a ſpirit ſimilar to that which induced the Iſraelites, when under the conduct of their wiſe legiſlator, to cry out ‘'Ye take too much upon ye,'’ is the moſt frequent motive to oppoſition, and that whoever hopes to govern a free people by reaſon, is miſtaken in his judgment of human nature. ‘'He,' ſays Hooker, 'that goeth about to perſuade a people that they are not well governed, ſhall never want atten⯑tive and favourable hearers:'’and the ſame author ſpeak⯑ing of legiſlation in general, delivers this as his ſenti⯑ment: ‘'Laws politic ordained for external order and regimen amongſt men are never framed as they ſhould be, unleſs preſuming the will of man to be obſtinate, rebellious and averſe from all obedience unto the ſa⯑cred laws of his nature: In a word, unleſs preſuming man, in regard of his depraved mind, little better than a wild beaſt, they do accordingly provide, notwithſtand⯑ing, ſo to frame his outward actions as that they be no hindrance unto the common good, for which ſocieties [86] were inſtituted. Unleſs they do this they are not per⯑fect.'’ Eccleſ. Pol. Lib. I. Sect. 1. Ibid. Sect. 10.

That theſe were the ſentiments of Johnſon alſo, I am warranted to ſay, by frequent declarations to the ſame purpoſe, which I have heard him make; and to theſe I attribute it, that he ever after acquieſced in the mea⯑ſures of government through the ſucceſſion of admi⯑niſtrations.

It has already been mentioned in the account above given of Savage, that the friends of that ill-ſtarred man had ſet on foot a ſubſcription for his ſupport, and that Swanſea was the place they had fixed on for his reſi⯑dence: the ſame was completed at the end of the year 1739. Johnſon at that time lodged at Greenwich, and there parted with that friend and companion of his midnight rambles, whom it was never his fortune again to ſee. The event is antedated in the poem of ‘'Lon⯑don';’ but in every particular, except the difference of a year, what is there ſaid of the departure of Thales muſt be underſtood of Savage, and looked upon as true hiſtory. In his life of Savage, Johnſon has mentioned the circumſtances that attended it, and deplored this ſeparation as he would have done a greater misfortune than it proved: that it was, in reality, none, may be inferred from Savage's inability, ariſing from his cir⯑cumſtances, his courſe of life, and the laxity of his mind, to do good to any one: it is rather to be ſuſ⯑pected that his example was contagious, and tended to confirm Johnſon in his indolence and thoſe other evil habits which it was the labour of his life to conquer. They who were witneſſes of Johnſon's perſevering temperance in the article of drinking, for, at leaſt, the latter half of his life, will ſcarcely believe that, during part of the former, he was a lover of wine, that he not [87] only indulged himſelf in the uſe of it when he could procure it, but, with a reflex delight, contemplated the act of drinking it, with all the circumſtances that render it grateful to the palate or pleaſing to the eye: in the language of Solomon ‘'he looked upon the wine when it was red, when it gave his colour in the cup, and when it moved itſelf aright^*.'’ In contradiction to thoſe, who, having a wife and children, prefer domeſtic enjoyments to thoſe which a tavern affords, I have heard him aſſert, that a tavern-chair was the throne of human felicity.—‘'As ſoon,' ſaid he, 'as I enter the door of a tavern, I experience an oblivion of care, and a freedom from ſolicitude^†: when I am ſeated, I find the maſter courteous, and the ſervants obſequious to my call; anxious to know and ready to ſupply my wants: wine there exhilarates my ſpirits, and prompts me to free converſation and an interchange of diſcourſe with thoſe whom I moſt love: I dogmatiſe and am contradicted, and in this conflict of opinions and ſen⯑timents I find delight.'’

[88] How far his converſations with Savage might induce him thus to delight in tavern-ſociety, which is often a temptation to greater enormities than exceſſive drink⯑ing, cannot now be known, nor would it anſwer any good purpoſe to enquire. It may, nevertheleſs, be conjectured, that whatever habits he had contracted of idleneſs, neg⯑lect of his perſon, or indifference in the choice of his company, received no correction or check from ſuch an example as Savage's conduct held forth; and farther it is conjectured, that he would have been leſs troubled with thoſe reflections, which, in his lateſt hours, are known to have given him uneaſineſs, had he never be⯑come acquainted with one ſo looſe in his morals, and ſo well acquainted with the vices of the town as this man appears to have been. We are to remember that Johnſon was, at this time, a huſband: can it therefore be ſuppoſed that the ſociety of ſuch a man as Savage had any tendency to improve him in the exerciſe of the domeſtic virtues? nay rather we muſt doubt it, and [89] aſcribe to an indifference in the diſcharge of them, ariſing from their nocturnal excurſions, the incident of a temporary ſeparation of Johnſon from his wife, which ſoon took place, and that, while he was in a lodging in Fleet ſtreet, ſhe was harboured by a friend near the Tower. It is true that this ſeparation con⯑tinued but a ſhort time, and that if indeed his affection, at that inſtant, was alienated from her, it ſoon returned; for his attachment to her appears, by a variety of notes and memorandums concerning her in books that ſhe was accuſtomed to read in, now in my cuſtody, to have been equal to what it ought to be: nay Garrick would often riſque offending them both, by mimicking his mode of gallantry and his uxorious behaviour towards her.

The little profit, or indeed reputation, that accrued to Johnſon by the writing of political pamphlets, led him to think of other exerciſes for his pen. He had, ſo early as 1734, ſolicited employment of Cave; but Cave's correſpondents were ſo numerous that he had little for him till the beginning of the year 1738, when Johnſon conceived a thought of enriching the Magazine with a biographical article, and wrote for it the Life of Father Paul, an abridgement, as it ſeems to be, of that life of him which Johnſon intended to have prefixed to his tranſlation of the Hiſtory of the Council of Trent. The motive to this and other exer⯑tions of the ſame talent in the lives of Boerhaave, Blake, Barretier, and other eminent perſons, was his wants, which at one time were ſo preſſing as to induce him in a letter to Cave, hereinbefore inſerted, to intimate to him that he wanted a dinner.

[90] Johnſon who was never deficient in gratitude, for the aſſiſtance which he received from Cave became his friend; and, what was more in Cave's eſtimation than any perſonal attachment whatever, a friend to his Ma⯑gazine, for he being at this time engaged in a contro⯑verſy with a knot of bookſellers the proprietors of a rival publication, the London Magazine, Johnſon wrote and addreſſed to him the following Ode:

It was publiſhed in the Magazine for March 1738, and imitated in the following ſtanzas in that for the month of May following:

The provocation that gave riſe to this furious con⯑teſt, as it will preſently appear to have been, was the increaſing demand for Cave's publication, and the check it gave to the ſale of its rival, which at one time was ſo great as to throw back no fewer than ſeventy thouſand copies on the hands of the pro⯑prietors. To revenge this injury, the confederate bookſellers gave out, that Sylvanus Urban, whom, for no conceivable reaſon, they dignified with the appel⯑lation of Doctor, was become mad, aſſigning as the cauſe of his inſanity, his publication in the Magazine of ſundry mathematical problems, eſſays and queſtions on abſtruſe ſubjects, ſent him by many of his learned correſpondents. Cave who for ſome months had been rebutting the calumnies of his adverſaries, and that with ſuch ſucceſs as provoked them to the outrage above-mentioned, now felt that he had them at mercy. With that ſagacity which we frequently obſerve, but wonder at in men of ſlow parts, he ſeemed to antici⯑pate [93] the advice contained in the ſecond and third ſtanzas of Johnſon's ode, and forbore a reply, though not his revenge, which he gratified in ſuch a manner as ſeems to abſolve him from the guilt im⯑putable in moſt caſes to that paſſion; this he did by inſerting as an article of public intelligence in his Hiſtorical Chronicle for the month of February 1738, the following paragraph: ‘"Monday 20. About 8 o'clock the famous Dr. Urban, having ſome time paſt been poſſeſſed with a violent frenzy, broke looſe from his nurſe, and run all through the ſtreets of London and Weſtminſter diſtributing quack bills, ſwearing he would go viſit his beautiful Garden of Eden; raving againſt Common Senſe ^*, and the London Magazine, and ſinging a mad ſong ſet to muſic by Peter the Wild Youth; but being at laſt ſecured, was conveyed to his lodgings in Moor⯑fields, where he continues uttering horrid impreca⯑tions againſt ſeveral bookſellers and printers. 'Tis thought this poor man's misfortune is owing to his having lately perplexed himſelf with biblical queſtions, mathematical problems, aſtronomical equations, and methods to find the longitude."’ ‘—'This ſilly para⯑graph, and ſuch like buffoonery, inſerted in the news⯑papers at the charge of the proprietors of the London Magazine, is all the anſwer given to the remarks on their inimitable preface, ſome paſſages of which are quoted in the beginning of this magazine ^†.'’

[94] The publication in the manner above-mentioned of this ſenſeleſs and malignant fiction, and the care and attention of Cave in the compilation of his maga⯑zine, together with the aſſiſtance he received from a variety of ingenious and learned correſpondents, ena⯑bled him in a ſhort time to triumph over his rivals, and increaſed the ſale thereof to a number that no other could ever equal.

It was no part of Cave's original deſign to give the debates in either houſe of parliament, but the oppoſi⯑tion to the miniſter, and the ſpirit that conducted it, had excited in the people a great eagerneſs to know what was going forward in both, and he knew that to gratify that deſire was to encreaſe the demand for his pamphlet. Indeed the experiment had already been made, for the ſpeeches in parliament had for ſome time been given in the Political State of Great Britain, a publication above ſpoken of, and though drawn up by perſons no way equal to ſuch an undertaking, were well received. Theſe for the moſt part were taken by ſtealth, and were compiled from the information of liſteners and the under-officers and door-keepers of either houſe; but Cave had an intereſt [95] with ſome of the members of both, ariſing from an employment he held in the poſt-office, that of inſpector of the franks, which not only gave him the privilege of ſending his letters free of poſtage, but an acquaintance with, and occaſions of acceſs to many of them.

Of this advantage he was too good a judge of his own intereſt not to avail himſelf. He therefore de⯑termined to gratify his readers with as much of this kind of intelligence as he could procure and it was ſafe to communicate: his reſolution was to frequent the two houſes whenever an important debate was likely to come on, and from ſuch expreſſions and par⯑ticulars in the courſe thereof as could be collected and retained in memory, to give the arguments on either ſide. This reſolution he put into practice in July 1736. His method of proceeding is variouſly reported; but I have been informed by ſome who were much about him, that taking with him a friend or two, he found means to procure for them and himſelf admiſſion into the gallery of the houſe of commons, or to ſome con⯑cealed ſtation in the other, and that then they pri⯑vately took down notes of the ſeveral ſpeeches, and the general tendency and ſubſtance of the arguments, Thus furniſhed, Cave and his aſſociates would adjourn to a neighbouring tavern, and compare and adjuſt their notes, by means whereof and the help of their memo⯑ries, they became enabled to fix at leaſt the ſubſtance of what they had ſo lately heard and remarked.

The reducing this crude matter into form, was the work of a future day and of an abler hand, viz. Guthrie, the hiſtorian, a writer for the bookſellers, whom Cave retained for the purpoſe: the ſpeeches thus compoſed were given monthly to the public, [96] and peruſed and red with great eagerneſs; thoſe who contemplated them thought they diſcovered in them not merely the political principles, but the ſtile and manner of the ſpeaker; the fact is, that there was little diſcrimination of the latter between the ſpeeches of the beſt and the worſt orators in either aſſembly, and in moſt inſtances the perſons to whom they were aſcribed were here made to ſpeak with more eloquence and even propriety of diction than, in the place of de⯑bate they were able to do: Sir John Barnard, for inſtance, a man of no learning or reading, and who by the way had been bred a quaker, had a ſtile little better than an ordinary mechanic, and which abounded with ſuch phraſes as, if ſo be—ſet caſe—and—nobody more ſo—and other ſuch vulgariſms, yet was he made in the magazine to debate in language as correct and poliſhed as that of Sir William Wyndham or Mr. Pulteney; though it muſt be confeſſed that ſo weighty was his matter on ſubjects of commerce, that Sir Robert Walpole, as I have been credibly informed, was uſed to ſay, that when he had anſwered Sir John Bar⯑nard, he looked upon that day's buſineſs in the houſe of commons to be as good as over.

The vigorous oppoſition to the miniſter, and the motion in both houſes of the thirteenth of February, 1740-1 to remove him, were a new aera in politics; and, as the debates on that occaſion were warmer than had ever then been known, the drawing them up re⯑quired, in Cave's opinion, the pen of a more nervous writer than he who had hitherto conducted them. Johnſon, who in his former publications in proſe, had given no very favorable ſpecimens of ſtile, had by this time, by the ſtudy of the beſt of our old Engliſh [97] writers, ſuch as Sir Thomas More, Aſcham, Hooker, Spenſer, archbiſhop Sandys, Jewel, Chillingworth, Hales, of Eton, and others, formed a new one, conſiſting in original phraſes and new combinations of the integral parts of ſentences, which, with the infuſion of words derived from the Latin and accommodated to our idiom, were ſuch an improvement of the language as greatly tended to enrich it: Cave therefore thought him a fit perſon to conduct this part of his monthly publication, and, diſmiſſing Guthrie, committed the care of it to Johnſon.

Before this change of hands, Cave had been checked by ſome intimations from the clerks of the houſe of commons, that his printing the debates had given offence to the ſpeaker, and might ſubject him to cenſure: this he, for ſome time, regard⯑ed but little, relying poſſibly upon the indulgence that had been ſhewn as well to the publiſhers of the Political State of Great Britain, who were the firſt that ventured on this practice, as to himſelf; but a reſolution of the houſe at length gave him to under⯑ſtand, that it would be prudence in him to deſiſt from it. The thought of putting his readers on ſhort allowance was very unpleaſing to him, and this, with the apprehenſion that the ſale of his Magazine might be affected by the omiſſion of a kind of intelligence which they had been accuſtomed to, drove him to many contrivances to evade the prohibition, out of which he choſe one that ſcarce any man but himſelf would have thought of: it was the giving to the pub⯑lic the debates in the Britiſh ſenate under a fictitious deſignation. Every one, he knew, was acquainted with Gulliver's Travels; he therefore, in his magazine [98] for June 1738, begins the month by feigning, that the debates in the ſenate of Magna Lilliputia were then extant; and referring to the reſolution of the houſe of commons, above-mentioned, whereby he was for⯑bidden to inſert any account of the proceedings of the Britiſh parliament, he pretends to doubt not but his readers will be pleaſed with the inſertion of what he calls the appendix to captain Gulliver's account of Lilliput, in their room. A change of fictitious for real names of perſons, countries, and provinces, was abſolutely neceſſary for the carrying on this deſign, and accordingly, by tranſpoſing the letters and otherwiſe anagrammatizing proper names, he has, through the medium of nonſenſe, given light to that which he would be thought to conceal.

Farther to aid his reader as to the names of coun⯑tries, &c. he publiſhed, at the end of his magazine for 1738, a fictitious propoſal for printing, by ſub⯑ſcription, a work, intitled, Anagrammata Rediviva, or the art of compoſing and reſolving anagrams, with a reference to the bookſellers, agents, and maſters of ſhips, in the cities, countries, and provinces therein deſcribed by barbarous names oppoſed to thoſe which they are meant to ſignify: he alſo, at the end of the magazines for 1739, 1740, 1741, 1742, and 1743, gave a liſt of chriſtian and ſurnames pretendedly ſynonimous, forming thereby a key to that otherwiſe unintelligible jargon which Cave, by this ſubterfuge, had introduced into the debates.

The proprietors of the London Magazine, who alſo gave the debates, but from documents leſs authentic than thoſe of C [...]ve, compelled by the ſame neceſſity [99] that forced him to this artifice, took another courſe: they feigned to give the debates in the Roman ſenate, and by adapting Roman names to the ſeveral ſpeeches, rendered them more plauſible than they appear under Cave's management.

The artifice however ſucceeded in both inſtances: the reſolution of the commons was never enforced, and the debates were publiſhed with impunity. I will not diſgrace my page by the inſertion of any of thoſe barbarous appellations which Cave had invented, and which, I dare ſay, were muſic to his ear; but content myſelf with ſaying, that Guthrie acquieſced in Cave's fiction and the nonſenſe which it involved, and as it was found to anſwer its end, Johnſon ſcrupled not to adopt it.

The debates penned by Johnſon were not only more methodical and better connected than thoſe of Guthrie, but in all the ornaments of ſtile ſuperior: they were written at thoſe ſeaſons when he was able to raiſe his imagination to ſuch a pitch of ſervour as bordered upon enthuſiaſm, which, that he might the better do, his practice was to ſhut himſelf up in a room aſſigned him at St. John's gate, to which he would not ſuffer any one to approach, except the compoſitor or Cave's boy for matter, which, as faſt as he compoſed it, he tumbled out at the door.

Never were the force of reaſoning or the powers of popular eloquence more evidently diſplayed, or the arts of ſophiſtry more clearly detected than in theſe animated compoſitions. Nor are they more worthy of admiration for theſe their excellencies than for that peculiarity of language which diſcriminates [100] the debates of each aſſembly from the other, and the various colouring which he has found the art of giv⯑ing to particular ſpeeches. The characteriſtic of the one aſſembly we know is Dignity; the privilege of the other Freedom of Expreſſion. To ſpeak of the firſt, when a member thereof endowed with wiſdom, gravity, and experience, is made to riſe, the ſtile which Johnſon gives him is nervous, his matter weighty, and his arguments convincing; and when a mere popular orator takes up a debate, his elo⯑quence is by him repreſented in a glare of falſe rheto⯑ric, ſpecious reaſoning, an affectation of wit, and a diſpoſition to trifle with ſubjects the moſt intereſting. With great judgment alſo does Johnſon adopt the unreſtrained oratory of the other houſe, and with equal facility imitate the deep-mouthed rancour of Pulteney, and the yelping pertinacity of Pitt.

As an illuſtration of the former part of this poſition, I ſhall here give two ſpeeches, the one of the lord⯑chancellor Hardwicke on the motion of lord Car⯑teret for an addreſs to his Majeſty, beſeeching him to remove Sir Robert Walpole from his preſence and councils for ever; and the other of lord Cheſterfield on a bill, intitled ‘'An act for repealing certain duties on ſpirituous liquors, and on licences for retailing the ſame, and for laying other duties on ſpirituous liquors and on licenſes for retailing the ſaid liquors.'’ That of lord Hardwicke is as follows:

[101]

This nervous ſpeech was occaſioned by one of the earl of Abingdon in ſupport of the motion, which he grounded on the evidence of common fame. The drift of lord Hardwicke's ſpeech is to invalidate that kind of teſtimony, and in this he diſplays the talents of a ſound lawyer and an eloquent orator; but the private virtues of Sir Robert Walpole were ſuch, that few of his enemies wiſhed for a greater puniſhment on him than the diveſting him of power, and accordingly the motion contained no ſpecific charge of crimes that called for public juſtice: it tended to ſhew that the miniſter had been inattentive to the complaints of the [113] merchants, averſe to the proſecution of the war, and unſkilful in the conduct of it, and that the councils of the nation had not proſpered under his influence, and that theſe facts were notorious: theſe were ſurely reaſons for his removal, and ſuperſeded the neceſſity of legal forms, and that kind of evidence which is required to ſupport a bill of attainder or an im⯑peachment. Lord Hardwicke's argument may there⯑fore ſeem fallacious, but it was admirably calculated to elude the charge; he wilfully miſtook the deſign of the motion, and ſet himſelf to invalidate the kind of evidence on which it was grounded, and to ſhew its inſufficiency to ſupport a legal proſecution, and ſuc⯑ceeding therein, his opponents thought their arguments refuted when in truth they were not.

The ſpeech of Lord Cheſterfield on a different ſub⯑ject, and againſt a meaſure of a ſucceeding, and, as it was pretended, a purer adminiſtration, is as follows.

This ſpeech is a contraſt to that of lord Hard⯑wicke, and to him who uttered it may be applied the character which biſhop Burnet gives of Waller, viz. ‘'That he was only concerned to ſay that which ſhould make him applauded; he never laid the buſineſs of the houſe to heart, being a vain and empty, though a witty man.'’

The ſubject of this important debate was a bill to reſtrain the uſe of ſpirituous liquors, founded on evi⯑dence that no leſs a quantity than ſeven millions of gallons thereof were yearly diſtilled and conſumed in this country, and that in many pariſhes within the [122] bills of mortality, excluſive of London and South⯑wark, every ſixth houſe retailed them. The bill, under the influence of the duke of Newcaſtle, lord Carteret, Mr. Sandys and others, the then miniſtry, paſſed the commons with little or no oppoſition, and money was immediately raiſed on the tax thereby im⯑poſed. In the houſe of lords it was vehemently oppoſed by the biſhops and many of the lay lords, with great force of reaſoning, and by lord Cheſterfield in the above ſpeech, which has little of argument in it, though it goes to prove, that the practice ought to have been ſuppreſſed rather than tolerated. It how⯑ever paſſed, and notwithſtanding the ſubſequent laws ſince made to palliate it, the evil to a great degree ſubſiſts at this day.

In the peruſal of theſe debates, as written, we can⯑not but wonder at the powers that produced them. The author had never paſſed thoſe gradations that lead to the knowledge of men and buſineſs: born to a narrow fortune, of no profeſſion, converſant chiefly with books, and, if we believe ſome, ſo deficient in the formalities of diſcourſe, and the practices of cere⯑mony, as in converſation to be ſcarce tolerable; unac⯑quainted with the ſtile of any other than academical diſputation, and ſo great a ſtranger to ſenatorial man⯑ners, that he never was within the walls of either houſe of parliament. That a man, under theſe diſadvantages, ſhould be able to frame a ſyſtem of debate, to compoſe ſpeeches of ſuch excellence, both in matter and form, as ſcarcely to be equalled by thoſe of the moſt able and experienced ſtateſmen, is, I ſay, matter of aſtoniſhment, and a proof of talents that qualified him for a ſpeaker in the moſt auguſt aſſembly on earth.

[123] Cave, who had no idea of the powers of eloquence over the human mind, became ſenſible of its effects in the profits it brought him: he had long thought that the ſucceſs of his Magazine proceeded from thoſe parts of it that were conducted by himſelf, which were the abridgement of weekly papers written againſt the miniſtry, ſuch as the Craftſman, Fog's Journal, Common Senſe, the Weekly Miſcellany, the Weſt⯑minſter Journal, and others, and alſo marſhalling the paſtorals, the elegies, and the ſongs, the epigrams, and the rebuſes that were ſent him by various correſpon⯑dents, and was ſcarcely able to ſee the cauſes that at this time increaſed the ſale of his pamphlet from ten to fifteen thouſand copies a month. But if he ſaw not, he felt them, and manifeſted his good fortune by buying an old coach and a pair of older horſes; and, that he might avoid the ſuſpicion of pride in ſetting up an equipage, he diſplayed to the world the ſource of his affluence, by a repreſentation of St. John's gate, inſtead of his arms, on the door-pannel. This he told me himſelf was the reaſon of diſtinguiſhing his carriage from others, by what ſome might think a whimſical device, and alſo for cauſing it to be engraven on all his plate.

Johnſon had his reward, over and above the pecu⯑niary recompence vouchſafed him by Cave, in the general applauſe of his labours, which the increaſed demand for the Magazine implied; but this, as his performances fell ſhort of his powers, gratified him but little; on the contrary, he diſapproved the deceit he was compelled to practice; his notions of morality were ſo ſtrict, that he would ſcarcely allow the violation of truth in the moſt trivial inſtances, and ſaw, in falſhood [124] of all kinds, a turpitude that the could never be tho⯑roughly reconciled to: and though the fraud was perhaps not greater than the fictitious relations in Sir Thomas More's Utopia, lord Bacon's Nova Atlantis, and biſhop Hall's Mundus alter et idem, Johnſon was not eaſy till he had diſcloſed the deception.

In the mean time it was curious to obſerve how the deceit operated. It has above been remarked, that Johnſon had the art to give different colours to the ſeveral ſpeeches, ſo that ſome appear to be declama⯑tory and energetic, reſembling the orations of De⯑moſthenes; others like thoſe of Cicero, calm, perſua⯑ſive; others, more particularly thoſe attributed to ſuch country-gentlemen, merchants, and ſeamen as had ſeats in parliament, bear the characteriſtic of plainneſs, bluntneſs, and an affected honeſty as oppoſed to the plauſibility of ſuch as were underſtood or ſuſpected to be courtiers: the artifice had its effect; Voltaire was betrayed by it into a declaration, that the eloquence of ancient Greece and Rome was revived in the Britiſh ſenate, and a ſpeech of the late earl of Chatham when Mr. Pitt, in oppoſition to one of Mr. Horatio Walpole, received the higheſt applauſe, and was by all that red it taken for genuine;^* and we are further [125] told of a perſon in a high office under the government, who being at breakfaſt at a gentleman's chambers in [126] Gray's inn, Johnſon being alſo there, declared, that by the ſtyle alone of the ſpeeches in the debates, he [127] could ſeverally aſſign them to the perſons by whom they were delivered. Johnſon upon hearing this, could [128] not refrain from undeceiving him, by confeſſing that himſelf was the author of them all.

It muſt be owned, that with reſpect to the general principles avowed in the ſpeeches, and the ſentiments therein contained, they agree with the characters of the perſons to whom they are aſcribed. Thus, to inſtance in thoſe of the upper houſe, the ſpeeches of the duke of Newcaſtle, the lords Carteret and Ilay, are calm, temperate and perſuaſive; thoſe of the duke of Argyle and lord Talbot, furious and declamatory, and lord Cheſterfield's and lord Hervey's florid but flimſy. In the other houſe the ſpeeches may be thus characte⯑riſed; the miniſter's mild and conciliatory, Mr. Pulte⯑ney's [129] nervous, methodical and weighty, Mr. Shippen's blunt and dogmatical, Sir John Barnard's clear, eſpe⯑cially on commercial ſubjects, Lyttelton's ſtiff and imi⯑tative of the Roman oratory, and Pitt's void of argument but rhapſodically and diffuſively eloquent^*. In other particulars the debates of Johnſon are liable to the ſame objections, but in a greater degree, as thoſe of Guthrie; the language of them is too good, and the ſtyle ſuch as none of the perſons to whom the ſpeeches are aſſigned were able to diſcourſe in.

The confeſſion of Johnſon above-mentioned, was the firſt that revealed the ſecret that the debates in⯑ſerted in the Gentleman's Magazine were fictitious, and compoſed by himſelf. After that, he was free, and indeed induſtrious, in the communication of it, for being informed that Dr. Smollet was writing a hiſtory of England, and had brought it down to the laſt reign, he cautioned him not to rely on the debates as given in the Magazine, for that they were not au⯑thentic, but, excepting as to their general import, the work of his own imagination.

As the ſubjects of theſe debates are at this time be⯑come very little intereſting, I ſhall not attempt, farther than I have already done, to embelliſh theſe memoirs by a ſelection of any of thoſe nervous arguments, or eloquent paſſages with which they abound, and the rather as it is impoſſible in the relation of a conflict between two contending parties, to determine the me⯑rits of their ſeveral pretenſions, or diſtinguiſh between [130] ſpecious, and ſound reaſoning. In the attempts to remove the miniſter, experience has however con⯑vinced us, that ambition and perſonal reſentment were the motives that actuated his opponents, for neither when they attained to power did they manifeſt greater integrity, nor did they ceaſe to practiſe thoſe methods for the maintaining their influence over the public councils, which were imputed to him as criminal.

It is beſide my purpoſe to enter into a formal defence of the adminiſtration of this ſervant of the public, or to attempt a detection of the arts that were practiſed to render him odious: I will never⯑theleſs mention a few facts reſpecting him that have come to my own knowledge, and may ſerve to excul⯑pate him, in ſome degree, from the charge of being an enemy to the conſtitution or the intereſts of this country.

When he firſt came into power, he found it his duty to undertake the arduous taſk of reconciling the people to the dominion of a prince born in a foreign country, and ſecuring the ſucceſſion to his deſcendants, and this he lived to ſee effected. War he hated as much as ſome of his ſucceſſors did peace, and from a war with Spain he foreſaw that no good could follow: the ſettlements abroad of that power are very remote, and in a climate deſtructive to Engliſhmen; ſo that what we were ever able to take from them we never could hold. The extenſion of empire was never his wiſh; but the encouragement of commerce and the improve⯑ment of the revenue, in both which ſubjects his ſkill was unrivalled, engroſſed his attention. To effect the one, a greater number of laws in its favour were framed and [131] paſſed under his ſanction, than had ever been enacted in any known period of equal duration with his miniſtry; and to carry the other into practice, he projected a ſcheme for an extenſion of the exciſe, as the only means of put⯑ting a ſtop to the frauds of merchants and illicit traders, and making the receipts of that branch of the public income equal to what they were computed at. This ſcheme, it is true, ſubjected him to much ob⯑loquy, and he was neceſſitated to abandon it; but in a ſucceeding adminiſtration it was partly carried into execution, at the expreſs ſolicitation of the principal perſons concerned in that article of trade which it was ſuggeſted would have been moſt affected had the ſcheme paſſed into a law: and afterwards the moſt popular miniſter that ever directed the councils of this country, ſcrupled not to declare in full ſenate, that if ever a time ſhould arrive that was likely to render the project feaſible, himſelf would recommend an ex⯑tenſion of the exciſe-laws as a meaſure big with ad⯑vantage to commerce, to the revenue, and to the general intereſts of the kingdom.

The queſtion whether he was in principle an enemy to his country or not, will poſſibly be decided by the following fact, which the beſt authority warrants me in relating: When he was ſeized with the diſorder that put a period to his days, and from its violence he had abandoned the hope of living much longer, he called one of his ſons to him, gave him his bleſſing, and with tears in his eyes told him, that from intelli⯑gence he had obtained, he would aſſure him that with⯑in a twelvemonth's time the crown of England would be fought for upon Engliſh ground: the ſubſequent [132] rebellion in 1745, and the irruptions of the enemy beyond the borders of the north, verified this pre⯑diction.

As I ſhall have but little occaſion to ſay more of the debates in parliament as they appear in the Ma⯑gazine, I ſhall cloſe the account above given of them with ſaying, that Johnſon continued to write them till the paſſing the bill for reſtraining the ſale of ſpirituous liquors, which was about the end of the year 1743. After that, they were written by Dr. Hawkeſworth, and by him continued to about 1760, within which period the plan of the Magazine was enlarged by a review of new publications. In this, Mr. Owen Ruffhead was firſt employed, but he being, in about two years, invited to ſuperinted a re-publication of the Statutes at large, the office of reviewer dropped into the hands of Dr. Hawkeſworth, who, though he was thought to exerciſe it with ſome aſperity, conti⯑nued in it till about the year 1772, when he was em⯑ployed to digeſt the papers of ſundry late navigators, and to become the editor of that collection of voyages, which in the catalogues of bookſellers is diſtinguiſh⯑ed by his name.

About this time Johnſon was ſolicited to undertake an employment of a kind very different from any he had ever been accuſtomed to: it was to compile a catalogue of books; a taſk, which at firſt view, ſeems to be not above the capacity of almoſt the loweſt of literary artificers, but on a nearer was found to re⯑quire the abilities of one of the higheſt. Oſborne the bookſeller, had ventured on the purchaſe of the earl of Oxford's library of printed books, at the price of 13000l. and meaning to diſpoſe of them by ſale [133] at his ſhop in the ordinary way, projected a catalogue thereof diſtributed into common-places, in five octavo volumes, which being ſold for five ſhillings each, would pay itſelf, and circulate throughout the king⯑dom and alſo abroad.

It is probable that Oſborne had conſulted Mait⯑taire, then one of the maſters of Weſtminſter ſchool, and who had formerly aſſiſted in making out the Catalogus librorum manuſcriptorum Angliae & Hiberniae, on the ſubject of his intended catalogue, and that Maittaire might have furniſhed the general heads or claſſes under which the ſeveral books are arranged, a work of ſome labour, and that required no ſmall ſtock of erudition. This at leaſt is certain, that he drew up a Latin dedica⯑tion of the whole to Lord Carteret, then ſecretary of ſtate, and ſubſcribed it with his name; but the un⯑der-workmen were, as I conjecture, firſt Oldys, and afterwards Johnſon, who while he was engaged in ſo ſervile an employment reſembled a lion in harneſs. The former of theſe perſons was a natural ſon of Dr. Oldys, a civilian of ſome eminence, and ſubſiſted by writing for the bookſellers. Having a general know⯑ledge of books, he had been long retained in the ſer⯑vice of Edward earl of Oxford, and was therefore by Oſborne thought a fit perſon for his purpoſe; but whe⯑ther they diſagreed, or that Oldys was hindered by the reſtraint of his perſon in the Fleet, a misfortune that he laboured under ſome time about that period, he deſiſt⯑ed, after having proceeded to the end of the ſecond volume. The third and fourth I conceive to be the work of Johnſon^*; the fifth is nothing more than a catalogue of Oſborne's old ſtock.

[134] The catalogue of the Harleian printed books, for of the manuſcripts there is another in being, drawn up by an able hand, is of that kind which philolo⯑giſts call Bibliotheque Raiſonée, in which beſides the title, and the colophon containing the place and year of publication, a deſcription of each article is given, ſerving to ſhew both its intrinſic and extrinſic worth, the hands through which it has paſſed, and various other particulars that tend to recommend it. I will ſelect a few examples of this kind from the third volume, and leave the reader to applaud the judg⯑ment of Oſborne in appointing ſo able a man as Johnſon to this laborious taſk, and the induſtry and perſeverance of the latter in the performance of it.

• ‘'No. 412. The Antiquities of Stone-Henge on Saliſbury plain reſtored by Inigo Jones, architect⯑general to the King, publiſhed by J. Webb, 1655.’

  ‘'This book has its margins (ſides, tops and bottoms, in many leaves) almoſt written throughout, with ſome of the ſtrangeſt notes, perhaps, to be met with, no ways re⯑lating to the ſubject-matter, nor to one ano⯑ther, [135] except in one or two places. The book is inſcribed by J. Webb to Philip earl of Pembroke and Montgomery, ſome time lord⯑chamberlain to King Charles I. and chancellor of Oxford. And it had been his own copy; for the ſaid earl has, in the next leaf, writ his own name, which is apparently the ſame hand with that in which all thoſe marginal eruptions of his memory and imagination were written. Some following poſſeſſor, or reader of this book, diſcovering the ſaid writing to be his lordſhip's, has written in the margin againſt his name ‘"This Philip earl of Pembroke and Montgomery was the writer of theſe wild notes. A. Wood would have leſs belied him in calling him a mad⯑man, than in ſaying he was illiterate and could not write his name."’ The notes are written in Latin, French and Engliſh, in proſe and verſe, containing truth, fiction, trifles, matters of uſeful intelligence, ſome enough to make you merry, others melan⯑choly. He ſeems to have been under the diſpleaſure of Cromwell and his daughters. Of the former he ſays ‘"Ravilliac Cromuell is to be pulled a pieces with wild horſes, upon London ſtreets, and then to be hanged, drawn, &c. not decapited in jeſt." p. 31.’ In the ſame page where he has writ his name, he has theſe words: ‘"If he be mad, as my lady Harwood ſais, (whoſe tongue is no ſlaunder,) it is rather for wanting the 10000 pounds a year his father promiſed to give [136] him, than that he thinks 6000 pounds a year too much for him to manage, with Wilton and Ramſbury; for he is very learnedly proud, and proudly learned."’ In ſeveral places he has mentioned Inigo Jones, the King's ſurveyor, affirming in one place, ‘"He had, for 20 years together, ſixteen thou⯑ſand pounds a year, for keeping the King's houſes in repair, and yet they lay worſe than any houſe in Turnball ſtreet." P. 3.’ But in one place he augments his ſalary very much, when he ſays, ‘"Hinnico Jones, alias Iniquity Jones, a juſtice of peace, and of the Quorum, i and Cuſtos Rotulorum, hath for keeping the King's houſes in re⯑pair, deux cens mil eſcu per an. threeſcore thouſand pounds ſterling a year, i and well paid: He is fourſcore years ould." P. 34.’ &c. &c.'’

• ‘'No. 1168. Gloſſarium Archaiologicum, Authore Henrico Spelmanno, Equite—1664.’

  ‘'Becauſe it had been intimated as if the latter part of this famous work, now firſt publiſhed with the former, and makes it complete, was not that learned author's own to whom it is aſcribed, Dr. Robert Brady has ſatisfied the world of this particular in the following curious anecdote: ‘"The firſt part of the Gloſſary, to the letter N, was publiſhed in the year 1626, the whole being then finiſhed and offered by Sir Henry Spelman to Mr. Bill, the King's printer, for the value of five pounds in books only; but [137] he refuſing to give him that ſmall rate for the copy, he ventured to print the firſt part of it at his own charge, and moſt of the books lay upon his hands until the latter end of the year 1637, when Mr. Stephens and Mr. Meredith (bookſellers in St. Paul's church-yard) took them off. The next year, viz. Sir William Dugdale being with Sir Henry Spelman, and telling him that many learned men were very deſirous to ſee the remaining part of that work, Sir Henry then told him what is here related, and produced both parts of the Gloſſary, the firſt whereof was printed, and interleaved with blank leaves, as alſo was the ſecond, which was in manuſcript, wherein he had added and altered much. After his Majeſty's reſtaura⯑tion, the earl of Clarendon, then lord-chan⯑cellor, and Dr. Sheldon, then biſhop of London, inquired of Sir William Dugdale what was become of the remaining part of the Gloſſary, or whether ever it was finiſhed? He told them it was finiſhed, and in the hands of Mr. Charles Spelman, grand⯑child to Sir Henry, and youngeſt ſon to Sir John. Whereupon they deſired Sir William to move him to print it, which he did: but finding that the bookſellers would give nothing for the copy, and that he was not able to print it at his own charge, and returning this anſwer to the lord chancellor and biſhop of London, they contributed liberally themſelves; and procuring many [138] ſubſcriptions to that purpoſe, deſired Sir William Dugdale to receive the money, and deal with a printer to perform the work; which he did, and cauſed it to be printed as he received it, all under the proper hand⯑writing of Sir Henry Spelman, without altera⯑tion or addition. And had it not been for the dreadful fire in London, wherein both the copy and the greateſt part of the im⯑preſſion were conſumed, it might at this day have been produced, to have confirm⯑ed what is here reported. For the truth whereof, Sir William Dugdale, a perſon of great learning, worth, and integrity, and now a living teſtimony, without exception, may be conſulted if any man doubts what is here delivered. See Animadverſions upon a book called Jani Anglorum Facies Nova, p. 96. annexed to an Anſwer to a book written by William Petit, Eſq 8vo. 1681."’’

• ‘'No. 1528. Miſſale Mixtum ſecundum Regulam Beati Iſidori dictum Mozarabes. Toleti 1500.’

  ‘'This is the ſcarceſt book in the whole Harleian collection. At the end of it are the following words, which deſerve to be inſert⯑ed here:’

  ‘"Ad laudem omnipotentis Dei, nec non Vir⯑ginis Mariae matris ejus, omnium ſanctorum ſanctarum (que) expletum eſt miſſale mixtum ſecundum regulam beati Iſidori dictum Moza⯑rabes: Maxima cum diligentia perlectum et emendatum, per reverendum in utro (que) jure [139] doctorem dominum Alfonſum Ortiz canonicum Toletanum. Impreſſum in regal, civitate Toleti juſſu reverendiſſimi in Chriſto Patris Domini D. Franciſci Ximenii, ejuſdem civitatis ar⯑chiepiſcopi. Impenſis nobilis Melchioris Gor⯑riccii Novarienſis, per Magiſtrum Petrum Hagembach, Alemanum, anno ſalutis noſtrae 1500. Die 29^o menſis Januarii."’

  ‘'This is ſuppoſed to be the ancient miſſal amended and purged by St. Iſidore, arch⯑biſhop of Sevil, and ordered by the council of Toledo to be uſed in all churches, every one of which, before that time, had a miſſal peculiar to itſelf. The Moors afterwards committing great ravages in Spain, deſtroy⯑ing the churches, and throwing every thing there, both civil and ſacred, into confuſion, all St. Iſidore's miſſals, excepting thoſe in the city of Toledo, were loſt. But thoſe were preſerved, even after the Moors had made themſelves maſters of that city; ſince they left ſix of the churches there to the Chriſtians, and granted them the free exerciſe of their religion. Alphonſus the ſixth, many ages afterwards, expelled the Moors from Toledo, and ordered the Roman miſſal to be uſed in thoſe churches where St. Iſidore's miſſal had been in vogue, ever ſince the council above-mentioned. But the people of Toledo inſiſting that their miſſal was drawn up by the moſt ancient biſhops, reviſed and cor⯑rected by St. Iſidore, proved to be the beſt [140] by the great number of ſaints who had follow⯑ed it, and been preſerved during the whole time of the Mooriſh government in Spain, he could not bring his project to bear without great difficulty. In ſhort, the conteſt be⯑tween the Roman and Toletan miſſals came to that height, that, according to the genius of the age, it was decided by a ſingle com⯑bat, wherein the champion of the Toletan miſſal proved victorious. But King Alphonſo, ſay ſome of the Spaniſh writers, not being ſatisfied with this, which he conſidered as the effect of chance only, ordered a faſt to be proclaimed, and a great fire to be then made, into which, after the King and people had prayed fervently to God for his aſſiſtance in this affair, both the miſſals were thrown, but the Toletan only eſcaped the violence of the flames. This, continue the ſame authors, made ſuch an impreſſion upon the King, that he permitted the citizens of Toledo to uſe their own miſſal in thoſe churches that had been granted the Chriſtians by the Moors. How⯑ever, the copies of this miſſal grew afterwards ſo ſcarce, thar cardinal Ximenes found it ex⯑tremely difficult to meet with one of them, which induced him to order this impreſſion, and to build a chapel, in which this ſervice was chanted every day, as it had at firſt been by the antient Chriſtians. But notwithſtand⯑ing this, the copies of the Toletan miſſal are become now ſo exceeding rare, that it [141] is at preſent almoſt in as much danger of being buried in oblivion, as it was when committed to the preſs by cardinal Ximenes.’

• ‘'No. 3517. All the workes of John Taylor the water poet, being ſixty and three in number, collect⯑ed into one volume by the author, with ſundry new additions; corrected, reviſed, and newly imprinted—1630.’

  ‘'Theſe works conſiſt of ſeveral pieces, partly ſerious, but moſtly comical, in proſe as well as verſe, which the author had pub⯑liſhed from time to time in ſingle pamphlets. He frankly owns himſelf no ſcholar, but being a man of good natural parts, of a ready and copious invention, and having travell⯑ed much, and ſeen company of all ſorts, he has in many things made good uſe, eſpecially in the ſatirical vein of his fancy and obſerva⯑tions. Several of the nobility, &c. encou⯑raged him, and to them he dedicates ſeveral of theſe tracts. There are alſo commenda⯑tory verſes before many of them, by ſome ingenious writers. Among the pieces for which he was moſt noted, may be reckoned his Whip of Pride, the Travels of Twelve Pence, Taylor's Gooſe, Taylor's Motto, his Chronicles in Verſe, the Cormorant, Praiſe of Hempſeed, Praiſe of Clean Linen, the Peace with France in praiſe of Archy, ſeveral Elegies, &c. Among the proſe pieces: His Pennyleſs Pilgrimage from London to Edinburgh, in which he travelled a mile underneath the ſea. The acts of Nich. Wood the Kentiſh [142] Gormund. His pieces upon Tho. Coriat the Odcumbian Traveller. Wit and Mirth, or Pleaſant Jeſts, &c. As to the author, he is ſaid to have been a Glouceſterſhire man, and was bred a ſailor; he was at the taking of Cadiz under the earl of Eſſex, in 1596, and at Flores, in the Iſland-Voyage, next year: he was beſides in Germany, Bohemia, Scot⯑land, &c. He was many years collector for the lieutenant of the tower, of the wines which were his ſee from all ſhips which brought them up the Thames; but was at laſt diſcharged becauſe he would not pur⯑chaſe the place at more than it was worth. He calls himſelf the King's Water-poet and the Queen's Water-man, and did wear the badge of the royal arms. After the beheading of King Charles, he kept a public-houſe in Phoenix alley, near Long-acre, and ſet up the Mourning-Crown, for his ſign; but found it ſafer to take it down again and hang up his own head inſtead of it. It is ſaid he died about the year 1654.^*.'’

[143] Of this ſtupendous work the Harleian catalogue, it is difficult to give an idea, ſave by ſuch extracts as thoſe above, and others in Latin of a like kind. Pre⯑fixed to it is a Latin dedication to lord Carteret by Mr. Michael Maittaire, dated February 1742-3, and after that, a preface, doubtleſs drawn up by Johnſon, beginning ‘'To ſolicit a ſubſcription for a catalogue of books expoſed to ſale,'’ wherein with great learning and no leſs judgment, he points out the excellence and extent of the collection, urges thoſe arguments which ſhould induce men of learning to become purchaſers, and anticipates whatever objections could be made to this uncommon ſpecies of catalogue, and the method of circulating it.

The ſeveral articles are diſtributed in the order of a common place, that does honour to Johnſon and Mait⯑taire, who are ſuppoſed to have been jointly the fra⯑mers of it. Here follows a ſpecimen of the ſubdiviſion of the firſt of the heads therein contained, viz. Theo⯑logy.

• Biblia Sacra
  • Polyglotta.
  • Hebraica.
  • Graeca.
• Nov. Teſtamentum.
• Biblia
  • Vulgata.
  • Latina variorum Interpretum.
  • [144] Gallica.
  • Italica.
  • Hiſpanica, Germanica, &c.
  • Anglica.
  • in linguis Variis Hodiernis.
• Pſalteria.
• Pſalteria Metrica.
• Concordantiae & Lexica Biblica.
• Comment.
  • Biblicorum Scriptores.
  • Veterum.
  • Recentiorum.
• Patres
  • Graeci & Scriptores Eccleſiaſtici.
  • Latini & Scriptores Eccleſiaſtici.
• Concilia.
• Conciliorum Compendia.
• Hiſt. Eccleſiaſt.
• Vitae
  • Sanctorum & Theologorum.
  • Pontificum Rom.
• Hiſt.
  • Ord. Monaſtic.
  • Eccleſ.
    • Orientalis.
    • Linguis Hodiernis conſcripta.
• Theologia
  • Judaica.
  • Scholaſtica.
  • Aſcetica.
  • Miſcellanea.
• Catecheſes.
• Controverſiae
  • Theologicae.
  • Contra Judeos.
  • Graecorum Scripta contra Latinos.
  • Contra Eccleſ. Roman.
• Scriptores pro Romana Eccleſia.
• [145] Libri de Jeſuitarum Moribus.
• Libri
  • de Ritibus, Caeremoniis et Inſtitutis Eccleſiaſt.
  • De Ritibus Graecorum.
  • Liturgiae Graecorum.
• De Ritibus Rom. eccl. &c.
• Liturgiae.
  • Miſſalia Angliae, ſive ad uſum Eccleſiae Sa⯑riſburienſis.
  • Miſſalia Romana.
  • Miſſalia variarum Eccleſiarum.
• Liturgiae orientalium Eccleſiarum.
• Breviaria.
• Ritualia.
• Proceſſionalia.
  • Antiphonaria.
  • Litaniae.
  • Ceremonalia & Paſtoralia.
• Officia Mariae Virginis.
• Horae Romanae.
• Horae Sariſburienſis.
• Manualia.
• Hymnorum libri.
• Scriptores de Trinitate.
• Theologia Gallica.
• Scriptores de Ritibus Judaicis.

The catalogue having paſſed the preſs, turned out to be very voluminous, and being of a ſingular kind, Oſborne hoped to be able to make the public pay for it; to this end it was, that he directed Johnſon to draw up the preface, giving an account of the contents of the library, and containing a variety of arguments to vindicate a ſolicitation for a ſubſcription, that is to [146] ſay, a demand of five ſhillings for each volume of the catalogue, to defray the expence of printing it; the volume or volumes ſo purchaſed, to be taken in exchange for any book rated at the ſame value. This paper, of which a character has already been given, was, as I conjecture, a precurſor to the cata⯑logue, and was with great induſtry circulated through⯑out the kingdom. It anſwered its end; the catalogue was printed in five octavo volumes, the collectors and lovers of books bought it, and Oſborne was reim⯑burſed.

While the catalogue was compiling, Johnſon was fur⯑ther employed by Oſborne to ſelect from the many thou⯑ſand volumes of which the library conſiſted, all ſuch ſmall tracts and fugitive pieces as were of greateſt value or were moſt ſcarce, with a view to the reprint⯑ing and publiſhing them under the title of the Har⯑leian Miſcellany. To recommend a ſubſcription for printing the collection, propoſals were publiſhed con⯑taining an account of the undertaking, and an enume⯑ration of its contents, penned by Johnſon with great art; which being very ſhort, may itſelf be deemed a fugitive piece, and is therefore here inſerted.

We may well conclude that the propoſal met with all due encouragement, as the pieces recommended in it were in the year 1749, publiſhed in eight quarto volumes. To the firſt of them was prefixed, as an introduction, an eſſay on the origin and importance of ſmall tracts and fugitive pieces.

Oſborne was an opulent tradeſman, as may be judg⯑ed from his ability to make ſo large a purchaſe as that above-mentioned; he was uſed to boaſt that he was worth forty thouſand pounds, but of bookſellers he was one of the moſt ignorant: of title-pages or edi⯑tions he had no knowledge or remembrance, but in all the tricks and arts of his trade he was moſt expert. Johnſon, in his life of Pope ſays, that he was entirely deſtitute of ſhame, without ſenſe of any diſgrace, but that of poverty. He purchaſed a number of unſold copies of Mr. Pope's Iliad, of the folio ſize, printed on an inferior paper and without cuts, and cutting off the top and bottom margins, which were very large, had the impudence to call them the ſubſcription books, and [150] to vend them as ſuch^*. His inſolence to his cuſto⯑mers was alſo frequently paſt bearing. If one came for a book in his catalogue, he would endeavour to force on him ſome new publication of his own, and, if he refuſed, would affront him.

I mention the above particulars of this worthleſs fellow as an introduction to a fact reſpecting his be⯑haviour to Johnſon, which I have often heard related, and which himſelf confeſſed to be true. Johnſon, while employed in ſelecting pieces for the Harleian Miſcel⯑lany, was neceſſitated, not only to peruſe the title-page of each article, but frequently to examine its contents, in order to form a judgment of its worth and importance, in the doing whereof, it muſt be ſuppoſed, curioſity might ſometimes detain him too long, and whenever it did, Oſborne was offended. Seeing Johnſon one day deeply engaged in peruſing a book, and the work being for the inſtant at a ſtand, he reproached him with in⯑attention and delay, in ſuch coarſe language as few men would uſe, and ſtill fewer could brook: the other in his juſtification aſſerted ſomewhat, which Oſborne anſwered by giving him the lie; Johnſon's anger at ſo ſoul a charge, was not ſo great as to make him for⯑get that he had weapons at hand: he ſeized a folio that lay near him, and with it felled his adverſary to the ground, with ſome exclamation, which, as it is dif⯑ferently related, I will not venture to repeat.

This tranſaction, which has been ſeldom urged with any other view than to ſhew that Johnſon was of [151] an iraſcible temper, is generally related as an entertain⯑ing ſtory: with me it has always been a ſubject of me⯑lancholy reflection. In our eſtimation of the enjoy⯑ments of this life, we place wiſdom, virtue, and learn⯑ing in the firſt claſs, and riches and other adventitious gifts of fortune in the laſt. The natural ſubordination of the one to the other we ſee and approve, and when that is diſturbed we are ſorry. How then muſt it affect a ſenſible mind to contemplate that misfortune, which could ſubject a man endued with a capacity for the higheſt offices, a philoſopher, a poet, an orator, and, if fortune had ſo ordered, a chancellor, a prelate, a ſtateſman, to the inſolence of a mean, worthleſs, ig⯑norant fellow, who had nothing to juſtify the ſuperi⯑ority he exerciſed over a man ſo endowed, but thoſe advantages which Providence indiſcriminately diſpenſes to the worthy and the worthleſs! to ſee ſuch a man, for the ſupply of food and raiment, ſubmitting to the commands of his inferior, and, as a hireling, look⯑ing up to him for the reward of his work, and receiv⯑ing it accompanied with reproach and contumely, this, I ſay, is a ſubject of melancholy reflection.

Having completed the Harleian catalogue and miſ⯑cellany, and thereby diſengaged himſelf from Oſborne, Johnſon was at liberty to purſue ſome ſcheme of profit, leſs irkſome than that in which he had ſo lately been employed. Biography was a kind of writing that he delighted in; it called forth his powers of reflection, and gave him occaſion to contemplate human life and manners. He had made ſome eſſays of his ta⯑lent in the lives of Barretier and Boerhaave, men un⯑known to him, and was now prompted to give to the [152] world that of a friend with whom he had been cloſely intimate, whoſe ſingular character and adverſe fortunes afforded ample ſcope for diſcuſſion, and fur⯑niſhed matter for many admirable leſſons of mo⯑rality.

This friend was Savage, of whom it has above been related, that his friends had undertaken to raiſe an annual ſubſcription for his ſupport at Swanſea in Wales, but that his departure for that place was retarded by ſome difficulties that occurred in the courſe of their endeavours to raiſe it: theſe, however, were overcome, and Savage, in July 1739, took leave of London, and alſo of Johnſon, who, as himſelf tells us, parted from him with tears in his eyes. His ſub⯑ſequent hiſtory is, that taking his way through Briſtol, he was for ſome time detained there by an embargo on the ſhipping. After ſome ſtay he was enabled to de⯑part, and he reached Swanſea; but not liking the place, and reſenting the treatment of his contributors, who ſeem to have been ſlack in the performance of their engagements to ſupport him, he returned to Briſtol with an intent to come to London, a purpoſe he was hindered from effecting by an arreſt of his perſon, on the 10th of January 1742-3, for the ſmall ſum of eight pounds, and carried to Newgate in that city, where, not being able to extricate himſelf from his confinement, he, on the 31ſt day of July, in the ſame year, died.

This event, and the affection which he had long en⯑tertained for the man, called forth Johnſon to an exer⯑ciſe of his pen, which, as it is ſaid, employed it only thirty-ſix hours, in a narrative of events ſo ſingular [153] as could ſcarcely fail to gratify the curioſity of every one who wiſhed to be inſtructed in the ſcience of human life. The ſubject was ſuch an one as is ſeldom exhibited to view; a man dropped into the world as from a cloud, committed to the care of thoſe who had little intereſt in his preſervation, and none in the forming his temper, or the infuſing into him thoſe little precepts of morality, which might germinate in his mind, and be productive of habitual virtue; theſe are advantages which children of the loweſt birth enjoy, in ſome degree, in common with thoſe of a higher; but of theſe he never participated. All the knowledge he attained to, from his infancy upwards, was ſelf-acquired, and, bating that he was born in a city where the refinements of civil life preſented to his view a rule of moral conduct, he may be ſaid to have been little leſs a miracle than Hai Ebn Yokdhan is feigned to be.

It has been obſerved of thoſe children who owe their nurture and education to a certain benevolent inſtitution in this metropolis, that being by their misfortune ſtrangers to thoſe charities that ariſe from the relations of father, ſon, and brother, their charac⯑ters aſſume a complexion that marks their conduct through life. The ſame may be ſaid of Savage, and will perhaps account for that want of gratitude to his benefactors, and other defects in his temper, with which he ſeems to have been juſtly chargeable.

The manner in which Johnſon has written this life is very judicious: it afforded no great actions to cele⯑brate, no improvements in ſcience to record, nor any variety of events to remark on. It was a ſucceſſion [154] of diſappointments, and a complication of miſeries; and as it was an uniform contradiction to the axiom that human life is chequered with good and evil acci⯑dents, was alone ſingular. The virtues and vices which like flowers and weeds ſprang up together, and perhaps with an equal degree of vigour, in the mind of this unfortunate man, afforded, it is true, a ſubject of ſpeculation, and Johnſon has not failed to avail himſelf of ſo extraordinary a moral phenomenon as that of a mind exalted to a high degree of improve⯑ment without the aid of culture.

But if the events of Savage's life are few, the reflections thereon are many, ſo that the work may as well be deemed a ſeries of oeconomical precepts as a narrative of facts. In it is contained a character, which may be ſaid to be ſui generis; a woman who had proclaimed her crimes, and ſolicited reproach, diſowning from the inſtant of his birth, and procuring to be illegitimated by parliament, her own ſon, doom⯑ing him to poverty and obſcurity, and launching him upon the ocean of life, only that he might be ſwallowed by its quick-ſands, or daſhed upon its rocks, and laſtly, endeavouring to rid herſelf from the danger of being at any time made known to him, by ſecretly ſending him to the American plantations.

It farther exhibits to view, a man of genius deſtitute of relations and friends, and with no one to direct his purſuits, becoming an author by neceſſity, and a writer for the ſtage, and forming ſuch connections as that profeſſion leads to, ſometimes improving, and at others ſlighting them, but at all times acting with a ſpirit that better became his birth than his circum⯑ſtances; [155] for who that knew how to diſtinguiſh between one and the other, would, like Savage, have ſolicited aſſiſtance, and ſpurned at the offer of it? or repaid reiterated kindneſſes with neglect or oblivious taci⯑turnity?

Interſperſed in the courſe of the narrative are a great variety of moral ſentiments, prudential maxims, and miſcellaneous obſervations on men and things; but the ſentiment that ſeems to pervade the whole is, that idleneſs, whether voluntary or neceſſitated, is pro⯑ductive of the greateſt evils that human nature is ex⯑poſed to; and this the author exemplifies in an enu⯑meration of the calamities that a man is ſubjected to by the want of a profeſſion, and by ſhewing how far leſs happy ſuch an one muſt be than he who has only a mere manual occupation to depend on for his ſupport.

The concluding paragraph of the book explains the author's intention in writing it, and points out the uſe that may be made of it in ſuch pointed terms, that I ſhall need, as I truſt, no excuſe for inſerting ſo fine a ſpecimen of ſtile and ſentiment.

‘'This relation will not be wholly without its uſe, if thoſe who languiſh under any part of his ſuffer⯑ings ſhall be enabled to fortify their patience by re⯑flecting, that they feel only thoſe afflictions from which the abilities of Savage did not exempt him; or if thoſe who in confidence of ſuperior capacities or attainments, diſregard the common maxims of life, ſhall be reminded, that nothing will ſupply the want of prudence, and that negligence and irregu⯑larity long continued, will make knowledge uſeleſs, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible.'’

[156] This celebrated eſſay in biography was publiſhed in the month of February 1744, and gave occaſion to Henry Fielding, the author of a periodical paper intitled ‘'The Champion,'’ to commend it in theſe words: ‘'This pamphlet is, without flattery to its author, as juſt and well written a piece as, of its kind, I ever ſaw; ſo that, at the ſame time that it highly deſerves, it ſtands certainly very little in need of this recom⯑mendation.—As to the hiſtory of the unfortunate perſon whoſe memoirs compoſe this work, it is cer⯑tainly penned with equal accuracy and ſpirit, of which I am ſo much the better judge, as I knew many of the facts mentioned in it to be ſtrictly true, and very fairly related. Beſides, it is not only the ſtory of Mr. Savage, but innumerable incidents relating to other perſons and other affairs, which render this a very amuſing, and withal, a very inſtructive and valuable performance. The author's obſerva⯑tions are ſhort, ſignificant and juſt, as his narrative is remarkably ſmooth and well diſpoſed: his re⯑flections open to us all the receſſes of the human heart, and, in a word, a more juſt or pleaſant, a more engaging or a more improving treatiſe on the excellencies and defects of human nature, is ſcarce to be found in our own or perhaps in any other language.'’

The life I am now writing ſeems to divide itſelf into two periods; the firſt marked by a ſeries of afflic⯑tions, the laſt by ſome cheering rays of comfort and comparative affluence. Johnſon, at this time, had paſſed nearly the half of his days: here, therefore, let me make a ſtand, and having hitherto repreſented [157] him in his literary, endeavour to exhibit him in his religious, moral, and oeconomical character, adverting firſt to ſuch particulars reſpecting the courſe of life he had choſen, and the evils to which it expoſed him, as ſeem properly to belong to the firſt member of the above diviſion.

As the narrowneſs of his father's circumſtances had ſhut him out of thoſe profeſſions for which an univer⯑ſity education is a neceſſary qualification, and his project of an academy had failed, he had, as to his courſe of life, no choice but idleneſs or the exerciſe of his talents in a way that might afford him ſubſiſtence, and provide for the day that was paſſing over him, ſo that the profeſſion of an author was the only one in his power to adopt. That it was far from an eligible one, he had in ſome degree experienced, and his averſion to labour magnified the evils of it, by bringing to his recollection the examples of Am⯑hurſt, of Savage, of Boyſe^*, and many others, [158] from which he inferred, that ſlavery and indigence were its inſeparable concomitants, and reflecting on [159] the lives and conduct of theſe men, might fear that it had a neceſſary tendency to corrupt the mind, and [160] render the followers of it, with reſpect to religion, to politics, and even to morality, altogether indifferent. Nor could he be ignorant of that mortifying depen⯑dence which the profeſſion itſelf expoſes men to, a profeſſion that leads to no preferment, and for its [161] moſt laborious exertions confers no greater a reward than a ſupply of natural wants.

Ralph, a writer of this claſs, and who had formed ſome ſuch connections as would have flattered the hopes of any man, was the tool of that party of which the late lord Melcombe laboured to be the head. To ſerve the intereſts of it, he wrote a periodical paper, and a voluminous hiſtory of England, fraught with ſuch principles as he was required to diſſeminate. This man, in a pamphlet intitled ‘'The caſe of authors by profeſſion,'’ has enumerated all the evils that attend it, and ſhewn it to be the laſt that a liberal mind would chooſe.

All this Johnſon knew and had duly weighed: the leſſer evils of an author's profeſſion, ſuch as a depen⯑dence on bookſellers, and a precarious income, he was able to endure, and the greater, that is to ſay, the proſtitution of his talents, he averted; for, whatever ſacrifices of their principles ſuch men as Waller, Dryden, and others, have made in their writings, or to whatever lengths they may have gone in panegyrics or adulatory addreſſes, his integrity was not to be warped: his religious and political opini⯑ons he retained and cheriſhed; and in a ſullen confi⯑dence in the ſtrength of his mental powers, diſdained to ſolicit patronage by any of the arts in common uſe with writers of almoſt every denomination. That this firmneſs was not affected, will appear by a retro⯑ſpect to the methods he took for the attainment of knowledge, and the ſettling his notions as to the great duties of life.

His courſe of ſtudy at the univerſity was irregular and deſultory, and ſcarcely determined as to its object. [162] Mathematics and phyſics he had but little reliſh for, from whence it may be inferred, that his natural powers had received comparatively but ſmall improve⯑ment from an academical education. An habitual diſpoſition to thought and reflection enabled him how⯑ever upon his leaving it, to attain to that degree of im⯑provement which, in many minds, is not effected with⯑out intenſe application and labour; and the ſentiments of piety which he had imbibed in his youth, directed him to thoſe ſtudies, which, without attending to ſecular rewards, he thought of greateſt importance to his future happineſs. In conformity to this motive, he applied himſelf to the ſtudy of the Holy Scriptures, and the evidences of religion, to the writings of the fathers and of the Greek moraliſts, to eccleſiaſtical and civil hiſtory, and to claſſical literature and philology.

The reſult of theſe his mental exerciſes was a thorough conviction of the truth of the Chriſtian religion, an adherence to the doctrine and diſcipline of our eſtabliſhed church, and to that form of civil government which we number among the bleſſings derived to us from the wiſdom and bravery of our anceſtors, with this farther advantage, that they rooted in his mind thoſe principles of religion, morality, and I will add, loyalty, that influenced his conduct during the remainder of his life.

To ſpeak of the firſt, his religion, it had a tincture o enthuſiaſm, ariſing, as is conjectured, from the fervou of his imagination, and the peruſal of St. Auguſtin and other of the fathers, and the writings of Kempi and the aſcetics, which prompted him to the employ ment of compoſing meditations and devotional exer [163] ciſes. It farther produced in him an habitual reverence for the name of God, which he was never known to utter but on proper occaſions and with due reſpect, and operated on thoſe that were admitted to his con⯑verſation as a powerful reſtraint of all profane diſcourſe, and idle diſcuſſions of theological queſtions; and, laſtly, it inſpired him with that charity, meaning thereby a general concern for the welfare of all man⯑kind, without which we are told that all pretenſions to religion are vain.

To enable him at times to review his progreſs in life, and to eſtimate his improvement in religion, he, in the year 1734, began to note down the tranſactions of each day, recollecting, as well as he was able, thoſe of his youth, and interſperſing ſuch reflections and reſolutions as, under particular circumſtances, he was induced to make. This regiſter, which he intitled ‘'Annales,'’ does not form an entire volume, but is contained in a variety of little books folded and ſtitched together by himſelf, and which were found mix⯑ed with his papers. Some ſpecimens of theſe notanda have been lately printed with his prayers; but to warrant what I have ſaid, reſpecting his religious cha⯑racter, I have ſelected from the ‘'Annales,'’ and inſert in the margin below, an earlier extract than any con⯑tained in that collection^*.

[164] His moral character diſplayed itſelf in the ſincerity of his friendſhips, his love of juſtice and of truth, and his placability; of all which qualities, the teſtimonies in his favour are innumerable. But as the character here propoſed to be given him is not intended to palliate his errors in behaviour, truth obliges me to ſay, that his outward deportment was in many inſtan⯑ces a juſt ſubject of cenſure. Before his arrival in town, he was but little accuſtomed to free conver⯑ſation with his ſuperiors, ſo that that kind of ſub⯑miſſion he had been uſed to pay them he ſeemed to exact from others, and when it was refuſed him he was petulant, captious, and dogged. His diſcourſe, which through life was of the didactic kind, was replete with original ſentiments expreſſed in the ſtrongeſt and moſt correct terms, and in ſuch language, that whoever could have heard and not ſeen him, would have thought him reading. For the pleaſure he com⯑municated to his hearers, he expected not the tribute of ſilence: on the contrary, he encouraged others, particularly young men, to ſpeak, and paid a due at⯑tention to what they ſaid; but his prejudices were ſo ſtrong and deeply rooted, more eſpecially againſt Scotchmen and whigs, that whoever thwarted him ran the riſque of a ſevere rebuke, or at beſt be⯑came entangled in an unpleaſant altercation.

He was ſcarce ſettled in town before this dogmatical behaviour, and his impatience of contradiction, became [165] a part of his character, and deterred many perſons of learning, who wiſhed to enjoy the delight of his con⯑verſation, from ſeeking his acquaintance. There were not wanting thoſe among his friends who would ſome⯑times hint to him, that the conditions of free con⯑verſation imply an equality among thoſe engaged in it, which are violated whenever ſuperiority is aſſumed: their reproofs he took kindly, and would in excuſe for what they called the pride of learning, ſay, that it was of the defenſive kind. The repetition of theſe had, however, a great effect on him; they abated his preju⯑dices, and produced a change in his temper and man⯑ners that rendered him at length a deſirable companion in the moſt polite circles.

In the leſſer duties of morality he was remiſs: he ſlept when he ſhould have ſtudied, and watched when he ſhould have been at reſt: his habits were ſlovenly, and the neglect of his perſon and garb ſo great as to render his appearance diſguſting. He was an ill huſband of his time, and ſo regardleſs of the hours of reſection, that at two he might be found at break⯑faſt, and at dinner at eight. In his ſtudies, and I may add, in his devotional exerciſes, he was both intenſe and remiſs, and in the proſecution of his literary em⯑ployments, dilatory and haſty, unwilling, as himſelf confeſſed, to work, and working with vigour and haſte^*.

His indolence, or rather the delight he took in reading and reflection, rendered him averſe to bodily exertions. He was ill made for riding, and took ſo [166] little pleaſure in it, that, as he once told me, he has fallen aſleep on his horſe. Walking he ſeldom prac⯑tiſed, perhaps for no better reaſon, than that it requir⯑ed the previous labour of dreſſing. In a word, mental occupation was his ſole pleaſure, and the knowledge he acquired in the purſuit of it he was ever ready to com⯑municate: in which faculty he was not only excellent but expert; for, as it is related of lord Bacon by one who knew him^*, that ‘'in all companies he appeared a good proficient, if not a maſter, in thoſe arts entertained for the ſubject of every one's diſcourſe,'’ and that ‘'his moſt caſual talk deſerved to be written,'’ ſo it may be ſaid of Johnſon, that his converſation was ever ſuited to the profeſſion, condition, and capacity of thoſe with whom he talked.

Of a mind thus ſtored it is ſurely not too much to ſay, that it qualified the poſſeſſor of it for many more important employments than the inſtruction of non-adults in the elements of literature; yet ſo humbly did he ſeem to think of himſelf when he publiſhed the advertiſement of his little academy at Edial, that to be able to eſtabliſh it, was the utmoſt of his ambition; but that hope failing, his neceſſities drove him to London, and placed him in the ſtation of life in which we are now to contemplate him.

It has been mentioned in a preceding page, that in the courſe of his ſtudies he had formed a liſt of literary undertakings, on which, when time ſhould ſerve or occaſion invite, he meant to exerciſe his pen: but ſuch was the verſatility of his temper, that of forty-nine articles which he had fixed [167] on, not one appears to have engaged his future at⯑tention. Among the reſt he had purpoſed to give a hiſtory of the revival of learning in Europe, and alſo a compariſon of philoſophical and chriſtian mo⯑rality, by ſentences collected from the moraliſts and fathers^*. The former of theſe, as it required the labour of deep reſearch, and the peruſal of a great variety of authors, was a work that we may ſuppoſe he was deterred from by frequent reflections on the pains it would coſt him; but that he ſhould abandon a work ſo eaſy in the execution, and ſo much to the credit of the religion he profeſſed, as the latter, is not leſs to be wondered at than lamented.

Theſe projects of Johnſon were moſt of them re⯑ſolved on in his earlier days, but it is not improbable that he was induced to give them up by the proſpect of the gain that might ariſe from the publication of a new edition of Shakeſpeare, which it is certain he meditated, about the year 1745. To an undertak⯑ing of this kind the temptations were very ſtrong, for, beſides that the former editors had fallen ſhort in their endeavours to explain and ſettle the text, he had great reaſon to hope it would be well received, for at that time it was obſervable, that the taſte of the public was refining, and that the lovers of ſtage entertainments and dramatic literature had begun to nauſeate the tragedies and comedies of the laſt age, which were formed after French models, and to diſcern the beauties and excellencies of this au⯑thor.

[168] That this hope was not ill-grounded, may rea⯑ſonably be inferred from the ſucceſs of thoſe many editions of this author that have appeared ſince the above time, of one whereof above eleven thouſand copies have been ſold, and next, from the effects of Mr. Garrick's acting, which had revived the exhibition of Shakeſpeare's plays, and excited readers of every claſs to the peruſal of them.

But, perhaps, the greateſt of Johnſon's temptations to this undertaking, ſaving at all times his neceſſities, was, a deſire to diſplay his ſkill in Engliſh literature and rational criticiſm in their wideſt extent, in both which requiſites the deficiences of the former edi⯑tions were obvious. Of thoſe of the players and others, down to the year 1685, little in favour can be ſaid: the firſt that made any pretenſions to correctneſs was that of Rowe in 1709, and next to that, Mr. Pope's in 4to, 1723. Whatever other were the merits of theſe two perſons, it is certain that neither of them was ſufficiently qualified for the taſk he had undertaken; not that they wanted the power of diſcerning the ex⯑cellences of their author, or clearing his page of many corruptions that had long obſcured his ſenſe, but that they were deficient in that lower kind of literature, without which all endeavours to fix or explain the text of an old writer will ever be found to be vain.

To this kind of knowledge, as far as may be judged from the courſe of his ſtudies, and indeed from the preface to his edition, Rowe had not the leaſt preten⯑ſion. Nor does it appear that Pope was at all con⯑verſant with, or that he underſtood the phraſeology [169] of the writers contemporary with his author. So little was he uſed to that kind of reading, that, as himſelf confeſſed, he had never heard of the Virgidemiarum of biſhop Hall, a collection of the wittieſt and moſt pointed ſatires in our language, till it was ſhewn to him, and that ſo late in his life, that he could only expreſs his approbation of it by a wiſh that he had ſeen it ſooner. That vernacular erudition, contemptible as it has been repreſented, is an indiſpenſable qualification for the reſtoring or explaining the ſenſe of corrupted or obſo⯑lete authors, and even of thoſe more recent, is moſt clearly evidenced in one caſe by the later editions of our great dramatic poet, and in the other by Dr. Grey's edition of Hudibras, without the aſſiſtance whereof, the many alluſions to facts, circumſtances, and ſitua⯑tions therein contained, muſt for ever have remained unintelligible. Theobald was the firſt of this claſs of editors. For the purpoſe of publiſhing Shakeſpeare, he, in the preface to his firſt edition, aſſerts, that he had read no fewer than eight hundred old Engliſh plays, beſides hiſtories and novels to a great amount; and the ſame kind of ſtudy has, with different degrees of aſſiduity, been purſued by others, even to the laſt of his ſucceſſors.

With theſe inducements, and the aid of two va⯑luable editions then extant, Theobald's and that of Sir Thomas Hanmer, Johnſon projected a new one, and, as a ſpecimen of his abilities for the undertaking, publiſhed in the year 1745, ‘'Miſcellaneous obſerva⯑tions on the tragedy of Macbeth, with remarks on Sir Thomas Hanmer's edition of Shakeſpeare,'’ with propoſals for one by himſelf. Theſe obſervations, as [170] they go rather to adjuſt the various readings, and ſettle the text by conjectural notes, than explain alluſions, did not enough attract the notice of the public to induce him actually to engage in the work; they were however evidences of great ſagacity, and drew from Dr. War⯑burton a teſtimony that ſet him above all other com⯑petitors; for thus does he ſpeak of Johnſon: ‘'As to all thoſe things which have been publiſhed under the tirles of Eſſays, Remarks, Obſervations, &c. on Shakeſpeare, (if you except ſome critical notes on Macbeth, given as a ſpecimen of a projected edition, and written as appears by a man of parts and genius) the reſt are abſolutely below a ſerious notice;'’ and Johnſon, who never forgot a kindneſs, remembered it by mentioning Warburton in terms of great re⯑ſpect, as occaſion offered, in his edition of Shakeſpeare, which he publiſhed many years after.

By this and other of Johnſon's writings, his reputa⯑tion as a ſcholar and a philogiſt was ſo well eſtabliſh⯑ed, that the bookſellers of greateſt opulence in the city, who had long meditated the publication of a dictionary, after the model of thoſe of France and the Academia della Cruſca, looked upon him as a fit perſon to be employed in ſuch an undertaking. He was at that time in the vigour of his life, and by the offer of a li⯑beral reward from men of ſuch known worth as thoſe were who made it, was tempted to engage with them, and accordingly ſet himſelf to compile that work, which, he living to complete it, does him and all con⯑cerned in it great honour.

Nor can we ſuppoſe but that he was in a great mea⯑ſure incited to the proſecution of this laborious work [171] by a reflection on the ſtate of our language at this time, from the imperfection of all Engliſh dictionaries then extant, and the great diſtance in point of im⯑provement in this kind of literature between us and ſome of our neighbours. And here let me take oc⯑caſion, by an enumeration of the ſeveral authors that had gone before him, to point out the ſources of that intelligence which Johnſon's voluminous work contains.

Of Latin dictionaries and ſuch as give the ſigni⯑fications of Engliſh appellatives with a view only to illuſtrate the Latin, he muſt be ſuppoſed to have made ſome uſe, and of theſe the earlieſt is Sir Thomas Elyot's Bibliotheca Eliotae, publiſhed in 1541. This was improved by Cooper after many years' labor, by the addition of 33000 words, and publiſhed in 1565 in a large folio, and was a reaſon with Queen Elizabeth for promoting him to the biſhopric of Lincoln.^*

In 1572 was publiſhed an Alvearie or quadruple dictionary of four ſundry tongues, namely, Engliſh, Latin, Greek and French, by John Baret of Cambridge, complied with the aſſiſtance of his pupils, but arranged and methodized by himſelf. This fact he ingenuouſly [172] confeſſed in his preface, which, as a literary curioſity, is inſerted below.^*

To Baret's ſucceeded John Minſheu's Guide into the tongues, firſt publiſhed in 1617 in eleven, and in 1627 in nine languages, but with a conſi⯑derable increaſe in the number of radical words. In this the author undertakes to give the etymologies or derivations of the greater part of the words therein contained, but as they amount at the moſt to no more than 14713, the work muſt be deemed not ſufficiently copious.

In 1656, Thomas Blount a lawyer of the Inner Temple, publiſhed a ſmall volume, intitled ‘'Gloſſo⯑graphia, [173] or a dictionary interpreting ſuch hard words, whether Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, &c. that are now uſed in our refined Engliſh tongue, &c.'’ in which the articles though few are well explained. This book, as far as it went, was of ſingular uſe to Edward Philips, a nephew and pupil of Milton, in the compilation of a dictionary by him publiſhed in folio, 1657, intitled ‘'The New World of Words,'’ which, as it is much more copious than that of Blount, and comprehends a great quantity of matter, muſt be looked on as the baſis of Engliſh lexicography.

Of technical as alſo of etymological dictionaries, many have long been extant, namely, The Inter⯑preter [174] or Law Dictionary of Dr. Cowell a civilian, a Common-Law Dictionary of the above Thomas Blount, the Etymologicum of Junius, and another of Skinner, both well known and frequently referred to, and of theſe did Johnſon avail himſelf.

The dictionary of Nathan Bailey a ſchool-maſter, was firſt publiſhed in a thick octavo volume, ſo well diſpoſed with reſpect to the character and method of printing, as to contain more matter than could otherwiſe have been comprized in a vo⯑lume of that ſize. After it had paſſed many editions with improvements by the author himſelf, he medi⯑tated an enlargement of it, and being aſſiſted in the [175] mathematical part by Mr. Gordon, in the botanical by the famous gardener Philip Miller, and in the ety⯑mological by Mr. Lediard, a profeſſor of the modern languages, it was publiſhed in a folio ſize. The laſt improvement of it was by Dr. Joſeph Nicoll Scott, who, of a diſſenting teacher had become a phyſician and a writer for the bookſellers.

Johnſon, who before this time, together with his wife, had lived in obſcurity, lodging at different houſes in the courts and alleys in and about the Strand and Fleet ſtreet, had, for the purpoſe of carrying on this arduous work, and being near the printers employed in it, taken a handſome houſe in Gough ſquare, and fitted up a room in it with deſks and other accommo⯑dations for amanuenſes, who, to the number of five or ſix, he kept conſtantly under his eye. An interleaved copy of Bailey's dictionary in folio he made the repo⯑ſitory of the ſeveral articles, and theſe he collected by inceſſant reading the beſt authors in our language, in the practice whereof, his method was to ſcore with a black-lead pencil the words by him ſelected, and give them over to his aſſiſtants to inſert in their places. The books he uſed for this purpoſe were what he had in his own collection, a copious but a miſerably ragged one, and all ſuch as he could borrow; which latter, if ever they came back to thoſe that lent them, were ſo defaced as to be ſcarce worth owning, and yet, ſome of his friends were glad to receive and entertain them as curioſities.

It ſeems that Johnſon had made a conſiderable progreſs in his work when he was informed, that the earl of Cheſterfield had heard and ſpoken favourably of his deſign. He had never till this time experi⯑enced [176] the patronage of any other than bookſellers, and though he had but an indiſtinct idea of that of a nobleman, a reputed wit, and an accompliſhed courtier, and doubted whether he was to rate it among the happy incidents of his life, it might mean a liberal preſent or an handſome penſion to encourage him in the proſecution of the work; he therefore reſolved not to reject it by a ſupercilious compariſon of his own talents with thoſe of his lordſhip, or to ſlight a favour which he was not able to eſtimate. Accordingly, he in the year 1747, drew up and dedicated to lord Cheſterfield, then a ſecretary of ſtate, a plan of his dictionary, the manuſcript whereof he delivered to Mr. Whitehead the late laureat, who undertook to convey it to his lordſhip, but he having communicated it firſt to another perſon, it paſſed through other hands be⯑fore it reached that to which it was immediately di⯑rected: the reſult was an invitation from lord Cheſter⯑field to the author.

Never could there be a ſtronger contraſt of characters than this interview produced: a ſcholar and a courtier, the one ignorant of the forms and modes of addreſs, the other, to an affected degree, ac⯑compliſhed in both: the one in a manly and ſenten⯑tious ſtile directing his diſcourſe to a weighty ſubject; the other dreading to incur the imputation of pedantry, and by the interpoſition of compliments and the intro⯑duction of new topics as artfully endeavouring to evade it. The acquaintance thus commenced was never im⯑proved into friendſhip. What his lordſhip thought of Johnſon we may learn from his letters to an illegi⯑timate ſon, now extant^*. Johnſon was ſo little pleaſed [177] with his once ſuppoſed patron, that he forbore not ever after to ſpeak of him in terms of the greateſt contempt.

How far Johnſon was right in his opinion of this popular nobleman, or whether he is to be ſuſpected of having reſented more than he ought to have done, the coldneſs of his reception, or the diſappointment of his hopes, will beſt appear by a ſurvey of his character, as it ariſes out of the memoirs of his life prefixed to his miſcellaneous works, and the ſentiments and prin⯑ciples which, for the inſtruction of his ſon, he, in a courſe of letters to him, from time to time commu⯑nicated, and with the utmoſt ſolicitude laboured to inculcate and enforce.

His lordſhip's deſcent was from an illuſtrious, though not a very ancient family. Being, as himſelf relates, rather neglected by his father, and in his tender years bereft of his mother, the care of his education devolved on his grandmother, the marchioneſs of Halifax, a woman of exemplary virtue and diſcretion, who fearing, perhaps, the contagion of a public ſemi⯑nary, kept him in her family, and with the beſt aſſiſ⯑tance of inſtructors that ſhe could procure, conferred on him all the benefits that could be hoped for in a courſe of domeſtic education.

At the age of eighteen he was ſent to Trinity hall, Cambridge, where, as he informs us, he had a great deal of buſineſs on his hands, for he ſpent above an hour every day in ſtudying the civil law, and as much in philoſophy, and attended the mathemati⯑cal lectures of the blind man [profeſſor Saunderſon] ſo that, adds he, I am now fully employed. But not⯑withſtanding [178] this intenſe application to his ſtudies, this hopeful young nobleman ſeems to have brought from the univerſity leſs of what all ſuch ſeminaries profeſs to teach, ſound learning and good morals, than a hatred of that pedantry and illiberality of manners, which, throughout his writings, he reprobates as the inſeparable concomitant of all academical inſtitutions.

As I have not taken upon me the office of his lord⯑ſhip's biographer, I ſhall content myſelf with mention⯑ing only thoſe circumſtances of his life and conduct that may ſerve to diſplay his genuine character, and enable the world to determine whether it was ſuch a one as a wiſe man would chuſe as a model for imitation, or the ſtandard by which he would form his own.

After about two years ſtay at the univerſity, lord Stanhope, for that was then his only title, went abroad to travel, and at that enchanting place the Hague, began to be acquainted with the world. The college ruſt, which, if we may believe his panegyriſt, he con⯑tracted in the univerſity during ſo long a reſidence there, he found means to rub off, and exchanged for the poliſh of gaming, which rendered him the dupe of knaves and ſharpers almoſt throughout his life, and this not from any real propenſity to this pernicious vice, ariſing either from avarice or the exerciſe of thoſe mental powers that make it a delight to many, but to acquire, what throughout his life he ſeems to have above all things been deſirous of, the inſipid cha⯑racter of a man of faſhion.

Nature, it muſt be owned, had endowed him with fine parts, and theſe he cultivated with all the induſtry uſually practiſed by ſuch as prefer the ſemblance of [179] what is really fit, juſt, lovely, honourable, to the qua⯑lities themſelves; thus he had eloquence without learning, complaiſance without friendſhip, and gal⯑lantry without love.

Not much to his honour, he, in the year 1715, ſuffered himſelf to be choſen for a Corniſh borough, and took his ſeat in the houſe of commons, at an age when it was in the power of any ſingle member, by the ſpeaking of a very few words, to have turned him out of it. Upon a hint of his incapacity, occaſioned by a pert ſpeech of his making, he had the prudence to quit the houſe and retire to Paris, glad of an op⯑portunity of finiſhing his noviciate in a city that abounded with thoſe pleaſures and amuſements that beſt ſuit with a mind to which ſtudy and the rational exerciſe of its faculties are labour.

Upon the death of his father in 1726, he ſucceeded to his title, and his ſeat in the houſe of peers. His ſpeeches in that aſſembly, which were, though flimſy, florid, gave him, as that ſpecies of eloquence will ever do, the reputation of a fine orator; and in this he was ſo confident, that he has not ſcrupled to confeſs, that he has ſpoken with great applauſe, as on the bill for reforming the calendar, on ſubjects that he under⯑ſtood not. ‘'For my own part,' ſays he, 'I could juſt as ſoon have talked Celtic or Sclavonian to them [the lords] as aſtronomy, and they would have underſtood me full as well; ſo I reſolved to do better than ſpeak to the purpoſe, and to pleaſe inſtead of informing them;'’ and for this he gives as a reaſon, what per⯑haps will be found to be a true one, that every nu⯑merous ^* [180] merous aſſembly is a mob, and to ſuch a one reaſon and good ſenſe are never to be talked.

In addition to his character of an orator and a ſtateſ⯑man, he was emulous of that of a poet, his pretenſions to which were founded on ſundry little compoſitions in verſe that from time to time appeared in collections of that kind; elegant it muſt be confeſſed; but gene⯑rally immoral and oft times profane.

His diſſimulation, deep and refined as it was, did not lead him to profeſs any ſincere regard to virtue or religion: the groſſer immoralities he affects to ſpeak of with abhorrence; but ſuch as might be practiſed without the loſs of health and reputation he ſeemed to think there was no law againſt. He was therefore, if ſecret, vain in his amours, and though, ſetting aſide his mien, his perſon had little to recommend it, for he was low of ſtature, had coarſe features, and a ca⯑daverous complexion^*, his confidence in the proſe⯑cution of them was ſuch as expoſed him to greater riſques of perſonal ſafety than moſt men would chuſe to run; and of this I ſhall now produce an in⯑ſtance.

A lady of high quality, and a relation of one who had the ſtory from her own mouth and told it me, having been married ſome few years but never having brought her lord a child, was ſurpriſed one morning by a viſit from lord Cheſterfield, whom ſhe had frequently ſeen and converſed with at court. After the uſual compli⯑ments [181] had paſſed, his lordſhip in that eaſy gay ſtyle which he ſo ſtrongly recommends to his ſon, gave her to underſtand, that he ſhould be happy to form ſuch a connection with her ladyſhip, as it was more than probable might give being to an heir to the honours and poſſeſſions of that noble family into which ſhe had matched. I will not attempt to deſcribe the indigna⯑tion which the lady felt at ſuch an unexampled inſtance of impudence as the propoſal indicated. She roſe from her chair, and with all the dignity of inſulted modeſty, commanded this well-bred lover, this minion of the graces, to quit her houſe, with this menace, ‘'Think yourſelf well off, my lord, that for this affront I do not order my ſervants to puſh you headlong out of doors.'’

It is a refinement in modern gallantry, but an affront to human policy, to recognize in public, by the un⯑qualified appellation of ſon, thoſe to whom the laws of moſt civilized countries deny not only that but the privilege of heirs; yet this has this ſlave to forms and uſages done in a ſeries of letters to a young gentleman begotten by him out of wedlock, and in the life-time of one to whom we muſt ſuppoſe he once tendered himſelf, his honours, his poſſeſſions, and his heart. With a ſolicitude for his welfare, commendable it muſt be ſaid in its general intention, he takes on himſelf to mold his perſon, to form his manners, and to furniſh his mind. In the firſt of theſe particulars his lordſhip had great difficulties to encounter: the clay he had choſen to work upon was ſtiff, and reſiſted the plaſtic touch: the boy was encumbered with fleſh, and na⯑ture had ſo careleſsly compacted his limbs as ſcarcely [182] to leave them the power of flexure. In a word, in in⯑fancy he was ſhapeleſs, and in youth a looby. Never did a ſhe-bear with more anxious aſſiduity labour to lick her cub into ſhape than this fond parent did to correct the errors of nature in the formation of this his darling: the head, the ſhoulders and the hands, were, by turns, the objects of his care; but the legs and feet ſeem to have engaged moſt of his attention: theſe upon his being ſent abroad, were committed to the care of a dancing-maſter at Paris, whoſe inſtructions he eſti⯑mates at a higher rate than the precepts of Ariſtotle^*. He recommends to form his manners les agrémens et les graces,^† les manieres, la tournure, et les uſages du beau monde^‡; and is perpetually reminding him of that trite maxim ‘'Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re.'^‖’

The beſt furniture of a young man's mind are the precepts of religion and ſound morality. Not a word of either of theſe do we meet with in two quarto volumes of thoſe letters which I am now citing, but in them precepts of a different kind, ſuch as reſpect his pleaſures, abound. Aſſuming an air of ſapience, which was not very natural to his lordſhip, he remarks, that in the courſe of the world the qualifications of the cameleon are often neceſſary, nay, they muſt be car⯑ried a little farther, and exerted a little ſooner; ‘'for you ſhould,' adds he, 'to a certain degree take the hue of either the man or woman that you want and wiſh to be upon terms with.'’ Fatherly curioſity then prompts him to an enquiry into certain particulars, which theſe his own words will go near to explain:—[183] ‘'Apropos: have you yet found out at Paris any friendly and hoſpitable Madame de Lurſay, qui veut bien ſe charger du ſoin de vous éduquer? And have you had any occaſion of repreſenting to her, qu'elle faiſoit donc des noeuds? But I aſk your pardon, Sir, for the abruptneſs of the queſtion, and acknow⯑ledge that I am meddling with matters that are out of my department. However, in matters of leſs importance I deſire to be de vos ſecrets le fidele dé⯑poſitaire. Truſt me with the general turn and colour of your amuſements at Paris. Is it le fracas du grand monde, comédies, bals, opéras, cour, &c.? Or is it des petites ſocietés moins bruiantes mais pas pour cela moins agréables? Where are you the moſt établi? Where are you le petit Stanhope? Voyez vous encore jour, à quelque arrangement honnête?'’ Letter 212.

Farther to initiate him into vice, he recommends to him the ‘'turning over men by day and women by night,'’ for thus it pleaſes him to render the pre⯑cept Nocturna verſate manu verſate diurna^*; and with matchleſs effrontery and total diſregard for the perſonal ſafety of him whom he is inſtructing, adviſes him, in effect, to riſque being run through the body, or the breaking his neck out of a bed-chamber win⯑dow, by commencing an intrigue with a new-married and virtuous young lady. Hear the documents of our Metnor to this purpoſe: ‘'Go,' ſays he, 'among women, with the good qualities of your ſex, and you will acquire from them the ſoftneſs and the graces of theirs. Men will then add affection to the eſteem [184] which they before had for you.—Women are the only refiners of the merit of men: it is true they cannot add weight; but they poliſh and give luſtre to it. Apropos: I am aſſured that Madame de Blot, although ſhe has no great regularity of features, is notwithſtanding, exceſſively pretty, and that for all that, ſhe has as yet been ſcrupulouſly conſtant to her huſband, though ſhe has now been married above a year. Surely ſhe does not reflect that woman wants poliſhing. I would have you poliſh one another reciprocally. Aſſiduities, at⯑tentions, tender looks, and paſſionate declarations on your ſide, will produce ſome irreſolute wiſhes at leaſt on hers, and when even the ſlighteſt wiſhes ariſe, the reſt will ſoon follow^*.'’

Finally, to attain theſe and the other ends which his lordſhip points out as the objects of his ſon's purſuit, he inculcates in the ſtrongeſt terms the practice of thoſe arts of crooked cunning, which, as lord Bacon has remarked, oftner defeat than effect their purpoſe, and together with theſe, the general exerciſe of that diſſimulation which was one of the moſt prominent features in his own character.

The letters from lord Cheſterfield to his ſon are two hundred and eighty-five in number. The precepts contained in them are multifarious, and it is to be feared that they have not only been adopted by many ignorant parents and indiſcreet tutors, but that they have greatly tended to corrupt the morals of the riſing generation. As an antidote to the poiſon which they muſt be ſuppoſed to have diffuſed, I ſhall [185] here inſert a letter of moral inſtruction from one of the wiſeſt and greateſt men that this nation ever had to boaſt of, to his ſon, and leave the reader to make the compariſon between it and thoſe of the nobleman of whom I am now ſpeaking. It is from Sir Henry Sydney to his ſon Philip, afterwards the famous Sir Philip, who, when arrived at the age of manhood, combining the qualities of a ſoldier, a ſcholar, a poet, and a courtier, was confeſſedly one of the moſt ac⯑compliſhed gentlemen in Europe.

The hopeful documents contained in this inſtitute of politeneſs, lord Cheſterfield's letters to his ſon, failed in a great meaſure of their end. His lordſhip's intereſt with the miniſtry, founded on a ſeat in par⯑liament, which, though a great declaimer againſt corruption, he bought as he would have done a horſe, procured him the appointment of an envoy-extraor⯑dinary to the court of Dreſden. We find not that the young man had any female attachments, but that on the contrary he had more grace than his father. He married a woman, who becoming a widow, and pro⯑voked by real or imaginary ill treatment of lord Cheſ⯑terfield, publiſhed thoſe letters, which, had he been living, he would have given almoſt any thing to have ſuppreſſed, as they ſhew him to have been a man devoted to pleaſure, and actuated by vanity, without religious, moral, or political principles, a ſmatterer in learning, and in manners a coxcomb.

Such was the perſon whom Johnſon in the ſimplicity of his heart choſe for a patron, and was betrayed to ce⯑lebrate as the Mecaenas of the age; and ſuch was the opinion he had conceived of his ſkill in literature, his love of eloquence, and his zeal for the intereſts of learn⯑ing, that he approached him with the utmoſt reſpect, and that he might not err in his manner of expreſſing [189] it, the ſtile and language of that addreſs which his plan includes are little leſs than adulatory. With a view farther to ſecure his patronage, he waited on him in perſon, and was honoured by him with con⯑verſations on the ſubject of literature, in which he found him ſo deficient as gave him occaſion to repent the choice he had made, and to ſay, that the labour he had beſtowed in his addreſs to lord Cheſterfield reſem⯑bled that of gilding a rotten poſt, that he was a wit among lords and a lord among wits, and that his accompliſhments were only thoſe of a dancing⯑maſter.

It is pretty well underſtood that, as Johnſon had choſen this nobleman for his patron, he meant to have dedicated to him his work, and he might poſſibly have done ſo, even after he had diſcovered that he was un⯑worthy of that honour; but the earl's behaviour in a particular inſtance prevented him. Johnſon one day made him a morning viſit, and being admitted into an anti-chamber, was told, that his lordſhip was engaged with a gentleman, but would ſee him as ſoon as the gentleman went. It was not till after an hour's wait⯑ing that Johnſon diſcovered that this gentleman was Colley Cibber, which he had no ſooner done, than he ruſhed out of the houſe with a reſolution never to enter it more.

What impreſſion Johnſon's viſits made upon his lordſhip, we are told by the latter in a character of him, which, as well for the ſake of the one as the other, I wiſh to be held forth to the public. Speaking, as his lordſhip is ever doing, to his ſon of the engaging manners, the pleaſing attentions, the graces, with the reſt of that nonſenſe which was ever floating in his [190] mind, he thus delineates the perſon, who, in language the moſt nervous and elegant had endeavoured to ren⯑der him reſpectable in the republic of letters, and in that particular to do for him what he was never able to do for himſelf. ‘'There is a man whoſe moral cha⯑racter, deep learning, and ſuperior parts, I acknow⯑ledge, admire, and reſpect; but whom it is ſo impoſſi⯑ble for me to love, that I am almoſt in a fever when⯑ever I am in his company. His figure (without being deformed) ſeems made to diſgrace or ridicule the common ſtructure of the human body. His legs and arms are never in the poſition which, according to the ſituation of his body, they ought to be in, but conſtantly employed in committing acts of hoſtility upon the graces. He throws any where, but down his throat, whatever he means to drink, and only mangles what he means to carve. Inattentive to all the regards of ſocial life, he miſ-times and miſ-places every thing. He diſputes with heat, and indiſcri⯑minately, mindleſs of the rank, character, and ſitua⯑tion of them with whom he diſputes: abſolutely ignorant of the ſeveral gradations of familiarity and reſpect, he is exactly the ſame to his ſuperiors, his equals, and his inferiors; and therefore, by a ne⯑ceſſary conſequence, abſurd to two of the three. Is it poſſible to love ſuch a man? No. The utmoſt I can do for him, is, to conſider him as a reſpectable Hottentor^*.'’ Had Socrates been living, and not learned, as we are told he did in his old age, to dance, lord Cheſterfield had paſſed the ſame cenſure on him.

Johnſon was, by this time, able to determine on a fact which, in his addreſs to this nobleman, he ex⯑preſſes [191] a doubt of, viz. whether the unexpected diſtinc⯑tion his lordſhip had ſhewn him, was to be rated among the happy incidents of his life: he was now convinced that it was not, and that, far from every thing like en⯑couragement or aſſiſtance, or what elſe is included in the idea of patronage, his lordſhip's approbation of his plan was to be the only recompence for the labour of drawing it out and reducing it to form. Beſides de⯑claring, whenever occaſion required it, his miſtake in ſuppoſing that lord Cheſterfield was either a judge of or a friend to literature, he expreſſed in a letter to his lordſhip himſelf his reſentment of the affront he had received at his laſt viſit, and concluded it with a formal renunciation for ever of his lordſhip's pa⯑tronage.

If Johnſon had reflected a moment on the little effect likely to be produced by a letter in which he pro⯑feſſed to reject that which he could not retain, he would never have wrote it. Thoſe evils which cannot be reme⯑died muſt be borne with patience, and to reſent injuries when we cannot enforce redreſs, is to give our adverſaries an occaſion of triumph: lord Cheſterfield knew this, and made no reply: when the dictionary was com⯑pleted and about to be publiſhed, he wrote two eſſays in a periodical paper, intitled ‘'The World,'’ that contain ſome forced compliments of the author, which being mentioned to Johnſon he rejected with ſcorn.

Further to appeaſe him, his lordſhip ſent two per⯑ſons, the one a ſpecious but empty man, Sir Thomas Robinſon, more diſtinguiſhed by the tallneſs of his [190] [...] [191] [...] [192] perſon than for any eſtimable qualities^*; the other an eminent painter now living. Theſe were inſtructed to apologize for his lordſhip's treatment of him, and to make him tenders of his future friendſhip and patro⯑nage. Sir Thomas, whoſe talent was flattery, was profuſe in his commendations of Johnſon and his writings, and declared that were his circumſtances other than they were, himſelf would ſettle five hun⯑dred pounds a year on him. ‘'And who are you,' aſked Johnſon, 'that talk thus liberally?' 'I am,' ſaid the other, 'Sir Thomas Robinſon, a Yorkſhire baronet.' 'Sir,' replied Johnſon, 'if the firſt peer of the realm were to make me ſuch an offer, I would ſhew him the way down ſtairs.'’

No one will commend this manner of de⯑clining an intentional kindneſs, even where the ſincerity of the intention might be doubtful, but the rejecting it with a menace was both un⯑neceſſary and inſolent. The pride of independence [193] was moſt ſtrong in Johnſon at thoſe periods of his life when his wants were greateſt, and though at other times he would ſubject himſelf to great obliga⯑tions, he was uniform, except only in one inſtance, in an opinion that an offer of pecuniary aſſiſtance was an inſult, and not ſeldom rejected it with ſuch indig⯑nation, that were I to characteriſe it more particularly, I ſhould do it by an alluſion to the following apologue: A gardener's dog had fallen into a well and was una⯑ble to get out: his maſter paſſing by, and ſeeing his diſtreſs, put down his arm to ſave him: the dog bit his hand, and the gardener left him to drown.

The uneaſineſs which Johnſon felt, at the time when he wrote the above-mentioned letter, gave way to a call of his friend Garrick, who in the ſame year, 1747, was, by a ſeries of occurrences, become maſ⯑ter of Drury-lane theatre. I was never much con⯑verſant with the hiſtory of the ſtage, and therefore can give but a ſlight account of an event, which, at that time, intereſted many, and was deemed a very impor⯑tant one. Mr. Fleetwood's extravagance had re⯑duced him to the neceſſity of ſeeking out for ſome one or more perſons to whom, for an adequate conſidera⯑tion, he might relinquiſh his intereſt in the patent. At that time a man of the name of Lacy had attracted the notice of the town by a competition with orator Henley, which he began at the great room in York buildings, with a ſatirical diſcourſe of great licence, which he advertiſed by the name of Peter's viſitation. The liberties he had taken with the clergy and the principal officers of ſtate in this ludicrous diſcourſe gave great [194] offence: he was ſeized, dealt with as a vagrant, and, in ſhort, ſilenced. This man had lived among play⯑ers, and was ſuppoſed to underſtand ſtage-manage⯑ment, and had ſome friends. Mr. Garrick had many, and thoſe opulent men: three of them, Mr. Draper the partner of Mr. Tonſon the bookſeller, Mr. Clut⯑terbuck a mercer, and Mr. Samuel Sharpe one of the ſurgeons of Guy's hoſpital, negociated a partnerſhip between thoſe two perſons, and by purchaſing of them and aſſiſting them to diſpoſe of what are called renters' ſhares, enabled them to buy out Fleetwood, and before the commencement of the acting ſeaſon, they were be⯑come joint-patentees of the theatre above-mentioned.

Mr. Garrick's province in the management was to appoint the plays and to caſt the parts; Lacy's was to ſuperintend the workmen and ſervants, to order the ſcenery, and, with the aſſiſtance of artiſts, to adjuſt the ornaments and decorations. It was their reſo⯑lution to baniſh from their ſtage, pantomimes and all groteſque repreſentations, and to exhibit ſuch only as a rational and judicious audience might be ſuppoſed inclined to approve.

To notify this their intention to the town, it ſeemed to them that a prologue was neceſſary: Johnſon was eaſily prevailed upon by Mr. Garrick to write one, and at the opening of the theatre in 1747, it was ſpo⯑ken by the latter in a manner that did equal honour to the author and himſelf.

Prologues are addreſſes from the ſtage to the people, and either reſpect merely the drama that is to follow, or are of more general import ſetting forth to the audience the views and deſigns of managers, [195] their anxiety to pleaſe, and the methods by which they hope to obtain the favour of the public: theſe latter are for the moſt part occaſional, and adapted to ſuch circumſtances as the opening a new theatre, a change of management, or any other of thoſe great theatrical revolutions in which the players affect to think all men as much intereſted as themſelves. In the addreſſes of this kind the powers of wit ſeem to have been nearly exhauſted: ſometimes the audience has been cajoled, at others, betrayed into good humour; and by the help of allegory, the ſtage has been made to reſemble every thing unlike it. One poet feigns that the town is a ſea, the playhouſe a ſhip, the manager the captain, the players ſailors, and the orange-girls powder-monkies; and Mr. Garrick, in one of his prologues, would make his audience believe, that his theatre is a tavern, himſelf the maſter, the players waiters, and his entertainment wines ſuited to all palates: one of his liquors, in particular, he ſtrongly recommends, and calls Shakeſpeare, which that he may be conſtantly able to ſupply, he ſays it is

And, to be more particular, that

Johnſon's prologue is of a very different caſt. It is a ſober, rational, and manly appeal to the good [196] ſenſe and candour of the audience, and contains a brief hiſtory of theatric repreſentations from the time of Shakeſpeare and Jonſon to their decline, when, as he ſays, the writers of pantomime and ſong had confirmed the ſway of folly. It ſtates the hardſhips which thoſe lye under, whoſe buſineſs it is to furniſh entertainment for the public, in being obliged to watch the wild viciſ⯑ſitudes of taſte, and exhorts the hearers to patronize virtue and reviving ſenſe.

To juſtify the above character of this nervous com⯑poſition I here inſert it:

This maſterly and ſpirited addreſs failed in a great meaſure of its effect; the town, it is true, ſubmitted to the revival of Shakeſpeare's plays, recommended as they were by the exquiſite acting of Mr. Garrick; but in a few winters they diſcovered an impatience for pantomimes and ballad-farces, and were indulged with them. From that time Mr. Garrick gave up the hope of correcting the public taſte, and at length be⯑came ſo indifferent about it, that he once told me, that if the town required him to exhibit the ‘'Pilgrim's Progreſs'’ in a drama, he would do it.

Two years after, the management of Drury-lane theatre being in the hands of his friends, Johnſon be⯑thought himſelf of bringing his tragedy on the ſtage. It was not only a juvenile compoſition, but was written before he had become converſant with Shakeſpeare, indeed before he had ever read Othello, and having now, for more than ten years, lain by him, in which time his judgment had been growing to maturity, he [199] ſet himſelf to reviſe and poliſh it, taking to his aſſiſ⯑tance Mr. Garrick, whoſe experience of ſtage decorum, and the mechanic operation of incidents and ſentiments on the judgment and paſſions of an audience, was, by long attention, become very great. With theſe ad⯑vantages and all thoſe others which Mr. Garrick's zeal prompted him to ſupply, ſuch as magnificent ſcenery, ſplendid and well-choſen dreſſes, and a diſtri⯑bution of the principal parts, himſelf taking a very active one, to the beſt performers then living, namely, Barry, Mrs. Cibber and Mrs. Pritchard; it was, in the winter of the year 1749, preſented to a polite, a numerous, and an unprejudiced audience. Never was there ſuch a diſplay of eaſtern magnificence as this ſpectacle exhibited, nor ever were fine moral ſenti⯑ments more ſtrongly enforced by correct and ener⯑getic utterance and juſt action, than in the repreſenta⯑tion of this laboured tragedy; but the diction of the piece was cold and philoſophical; it came from the head of the writer, and reached not the hearts of the hearers. The conſequence whereof was, that it was received with cold applauſe, and having reached to a ninth night's performance, was laid by. During the repreſentation Johnſon was behind the ſcenes, and thinking his character of an author required upon the occaſion ſome diſtinction of dreſs, he appeared in a gold-laced waiſtcoat.

The truth of the above aſſertion, as to the language of this tragedy, is to be judged of by the peruſal of it; for, notwithſtanding its ill ſucceſs as a dramatic repreſentation, Johnſon found his account in giving it to the world as a poem. Of the fable, the cha⯑racters, [200] and the ſentiments, it is beſide my purpoſe to ſpeak; they are alſo now open to examination. It is nevertheleſs worthy of a remark, that the author has ſhewn great judgment in deviating from hiſto⯑rical verity, as will appear by a compariſon of the drama with the ſtory as related by Knolles, and abridged in a foregoing page; for whereas the hiſto⯑rian deſcribes Irene as endowed with the perfections as well of the mind as of the body, and relates that ſhe was an innocent victim to the ferocity of a tyrant, Johnſon thought that ſuch a cataſtrophe was too ſhock⯑ing for repreſentation, and has varied the narrative by making the lady renounce her religion, and ſubjecting her to the ſuſpicion of being a joint conſpirator in a plot to aſſaſſinate the Sultan; but of which he is afterwards convinced ſhe is innocent.

In thus altering the ſtory, it muſt however be confeſſed, that much of its beauty is deſtroyed, and the character of Mahomet repreſented with none of thoſe terrible graces that dignify the narrative: his public love and command over himſelf are anni⯑hilated, and he is exhibited as a tyrant and a vo⯑luptuary.

The world ſoon formed an opinion of the merit of Irene, which has never fluctuated: a repreſentation during nine nights, was as much as a tragedy which excited no paſſion could claim; for, however excel⯑lent its precepts, and however correct its language, that it wants thoſe indiſpenſable qualities in the drama, intereſt and pathos, cannot be denied. We read it, admit every poſition it advances, commend it, lay it by, and forget it: our attention is not awakened by any eminent beauties, for its merit is uniform through⯑out: [201] all the perſonages, good or bad, are philoſophers: thoſe who execute and thoſe who iſſue the orders talk the ſame language: the characters cauſe no anxiety, for the virtuous are ſuperior to all mortal calamity, and the vicious beneath our care: the fate of Irene, though deplorable, is juſt; notwithſtanding ſhe ſuffers by a falſe accuſation, her apoſtacy and treachery to her friend deſerve puniſhment: the morality, it is needleſs to ſay of Johnſon's ſpontaneous productions, is excellent; but how were unimpaſſioned precepts to make their way alone, where variety, buſineſs and plot are always expected? where lively nonſenſe and pa⯑thetic imbecillity often ſucceed againſt the conviction of reaſon? Or how could it be hoped that frigid vir⯑tue could attract thoſe who ſuffer their pity to be eaſily moved either by the hero or the villain, if he has the addreſs firſt to engage their paſſions?

Of the expectations that Johnſon had entertained of the ſucceſs of his tragedy, no conjecture can now be formed. If they are to be judged of by his out⯑ward demeanour after the town had conſigned it to ob⯑livion, they were not very ſanguine; indeed the receipt of three nights muſt have afforded him ſome conſo⯑lation; and we muſt ſuppoſe that he increaſed the emolument thence ariſing, by the ſale of the copy. We are therefore not to impute it to the diſappointment of a hope that the play would be better received than it was, that in the winter of the ſame year he publiſhed another imitation of Juvenal, viz. of his tenth ſatire, with the title of ‘'The vanity of human wiſhes;'’ the ſubject whereof, as it is an enumeration of the evils to which mankind are expoſed, could not, at any period of his life, have been other than a [202] tempting one. Purſuing the track of his author, he expatiates on the miſeries that await empire, grandeur, wealth, and power, and the diſappointments that fruſtrate the hopes of ambition, learning, eloquence, and beauty; in all which inſtances he has been able to point out examples the moſt ſtriking and ap⯑poſite.

The poem concludes with an anſwer to an enquiry that muſt neceſſarily reſult from the peruſal of the foregoing part of it, viz. what are the conſolations that human life affords? or, in other words, in whom or on what is a virtuous man to reſt his hope? the reſolution of this queſtion is contained in the follow⯑ing lines, which for dignity of ſentiment, for pious inſtruction, and purity of ſtyle, are hardly to be equalled by any in our language.

In the following year, it having been diſcovered, that a grand-daughter of Milton was living, Mr. Garrick was prevailed on to permit the repreſenta⯑tion of the Maſque of Comus at his theatre, for her benefit. Upon this occaſion, Johnſon, forgetting the enmity which he had always borne towards Milton, wrote a prologue, wherein he calls the attention of the audience to his memory, and without imputing to his deſcendant any other merit than induſtrious poverty and conjugal fidelity, implores them to crown deſert beyond the grave.

Johnſon's beneficence was of the moſt diffuſive kind: Diſtreſs was the general motive, and merit, whether in the object or any to whom he claimed re⯑lation, the particular incentive to it. There was living at this time, a man of the name of De Groot, a painter by profeſſion, and no contemptible artiſt, who, after having travelled over England, and at low prices painted as many perſons as could be per⯑ſuaded to ſit to him, ſettled in London, and became reduced to poverty: him Oldys, or ſome one other of his friends, introduced to Johnſon, who found out [204] by his converſation that he was a deſcendant of Grotius; and thereupon exerting his intereſt in his behalf, he procured for him an admiſſion into the Charterhouſe, in which comfortable retreat he died.

Johnſon was all this while working at the dictio⯑nary, having to aſſiſt him a number of young perſons whoſe employment it was to diſtribute the articles with ſufficient ſpaces for the definitions, which it is eaſy to diſcern are of his own compoſition.

Of theſe his aſſiſtants, ſome were young men of parts, others mere drudges. Among the former was one of the name of Shiells, a Scotchman, the author of a poem in blank verſe, intitled ‘'Beauty,'’ and alſo of a collec⯑tion of the lives of the poets, in four volumes, which, for a gratuity of ten guineas, Theophilus Cibber ſuffered to be printed with his name, a book of no authority other than what it derives from Win⯑ſtanley, Langbaine, and Jacob, and in other reſpects of little worth; but concerning which it is fit that the following fact ſhould be made known: Cibber at the time of making this bargain, was under confine⯑ment for debt in the king's-bench priſon, and with a view to deceive the public into a belief that the book was of his father's writing, it was concerted between the negotiators of it and himſelf to ſuppreſs his chriſ⯑tian name, and that it ſhould be printed as a work of Mr. Cibber.

The intenſe application with which he was obliged to purſue his work, deprived Johnſon of many of the pleaſures he moſt delighted in, as namely, reading in his deſultory manner, and the converſation of his friends. It alſo increaſed his conſtitutional melan⯑choly, and at times excited in him a loathing of that [205] employment to which he could not but look upon himſelf as doomed by his neceſſities. The ſum for which he had ſtipulated with the bookſellers, was by the terms of the agreement, to be paid as the work went on, and was indeed his only ſupport. Be⯑ing thus compelled to ſpend every day like the paſt, he looked on himſelf as in a ſtate of mental bondage, and reflecting that while he was thus employed, his beſt faculties lay dormant, was unwillingly willing to work.

And here we cannot but reflect on that inertneſs and laxity of mind which the neglect of order and regularity in living, and the obſervance of ſtated hours, in ſhort, the waſte of time, is apt to lead men to: this was the ſource of Johnſon's miſery through⯑out his life; all he did was by fits and ſtarts, and he had no genuine impulſe to action, either corporal or mental. That the compilation of ſuch a work as he was engaged in, was neceſſarily productive of that languor, which, in the proſecution of it he manifeſted, is by no means clear: all employments, all occupa⯑tions whatever, are intrinſically indifferent, and excite neither pain nor pleaſure, but as the mind is diſ⯑poſed towards them. Fame, mere poſthumous fame has engaged men to ſimilar undertakings, and they have purſued them with zeal and even delight. Canne, the editor of a bible printed in 1664, ſpent many years in collecting parallel paſſages in the Old and New Teſtament, to ſuch a number as to croud the margin of the book, and in the preface thereto he declares, that it was the moſt delightful employment of his life; and what but a real pleaſure in that kind of labour, [206] and the conſideration of its benefit to mankind, could be the inducement with ſuch a man as Hoff⯑man to compile a lexicon more than twice as volumi⯑nous as that of Johnſon?

And, to ſpeak more at large, viz. of men who have benefited the world by their literary labours, avowing as their motive the deſire of gain, we find not all infected with that diſeaſe, which as it affected Johnſon, may almoſt be ſaid to have converted all his mental nutriment to poiſon: on the contrary, there have been many who mixed with the world, and by a good uſe of their time, were capable of great application and enjoying the benefits of ſo⯑ciety; and of theſe I ſhall mention three perſons, his contemporaries, men of very different characters from each other; all authors by profeſſion, and of great eminence in literature.

The firſt was the reverend Dr. Thomas Birch, a divine of the church of England, but originally a quaker. In his youth he was paſſionately fond of reading, and being indulged in it by his father, be⯑came ſucceſſively uſher to two ſchools in which the ſons of quakers were educated. He married at the age of twenty-three; but in leſs than a year became a widower. Having had the happineſs of a recom⯑mendation to Sir Philip Yorke, then attorney-general, and being honoured with his favour and patronage, he, in 1730, entered into holy orders, and was pre⯑ſented to a rectory and alſo to a vicarage in Glouceſ⯑terſhire. Soon after this, in conjunction with the reverend Mr. Bernard, the well-known Mr. John Lockman, and Mr. George Sale the tranſlator of the [207] Koran, he compiled a general biographical dictionary in ten volumes in folio, including therein a tranſlation of that of Bayle, and collected and publiſhed Thur⯑loe's ſtate papers, in ſeven folio volumes, and was the editor of lord Bacon's, Mr. Boyle's, and arch⯑biſhop Tillotſon's works, as alſo of the proſe writings of Milton, and the miſcellaneous pieces of Sir Walter Raleigh, and the works of Mrs. Elizabeth Cock⯑burn. He was firſt a fellow of and afterwards ſecre⯑tary to the royal ſociety, and wrote a hiſtory thereof. In 1753, the Mariſchal college at Aberdeen confer⯑red on him the degree of doctor in divinity, and, the year after, he received the ſame honour from archbiſhop Herring. The above is but a partial enumeration of his publications, for he wrote the lives of Henry prince of Wales, of Bacon, Boyle, Milton, and Tillotſon, and other perſons, and many tracts not here noticed. In the midſt of all this em⯑ployment, Dr. Birch was to be ſeen, at home, at the Royal and Antiquarian ſocieties, at Sion college, at the academy of ancient muſic, which had long ſubſiſted at the Crown and Anchor in the Strand, at Tom's coffee-houſe in Devereux court; in ſhort, in all places where a clergyman might with propriety ap⯑pear. Nor was this all; he found time for the exer⯑ciſe of walking, before many people were ſtirring. I have been with him at nine in a winter's morning, and have found him juſt returned from an excurſion of ſome miles^*. He held a converſation on Sunday even⯑ings [208] with his friends, who were men of the firſt emi⯑nence for learning and intelligence, at his houſe in Norfolk ſtreet in the Strand^†, in which all, particu⯑larly [209] the library, was neat and elegant, without litter or diſorder.

The mental endowments of Dr. Birch were ſingu⯑lar; he had a great eagerneſs after knowledge, and a memory very retentive of facts; but his learning, properly ſo called, bore no proportion to his reading; for he was in truth neither a mathematician, a natural philoſopher, a claſſical ſcholar, nor a divine; but, in a ſmall degree, all, and though lively in converſation, he was but a dullwriter. Johnſon was uſed to ſpeak of him in this manner: ‘'Tom is a lively rogue; he re⯑members a great deal, and can tell many pleaſant ſtories; but a pen is to Tom a torpedo, the touch of it benumbs his hand and his brain: Tom can talk; but he is no writer.'—’And indeed who⯑ever peruſes his writings will be much of the ſame opinion: his life of Tillotſon is a mere detail of un⯑connected facts, without the intermixture of ſentiment or diſquiſition; and of the ſtyle, let this citation ſerve as a ſpecimen. Speaking of Wilkins, he makes a tranſition to Tillotſon, whom he characterizes in theſe words, and meaner he could not have found: ‘'He went into all the very beſt things that were in that great man; but ſo as he improved every one of them.'’

In the midſt of all his labours and purſuits, Dr. Birch preſerved an even temper of mind, and a great chearfulneſs of ſpirits. Ever deſirous to learn, and willing to communicate, he was uniformly affable, courteous, and diſpoſed to converſation. His life was ſpent without reproach, but terminated by an unhappy accident, a fall from his horſe on the Hamp⯑ſtead road, on the 9th day of January, 1766. His [210] preferments in the church, though ſucceſſively nume⯑rous, were ſmall and never reached to dignities: the laſt of them were the rectories of St. Margaret Pattens, London, and of Depden in Eſſex.

Dr. John Campbell was an eminent writer, and a labourer in a voluminous work undertaken at the expence and riſque of the bookſellers, the Univerſal Hiſtory. Beſides many other books, he wrote the lives of the Engliſh admirals in four octavo volumes. He had a conſiderable hand in the Biographia Britan⯑nica, and was the author of a valuable work in two quarto volumes intitled, ‘'A political ſurvey of Britain;'’ being a ſeries of reflections on the ſituation, lands, inhabitants, revenues, colonies, and commerce of this iſland; intended to ſhew that they have not as yet approached to near the ſummit of improvement, but that it will afford employment for many ages, before they puſh to their utmoſt extent the natural advantages of Great Britain. The reputation of this work extended to the moſt remote parts of Europe, and induced the empreſs of Ruſſia in the year 1774, to honour the author with a preſent of her picture. By the exerciſe of his pen alone, and a good uſe of his time, he was for many years enabled to ſupport him⯑ſelf, and enjoy the comforts of domeſtic life in the ſociety of an excellent wife and a numerous offspring. In 1765, he was appointed his majeſty's agent for the province of Georgia in North America, and was there⯑by raiſed to a ſtate of comparative affluence. His re⯑ſidence for ſome years before his death, was the large new-built houſe ſituate at the north-weſt corner of Queen ſquare, Bloomſbury, whither, particularly on a Sunday evening, great numbers of perſons of the [211] firſt eminence for ſcience and literature were accuſ-Tomed to reſort for the enjoyment of converſation. He died in 1775, having nearly completed the ſixty⯑eighth year of his age, leaving behind him the charac⯑ter of a learned, an ingenious, and a pious man.

Dr. John Hill was originally an apothecary and a ſtudent in botany, in which he was encouraged by the late duke of Richmond, and lord Petre; but finding that an unprofitable purſuit, he made two or three attempts as a writer for the ſtage: a failure in them drove him back to his former ſtudy, in the courſe whereof he got introduced to Mr. Martin Folkes and Mr. Henry Baker, leading members of the royal ſociety, who finding him a young man of parts and well ſkilled in natural hiſtory, recommended him among their friends. His firſt publication was a tranſlation from the Greek of a ſmall tract, Theo⯑phraſtus on gems, which being printed by ſubſcrip⯑tion, produced him ſome money, and ſuch a reputa⯑tion as induced the bookſellers to engage him in writ⯑ing a general natural hiſtory in two volumes in folio, and ſoon after, a ſupplement to Chambers's dictionary. He had received no academical education; but his ambition prompting him to be a graduate, he obtained, from one of thoſe univerſities which would ſcarce re⯑fuſe a degree to an apothecary's horſe, a diploma for that of doctor of phyſic. After this, he engaged in a variety of works, the greater part whereof were mere compilations, which he ſent forth with incredible ex⯑pedition; and though his character was never in ſuch eſtimation with the bookſellers as to entitle him to an extraordinary price for his writings, he has been [210] [...] [211] [...] [212] known by ſuch works as thoſe above-mentioned, by novels, pamphlets, and a periodical paper called ‘'The Inſpector,'’ the labour of his own head and hand, to have earned, in one year, the ſum of 1500l. He was vain, conceited, and in his writings diſpoſed to ſatire and licentious ſcurrility, which he indulged with⯑out any regard to truth, and thereby became engaged in frequent diſputes and quarrels that always termi⯑nated in his own diſgrace. For ſome abuſe in his Inſpec⯑tor, of a gentleman of the name of Brown, he had his head broke in the circus of Ranelagh gardens. He inſulted Woodward the player in the face of an au⯑dience, and engaged with him in a pamphlet-war, in which he was foiled^*. He attacked the royal ſociety in a review of their tranſactions, and abuſed his old friends Mr. Folkes and Mr. Baker for oppoſing, on account of his infamous character, his admiſſion among them as a member. In the midſt of all this employ⯑ment, he found time and means to drive about the town in his chariot, and to appear abroad and at all public places, at Batſon's coffee-houſe, at maſque⯑rades, and at the opera and playhouſes, ſplendidly dreſſed, and as often as he could, in the front row of [213] the boxes. Towards the end of his life, his reputa⯑tion as an author was ſo ſunk by the ſlovenlineſs of his compilations, and his diſregard to truth in what he related, that he was forced to betake himſelf to the vending a few ſimple medicines, namely, eſſence of water-dock, tincture of Valerian, balſam of honey, and elixir of Bardana, and by pamphlets aſcribing to them greater virtues than they had, impoſed on the credulity of the public, and thereby got, though not an honeſt, a competent livelihood.

Two years before his death, he had, as he gave out, received from the king of Sweden, the inveſtiture of knight of one of the orders of that kingdom, in return for a preſent to that monarch of his ‘'Vegetable ſyſtem'’ in twenty-ſix folio volumes. With all his folly and malignity, he entertained a ſenſe of religion, and wrote a vindication of God and nature againſt the ſhallow philoſophy of lord Bolingbroke.

Beſides theſe, there was another claſs of authors who lived by writing, that require to be noticed: the former were, in fact, penſioners of the book⯑ſellers: theſe vended their compoſitions when completed, to thoſe of that trade who would give moſt for them. They were moſtly books of mere entertainment that were the ſubjects of this kind of commerce, and were and ſtill are diſtinguiſhed by the corrupt appellation of novels and roman⯑ces. Though fictitious, and the work of mere in⯑vention, they pretended to probability, to be found⯑ed in nature, and to delineate ſocial manners. The firſt publication of the kind was the ‘'Pamela'’ of Mr. [214] Richardſon^*, which being read with great eagerneſs by the young people of the time, and recommended from the pulpit, begat ſuch a craving for more of the ſame ſtuff, as tempted ſome men whoſe neceſſi⯑ties and abilities were nearly commenſurate, to try their ſucceſs in this new kind of writing.

At the head of theſe we muſt, for many reaſons, place Henry Fielding, one of the moſt motley of li⯑terary characters. This man was, in his early life, a writer of comedies and farces, very few of which are now remembered; after that, a practiſing barriſter with ſcarce any buſineſs; then an anti-miniſterial writer, and quickly after, a creature of the duke of Newcaſtle, who gave him a nominal qualification of 100l. a year, and ſet him up as a trading-juſtice, in which diſreputable ſtation he died. He was the au⯑thor of a romance, intitled ‘'The hiſtory of Joſeph Andrews,'’ and of another, ‘'The Foundling, or the hiſtory of Tom Jones,'’ a book ſeemingly intended to ſap the foundation of that morality which it is the duty of parents and all public inſtructors to incul⯑cate in the minds of young people, by teaching that virtue upon principle is impoſture, that generous qua⯑lities alone conſtitute true worth, and that a young [215] man may love and be loved, and at the ſame time aſſociate with the looſeſt women. His morality, in reſpect that it reſolves virtue into good affections, in contradiction to moral obligation and a ſenſe of duty, is that of lord Shafteſbury vulgariſed, and is a ſyſtem of excellent uſe in palliating the vices moſt injurious to ſociety. He was the inventor of that cant-phraſe, good⯑neſs of heart, which is every day uſed as a ſubſtitute for probity, and means little more than the virtue of a horſe or a dog; in ſhort, he has done more towards corrupting the riſing generation than any writer we know of.

He afterwards wrote a book of the ſame kind, but of a leſs miſchievous tendency, his ‘'Amelia.'’ For each of theſe he was well paid by Andrew Millar the bookſeller, and for the laſt he got ſix hundred pounds.

Dr. Tobias Smollet, another writer of familiar romance, and a dealer with the bookſellers, was originally a ſurgeon's mate, and ſerved at the ſiege of Carthagena. His firſt publication of this kind was ‘'The adventures of Roderick Random,'’ and his next thoſe of Peregrine Pickle, in which is introduced the hiſtory of a well-known woman of quality, written, as it is ſaid, by herſelf, under the name of lady Frail. Theſe, and other compoſitions of the like kind, Smol⯑let ſold to the bookſellers at ſuch rates as enabled him to live without the exerciſe of his profeſſion. He had a hand in ‘'The univerſal hiſtory,'’ and tranſlated Gil Blas and alſo Telemachus. The ſucceſs of the former of theſe tempted him to tranſlate ‘'Don Quixote,'’ which, as he underſtood not the Spaniſh language, he could only do through the medium of the French and [216] the former Engliſh verſions, none of which do, as it is ſaid, convey the humour of the original. It might ſeem that Jarvis's tranſlation was one impediment to ſuch an undertaking; but that, though it gives the ſenſe of the author, was performed by perſons whoſe ſkill in the language was not great. The fact is, that Jarvis laboured at it many years, but could make but little progreſs, for being a painter by profeſſion, he had not been accuſtomed to write, and had no ſtyle. Mr. Tonſon the bookſeller ſeeing this, ſuggeſted the thought of employing Mr. Broughton, the reader at the Temple church, the author and editor of ſundry publications, who, as I have been informed by a friend of Tonſon, ſat himſelf down to ſtudy the Spaniſh language, and, in a few months, acquired, as was pre⯑tended, ſufficient knowledge thereof, to give to the world a tranſlation of Don Quixote in the true ſpirit of the original, and to which is prefixed the name of Jarvis.

I might here ſpeak of Richardſon as a writer of fictitious hiſtory, but that he wrote for amuſement, and that the profits of his writings, though very great, were accidental. He was a man of no learning nor reading, but had a vivid imagination, which he let looſe in reflections on human life and manners, till it became ſo diſtended with ſentiments, that for his own caſe, he was neceſſitated to vent them on paper. In the original plan of his ‘'Clariſſa,'’ it was his deſign, as his bookſeller once told me, to continue it to the extent of twenty-four volumes, but he was, with great difficulty, prevailed on to compriſe it in ſix. The character of Richardſon as a writer is to this day undecided, otherwiſe than by the avidity with which [217] his publications are by ſome readers peruſed, and the ſale of numerous editions. He has been celebrated as a writer ſimilar in genius to Shakeſpeare, as being acquainted with the inmoſt receſſes of the human heart, and having an abſolute command of the paſſions, ſo as to be able to affect his readers as himſelf is affected, and to intereſt them in the ſucceſſes and diſappoint⯑ments, the joys and ſorrows of his characters. Others there are who think that neither his ‘'Pamela,'’ his ‘'Cla⯑riſſa,'’ nor his ‘'Sir Charles Grandiſon'’ are to be num⯑bered among the books of rational and inſtructive amuſement, that they are not to be compared to the novels of Cervantes, or the more ſimple and chaſte narrations of Le Sage, that they are not juſt repre⯑ſentations of human manners, that in them the turpi⯑tude of vice is not ſtrongly enough marked, and that the allurements to it are repreſented in the gayeſt colours; that the texture of all his writings is flirnſy and thin, and his ſtyle mean and feeble; that they have a general tendency to inflame the paſſions of young people, and to teach them that which they need not to be taught; and that though they pretend to a moral, it often turns out a bad one. The cant terms of him and his admirers are ſentiment and ſenti⯑mentality.

Johnſon was inclined, as being perſonally acquaint⯑ed with Richardſon, to favour the former opinion of his writings, but he ſeemed not firm in it, and could at any time be talked into a diſapprobation of all fictitious relations, of which he would frequently ſay they took no hold of the mind.

I am tired of adducing inſtances of men who lived by the profeſſion of writing and thought it [218] an eligible one, and ſhould now proceed to relate the ſubſequent events of Dr. Johnſon's life, and mark the ſtate of his mind at different periods, but that I find myſelf detained by a character, which, as it were, obtrudes itſelf to view, and is of importance enough to claim notice.

Laurence Sterne, a clergyman and a dignitary of the cathedral church of York, was remarkable for a wild and eccentric genius, reſembling in many re⯑ſpects that of Rabelais. The work that made him firſt known as a writer, was, ‘'The life and opinions of Triſtram Shandy,'’ a whimſical rhapſody, but abounding in wit and humour of the licentious kind. He too was a ſentimentaliſt, and wrote ſentimental journies and ſentimental letters in abundance, by which both he and the bookſellers got conſiderably. Of the writers of this claſs or ſect it may be obſerved, that being in general men of looſe principles, bad oeconomiſts, living without foreſight, it is their en⯑deavour to commute for their failings by profeſſions of greater love to mankind, more tender affections and finer feelings than they will allow men of more regular lives, whom they deem formaliſts, to poſſeſs. Their generous notions ſuperſede all obligation: they are a law to themſelves, and having good hearts and abounding in the milk of human kind⯑neſs, are above thoſe conſiderations that bind men to that rule of conduct which is founded in a ſenſe of duty. Of this new ſchool of morality, Fielding, Rouſſeau, and Sterne are the principal teachers, and great is the miſchief they have done by their documents.

[219] To theſe I might add the names of ſundry perſons of the ſame occupation, the authors of the Univer⯑ſal hiſtory in forty folio volumes, but that only a few of them are at this diſtance of time known: thoſe are Pſalmanaazar, George Sale, the above Dr. Campbell, and Mr. George Shelvocke, who, of a boy bred to the ſea, became a man of learning, a travelling tutor, and at length attained to the lucra⯑tive employment of ſecretary of the poſt-office. Of theſe men it may be ſaid that they were miners in literature, they worked, though not in darkneſs, under ground; their motive was gain; their labour ſilent and inceſſant.

From the above enumeration of characters and particulars it may be inferred, that Johnſon's indo⯑lence and melancholy were diſeaſes of his mind, and not the neceſſary conſequence of the profeſſion he had taken up, that he ſaw human life through a falſe medium, and that he voluntarily renounced many comforts, gratifications, and even pleaſures, obviouſly in his power. One effort however he made to ſoothe his mind and palliate the fatigue of his labours, which I here relate.

The great delight of his life was converſation and mental intercourſe. That he might be able to in⯑dulge himſelf in this, he had, in the winter of 1749, formed a club that met weekly at the King's head, a famous beef-ſteak houſe, in Ivy lane near St. Paul's, every Tueſday evening. Thither he conſtantly re⯑ſorted, and, with a diſpoſition to pleaſe and be pleaſed, would paſs thoſe hours in a free and unreſtrained in⯑terchange of ſentiments, which otherwiſe had been [220] ſpent at home in painful reflection. The perſons who compoſed this little ſociety were nine in num⯑ber: I will mention their names, and, as well as I am able, give a ſlight ſketch of the ſeveral characters of ſuch of them as cannot now be affected by either praiſe or blame: they were, the reverend Dr. Salter, father of the late maſter of the Charterhouſe,—Dr. Hawkeſ⯑worth,—Mr. Ryland a merchant, a relation of his,—Mr. John Payne then a bookſeller, but now or very lately chief accountant of the bank,—Mr. Samuel Dyer a learned young man intended for the diſſenting mi⯑niſtry,—Dr. William M'Ghie a Scots phyſician,—Dr. Edmund Barker, a young phyſician,—Dr. Richard Bathurſt alſo a young phyſician, and myſelf.

Dr. Samuel Salter was a Cambridge divine, whom ſome diſagreement between him and his children had driven from his abode at Norwich, at the age of ſeventy, to ſettle in London. Being thus far ad⯑vanced in years, he could carry his recollection back to the time when Dr. Samuel Clarke was yet a mem⯑ber of that univerſity, and would frequently entertain us with particulars reſpecting him. He was a digni⯑tary of the church, I think archdeacon of Norfolk, a man of general reading, but no deep ſcholar: he was well-bred, courteous, and affable, and enlivened converſation by the relation of a variety of curious facts, of which his memory was the only regiſter.

Dr. Hawkeſworth is a character well known in the literary world: I ſhall not attempt a delineation of it, as I find in the biographic dictionary an article for him in the words following:

‘'John Hawkeſworth, an Engliſh writer of a very [221] ſoft and pleaſing caſt, was born about the year 1719, though his epitaph, as we find it in the Gentleman's Magazine," for Auguſt 1781, makes him to have been born in 1715. He was brought up to a mechanical profeſſion, that of a watch⯑maker, as is ſuppoſed^*. He was of the ſect of preſ⯑byterians, and a member of the celebrated Tom Bradbury's meeting, from which he was expelled for ſome irregularities. He afterwards devoted himſelf to literature, and became an author of con⯑ſiderable eminence. In the early part of his life, his circumſtances were rather confined. He reſided ſome time at Bromley in Kent, where his wife kept a boarding-ſchool. He afterwards became known to a lady, who had great property and intereſt in the Eaſt-India company; and, through her means, was choſen a director of that body. As an author, his ‘'Adventurer'’ is his capital work; the merits of which, if we miſtake not, procured him the degree of L.L.D. from Herring, archbiſhop of Canter⯑bury. When the deſign of compiling a narrative of the diſcoveries in the South ſeas was on foot, he was recommended as a proper perſon to be em⯑ployed on the occaſion; but, in truth, he was not a proper perſon, nor did the performance anſwer ex⯑pectation. Works of taſte and elegance, where ima⯑gination and the paſſions were to be affected, were his province; not works of dry, cold, accurate nar⯑rative. However, he executed his taſk, and is ſaid [222] to have received for it the enormous ſum of 60001. He died in 1773, ſome ſay of high living, others, of chagrin from the ill reception of his ‘'Narrative:'’ for he was a man of the keeneſt ſenſibility, and ob⯑noxious to all the evils of ſuch irritable natures.'’

Mr. Samuel Dyer was the ſon of a jeweller of emi⯑nence in the city, who, by his ingenuity and induſtry had acquired a competent fortune. He, as alſo his wife, were diſſenters, perſons very religiouſly diſpoſ⯑ed, members of Chandler's congregation in the Old Jewry, and this their youngeſt ſon was educated by pro⯑feſſor Ward, at the time when he kept a private ſchool in one of the alleys near Moorfields; and from thence, being intended by his father for the diſſenting miniſ⯑try, was removed to Dr. Dodderidge's academy at Northampton. After having finiſhed his ſtudies in this ſeminary, he was removed to Glaſgow, where, un⯑der Dr. Hutcheſon, he was inſtructed in the writings of the Greek moraliſts, and went through ſeveral courſes of ethics and metaphyſics. To complete this plan of a learned education, the elder Mr. Dyer, by the advice of Dr. Chandler, ſent his ſon to Leyden, with a view to his improvement in the Hebrew literature under Schultens, a celebrated profeſſor in that univerſity. After two years' ſtay abroad, Mr. Dyer returned, eminently qualified for the exerciſe of that profeſſion to which his ſtudies had been directed, and great were the hopes of his friends that he would become one of its ornaments. To ſpeak of his attainments in knowledge, he was an excellent claſſical ſcholar, a great mathematician and natural philoſopher, well verſed in the Hebrew, and [223] maſter of the Latin, French and Italian languages. Added to theſe endowments, he was of a temper ſo mild, and in his converſation and demeanour ſo mo⯑deſt and unaſſuming, that he engaged the attention and affection of all around him. In all queſtions of ſcience, Johnſon looked up to him, and in his life of Watts, among the poets, has cited an obſervation of his, that Watts had ‘'confounded the idea of ſpace with that of empty ſpace, and did not conſider that though ſpace might be without matter, yet matter being extended, could not be without ſpace.'’

It was now expected that Mr. Dyer would attach himſelf to the profeſſion for which ſo liberal and ex⯑penſive an education was intended to qualify him, and that he would, under all the diſcouragements that at⯑tend non-conformity, appear as a public teacher, and by preaching give a ſpecimen of his talents; and this was the more wiſhed, as he was a conſtant attendant on divine worſhip, and the whole of his behaviour ſuited to ſuch a character. But being preſſed by myſelf and other of his friends, he diſcovered an averſeneſs to the undertaking, which we conceived to ariſe from modeſty, but ſome time after found to have ſprung from another cauſe.

In this ſeeming ſtate of ſuſpence, being maſter of his time, his friend Dr. Chandler found out for him an employment exactly ſuitable to his talents. Dr. Da⯑niel Williams, a diſſenting miniſter, who by marriage had become the owner of a very plentiful eſtate, and was the founder of the library for the uſe of thoſe of his profeſſion, in Redcroſs ſtreet, by his will had di⯑rected that certain controverſial, and other religious [224] tracts of his writing, ſhould be tranſlated into Latin, and printed the ſecond year after his death, and five hundred of each given away, and this bequeſt to be re⯑peated when that number was diſpoſed of.

This part of his will had remained unexecuted from about the year 1715, and Dr. Chandler being a truſtee for the performance of it, and empowered to offer an equivalent to any one that he ſhould think equal to the undertaking, propoſed it to Mr. Dyer, and he accepted it; but ſmall was his progreſs in it before it began to grow irkſome, and the completing of the tranſlation was referred to ſome one leſs averſe to la⯑bour than himſelf.

Having thus got rid of an employment to which no perſuaſions of his friends nor proſpects of future ad⯑vantage could reconcile him, he became, as it were, emancipated from the bondage of puritanical forms and modes of living. Mr. Dyer commenced a man of the world, and with a ſober and temperate deliberation reſolved on a participation of its pleaſures and enjoy⯑ments. His company, though he was rather a ſilent than a talkative man, was courted by many, and he had frequent invitations to dinners, to ſuppers, and card-parties. By theſe means he became inſenſibly a votary of pleaſure, and to juſtify this choice, had rea⯑ſoned himſelf into a perſuaſion that, not only in the moral government of the world but in human man⯑ners, through all the changes and fluctuations of faſhion and caprice, whatever is, is right. With this and other opinions equally tending to corrupt his mind, it muſt be ſuppoſed that he began to grow indifferent to the ſtrict practice of religion, and [225] the event ſhewed itſelf in a gradual declination from the exerciſes of it, and his eaſy compliance with in⯑vitations to Sunday evening parties, in which mere converſation was not the chief amuſement.

In his diſcourſe he was exceedingly cloſe and re⯑ſerved: it was nevertheleſs to be remarked of him, that he looked upon the reſtraints on a life of pleaſure with an unapproving eye. He had an exquiſite palate, and had improved his reliſh for meats and drinks up to ſuch a degree of reſinement, that I once found him in a fit of melancholy occaſioned by a diſcovery that he had loſt his taſte for olives!

He was a man of deep reflection, and very able in con⯑verſation on moſt topics; and after he had determined on his courſe of life, which was, to be of no profeſſion, but to become a gentleman at large, living much at the houſes of his friends, he ſeemed to adopt the ſen⯑timents of a man of faſhion. In a viſit that he made with a friend to France, he met with a book with the title of ‘'Les Moeurs'’ with which he was greatly delight⯑ed, and at length became ſo enamoured of it, and that free and liberal ſpirit which it manifeſts, that, after a conflict with his natural indolence, in which he came off the victor, he formed a reſolution to tranſlate it into Engliſh; but after a ſmall progreſs in the work, the enemy rallied, and defeated him. Cave was his printer, and had worked off only a few ſheets when Mr. Dyer's ſtock of copy was exhauſted, and his bookſeller found himſelf reduced to the neceſſity of getting the tranſlation finiſhed by another hand, which he did, employing for the purpoſe a Mr. Collyer, the [226] author of ‘'Letters from Felicia to Charlotte,'’ and other innocent and ſome uſeful publications. The tranſlation was completed, but upon its being ſent abroad, met with a rival one that involved Cave, who was intereſted in the ſucceſs of the book, in an adver⯑tiſement-war, which he was left to conduct as he could.

Few who are acquainted with this book, will blame or wonder at Mr. Dyer's partiality for it. It is a work replete with good ſenſe, ſetting forth the excellence and the reaſonableneſs of moral virtue, in lan⯑guage ſo elegant and lively, and with ſuch forci⯑ble perſuaſion, as cannot but win on a mind open to inſtruction.

The earl of Cheſterfield's voluminous exhortations to his ſon have been, by ſome, eſteemed a ſyſtem of education, a ſyſtem which ſinks into nothing when compared, either in its foundation or tendency, to that contained in this conciſe code of ethics. His lordſhip teaches the baſer arts as means to that im⯑portant end, ſucceſs in the world; this writer, that the good opinion of mankind is never to be pur⯑chaſed by deviating from the rule of right, and that we ſeek in vain for happineſs, if we do not exert ourſelves in the diſcharge of our ſeveral duties. Principles ſuch as theſe, the diſciples of the Graces are not likely to reliſh; but it is nevertheleſs true, that the unaſſuming, the benevolent author of ‘'Les Moeurs'’ underſtood the art of forming the cha⯑racter of a really fine gentleman, much better than he who taught that infamy was the road to honour. In ſhort, this is a work, in praiſe of which there is no danger of being too laviſh, for thoſe muſt be wiſe [227] indeed who are not informed by it, and incorrigible whoſe tempers are not mended by it.

What then ſhall we ſay of Mr. Dyer who could read it, approve it, and ſo far ſhake off his natural phlegm as to declare himſelf faſcinated by, and actually begin a tranſlation of it, yet could abandon his work, and ſink into the very character againſt which it was an antidote, but that ſloth had ob⯑tained the dominion over him, that a paralyſis had ſeized his mental faculties, and that rejecting the prudent counſels, the moral precepts, and the reli⯑gious inſtruction contained in this elegant tract, he had given himſelf up to criminal indolence and ſelf-gratification, and defeated the hopes of his beſt friends?

In the tranſlation into Engliſh, much of the ſpirit of the original has evaporated; but it has merit, as ſome particulars which the different manners of the two nations made it fit to alter, are properly adapted in it to the genius of our country, and indeed the tranſla⯑tion, even if it had had leſs claim to our regard, muſt have been acceptable, as it extended the benefits of this valuable tract.

Dyer's ſupport, in the idle way of life which he had made choice of, was the produce of a patrimony in the funds, that could not be great; his father, from whom he derived it, having left, beſides himſelf, a wi⯑dow, an elder ſon and a daughter. Johnſon and myſelf, that he might be getting ſomething, ſtrongly preſſed him to write the life of Eraſmus; but he could not be induced to undertake it. A work of leſs labour, but leſs worthy of him, he was however prevailed on [228] by Mr. Samuel Sharp, the ſurgeon, to engage in: this was a reviſion of the old tranſlation of Plutarch's lives by ſeveral hands. He undertook, and, with heavy complaints of the labour of his taſk, completed it, and had for his reward from Mr. Draper the part⯑ner of Mr. Tonſon, whom Mr. Sharp had ſolicited to find ſome employment for him, the ſum of two hundred pounds.

While he was a member of the club, Johnſon ſuſ⯑pected that his religious principles, for which at firſt he honoured him, were giving way, and it was whiſpered to me by one who ſeemed pleaſed that he was in the ſecret, that Mr. Dyer's religion was that of Socrates. What farther advances he made in Theiſm I could not learn, nor will I venture to aſſert, that which ſome expreſſions that I have heard drop from him led me to fear, viz. that he denied, in the philo⯑ſophical ſenſe of the term, the freedom of the human will, and ſettled in materialiſm and its conſequent tenets.

As all his determinations were ſlow and deliberate, and ſeemed to be the reſult of reaſon and reflection, the change in his principles and conduct here noted was gradual. Of this the firſt ſymptoms were an imbecillity to reſiſt any temptation abroad on a Sun⯑day evening, that ſhould eaſe him of the trouble of ſuch exerciſes as he had been accuſtomed to perform in the family of his mother, and an eager curioſity in the peruſal of books not merely of entertainment, but of ſuch, as together with a knowledge of the world, furniſhed his mind with ſuch palliatives of vice as made him half a convert to it.

[229] While his mind was in this ſtate of trepidation, a young gentleman who had been a fellow-ſtudent with him at Leyden, arrived in England, diſordered in his health, of whom and whoſe converſation he became ſo enamoured, that to entertain him while he was ſeek⯑ing the recovery of it, Dyer was almoſt loſt to all the reſt of his friends. To thoſe with whom he was moſt intimate, he would, notwithſtanding the cloſeneſs of his nature, deſcribe him and diſplay his attractions, which as he repreſented them, were learning, wit, po⯑liteneſs, elegance, particularly in the article of dreſs; free and open manners, a genteel figure, and other perſonal charms that rendered him the delight of the female ſex. It was a queſtion that ſome of thoſe with whom he was thus open would frequently aſk him, ‘'What are the moſt of theſe qualifications to you, Mr. Dyer, who are a man of a different character? you who know the value of wiſdom, and have a mind fraught with knowledge, which you are capable of applying to many beneficial purpoſes, can never be emulous of thoſe diſtinctions which diſcriminate a man of pleaſure from a philoſopher:'’ his anſwers to which ſerved only to ſhew that his judgment was corrupted: The habitation of his friend, whom he thus viſited, was a brothel, and his diſeaſe ſuch as thoſe ſeldom eſcape who frequent houſes of lewd reſort. The ſolicitude which the females in that place ſhewed for the recovery of his friend, their cloſe attendance on him, and aſſiduity in adminiſtering to him his medicines, and ſupplying all his wants, he attributed to genuine love; and ſeemed almoſt to envy in him that power which could intereſt ſo many [230] young perſons of the other ſex in the reſtoration of his health.

What effect theſe viſits, and the blandiſhments to which, as often as he made them, he was a witneſs, had upon Dyer, I know not, ſave that to defeat the enchantments of theſe ſyrens he practiſed none of the arts of Ulyſſes: on the contrary, they ſeemed to have wrought in him an opinion, that thoſe miſtook their intereſt, and ſhewed their ignorance of human life, who abſtained from any pleaſure that diſturbed not the quiet of families or the order of ſociety; that natural appetites required gratification, and were not to be diſmiſſed without it; that the indulgence of the iraſ⯑cible paſſions alone was vice; and that to live in peace with all mankind, and in a temper to do good offices, was the moſt eſſential part of our duty.

Having admitted theſe principles into his mind, he ſettled into a ſober ſenſualiſt; in a perfect conſiſtency with which character, he was content to eat the bread of idleneſs, laying himſelf open to the invitations of thoſe that kept the beſt tables, and contracting intimacies with men not only of oppoſite parties, but with ſome who ſeemed to have abandoned all prin⯑ciple, whether religious, political or moral. The houſes of many ſuch in ſucceſſion were his home; and for the gratifications of a well-ſpread table, choice wines, variety of company, card-parties, and a par⯑ticipation in all domeſtic amuſements and recreations, the owners thought themſelves recompenſed by his converſation and the readineſs with which he accom⯑modated himſelf to all about him. Nor was he ever at a loſs for reaſons to juſtify this abuſe of his parts or [231] waſte of his time: he looked upon the practice of the world as the rule of life, and thought it did not be⯑come an individual to reſiſt it.

By the death of his mother, his brother and ſiſter, all of whom he ſurvived, he became poſſeſſed of about 8000l. in the funds, which, as he was an oeconomiſt and inclined to no extravagance, it ſeemed highly improbable he would ever be tempted to diſſi⯑pate; but he had contracted a fatal intimacy with ſome perſons of deſperate fortunes, who were dealers in India ſtock, at a time when the affairs of the com⯑pany were in a ſtate of fluctuation; and though, from his indolent and abſtracted temper of mind and ignorance of buſineſs, the laſt man to be ſuſpected of yielding to ſuch deluſions, he firſt inveſted all he had in that precarious fund, and next became a candidate for the office of a director of the company, but failed in his attempt. After this, he entered into engage⯑ments for the purchaſe or ſale of ſtock, and by violat⯑ing them, made ſhipwreck of his honour. Laſtly, he made other contracts of the like kind, to the per⯑formance whereof he was ſtrictly bound: theſe turned out againſt him, and ſwallowed the whole of his fortune. About the time of this event he was ſeized with a quinſey, which he was aſſured was mortal; but whether he reſigned himſelf to the ſlow operation of that diſeaſe, or precipitated his end by an act of ſelf-violence, was, and yet is, a queſtion among his friends. He left not in money or effects ſufficient to defray the expence of a decent funeral, and the laſt office of humanity towards him was performed by one of thoſe who had been acceſſary to his ruin. A por⯑trait [232] of him was painted by Sir Joſhua Reynolds, and from it a mezzotinto was ſcraped, the print whereof, as he was little known, ſold only to his friends; a ſingular uſe however was made of it: Bell, the pub⯑liſher of the Engliſh poets, cauſed an engraving to be made from it, and prefixed it to the poems of Mr. John Dyer.

I have been thus particular in the hiſtory of this accompliſhed and hopeful young man, whom I once loved with the affection of a brother, with a view to ſhew the tendency of idleneſs, and to point out at what avenues vice may gain admittance in minds ſeemingly the moſt ſtrongly fortified. The aſſailable part of his was laxity of principle: at this entered infidelity, which was followed by ſuch temptations to pleaſure as he could ſee no reaſon to reſiſt: theſe led on deſires after the means of gratification, and the purſuit of them was his deſtruction.

M^cGhie was a Scotchman by birth, and educated, in one of the univerſities of that country, for the pro⯑feſſion of phyſic. In the rebellion in 1745, he, with a party of young men who, as volunteers, had aſſoci⯑ated on the ſide of government, bore arms, and was engaged in the ſkirmiſh at Falkirk, which he ever ſpoke of as an ill-conducted buſineſs. When mat⯑ters were become pretty quiet in Scotland, he took a doctor's degree, and came to London, where, truſting to the friendſhip of his countrymen he hoped to ſucceed in practice, but the town was overſtocked with Scotch phyſicians, and he met with ſmall en⯑couragement, though, by the favour of Dr. Benja⯑min Avery, the treaſurer of Guy's hoſpital, who had [233] been a diſſenting teacher, and at that time was at the head of that intereſt, he got to be elected one of the phyſicians of that charity. He was a learned, ingenious, and modeſt man; and one of thoſe few of his country whom Johnſon could endure. To ſay the truth, he treated him with great civility, and may almoſt be ſaid to have loved him. He inherited a patrimony too ſmall for his ſubſiſtence, and failing in his hope of getting forward in his profeſſion, died of a broken heart, and was buried by a contribution of his friends.

Barker, being by education a diſſenter, was ſent to ſtudy phyſic at Leyden, from whence he returned about the time I am ſpeaking of. He was introduced to us by Dyer, and had been a fellow-ſtudent with him and with Akenſide, Aſkew, Munckley, Mr. Dyſon of the houſe of commons, and others, few of whom are now living. From the converſation of theſe perſons, he learned the principles of lord Shafteſ⯑bury's philoſophy, and became, as moſt of them were, a favourer of his notions, and an acute reaſoner on the ſubject of ethics. He was an excellent claſſical ſcho⯑lar, a deep metaphyſician, and had enriched his fancy by reading the Italian poets; but he was a thoughtleſs young man, and in all his habits of dreſs and ap⯑pearance ſo ſlovenly as made him the jeſt of all his companions. Phyſicians in his time were uſed to be full dreſſed; and in his garb of a full ſuit, a brown tye-wig with a knot over one ſhoulder, and a long yellow-hilted ſword, and his hat under his arm, he was a caricature. In his religious principles he pro⯑feſſed himſelf an unitarian, for which Johnſon ſo often [234] ſnubbed him, that his viſits to us became leſs and leſs frequent. After ſuch a deſcription as that above, it is needleſs to add that Barker ſucceeded ill in his profeſſion. Upon his leaving us, he went to practiſe at Trowbridge in Wiltſhire, but at the end of two years returned to London, and became librarian to the col⯑lege of phyſicians, in the room of Edwards the orni⯑thologiſt; but for ſome miſbehaviour was diſplaced, and died in obſcurity.

Dr. Richard Bathurſt was a native of Jamaica, and the ſon of an eminent planter in that iſland, who coming to ſettle in England, placed his ſon in London, in order to qualify him for the practice of phyſic. In the courſe of his ſtudies he became acquainted with Johnſon, and was greatly beloved by him for the preg⯑nancy of his parts and the elegance of his manners. Be⯑ſides theſe he poſſeſſed the qualities that were moſt like⯑ly to recommend him in his profeſſion; but, want⯑ing friends, could make no way in it. He had juſt intereſt enough to be choſen phyſician to an hoſpital that was ſupported by precarious donations, and which yielded him little or no recompence for his attendance, which, as it was only a few hours on cer⯑tain days in the week, left him, in a great meaſure, maſter of his time. Of this he was a good manager, employing it in the ſtudies relative to his profeſſion, and the improvement of himſelf in polite literature. In conjunction with Johnſon, Hawkeſworth, and others, he wrote ‘'the Adventurer,'’ a periodical paper that will hereafter be ſpoken of, purſuing at the ſame time the moſt prudent and probable methods for ac⯑quiring reputation and advancing himſelf in his pro⯑feſſion; but miſſing of ſucceſs, he embraced the [235] offer of an appointment of phyſician to the army that was ſent on the expedition againſt the Havannah, where, ſoon after his arrival, he was ſeized with a fever that then raged among the troops, and which, before he could be a witneſs of the reduction of the place, put a period to an innocent and uſeful life.

The Spaniards have a proverb, that he who intends to be pope muſt think of nothing elſe. Bathurſt thought of becoming an eminent London phyſician, and omitted no means to attain that character: he ſtudied hard, dreſſed well, and aſſociated with thoſe who were likely to bring him forward, but he failed in his endea⯑vours, and ſhortly before his leaving England confeſſed to Johnſon, that in the courſe of ten years' exerciſe of his faculty, he had never opened his hand to more than one guinea.

The failure of three ſuch perſons as thoſe above⯑mentioned, in a profeſſion in which very many igno⯑rant men have been known to ſucceed^*, was matter of wonder to Johnſon and all that knew them. He obeyed that precept of Scripture, which exhorts us to honour the phyſician, and would frequently ſay of thoſe of this country, that they did more good to mankind, without a proſpect of reward, than any pro⯑feſſion of men whatever. Bathurſt's want of encourage⯑ment affected him much: he often expreſſed to me his ſurprize, that a young man of his endowments and engaging manners, ſhould ſucceed no better, and his diſappointment drew from him a reflection, which he has inſerted in his life of Akenſide, that by an acute obſerver who had looked on the tranſactions of the [236] medical world for half a century, a very curious book might be written on the fortune of phyſicians. Such a book I ſhould be glad to ſee; and if any perſon hereafter ſhall be induced to purſue Johnſon's hint, he may poſſibly think the following remarks which have occurred to me in the courſe of a long intimacy with ſome of the moſt eminent of the profeſſion, not altogether beneath his notice.

Of the profeſſors of medicine, in cities remote from London and in country rowns, I know but little; but in the metropolis I am able to ſay, that in my time not only the track of a young phyſician was pretty plainly pointed out, and it is curious to follow it, but that the conduct of ſuch an one was reducible to a ſyſtem. Mead was the ſon of a non-conforming miniſter the teacher of a numerous congregation, who truſting to his influence over them^*, bred his ſon a phyſician, with what ſucceſs is well known^†. He raiſed the medical character to ſuch a height of dignity as was never ſeen in this or any other country. His example was an inducement with others of the diſſenting miniſters to make phy⯑ſicians [237] of their ſons. Oldfield, Clark, Neſbit, Lobb, and Munckley were the ſons of diſſenting teachers, and they generally ſucceeded. The hoſpital of St. Thomas, and that of Guy, in Southwark, were both under the government of diſſenters and whigs; and as ſoon as any one became phyſician of either, his fortune was looked upon as made. The mention of this circumſtance brings to my remembrance a conteſt, that, to a degree, proves the truth of my aſſertion. Dr. aſterwards Sir Edward, Hulſe had been ſome years phyſician to St. Thomas's hoſpital, and being minded to reſign, had ſet his eye upon Dr. Joſeph Letherland, a man of profound erudition, for his ſucceſſor. Hoadly, biſhop of Wincheſter, had about that time a ſon, who having finiſhed his ſtudies in phyſic at Cambridge, had taken his doctor's de⯑gree, and was about to ſettle in London. Hoadly was ever the idol of the whigs: he encouraged his ſon to offer himſelf, and the intereſt was divided. Every nerve was ſtrained, and Hoadly miſſed his elec⯑tion by fewer than ten votes^*.

[238] The ſame advantage attended the election of a phyſician to the hoſpitals of Bethlehem and St. Bartholomew, which are of royal foundation, and have been under tory government. By cultivat⯑ing an intereſt with either of the two parties, the ſucceſſion of a young phyſician was almoſt inſured. The frequenting Batſon's or Child's was a declaration of the ſide he took, and his buſineſs was to be in⯑diſcriminately courteous and obſequious to all men, to appear much abroad and in public places, to in⯑creaſe his acquaintance and form good connexions, in the doing whereof, a wife, if he were married, that could viſit, play at cards, and tattle, was oftentimes very ſerviceable^†. A candidate for practice, pur⯑ſuing theſe methods and exerciſing the patience of a [239] ſetting-dog for half a ſcore years in the expectation of deaths, reſignations, or other accidents that occaſion vacancies, at the end thereof either found himſelf an hoſpital phyſician^*, and if of Bethlehem a monopoliſt of one, and that a very lucrative branch of practice; or doomed to ſtruggle with difficulties for the remain⯑der of his life.

Jurin, Shaw, James, and ſome few others, recom⯑mended themſelves to practice by their writings, but in general the methods of acquiring it; I ſpeak of the city, were ſuch as are above deſcribed. One and only one of the profeſſion I am able to name who purſued a different conduct, and under the greateſt diſadvan⯑tages ſucceeded.

This perſon was Dr. Meyer Schomberg, a native of Cologne, who being a jew, and as I have heard related of him, librarian to ſome perſon of diſtinction abroad, [240] left that occupation, and came and ſettled in London. Being of no profeſſion, and having the means of a livelihood to ſeek, he was at a pauſe, but at length determined on one, and took it up in a manner that will be beſt deſcribed by his own words to a friend of mine. ‘'I ſaid I was a phyſician.'’ Having thus aſſum⯑ed a profeſſion, he cultivated an intimacy with the jews in Duke's place, and by their means got intro⯑duced to the acquaintance of ſome of the leading men, merchants and others of that religion, who employed him, and by their intereſt recommended him to a practice that, in a few years amounted, as he once told me himſelf, to a thouſand pounds a year. He was a man of an inſinuating addreſs, and as he under⯑ſtood mankind very well, having renounced the ritual diſtinctions of his religion, he ſoon found out a me⯑thod of acquiring popularity, which had never been practiſed by any of his profeſſion; he took a large houſe in the city, and kept a public table, to which, on a certain day in the week, all the young ſurgeons and apothecaries were welcome, and at which all that were preſent were treated with an indiſcriminate civility, that had very much the appearance of friend⯑ſhip, but meant nothing more than that they ſhould recommend him to practice. The ſcheme ſucceeded; in the year 1740, Schomberg had outſtripped all the city-phyſicians, and was in the annual receipt of four thouſand pounds.

To enable him to practice, he had, at his ſetting out, procured to be admitted a licentiate of the college, but that permiſſion had been granted him with ſo ill a grace, or was followed by ſome circumſtances that [241] provoked his reſentment ſo highly, that he ſeemed re⯑ſolved on a perpetual enmity againſt the members of that body; who, on their part, looking on him as little better than a foreign mountebank, declined, as much as poſſible, meeting him in conſultation, and thereby, for ſome time, checked his practice.

He had a ſon whom he brought up to his own pro⯑feſſion, who took it into his head, that having been admitted a licentiate, he was virtually a fellow, and claimed to be admitted as ſuch: his father encou⯑raged him, and inſtituted a proceſs in his behalf, of which there had been no precedent ſince the time that Jefferies was chancellor. It was no leſs than a petition to the king, requeſting him, in the perſon of the lord-chancellor, to exerciſe his viſitatorial power over the college, and reſtore the licentiates to their rights, which, by their arbitrary proceedings, the preſident and fellows had, for a ſucceſſion of ages, deprived them of. This petition came on to be heard at Lincoln's-inn hall, before the lord chief juſtice Willes, the lord chief-baron Smythe, and Sir John Eardley Wilmot, lords commiſſioners of the great ſeal, but the allegations therein contained not being ſufficiently ſupported, the ſame was diſmiſſed; it was nevertheleſs looked on as the moſt ſormidable attack on the college it had ever ſuſtained, and may be ſaid to have ſhaken its conſtitution to the very centre.

Political aſſociations and religious ſects are excel⯑lent nurſes to young men of profeſſions, eſpecially of that of which I am ſpeaking; Ratcliffe and Freind owed their fortunes to the ſupport of the tories and jacobites; Mead and Hulſe to the whigs, and Schom⯑berg to the jews. The quakers alſo, no contemptible [242] body of men, had power and intereſt ſufficient to introduce into great practice one of their own deno⯑mination; this was John Fothergill, a young man of parts and induſtry, who being bred an apothecary, and having obtained a Scotch degree, ſettled in London, and attached himſelf to Schomberg, taking him, in many parts of his conduct, for his exemplar: ſo that, upon Schomberg's deceaſe, he ſlid into his practice, and became one of the moſt popular of the city phyſicians. Theſe two perſons, firſt one, and then the other, for full thirty years, carried all before them; and within that ſpace of time, not fewer than twenty of the profeſſion, whom I could name, lived in great ſtraits, ſome of them leaving, at their deceaſe, ſcarce ſufficient to bury them.

From theſe, and many other inſtances that might be produced, it is evident, that neither learning, parts, nor ſkill, nor even all theſe united, are ſufficient to enſure ſucceſs in the profeſſion I am ſpeaking of; and that, without the concurrence of adventitious circumſtances, which no one can pretend to define, a phyſician of the greateſt merit may be loſt to the world; and further it may be ſaid, that the faireſt hopes may be fruſtrated by the want of that qua⯑lity, which Swift ſomewhere calls an aldermanly virtue, diſcretion, but is in truth, of greater effi⯑cacy in our intercourſe with mankind, than all ſcience put together. Had Akenſide been poſſeſſed of this gift, he had probably become the firſt in his faculty; but that he was able to acquire no other kind of celebrity than that of a ſcholar and a poet, is to be accounted for by ſome particulars in his life and conduct, with which few but myſelf, who [243] knew him well, are acquainted, and which I here in⯑ſert as ſuppletory to thoſe which Johnſon has recorded of him. Mr. Dyſon and he were fellow ſtudents, the one of law and the other of phyſic, at Leyden; where, being of congenial tempers, a friendſhip com⯑menced between them that laſted through their lives. They left the univerſity at the ſame time, and both ſettled in London: Mr. Dyſon took to the bar, and being poſſeſſed of a handſome fortune ſupported his friend while he was endeavouring to make him⯑ſelf known as a phyſician; but in a ſhort time, hav⯑ing purchaſed of Mr. Hardinge, his place of clerk of the houſe of commons, he quitted Weſtminſter hall, and for the purpoſe of introducing Akenſide to acquaintance in an opulent neighbourhood near the town, bought a houſe at North-End, Hampſtead; where they dwelt together during the ſummer ſeaſon: frequenting the long room, and all clubs, and aſſem⯑blies of the inhabitants.

At theſe meetings, which as they were not ſelect, muſt be ſuppoſed to have conſiſted of ſuch perſons as uſually meet for the purpoſe of goſſiping, men of wealth, but of ordinary endowments, and able to talk of little elſe than news, and the occurrences of the day, Akenſide was for diſplaying thoſe talents which had acquired him the reputation he enjoyed in other companies; but here they were of little uſe to him, on the contrary, they tended to engage him in diſputes that betrayed him into a contempt of thoſe that differed in opinion from him. It was found out that he was a man of low birth, and a dependant on Mr. Dyſon; circumſtances that fur⯑niſhed thoſe whom he offended with a ground of re⯑proach, [244] that reduced him to the neceſſity of aſſert⯑ing in terms that he was a gentleman.

Little could be done at Hampſtead after matters had proceeded to this extremity; Mr. Dyſon parted with his villa at North-End, and ſettled his friend in a ſmall houſe in Bloomſbury ſquare; aſſigning for his ſupport ſuch a part of his income as enabled him to keep a chariot.

In this new ſituation Akenſide uſed every endea⯑vour to become popular, but defeated them all by the high opinion he every where manifeſted of himſelf, and the little condeſcenſion he ſhewed to men of inferior endowments; by his love of political controverſy, his authoritative cenſure of the public councils, and his bigotted notions reſpecting government, ſubjects ſo⯑reign to his profeſſion, and with which ſome of the wiſeſt of it have thought it prudent not to concern themſelves. In the winter evenings he frequented Tom's coffee-houſe in Devereux court, then the reſort of ſome of the moſt eminent men for learning and ingenuity of the time, with ſome of whom he be⯑came entangled in diſputes and altercations, chiefly on ſubjects of literature and politics, that fixed on his character the ſtamp of haughtineſs and ſelf-conceit, and drew him into diſagreeable ſituations.

There was at that time a man of the name of Ballow, who uſed to paſs his evenings in the ſociety above⯑mentioned, a lawyer by profeſſion^*, but of no practice; he having, by the intereſt of ſome of the Townſhends, to whom he had been a kind of law tutor, obtained a place in the exchequer, which yielded him a handſome [245] income, and exempted him from the neceſſity of attending Weſtminſter-hall. He was a man of deep and extenſive learning, but of vulgar manners; and being of a ſplenetic temper, envied Akenſide for that eloquence which he diſplayed in his converſation, and ſet his own phraſeology very low. Moreover he hated him for his republican principles; and finally, being himſelf a man of ſolid learning, affected to treat him as a pretender to literature, and made it his ſtudy to provoke him.

One evening at the coffee-houſe a diſpute between theſe two perſons roſe ſo high, that for ſome ex⯑preſſion uttered by Ballow, Akenſide thought him⯑ſelf obliged to demand an apology, which not being able to obtain, he ſent his adverſary a challenge in writing. Ballow, a little deformed man, well known as a ſaunterer in the park, about Weſtminſter, and in the ſtreets between Charing croſs and the houſes of parliament, though remarkable for a ſword of an unuſual length, which he conſtantly wore when he went abroad, had no inclination for fighting, and declined an anſwer. The demand of ſatisfaction was followed by ſeveral attempts on the part of Akenſide to ſee Ballow at his lodgings, but he kept cloſe, till by the interpoſition of friends the difference could be adjuſted^*. By his conduct in this buſineſs, [246] Akenſide acquired but little reputation for courage, for the accommodation was not brought about by any conceſſions of his adverſary, but by a reſolution from which neither of them would depart, for one would not fight in the morning, nor the other in the after⯑noon: all that he got by it was, the character of an iraſcible man; and many who admired him for his genius and parts were ſhy of becoming his inti⯑mates. Yet where there was no competition for applauſe or literary reputation, he was an eaſy compa⯑nion, and would bear with ſuch rudeneſs as would have angered almoſt any one. Saxby, of the cuſtom⯑houſe, who was every evening at Tom's, and by the bluntneſs of his behaviour, and the many ſhrewd ſayings he was uſed to utter, had acquired the privi⯑lege of Therſites, of ſaying whatever he would, was once in my hearing, inveighing againſt the profeſſion of phyſic, which Akenſide took upon him to de⯑fend. This railer, after labouring to prove that it was all impoſture, concluded his diſcourſe with this ſentiment: ‘'Doctor,' ſaid he, 'after all you have ſaid, my opinion of the profeſſion of phyſic is this, The ancients endeavoured to make it a ſcience and failed; and the moderns to make it a trade and have ſuc⯑ceeded.'’ [247] Akenſide took this ſarcaſm in good part, and joined in the laugh which it occaſioned.

The value of that precept which exhorts us to live peaceably with all men, or in other words to avoid creating enemies, can only be eſtimated by the reflec⯑tion on thoſe many amiable qualities againſt which the neglect of it will preponderate. Akenſide was a man of religion and ſtrict virtue, a philoſopher, a ſcholar, and a fine poet. His converſation was of the moſt delightful kind, learned, inſtructive, and without any affectation of wit, chearful and entertaining. One of the pleaſanteſt days of my life I paſſed with him, Mr. Dyſon, and another friend, at Putney bowling-green houſe, where a neat and elegant dinner, the enlivening ſunſhine of a ſummer's day, and the view of an un⯑clouded ſky, were the leaſt of our gratifications. In perfect good humour with himſelf and all around him, he ſeemed to feel a joy that he lived, and poured out his gratulations to the great diſpenſer of all felicity in expreſſions that Plato himſelf might have uttered on ſuch an occaſion. In converſations with ſelect friends, and thoſe whoſe courſe of ſtudy had been nearly the ſame with his own, it was an uſual thing with him in libations to the memory of eminent men among the ancients, to bring their characters into view, and there⯑by give occaſion to expatiate on thoſe particulars of their lives that had rendered them famous: his method was to arrange them into three claſſes, philoſophers, poets, and legiſlators.

That a character thus formed ſhould fail of recom⯑mending itſelf to general eſteem, and procure to the poſſeſſor of it thoſe benefits which it is in the power of [248] mankind to beſtow, may ſeem a wonder, but it is often ſeen, that negative qualities are more conducive to this end than poſitive; and that, with no higher a character than is attainable by any one who with a ſtudious taciturnity will keep his opinions to himſelf, conform to the practice of others, and entertain neither friendſhip for nor enmity againſt any one, a competitor for the good opinion of the world, nay for emoluments, and even dignities, ſtands a better chance of ſucceſs, than one of the moſt eſtab⯑liſhed reputation for learning and ingenuity. The truth of this obſervation Akenſide himſelf lived to experience, who in a competition for the place of phy⯑ſician to the Charterhouſe, was unable to prevail againſt an obſcure man, devoid of every quality that might ſerve to recommend him, and whoſe ſole merit was that of being diſtantly related to the late lord Holland.

To thoſe perſons who have been diſappointed in their hopes of ſucceſs in the medical profeſſion, may be added one, to whom his failure was ſo far from being a misfortune, that it was the means of placing him in a ſtation where only his worth could be known, and of exalting him to dignities in which he rendered more ſervice to mankind, than he could have done in any other capacity whatever. This was Dr. Secker, the late archbiſhop of Canterbury; of whom I ſhall relate a few particulars not generally known.

We are told by the reverend authors of his life, prefixed to his ſermons publiſhed by them, that he had been deſtined by his father for orders among the diſſenters; but that not being able to decide on [249] ſome abſtruſe ſpeculative doctrines, nor to determine abſolutely what communion he ſhould embrace, he ap⯑plied himſelf to the ſtudy of phyſic. To this fact I add, that he was alſo a candidate for practice, and that in or⯑der to obtain it, he put on the garb of a phyſician; and for a year or ſomewhat more frequented Batſon's coffee-houſe in the city, but had never any calls from thence^*. His biographers abovementioned further ſay, that being recommended by Mr. afterwards biſhop Butler, to Mr. Edward Talbot, a ſon of bi⯑ſhop Talbot; that gentleman promiſed in caſe he choſe to take orders in the church, to engage his fa⯑ther to provide for him, and that foreſeeing many obſtacles in his purſuit of this profeſſion, Mr. Secker, for he had not then obtained the degree of doctor in his faculty, embraced the offer. They add, that in the ſummer of 1720, he was introduced to Mr. Talbot, and that with him he cultivated a cloſe acquaint⯑ance. This I conceive was not till after he had made the experiment abovementioned, and determined on the change of his profeſſion. Mr. Talbot's recom⯑mendation of his friend to his father ſucceeded, but he lived not to ſee the fruit of it; for in a few months after, he was ſeized with the ſmall-pox and died; which laſt particular agrees with the following, communicated to me by a perſon of unqueſtionable veracity; viz. that upon the firſt appearance of the diſorder, the ſymptoms were very unfavourable, and it ſeemed neceſſary in order to aſſiſt the eruption, that ſome perſon ſhould ſleep in the ſame bed with the patient. Mr. Secker [250] voluntarily undertook this office, and though it failed of ſucceſs, gave a convincing proof of his gratitude to one whoſe friendſhip was likely to prove, as it af⯑terwards did, the making of his fortunes.

To return from this digreſſion, the club in Ivy lane, compoſed of the perſons above deſcribed, was a great re⯑lief to Johnſon after the fatigue of ſtudy, and he gene⯑rally came to it with both a corporal and mental appe⯑tite; for our converſations ſeldom began till after a ſup⯑per, ſo very ſolid and ſubſtantial, as led us to think, that with him it was a dinner. By the help of this refec⯑tion, and no other incentive to hilarity than lemonade, Johnſon was, in a ſhort time after our aſſembling, trans⯑formed into a new creature: his habitual melancholy and laſſitude of ſpirit gave way; his countenance brightened; his mind was made to expand, and his wit to ſparkle: he told excellent ſtories; and in his didactic ſtile of converſation, both inſtructed and de⯑lighted us.

It required, however, on the part of us, who con⯑ſidered ourſelves as his diſciples, ſome degree of compliance with his political prejudices: the greater number of our company were whigs, and I was not a tory, and we all ſaw the prudence of avoiding to call the then late adventurer in Scotland, or his adhe⯑rents, by thoſe names which others heſitated not to give them, or to bring to remembrance what had paſſed, a few years before, on Tower-hill. But the greateſt of all our difficulties was, to keep alive in Johnſon's mind a ſenſe of the decorum due to the age, character, and profeſſion of Dr. Salter, whom he took delight in contradicting, and bringing his learn⯑ing, [251] his judgment, and ſometimes his veracity to the teſt. And here I muſt obſerve, that Johnſon, though a high-churchman, and by conſequence a friend to the clergy as a body of men, was, with reſpect to in⯑dividuals, frequently, not to ſay wanting in civility, but to a very great degree ſplenetic and pertinacious. For this behaviour we could but one way account: He had been bred in an univerſity, and muſt there have had in proſpect thoſe advantages, thoſe ſtations in life, or perhaps thoſe dignities, which an academic educa⯑tion leads to. Miſſing theſe by his adverſe fortunes, he looked on every dignitary under a biſhop, for to thoſe of that order he was more than ſufficiently re⯑ſpectful, and, to deſcend lower, on every one that poſſeſſed the emoluments of his profeſſion, as occu⯑pying a ſtation to which himſelf had a better title, and, if his inferior in learning or mental endowments, treat⯑ed him as little better than an uſurper.

Dr. Salter was too much a man of the world to re⯑ſent this behaviour: ‘'Study to be quiet'’ ſeemed to be his rule; and he might poſſibly think, that a victory over Johnſon in any matter of diſpute, could it have been obtained, would have been dearly purchaſed at the price of peace. It was nevertheleſs a temerarious act in him to venture into a ſociety, of which ſuch a man was the head. Dean Swift in his character of Coruſodes^*, has ſo developed the arts by which mere men of the world attain to eccleſiaſtical dignities and preferments, as ſhould make ſuch for ever cautious how they riſque detection; and accordingly we ſee that [252] many among them are in general backward in form⯑ing connections and aſſociating with ſcholars and the learned of the laity, at leaſt with men of Johnſon's temper, who, where he had reaſon to expect learning, never ſhewed mercy to ignorance.

Hawkeſworth was a man of fine parts, but no learn⯑ing: his reading had been irregular and deſultory: the knowledge he had acquired, he, by the help of a good memory retained, ſo that it was ready at every call, but on no ſubject had he ever formed any ſyſtem. All of ethics that he knew, he had got from Pope's ‘'Eſſay on Man,'’ and Epiſtles; he had read the modern French writers, and more particularly the poets, and with the aid of Keill's Introduction, Chambers's Dic⯑tionary, and other ſuch common books, had attained ſuch an inſight into phyſics, as enabled him to talk on the ſubject. In the more valuable branches of learn⯑ing, he was deficient. His office of curator of the Magazine gave him great opportunities of improve⯑ment, by an extenſive correſpondence with men of all profeſſions: it increaſed his little ſtock of literature, and furniſhed him with more than a competent ſhare of that intelligence which is neceſſary to qualify a man for converſation. He had a good ſhare of wit, and a vein of humour. With all theſe talents, Hawkeſ⯑worth could be no other than an inſtructive and enter⯑taining companion.

Of a far more valuable kind were the endowments of Dyer; keen penetration and deep erudition were the qualities that ſo diſtinguiſhed his character, that, in ſome inſtances, Johnſon might almoſt be ſaid to have looked up to him. As the purpoſe of our meetings [253] was the free communication of ſentiments, and the enjoyment of ſocial intercourſe, our converſations were unreſtrained, and the ſubjects thereof multifarious. Dyer was a divine, a linguiſt, a mathematician, a me⯑taphyſician, a natural philoſopher, a claſſical ſcholar, and a critic; this Johnſon ſaw and felt, and never, but in defence of ſome fundamental and important truth, would he contradict him. The deference thus ſhewn by Johnſon to Dyer, may be ſaid to have been involuntary, or reſpect extorted; for in their religious and political ſentiments their diſagreement was ſo great, that leſs of it would, in ſome minds, have engendered hatred. Of the fundamental and impor⯑tant truths above-mentioned, there was one, namely the nature of moral obligation, of which Johnſon was uniformly tenacious. Every one, verſed in ſtudies of this kind, knows, that there are, among the moderns, three ſects or claſſes of writers on morality, who, though perhaps deriving their reſpective tenets from the Socratic, the Academic and other ancient ſchools, are, in theſe times, conſidered, at leaſt, as the guides of ſects; theſe are the characteriſtic lord Shafteſbury, Dr. Samuel Clarke, and Mr. Wollaſton: the firſt of theſe makes virtue to conſiſt in a courſe of action con⯑formable to what is called the moral ſenſe; Wollaſton ſays it is acting, in all caſes, according to truth, and treating things as they are; Dr. Clarke ſuppoſes all rational agents as under an obligation to act agreeably to the relations that ſubſiſt between ſuch, or according to what he calls the fitneſs of things. Johnſon was ever an admirer of Clarke, and agreed with him in this and moſt other of his opinions, excepting in that of the [254] Trinity, in which he ſaid, as Dr. Bentley, though no very ſound believer, had done before, that Dr. Water⯑land had foiled him. He therefore fell in with the ſcheme of fitneſs, and thereby profeſſed himſelf an ad⯑verſary, in the mildeſt ſenſe of the word, and an oppo⯑nent of Dyer, who, having been a pupil of Hutcheſon, favoured, notwithſtanding his ſuſpected infidelity, this and many other notions and opinions of lord Shafteſ⯑bury.

To ſay of lord Shafteſbury that he was but a ſuſpected infidel, is ſurely treating him mildly, and I forbear to tax him with unbelief, only becauſe in his ‘'Letters to a ſtudent at the Univerſity^*,'’ he has af⯑fected to ſpeak of the Chriſtian religion, as if half perſuaded of its truth. Nevertheleſs, throughout his works it may be diſcerned, that he omits no oppor⯑tunity of branding it with ſuperſtition and enthuſiaſm, and of repreſenting the primitive profeſſors of it as provoking, by their factious and turbulent behaviour, thoſe perſecutions from whence they derive the glory of martyrs. For theſe ſentiments, as alſo for the in⯑vidious compariſons he is ever drawing between the [255] philoſophers Plato, Epictetus, Seneca and others, and the fathers, and his many contemptuous ſneers at the writers on the ſide of chriſtianity, Johnſon bore him no good will, neither did he ſeem at all to reliſh the cant of the Shafteſburian ſchool, nor inclin⯑ed to admit the pretenſions of thoſe who profeſſed to be of it, to taſtes and perceptions which are not common to all men; a taſte in morals, in poetry, and proſe-writing, in painting, in ſculpture, in mu⯑ſic, in architecture, and in government! a taſte that cenſured every production, and induced them to re⯑probate every effort of genius that fell ſhort of their own capricious ſtandard^*.

Little as Johnſon liked the notions of lord Shafteſ⯑bury, he ſtill leſs approved thoſe of ſome later writers, who have purſued the ſame train of thinking and reaſoning, namely, Hutcheſon, Dr. Nettleton, and Mr. Harris of Saliſbury, of which latter, for the many ſingularities of ſentiment and ſtyle in his ‘'Hermes,'’ he ſcrupled not to ſpeak very lightly. There is a book extant, intitled, ‘'Letters concern⯑ing Mind,'’ written by a perſon of the ſame ſchool, named Petvin, which, with an arrow taken from the quiver of their great maſter, a ſtroke of ridicule [256] ſhot from one of the Idlers, Johnſon may be fairly ſaid to have transfixed. The paſſage is in a high degree ludicrous, and will, I am perſuaded, juſtify the inſer⯑tion of it here at length.

That Dyer ſhould be a friend to the doctrine of the moral ſenſe, and to the other tenets of this ſchool, is [257] not to be wondered at, ſeeing that he was a pupil of Hutcheſon, and that his were the opinions that prevailed at Glaſgow, where he taught, and alſo at Leyden, whither Dyer and many of his fellow-ſtudents in that univerſity, removed. Akenſide and Dyſon, who were of the number, were deep in this ſcheme, and alſo abettors of that fanciful notion, that ridicule is the teſt of truth.

The topics above-mentioned were, not unfrequent⯑ly, the ſubjects of altercation between Johnſon and Dyer, in which it might be obſerved, as Johnſon once did of two diſputants, that the one had ball without powder, and the other powder without ball; for Dyer, though beſt ſkilled in the controverſy, was in⯑ferior to his adverſary in the power of reaſoning, and Johnſon, who was not always maſter of the queſtion, was ſeldom at a loſs for ſuch ſophiſtical arguments as the other was unable to anſwer.

In theſe diſputations I had opportunities of obſerv⯑ing what others have taken occaſion to remark, viz. not only that in converſation Johnſon made it a rule to talk his beſt, but that on many ſubjects he was not uniform in his opinions, contending as often for vic⯑tory as for truth: at one time good, at another evil was predominant in the moral conſtitution of the world. Upon one occaſion, he would deplore the non-obſervance of Good-Friday, and on another deny, that among us of the preſent age there is any decline of public worſhip. He would ſometimes contradict ſelf-evident propoſitions, ſuch as, that the luxury of this country has increaſed with its riches; and that the practice of card-playing is more general than here⯑tofore. [258] At this verſatility of temper, none, however, took offence; as Alexander and Caeſar were born for conqueſt, ſo was Johnſon for the office of a ſympoſi⯑arch, to preſide in all converſations; and I never yet ſaw the man who would venture to conteſt his right.

Let it not, however, be imagined, that the mem⯑bers of this our club met together, with the temper of gladiators, or that there was wanting among us a diſ⯑poſition to yield to each other in all diverſities of opi⯑nion; and indeed, diſputation was not, as in many aſſociations of this kind, the purpoſe of our meeting: nor were our converſations, like thoſe of the Rota club, reſtrained to particular topics. On the con⯑trary, it may be ſaid, that with our graveſt diſcourſes was intermingled

for not only in Johnſon's melancholy there were lucid intervals, but he was a great contributor to the mirth of converſation, by the many witty ſayings he uttered, and the many excellent ſtories which his memory had treaſured up, and he would on occaſion relate; ſo that thoſe are greatly miſtaken who infer, either from the general tendency of his writings, or that appearance of hebetude which marked his counte⯑nance when living, and is diſcernible in the pictures and prints of him, that he could only reaſon and diſ⯑cuſs, dictate and controul.

In the talent of humour there hardly ever was his equal, except perhaps among the old comedians, [259] ſuch as Tarleton, and a few others mentioned by Cibber. By means of this he was enabled to give to any relation that required it, the graces and aids of expreſſion, and to diſcriminate with the niceſt ex⯑actneſs the characters of thoſe whom it concerned. In aping this faculty I have ſeen Warburton diſconcerted, and when he would fain have been thought a man of pleaſantry, not a little out of coun⯑tenance.

I have already mentioned, that Johnſon's motive for the inſtitution of this ſociety was, his love of con⯑verſation, and the neceſſity he found himſelf under of ſeeking relief from the fatigue of compiling his dicti⯑onary: the ſame neceſſity operated ſtill farther, and induced him to undertake, what moſt other men would have thought an additional fatigue, the pub⯑liſhing a periodical paper. The truth is, that not having now for a conſiderable ſpace committed to writing aught but words and their ſignifications, his mind was become tumid, and laboured to be delivered of thoſe many and great conceptions, which for years it had been forming. The ſtudy of human life and manners, had been the chief employment of his thoughts, and to a knowledge of theſe, all his read⯑ing, all his converſation, and all his meditations tended. By theſe exerciſes, and the aid of an ima⯑gination that was ever teeming with new ideas, he accumulated a fund of moral ſcience, that was more than ſufficient for ſuch an undertaking, and became in a very eminent degree qualified for the office of an inſtructor of mankind in their greateſt and moſt important concerns.

[260] I am ſenſible of the contempt and ridicule with which thoſe authors are treated by lord Shafteſbury, who, differing from his favourites the ancients, have preferred to their method of writing in ſoliloquy and dialogue, the more authoritative and didactic form of eſſays; but who knows not that the ways by which intelligence and wiſdom may be communicated are many and various, and that Johnſon has followed the beſt exemplars? What are the ſapiential books in the Scriptures, and all collections of precepts and counſels, but moral eſſays, leſſons of oeconomical prudence, and rules for the conduct of human life?

In a full perſuaſion of the utility of this mode of inſtruction, it undoubtedly was, that Montaigne, lord Bacon, Oſborne, Cowley, Sir William Temple, and others, in thoſe excellent diſcourſes, which they have not ſcrupled to term eſſays, have laid out their minds, and communicated to mankind that ſkill in worldly, and I will add, in heavenly prudence, which is ſcarcely attainable but by long experience, and an exerciſe both of the active and contemplative life; and to diſſeminate and recommend the princi⯑ples and practice of religion and virtue; as alſo, to correct the leſſer foibles in behaviour, and to render human intercourſe eaſy and delightful, was the avow⯑ed deſign of thoſe periodical eſſays, which, in the be⯑ginning of this century, contributed to form the man⯑ners of the then riſing generation.

A long ſpace had intervened ſince the publication of the Tatlers, Guardians, and Spectators: it is true it had been filled up by The Lover, and The Reader, The Theatre, The Lay-monaſtery, The Plain-dealer, [261] The Free-thinker, The Speculatiſt, The Cenſor, and other productions of the like kind; but of ſome of theſe it may be ſaid, that they were nearly ſtill-born, and of others, that they enjoyed a duration little more extended than that of the ephemeron: ſo that Johnſon had no competitors for applauſe; his way was open, and he had the choice of many paths. Add to this, that a period of near forty years, in a country where commerce and its concomitant luxury had been in⯑creaſing, had given riſe to new modes of living, and even to characters that had ſearcely before been known to exiſt. The clergyman was now become an amphibious being, that is to ſay, both an eccleſiaſtic and a laic; the ſtately ſtalking fop, whoſe gait, as Cibber deſcribes it, reſembled that of a peacock, was ſucceeded by a coxcomb of another ſpecies, a fidget⯑ting, tripping animal, that for agility might be com⯑pared to a graſshopper; the ſhopkeeper was transform⯑ed into a merchant, and the parſimonious ſtock-broker into a man of gallantry; the apron, the badge of mechanic occupations, in all its varieties of ſtuff and colour, was laid aſide; phyſicians and lawyers were no longer diſtinguiſhable by their garb; the former had laid aſide the great wig, and the latter ceaſed to wear black, except in the actual exerciſe of their profeſ⯑ſions: in ſhort, a few years of public tranquillity had transformed a whole nation into gentlemen.

In female life the refinements were alſo to be noted. In conſequence of a better education than it had been uſual to beſtow on them, women were become profi⯑cients in literature, and a man might read a lady's letter without bluſhing at the ſpelling. The convenience [262] of turnpike-roads had deſtroyed the diſtinction between town and country manners, and the maid of honour and the farmer's wife put on a cap of the lateſt form, almoſt at the ſame inſtant. I mention this, becauſe it may have eſcaped the obſervation of many, that a new faſhion pervades the whole of this our iſland almoſt as inſtantaneouſly as a ſpark of fire illuminates a maſs of gunpowder.^*

Theſe, it may be ſaid, were but foibles in the man⯑ners of the times; but there were certain notions and opinions, which having been diſſeminated ſubſequent [263] to the publication of the laſt of the collections of eſſays above-mentioned, eſcaped their cenſure, and were now become principles that had miſ-led many, and were likely to affect the moral conduct of the young and unthinking: theſe had for their authors and propaga⯑tors ſuch men as Collins, Mandeville^†, Morgan and Tindal; the firſt pair deiſts, and the latter infidels. And to theſe I might add, though I would not brand [264] them with ſo harſh an appellation as the laſt, Toland, Gordon, Trenchard, and others of that claſs of writers, men who having drank the lees of the Bangorian controverſy, were become ſo intoxicated in their notions of civil and religious liberty, as to talk of the majeſty of the people! and ſhewed themſelves anxious that their zeal for religion might be eſtimated by their jealouſy of all eſtabliſhments for the ſupport of it.

The flimſy arguments contained in Collins's diſ⯑courſe on Free-thinking, had been refuted with great learning and pleaſantry by Bentley, before which time, as I have been informed, a clergyman in his habit, walking the ſtreets of London, was in danger of being affronted; but the poiſon of Mandeville had affected many. His favourite principle is, the title to the moſt noted of all his books, ‘'Private vices, public benefits,'’ throughout which he labours to in⯑culcate, as a ſubordinate poſition, this other, that man is a ſelfiſh being, and that all that we call human beneficence is to be accounted for upon principles that exclude the love of any but ourſelves^*.

Johnſon has remarked, that malevolence to the clergy is ſeldom at a great diſtance from irreverence for religion. He ſaw the features of that malevolence [265] in the writings of theſe men, and the point at which free-thinking was likely to terminate; and taking up the defence of religion where Mr. Addiſon left it, he made it a part of his deſign as well to adduce new arguments for its ſupport, and to enforce the practice of virtue, as to correct thoſe errors in the ſmaller concerns and occupations of life, the ridiculing which rendered his paper an amuſement.

In this ſituation and ſtate of public manners John⯑ſon formed the plan of his Rambler, and with what ſpirit he entered upon it may be inſerred from the following ſolemn addreſs, which he compoſed and offered up to the divine Being for a bleſſing on the undertaking:

‘'Almighty God, the giver of all good things, with⯑out whoſe help all labour is ineffectual, and without whoſe grace all wiſdom is folly; grant, I beſeech Thee, that in this undertaking thy holy ſpirit may not be with-held from me, but that I may promote thy glory, and the ſalvation of myſelf and others: grant this, O Lord, for the ſake of thy ſon Jeſus Chriſt. Amen.'’

The work was undertaken without the commu⯑nication of his deſign to any of his friends, and conſequently without any deſire of aſſiſtance from them; it was from the ſtores of his own mind alone that he hoped to be able to furniſh that variety of matter which it would require; which, that it might at no time fail him, he kept up by noting in a common⯑place book that he carried about him, ſuch incidents, ſentiments, and remarks on familiar life and manners as were for his purpoſe. This method of accumulat⯑ing [266] intelligence had been practiſed by Mr. Addiſon, and is humourouſly deſcribed in one of the Spectators, wherein he feigns to have dropped his paper of No⯑tanda, conſiſting of a diverting medley of broken ſen⯑tences and looſe hints, which he tells us he had col⯑lected, and had meant to make uſe of. Much of the ſame kind is Johnſon's Adverſaria, as will appear by the following ſpecimens:

In the above article we diſcern the rudiments of two moſt excellent papers, in the Rambler, number 197, and 198, the deſign whereof is to deſcribe and ridicule the folly of legacy-hunting.

Here follows another, in which is contained the hints from which he formed that humorous relation of a Journey in a Stage Coach, given in the Adven⯑turer, Number 84.

[269] Being thus ſtored with matter, Johnſon proceeded to publiſh his paper; and the firſt number came abroad on Tueſday the twentieth day of March, 1750.

It was the office of a cenſor of manners to curb the irregularities into which, in theſe new modes of living, the youthful of both ſexes were apt to fall, and this he endeavoured to effect by gentle exhortation, by ſober reproof, and, not ſeldom, by the powers of wit and ridicule; but with what ſucceſs, others are as well able to tell as myſelf; however, if that is to be judged of by the ſale of the paper, it was doubtleſs great, for though its reception was at firſt cool, and its progreſs ſlow, the world were too wiſe to ſuffer it to ſink into oblivion: it was collected into volumes, and it would be too much for any one to ſay, that ten impreſſions of twelve hundred and fifty each, of a book fraught with the ſoundeſt precepts of oecono⯑mical wiſdom, have been diſſeminated in vain.

On the firſt publication of the Rambler it met with a few readers who objected to it for certain particula⯑rities in the ſtyle, which they had not been uſed to in papers of the like kind, new and original combina⯑tions of words, ſentences of an unuſual form, and words derived from other languages, though accom⯑modated to the genius of our own; but for theſe ſuch reaſons are aſſigned in the cloſe of the laſt paper, as not only are a defence of them, but ſhew them to be improvements of our language.

Of ſingularity it may be obſerved, that, in general, it is originality, and therefore not a defect, and that all is not tumidity which men of little and con⯑fined reading pleaſe to call ſo. It is from a ſervile [270] imitation of others, and the uſe of whole phraſes and ſentences, and cuſtomary combinations of words, that the variety of ſtyles is not nearly as great as that of faces. The vulgar opinion is, that the ſtyle of this century is the perfection of our language, and that we owe its ultimate and final improvement to Mr. Addiſon, and when we make his cold and languid periods the teſt, it is no wonder if we miſtake ſtrength and animation for tumidity.

And here I cannot but remark the error and miſ⯑fortune of thoſe who are blind to the excellencies of ſtyle that occur in the works of many Engliſh proſe writers of the laſt century, which are rejected for no better a reaſon, than that in them we ſometimes meet with words not now in common uſe. A reader ignorant of the ſtate of our language at different periods, and not converſant with the writings of ages long paſt, is an incompetent judge of the ſubject, and his opinion of ſtyles of no weight or value. Such a one we may ſuppoſe hardly reſtrained from cenſuring the ſtyle of our liturgy, compiled for the moſt part ſo long ago as the reign of Edward the ſixth, and the an⯑tiquated phraſe of the ſtate-papers in the Cabala, the Burleigh, Sidney and Strafforde collections, notwith⯑ſtanding they ſeverally contain the moſt perfect models of precatory eloquence and civil negociation.

I find an opinion gaining ground not much to the advantage of Mr. Addiſon's ſtyle, the characteriſtics whereof are feebleneſs and inanity. I ſpeak of that alone, for his ſentiments are excellent and his humour exquiſite. In ſome inſtances he adopts vulgar phraſe, as when he calls an indiſcreet action a piece of folly, and too often uſes the expletive adverb along, thus, [271] Come along with me. Yet I am not willing to deprive him of the honour implied in Johnſon's teſtimony, ‘'that his proſe is the model of the middle ſtyle;'’ but if he be but a mediocriſt, he is ſurely not a ſubject of imitation; it being a rule, that of examples the beſt are always to be ſelected.

That Johnſon owed his excellence as a writer to the divines and others of the laſt century, myſelf can atteſt, who have been the witneſs of his courſe of reading, and heard him declare his ſentiments of their works. Hooker he admired for his logical preciſion, Sanderſon for his accuteneſs, and Taylor for his amazing erudition; Sir Thomas Browne for his pe⯑netration, and Cowley for the eaſe and unaffected ſtructure of his periods. The tinſel of Sprat diſ⯑guſted him, and he could but juſt endure the ſmooth verboſity of Tillotſon. Hammond and Barrow he thought involved, and of the latter that he was unne⯑ceſſarily prolix.

It may perhaps be thought, as his literary acquain⯑tance was extenſive, and the toil of compiling his dictionary very great, that Johnſon was helped in the publication of the Rambler by the communications of others; but this was not the fact, he forbore to ſolicit aſſiſtance, and few preſumed to offer it, ſo that in the whole ſeries of thoſe papers, we know with cer⯑tainty of only four that were not of his own writing. Of theſe, No. 30, was ſent him by Mrs. Catherine Talbot, daughter of Mr. Edward Talbot herein before ſpoken of; No. 97, by Mr. Richardſon, the author of Clariſſa, and numbers 44 and 100, by Mrs. Elizabeth Carter of Deal, a lady to whoſe reputation for learning, [272] and the moſt eſtimable qualities of her ſex, no praiſe of mine can make any addition. Hence ariſes that uni⯑formity of ſubject and ſentiment which diſtinguiſhes the Rambler from other papers of the like kind; but how great muſt its merit be, when wanting the charm of variety and that diverſity of characters, which, by the writers of them, was thought neceſſary to keep attention awake, it could ſupport itſelf to the end, and make inſtruction a ſubſtitute for amuſement! Nor can this defect, if it be any, be deemed a devia⯑tion from Johnſon's original purpoſe, which was not ſo much to inſtruct young perſons of both ſexes in the manners of the town, as in that more important ſcience, the conduct of human life; it being certain, that he had it in his power as well to delight as to in⯑ſtruct his readers; and this he has in ſome inſtances done, not only by the introduction of fictitious characters and fancied portraits, but by ironical ſarcaſms and original ſtrokes of wit and humour, that have, per⯑haps, excited more ſmiles than the writings of many, whoſe chief purpoſe it was, like that of L'Eſtrange and others, to make their readers merry.

And hence we may take occaſion to obſerve, the error of thoſe who diſtinguiſh ſo widely between men of ſtudy and reflection, and ſuch as are hackneyed in the ways of the world, as to ſuppoſe the latter only qualified to inſtruct us in the offices of life. Lord Cheſterfield, in his letters to his ſon, takes every oc⯑caſion to expreſs his hatred of an univerſity educa⯑tion, to brand it with pedantry, and to declare that it unfits a man for ſocial intercourſe. Some have aſſerted, that travelling is the only means to attain a [273] knowledge of mankind; and the captain in Swift, in a leſs extenſive view of human life, ſwears that

To ſay the truth, there are numbers of men who contemn all knowledge derived from books, and pre⯑fer to it what they call turning over the great volume of the world. I had once a gardener that could not endure the mention of Miller's dictionary, and would contend with me, that ‘'practice was every thing;'’ and innumerable are the inſtances of men who oppoſe mother-wit to acquired intelligence, and had rather grope their way through the world, than be indebted for inſtruction to the reſearches of others. Such men as theſe, in ſituations they have not been accuſtomed to, are ever aukward and diffident; and it is for a reaſon nearly a-kin to this, that few rakes are able to look a modeſt woman in the face. On the contrary, the attainments of Johnſon were ſuch as, notwithſtanding his home-breeding, gave him confidence, and quali⯑fied him for the converſation of perſons of all ranks, conditions, characters, and profeſſions, ſo that no ſooner had the Rambler recommended itſelf to the favour of the public, and the author was known to be of eaſy acceſs, than his acquaintance was ſought, and even courted, by perſons, of whom many, with all the improvement of travel, and the refinements of court-manners, thought that ſomewhat worth know⯑ing was to be learned from the converſation of a man, whoſe fortunes and courſe of life had precluded him from the like advantages.

[274] Johnſon's talent for criticiſm, both preceptive and corrective, is now known and juſtly celebrated; and had he not diſplayed it in its utmoſt luſtre in his Lives of the Poets, we ſhould have lamented that he was ſo ſparing of it in the Rambler, which ſeemed to be a vehicle, of all others the moſt proper, for that kind of communication. An eulogium on Knolles's Hiſ⯑tory of the Turks, and a ſevere cenſure of the ‘'Samſon Agoniſtes'’ of Milton are the only critical eſſays there to be found; to the latter he ſeems to have been prompted by no better a motive, than that hatred of the author for his political principles which he is known to have entertained, and was ever ready to avow. What he has remarked of Milton in his Lives of the Poets is undoubtedly true: he was a political enthuſiaſt, and, as is evident from his panegyric on Cromwell, a baſe and abject flatterer. His ſtyle in controverſy was ſarcaſtic and bitter, and not conſiſtent with chriſtian charity; and though his apologiſts endeavour to defend him by the practice of the times, there were in his time better examplars than he choſe to follow, the writings of Jewel, Mede, Hooker, Dr. Jackſon, and others, his predeceſſors in religious and political controverſy; nor does he ſeem in his private character to have poſſeſſed many of thoſe qualities that moſt endear men to each other. His friends were few, Andrew Marvel, Marchmont Needham, and the younger Vane; and Cyriac Skinner, Harrington, Henry Nevil, John Aubrey, and others, members of that crack-brained aſſembly the Rota-club, all repub⯑licans; and there is reaſon to ſuſpect, from the ſtern⯑neſs of his temper, and the rigid diſcipline of his [275] family, that his domeſtic manners were far from amiable, and that he was neither a kind huſband nor an indulgent parent. But neither theſe nor thoſe other qualities that rendered him both a bitter enemy and a railing diſputant, could juſtify the ſeverity of Johnſon's criticiſm on the above-mentioned poem, nor apologize for that harſh and groundleſs cenſure which cloſes the firſt of his diſcourſes on it, that it is ‘'a tragedy which ignorance has admired, and bigotry applauded.'’

The reflection on that enmity of Johnſon towards Milton, which I have above remarked, leads me to mention another inſtance of it, which about this time fell under my obſervation. A man of the name of Lauder, a native of Scotland, and educated in the univerſity of Edinburgh, had, for reaſons that will hereafter be given, conceived a hatred againſt the memory of Milton, and formed a ſcheme to con⯑vict him of plagiariſm, by ſhewing that he had inſerted in the Paradiſe Loſt whole paſſages taken from the writings of ſundry modern Latin poets, namely, Maſenius the jeſuit, Taubman a German profeſſor, the editor of Virgil, and joint editor with Gruter of Plautus, Staphorſtius a Dutch divine, and other writers leſs known; and of this crime he attempted to prove him guilty, by publiſhing inſtances in forged quotations, inſerted from time to time in the ‘'Gentleman's Magazine,'’ which not being detected, he made additions to, and again publiſhed in a volume intitled ‘'An Eſſay on Milton's uſe of and imitation of the moderns in his Paradiſe Loſt, dedicated to the Univerſities of Oxford and Cam⯑bridge, 8vo. 1750.'’ While the book was in the [276] preſs, the proof ſheets were ſubmitted to the in⯑ſpection of our club, by a member of it who had an intereſt in its publication, and I could all along obſerve that Johnſon ſeemed to approve, not only of the deſign but of the argument, and ſeemed to exult in a perſuaſion, that the reputation of Milton was likely to ſuffer by this diſcovery. That he was not privy to the impoſture I am well perſuaded, but that he wiſhed well to the argument muſt be inferred from the preface, which indubitably was written by Johnſon.

The charges of plagiariſm contained in this produc⯑tion, Lauder has attempted to make out by citations to a very great number, from a Latin poem of Jacobus Maſenius a jeſuit, intitled, ‘'Palaeſtra ligatae eloquen⯑tiae,'’ from the ‘'Adamus exul'’ of Grotius, the ‘'Trium⯑phus Pacis'’ of Caſpar Staphorſtius a Dutchman, from the Latin poems of Caſpar Barlaeus, and the works of many other writers. For a time the world gave credit to them, and Milton's reputation was ſinking under them, till a clergyman of great worth, learn⯑ing and induſtry, Mr. now Dr. John Douglas, prompted at firſt by mere curioſity, ſet himſelf to find out and compare the parallel paſſages, in the doing whereof he diſcovered, that in a quotation from Staphorſtius, Lauder had interpolated eight lines taken from a Latin tranſlation of the Paradiſe Loſt, by a man named Hogaeus or Hog, and oppoſed them to the paſſage in the original, as evidence of Milton's plagiariſm. Proofs of the like fraud in paſſages cited from Taubman and many others are produced by Dr. Douglas; but a ſingle inſtance of the kind would have been ſufficient to blaſt the credit of his adverſary.

[277] Having made theſe diſcoveries, Dr. Douglas com⯑municated them to the world in a pamphlet intitled, ‘'Milton vindicated from the charge of plagiariſm, brought againſt him by Mr. Lauder, &c. 8vo. 1750.'’ Upon the publication thereof his bookſel⯑lers called on Lauder for a juſtification of themſelves, and a confirmation of the charge; but he, with a degree of impudence not to be exceeded, acknow⯑ledged the interpolation of the books by him cited, and ſeemed to wonder at ‘'the folly of mankind in making ſuch a rout about eighteen or twenty lines.'’ However, being a ſhort time after convinced by John⯑ſon and others, that it would be more for his intereſt to make an ample confeſſion of his guilt, than to ſet mankind at defiance, and ſtigmatize them with folly; he did ſo in a letter addreſſed to Mr. Douglas, pub⯑liſhed in quarto, 1751, beginning thus:

[279] Then follow the citations, ſome of which appear to be gratuitous, that is to ſay, ſuch as had eſcaped the detection of the author's adverſary.

He then proceeds to aſſign the motive for his attempt to ſubvert the reputation of Milton, in theſe words:

The concluding paragraph of this confeſſion carries in it ſuch an appearance of contrition, that few who red it at the time could withhold that forgiveneſs which it implores; theſe are the words of it:

‘'For the violation of truth, I offer no excuſe, be⯑cauſe I well know, that nothing can excuſe it. Nor will I aggravate my crime, by diſingenuous pallia⯑tions. I confeſs it, I repent it, and reſolve, that my firſt offence ſhall be my laſt. More I cannot per⯑form, and more therefore cannot be required. I intreat the pardon of all men, whom I have by any means induced to ſupport, to countenance, or pa⯑tronize any frauds, of which I think myſelf obliged to declare, that not one of my friends was conſcious. I hope to deſerve by better conduct and more uſeful undertakings, that patronage which I have obtained from the moſt illuſtrious and venerable names by miſrepreſentation and deluſion, and to appear hereafter in ſuch a character, as ſhall give [281] you no reaſon to regret, that your name is frequently mentioned with that of, Reverend Sir, Your moſt humble ſervant, WILLIAM LAUDER.'’

Notwithſtanding this humiliating and abject con⯑ſeſſion, which, though it was penned by Johnſon^*, was ſubſcribed by himſelf, Lauder had the impu⯑dence, in a poſtſcript thereto, in effect to retract it, by pretending that the deſign of his eſſay was only to try how deeply the prepoſſeſſion in favour of Milton was rooted in the minds of his admirers; and that the ſtratagem, as he calls it, was intended to impoſe only on a few obſtinate perſons; and, whether that was ſo criminal as it has been repreſented, he leaves the impartial mind to determine.

After the publication of this letter, the peruſers of it reſted in a conviction of the villainy of its author, ſtrengthened by the inconſiſtency between the reaſons aſſigned in that and thoſe in the poſtſcript. Never⯑theleſs, in the year 1754, reſolving to attack Milton in another quarter, Lauder publiſhed a pamphlet inti⯑tled, ‘'King Charles I. vindicated from the charge of plagiariſm brought againſt him by Milton, and Milton himſelf convicted of forgery and a groſs impoſition on the public.'’ The deſign of this pamphlet was, to ingratiate himſelf with the friends to the memory of Charles by ſhewing, that the prayer of Pamela, in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, was, by an artifice oſ Milton, inſerted in an edition of the Eikon Baſilike, with a view to fix on the king a charge of impiety.

[282] With this queſtion I meddle not; I have only to obſerve upon Lauder's pamphlet, that the argument is introduced by a defence of his eſſay, and an aſſertion, that his letter, which he ſays was written by Johnſon, in many reſpects contained not his ſentiments, and was, more properly than an apology, an enormous ag⯑gravation of his offence; and is purſued with a declaration of the author, in the ſincerity of his heart, that had not Milton with ſuch unparalleled malignity blaſted the king, he would not upon any conſideration have either offered a violence to truth, put an impo⯑ſition on the public, though but for a moment, or attempted to blaſt Milton's reputation by a fal⯑ſhood.

Behold here a reaſon far differing from each of the two former; the firſt was a provocation given him by a diſtich of Mr. Pope's, the ſecond was a deſire by a ſtratagem, as he calls it, to try how far the partiality of Milton's admirers would lead them, and this laſt is, his reſentment of an injury done to the memory of king Charles the firſt. If we aſk, which of theſe is the true one? the anſwer muſt be, neither; for it ap⯑pears that Lauder had projected an edition of Maſe⯑nius and other of the Latin poets referred to in his eſſay, and that in order to obtain ſubſcriptions for the ſame, he had been guilty of the wickedneſs imputed to and proved upon him.

The concluding paragraph of this laſt pamphlet of Lauder, as it is for its impudence matchleſs, I here give, and in the doing thereof conſign his memory to that inſamy, which, by his complicated wickedneſs he has incurred.

[283] ‘'As for his [Milton's] plagiariſms, I intend ſhortly, God willing, to extract ſuch genuine proofs from thoſe authors who held forth the lighted torch to Milton, I mean, who illuſtrated the ſubject of the Paradiſe Loſt, long before that prince of plagiaries entered upon it, as may be deemed ſufficient, not only to replace the few interpolations, (for which I have been ſo hideouſly exclaimed againſt) but even to reinforce the charge of plagiariſm againſt the Engliſh poet, and fix it upon him by irrefragable conviction in the face of the whole world, and by the ſuffrage of all candid and impartial judges, while ſun and moon ſhall endure, to the everlaſting ſhame and confuſion of the whole idolatrous rabble of his numerous partizans, particularly, my vain-glorious adverſary, who will reap only the goodly harveſt of diſappointment and diſgrace, where he expected to gather laurels.'’

In 1756, Dr. Douglas publiſhed a new edition of his pamphlet, with the title of ‘'Milton no plagiary, or a detection of the forgeries contained in Lauder's eſſay on the imitations of the moderns in the Paradiſe Loſt:'’ to this is an appendix, containing part of an apology of Lauder's bookſellers, for having been the publiſhers of his eſſay, in which they give an account of their conduct, after the firſt diſcovery of his villainy, in the following words: ‘'An immediate application to Lauder was neceſſary, as well to juſtify ourſelves, as to remove or confirm the charge. Accordingly, we acquainted him, that if he did not inſtantly put into our hands the books from which he had taken the principal paſſages, we would publicly diſclaim [284] all connexion with him, and expoſe his declining the only ſtep left for his defence. This declaration brought him to us the following day, when, with great confidence, he acknowledged the interpolation of all the books; and ſeemed to wonder at mankind in making ſuch a rout about eighteen or twenty lines. As this man then has been guilty of ſuch a wicked impoſition upon us, our friends, and the public, and is capable of ſo daring an avowal of it, we declare, that we will have no farther intercourſe with him, and that we now ſell his book only as a curioſity of fraud and interpolation, which all the ages of literature cannot parallel!'’

With a character thus blaſted, it was next to im⯑poſſible for this man to continue in England; he therefore left it, and went to ſettle at Barbadoes, pro⯑poſing to ſet up a ſchool there; but, upon his arrival on the iſland, he met with ſmall encouragement, and is ſaid to have died about the year 1771.

As Johnſon, though not in the leaſt an acceſſary to the impoſture above related, had a conſiderable ſhare in the controverſy that it gave riſe to, it ſeemed to me neceſſary to be thus particular in giving ſuch an account thereof as would concentrate into one point all that was written on the ſubject, and convey to poſterity the hiſtory of a tranſaction, the like whereof is not to be found among the records of literature. It is too ſad a truth, that learning and rectitude of mind are qualities independent of each other, and that the world has in all ages abounded with examples of men of great erudition who have been wanting in common honeſty. We read of men who have cor⯑rupted [285] the Holy Scriptures with a view to favour a particular hereſy; and of monks who have forged charters to promote the ſecular intereſts of their fra⯑ternity: theſe, though wicked actions, muſt be ſup⯑poſed to have ſprung from a principle, which, having for its object a common benefit, had ſomewhat of generoſity in it: but the motives of this impoſtor were all of the ſelfiſh kind, revenge for a ſuppoſed injury done to himſelf, and an impatience to be re⯑lieved from his own peculiar and perſonal wants and diſtreſſes; and though it was for ſome time thought that his confeſſion had atoned for his offence, we find it was in fact an aggravation of it: In as much as it was not ſincere, it was a repentance to be re⯑pented of; and indeed in one ſenſe he ſeems to have thought ſo, for, in his laſt publication, he retracts it, and that nothing might be wanting to fill up the meaſure of his iniquity, he defies his detector, whoſe endeavours were to beget in him that ſenſe of ſhame which, as it is ever the forerunner of penitence, has ever been deemed ſalutary.

Great thanks are due to this learned divine and eminent ſcholar for the zeal and induſtry manifeſted by him in the courſe of this ſingular controverſy, and every judicious reader muſt rejoice, that through his means our great poet has been reſcued from an infamous charge, and that we may yet read the ‘'Paradiſe Loſt'’ without a ſuſpicion of its ori⯑ginality.

To return to Johnſon, I have already ſaid that he paid no regard to time or the ſtated hours of refection, or even reſt; and of this his inattention I will here relate a notable inſtance. Mrs. Lenox, a lady now well known [286] in the literary world, had written a novel intitled, ‘'The life of Harriot Stuart,'’ which in the ſpring of 1751, was ready for publication. One evening at the club, Johnſon propoſed to us the celebrating the birth of Mrs. Lenox's firſt literary child, as he called her book, by a whole night ſpent in feſtivity. Upon his men⯑tioning it to me, I told him I had never ſat up a whole night in my life; but he continuing to preſs me, and ſaying, that I ſhould find great delight in it, I, as did all the reſt of our company, conſented. The place appointed was the Devil tavern, and there, about the hour of eight, Mrs. Lenox and her huſband, and a lady of her acquaintance, now living, as alſo the club, and friends to the number of near twenty, aſſembled. Our ſupper was elegant, and Johnſon had directed that a magnificent hot apple-pye ſhould make a part of it, and this he would have ſtuck with bay-leaves, becauſe, forſooth, Mrs. Lenox was an authoreſs, and had written verſes; and further, he had prepar⯑ed for her a crown of laurel, with which, but not till he had invoked the muſes by ſome ceremonies of his own invention, he encircled her brows. The night paſſed, as muſt be imagined, in pleaſant conver⯑ſation, and harmleſs mirth, intermingled at different periods with the refreſhments of coffee and tea. About five, Johnſon's face ſhone with meridian ſplen⯑dour, though his drink had been only lemonade; but the far greater part of us had deſerted the colours of Bacchus, and were with difficulty rallied to partake of a ſecond refreſhment of coffee, which was ſcarcely ended when the day began to dawn. This pheno⯑menon began to put us in mind of our reckoning; [287] but the waiters were all ſo overcome with ſleep, that it was two hours before we could get a bill, and it was not till near eight that the creaking of the ſtreet-door gave the ſignal for our departure.

My mirth had been conſiderably abated by a ſevere fit of the tooth-ach, which had troubled me the greater part of the night, and which Bathurſt endeavoured to alleviate by all the topical remedies and palliatives he could think of; and I well remember, at the inſtant of my going out of the tavern-door, the ſenſation of ſhame that affected me, occaſioned not by reflection on any thing evil that had paſſed in the courſe of the night's entertainment, but on the reſemblance it bore to a debauch. However, a few turns in the Temple, and a breakfaſt at a neighbouring coffee-houſe, enabled me to overcome it.

In the foregoing pages I have aſſigned the motives that induced Johnſon to the inſtitution of the club, and the writing of the Rambler; and here I may add, that his view in both was ſo far anſwered, as that the amuſements they afforded him contributed, not only to relieve him from the fatigue of his great work the dictionary, but that they ſerved to divert that me⯑lancholy, which the public now too well knows was the diſeaſe of his mind. For this morbid affection, as he was uſed to call it, no cauſe can be aſſigned; nor will it gratify curioſity to ſay, it was conſtituional, or that it diſcovered itſelf in his early youth, and haunted him in his hours of recreation; and it is but a ſurmiſe that it might be a latent concomitant of that diſeaſe, which, in his infancy, had induced his mother to ſeek relief from the royal touch. His [288] own conjecture was, that he derived it from his father, of whom he was uſed to ſpeak as of a man in whoſe temper and character melancholy was predominant. Under this perſuaſion, he at the age of about twenty, drew up a ſtate of his caſe for the opinion of an eminent phyſician in Staffordſhire, and from him received an anſwer, ‘'that from the ſymptoms therein deſcribed, he could think nothing better of his diſorder, than that it had a tendency to in⯑ſanity; and without great care might poſſibly ter⯑minate in the deprivation of his rational faculties.'’ The dread of ſo great a calamity was one inducement with him to abſtain from wine at certain periods of his life, when his fears in this reſpect were greateſt; but it was not without ſome reluctance that he did it, for he has often been heard to declare, that wine was to him ſo great a cordial, that it required all his reſolution to reſiſt the temptations to ebriety.

It was fortunate for the public, that during a period of two years, the depreſſion of his mind was at no time ſo great as to incapacitate him for ſending forth a number of the Rambler on the days on which it became due; nor did any of the eſſays or diſcourſes therein contained, either in the choice of ſubjects or the manner of treating them, indicate the leaſt ſymptom of drooping faculties or laſſitude of ſpirit. Nevertheleſs, whether the conſtant meditation on ſuch topics as moſt frequently occur therein, had not produced in his mind a train of ideas that were now become uneaſy to him, or whether, that intenſe⯑neſs of thought which he muſt have exerted, firſt, in the conception, and next, in the delivery of ſuch [289] original and noble ſentiments as theſe papers abound with, had not made the relaxation of his mind ne⯑ceſſary, he thought proper to diſcontinue the Rambler at a time when its reputation was but in its dawn.

The paper in which this his reſolution is an⯑nounced, is that of March 14, 1752, which concludes the work. As he had given his readers no warning of his intention, they were unprepared for the ſhock, and had the mortification to receive the tid⯑ings and the blow at the ſame inſtant, with the ag⯑gravation of a ſympathetic melancholy, excited by the mournful expreſſions with which he takes his leave. And though he affects to think the reaſons for diſcontinuing the publication a ſecret to his rea⯑ders, it is but too apparent that it was written in the hours of dejection, and that the want of aſſiſtance and encouragement was not the weakeſt of his mo⯑tives. Of the former of theſe two he had ſurely no right to complain, for he was ſo far from being ever known to wiſh for aſſiſtance, that his moſt intimate friends ſeemed to think it would have been preſump⯑tion to offer it. The want of encouragement indeed might be a juſtifiable cauſe of diſcontent, for I have reaſon to think that the number of papers taken off hardly amounted to five hundred on any of the days of publication. Nevertheleſs, the ſlow circulation of the paper was to be accounted for by other reaſons than that the author was never a favourite with the public, a reflection that would have been but excuſ⯑able, had his imitations of Juvenal become waſte paper, or his Irene, inſtead of being ſuffered to run nine nights, been conſigned to oblivion on the firſt; [290] for it muſt be conſidered, that the merits of the Rambler were of a kind not likely to recommend it to thoſe who read chiefly for amuſement, and of readers, this claſs will ever be by much the moſt numerous: the ſubjects therein diſcuſſed are chiefly the weightieſt and moſt important, reſpecting more our eternal than temporal happineſs; and that theſe were the obſtacles to the progreſs of his paper, himſelf has unawares confeſſed in his apology for the conduct of it. ‘'I have never,' ſays he, 'complied with temporary curioſity, nor enabled my readers to diſcuſs the topic of the day. I have rarely exemplified my aſſertions by living characters; in my papers no man could look for cenſures of his enemies or praiſes of himſelf; and they only were expected to peruſe them, whoſe paſſions left them leiſure for abſtracted truth, and whom virtue could pleaſe by its naked dignity.'’

Towards the cloſe of this laſt paper, he ſeems to refer to ‘'the final ſentence of mankind,'’ with a ſort of preſage, that one more deliberate than that to which he was ſubmitting might be more favour⯑able to his labours. He little thought at this time to what length the juſtice of mankind would go; that he ſhould be a witneſs to the publication of the tenth edition of the Rambler, or that his heart would ever be dilated, as his friends can teſtify it was, with the news of its being tranſlated into the Ruſſian lan⯑guage.

Much might be ſaid in commendation of this ex⯑cellent work; but ſuch ſuffrages as thoſe here men⯑tioned ſet it almoſt above praiſe. In the author's own [291] opinion it was leſs eſtimable than in that of his judges: ſome merit indeed he claims for having enriched his native language, but in terms ſo very elegant and modeſt, that they at once hold forth an exemplar, and convey an apology. ‘'I have laboured,' ſays he, 'to refine our language to grammar and purity, and to clear it from colloquial barbariſms, licentious idioms, and irregular combinations. Something perhaps I have added to the elegance of its con⯑ſtruction, and ſomething to the harmony of its cadence. When common words were leſs pleaſing to the ear, or leſs diſtinct in their ſignification, I have familiarized the terms of philoſophy by apply⯑ing them to popular ideas, but have rarely admitted any word not authorized by former writers.'—’With what ſucceſs theſe endeavours of his have been attend⯑ed is beſt known to thoſe who have made eloquence their ſtudy; and it may go far towards the ſtamping a laſting character of purity, elegance, and ſtrength on the ſtyle of Johnſon, to ſay, that ſome of the moſt popular orators of this country now living, have not only propoſed it to themſelves as a model for ſpeak⯑ing, but for the purpoſe of acquiring the cadence and flow of his periods, have actually gotten whole eſſays from the Rambler by heart.

The concluding paragraph of his farewel paper is ſo very awful, that I cannot reſiſt the temptation to inſert it, and the rather for that it ſeems to have been written under a perſuaſion, that Almighty God had been propitious to his labour, and that the ſolemn addreſs to him which he had compoſed and offered up, on occaſion of his engaging in it, had been heard, and was likely to be accepted.

[292] ‘'The eſſays profeſſedly ſerious, if I have been able to execute my own intentions, will be found ex⯑actly conformable to the precepts of Chriſtianity, without any accommodation to the licentiouſneſs and levity of the preſent age. I therefore look back on this part of my work with pleaſure, which no praiſe of man ſhall diminiſh or augment. I ſhall never envy the honours which wit and learn⯑ing obtain in any other cauſe, if I can be num⯑bered among the writers who have given ardour to virtue, and confidence to truth:Celeſtial pow'rs! that piety regard, From you my labours wait their laſt reward.’

The Rambler, thus publiſhed in numbers, was not ſuffered to be loſt to the world, or to ſink into obli⯑vion. As ſoon as, by the concluſion of it, it became a complete work, it was collected into volumes, and printed in Scotland^*, and, ſoon after, alſo here, and obtained ſuch favour with the public, as was an in⯑ducement with Dr. Hawkeſworth to an undertaking of the ſame kind, the publication of a periodical paper called ‘'The Adventurer.'’ For the carrying on ſuch a work as this, Hawkeſworth, though he poſſeſſed but a ſmall ſtock of learning, was more than meanly qualified. He had excellent natural parts, and, by reading the modern Engliſh and French au⯑thors, had acquired a ſtyle, which, by his acquaintance with Johnſon he had improved into a very good one. He wrote verſes, that is to ſay in Engliſh, with eaſe [293] and fluency, and was better acquainted with the world than moſt men are who have been bred to no profeſſion.

The ſubjects of theſe papers, like thoſe of the Rambler, are human life and manners, with a mixture of humour and inſtructive pleaſantry, criticiſm, and moral and religious exhortation, too various, it muſt be ſuppoſed, for the powers of a ſingle perſon: they are therefore the produce of different pens, and may owe their merit, in a great meaſure, to that diverſity. The curioſity of the reader is, to a ſmall degree, gra⯑tified by the laſt paper, which aſſigns to their author, Dr. Joſeph Warton, ſuch as have a certain ſignature, and leaves to Dr. Hawkeſworth himſelf the praiſe of ſuch as are without any. To the information there given, I add, that the papers marked A. which are ſaid to have come from a ſource that ſoon failed, were ſupplied by Dr. Bathurſt, an original aſſociate in the work, and thoſe diſtinguiſhed by the letter T. by Johnſon^*.

The firſt number of the Adventurer made its ap⯑pearance on Tueſday, November 7, 1752, and on that week-day, and alſo on Saturdays, it continued to be publiſhed, till the ninth of March 1754. To point out the many excellent eſſays contained in it is needleſs, as they are now collected into volumes, and together with the Rambler form a ſyſtem of moral and oeconomical inſtitution; two of them are to be looked on as curioſities in different ways, Dr. Warton's re⯑marks on ‘'King Lear'’ and ‘'the Tempeſt,'’ the moſt [294] learned and judicious critiques in the Engliſh lan⯑guage, and the account of a native of Scotland, called Admirable Crichton, dictated from memory by John⯑ſon to Hawkeſworth.

As Johnſon expected to be believed whenever he either ſpoke or wrote, he has not vouchſafed to cite any authority for the incredible relation, which the Adventurer contains, of the perſonal and mental en⯑dowments of a man who is deſcribed as a monſter both of erudition and proweſs, and in every other view of his character is repreſented as having paſſed the limits of humanity. That he had no authority for what he has related of him, would be too much to ſay, after he has aſſerted, that he had ſuch as was inconteſtible, yet having that, he has kept within the bounds of it, and caſt a veil over that blaze of glory, which, to gaze on in its naked ſplendour, would not dazzle but blind the beholder.

Johnſon's account, for his I muſt call it for a reaſon above given, is in theſe words:

The above account is ſo defective in the evidences of hiſtorical verity, that it has been by ſome ſuſpected to be fabulous. It is true, that in eſſays of ſuch a kind as that which contains this eulogium, it is not uſual, for that would be to incur the charge of pedan⯑try, to cite authorities; nevertheleſs, the circumſtan⯑ces of time and place ſeem ſo neceſſary in the relation of every uncommon event, and in the deſcription of every extraordinary perſon, that the omiſſion of both in this inſtance, as alſo the chriſtian name of the perſon celebrated, can hardly be excuſed.

To ſupply theſe defects I might refer the reader to authorities, that fix the place of his birth at Clunie in the ſhire of Perth in Scotland, the year thereof at 1551, and that of his death 1583; and that tell us alſo, that Crichton's name of baptiſm was James; and as to the facts enumerated in the Adventurer, they ſeem to be ſufficiently authenticated to all the purpoſes of hiſtorical information, in a book written in 1652, by Sir Thomas Urquhart^*, bearing this [300] ſtrange title, ‘'ΕΚΣΚΥΒΑΛΑΥΡΟΝ, or the diſcovery of a moſt exquiſite jewel more precious than dia⯑monds inchaſed in gold, the like whereof was never ſeen in any age; found in the kennel of Worceſter⯑ſtreets, the day after the fight, and ſix before the autumnal equinox 1651.'’

In this book is contained a memorial of ſundry illuſtrious perſons of Scotland, ſerving to vindicate the honour of that nation, but written in ſuch a ſtyle of learned tumidity and bombaſt, as is not to be paralleled in any book now extant. I here cite from it two paſſages reſpecting Crichton as ſpecimens thereof, and as proofs of Johnſon's diſcretion in veiling the effulgence of a character too bright to be viewed in its genuine luſtre.

Speaking of the manner of Crichton's death, and that it followed from a thruſt with his own ſword by the hand of the prince, ſon of the duke of Mantua, the author ſays;

‘'The whole court wore mourning for him full three quarters of a yeer together: his funeral was very ſtately, and on his hearſe were ſtuck more Epi⯑taphs, Elegies, Threnodies, and Epicediums, then, if digeſted into one book, would have out-bulk't all Homers works; ſome of them being couched in ſuch exquiſite and fine Latin, that you would have thought great Virgil, and Baptiſta Mantuanus, for the love of their mother-city, had quit the Ely⯑ſian fields to grace his obſequies: and other of them (beſides what was done in other languages) compoſed in ſo neat Italian, and ſo purely fancied, as if Arioſto, Dante, Petrark, and Bembo had been purpoſely reſuſcitated, to ſtretch even to the utmoſt, their poetick vein, to the honour of this brave man; whoſe picture till this hour is to be ſeen in the bed⯑chambers or galleries of the moſt of the great men of that nation, repreſenting him on horſeback, with a lance in one hand, and a book in the other: and [308] moſt of the young ladies likewiſe, that were any thing handſome, in a memorial of his worth, had his effigies in a little oval tablet of gold, hanging 'twixt their breaſts; and held (for many yeers toge⯑ther) that Metamazion, or intermammilary ornament, an as neceſſary outward pendicle, for the better ſetting forth of their accoutrements, as either Fan, Watch, or Stomacher.'’

The ſeveral exploits of Crichton, above-related, as they appear upon the face of Sir Thomas Urquhart's book, are, it muſt be confeſſed, unſupported by any cita⯑tions from hiſtory, or the writings of contemporary bio⯑graphers, or other narrators of remarkable tranſactions, and may, therefore, in the judgment of thoſe who re⯑flect on the hyperbolical ſtyle of the author, and the extravagancies to which ſuch an enthuſiaſtic ſpirit as his will lead men, ſtand in need of ſtill farther proof. Happily, ſince the publication of the Adventurer, ſuch evidence has been laid before the public, as muſt remove all doubt of the exiſtence of ſuch a perſon as Crichton, and of the truth of the facts above-related of him.

For this information we are indebted to Mr. Pen⯑nant, who, in his tour to Scotland, vol. I. page 295, confirms the account of Sir Thomas Urquhart in all its particulars, vouching, as his authority, Aldus Ma⯑nutius, Joannes Imperialis, a phyſician of Vicenza, and a writer whom I take to be Eſtienne Paſquier, two of whom were perſonally acquainted with him, and eye-witneſſes to the triumphs by them ſeverally recorded. From Aldus Manutius we learn, that Crichton was a ſcholar of Buchanan.

[309] Mr. Pennant has further obliged the public with ſome Latin verſes of Crichton's writing, and an en⯑graving of him from an original portrait.

From all which teſtimonies, it is but a neceſſary concluſion, that whatever may be ſuppreſſed, as paſſing credibility, of the perſon here celebrated, enough is, upon inconteſtable authority, related, to induce us to rank him among prodigies.

That Johnſon dictated this number of the Adven⯑turer, I have already ſaid: that he did not himſelf write it may be thus accounted for; he had doubt⯑leſs red the hiſtory of Crichton in Sir Thomas Ur⯑quhart's book, and retained it with that firmneſs of memory, which held faſt almoſt every thing that he met with in books. Suppoſing him, as we may, too indolent to recur to one that he had formerly red through, and, in the hearing of Hawkeſworth, to have related the tranſactions of ſo wonderful a man, the latter might catch at it as a fit ſubject for an eſſay, and give it to the world, as he has done in the Ad⯑venturer. To which we may add, that Johnſon was ſeldom a narrator of events: his talent was original thinking; in converſation he told ſtories, and related hiſtorical facts with great preciſion, but rarely ſent them abroad in writing.

We are not to ſuppoſe, that that ſoreneſs of mind, which Johnſon ſeems to have felt at the time of his diſcontinuing the Rambler, was, in the ſhort interval of ſix months, ſo completely healed, as to render him a diſintereſted candidate for praiſe in this new publi⯑cation; or that he who had declared, that he could not compoſe a ſermon, gratis, would write an Adven⯑turer, without being hired to it: on the contrary, it [310] is certain, that he retained his old maxim, that gain was the only genuine ſtimulative to literary exertion, and that the aſſiſtance he gave to this publication was purchaſed at two guineas, for every number that he had finiſhed; a rate of payment which he had before adjuſted in his ſtipulation for the Rambler, and was probably the meaſure of a reward to his fellow-labourers.

The avowed end of the Adventurer, being the ſame with that of the Rambler, and the plan and conduct thereof ſo little different from it, the latter may be conſidered as a continuation of the former: never⯑theleſs, it may be obſerved, that in the Adventurer, the number of entertaining papers, of portraits, ſingular characters, and eſſays of wit, humour, and pleaſantry, is greater, in proportion, than in the Rambler; and to that diverſity it was doubtleſs owing, that the circulation of it was more diffuſe. On the part of the writers it was carried on with great vigour, and, together with the Rambler, is likely to remain a laſt⯑ing evidence of the ſpirit that dictated, and the public good ſenſe that encouraged, ſuch a ſeries, as they both contain, of religious inſtruction, oeconomical wiſdom, and innocent delight.

Hawkeſworth has, almoſt in terms, declared him⯑ſelf the editor of the Adventurer, and that the other contributors thereto were merely auxiliaries; and his zeal for its ſucceſs may be inferred from the number of papers written by himſelf, which, upon a compa⯑riſon, will be found nearly equal to that of all the reſt. This zeal was excited by a motive far more ſtrong than any which actuated his co-adjutors, a deſire of advantage in his then profeſſion, which oſtenſibly was [311] that of a governor of a ſchool for the education of young females, by making himſelf known as a judge of life and manners, and capable of qualifying thoſe of riper years for the important relations of domeſtic ſociety.

But while he was indulging a well-grounded hope to reap this fruit of his ſtudies, a reward of a very different kind courted his acceptance. The arch⯑biſhop of Canterbury, Dr. Herring, his dioceſan and neighbour, having peruſed his eſſays, and informed himſelf of his general character, made him an offer of a faculty that ſhould raiſe him above the level of vulgar literati, and, almoſt without his being con⯑ſcious of any ſuch exaltation, create him a doctor of both laws, and the honour was accepted.

Among men of real learning, there is but one opi⯑nion concerning what are called Lambeth degrees. The right of conferring them is a relic of the power anciently exerciſed in this country by the legates of the pope, and is, by ſtatute, transferred to the arch⯑biſhop of Canterbury. It received a legal ſanction in the determination, about the year 1720, of the caſe of the warden of Mancheſter college. Degrees of this kind are often convenient for clergymen, as they are quali⯑fications for a plurality of livings, but, as they imply nothing more than favour, convey little or no honour.

But Hawkeſworth was ſo far miſtaken in his notion of this act of kindneſs of the archbiſhop, that though he had never red Juſtinian, nor perhaps ever ſeen the Corpus Juris Civilis, or Corpus Juris Canonici, he conceived himſelf tranſmuted by it into a civilian and a canoniſt, and qualified for an advocate in either of thoſe judicatures where the above laws are ſeverally recogniſed.

[312] In conſequence of this perſuaſion, he made an effort to be admitted a pleader in the courts of eccleſiaſtical juriſdiction, but met with ſuch an oppoſition as ob⯑liged him to deſiſt. Upon this, he bent his courſe another way, and, recurring to his firſt deſign of con⯑verting his ſchool into a kind of female academy, ſuc⯑ceeded, not more to his own emolument, than the improvement of thoſe who participated in the benefits of his tuition.

In this train of events, and others that are well enough known, it may be diſcerned, that Hawkeſ⯑worth was a greater gainer by the Adventurer than any of thoſe concerned in it. His ſucceſs, however, wrought no good effects upon his mind and conduct; it elated him too much, and betrayed him into a for⯑getfulneſs of his origin, and a neglect of his early ac⯑quaintance; and on this I have heard Johnſon re⯑mark, in terms that ſufficiently expreſſed a knowledge of his character, and a reſentment of his behaviour. It is probable that he might uſe the ſame language to Hawkeſworth himſelf, and alſo reproach him with the acceptance of an academical honour to which he could have no pretenſions, and, which Johnſon, conceiving to be irregular, as many yet do, held in great con⯑tempt; thus much is certain, that ſoon after the at⯑tainment of it, the intimacy between them ceaſed.

The expedients above-mentioned, and the viſits of a variety of friends, which his writings had procured him, afforded Johnſon great relief, and enabled him to keep at a bay thoſe terrors, which were almoſt inceſ⯑ſantly aſſailing him, till the beginning of the year 1752, O.S. when it pleaſed God to try him by a ca⯑lamity, which was very near realizing all thoſe evils [313] which, for a ſeries of years, he had dreaded: this was the loſs of his wife, who, on the 28th day of March, and after ſeventeen years cohabitation, left him a childleſs widower, abandoned to ſorrow, and incapable of conſolation.

Thoſe who were beſt acquainted with them both, wondered that Johnſon could derive no comfort from the uſual reſources, reflections on the conditions of mortality, the inſtability of human happineſs, reſig⯑nation to the divine will, and other topics; and the more, when they conſidered, that their marriage was not one of thoſe which inconſiderate young people call love-matches, and that ſhe was more than old enough to be his mother; that, as their union had not been productive of children, the medium of a new relation between them was wanting; that her inat⯑tention to ſome, at leaſt, of the duties of a wife, were evident in the perſon of her huſband, whoſe negli⯑gence of dreſs ſeemed never to have received the leaſt correction from her, and who, in the ſordidneſs of his apparel, and the complexion of his linen, even ſhamed her. For theſe reaſons I have often been inclined to think, that if this fondneſs of Johnſon for his wife was not diſſembled, it was a leſſon that he had learned by rote, and that, when he practiſed it, he knew not where to ſtop till he became ridicu⯑lous. It is true, he has celebrated her perſon in the word formoſae, which he cauſed to be inſcribed on her grave-ſtone; but could he, with that imperfection in his ſight which made him ſay, in the words of Milton, he never ſaw the human face divine, have been a witneſs of her beauty? which we may ſuppoſe [314] had ſuſtained ſome loſs before he married; her daughter by her former huſband being but little younger than Johnſon himſelf. As, during her life⯑time, he invited but few of his friends to his houſe, I never ſaw her, but I have been told by Mr. Garrick, Dr. Hawkeſworth, and others, that there was ſomewhat crazy in the behaviour of them both; profound reſpect on his part, and the airs of an antiquated beauty on her's. Johnſon had not then been uſed to the company of women, and nothing but his converſation rendered him tolerable among them: it was, therefore, neceſ⯑ſary that he ſhould practice his beſt manners to one whom, as ſhe was deſcended from an ancient family, and had brought him a fortune, he thought his ſu⯑perior. This, after all, muſt be ſaid, that he la⯑boured to raiſe his opinion of her to the higheſt, by inſerting in many of her books of devotion that I have ſeen, ſuch endearing memorials as theſe: ‘'This was dear Tetty's book.'—'This was a prayer which dear Tetty was accuſtomed to ſay,'’ not to mention his frequent recollection of her in his meditations, and the ſingularity of his prayers reſpect⯑ing her.

To ſo high a pitch had he worked his remembrance of her, that he requeſted a divine, of his acquaintance, to preach a ſermon at her interment, which, probably, he would have written himſelf, but was diſſuaded from ſo oſtentatious a diſplay of the virtues of a woman, who, though ſhe was his wife, was but little known. He intended alſo to have depoſited her remains in the chapel in Tothill fields, Weſtminſter, but, altering his mind, he committed the diſpoſal of them to his friend [315] Hawkeſworth, who buried her in his own pariſh⯑church of Bromley in Kent, under a black marble ſtone, on which Johnſon himſelf, a few months be⯑fore his death, cauſed the following memorial to be inſcribed:‘Hic conduntur reliquiae
ELIZABETHAE
Antiqua Jarviſiorum gente,
Peatlingae, apud Leiceſtrienſes, ortae;
Formoſae, cultae, ingenioſae, piae;
Uxoris, primis nuptiis, HENRICI PORTER,
Secundis, SAMUELIS JOHNSON;
Qui multum amatam, diuque defletam
Hoc lapide contexit.
Obiit Londini, menſe Mart.
A.D. MDCCLIII.’

I have been informed that, in his early youth, he entertained a romantic paſſion, excited poſſibly by reading the poets, for a young woman of a family and in circumſtances far above him; but proofs are wanting that Johnſon was, at any period of his life, ſuſceptible of amorous emotions. In his inter⯑courſe with the world, he had become known to many of the female ſex, who ſought his converſa⯑tion^*, but it was never heard that he entertain⯑ed a paſſion for any one, or was in any other ſenſe a lover, than as he was the author of amo⯑rous [316] verſes. If ever he was in danger of becom⯑ing one in reality, it was of a young woman whom he uſed to call Molly Aſton, of whoſe wit, and of the delight he enjoyed in converſing with her, he would ſpeak with rapture^*, but this was in the life-time of Mrs. Johnſon, and he was a man too ſtrict in his morals to give any reaſonable cauſe of jealouſy to a wife.

The melancholy, which ſeized Johnſon on the death of his wife, was not, in degree, ſuch as uſually follows the deprivation of near relations and friends: it was of the blackeſt and deepeſt kind. That affection, which could excite in the mind of Milton the pleaſ⯑ing images deſcribed in his ſonnet on his deceaſed wife,

wrought no ſuch effect on that of Johnſon: the appa⯑rition of his departed wife was altogether of the terrific kind, and hardly afforded him a hope that ſhe was in a ſtate of happineſs.

[317] That theſe gloomy conceptions were in part owing to the books he had been accuſtomed to read, I have little doubt. Sundry paſſages occur in his writings, which induce a ſuſpicion, that his notions of the ſtate of departed ſpirits were ſuch as are now deemed ſuper⯑ſtitious; and I will not attempt to vindicate him from the charge of believing ſome of the many rela⯑tions extant, that go to prove an intercourſe between them and the inhabitants of this earth. Theſe, as they were fyſtematical, and ſuch as he was able to defend by arguments the moſt ſpecious, I can no better ac⯑count for, than by a ſuppoſition, that in the courſe of his ſtudies he had been a dabbler in demonology, by which I mean, not the writings of thoſe vulgar authors who relate the intrigues and midnight banquets of witches with infernal ſpirits, or that teach the difference between black and white witches, and aſſert the power of them and their agents to harm us, but from thoſe more authentic writers, namely, Mede, and others, whoſe proofs, that the doctrine of demons made a part of the gentile theology, have induced an opinion that in theſe later times departed ſpirits have ſuch an exiſtence as the intercourſe above-mentioned, ſeems to imply.

Not to dwell longer on ſo painful a ſubject, I will diſmiſs theſe reflections with an obſervation, that by the unhappineſs of his bodily conſtitution, and the defect of his organs of ſenſe, he was rendered unſuſ⯑ceptible of almoſt all thoſe delights which we term pleaſures of the imagination, and which help to ſoothe the mind under affliction; and this melancholy truth I ſhall attempt to illuſtrate by the following obſer⯑vations:

[318] With reſpect to ſight, it muſt be noted, that he was of that claſs of men, who, from a defect in the viſual organs, are termed myops, or near-ſighted perſons; and farther, that diſeaſe had deprived him of the uſe of one eye, the conſequence whereof was, that in lieu of thoſe various delightful proſpects which the face of nature affords, the beautiful and the grand, that multiply ideas and adminiſter delight, as well in the reflection as the immediate enjoyment of them, his mind was preſented with an univerſal blank. Nor was his misfortune leſs, with reſpect to thoſe objects wherein beauty, ſymmetry, and harmony of parts and proportions are reſident: to him a ſtatue was an unſhapen maſs, and a ſumptuous edifice a quarry of ſtone. Of the beauties of painting, notwithſtand⯑ing the many eulogiums on that art which, after the commencement of his friendſhip with Sir Joſhua Reynolds, he inſerted in his writings, he had not the leaſt conception; and this leads me to mention a fact to the purpoſe, which I well remember. One evening, at the club, I came in with a ſmall roll of prints, which, in the afternoon, I had picked up: I think they were landſcapes of Perelle, and laying it down with my hat, Johnſon's curioſity prompted him to take it up and unroll it: he viewed the prints ſeverally with great attention, and aſked me what ſort of plea⯑ſure ſuch things could afford me; I told him, that as repreſentations of nature, containing an aſſemblage of ſuch particulars as render rural ſcenes delightful, they preſented to my mind the objects themſelves, and that my imagination realiſed the proſpect before me; he ſaid, that was more than his would do, for that [319] in his whole life he was never capable of diſcerning the leaſt reſemblance of any kind between a picture and the ſubject it was intended to repreſent.

To the delights of muſic, he was equally inſenſible: neither voice nor inſtrument, nor the harmony of con⯑cordant ſounds, had power over his affections, or even to engage his attention. Of muſic in general, he has been heard to ſay, ‘'it excites in my mind no ideas, and hinders me from contemplating my own;'’ and of a fine ſinger, or inſtrumental performer, that ‘'he had the merit of a Canary-bird^*.'’ Not that his hearing was ſo defective as to account for this inſenſibility, but he laboured under the misfortune which he has noted in his life of Barretier, and is common to more perſons than in this muſical age are willing to confeſs it, of wanting that additional ſenſe or faculty, which renders muſic grateful to the human ear.

From this ſtate of his mental and bodily conſtitution, it muſt neceſſarily be inferred, that his comforts were very few, and that his mind had no counterpoiſe againſt thoſe evils of ſickneſs, ſorrow, and want, which, at different periods of his life he laboured under, and in ſome of his writings pathetically laments. Of this misfortune himſelf was ſenſible, [320] and the frequent reflection thereon wrought in him a perſuaſion, that the evils of human life preponde⯑rated againſt the enjoyments of it; and this opinion he would frequently enforce by an obſervation on the general uſe of narcotics in all parts of the world, as, in the eaſt, and ſouthern countries, opium; in the weſt, and northern, ſpirituous liquors and tobacco^*; and into this principle he reſolved moſt of the temp⯑tations to ebriety. To the uſe of the former of theſe, himſelf had a ſtrong propenſity, which increaſed as he advanced in years: his firſt inducement to it was, relief againſt watchfulneſs, but when it became habi⯑tual, it was the means of poſitive pleaſure, and as ſuch, was reſorted to by him whenever any depreſſion of ſpirits made it neceſſary. His practice was, to take it in ſubſtance, that is to ſay, half a grain levigated with a ſpoon againſt the ſide of a cup half full of ſome liquid, which, as a vehicle, carried it down.

With ſo few reſources of delight, it is not to be wondered at, if after the loſs of his wife, his melan⯑choly was hardly ſupportable. Company and conver⯑ſation were the only reliefs to it, and when theſe failed him he was miſerable. At the club in Ivy lane, our uſual hour of departure was eleven, and when that approached he was frequently tempted to wander the ſtreets, and join in the converſation of thoſe miſer⯑able females who were there to be met with. Of theſe he was very inquiſitive as to their courſe of life, the hiſtory of their ſeduction, and the chances of re⯑claiming them. The firſt queſtion he generally [321] aſked was, if they could read. Of one who was very handſome, he aſked, for what ſhe thought God had given her ſo much beauty: ſhe anſwered—‘'To pleaſe gentlemen^*.'’

In the midſt of the diſtreſſes which, at this period of his life, ſurrounded him, he found both inclination and the means to be helpful to others. His wife, a ſhort time before her death, had conſigned to his care a friend of her own ſex, a perſon of very extraor⯑dinary endowments, whom, for a benevolent purpoſe that will be ſhortly mentioned, Johnſon had invited to a reſidence in his houſe: This was Mrs. Anna Williams, whoſe hiſtory is as follows:

Her father, Zachariah Williams, was a ſurgeon and phyſician in South Wales, a man of parts and great ingenuity: he had addicted himſelf to mathematical ſtudies, and having, by a kind of intuitive penetra⯑tion, diſcovered, that the variations of the magnetic needle were equal at equal diſtances eaſt and weſt; he entertained a ſanguine hope, that he had attained the means of aſcertaining the longitude. As London was the place where he thought he ſhould beſt avail himſelf of his diſcovery, and alſo turn it to the im⯑provement of his fortunes, he, in the year 1730, with an apparatus of mathematical and nautical inſtru⯑ments of his own invention, left his habitation and buſineſs, and, together with his daughter, ſettled in the metropolis. His firſt buſineſs was, to lay before the commiſſioners of the longitude the fruits of his [322] ſtudies; but, upon a due examination, they all proved abortive: no proportion whatever of the reward could be aſſigned him as his due; but, as a kind of recom⯑pence for his diſappointment, means were found to procure him a maintenance in the Charterhouſe, and accordingly he was admitted into that aſylum of age and poverty. With all his ingenuity and ſcien⯑tific wiſdom, which I have heard his daughter, with an excuſable partiality, magnify beyond credibility, he muſt have been defective in worldly prudence; for, either by the infraction of oeconomical regulations, or ſome other miſconduct reſpecting the endowment from which he derived his ſupport, he rendered him⯑ſelf at firſt obnoxious to cenſure from the governors, and in the end was obliged to forego all the benefits of it, to become an outcaſt, and, at the age of ſeventy⯑five, to ſuffer ſhipwreck in the wide ocean of the world. In a narrative, publiſhed in 1749, he com⯑plains of his expulſion as an act of injuſtice.

What became of him afterwards I could never learn, ſave that in the year 1755, he publiſhed in Italian and Engliſh a book intitled, ‘'An account of an attempt to aſcertain the longitude at ſea, by an exact theory of the magnetical needle,'’ written, as it is ſuppoſed, by Johnſon, and tranſlated by Mr. Baretti. Of his daughter, I am able to ſay more, having known her a long time. About ten years after her arrival with her father in London, ſhe was alarmed by the appearance of a cataract on both her eyes, which continued to increaſe till it totally de⯑prived her of her ſight. Before this calamity befel her, ſhe, with the aſſiſtance of her father, had ac⯑quired a knowledge of the French and Italian [323] languages, and had made great improvements in literature, which, together with the exerciſe of her needle, at which ſhe was very dextrous, as well after the loſs of her ſight as before, contributed to ſupport her under her affliction, till a time when it was thought by her friends, that relief might be obtained from the hand of an operating ſurgeon. At the requeſt of Dr. Johnſon, I went with her to a friend of mine, Mr. Samuel Sharp, ſenior ſurgeon of Guy's hoſpital, who before had given me to underſtand, that he would couch her gratis if the cataract was ripe, but upon making the experiment it was found otherwiſe, and that the cryſtalline humour was not ſufficiently in⯑ſpiſſated for the needle to take effect. She had been almoſt a conſtant companion of Mrs. Johnſon for ſome time before her deceaſe, but had never reſided in the houſe: afterwards, for the convenience of performing the intended operation, Johnſon took her home, and upon the failure of that, kept her as the partner of his dwelling till he removed into chambers, firſt in Gray's inn, and next in the Temple. Afterward, in 1766, upon his taking a houſe in Johnſon's court in Fleet ſtreet, he invited her thither, and in that, and his laſt houſe in Bolt court, ſhe ſucceſſively dwelt for the remainder of her life.

The loſs of her ſight made but a ſmall abatement of her chearfulneſs, and was ſcarce any interruption of her ſtudies. With the aſſiſtance of two female friends, ſhe tranſlated from the French of Pere La Bletrie, the life of the emperer Julian^*. In 1755, Mr. Garrick, ever diſpoſed to help the afflicted, in⯑dulged [324] her with a benefit-play that produced her two hundred pounds; and in 1766, ſhe publiſhed by ſubſcription a quarto volume of miſcellanies in proſe and verſe, and thereby increaſed her little fund to three hundred pounds, which, being prudently inveſt⯑ed, yielded an income, that under ſuch protection as ſhe experienced from Dr. Johnſon, was ſufficient for her ſupport.

She was a woman of an enlightened underſtanding; plain, as the women call it, in her perſon, and eaſily provoked to anger, but poſſeſſing, nevertheleſs, ſome excellent moral qualities, among which no one was more conſpicuous, than her deſire to promote the welfare and happineſs of others, and of this ſhe gave a ſignal proof, by her ſolicitude in favour of an inſtitution for the maintenance and education of poor deſerted females in the pariſh of St. Sepulchre, London, ſupported by the voluntary contributions of ladies, and, as the foundation-ſtone of a fund for its future ſubſiſtence, ſhe bequeathed to it the whole of that little, which, by the means above-mentioned, ſhe had been able to accumulate. To the endow⯑ments and qualities here aſcribed to her, may be added, a larger ſhare of experimental prudence than is the lot of moſt of her ſex. Johnſon, in many exi⯑gences, found her an able counſellor, and ſeldom ſhewed his wiſdom more than when he hearkened to her advice. In return, ſhe received from his conver⯑ſation the advantages of religious and moral improve⯑ment, which ſhe cultivated ſo, as in a great meaſure to ſmooth the conſtitutional aſperity of her temper. When theſe particulars are known, this intimacy, which began with compaſſion, and terminated in a [325] friendſhip that ſubſiſted till death diſſolved it, will be eaſily accounted for.

Johnſon had but for a ſhort time enjoyed the relief from ſolitude and melancholy reflection which this friendly attachment afforded him, before he expe⯑rienced that affliction, which, in the courſe of nature, is the concomitant of longevity, in the loſs of his friend Cave, who finiſhed a uſeful and well-ſpent life in the month of January, 1754. It might ſeem that between men ſo different in their endowments and tempers as Johnſon and Cave were, little of true friendſhip could ſubſiſt, but the contrary was the caſe: Cave, though a man of a ſaturnine diſpoſition, had a ſagacity which had long been exerciſed in the diſcrimination of men, in ſearching into the receſſes of their minds, and finding out what they were fit for; and a liberality of ſentiment and action, which, under proper reſtrictions, inclined him not only to encourage genius and merit, but to eſteem and even to venerate the poſſeſſors of thoſe qualities as often as he met with them: it cannot, therefore, be ſuppoſed, but that he entertained a high regard for ſuch a man as Johnſon, and, having had a long experience of his abilities and integrity, that he had improved this diſ⯑poſition into friendſhip. Johnſon, on his part, ſought for other qualities in thoſe with whom he meant to form connections: had he determined to make only thoſe his friends whoſe endowments were equal to his own, his life would have been that of a Carthuſian; he was therefore more ſolicitous to contract friend⯑ſhips with men of probity and integrity, and endued with good moral qualities, than with thoſe whoſe in⯑tellectual powers, or literary attainments, were the [326] moſt conſpicuous part of their character; and of the former, Cave had a ſhare, ſufficient to juſtify his choice.

On this mutual regard for each other, as on a ſolid baſis, reſted the friendſhip between Johnſon and Cave. It was therefore with a degree of ſorrow, proportioned to his feelings towards his friends, which were ever tender, that Johnſon reflected on the loſs he had to ſuſtain, and became the narrator of the moſt important incidents of his life. In the account which he has given of his death, it will be readily believed, that what he has related reſpecting the conſtancy of his friendſhip, is true, and that when, as the laſt act of reaſon, he fondly preſſed the hand that was afterwards employed in recording his memory, his affection was ſincere.

By ſome papers now in my hands it ſeems that, not⯑withſtanding Johnſon was paid for writing the Ramb⯑ler, he had a remaining intereſt in the copy-right of that paper, which about this time he ſold. The pro⯑duce thereof, the pay he was receiving for his papers in the Adventurer, and the fruits of his other literary labours, had now exalted him to ſuch a ſtate of com⯑parative affluence, as, in his judgment, made a man⯑ſervant neceſſary. Soon after the deceaſe of Mrs. Johnſon, the father of Dr. Bathurſt arrived in England from Jamaica, and brought with him a negro-ſervant, a native of that iſland, whom he cauſed to be baptized and named Francis Barber, and ſent for inſtruction to Burton upon Tees in Yorkſhire: upon the deceaſe of captain Bathurſt, for ſo he was called, Francis went to live with his ſon, who willingly parted with him to Johnſon. The uſes for which he was intended [327] to ſerve this his laſt maſter were not very apparent, for Diogenes himſelf never wanted a ſervant leſs than he ſeemed to do: the great buſhy wig, which through⯑out his life he affected to wear, by that cloſeneſs of texture which it had contracted and been ſuffered to retain, was ever nearly as impenetrable by a comb as a quickſet hedge; and little of the duſt that had once ſettled on his outer garments was ever known to have been diſturbed by the bruſh. In ſhort, his garb and the whole of his external appearance was, not to ſay negligent, but ſlovenly, and even ſqualid; to all which, and the neceſſary conſequences of it, he appeared as inſenſible as if he had been nurtured at the cape of Good Hope: he ſaw that, notwithſtand⯑ing theſe offenſive peculiarities in his manners, his converſation had great attractions, and perhaps he might eſtimate the ſtrength of the one by the degree of the other, and thence derive that apathy, which, after all, might have its foundation in pride, and afforded him occaſion for a triumph over all the ſolicitudes reſpecting dreſs^*.

[328] Of this negro-ſervant much has been ſaid, by thoſe who knew little or nothing of him, in juſtification of that partiality which Johnſon ſhewed for him, and his neglect of his own neceſſitous relations. The follow⯑ing particulars are all that are worth relating of him: He ſtayed with Johnſon about five years, that is to ſay, till 1758, and then left him, but at the end of two years returned, and was taken again into his ſervice. His firſt maſter had, in great humanity, made him a Chriſtian; and his laſt, for no aſſignable reaſon, nav, rather in deſpight of nature, and to unfit him for being uſeful according to his capacity, deter⯑mined to make him a ſcholar.

He placed him at a ſchool at Biſhop-Stortford, and kept him there five years; and, as Mrs. Williams was uſed to ſay, who would frequently reproach him with his indiſcretion in this inſtance, expended three hun⯑dred pounds in an endeavour to have him taught Latin and Greek^*.

The propoſal for the dictionary, and other of his writings, had exhibited Johnſon to view in the cha⯑racter of a poet and a philologiſt: to his moral quali⯑ties, and his concern for the intereſts of religion and virtue, the world were for ſome time ſtrangers; but no ſooner were theſe manifeſted by the publication of the Rambler and the Adventurer, than he was looked up to as a maſter of human life, a practical Chriſtian, [329] and a divine; his acquaintance was ſought by per⯑ſons of the firſt eminence in literature, and his houſe, in reſpect of the converſations there, became an aca⯑demy. One perſon, in particular, who ſeems, for a great part of his life, to have affected the character of a patron of learned and ingenious men, in a letter which I have ſeen, made him a tender of his friendſhip in terms to this effect:—‘'That having peruſed many of his writings, and thence conceived a high opinion of his learning, his genius, and moral qualities, if Mr. Johnſon was inclined to enlarge the circle of his ac⯑quaintance, he [the letter-writer] ſhould be glad to be admitted into the number of his friends, and to receive a viſit from him.'—’This perſon was Mr. Dodington, afterwards lord Melcombe, the value and honour of whoſe patronage, to ſpeak the truth, may in ſome degree be eſtimated by his diary lately pub⯑liſhed, but better by the account which I mean here to give of his favourites and dependents, with ſome of whom I was perſonally acquainted. How Johnſon received this invitation I know not: as it was con⯑veyed in very handſome expreſſions, it required ſome apology for declining it, and I cannot but think he framed one.

One of the earlieſt of lord Melcombe's clients was Dr. Edward Young, the author of the Satires, of the Night-thoughts, and of the Revenge, a tragedy; a man who, by a ſtrange fatality, could never attain to any of thoſe diſtinctions in his profeſſion, which are generally underſtood to be the rewards of learning and piety, and muſt be ſuppoſed to have failed by the ardour with which he ſolicited, and the ſervile adulation which he practiſed to come at them, of which latter diſpoſition [330] he has given ſuch inſtances in the dedications of his fatires to the ſeveral perſons of high rank, to whom they are addreſſed, as alſo, in the exordium to each of the Night-thoughts at their firſt coming abroad, for in the later edition they are omitted, as are a diſ⯑grace to manhood, and muſt have put the vaineſt of his patrons to the bluſh.

Mr. James Ralph was another of his dependents, of whom, as a pretender to genius, much may be learned from the Dunciad. He was the tool of that party, of which his lordſhip laboured in vain to become the leader; and, to ſerve its purpoſes, by inflaming the minds of the people, wrote a weekly paper called the Remembrancer^*. For this and other good deeds of the like kind, he is, in the diary above-mentioned, held forth as an exemplar to all writers of his profeſſion, and dignified with the character of an honeſt man.

Another of theſe men of genius, who enjoyed the favour of Mr. Dodington, was Mr. Paul Whitehead, whoſe love for his country, and knowledge of its in⯑tereſts, became firſt known by a ſatire of his writing entitled, ‘'The State Dunces,'’ which, as he was a patriot, and, as all patriots pretend to be, a firm friend to what they call the conſtitution, bears this candid motto:

He alſo wrote ‘'Manners,'’ a ſatire; a libel of a more general tendency, as including in it many invectives againſt ſome of the nobility, and moſt eminent of the dignified clergy.

Of this man, who many years was my neighbour in the country, I know much to blame and ſomewhat to commend: he may be ſuppoſed, in his younger days, to have imbibed that malevolence againſt the Hanover ſucceſſion, which was the ſentiment of many at the beginning of this century, and by an eaſy tranſition, to which the peruſal of ſuch papers as the Craftſman, Common-ſenſe, and other publications of the time, and, moſt of all, the converſation of ſuch perſons as he choſe for his aſſociates, might probably lead him, to have engendered in his mind a hatred of all whoſe offices in the ſtate had made the ſupport of govern⯑ment their duty, and a reſolution to acquieſce in that fallacious diſcrimination of two claſſes of men, the one whereof was in, and the other out of power, into the court and country parties.

It is not much to the credit of the latter of theſe two, that ſome of the writers on the fide of it were ſuch avowed enemies to religion, as might beget, in thoſe acquainted with their characters, a ſuſpicion that, as in the language of politics, there is an alliance between church and ſtate, a ſimilar relation ſubſiſts between infidelity and patriotiſm, proofs whereof have not been wanting in theſe our late times; for it is evi⯑dent, that as the injunctions to obedience imply reli⯑gion, the want thereof, quoad the perſon who is to pay it, vacates the obligation, and leaves him at liberty to form an alliance with the other ſide.

[332] And that ſome of the writers on the ſide of the country party, as it was called, particularly in the Craftſman, were men of this character, is certain. Amhurſt, the oſtenſible author of the paper, was expelled his univerſity, and was, moreover, a friend and aſſociate of Strutt, an attorney of the temple, who wrote ſeveral letters or eſſays in his paper, and a treatiſe with ſome ſuch title as, ‘'A philoſophical enquiry into the nature of human liberty,'’ wherein the freedom of the human will is denied, and the actions of men are made to reſult from an irreſiſtible neceſſity. This tract I have heard Whitehead commend and aſſert that it contained a full refutation of all that Dr. Clarke, in his controverſy with Leibnitz, has advanced in favour of the contrary opinion, and at the ſame time ſpeak of the author as one whom the greatneſs of his parts, had he lived, would have raiſed to the dignity of lord⯑chancellor; but of whoſe moral and religious prin⯑ciples a judgment may be formed, by means of the following letter, which, for the atheiſtical expreſſions contained therein, was the ground for the expulſion of the writer of it from the univerſity of Cambridge. I forbear remarking on this blaſphemous epiſtle, farther than, that the regret I have often felt in the peruſal of it has been not a little increaſed by the figure that my friend Paul makes in it, and the intimacy between him and Strutt which it diſcloſes.

The political principles of Whitehead recom⯑mended him to Mr. Dodington, whoſe oſtentation was gratified, and his ambitious views in a way to be advanced, by a connection with a man who had abilities to write, and the boldneſs to publiſh whatever might ſerve the purpoſes of a party, and whoſe zeal for its intereſts was ſubject to any direction. [335] Dodington admired the keenneſs of Whitehead's wit, and the ſpirit of his ſatires, and his commendations were repaid by the latter, with encomiums on his patron's political wiſdom and qualifications for ſtate employments, which, as they ſeemed to have no foun⯑dation in principle, Paul was as little able to inveſti⯑gate as to delineate the path of a comet. In his con⯑verſation there was little to praiſe: it was deſultory, vociferous, and profane. He had contracted a habit of ſwearing in his younger years, which he retained to his lateſt. At Twickenham he never frequented divine ſervice; and when preſſed by one of his friends there to ſhew himſelf at church, excuſed himſelf by ſaying he was not ſettled. He was viſited by very few of the inhabitants of the village; but his houſe was open to all his London friends, among whom were Mr. Hogarth, Iſaac Ware the architect, George Lambert, and Hayman the painters, and Mr. Havard the player, men who had ſpent all their lives in and about Covent-garden, and looked upon it as the ſchool of manners, and an epitome of the world.

Paul was endowed with a great portion of wit, but it was altogether of the ſatyrical kind, and ſerved to little purpoſe, other than to expoſe to ridicule or contempt the objects to which it was directed. In concert with one Carey a ſurgeon, he planned and exhibited a proceſſion along the Strand, of perſons on foot and on horſeback, dreſſed for the occaſion, car⯑rying mock enſigns, and the ſymbols of free-maſonry^*; the deſign of which was, to expoſe to laughter the inſignia and ceremonies of that myſterious inſtitution, [336] and it was not till thirty years after, that the fraternity recovered the diſgrace which ſo ludicrous a repreſen⯑tation had brought on it.

After enumerating theſe his exceptionable qualities, it is but juſtice to ſay of Whitehead, that he was by nature a friendly and kind-hearted man, well acquaint⯑ed with vulgar manners and the town, but little ſkilled in the knowledge of the world, and, by conſequence, little able to reſiſt the arts of deſigning men; and of this defect he gave a melancholy proof in ſubmitting to be engaged for Fleetwood, the patentee of Drury⯑lane theatre, in a bond for 3000l; for failure in the payment whereof he ſuſtained impriſonment in the Fleet for ſome of the beſt years of his life. He had married a woman of a good family and fortune, whom, though homely in her perſon, and little better than an idiot, he treated not only with humanity, but with tenderneſs, hiding, as well as he was able, thoſe defects in her underſtanding, which are oftener the ſubjects of ridicule than of compaſſion. After his enlargement, ſome money fell to him, with which, and the profits of the place of deputy-treaſurer of the chamber, which he held for ſome time under lord Le Deſpenſer, he pur⯑chaſed a cottage on Twickenham common, and from a deſign and under the inſpection of his friend Iſaac Ware, at a ſmall expence improved it into an elegant dwelling. Here he manifeſted the goodneſs of his nature in the exerciſe of kind offices, in heal⯑ing breaches, and compoſing differences between his poor neighbours; and living to ſee, as he did at the commencement of his preſent majeſty's reign, power lodged in the hands of ſuch as he thought friends of their country, and above all temptations to abuſe it, [337] he abandoned his factious principles, and became a loyal ſubject. In a grateful ſenſe of his obligations to lord Le Deſpenſer, he directed, that after his deceaſe, his heart, incloſed in a veſſel for the purpoſe, ſhould be preſented to him, which being done, his lordſhip cauſed it to be depoſited in his church of Weſt Wycomb.

Dr. Thompſon was one of the many phyſicians who, in this country, have enjoyed a ſhort-lived repu⯑tation, acquired by methods unknown to any but themſelves. The earlieſt of his practice was among men of eminence, Mr. Pope and others, who, de⯑ceived by his confidence and a certain contempt with which he ever ſpoke of the reſt of his profeſſion as being bigotted to theories and ſyſtems, looked upon him as a man of an inventive genius, who had reduced the art of healing to an epitome. The fact was, that, affecting to be a free-thinker in his faculty, he ſet at nought the diſcoveries and improve⯑ments of others, and treated with ridicule that practice which he did not underſtand. He was an everlaſting prater on politics and criticiſm, and ſaw ſo deep into the councils of the king of Pruſſia, that he could aſſign the motives of all his actions, during the laſt war in which he was engaged. At taverns, in coffee-houſes, at the cyder-cellar in Maiden lane, he was frequently to be found holding forth on theſe ſubjects without interruption, in a tone of voice which Mr. Garrick would ſay was like the buz of an humble⯑bee in a hall-window. This man enjoyed the favour of lord Melcombe, and, what was of greater benefit to him, an apartment in his houſe, with a protection from arreſts, founded on the privilege which the law grants, [338] not only to peers, but to the loweſt of their menial ſervants.

Quin once told me a ſtory of this man, which I will relate in as few words as I am able.—Quin walking up and down, one Sunday evening, in the Bedford coffee-houſe, obſerved a man in a dark corner lean⯑ing his forehead on the table, and every now and then ſending forth a ſigh, that ſeemed to come from his heart. Moved with compaſſion, he went up to him, and enquiring the cauſe of his grief, was told by him, that his name was Thompſon, that he was a phyſician riſing into practice, but that, for want of fifty pounds, his chariot could not go abroad the next day, and his patients muſt remain unviſited. Quin bid him be comforted, and, ſtepping to his lodgings in Bedford ſtreet, returned with a bank-note for that ſum, which he told Thompſon he would not expect till he was able to repay it: the other anſwered, that a month was as long as he wiſhed to retain it; but Quin told him that he could ſpare it for three, or even ſix months, and took his leave. Six months elapſed, and no apology made for non-payment of the money. Quin, in a civil letter, reminded Thompſon of the terms on which it was lent, but receiving no anſwer to that and others that he wrote, he was obliged to ſend him one by his attorney, which produced a noti⯑fication from the duke of Newcaſtle's office, that the name of Dr. Thompſon was there entered as of a per⯑ſon privileged from arreſts, and that it would be at Mr. Quin's peril if he proceeded to violate that pro⯑tection which he claimed, and the law granted him. Being thus prohibited from the reſtraint of his perſon, Quin was obliged to wait the re-payment of his money, [339] which, at the expiration of ſome months, he received, but without the leaſt acknowledgment of his kindneſs in lending it.

This was a man whom Whitehead, in the ſimplicity of his heart, held in ſuch eſtimation, that I have ſeen him, for hours together, liſtening, with his lips uncloſ⯑ed, to the torrents of nonſenſe he was pouring forth: he addreſſed an epiſtle to him, wherein he celebrates his medical abilities and moral qualities, and makes the number of perſons daily reſtored by him to health, equal to thoſe who were ſent to their long⯑homes by Wilmot and the other eminent phyſicians his rivals and contemporaries.

Notwithſtanding the advantages with which he ſet out, and the extravagant encomiums of Fielding and others, of him and his practice, Thompſon ſunk into contempt and obſcurity. Like Paracelſus, he per⯑formed a few cures, that neither himſelf nor any others were ever able to account for; and in a caſe of ſurgery he was once known, by dint of mere ob⯑ſtinacy, to have ſaved a limb. A ſon of a friend of mine, an officer, being in the ſervice in Ger⯑many, and at the head of a ſkirmiſhing-party on horſeback, received a wound with a ſabre that ſepa⯑rated the tendons and ligaments which connect the foot with the leg: at a conſultation on his caſe of two of the moſt eminent ſurgeons, Thompſon, as being the family phyſician, was called to aſſiſt, who, in oppoſition to their opinion that an amputation was inevitable, ſwore that his friend ſhould not undergo it: the operation was deferred, and by the help of the Mal⯑vern waters, the patient recovered ſuch an uſe of the whole limb as enabled him to walk with ſcarce any variation of his accuſtomed gait.

[340] Had Johnſon accepted of Mr. Dodington's invita⯑tion, it cannot be ſuppoſed that he would have been much pleaſed with the company of theſe and ſuch other perſons as it was likely to introduce him to. His declining it ſeems, therefore, an act of great prudence, and indeed he was exempted from the neceſſity of ſeeking connections; for many perſons were of Dod⯑ington's mind, and were deſirous of adding him to the number of their friends. Invitations to dine with ſuch of thoſe as he liked, he ſo ſeldom declined, that, to a friend of his, he ſaid, ‘'I never but once, upon a reſolution to employ myſelf in ſtudy, balked an in⯑vitation out to dinner, and then I ſtayed at home and did nothing.'’ Little, however, did that laxity of temper, which this confeſſion ſeems to imply, retard the progreſs of the great work in which he was em⯑ployed: the concluſion, and alſo the perfection of his dictionary, were objects from which his attention was not to be diverted: the avocations he gave way to were ſuch only as, when complied with, ſerved to invigorate his mind to the performance of his engage⯑ments to his employers and the public, and haſten the approach of the day that was to reward his labour with applauſe.

That day it was his happineſs to ſee; for, by the end of the year 1754, he had completed his copy, not more to his own eaſe and ſatisfaction, than to the joy of Millar the bookſeller, the principal proprietor of the work, and the guardian or treaſurer of the fund out of which the payments were from time to time iſſued. To ſay the truth, his joy on the occaſion was ſo great, that he could not refrain from expreſſing it ſomewhat intemperately, as appears by the following [341] acknowledgment of the receipt of the laſt ſheet of the manuſcript:

‘'Andrew Millar ſends his compliments to Mr. Samuel Johnſon, with the money for the laſt ſheet of copy of the Dictionary, and thanks God he has done with him.'’

To which Johnſon returned this good-humoured and brief anſwer:

‘'Samuel Johnſon returns his compliments to Mr. Andrew Millar, and is very glad to find, as he does by his note, that Andrew Millar has the grace to thank God for any thing.'’

The publication of this great work ſoon followed, as may be imagined, the interchange of theſe two very laconic epiſtles; and the month of May 1755, put the world in poſſeſſion of a treaſure, the va⯑lue whereof it will require the experience of years to find out. To recommend it to the notice of foreigners, he was deſirous it ſhould appear to come from one who had attained academical honours: he therefore applied, by his friend Mr. Thomas Warton, to the univerſity of Oxford for a maſter's degree, and obtained it by a diploma, dated the tenth day of February 1755, the tenour whereof is, that the moſt learned Samuel Johnſon, of Pembroke college, hav⯑ing diſtinguiſhed himſelf in the literary world by his writings, tending to form the popular manners; and having, for the adorning and ſettling his native lan⯑guage, compiled, and being about to publiſh an Engliſh dictionary, the chancellor, maſters, and ſcholars of the ſaid Univerſity, in ſolemn convocation aſſembled, do therefore conſtitute and appoint the ſaid Samuel [342] Johnſon, Maſter of Arts, and command, that he enjoy and exerciſe all the rights, privileges, and honours to that degree appertaining.

Upon the receipt of this inſtrument, Johnſon teſti⯑fied his gratitude for the honour done him, in a letter to the vice-chancellor, which, as a ſpecimen of a fine Latin ſtyle, I here inſert:

So near perfection had the author brought his dictionary, that, upon a review of it previous to his drawing up the preface, he declares, he is unable to detect the caſual omiſſion of more than one article, [343] the appellative OCEAN. Nor has he, as I know, been charged with any other defect, or with any miſinterpretation of a word, ſave in an inſtance or two, where, being moved by party-prejudice, he has impoſed ſignifications on a few words that are in⯑defenſible. Let theſe be imputed to a mind agoniz⯑ed, at various periods during the proſecution of this laborious work, with indigence, with ſorrow, and pain; and let the piteous deſcription of his circumſtances and feelings, which the preface contains, induce us to bury our reſentment of a few petulant expreſſions, in the reflection, that this ſtupendous compilation was undertaken and completed by the care and induſtry of a ſingle perſon.

Upon occaſion of publiſhing the dictionary, Mr. Garrick celebrated the author in the following lines:

It has already been mentioned, that Johnſon's in⯑ducement to this undertaking was the offer of a libe⯑ral reward. The term liberal is indefinite, and, after the lapſe of twenty years, during which ſuch ſums as from three to eight thouſand pounds have been paid for copies, would hardly be allowed to fifteen hun⯑dred and ſeventy-five^†, which was the ſum ſtipulated for the dictionary. Of this, Johnſon, who was no very accurate accountant, thought a great part would be coming to him on the concluſion of the work; but upon producing, at a tavern-meeting for the pur⯑poſe of ſettling, receipts for ſums advanced to him, which were indeed the chief means of his ſubſiſtence, it was found, not only that he had eaten his cake, but that the balance of the account was greatly againſt him. His debtors were now become his creditors; but they, in a perfect conſiſtency with that liberal ſpirit, which, in ſundry inſtances, the great book⯑ſellers are known to have exerciſed towards authors, remitted the difference, and conſoled him for his diſ⯑appointment by making his entertainment at the tavern a treat^§.

[345] The pointing out the utility of ſuch a work as a vernacular lexicon is needleſs, and the diſplaying the merits of that of which I am ſpeaking, is a labour which the ſuffrage of the public has ſaved me. The learned world had long wiſhed for its appearance, and the circulation of the book was proportionate to the impatience which the promiſe of it had ex⯑cited. Lord Corke, being at Florence at the time when it was publiſhed, preſented it, in the author's name, to the academy della Cruſca, and that learned body tranſmitted to him a fine copy of their Vocabu⯑lario. The French academy alſo ſignified their ap⯑probation of his labours, by a preſent of their Diction⯑naire, of which Mr. Langton was the bearer. To theſe teſtimonies of public reſpect, it is a ſmall but Judi⯑crous addition to ſay, that Dr. Robertſon, the Scots hiſtorian, told Johnſon, that he had fairly peruſed his dictionary twice over, and that Johnſon was pleaſed at the hearing it. The dictionary was a library-book, and not adapted to common uſe: the bookſellers knowing this, and being encouraged by its ſucceſs, eaſily prevailed on the author to abridge it in two octavo volumes, and made him a liberal recompence.

It was doubtleſs a great ſatisfaction to Johnſon to have completed this great work; and though we may [346] believe him in the declaration at the end of the pre⯑face thereto, that he diſmiſſed it with frigid tranquility, we cannot but ſuppoſe that he was pleaſed with the reception it met with. One and only one writer, ex⯑cited by that envy and malice which had been long rankling in his breaſt, attempted to diſturb the quiet which poſſeſſed him, by animadverting on this and other of his writings: this was a Dr. Kenrick, the author of many ſcurrilous publications now deſervedly forgotten, who, in a ſmall volume intitled ‘'Lexipha⯑nes,'’ endeavoured to turn many paſſages in the Rambler, and interpretations in the dictionary, into ridicule; gratifying his ſpleen alſo with a number of malevolent cenſures of Dr. Akenſide's ‘'Pleaſures of Imagination.'’ It was the purpoſe of this libel to provoke both or one of the perſons who were the ſubjects of it, to a controverſy, from which, whatever ſhould be the event, he hoped, as it is ſaid Ulyſſes did in his conteſt with Ajax, to derive honour.

But in this he was diſappointed. Akenſide was too proud to diſpute with an inferior, and Johnſon's ſilence proceeded not more from his contempt of ſuch an adverſary, than from a ſettled reſolution he had formed, of declining all controverſy in defence either of himſelf or his writings. Againſt perſonal [347] abuſe he was ever armed, by a reflection, that I have heard him utter: ‘'Alas! reputation would be of little worth, were it in the power of every concealed enemy to deprive us of it;'—’and he defied all attacks on his writings, by an anſwer of Dr. Bentley to one who threatened to write him down,—that ‘'no author was ever written down but by himſelf.'’

His ſteady perſeverance in this reſolution afforded him great ſatisfaction whenever he reflected on it; and he would often ſelicitate himſelf, that, throughout his life, he had had firmneſs enough to treat with con⯑tempt the calumny and abuſe as well of open as concealed enemies, and the malevolence of thoſe ano⯑nymous ſcriblers, whoſe trade is ſlander, and wages infamy.

Had Pope purſued the ſame conduct, and forborne his revenge on Theobald, Cibber, and others who had provoked him, he had enjoyed his muſe and that philoſophical tranquility which he did but affect, and lived and died with dignity. The younger Richardſon once told me, that, upon the publication of Cibber's ſecond letter, he came to his father's houſe in Lincoln's-inn fields, and, upon en⯑tering the room where he was painting, with a coun⯑tenance that ſpoke the anguiſh of his ſoul, exclaimed, ‘'So, I find another letter is come out:' but, continued he, 'ſuch things are ſport to me:'’ in which aſſertion we may ſuppoſe him to be as ſincere as that poet of whom a ſtory goes, that, talking with a friend, of the critics, he ſaid, he had a way of dealing with them; for, whenever they condemned his verſes, he laughed at it. ‘'Do you ſo?' ſays his friend, 'then, let me tell [348] you, you live the merrieſt life of any man in Eng⯑land.'’

That Bentley's obſervation is founded in truth and a knowledge of mankind, is proved by the rank which Sir Richard Blackmore now holds among the Engliſh poets. At the time when he lived, the wits were in confederacy againſt him; and ſo many are the lampoons, epigrams, and other ſatirical compoſitions extant, tending to blaſt his reputation as a poet^*, that the reader of them would incline to think, that in all his works there is ſcarce a good line or ſenti⯑ment. All this, as Johnſon relates, Blackmore fore⯑ſaw, and, with a dignity of mind that merits praiſe, deſpiſed: the conſequence is, that his poem, intitled ‘'Creation,'’ is not written down, but yet lives in the eſ⯑teem of every judicious reader, and in that moſt elegant encomium, which Mr. Addiſon has beſtowed on it in the Spectator^†; and Dennis, one of the ſevereſt of critics, has given it greater praiſe than he ever vouch⯑ſafed to any modern compoſition, ſaying, that it is ‘'a philoſophical poem, which has equalled that of Lu⯑cretius in the beauty of its verſification, and infinitely ſurpaſſed it in the ſolidity and ſtrength of its rea⯑ſoning.'’

To be inſenſible of, and undiſturbed by, the envy and malice of others, is one of the ſtrongeſt proofs of a great mind, and, as it is the moſt juſtifiable, ſo is it the ſevereſt revenge we can take; for what ſight can be more ridiculous, than that of a crea⯑ture [349] venting its rage on a ſubject that cannot feel? To live in the dread of ſlander, and to regu⯑late our conduct by the opinions, the whiſpers, the ſurmiſes, or threats of either fooliſh or wicked men, is the worſt of all ſlavery: of him who cannot defy every attempt of this kind to diſturb his peace, but muſt be whining and complaining of that enmity which, perhaps, does him honour, and ſcribbling to refute thoſe calumnies which no one will believe, it may be ſaid, as we ſay of a man labouring under a mortal diſeaſe: ‘'He is no man for this world.'’ If he chooſes a contrary courſe to that above-re⯑commended, he does the work of thoſe that hate him, and will be ſure to feel the pangs of reſentment, and forego the enjoyment of a tranquil mind, and a conſcience void of offence, ſo feelingly deſcribed in this ſentence of lord Bacon: ‘'Certainly it is heaven upon earth to have a man's mind move in Charity, reſt in Providence, and turn upon the poles of Truth.'’

If Johnſon could ever be ſaid to be idle, now was the time. He had, for nine years, been employed in his great work, and had finiſhed it: he had cloſed the Rambler; and the Adventurer was cloſed on him. He had it now in his choice to reaſſume ſome one or other of thoſe various literary projects, which he had formed in the early part of his life, and are enumerated in a foregoing page of theſe memoirs; but the powers of his mind, diſtended by long and ſevere exerciſe, became relaxed, and required reſt to bring them to their tone, and it was ſome time be⯑fore he could reſolve on any employment, ſuited to his abilities, that carried with it any proſpect of pleaſure, [350] or hope of reward. This remiſſion of his labour, which ſeemed to be no more than nature herſelf called for, Johnſon, in thoſe ſevere audits to which it was his practice to ſummon himſelf, would fre⯑quently condemn, ſtyling it a waſte of his time, and a miſapplication of the talents with which he was gratefully conſcious that God had endowed him. Yet herein was he greatly miſtaken; for though Milton ſays of the ſervants of God,

he adds, that

Johnſon's intellectual faculties could never be un⯑employed: when he was not writing he was thinking, and his thoughts had ever a tendency to the good of mankind; and that indolence, which, in his hours of contrition, he cenſured as criminal, needed little ex⯑piation.

This receſs from literary occupation continued, however, no longer than was abſolutely neceſſary. It has already been ſhewn, that he was not only a friend to ſuch vehicles of literary intelli⯑gence as Magazines and other epitomes of large works, but that he was a frequent contributor to them. He had occaſionally, for Cave's Magazine, written the lives of Father Paul Sarpi, Boerhaave, the admirals Drake and Blake, Barretier, and divers other eminent perſons; and alſo, ſundry philological [351] eſſays, particularly a ſtate of the controverſy between Crouſaz and Warburton reſpecting the ‘'Eſſay on Man,'’ and a viſion intitled ‘'the Apotheoſis of Milton.'’ Cave being now dead, he ceaſed to furniſh articles for that publication, and either voluntarily offered, or ſuffered himſelf to be retained as a writer in others of a like kind: accordingly, in 1756, he wrote for ‘'the Uni⯑verſal Viſitor, or Monthly Memorialiſt,'’ printed for Gardner^*, two of three letters therein inſerted, on the ſubject of agriculture; and in the ſame and ſubſequent year, he aſſumed or ſubmitted to the office of a re⯑viewer, as it is called, for the publiſher of a monthly collection, intitled, ‘'The Literary Magazine,'’ of which one Faden, a printer, was the editor. In this he wrote the addreſs to the public; alſo, reviews of the following books, viz. Soame Jenyns's free enquiry into the nature and origin of evil; Dr. Blackwell's Memoirs of the court of Auguſtus; he wrote alſo therein, Obſervations on the ſtate of affairs in 1756, and the Life of the preſent king of Pruſſia; and, Han⯑way's journal coming in his way, which contained in it a ſevere cenſure of the practice of tea-drinking, he officially, as I may ſay, and with a degree of alacrity proportioned to his avowed love of that liquor, under⯑took to criticiſe the book, and refute the arguments of the author.

To render this controverſy intelligible, it is neceſſary I ſhould ſtate the grounds on which it proceeded.—Mr. Jonas Hanway had, in the year 1755, undertaken and [352] performed a journey from Portſmouth to Kingſton upon Thames, through Southampton, Wiltſhire, &c. which, though completed in the ſpace of eight days, and attended with no extraordinary circumſtances, was, it ſeems, in his judgment, worthy of being recorded, and, by means of the preſs, tranſmitted to poſterity; and accordingly he gave a relation of it to the public, in two octavo volumes. It may be needleſs to ſay, that this work abounds with miſcellaneous thoughts, moral and religious, and alſo political reflec⯑tions; for of which of all his numerous productions cannot the ſame be ſaid? Connected with it is ‘'An Eſſay on Tea, conſidered as pernicious to health, obſtructing induſtry, and impoveriſhing the nation, with an account of its growth, and great conſump⯑tion in theſe kingdoms^*.'’.

[353] As I do not mean to follow this author in the courſe of an argument conducted in no method, in⯑terrupted by a redundancy of foreign matter, and which violates every rule in logic, I ſhall content myſelf with remarking, that though every one of his three aſſertions may be true, he has ſucceeded in the proof of no one of them. That tea is a luxury, and not a fit aliment for the poor, is implied in a ſarcaſm of Swift to this purpoſe, that the world muſt be en⯑compaſſed, that is to ſay, by a voyage to the Eaſt Indies for tea, and another to the Weſt for ſugar, [354] before a waſherwoman can ſit down to breakfaſt. That it is pernicious to health is diſputed by phy⯑ſicians: Quincy commends it, as an elegant and wholeſome beverage; Cheyne condemns it, as preju⯑dicial to the nervous ſyſtem. Biſhop Burnet, for many years, drank ſixteen large cups of it every morning, and never complained that it did him the leaſt injury. The two laſt objections, that tea is an obſtruction to induſtry, and that it impoveriſhes the nation, are poli⯑tical queſtions which I am not able to decide upon.

Epictetus ſomewhere adviſes us to conſider the gratification of the calls of hunger and thirſt, as acts of neceſſity; to be performed as it were by the bye, but by no means to be eſtimated among the enjoy⯑ments of life; and by a precept no leſs than divine, we are exhorted to take no thought what we ſhall eat or what we ſhall drink. Johnſon looked upon the former as a very ſerious buſineſs, and enjoyed the pleaſures of a ſplendid table equally with moſt men. It was, at no time of his life, pleaſing to ſee him at a meal; the greedineſs with which he ate, his total inattention to thoſe among whom he was ſeated, and his profound ſilence in the hour of refection, were circumſtances that at the inſtant degraded him, and ſhewed him to be more a ſenſualiſt than a philoſopher. Moreover, he was a lover of tea to an exceſs hardly credible; whenever it appeared, he was almoſt raving, and by his impatience to be ſerved, his inceſſant calls for thoſe ingredients which make that liquor palatable, and the haſte with which he ſwallowed it down, he ſeldom failed to make that a fatigue to every one elſe, which was intended as a general refreſhment. Such [355] ſigns of effeminacy as theſe, ſuited but ill with the appearance of a man, who, for his bodily ſtrength and ſtature, has been compared to Polyphemus.

This foible in Johnſon's character being known, it will excite no wonder in the reader to be told, that he readily embraced the opportunity of defend⯑ing his own practice, by an examen of Hanway's book. Accordingly, he began his remarks on it in the Literary Magazine, Number VII^*, but receiving from this author an injunction to forbear proceeding in his cenſure till a ſecond edition ſhould appear, he ſubmitted, though it was a prohibition that could neither be reaſonably impoſed, nor by any means inforced; yet, ſuch was its effect, that Mr. Hanway's journal was not remarked on, till he had been allowed every advantage that could protect it from cenſure.

Such candour on the part of him, on whoſe opinion perhaps many were waiting to form theirs, might have relieved the author from any dread of unfair treat⯑ment; but Johnſon, who paid all proper deference to good intentions, did not think this tacit indication of the temper in which he ſat down to review Mr. Han⯑way's journal, ſufficient: he, therefore, in reſuming the diſpute, promiſes him, that he ſhall find no ma⯑lignity of cenſure, and draws a very handſome infer⯑ence from the contents of his thirty-two letters, that he is a man whoſe failings may well be pardoned for his virtues.

The criticiſm on this ſecond edition appeared in the Literary Magazine, Number XIII^†, and extends [356] chiefly to Mr. Hanway's arguments againſt tea and gin: ſubjects which ſeem to have inſpired him with ſuch enthuſiaſtic eloquence as diſdained all the rules of logic, and dictated obſervations and concluſions, ſo incoherent and incongruous, as would have ſtimu⯑lated even thoſe, who, in the main, thought with him, to an endeavour at correcting his judgment.

But, in Johnſon, when writing on the qualities of tea, he met with an opponent on principle; for its antagoniſt's hatred, however radical or zealous, could not exceed the love its champion bore it: he deſcribes himſelf as ‘'a hardened and ſhameleſs tea-drinker, who has, for many years, diluted his meals with only the infuſion of this faſcinating plant; whoſe kettle has ſcarcely time to cool; who, with tea amuſes the evening, with tea ſolaces the mid⯑nights, and with tea welcomes the morning.'’

That Mr. Hanway was right in aſſerting, that the practice of drinking tea is productive of harm among the lower claſſes of people, muſt certainly be admitted; and that Johnſon was right in denying that it has all the poiſonous qualities the Journal attributes to it, experience ſhews. From what has been ſaid on both ſides, little can be inferred, but that to ſome it is noxious, and to others neutral; that thoſe do wrong who perſiſt in the uſe of it when they find it injurious to their health, and that ſuch as cannot afford the neceſſaries of life, ought not to in⯑dulge in its luxuries.

At Johnſon's candid examen, which ſhould not have offended Mr. Hanway, as, by ſubmitting his work to public inſpection, he recognized the right of public criticiſm, the latter was extremely irritated, and [357] very unadviſedly drew his reviewer forth to a ſecond exertion of his argumentative powers, printed in the ſame Magazine, vol. ii. 253, under the title of ‘'A reply to a paper in the Gazetteer of May 26, 1757,'’ in which, with ſeeming contrition and mock penitence he requeſts to know how he has offended, and depre⯑cates the wrath he had excited.—

His juſtification of what he ſaid of the author, he concludes thus:—‘'As the journaliſt, though en⯑thuſiaſtically zealous for his country, has, with regard to ſmaller things, the placid happineſs of philoſo⯑phical indifference, I can give him no diſturbance by adviſing him to reſtrain even the love of his country within due limits, leſt it ſhould ſometimes [358] ſwell too high, fill the whole capacity of his ſoul, and leave leſs room for the love of truth.'’

Unluckily for Mr. Hanway it happened, that while he was labouring for the general good, by reprobating the practice of drinking tea, an inſtitution from which he derived much of his importance, was ſuffering from want of care. Johnſon, in a viſit to the Foundling hoſpital, obſerved, that the objects of the charity, however well provided for in other reſpects, were, in the eſſential point of religious knowledge, lamentably deficient. To him, who conſidered wiſely that there was no evil from which the governors of the Foundling hoſpital could reſcue deſerted infants, ſo much to be dreaded as ignorance of this kind, the anſwers given to his enquiries touching their im⯑provement were very unſatisfactory. Without knowing that Mr. Hanway was concerned in the charge, he, in his former letter had ſtated this fact, and followed it by ſaying, that ‘'to breed up children in this manner, is to reſcue them from an early grave, that they may find employment for the gibbet, from dying in in⯑nocence, that they may periſh by their crimes.'’

The laudable motive which induced Johnſon to point out this neglect, and the juſtice of his remark, did not ſhield him from unmerited reſentment. He was called on to ſupport what he had advanced: his aſſer⯑tion was branded with the epithet of incredible, but his obſervation had produced its effect: he had found means to have it repreſented to one of the higheſt names of the ſociety, and a catechiſt was ſoon after appointed.

On a review of the eloquence he had been forced to encounter, he ſays of his adverſary,—

Whoever peruſes this controverſy, will be forced to confeſs that, on the part of Johnſon, it is conducted, not only with candour, but with great good humour, a circumſtance to be remarked in all his polemical writings, and to be wondered at, ſeeing that in oral diſputation his behaviour was ſo different, as to ex⯑poſe him to the ſevereſt cenſures. His exertions againſt his adverſary were play, not hoſtility;

[360] By the virtues of Mr. Hanway, which Johnſon is ſo ready to acknowledge, we are to underſtand, that active and unwearied benevolence, which, for a ſeries of years, he has been exerciſing for the benefit of ſociety, and by his failings, or rather failing, for I know of but one he has, a propenſity to writing and publiſhing books, which, for the triteneſs and inanity of the ſentiments contained in them, no one can read.

About the year 1756, time had produced a change in the ſituation of many of Johnſon's friends, who were uſed to meet him in lvy lane. Death had ta⯑ken from us M^cGhie; Barker went to ſettle as a practiſing phyſician at Trowbridge; Dyer went abroad; Hawkeſworth was buſied in forming new connections; and I had lately made one that re⯑moved from me all temptations to paſs my even⯑ings from home. The conſequence was, that our ſympoſium at the King's head broke up, and he who had firſt formed us into a ſociety was left with ſewer around him than were able to ſupport it.

All this while, the bookſellers, who by his own confeſſion were his beſt friends, had their eyes upon Johnſon, and reflected with ſome concern on what ſeemed to them a miſapplication of his talents. The furniſhing magazines, reviews, and even news⯑papers, with literary intelligence, and the authors of books, who could not write them for themſelves, with dedications and prefaces, they looked on as employ⯑ments beneath him, who had attained to ſuch emi⯑nence as a writer; they, therefore, in the year 1756, found out for him ſuch a one as ſeemed to afford a proſpect both of amuſement and profit: this was an edition of Shakeſpeare's dramatic works, [361] which, by a concurrence of circumſtances, was now become neceſſary, to anſwer the increaſing demand of the public for the writings of that author.

Mr. Garrick, who, as every one knows, was in all that related to Shakeſpeare an enthuſiaſt, had, by the ſtudy of his principal characters, and his own exqui⯑ſite action, ſo recommended Shakeſpeare to the town, that the admiration of him became general even to affectation; many profeſſing to be delighted with the performance and peruſal of his plays, who, from their want of literature, and their ignorance of the phraſeology of the age in which they were written, could not be ſuppoſed capable of conſtruing them. Others there were, in whom a literary curioſity had been excited, by the publication of ſuch editions of this author as tended to ſettle his text, and by a deſcription of ancient manners and cuſtoms of living, to render him intelligible. The firſt eſſay of this kind, worth noting, was the edition of Theobald, the defects where⯑of, in the ſingle opinion of Warburton, were ſo many and great, as to render that neceſſary which bears his name.

The two claſſes of readers, here diſcriminated, amounted to ſuch a number as encouraged the bookſellers to an edition on the plan of the two former, and Johnſon was the perſon, whom, of all others, they thought the fitteſt to undertake it: the terms ſettled between them were, that Johnſon ſhould receive for his own uſe the profits ariſing from a ſubſcription to the firſt impreſſion, and that the copy-right ſhould remain with the then poſſeſſors. The firſt notification of this deſign was, a propoſal [362] drawn up by Johnſon, ſetting forth the incorrect⯑neſs of the early editions, the original obſcurity and ſubſequent corruptions of the text, the neceſſity of notes, and the failures of former editors.

A ſtranger to Johnſon's character and temper would have thought, that the ſtudy of an author, whoſe ſkill in the ſcience of human life was ſo deep, and whoſe perfections were ſo many and various as to be above the reach of all praiſe, muſt have been the moſt pleaſing employment that his imagination could ſuggeſt, but it was not ſo: in a viſit that he one morning made to me, I congratulated him on his being now engaged in a work that ſuited his genius, and that, requiring none of that ſevere application which his dictionary had condemned him to, I doubted not would be exe⯑cuted con amore.—His anſwer was, ‘'I look upon this as I did upon the dictionary: it is all work, and my inducement to it is not love or deſire of fame, but the want of money, which is the only motive to writing that I know of.'—’And the event was evidence to me, that in this ſpeech he declared his genuine ſentiments; for neither in the firſt place did he ſet himſelf to collect early editions of his author, old plays, tranſlations of hiſtories, and of the claſſics, and other materials neceſſary for his purpoſe, nor could he be prevailed on to enter into that courſe of reading, without which it ſeemed impoſſible to come at the ſenſe of his author. It was provoking to all his friends to ſee him waſte his days, his weeks, and his months ſo long, that they feared a mental lethargy had ſeized him, out of which he would never recover. In this, however, they were happily deceived, for, after [363] two years inactivity, they find him rouſed to action, and engaged—not in the proſecution of the work, for the completion whereof he ſtood doubly bound, but in a new one, the furniſhing a ſeries of periodical eſſays, intitled, and it may be thought not improperly, ‘'The Idler,'’ as his motive to the employment was averſion to a labour he had undertaken, though in the execution, it muſt be owned, it merited a better name.

As Johnſon was diverted from his work of Shake⯑ſpeare, ſo am I from my purpoſe of tracing the progreſs of it, being to relate the occurrences of nine years of his life before I can congratulate the reader on its appearance.

The engagement for the Idler was with Newbery the bookſeller, a man of a projecting head, a good underſtanding, and great integrity; and who, by a fortunate connection with Dr. James the phyſician, and the honeſt exertions of his own induſtry, be⯑came the founder of a family. Taking advantage of that rage for intelligence, which the ſucceſſes of the war had excited, in even the loweſt order of the people, he planned a weekly paper, which he called ‘'The Univerſal Chronicle,'’ and, as the ſize of it ren⯑dered it ſuſceptible of more matter than the occur⯑rences, during the intervals of its publication, would ſupply, it was part of his ſcheme, that it ſhould con⯑tain an eſſay or ſhort diſcourſe on ſuch ſubjects of morality, or of wit and humour, as, in former inſtances, had been ſound to engage the attention of the public. A ſhare in the profits of this paper was Johnſon's in⯑ducement to the furniſhing ſuch a diſcourſe, and, ac⯑cordingly, it appeared, on Saturday the fifteenth day [364] of April 1758, and continued to be publiſhed on the ſame day in every week for near two years thence fol⯑lowing.

The profits accruing from the ſale of this paper, and the ſubſcriptions which, from the year 1756, he was receiving for the edition of Shakeſpeare by him pro⯑poſed, were the only known means of his ſubſiſtence for a period of near four years, and we may ſuppoſe them hardly adequate to his wants, for, upon finding the balance of the account for the dictionary againſt him, he quitted his houſe in Gough ſquare, and took chambers in Gray's inn; and Mrs. Williams, upon this removal, fixed herſelf in lodgings at a boarding-ſchool in the neighbourhood of their for⯑mer dwelling.

About this time he had, from a friend who highly eſteemed him^*, the offer of a living, of which he might have rendered himſelf capable by entering into holy orders: it was a rectory, in a pleaſant country, and of ſuch a yearly value as might have tempted one in better circumſtances than himſelf to accept it; but he had ſcruples about the duties of the miniſterial function, that he could not, after deliberation, over⯑come. ‘'I have not,' ſaid he, 'the requiſites for the office, and I cannot, in my conſcience, ſhear that flock which I am unable to feed.'—’Upon converſing with him on that inability which was his reaſon for declining the offer, it was found to be a ſuſpicion of his patience to undergo the fatigue of catechiſing and inſtructing a great number of poor ignorant perſons, [365] who, in religious matters, had, perhaps, every thing to learn.

Thus ſcrupulouſly did he think of the nature of the miniſterial office, and thus did he teſtify the ſincerity of thoſe cenſures, which he would ſometimes paſs on the conduct of the generality of the clergy of his time; for though, as a body of men, he held them in great veneration, and was ever ready to defend them againſt the encroachments of ſome, and the re⯑proaches of others of the ignorant laity, he exacted from all who had the cure of ſouls a punctilious diſ⯑charge of their duty, and held in utter deteſtation thoſe who, renouncing their garb and clerical cha⯑racter, affected to appear men of the world.

He thought of Dr. Clarke, whoſe ſermons he valued above all other, that he complied too frequently with invitations to dine with perſons of high rank, his pa⯑riſhioners, and ſpent too much of his time in cere⯑monious viſits: differing in this reſpect from his con⯑temporary Smalridge, the elegant Favonius of the Tatler, who, in the height of his reputation as a preacher, was ever ready to viſit a ſick perſon in the moſt obſcure alley of Weſtminſter.

In the beginning of the year 1759, and while the Idler continued to be publiſhed, an event happened, for which it might be imagined he was well prepared, the death of his mother, who had then attained the age of ninety; but he, whoſe mind had acquired no firmneſs by the contemplation of mortality, was as little able to ſuſtain the ſhock as he would have been had this loſs befallen him in his nonage. It is conjectured that, for many years before her deceaſe, ſhe derived almoſt the whole of her ſupport from this [366] her dutiful ſon, whoſe filial piety was ever one of the moſt diſtinguiſhable features in his character^*. Report ſays, but rather vaguely, that, to ſupply her neceſſities in her laſt illneſs, he wrote and made money of his ‘'Raſſelas,'’ a tale of his invention, numbered among the beſt of his writings, and pub⯑liſhed in the ſpring of 1759, a criſis that gives credit to ſuch a ſuppoſition. No. 41 of the Idler, though it pretends to be a letter to the author, was written by Johnſon himſelf, on occaſion of his mother's death, and may be ſuppoſed to deſcribe, as truly as patheti⯑cally, his ſentiments on the ſeparation of friends and relations. The fact, reſpecting the writing and publiſhing the ſtory of Raſſelas is, that finding the Eaſtern Tales written by himſelf in the Rambler, and by Hawkeſworth in the Adventurer, had been well received, he had been for ſome time meditating a fictitious hiſtory, of a greater extent than any that had appeared in either of thoſe papers, which might ſerve as a vehicle to convey to the world his ſenti⯑ments of human life and the diſpenſations of Provi⯑dence, and having digeſted his thoughts on the ſub⯑ject, he obeyed the ſpur of that neceſſity which now preſſed him, and ſat down to compoſe the tale above⯑mentioned, laying the ſcene of it in a country that he had before occaſion to contemplate, in his tranſlation of Padre Lobo's voyage.

As it was written to raiſe money, he did not long delay diſpoſing of it; he gave it, as I have been told, to Mr. Baretti, to ſell to that bookſeller who would [367] give moſt for it, but the ſum he got for it is va⯑riouſly reported. As none of his compoſitions have been more applauded than this, an examen of it in this place may not be improper, and the following may ſerve till a better ſhall appear.

Conſidered as a ſpecimen of our language, it is ſcarcely to be paralleled: it is written in a ſtyle refined to a degree of immaculate purity, and diſ⯑plays the whole force of turgid eloquence.

But it was compoſed at a time when no ſpring like that in the mind of Raſſelas urged his narrator; when the heavy hand of affliction almoſt bore him down, and the dread of future want haunted him. That he ſhould have produced a tale fraught with lively ima⯑gery, or that he ſhould have painted human life in gay colours, could not have been expected: he pour⯑ed out his ſorrow in gloomy reflection, and being deſtitute of comfort himſelf, deſcribed the world as nearly without it.

In a work of ſuch latitude as this, where nothing could be impertinent, he had an opportunity of divulg⯑ing his opinion on any point that he had thought on: he has therefore formed many converſations on topics that are known to have been ſubjects of his medita⯑tion, and has atoned for the paucity of his incidents by ſuch diſcuſſions as are ſeldom attempted by the fabricators of romantic fiction.

Admitting that Johnſon ſpeaks in the perſon of the victor-diſputant, we may, while he is unveiling the hearts of others, gain ſome knowledge of his own. He has in this Abyſſinian tale given us what he calls a diſſertation on poetry, and in it that which appears to [368] me a recipe for making a poet, from which may be in⯑ferred what he thought the neceſſary ingredients, and a reference to the paſſage will tend to corroborate an obſervation of Mr. Garrick's, that Johnſon's poetical faculty was mechanical, and that what he wrote came not from his heart but from his head. Imlac, the guide of the prince, relates to him the events of his life, which are—That his father was a wealthy merchant, but a man of uncultivated intellects, who left the choice of a profeſſion, with very little biaſs, to his ſon. The young man was diſguſted with trade, and inclined to general learning; but finding, as he ſays, that poetry was conſidered as the higheſt learning, and regarded with veneration, he determined to be⯑come a poet. Ambition has ſeldom effected ſo ſtu⯑pendous a work as that of implanting poetic genius; but Imlac was reſolved, and, if we may truſt the ac⯑count of his ſucceſs, his deſign was not abſurd: his induſtry was very commendable: he red all the poets of Arabia and Perſia, and was able to repeat by me⯑mory the volumes that are ſuſpended in the moſque of Mecca: he then ranged mountains and deſarts for images and reſemblances, and pictured on his mind every tree of the foreſt and flower of the val⯑ley: an ample collection drawn from rocks, palaces, rivulets, clouds, &c. ſtored his mind, and with the help of ethics, languages, and ſciences, the reſolute Imlac, who, till the age of twenty, had lived in igno⯑rance, was by dint of mere induſtry transformed into a diſtinguiſhed poet.

In the courſe of Imlac's narrative, Johnſon ani⯑madverts on the ſuppoſed efficacy of pilgrimages: [369] his argument decides nothing, but is conceived in ſuch language, that none, how well acquainted ſoever with the book, will blame the inſertion of it here.

‘'Pilgrimages, like many other acts of piety, may be reaſonable or ſuperſtitious, according to the prin⯑ciples upon which they are performed. Long journeys in ſearch of truth are not commanded. Truth, ſuch as is neceſſary to the regulation of life, is always found where it is honeſtly ſought. Change of place is no natural cauſe of the increaſe of piety, for it inevitably produces diſſipation of mind. Yet, ſince men go every day to view the fields where great actions have been performed, and return with ſtronger impreſſions of the event, curio⯑ſity of the ſame kind may naturally diſpoſe us to view that country whence our religion had its beginning; and I believe no man ſurveys thoſe awful ſcenes without ſome confirmation of holy reſolutions. That the Supreme Being may be more eaſily propitiated in one place than in another, is the dream of idle ſuperſtition; but that ſome places may operate upon our own minds in an uncommon manner, is an opinion which hourly experience will juſtify. He who ſuppoſes that his vices may be more ſucceſsfully combated in Paleſtine, will, perhaps, find himſelf miſtaken, yet he may go thither without folly: he who thinks they will be more freely pardoned, diſhonours at once his reaſon and religion.'’

In a following chapter the danger of inſanity is the ſubject of debate; and it cannot but excite the pity [370] of all thoſe who gratefully accept and enjoy Johnſon's endeavours to reform and inſtruct, to reflect that the peril he deſcribes he believed impending over him. That he was conſcious of ſuperior talents will ſurely not be imputed to vanity: how deeply then muſt he have been depreſſed by the conſtant fear that in one moment he might and probably would be, not only deprived of his diſtinguiſhed endowments, but re⯑duced to a ſtate little preferable, in as much as reſpects this world, to that of brutes! He has traced the mi⯑ſery of inſanity from its cauſe to its effect, and ſeems to aſcribe it to indulgence of imagination: he ſtyles it one of the dangers of ſolitude, and perhaps to this dread and this opinion was his uncommon love of ſo⯑ciety to be attributed.

His ſuperſtitious ideas of the ſtate of departed ſouls, and belief in ſupernatural agency, were produced by a mental diſeaſe, as impoſſible to be ſhaken off as cor⯑poral pain. What it has pleaſed Omnipotence to in⯑flict, we need never ſeek to excuſe; but he has pro⯑vided againſt the cavils of thoſe who cannot compre⯑hend how a wiſe can ever appear a weak man, by re⯑marking, that there is a natural affinity between me⯑lancholy and ſuperſtition.

In characteriſing this performance, it cannot be ſaid, that it vindicates the ways of God to man. It is a general ſatire, repreſenting mankind as eagerly purſu⯑ing what experience ſhould have taught them they can never obtain: it expoſes the weakneſſes even of their laudable affections and propenſities, and it re⯑ſolves the mightieſt as well as the moſt trivial of their labours, into folly.

[371] I wiſh I were not warranted in ſaying, that this elegant work is rendered, by its moſt obvious moral, of little be⯑nefit to the reader. We would not indeed wiſh to ſee the riſing generation ſo unprofitably employed as the prince of Abyſſinia; but it is equally impolitic to repreſs all hope, and he who ſhould quit his father's houſe in ſearch of a profeſſion, and return unprovided, becauſe he could not find any man pleaſed with his own, would need a better juſtification than that Johnſon, after ſpeculatively ſurveying various modes of life, had judged happineſs unattainable, and choice uſeleſs.

But let thoſe, who, reading Raſſelas in the ſpring of life, are captivated by its author's eloquence, and convinced by his perſpicacious wiſdom that human life and hopes are ſuch as he has depicted them, re⯑member that he ſaw through the medium of adver⯑ſity. The concurrent teſtimony of ages has, it is too true, proved, that there is no ſuch thing as worldly felicity; but it has never been proved, that, there⯑fore we are miſerable. Thoſe who look only here for happineſs, have ever been and ever will be diſap⯑pointed: it is not change of place, nor even the un⯑bounded gratification of their wiſhes that can relieve them; but if they bend their attention towards the attainment of that felicity we are graciouſly promiſed, they will find no ſuch vacuum as diſtreſſed Raſſelas: the diſcharge of religious and ſocial duties will afford their faculties the occupation he wanted, and the well⯑founded expectation of future reward will at once ſtimulate and ſupport them.

The tale of Raſſelas was written to anſwer a preſſ⯑ing neceſſity, and was ſo concluded as to admit of a [372] continuation; and, in fact, Johnſon had meditated a ſecond part, in which he meant to marry his hero, and place him in a ſtate of permanent felicity, but it fared with this reſolution as it did with that of Dr. Young, who, in his eſtimate of human life, promiſed, as he had given the dark, ſo in a future publication he would diſplay the bright ſide of his ſubject; he never did it, for he had found out that it had no bright ſide, and Johnſon had made much the fame diſcovery, and that in this ſtate of our exiſtence all our enjoyments are fugacious, and permanent felicity unattainable.

Soon after the publication of Raſſelas, and while he continued to write the Idler, Johnſon was tempted to engage in a controverſy on a ſubject with which, in the courſe of his ſtudies, he had acquired but little knowledge, namely, the comparative ſtrength of arches of different forms; the occaſion of it was, that after the paſſing of the act of parliament for building Black-Friars bridge, a variety of deſigns for it were tendered to the commiſſioners, who, after due conſideration, reduced them to three. In two of theſe deſigns, the conſtruction of the arches was ſe⯑micircular; in the third, exhibited by Mr. Mylne a Scotſman, it was elliptical.

Whether Johnſon thought that the author of this laſt propoſal, as being a native of North Britain, me⯑rited to be treated as an intruder, or that he was in⯑duced by better motives to oppoſe his ſcheme, can⯑not be determined: this, at leaſt, is certain, that he took up the reſolution before he was qualified to debate the queſtion, for I have it from undoubted [373] authority, that in order thereto, he procured from a perſon eminently ſkilled in mathematics and the prin⯑ciples of architecture, anſwers to a ſtring of queſtions drawn up by himſelf, touching the comparative ſtrength of ſemicircular and elliptical arches. Theſe I myſelf have ſeen, and the anſwers determine in fa⯑vour of the ſemicircular.

If the former of the conſiderations above ſug⯑geſted, was at any time, or in any degree, Johnſon's motive for oppoſing Mr. Mylne, he ought to have re⯑flected, that at a period when we had no better archi⯑tects than Vanbrugh, Hawkſmoor^*, James and Kent among us^†, Campbell and Gibbs^†, both Scotſmen, had adorned this country with ſome ſtately and ele⯑gant edifices; and if the latter was his inducement, he ſhould have reflected, that his arguments were [374] not his own, and ſo far as regards ſymmetry and correſpondence of parts, how little he was qualified to judge of ſymmetry and the correſpondence of parts, whoſe eye was never capable of compre⯑hending the dome of St. Paul's cathedral, or the towers of Weſtminſter abbey. However, armed as he is above ſaid to have been, with reaſons againſt Mr. Mylne's deſign, he began an attack on it in a letter to the publiſher of the Daily Gazetteer, inſerted in that paper for the firſt day of December 1759, and continued it in the ſucceeding papers of the eighth and fifteenth of the ſame month. To one or more of theſe letters, anſwers were publiſhed, in which it was contended, that at Florence there is a bridge that croſſes the river Arno, of an elliptical form, but the argument drawn from thence, Johnſon had refuted in his firſt letter, by obſerving, that the ſtability thereof is ſo much doubted, that carts are not permitted to paſs over it, and that it has ſtood two hundred years without imitation. Theſe, and many other arguments, as alſo the opinion of that excellent mathematician Mr. Tho⯑mas Simpſon, were not of ſufficient weight with the committee for building the bridge, to recommend the ſemicircular arch, Mr. Mylne's deſign was preferred, and the arches are elliptical.

I have already remarked, that Johnſon was un⯑ſkilled in the ſcience of architecture, and I might have added, that he was a ſtranger to the very rudi⯑ments of it. He could not elſe have failed to notice, in the edifice here ſpoken of, one of the moſt egre⯑gious errors that ever diſgraced a ſtructure of its kind; columns diſproportionate in the ratio between [375] their heights and their diameters. The proportion of a column is taken from that of the human figure, which, at a medium, is in a man ſeſquioctave of the head, and in a woman ſeſquinonal. The computa⯑tion of columns by modules or diameters, comes to much the ſame, and according to Palladio, gives, to one of the Doric order, the maſculine proportion of eight of thoſe meaſures, and, to one of the Ionic, the feminine of nine.

Proportions, thus adjuſted by nature, admit of no deviation; whenever that is attempted, deformity enſues, as is to be ſeen in the inſtance before us, where we behold a range of Ionic columns, level, it is true, at their baſes, but riſing from their due pro⯑portion at the extremities, in gradation, like the pipes in the front of an organ, to the central arch, where, inſtead of the proportion of a column, they aſſume that of a candle^*.

It will perhaps be ſaid, that the great elevation of the centre-arch required this prepoſterous elon⯑gation of the columns. To this it may be anſwered, that proportion is not to be wreſted to bye-purpoſes, and that where beautiful forms cannot be introduced, they muſt be given up, and ornament yield place to convenience. It is ſaid, that the idea of columns ſtanding on the piers of a bridge was ſuggeſted by a deſign of Piraneſi, extant among his works, but [376] without an aſſertion that he aſſumed the licence here reprobated. Should he in any inſtance be found to have done ſo, the example of a genius, ſo wildly magnificent as his, will weigh but little againſt the practice of Palladio, Scamozzi, Vignola, and, let me add, the earl of Pembroke, the architect of Weſtmin⯑ſter bridge, who, in all ſuch emergencies as that inſiſted on, evaded the neceſſity of violating the rules of their art, by rejecting incongruous decora⯑tions, and truſted to the applauſe they ſhould ac⯑quire by uniting levity and convenience with ſta⯑bility.

There are, it muſt be acknowledged, perſons who are as blind to ſymmetry and the beauty of forms, as others are deaf to the harmony of according ſounds, who deny that there are any criteria by which we can diſcriminate beauty from deformity in one ſubject, and conſonance from diſſonance in the other, and who aſſert that taſte is capricious and has no ſtandard, and that fancy is its own arbiter. Let ſuch enjoy their ignorance, while we are engaged in an inveſtiga⯑tion of the principles into which the pleaſures of the eye and ear are reſolvable. The reſult of ſuch an enquiry will be a thorough conviction, that all of what we underſtand by the terms ſymmetry and har⯑mony has its foundation in mathematical ratios and proportions, that exiſt in all the modifications of mat⯑ter, and are but emanations of that power, which has ordered all things in number, weight and meaſure^*.

[377] I forbear to remark the leſſer errors in the con⯑ſtruction of this edifice, ſuch as the unwarrantable mutilation of the key-ſtones over the arches, and the injudicious poſition of the entablature of the baluſtrade: thoſe I have pointed out may ſerve to ſhew, that the great encouragements given of late to the arts of deſign, have hitherto failed to call forth a genius in any degree comparable to thoſe of former ages, Jones and Sir Chriſtopher Wren; and that the citizens of London, in the meridian of its glory having, with a view to eternize the memory of a favourite miniſter, erected an edifice, in which beauty and ſymmetry are in vain ſought for, and called it by his name^*, have thereby perpetuated their own diſ⯑grace, and ſubjected a whole nation to the reproach of foreigners.

Neither the writing of his Raſſelas, nor the event of his mother's death, nor the bridge-controverſy, ſtopped the hand of Johnſon, nor interrupted the publication of the Idler; but the ſale of the Univerſal Chronicle, the vehicle that contained it, was in ſome degree obſtructed by the practices of thoſe literary depredators, who ſubſiſt by the labours of others, and whoſe conduct, with reſpect to the Idler, the following paper, evidently drawn up by Johnſon, will explain.

‘'London, January 5, 1759. Advertiſement. The proprietors of the paper, entitled ‘'The Idler,'’ hav⯑ing found that thoſe eſſays are inſerted in the news⯑papers and magazines with ſo little regard to juſtice or decency, that the Univerſal Chronicle, in which they firſt appear, is not always mentioned, think it [378] neceſſary to declare to the publiſhers of thoſe col⯑lections, that however patiently they have hitherto endured theſe injuries, made yet more injurious by contempt, they have now determined to endure them no longer. They have already ſeen eſſays, for which a very large price is paid, transferred, with the moſt ſhameleſs rapacity, into the weekly or monthly compilations, and their right, at leaſt for the preſent, alienated from them, before they could themſelves be ſaid to enjoy it. But they would not willingly be thought to want tenderneſs, even for men by whom no tenderneſs hath been ſhewn. The paſt is without remedy, and ſhall be without reſentment. But thoſe who have been thus buſy with their ſickles in the fields of their neighbours, are henceforward to take notice, that the time of impunity is at an end. Whoever ſhall, without our leave, lay the hand of rapine upon our papers, is to expect that we ſhall vindicate our due, by the means which juſtice preſcribes, and which are warranted by the immemorial preſcriptions of ho⯑nourable trade. We ſhall lay hold, in our turn, on their copies, degrade them from the pomp of wide margin and diffuſe typography, contract them into a narrow ſpace, and ſell them at an humble price; yet not with a view of growing rich by confiſcations, for we think not much better of money got by pu⯑niſshment than by crimes; we ſhall, therefore, when our loſſes are repaid, give what profit ſhall remain to the Magdalens; for we know not who can be more properly taxed for the ſupport of penitent proſtitutes, than proſtitutes in whom there yet ap⯑pears neither penitence nor ſhame.'’

[379] He continued this paper to the extent of one hun⯑dred and three numbers, and on Saturday the fifth day of April 1760, cloſed it with an eſſay, containing a ſolemn and very affecting contemplation on the words this is the laſt, in various ſignifications. The concluding paragraph ſeems to have been written under the preſſure of that melancholy, which, almoſt inceſſantly afflicted him, heightened, perhaps, by the approach of a ſeaſon of the year, to Chriſtians the moſt ſolemn. The reflections, contained in it, are very ſe⯑rious, and ſo elegantly expreſſed, that in the hope that the peruſal of it will not prove contagious to the rea⯑der, I here give it at length.

‘'As the laſt Idler is publiſhed in that ſolemn week which the Chriſtian world has always ſet apart for the examination of the conſcience, the review of life, the extinction of earthly deſires, and the reno⯑vation of holy purpoſes, I hope that my readers are already diſpoſed to view every incident with ſeriouſ⯑neſs, and improve it by meditation; and that when they ſee this ſeries of trifles brought to a concluſion, they will conſider that, by outliving the Idler, they have paſſed weeks, months, and years, which are now no longer in their power; that an end muſt in time be put to every thing great as to every thing little; that to life muſt come its laſt hour, and to this ſyſtem of being, its laſt day; the hour at which probation ceaſes, and repentance will be vain, the day in which every work of the hand, and imagina⯑tion of the heart, ſhall be brought to judgment, and an everlaſting futurity ſhall be determined by the paſt.'’

[380] The Idler, taken as the title of a ſeries of moral and oeconomical eſſays, is a deſignation that imports little; or, rather, its moſt obvious meaning is a bad one. Johnſon was at a loſs for a fitter, but he could hit on no one that had not been pre-occupied. He choſe an irony, and meant that his readers ſhould under⯑ſtand by it juſt the reverſe of what it ſignified; and, in this his intention, he was in little danger of being miſtaken, or being charged with idleneſs by any of thoſe whom he was labouring, by all the powers of reaſon and eloquence, to make wiſer and better.

The plan and conduct of the Idler reſembles ſo nearly that of the Rambler and the Adventurer, that what has been ſaid of each of thoſe publications, might ſerve for a character of this, ſaving, that in this latter, admiſſion is given to a greater num⯑ber of papers, calculated to entertain the mind with pleaſing fictions, humorous characters, and va⯑ried repreſentations of familiar life, than is to be found in either of the two former, the general effect whereof is, delight, too ſoon interrupted by their ſhortneſs. The ſecond number of the Idler con⯑tains an invitation to correſpondents, and it had the aſſiſtance of other hands; but I know but of three papers that can with certainty be ſaid to have been written by any other than Johnſon himſelf; one of the three is No. 67, by Mr. Langton; the other two, No. 76 and 79, are on the ſubject of painting, and, in an evening-hour when his pencil was at reſt, were compoſed by Sir Joſhua Reynolds. And here let me take notice, that in the publication of the Idler, at leaſt when it was collected into volumes, Johnſon and [381] Newbery were joint-adventurers, and that they di⯑vided equally the profits ariſing from the ſale thereof.

Of theſe eſſays, as alſo the Rambler, and thoſe in the Adventurer which Johnſon wrote, little remains to be remarked, except that, notwithſtanding the depth of thinking which they diſplay, and the nervous and elegant ſtyle in which they are penned, they were extemporaneous compoſitions, and hardly ever under⯑went a reviſion^* before they were ſent to the preſs. The original manuſcripts of the Rambler have paſſed through my hands, and by the peruſal of them I am warranted to ſay, as was ſaid of Shakeſpeare by the players of his time, that he never blotted out a line; and I believe without the riſque of that retort which Ben Jonſon made to them, ‘'Would he had blotted out a thouſand.'’

Another circumſtance, worthy of notice, is, that in the portraits of ſingular characters, that occur in the papers written by Johnſon, the painting is ſo ſtrong and lively, that ſome perſons, then living, looking on them as reſemblances of themſelves, actually [382] charged him with an intention to render them ridicu⯑lous, and were hardly appeaſed by his aſſurances that he copied no particular ſubject, but drew from arche⯑types which his obſervation had furniſhed, and his imagination had improved.

Johnſon was now become ſo well known, and had by the Rambler, and other of his writings, given ſuch evidences, not only of great abilities, and of his ſkill in human life and manners, but of a ſociable and be⯑nevolent diſpoſition, that many became deſirous of his acquaintance, and to this they were farther tempted by the character he had acquired of delighting in converſation, and being free and communicative in his diſcourſe. He had removed, about the beginning of the year 1760, to chambers two doors down the Inner-Temple lane; and I have been told by his neighbour at the corner, that during the time he dwelt there, more enquiries were made at his ſhop for Mr. Johnſon, than for all the inhabitants put toge⯑ther of both the Inner and Middle Temple. This circumſtance in his life leads me to mention, that Richardſon poſſeſſed, but in a leſs degree, the like powers of attraction, but they operated chiefly on young females, who, being deſirous of inſtruction in the duties of life, were permitted by their parents and friends to viſit and receive from him ſuch leſſons of prudence as he was ever ready and well qualified to give them; and it is well known, that many ingenious young women, who reſorted to his houſe as to an aca⯑demy for tuition, became ſo improved by his conver⯑ſation and his extemporary commentaries on his own writings, as afterwards to make a conſiderable figure [383] in the literary world^*. And here let me obſerve, that the benefits of oral inſtruction, joined with the peruſal of ſuch authors as we now put into female hands, may be eſtimated by the degree of mental im⯑provement at which the ſex is at this day arrived, which, as Johnſon once remarked to me on receiving a lady's letter, is ſo great, that in that kind of compo⯑ſition, we who were their teachers, may learn of them.

From this propenſity to diſcurſive communica⯑tion, in which Johnſon and Richardſon reſembled each other, nothing more is to be underſtood, than that both took pleaſure in that interchange of ſenti⯑ments and opinions, which renders converſation in⯑ſtructive and delightful, for, in other reſpects, they were men of very different endowments and tempers. Richardſon being bred to a mechanic occupation, had no learning, nor more reading than was ſufficient to enable him to form a ſtyle eaſy and intelligible, and a little raiſed above that of vulgar narrative. His ſen⯑timents were his own, and of this he was ſo ſenſible, and alſo of the originality and importance of many of them, that he would ever be talking of his writings, and the words ſentiment and ſentimentality became, not only a part of the cant of his ſchool, but were adopted by ſucceeding writers, and have been uſed to recom⯑mend to ſome readers ſentimental journies, ſentimen⯑tal letters, ſentimental ſermons, and a world of traſh, [384] which, but for this ſilly epithet, would never have at⯑tracted notice.

Richardſon's converſation was of the preceptive kind, but it wanted the diverſity of Johnſon's, and had no intermixture of wit or humour. Richardſon could never relate a pleaſant ſtory, and hardly reliſh one told by another: he was ever thinking of his own writings, and liſtening to the praiſes which, with an emulous profuſion, his friends were inceſſantly beſtow⯑ing on them, he would ſcarce enter into free con⯑verſation with any one that he thought had not red ‘'Clariſſa,'’ or ‘'Sir Charles Grandiſon,'’ and at beſt, he could not be ſaid to be a companionable man^*.

Thoſe who were unacquainted with Richardſon, and had red his books, were led to believe, that they ex⯑hibited a picture of his own mind, and that his temper and domeſtic behaviour could not but correſpond with that refined morality which they inculcate, but in this they were deceived. He was auſtere in the govern⯑ment of his family, and iſſued his orders to ſome of his ſervants in writing only. His neareſt female rela⯑tions, in the preſence of ſtrangers, were mutes, and [385] ſeemed to me, in a viſit I once made him, to have been diſciplined in the ſchool of Ben Jonſon's Mo⯑roſe, whoſe injunction to his ſervant was, ‘'Anſwer me not but with your leg.'’ In ſhort, they appeared to have been taught to converſe with him by ſigns; and it was too plain to me, that on his part, the moſt frequent of them were frowns and geſticulations, im⯑porting that they ſhould leave his preſence. I have heard it ſaid, that he was what is called a nervous man; and how far nervoſity, with ſo good an under⯑ſtanding as he is allowed to have poſſeſſed, will excuſe a conduct ſo oppoſite to that philanthropy which he laboured to inculcate, I cannot ſay: his benevolence might have taken another direction, and in other in⯑ſtances be very ſtrong; for I was once a witneſs to his putting into the hand of Mr. Whiſton the book⯑ſeller, ten guineas for the relief of one whom a ſudden accident had made a widow.

Johnſon's mind was never occupied on trifles: his ſpeculations were grand and noble, his reading various and extenſive, and, on ſome ſubjects, profound. As he profeſſed always to ſpeak in the beſt and moſt correct phraſe, rejecting all ſuch common and vulgar com⯑binations of ſpeech as are in uſe only till others equally affected and inſignificant are invented, his conver⯑ſation-ſtyle bore a great reſemblance to that of his writings, ſo that, in his common diſcourſe, he might ſeem to incur the cenſure which biſhop Burnet caſts on the lord chancellor Nottingham, of being too elo⯑quent; but ſo far were his hearers from thinking ſo, that many wiſhed for the power of retaining as well the colloquial form as the ſubſtance of his converſa⯑tions; [386] and ſome there were, who to that end, in imi⯑tation of the Colloquia Menſalia of Luther, and the Table-talk of Selden, not to ſay of the books in ana ^*, as they are called, made common-places of his ſayings, his precepts, and his apophthegms; but the want of judgment in the ſelection of them, has rendered moſt of the collections of this kind, that I have ever ſeen, of little worth.

Geſticular mimicry and buffoonery he hated, and would often huff Garrick for exerciſing it in his pre⯑ſence; but of the talent of humour he had an almoſt enviable portion. To deſcribe the nature of this facul⯑ty, as he was wont to diſplay it in his hours of mirth and relaxation, I muſt ſay, that it was ever of that arch and dry kind, which lies concealed under the appearance of gravity, and which acquieſces in an error for the purpoſe of refuting it. Thus, in the Rambler, No. 1, he tells his readers, very gravely, that it is one among many reaſons for which he pur⯑poſes to entertain his countrymen, that he hopes not much to tire thoſe whom he ſhall not happen to pleaſe, and if he is not commended for the beauty of his works, to be at leaſt pardoned for their brevity. ‘'But whether,' adds he, 'my expectations are moſt fixed on pardon or praiſe, I think it not neceſſary to diſcover.'—’And in the Idler, No. 3, he ſuggeſts conſolation againſt the dread of an imaginary evil founded on falſe philoſophy, by admitting, that [387] though certain, it is remote. The paſſage would be injured by contraction, and I therefore give it at length.

A friend of his uſed often to viſit him, who, though a man of learning and great good ſenſe, had a ſtyle of converſing ſo peculiarly eloquent and verboſe, as to be ſometimes unintelligible: Johnſon had a mind one day to give me a ſpecimen of it, and aſſuming his manner, he, in a connected ſpeech on a familiar ſubject, uttered a ſucceſſion of ſentences, in language reſembling the ſtyle of metaphyſics, but, though fluent, ſo obſcured by parentheſes and other involu⯑tions, [388] that I was unable to collect from it a ſingle idea. After he had for five minutes continued this gibberiſh, he ſaid, ‘'This is the manner in which * * * * entertains me whenever he comes here.'’

In the ſame vein of humour he once ridiculed Her⯑vey's Meditations on a Flower-garden and other ſub⯑jects, in the following extemporaneous reflections on a pudding:

He excelled alſo in the talent of burleſque verſifi⯑cation, and, upon occaſion of a diſcourſe at Sir Joſhua Reynold's on Dr. Percy's ‘'Reliques of ancient Eng⯑liſh poetry,'’ in which the beautiful ſimplicity of many of the ballads therein contained was remarked with ſome exaggeration, Johnſon contended, that what was called ſimplicity was, in truth, inanity; and, to illuſ⯑trate his argument, and ridicule that kind of poetry, uttered the following impromptu:

And it being at a tea-converſation, he, addreſſing himſelf to Miſs Reynolds, went on rhyming thus,

With theſe powers of inſtructing and delighting thoſe with whom he converſed, it is no wonder that the acquaintance of Johnſon was ſought by many; and I will not ſay, either that he ſet ſo great a value on his time, as not to be acceſſible to all who wiſhed for the pleaſure of it, or that his vanity was not gratified by the viſits of biſhops, of courtiers, ſenators, ſcholars, travellers, and women.

In his converſation with the laſt in this enumera⯑tion, he had ſuch a felicity as would put vulgar gal⯑lantry out of countenance. Of the female mind, he conceived a higher opinion than many men, and though he was never ſuſpected of a blameable inti⯑macy with any individual of them, had a great eſteem for the ſex. The defect in his powers of ſight ren⯑dered him totally inſenſible to the charms of beauty; but he knew that beauty was the attribute of the ſex, and treated all women with ſuch an equable compla⯑cency, as flattered every one into a belief, that ſhe had her ſhare of that or ſome more valuable endowment. In his diſcourſes with them, his compliments had ever a neat and elegant turn: they were never direct, but always implied the merit they were intended to at⯑teſt.

In this enjoyment of himſelf and his friends, his engagements to the public were forgotten: his cri⯑tical talents lay dormant, and not any, nor all of thoſe [391] who wiſhed to ſee his Shakeſpeare, could rouſe his at⯑tention to the proſecution of that work; yet was he ready, at the call of almoſt any one, to aſſiſt, either by correction, or by a preface, or dedication, in the pub⯑lication of works not his own. Dr. Madden, ſo well⯑known by his premiums for the encouragement of Proteſtant working-ſchools in Ireland, and other in⯑ſtances of beneficence in favour of that country, in the year 1745 publiſhed a panegyrical poem on arch biſhop Boulter; ſome years after, being mind⯑ed to re-publiſh it, he ſubmitted it to Johnſon's correction, and I found among his books a copy of the poem, with a note, in a ſpare leaf thereof, pur⯑porting, that the author had made him a viſit, and, for a very few remarks and alterations of it, had preſented him with ten guineas. Such caſual emo⯑luments as theſe Johnſon frequently derived from his profeſſion of an author. For the dedication to his preſent majeſty, of Adams's book on the uſe of the globes, he was, as himſelf informed me, gratified with a preſent of a very curious meteorological in⯑ſtrument, of a new and ingenious conſtruction.

About this time, as it is ſuppoſed, he, for ſundry beneficed clergymen that requeſted him, compoſed pulpit diſcourſes^*, and for theſe, he made no ſcruple of confeſſing, he was paid: his price, I am informed, was a moderate one, a guinea; and ſuch was his no⯑tion [392] of juſtice, that having been paid, he conſidered them ſo abſolutely the property of the purchaſer, as to renounce all claim to them. He reckoned that he had written about forty ſermons; but, except as to ſome, knew not in what hands they were—‘'I have,' ſaid he, 'been paid for them, and have no right to enquire about them^*.'’

I have now brought him to the year 1760, the fifty-firſt of his age. He had nothing to depend on for ſubſiſtence but the labour of his brain; and that apprehenſion, touching the duration of his rational powers, which throughout his life haunted him, in⯑creaſed the terrors of approaching age. The ac⯑ceſſion of our preſent gracious ſovereign to the throne, and the bounty exerciſed by him to⯑wards Johnſon, diſpelled this gloomy proſpect, and placed him in ſuch a ſtate of affluence as [393] his utmoſt induſtry would hardly ever have enabled him to arrive at. Lord Bute was the miniſter at the time; and the perſon employed to notify to Johnſon his majeſty's intention to reward him for his literary labours with a penſion of 300l. a year, was his friend Mr. Murphy. Upon receiving the news, Johnſon was in doubt what anſwer to return, being, perhaps, diſturbed with the reflection, that whatever he might deſerve from the public, he had very little claim to the favour of any of the deſcendants of the houſe of Hanover; and deſired that Mr. Murphy would give him till next day to deliberate upon a meſſage ſo unexpected. At the end thereof he ſignified his will⯑ingneſs to accept it.

It was by Johnſon and his friends thought fit, that he ſhould return thanks for this diſtinguiſhing mark of the royal favour, and that lord Bute, who may be ſuppoſed to have been inſtrumental in procuring it, was the proper perſon to convey them. Accordingly, he waited on his lordſhip for the purpoſe, and, being admitted to him, teſtified his ſenſe of the obligation; but having done this, he thought he had done enough, and never after could be prevailed on to knock at his door.

He had now ſuffered himſelf to be enrolled in the liſt of penſioners, and was become obnoxious to the cenſures of thoſe, who, looking upon a perpetual enmity to government and its miniſters as a proof of public virtue, endeavoured to have it believed, that all favours diſpenſed by the crown, even when meant as the rewards of merit, or the encouragement of learning, of ingenuity, or induſtry, were but the [394] wages of iniquity. Johnſon, it is true, had laid himſelf open to reproach, by his interpretation of the word Penſion in his dictionary, written, it is evident, at a time when his political prejudices were ſtrongeſt, and he found himſelf in a predicament ſimilar to that of Dr. Sherlock, who, at the revolution, was a non⯑juror to king William, but, after deliberating on his refuſal as a caſe of conſcience, took the ſide that made for his intereſt, but againſt his reputation. But who, except the Great Searcher of Hearts, can know, that in the caſe of Sherlock or Johnſon, either made a ſacrifice of his conſcience? Or, ſeeing that the grant of Johnſon's penſion was confeſſedly unconditional, and bound him neither to the renunciation of any of his political principles, nor the exerciſe of his pen in the defence of any ſet of men or ſeries of meaſures, who will have the face to ſay, that his acceptance of it was criminal, or that it was in the power of any one to pervert the integrity of a man, who, in the time of his neceſſity, had, from ſcruples of his own raiſing, declined the offer of a valuable eccleſiaſtical prefer⯑ment, and thereby renounced an independent proviſion for the whole of his life?

It is yet difficult, if not impoſſible, to juſtify John⯑ſon, both in the interpretation given by him of the word Penſion, and in his becoming a penſioner: in one inſtance or the other he was wrong, and either his diſcretion or integrity muſt be given up: in the former, he ſeems, in ſome of his actions, to have been wanting, in the latter never: not only charity, but reaſon, therefore, directs us in the opinion we are to form of an act which has drawn cenſure on his con⯑duct, [395] and proves nothing more than that he was not equally wiſe at all times^*.

The addition of three hundred pounds a year, to what Johnſon was able to earn by the ordinary exer⯑ciſe of his talents, raiſed him to a ſtate of comparative affluence, and afforded him the means of aſſiſting many whoſe real or pretended wants had formerly excited his compaſſion. He now practiſed a rule which he often recommended to his friends, always to go abroad with a quantity of looſe money to give to beggars, imitating therein, though I am confident without intending it, that good but weak man, old Mr. Whiſton, whom I have ſeen diſtributing, in the ſtreets of London, money to beggars on each hand of him, till his pocket was nearly exhauſted.

He had, early in his life, been a dabbler in phyſic, and laboured under ſome ſecret bodily infirmities that gave him occaſion once to ſay to me, that he knew not what it was to be totally free from pain. He now drew into a cloſer intimacy with him a man, with whom he had been acquainted from the year 1746, one of the loweſt practitioners in the art of [396] healing that ever ſought a livelihood by it: him he conſulted in all that related to his health, and made ſo neceſſary to him as hardly to be able to live without him.

The name of this perſon was Robert Levett. An account of him is given in the Gentleman's Magazine for February 1785: an earlier than that, I have now lying before me, in a letter from a perſon in the country to Johnſon, written in anſwer to one in which he had deſired to be informed of ſome particulars reſpecting his friend Levett, then lately deceaſed. The ſubſtance of this information is as follows:

He was born at Kirk Ella, a pariſh about five miles diſtant from Hull, and lived with his parents till about twenty years of age. He had acquired ſome knowledge of the Latin language, and had a propen⯑ſity to learning, which his parents not being able to gratify, he went to live as a ſhopman with a woollen⯑draper at Hull: with him he ſtayed two years, during which time he learned from a neighbour of his maſter ſomewhat of the practice of phyſic: at the end thereof he came to London, with a view poſſibly to improve himſelf in that profeſſion; but by ſome ſtrange acci⯑dent was led to purſue another courſe, and became ſteward or ſome other upper ſervant to the then lord Cardigan, [or Cadogan] and having ſaved ſome mo⯑ney, he took a reſolution to travel, and viſited France and Italy for the purpoſe, as his letters mention, of gaining experience in phyſic, and, returning to Lon⯑don with a valuable library which he had collected abroad, placed one of his brothers apprentice to a mathematical-inſtrument maker, and provided for the education of another. After this he went to Paris, [397] and, for improvement, attended the hoſpitals in that city. At the end of five years he returned to Eng⯑land, and taking lodgings in the houſe of an attorney in Northumberland court, near Charing croſs, he be⯑came a practicer of phyſic. The letter adds, that he was about ſeventy-eight at the time of his death.

The account of Levett in the Gentleman's Maga⯑zine is anonymous; I nevertheleſs inſert it verbatim, together with a letter of Johnſon's to Dr. Lawrence notifying his death.

To this character I here add as a ſupplement to it, a dictum of Johnſon reſpecting Levett, viz. that his external appearance and behaviour were ſuch, that he diſguſted the rich, and terrified the poor.

But notwithſtanding all theſe offenſive particulars, Johnſon, whoſe credulity in ſome inſtances was as great as his incredulity in others, conceived of him as of a ſkilful medical profeſſor, and thought himſelf [401] happy in having ſo near his perſon one who was to him, not ſolely a phyſician, a ſurgeon, or an apothe⯑cary, but all. In extraordinary caſes he, however, availed himſelf of the aſſiſtance of his valued friend Dr. Lawrence, a man of whom, in reſpect of his piety, learning, and ſkill in his profeſſion, it may almoſt be ſaid, the world was not worthy, inaſmuch as it ſuffered his talents, for the whole of his life, to re⯑main, in a great meaſure, unemployed, and himſelf to end his days in ſorrow and obſcurity.

Of this perſon, with whom I was for many years ac⯑quainted, but who is now no more, gratitude for the benefits which myſelf and one moſt dear to me have derived from his ſkill and attention, obliges me to ſpeak with reverence and reſpect. He was a native of Hampſhire, and having ended his ſtudies at Oxford, came to London about the year 1737, at which time Dr. Frank Nicholls had attained great reputation for ſkill in anatomy. To complete them, he became a pu⯑pil of his, in that branch of medical ſcience, and upon Nicholls's diſcontinuing to read lectures therein, which he had for ſeveral years done with great applauſe, Dr. Lawrence took them up, and had many hearers, till Hunter, a ſurgeon, arrived from Scotland, who, ſet⯑tling in London, became his rival in the ſame practice, and having the advantage of Dr. Lawrence, in his manner of enunciating, together with the aſſiſtance and ſupport of all his countrymen in this kingdom, and moreover, being a man whoſe ſkill in his art was equal to his pretenſions, he became a favourite with the leading men in the practice of phyſic, and in a few winters drew to him ſuch a reſort of pupils, as in⯑duced [402] Dr. Lawrence to give up lecturing, and betake himſelf to the general exerciſe of his profeſſion.

In his endeavours to attain to eminence, it was his misfortune to fail: he was above thoſe arts by which popularity is acquired, and had beſides ſome perſonal defects and habits which ſtood in his way; a vacuity of countenance very unfavourable to an opinion of his learning or ſagacity, and certain convulſive motions of the head and features that gave pain to the behold⯑ers, and drew off attention to all that he ſaid^*.

He delighted much in naval architecture, and was able with his own hands, and a variety of tools of his own contrivance, to form a model of a ſhip of war of any rate; firſt framing it with ribs and ſuch other timbers as are requiſite in a ſhip for ſervice, and afterwards covering it with planks of the thickneſs of a half-crown piece, and the breadth of about an inch, which he faſtened to the ribs with wooden pins of a proportionable ſize, and in this manner of working he completed many ſuch models, elegantly wrought and moſt beautiful in their forms. He was alſo a lover of muſic, and was able to play his part in concert on the violoncello^† till hindered by deafneſs, a diſorder [403] that came upon him about the middle of his life, and at length drove him to ſeek a retreat from the world and all its cares at Canterbury, where, about the year 1783, he died. To conſole him under ſome family diſappointments, Johnſon addreſſed to him a fine Latin ode, which is inſerted in his works.

He wrote the life of his friend Dr. Nicholls, in very elegant Latin, but it was never publiſhed: his ſole deſign in printing it being to gratify thoſe of his own profeſſion. In the ſame language, he wrote the life of Dr. William Harvey, prefixed to an edition of his works, publiſhed by the college of phyſicians in 1766, in one volume 4to.

The ſincere and laſting friendſhip, that ſubſiſted between Johnſon and Levett, may ſerve to ſhew, that although a ſimilarity of diſpoſitions and qualities has a tendency to beget affection, or ſomething very nearly reſembling it, it may be contracted and ſubſiſt where this inducement is wanting; for hardly were ever two men leſs like each other, in this reſpect, than were they. Levett had not an underſtanding capable of compre⯑hending the talents of Johnſon: the mind of John⯑ſon was therefore, as to him, a blank; and Johnſon, had the eye of his mind been more penetrating than it [404] was, could not diſcern, what did not exiſt, any par⯑ticulars in Levett's character that at all reſembled his own. He had no learning, and conſequently was an unfit companion for a learned man; and though it may be ſaid, that having lived ſome years abroad, he muſt have ſeen and remarked many things that would have afforded entertainment in the relation, this advantage was counterbalanced by an utter inability for continued converſation, taciturnity being one of the moſt obvious features in his character: the con⯑ſideration of all which particulars almoſt impels me to ſay, that Levett admired Johnſon becauſe others admired him, and that Johnſon in pity loved Levett, becauſe few others could find any thing in him to love.

And here I cannot forbear remarking, that, almoſt throughout his life, poverty and diſtreſſed circumſtan⯑ces ſeemed to be the ſtrongeſt of all recommendations to his favour. When aſked by one of his moſt inti⯑mate friends, how he could bear to be ſurrounded by ſuch neceſſitous and undeſerving people as he had about him, his anſwer was, ‘'If I did not aſſiſt them no one elſe would, and they muſt be loſt for want.'’ Among many others, whom he thus patronized, was a worthleſs fellow, a dancing-maſter by profeſſion, and an aſſiſtant in teaching to the famous Noverre the favourite of Mr. Garrick. This man, notwithſtanding the nature of his employment, which was a genteel one, and led to no ſuch connections, delighted in the company and converſation of marſhal's-court attornies, and of bailiffs and their followers, and others of a lower claſs, ſharpers and ſwindlers, who, when they had made [405] him drunk, would get him to ſign notes and engage⯑ments of various kinds, which, he not being able to diſcharge, they had him arreſted upon, and this was ſo frequently the caſe, that much of his time was paſſed in confinement. His wife, through Mrs. Wil⯑liams, got at Johnſon, and told him her tale, which was, that her huſband was, at that inſtant, detained for a ſmall debt in a ſpunging-houſe, and he conceiving it to be a piteous one, and an additional proof that in human life the evil accidents outnumber the good, ſent her to me for advice. I heard her ſtory, and learned from it, that all the merit of the fellow lay in his heels, that he had neither principle nor diſcretion, and, in ſhort, was a cully, the dupe of every one that would make him drunk. I therefore diſmiſſed her with a meſſage to Johnſon to this effect: that her huſband made it impoſſible for his friends to help him, and muſt ſubmit to his deſtiny. When I next ſaw Johnſon, I told him that there ſeemed to be as exact a fitneſs between the character of this man and his aſſo⯑ciates, as is between the web of a ſpider and the wings of a fly, and I could not but think he was born to be cheated. Johnſon ſeemed to acquieſce in my opinion; but I believe, before that, had ſet him at liberty by paying the debt.

Another of Johnſon's diſtreſſed friends was, Mr. Edmund Southwell, a younger brother of Thomas lord Southwell, of the kingdom of Ireland. This gentleman, having no patrimony, was, in his younger days, a cornet of horſe; but having in a duel, into which he was forced, ſlain his antagoniſt, he quitted the ſervice, and truſted to Providence for a ſupport. [406] He was a man of wonderful parts, of lively and en⯑tertaining converſation, and well acquainted with the world; he was alſo a brother in affliction with John⯑ſon, that is to ſay, he laboured under a depreſſion or mind, occaſioned by the miſadventure above-men⯑tioned, that often approached to inſanity. Being without employment, his practice was to wander about the ſtreets of London, and call in at ſuch coffee-houſes, for inſtance, the Smyrna and Cocoa⯑tree in Pall-Mall, and Child's and Batſon's in the city, as were frequented by men of intelligence, or where any thing like converſation was going forward: in theſe he found means to make friends, from whom he derived a precarious ſupport. In the city he was ſo well known, and ſo much beloved and pitied, that many, by private donations, relieved his wants. In particular, Sir Robert Ladbroke, an alderman thereof, and a man of opulence, made him frequent preſents of money to ſupply his neceſſities, and Mr. Bates, the maſter of the Queen's-arms tavern in St. Paul's church-yard, ſuffered him, as often as he pleaſed, to add to an ideal account ſubſiſting between them, the expence of a dinner. A gentleman of great worth in the city, who knew and pitied his diſtreſſes, procured, unknown to him, from a lady famous for her beneficence, a penſion of a hundred pounds a year, which he lived but few years to receive.

Johnſon was a great lover of penitents, and of all ſuch men as, in their converſation, made profeſſions of piety; of this man he would ſay, that he was one of the moſt pious of all his acquaintance, but in this, as he frequently was in the judgment he formed of [407] others, he was miſtaken. It is poſſible that South⯑well might, in his converſation, expreſs ſuch ſenti⯑ments of religion and moral obligation, as ſerved to ſhew that he was not an infidel, but he ſeldom went ſober to bed, and as ſeldom roſe from it be⯑fore noon.

He was alſo an admirer of ſuch as he thought well-bred men. What was his notion of good breed⯑ing ould never learn. If it was not courteſy and affability, it could to him be nothing; for he was an incompetent judge of graceful attitudes and motions, and of the ritual of behaviour. Of lord Southwell, the brother of the above perſon, and of Tom Hervey, a profligate, worthleſs man, the author of the letter to Sir Thomas Hanmer, and who had nothing in his external appearance that could in the leaſt re⯑commend him, he was uſed to ſay, they were each of them a model for the firſt man of quality in the kingdom. In this method of eſtimating beha⯑viour, he ſeemed to think that good-breeding is a faculty, which, like fencing, dancing, and other bodily exerciſes, muſt be learned before they can be practiſed; whereas, it is obvious, that this quality is nothing more than artificial benevolence, and that that politeneſs, which it is the employment of the in⯑ſtructors of youth to teach, is but a ſubſtitute for thoſe diſpoſitions of mind, which, whoever poſſeſſes, and takes care to cultivate, will have very little need of foreign aſſiſtance in the forming of his man⯑ners.

He once mentioned to me a ſaying of Dr. Nicholls, and highly commended it, viz. that it [408] was a point of wiſdom to form intimacies, and to chooſe for our friends only perſons of known worth and integrity, and that to do ſo had been the rule of his life. It is, therefore, difficult to account for the conduct of Johnſon in the choice of many of his aſſociates, and particularly of thoſe who, when his circumſtances became eaſy, he ſuffered to intrude on him. Of theſe he had ſome at bed and board, who had elbowed through the world, and ſubſiſted by lying, begging, and ſhifting, all which he knew, but ſeemed to think never the worſe of them. In his endeavours to promote the intereſts of people of this claſs, he, in ſome inſtances, went ſuch lengths as were hardly conſiſtent with that integrity, which he manifeſted on all other occaſions; for he would fre⯑quently, by letters, recommend thoſe to credit, who could obtain it by no other means, and thereby enabled them to contract debts, which he had good reaſon to ſuſpect, they neither could nor ever would pay.

Theſe connections expoſed him to trouble and in⯑ceſſant ſolicitation, which he bore well enough, but his inmates were enemies to his peace, and occaſioned him great diſquiet: the jealouſy that ſubſiſted among them rendered his dwelling irkſome to him, and he ſeldom approached it, after an evening's converſation abroad, but with the dread of finding it a ſcene of diſcord, and of having his ears filled with the com⯑plaints of Mrs. Williams of Frank's neglect of his duty and inattention to the intereſts of his maſter, and of Frank againſt Mrs. Williams, for the autho⯑rity ſhe aſſumed over him, and exerciſed with an un⯑warrantable ſeverity. Even thoſe intruders who had [409] taken ſhelter under his roof, and who, in his abſence from home, brought thither their children, found cauſe to murmur; their proviſion of food was ſcanty, or their dinners ill dreſſed; all which he choſe to en⯑dure rather than put an end to their clamours, by rid⯑ding his houſe of ſuch thankleſs and troubleſome gueſts. Nay, ſo inſenſible was he of the ingratitude of thoſe whom he ſuffered thus to hang on him, and among whom he may be ſaid to have divided an income which was little more than ſufficient for his own ſup⯑port, that he would ſubmit to reproach and perſonal affront from ſome of them, even Levett would ſome⯑times inſult him, and Mrs. Williams, in her paroxyſms of rage, has been known to drive him from her pre⯑ſence.

Who, that reflects on Johnſon's puſillanimity in theſe inſtances, can reconcile it to that ſpirit which prompted him, or with thoſe endowments which ena⯑bled him to maintain a ſuperiority over all with whom he converſed? or to that ſeeming ferocity of temper that gave occaſion to ſome to conſider him as an animal not to be approached without terror? or account for the inconſiſtency above-noted, otherwiſe than by reſolving it into thoſe principles that dictated patience, under all the provocations of a female tongue, to Socrates? In truth, there was more aſperity in his manner of expreſſion than in his natural diſpoſition; for I have heard that, in many inſtances, and in ſome with tears in his eyes, he has apologized to thoſe whom he had of⯑fended by contradiction or roughneſs of behaviour.

To this inconſiſtency of character it muſt be im⯑puted, that he failed to attract reverence and reſpect [410] from thoſe who lived in greateſt intimacy with him. There was wanting in his conduct and behaviour that dignity, which reſults from a regular and orderly courſe of action, and, by an irreſiſtible power, commands eſteem. He could not be ſaid to be a ſtayed man, nor ſo to have adjuſted in his mind the balance of reaſon and paſſion, as to give occaſion to ſay what may be obſerved of ſome men, that all they do is juſt, fit, and right: and although he was ſtrict, and even punctilious, in the practice of the great duties of morality, he truſted but little to his domeſtic conduct, to his method of employing his time, and governing his family, for the good opinion he wiſhed the world to entertain of him, but, in theſe particulars, gave way to the love of eaſe, and to ſelf-indulgence, little regarding, in his own practice, thoſe counſels of prudence, thoſe oeconomical max⯑ims, and thoſe reflections on the ſhortneſs of human life, with which his writings abound. To a lady, who ſignified a great deſire to increaſe her acquaintance with authors, conceiving that more might be learned from their converſation and manner of living, than from their works—‘'Madam,' ſaid he, 'the beſt part of an author will always be found in his writings.'—’And to a perſon, who once ſaid he paid little regard to thoſe writers on religion or morality, whoſe practice correſponded not with their precepts, he imputed a want of knowledge of mankind, ſaying, it was groſs ignorance in him not to know, that good principles and an irregular life were conſiſtent with each other.

This was a ſecret which, without much miſchief, might have been revealed in converſation, but John⯑ſon [411] has thought fit to ſend it abroad in the fourteenth number of the Rambler, with this apology:

‘'We are not to wonder that moſt fail, amidſt tu⯑mult, and ſnares, and dangers, in the obſervance of thoſe precepts which they lay down in ſolitude, ſafety, and tranquillity, with a mind unbiaſſed, and with liberty unobſtructed. It is the condition of our preſent ſtate to ſee more than we can attain; the exacteſt vigilance and caution can never main⯑tain a ſingle day of innocence, much leſs can the utmoſt efforts of incorporated mind reach the ſum⯑mits of ſpeculative virtue.'’

He farther ſays, ‘'It is recorded of Sir Mathew Hale that he, for a long time, concealed the con⯑ſecration of himſelf to the ſtricter duties of religion, leſt, by ſome flagitious and ſhameful action, he ſhould bring piety into diſgrace^*;'’ and upon this his conduct he ſuggeſts, that ‘'it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends that he ſhall not enforce his own maxims by his domeſtic character, to con⯑ceal his name that he may not injure them.'’

[412] In this paſſage, Johnſon ſeems to prepare his rea⯑ders for that contrariety which is often obſerved be⯑tween the lives of authors and their writings, or, which is much the ſame, between preceptive and practical wiſdom and virtue, as if they were ſcarcely conſiſtent with each other, whereas, had his acquain⯑tance lain, at this time, as in the latter part of his life it did, with perſons of rank and condition, he might have formed different notions on the ſubject, and been convinced, that all ages, and even the preſent, have afforded examples of men, in whom learning and parts, and even wit, were but auxiliaries to qualities more eſtimable^†.

[413] The above facts and obſervations are meant to ſhew ſome of the moſt conſpicuous features and foibles in Johnſon's character, and go to prove, not only that his ferocity was not ſo terrific, as that any one endued with temper, and diſpoſed to moderation and forbear⯑ance, might not only withſtand, but overcome it, but that he had a natural imbecillity about him, ariſing from humanity and pity to the ſufferings of his fellow⯑creatures, that was prejudicial to his intereſts; and alſo, that he neither ſought nor expected praiſe for thoſe acts of beneficence which he was daily performing, nor looked for any retribution from thoſe who were nouriſh⯑ed by his bounty. Indeed, they were ſuch creatures as were incapable of being awed by a ſenſe of his worth, or of diſcerning the motives that actuated him; they were people of the loweſt and vulgareſt minds^*, whom idleneſs had made poor, and liberality impudent, and what is to be expected from ſuch, is known to all that are, in the ſlighteſt degree, acquainted with the world; and laſtly, they ſhew his method of accounting for that manifeſt and ſtriking contrariety which, as he ſays, has been often obſerved, between the life of an author and his writings.

[414] The hiſtory of learning furniſhes us with many ex⯑amples of men who have deviated from the ſtudy of polite literature to that of the hermetic ſcience, or, in plainer Engliſh, to that ſublimer chemiſtry which leads to the tranſmutation of metals; and thoſe, who may have heard that Johnſon exerciſed himſelf in chemical proceſſes, may perhaps think, that his view therein was ſuddenly to become the poſſeſſor of immenſe riches, but I am able to obviate this ſuſpicion, and aſſure them, that his motive thereto was only curio⯑ſity, and his end mere amuſement. At the time he frequented the club in Ivy lane, Dyer was going through a courſe of chemiſtry under Dr. Pemberton, of Greſham college, and would ſometimes give us ſuch deſcriptions of proceſſes as were very entertain⯑ing, particularly to Johnſon, who would liſten to them attentively. We may ſuppoſe, that in the courſe of his reading, he had acquired ſome know⯑ledge of the theory of the art, and that he wiſhed for an opportunity of reducing that knowledge into practice: he thought that time now come, and though he had no fitter an apartment for a laboratory than the garret over his chambers in the Inner Temple, he furniſhed that with an alembic, with retorts, re⯑ceivers, and other veſſels adapted to the cheapeſt and leaſt operoſe proceſſes. What his aims were, at firſt, I know not, having forgotten the account he once gave me of the earlieſt of his chemical operations; but I have ſince learned, that they dwindled down to mere diſtillation, and that from ſubſtances of the ſimpleſt and coarſeſt ſort, namely, peppermint, and the dregs of ſtrong beer, from the latter whereof he [415] was able to extract a ſtrong but very nauſeous ſpirit, which all might ſmell, but few choſe to taſte.

Johnſon had now conſiderably extended the circle of his acquaintance, and added to the number of his friends ſundry perſons of diſtinguiſhed eminence: among them were, Sir Joſhua Reynolds, Mr. Edmund Burke, Mr. Beauclerk, and Mr. Langton. With theſe he paſſed much of his time, and was deſirous of being ſtill cloſer connected. How much he delighted in convivial meetings, how he loved converſation, and how ſenſibly he felt the attractions of a tavern, has already been mentioned; and it was but a natural conſequence of theſe diſpoſitions, that he ſhould wiſh for frequent opportunities of indulging them in a way that would free him from domeſtic reſtraints, from the obſervance of hours, and a conformity to the re⯑gimen of families. A tavern was the place for theſe enjoyments, and a weekly club was inſtituted for his gratification and the mutual entertainment and delight of its ſeveral members. The firſt movers in this aſſo⯑ciation were Johnſon and Sir Joſhua Reynolds: the number of perſons included in it was nine: the place of meeting was the Turk's head in Gerrard ſtreet; the day Monday in every week, and the hour of aſſembling ſeven in the evening. To this aſſociation I had the honour of being invited. The members were,

• Johnſon,
• Sir Joſhua Reynolds,
• Mr. Edmund Burke,
• Chriſt. Nugent, M.D.
• Oliver Goldſmith, M.B.
• Mr. Topham Beauclerk,
• Mr. Bennet Langton,
• Mr. Anthony Chamier, and
• Myſelf.

As ſome of the perſons above-mentioned are hap⯑pily [416] yet living, and are too eminently known to re⯑ceive honour from any thing I am able to ſay of them, I ſhall content myſelf with giving the characters of ſuch of them as are now no more.

Dr. Nugent was a phyſician, of the Romiſh com⯑munion, and riſing into practice with perſons of that perſuaſion. He was an ingenious, ſenſible, and learned man, of eaſy converſation, and elegant manners. Johnſon had a high opinion of him, and always ſpoke of him in terms of great reſpect.

Goldſmith is well known by his writings to have been a man of genius and of very fine parts; but of his character and general deportment, it is the hardeſt taſk any one can undertake to give a deſcription. I will, however, attempt it, truſting to be excuſed if, in the ſpirit of a faithful hiſtorian, I record as well his ſingularities as his merits.

There are certain memoirs of him extant, from which we learn, that his inclination, co-operating with his fortunes which were but ſcanty, led him into a courſe of life little differing from vagrancy, that deprived him of the benefits of regular ſtudy: it however gratified his humour, ſtored his mind with ideas and ſome knowledge, which, when he became ſettled, he improved by various reading; yet, to all the graces of urbanity he was a ſtranger. With the greateſt pretenſions to poliſhed manners he was rude, and, when he moſt meant the contrary, abſurd. He affected Johnſon's ſtyle and manner of converſation, and, when he had uttered, as he often would, a laboured ſentence, ſo tumid as to be ſcarce intel⯑ligible, would aſk, if that was not truly Johnſonian; yet he loved not Johnſon, but rather envied him for [417] his parts; and once intreated a friend to deſiſt from praiſing him, ‘'for in doing ſo', ſaid he, 'you harrow up my very ſoul.'’

He had ſome wit, but no humour, and never told a ſtory but he ſpoiled it. The following anecdotes will convey ſome idea of the ſtyle and manner of his converſation:

He was uſed to ſay he could play on the German⯑flute as well as moſt men;—at other times, as well as any man living; and in his poem of the Travel⯑ler, has hinted at this attainment in the following lines:

But, in truth, he underſtood not the character in which muſic is written, and played on that inſtrument, as many of the vulgar do, merely by ear. Roubiliac the ſculptor, a merry fellow, once heard him play, and minding to put a trick on him, pretended to be charmed with his performance, as alſo, that himſelf was ſkilled in the art, and intreated him to repeat the air, that he might write it down. Goldſmith readily conſenting, Roubiliac called for paper, and ſcored [418] thereon a few five-lined ſtaves, which having done, Goldſmith proceeded to play, and Roubiliac to write; but his writing was only ſuch random notes on the lines and ſpaces as any one might ſet down who had ever inſpected a page of muſic. When they had both done, Roubiliac ſhewed the paper to Goldſmith, who looking it over with ſeeming great attention, ſaid it was very correct, and that if he had not ſeen him do it, he never could have believed his friend capable of writing muſic after him.

He would frequently preface a ſtory thus:—‘'I'll now tell you a ſtory of myſelf, which ſome people laugh at, and ſome do not.'—’

At the breaking up of an evening at a tavern, he intreated the company to ſit down, and told them if they would call for another bottle they ſhould hear one of his bons mots:—they agreed, and he began thus:—‘'I was once told that Sheridan the player, in order to improve himſelf in ſtage-geſtures, had looking-glaſſes, to the number of ten, hung about his room, and that he practiſed before them; upon which I ſaid, then there were ten ugly fellows toge⯑ther.'—’The company were all ſilent: he aſked why they did not laugh, which they not doing, he, with⯑out taſting the wine, left the room in anger.

He once complained to a friend in theſe words:—‘'Mr. Martinelli is a rude man: I ſaid in his hearing, that there were no good writers among the Italians, and he ſaid to one that ſat near him, that I was very ignorant^*.'’

‘'People,' ſaid he, 'are greatly miſtaken in me: a notion goes about, that when I am ſilent I mean to [419] be impudent; but I aſſure you, gentlemen, my ſilence ariſes from baſhfulneſs.'’

Having one day a call to wait on the late duke, then earl, of Northumberland, I found Goldſmith waiting for an audience in an outer room; I aſked him what had brought him there: he told me an invitation from his lordſhip. I made my buſineſs as ſhort as I could, and, as a reaſon, mentioned, that Dr. Goldſmith was waiting without. The earl aſked me if I was acquainted with him: I told him I was, adding what I thought likely to recommend him. I retired, and ſtaid in the outer room to take him home. Upon his coming out, I aſked him the reſult of his converſation:—‘'His lordſhip,' ſays he, 'told me he had red my poem,' meaning the Tra⯑veller, 'and was much delighted with it; that he was going lord-lieutenant of Ireland, and that, hearing that I was a native of that country, he ſhould be glad to do me any kindneſs.'—’And what did you anſwer, aſked I, to this gracious offer?—‘'Why,' ſaid he, 'I could ſay nothing but that I had a brother there, a clergyman, that ſtood in need of help: as for myſelf, I have no dependence on the promiſes of great men: I look to the bookſellers for ſupport; they are my beſt friends, and I am not inclined to forſake them for others.'’

Thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world, trifle with his fortunes, and put back the hand that was held out to aſſiſt him! Other offers of a like kind he either rejected or failed to improve, contenting himſelf with the patronage of one nobleman, whoſe manſion afforded him the delights of a ſplendid table, and a re⯑treat for a few days from the metropolis.

[420] While I was writing the Hiſtory of Muſic, he, at the club, communicated to me ſome curious matter: I deſired he would reduce it to writing; he promiſed me he would, and deſired to ſee me at his chambers: I called on him there; he ſtepped into a cloſet, and tore out of a printed book ſix leaves that contained what he had mentioned to me.

As he wrote for the bookſellers, we, at the club, looked on him as a mere literary drudge, equal to the taſk of compiling and tranſlating, but little capable of original, and ſtill leſs of poetical compoſition: he had, nevertheleſs, unknown to us, written and addreſſed to the counteſs, afterwards ducheſs, of Northumberland, one of the fineſt poems of the lyric kind that our lan⯑guage has to boaſt of, the ballad ‘'Turn gentle Hermit of the dale^*;'’ and ſurpriſed us with ‘'The Tra⯑veller,'’ a poem that contains ſome particulars of his own hiſtory. Johnſon was ſuppoſed to have aſſiſted him in it; but he contributed to the perfec⯑tion of it only four lines: his opinion of it was, that it was the beſt written poem ſince the time of Pope. The favourable reception which this eſſay of his poetical talent met with, ſoon after tempted Gold⯑ſmith to the publication of his ‘'Deſerted Village,'’ the merits whereof, conſiſting in local particularities and beautiful deſcriptions of rural manners, are ſuffi⯑ciently known.

His poems are replete with fine moral ſentiments, and beſpeak a great dignity of mind; yet he had no ſenſe of the ſhame, nor dread of the evils, of po⯑verty. In the latter he was at one time ſo involved, [421] that for the clamours of a woman, to whom he was indebted for lodging, and for bailiffs that waited to arreſt him, he was equally unable, till he had made himſelf drunk, to ſtay within doors, or go abroad to hawk among the bookſellers his‘'Vicar of Wake-field.'’ In this diſtreſs he ſent for Johnſon, who im⯑mediately went to one of them, and brought back mo⯑ney for his relief.

In his dealings with the bookſellers, he is ſaid to have acted very diſhoneſtly, never fulfilling his en⯑gagements. In one year he got of them, and by his plays, the ſum of 1800l. which he diſſipated by gaming and extravagance, and died poor in 1774.

He that can account for the inconſiſtencies of character above-noted, otherwiſe than by ſhewing, that wit and wiſdom are ſeldom found to meet in the ſame mind, will do more than any of Gold⯑ſmith's friends were ever able to do. He was bu⯑ried in the poets' corner in Weſtminſter abbey. A monument was erected for him by a ſubſcription of his friends, and is placed over the entrance into St. Blaſe's chapel. The inſcription thereon was written by Johnſon. This I am able to ſay with certainty, for he ſhewed it to me in manuſcript.

The members of our club, that remain to be ſpo⯑ken of, were perſons of leſs celebrity than him above⯑mentioned, but were better acquainted with the world, and qualified for ſocial intercourſe. Mr. Beauclerk was allied to the St. Alban's family, and took his chriſtian name from Mr Topham of Wind⯑ſor, the famous collector of pictures and drawings. To the character of a ſcholar, and a man of fine parts, he added that of a man of faſhion, of which his [422] dreſs and equipage ſhewed him to be emulous. In the early period of his life he was the exemplar of all who wiſhed, without incurring the cenſure of foppery, to become conſpicuous in the gay world. Travel, and a long reſidence at Rome and at Ve⯑nice, had given the laſt poliſh to his manners, and ſtored his mind with entertaining information. In painting and ſculpture, his taſte and judgment were accurate, in claſſic literature, exquiſite; and in the knowledge of hiſtory, and the ſtudy of an⯑tiquities, he had few equals. His converſation was of the moſt excellent kind; learned, witty, polite, and, where the ſubject required it, ſerious; and over all his behaviour there beamed ſuch a ſunſhine of chearfulneſs and good humour, as com⯑municated itſelf to all around him. He was a great collector of books, and left at his death a library, which, at a ſale by auction, yielded up⯑wards of five thouſand pounds.

Mr. Anthony Chamier was deſcended from a French proreſtant family, that has produced one or more very eminent divines, and were refugees in this country at the end of the laſt century. He was bred to the profeſſion of a ſtock-broker; but, having had a liberal education, his deportment and manner of tranſacting buſineſs diſtinguiſhed him greatly from moſt others of that calling. He had acquired a knowledge of the modern languages, particularly of the Spaniſh, in the ſtudy whereof he took great delight. His connections, at his ſetting out in the world, were of the beſt kind, for very early in his life he was employed by thoſe liberal-minded bro⯑thers the Van Necks, whoſe riches, and general munificence, have ranked them in the ſame claſs of [423] wealthy men with the Fuggers of Augſburg, a com⯑pany of money-dealers, who, in their time, held the balance of the Antwerp exchange, and by their tranſ⯑actions at that mart, influenced the politics of all the courts of Europe^*. By his dealings in the funds, and, it was ſuppoſed, with the advantage of intelli⯑gence which, previous to the concluſion of the peace before the laſt, he had obtained, he acquired ſuch a fortune as enabled him, though young, to quit buſineſs, and become, what indeed he ſeemed by nature intended for, a gentleman. At the begin⯑ning of his preſent majeſty's reign, he had a proſpect of going ſecretary to an embaſſy to Spain, and was preparing for it, by the improvement of himſelf in the language of that country, but a change in the appointment of an ambaſſador kept him at home, and gave him opportunity of becoming acquainted with lord Hilſborough, who, upon his being made ſecretary of ſtate the laſt time, took him for his under⯑ſecretary, in which ſtation he died.

It was Johnſon's original intention, that the num⯑ber of this our club ſhould not exceed nine, but Mr. Dyer, a member of that in Ivy lane before ſpoken of, and who for ſome years had been abroad, made his appearance among us, and was cordially received. By the recommendation of Mr. Belchier the banker, and member for Southwark, he had obtained an ap⯑pointment to be one of the commiſſaries in our army in Germany; but, on the concluſion of the peace, he [424] returned to England, very little the better for an em⯑ployment which few have been known to quit with⯑out having made a fortune.

The hours which Johnſon ſpent in this ſociety ſeemed to be the happieſt of his life: he would often applaud his own ſagacity in the ſelection of it, and was ſo conſtant at our meetings as never to abſent himſelf. It is true he came late, but then he ſtayed late, for, as has been already ſaid of him, he little regarded hours. Our evening toaſt was the motto of Padre Paolo, ‘'Eſto perpetua.'’ A lady, diſtinguiſhed by her beauty, and taſte for literature, invited us twice to a dinner at her houſe, which I alone was hindered from accepting. Curioſity was her motive, and poſſibly a deſire of intermingling with our converſation the charms of her own. She affected to conſider us as a ſet of literary men, and perhaps gave the firſt occaſion for diſtinguiſhing the ſociety by the name of the literary club, an appellation which it never aſſumed to itſelf.

At theſe our meetings, Johnſon, as indeed he did every where, led the converſation, yet was he far from arrogating to himſelf that ſuperiority, which, ſome years before, he was diſpoſed to contend for. He had ſeen enough of the world to know, that reſpect was not to be extorted, and began now to be ſatis⯑fied with that degree of eminence to which his writ⯑ings had exalted him. This change in his behaviour was remarked by thoſe who were beſt acquainted with his character, and it rendered him an eaſy and delight⯑ful companion. Our diſcourſe was miſcellaneous, but chiefly literary. Politics, the moſt vulgar of all topics, were alone excluded. On that ſubject moſt of us were of the ſame opinion. The Britiſh lion [425] was then licking his wounds, and we drank to the peace of old England^*.

The inſtitution of this ſociety was in the winter of 1763, at which time Mr. Garrick was abroad with his wife, who, for the recovery of her health, was ſent to the baths at Padua. Upon his return, he was in⯑formed of our aſſociation, and truſted, that the leaſt intimation of a deſire to come among us, would pro⯑cure him a ready admiſſion, but in this he was miſta⯑ken. Johnſon conſulted me upon it, and when I could find no objection to receiving him, exclaim⯑ed:—'He will diſturb us by his buffoonery;'—and afterwards ſo managed matters, that he was never formally propoſed, nor, by conſequence, ever ad⯑mitted.

This conduct of Johnſon gave me, for the firſt time, to underſtand, that the friendſhip between him and Garrick was not ſo ſtrong as it might be ſup⯑poſed to be: it was not like that of David and Jo⯑nathan; it paſſed not the love of women, and hardly exceeded the ſtrength of an adventitious intimacy: Garrick had a profound veneration for the learning and talents of Johnſon, but was uſed to complain to me, that he was capricious in his friendſhip, and, as he termed it, coquettiſh in his diſplay of it. Johnſon, on his part, hated the profeſſion of a player, and per⯑haps [426] might contemplate with indignation, that diſpo⯑ſition of the public, which aſſigns to thoſe who mi⯑niſter to their pleaſures, greater rewards than to thoſe whoſe employment it is to ſupply their moſt eſſen⯑tial wants. He might poſſibly reflect that, in his out⯑ſet in life as an inſtructor of youth, his hopes were bounded by the proſpect of five hundred pounds a year, and that the mimetic powers of Garrick, for under that denomination he ranked all his excellencies, produced to the poſſeſſor of them an income of four thouſand.

Theſe are ſuch excuſes for Johnſon's coolneſs to⯑wards an old friend as charity might ſuggeſt; but, alas! it had a deeper root, and it is to be feared that it ſprung from envy, a paſſion, which he ſome⯑times was candid enough to confeſs he was ſubject to, and laboured through his life to eradicate. His behaviour to Garrick was ever auſtere, like that of a ſchoolmaſter to one of his ſcholars^*, and he flat⯑tered himſelf, that in all he ſaid and did, he ſtood in awe of his frown.—‘'I was,' ſaid Johnſon once to a friend, 'laſt night behind the ſcenes at Drury-lane, and met Davy dreſſed for his part. I was glad to ſee him; but I believe he was aſhamed to ſee me.'—’A ſuppoſition hardly to be admitted, even if he had been dreſſed in the rags of Drugger.

[427] Garrick took his rejection very patiently, and ſhew⯑ed his reſentment of it no otherwiſe, than by enquiring of me from time to time how we went on at the club. He would often ſtop at my gate, in his way to and from Hampton, with meſſages from Johnſon relating to his Shakeſpeare, then in the preſs, and aſk ſuch queſtions as theſe:—‘'Were you at the club on Monday night?'—'What did you talk of?'—'Was Johnſon there?'—'I ſuppoſe he ſaid ſome⯑thing of Davy—that Davy was a clever fellow in his way, full of convivial pleaſantry, but no poet, no writer, ha?'—’I was vexed at theſe enquiries, and told him, that this perpetual ſolicitude about what was ſaid of him, was unneceſſary, and could only tend to diſturb him; that he might well be content with that ſhare of the public favour which he enjoyed, that he had nothing to do but to poſſeſs it in quiet⯑neſs, and that too great an anxiety to obtain applauſe would provoke envy, and tend to intercept, if not to⯑tally deprive him of it.

The greateſt of Mr. Garrick's foibles was, a notion of the importance of his profeſſion: he thought that Shakeſpeare and himſelf were, or ought to be, the objects of all mens' attention. When the king of Denmark was in England, he received an order from the lord-chamberlain to entertain that mo⯑narch with an exhibition of himſelf in ſix of his principal characters. In his way to London, to re⯑ceive his inſtructions, he called on me, and told me this as news. I could plainly diſcern in his looks the joy that tranſported him; but he affected to be vexed at the ſhortneſs of the notice, and ſeemed to arraign the wiſdom of our councils, by exclaiming—‘'You ſee what heads they have!'’

[428] Johnſon's objection to the admiſſion of Garrick may ſeem to be cynical, and to have ariſen from jealouſy or reſentment, but it admits of palliation: the truth is, that Garrick was no diſquiſitor; his reading had been confined, and he could contribute but little to the pleaſures of ſober and inſtructive converſa⯑tion. Even his knowledge of the world was derived through the medium of the dramatic writers, who, all men know, are not guides to be truſted; and, in his intercourſe with mankind, and manner of con⯑ducting buſineſs, he frequently betrayed ſuch igno⯑rance and inattention, as the following inſtance will illuſtrate.

There ſtood near the dwelling of Mr. Garrick at Hampton, and adjoining to his garden next the river, a ſmall houſe, the owner and occupier whereof was Mr. Peele a bookſeller, who had retired from buſi⯑neſs. Mr. Peele had often ſaid, that as he knew it would be an accommodation to Mr. Garrick, he had given directions, that at his deceaſe he ſhould have the refuſal of it. A man in the neighbourhood had ſet his eye upon it, and formed a ſcheme to make it his own. He had got intelligence that there was a relation or friend of Mr. Peele's living in the coun⯑try, and immediately on Mr. Peele's death applied to his executors, pretending that he had a commiſſion from him to purchaſe the houſe at any price; and, upon this ſuggeſtion, procured a conveyance of it to a perſon nominated by him, but under a ſecret truſt for himſelf. Mr. Garrick, ſeeing himſelf thus balked of his hopes, and in danger of being troubled with an ill neighbour, thought he had nothing to do but to complain. He told his ſad ſtory to me, and in a [429] lucky hour; for, juſt before his entering my houſe, I had been reading the life of the lord-keeper Guild⯑ford, and therein a caſe of a ſimilar fraud, againſt which his lordſhip decreed: it was the caſe of the duke of Buckinghamſhire and Ambroſe Phillips, who had purchaſed of the duke an eſtate as for Mr. He⯑neage Finch, a ſon of the lord Nottingham, but in truth for himſelf, at two thouſand pounds leſs than he would have ſold it for to any but Mr. Finch. Upon hearing Mr. Garrick's ſtory, I ſearched farther, and found the caſe in law-language in Vernon's chancery reports, and giving him a note of it, told him he might file a bill in chancery, and, on the authority of that deter⯑mination, hope for relief. About ſix months after, I being in town, a meſſage came to me in the even⯑ing from Mr. Garrick, ſignifying, that his cauſe was to come on the next morning, and requeſting me to furniſh him with a note of a caſe that I had formerly mentioned to him as reſembling his own. Aſtoniſhed at his remiſſneſs, and knowing that no time was to be loſt, I immediately borrowed the book I had referred him to, and giving it my ſervant, went with it to Drury-lane theatre, where, upon enquiry, I was informed, that he was buſily employed in exhibiting an imitation of a ſpectacle then recent, the proceſſion of the coronation of his preſent majeſty, in an after⯑piece to the play for that night. I waited in an outer room till all was over, when in entered Mr. and Mrs. Garrick, and, after giving him time to recover from his fatigue, I told him what I had been doing to help him in his diſtreſs, and produced the book, but his thoughts were ſo wholly taken up by the pageant he [430] was come from, which ſeemed ſtill to be paſſing before his eyes, that he could ſearcely attend to me, but aſked Mrs. Garrick twenty queſtions about it, how it went off, and whether ſhe did not think the ap⯑plauſe of the audience great. He then turned to me, took from me the book, and ſaid he ſhould lay it before his counſel. The book was returned in a few days, but I heard nothing of the decree of the court till ſome months after, when meeting with his brother George, in the court of requeſts, I aſked him how the cauſe had gone:—‘'Oh,' ſaid he, 'with us:—the firſt purchaſe is decreed fraudulent, and the defendant is condemned in coſts.'’

Mr. Garrick's forgetfulneſs and inattention, in a concern that gave him ſome uneaſineſs, is not to be accounted for by thoſe who believe, contrary to the fact, that he was ever ſufficiently awake to his own intereſt, nor indeed by any who were not well ac⯑quainted with his character. In all that related to the theatre he was very acute, but in buſineſs of other kinds a novice. His profeſſion was of ſuch a nature, as left him no intervals of thought or cool deliberation: his mind was either elevated to the higheſt pitch of inten [...]on, or let down to the loweſt degree of remiſſion. In the former ſtate, it was in⯑flated by the ideas with which the courſe of his read⯑ing had ſtored his memory; in the latter, it ſunk into an indolent levity, which indulged in jokes, in mi⯑micry, and witticiſms.

In the firſt of theſe ſituations, I have deſcribed him by the relation of his conduct in a law-ſuit: in a ſea⯑ſon of vacuity, he was another man, eaſy and chearful, [431] and diſpoſed, out of every thing he ſaw or heard, to extract mirth. The following ſtory I give as an in⯑ſtance of his pleaſantry, at times when the buſineſs of the theatre did not occupy his thoughts.

Living at Twickenham, at about two miles diſtance from his houſe at Hampton, I made him, as I fre⯑quently did when in the country, an afternoon viſit. It was in the month of Auguſt, and I found him and Mrs. Garrick in the garden, eating figs. He com⯑plained that the waſps, which that year were very nu⯑merous, had left him very few; and, talking farther about thoſe noxious inſects, told me he had heard, that a perſon near Uxbridge, having ſwallowed one of them in a draught of liquor, had died of the ſting. I told him it was true, for that at a turnpike-meeting at Uxbridge I had dined with the apothecary that had attended him, and he had aſſured me of the fact.—‘'I believe it,'ſaid Mr. Garrick, 'and have been perſuad⯑ing this lady,'pointing to Mrs. Garrick, 'to do ſo; but I cannot convince her, and yet, ſhe can believe the ſtory of St. Urſula and the eleven thouſand vir⯑gins!'—’Mrs. Garrick, it is no ſecret, is of the Ro⯑miſh perſuaſion.

Davies, in his life of Mr. Garrick, has mentioned a variety of particulars that do honour to his memory. Among others, he gives ſeveral inſtances of liberality to his friends. Johnſon would frequently ſay, that he gave away more money than any man of his income in England; and his readineſs to give the profits of a night to public charities, and to families and indi⯑viduals in diſtreſs, will long be remembered. He was the firſt that attempted to reform the ſtage, by baniſh⯑ing from it all profaneneſs and immorality, and by ex⯑punging [432] from the plays acted at his theatre, every expreſſion capable of any other than a good meaning. And whereas it had for many years been the cuſtom, at one or more of the theatres, to indulge the mob, in the evening of the lord-mayor's day, with the repreſentation of ‘'The London Cuckolds,'’ a comedy written by Ravenſcroft in times of great licentiouſneſs, and abounding in ſcenes of vulgar humour, he paid a handſome compliment to the ci⯑tizens, and ſhewed his regard for the welfare of youth, by diſcontinuing the practice, and ſubſtituting in its place the affecting tragedy of ‘'George Barnwell,'’ a play adapted to the ſituation and circumſtances of city apprentices, and affording an inſtructive leſſon of diſcretion and morality.

Notwithſtanding the perpetual competition be⯑tween him and Rich, for the favour of the town, they lived together upon the moſt friendly terms. Rich, who was never celebrated either for his wit or his underſtanding, once made him a very elegant compliment: the occaſion was this: Rich had im⯑proved his houſe at Covent garden, by altering the diſ⯑poſition of the ſeats, ſo as to accommodate a greater number of ſpectators than formerly it would, and Mr. Garrick wiſhing to ſee theſe improvements, Mr. Rich invited him to the houſe, and went with him all over it. In the courſe of their ſurvey, Mr. Gar⯑rick aſked, in the language of the theatre, what ſum of money the houſe would hold.—‘'Sir,' ſaid Mr. Rich, 'that queſtion queſtion I am at preſent unable to anſwer; but were Mr. Garrick to appear but one night on my ſtage, I ſhould be able to tell to the utmoſt ſhil⯑ling.'’

[433] After all that has been ſaid of Mr. Garrick, envy muſt own, that he owed his celebrity to his merit; and yet, of that himſelf ſeemed ſo diffident, that he practiſed ſundry little, but innocent arts, to inſure the favour of the public. He kept up an intereſt in the city by appearing, about twice in a winter, at Tom's coffee-houſe in Cornhill, the uſual rendezvous of young merchants at 'change time; and frequented a club, eſtabliſhed for the ſake of his company, at the Queen's-arms tavern in St. Paul's church-yard, where were uſed to aſſemble Mr. Sa⯑muel Sharpe the ſurgeon, Mr. Paterſon the city-ſoli⯑citor, Mr. Draper the bookſeller, Mr. Clutterbuck a mercer, and a few others; they were none of them drinkers, and in order to make a reckoning, called only for French wine. Theſe were his ſtanding council in theatrical affairs, and were of uſe to him in moderating his reſentment after thoſe riots at his theatre, which would ſometimes happen, and the in⯑dignation he once felt upon an attack on his dwelling-houſe, in which the windows thereof were broken.

He had alſo a ſtrong party of friends at Batſon's coffee-houſe, and among them Dr. Wilſon a phyſi⯑cian, a man of great learning^*, but no practice, who having an eaſy fortune and no family, and being maſ⯑ter of his own time, was at liberty to indulge him⯑ſelf in a variety of purſuits and humours that diſtin⯑guiſhed him from moſt other men. He lodged in an obſcure part of the town, and ſpent his mornings in mathematical ſtudies; but at noon was conſtantly to [434] be ſeen at Batſon's, with a circle of perſons round him, whom he entertained with his converſation. He had no taſte for polite literature or ſtage entertainments; but in his old age took it into his head to be an ad⯑mirer of Mr. Garrick, and ſeldom failed to be at his theatre, whenever he had a part in the play of the night. His conſtant appearance there had procured him almoſt a preſcriptive right to a particular ſeat in the pit. In that region of the houſe he was the firſt, and almoſt the loudeſt applauder of Mr. Garrick, and his praiſes were the chief ſubject of his diſcourſe the ſucceeding day. To this perſon, as to a city-friend, Mr. Garrick held himſelf obliged, and by many per⯑ſonal civilities he courted his favour.

Such as thoſe above noted were the foibles in the character of that celebrated actor of whom I have been ſpeaking, and ſuch were the arts which he prac⯑tiſed to acquire and enſure popularity; arts as unne⯑ceſſary as they were innocent, ſeeing, that almoſt from the time he firſt became known, he was in the actual poſſeſſion of that applauſe which he was ſeeking, and received from the public an ample reward of repu⯑tation, as well for the part he acted in ſocial life, as for his excellent performance on the ſtage.

Beſides Mr. Garrick, there were others that were deſirous of becoming members of this our club, the fame whereof had ſpread abroad, and induced many, who hoped to acquire a reputation for literature, to wiſh for an admiſſion among us. That unfor⯑tunate divine, as he was called, Dr. William Dodd, was one of the number, and made a ſecret effort for this purpoſe. This perſon, at that time, dwelt with his wife in an obſcure corner of Hounſlow heath, [435] near a village called Worton; but kept, in a back lane near him, a girl who went by the name of Ken⯑nedy. His pretenſions to learning, and eſpecially to claſſical erudition, were very great; and he had in his houſe a few young gentlemen, who, at very expen⯑ſive rates, were committed to his care, as to an aca⯑demy, for inſtruction. A brother of his wife's rented ſome land of me, and of him I learned from time to time many particulars reſpecting his character and man⯑ner of living, which latter, as he repreſented it, was ever ſuch as his viſible income would no way ac⯑count for. He ſaid that he was the moſt importunate ſuitor for preferment ever known, and that himſelf had been the bearer of letters and meſſages to great men, ſoliciting promotion to vacant livings, and had hardly eſcaped kicking down ſtairs. Dodd's wiſh to be received into our ſociety was conveyed to us only by a whiſper, and that being the caſe, all op⯑poſition to his admiſſion became unneceſſary.

Johnſon was now at eaſe in his circumſtances: he wanted his uſual motive to impel him to the ex⯑ertion of his talents, neceſſity, and he ſunk into indo⯑lence. Whoever called in on him at about mid⯑day, found him and Levett at breakfaſt, Johnſon in deſhabille, as juſt riſen from bed, and Levett filling out tea for himſelf and his patron alternately, no converſation paſſing between them. All that viſited him at theſe hours, were welcome. A night's reſt, and breakfaſt, ſeldom failed to refreſh and fit him for diſcourſe, and whoever withdrew went too ſoon. His invitations to dinners abroad were numerous, and he ſeldom balked them. At evening parties, where were [436] no cards, he very often made one; and from theſe, when once engaged, moſt unwillingly retired.

In the relaxation of mind, which almoſt any one might have foreſeen would follow the grant of his penſion, he made little account of that lapſe of time, on which, in many of his papers, he ſo ſeverely mora⯑lizes. And, though he was ſo exact an obſerver of the paſſing minutes, as frequently, after his coming from church, to note in his diary how many the ſer⯑vice took up in reading, and the ſermon in preaching; he ſeemed to forget how many years had paſſed ſince he had begun to take in ſubſcriptions for his edition of Shakeſpeare. Such a torpor had ſeized his facul⯑ties, as not all the remonſtrances of his friends were able to cure: applied to ſome minds, they would have burned like cauſtics, but Johnſon felt them not: to other objects he was ſufficiently attentive, as I ſhall preſently ſhew.

In the performance of the engagement I am under, I find myſelf compelled to make public, as well thoſe particulars of Johnſon that may be thought to abaſe as thoſe that exalt his character. Among the former, may be reckoned the credit he for ſome time gave to the idle ſtory of the Cock-lane ghoſt, concerning which the following facts are the leaſt unworthy of being noted. In the month of January 1762, it was reported, that at a houſe in Cock lane near Weſt Smithfield, there were heard certain noiſes, accom⯑panied with extraordinary circumſtances, tending to the diſcovery of the death of a young woman who was ſaid to have been deſtroyed by poiſon. The agent in this buſineſs was a girl, who pretended, that [437] the ſpirit of the deceaſed appeared to her, and ter⯑rified her with the noiſes above-mentioned. This report drew many perſons to the houſe, who, being thus aſſembled, put ſeveral queſtions to the girl, and received anſwers, as from the ghoſt, deſcribing the circumſtances of the poiſoning, and a promiſe, by an affirmative ſignal, that it would attend one of the queriſts into the vault under the church of St. John, Clerkenwell, where the body was depoſited, and give a token of its preſence by a knock upon the coffin: it was therefore determined to make trial of the ex⯑iſtence or veracity of the ſuppoſed ſpirit; and it was then advertiſed, that the perſon to whom the promiſe was made, was about to viſit the vault, and ac⯑cordingly the whole company preſent adjourned to the church. He who had a claim to the performance of the promiſe, and one more, went into the vault, and ſolemnly required to hear the ſignal; but nothing more enſued. The perſon accuſed of the poiſoning, with ſeveral others, then deſcended the vault, but no effect was perceived. It was, therefore, the opinion of the whole aſſembly, that the girl had ſome art of making or counterfeiting particular noiſes, and that there was no agency of any higher cauſe.

Johnſon, whoſe ſentiments with reſpect to ſuperna⯑tural agency are diſcoverable in many parts of his writings, was prompted by curioſity to viſit this place, and wait for the appearance of the ghoſt. Mr. Saun⯑ders Welch, his intimate friend, would have diſſuaded him from his purpoſe, urging, that it would expoſe him to ridicule; but all his arguments had no effect; he went to the houſe, and, as it is ſuppoſed, into the [438] church, and gave countenance to the vulgar expec⯑tation, that the ghoſt would appear; but at length, being convinced that the whole tranſaction was an impoſture, he drew up, as may be inferred from the ſtyle and advertiſement at the end of the paper, an account of the detection thereof, publiſhed in the Gentleman's Magazine for February 1762.

Soon after this, the impoſture being more clearly and even to demonſtration detected, the perſons con⯑cerned in it were proſecuted, and underwent a puniſh⯑ment ſuited to their offence.

What Mr. Welch foretold, in his advice to Johnſon, touching this impoſture, was now verified: he was cenſured for his credulity; his wiſdom was arraigned, and his religious opinions reſolved into ſuperſtition. A reverend divine of the time, who had taken effec⯑tual care by his conduct to avoid the like imputa⯑tions, but was enough diſtinguiſhed by a greater folly, political enthuſiaſm, exhibited him to ridicule in a ſatyrical poem, and revived the remembrance of that engagement to the public, which, by this, and other inſtances of the laxity of his mind, he ſeemed not much inclined to fulfil.

Nor was this all: that facetious gentleman Mr. Foote, who, upon the ſtrength and ſucceſs of his ſa⯑tyrical vein in comedy, had aſſumed the name of the modern Ariſtophanes, and at his theatre, had long en⯑tertained the town with caricatures of living perſons, with all their ſingularities and weakneſſes, thought that Johnſon at this time was become a fit ſubject for ridicule, and that an exhibition of him in a drama written for the purpoſe, in which himſelf ſhould re⯑preſent Johnſon, and in his mien, his garb, and his [439] ſpeech, ſhould diſplay all his comic powers, would yield him a golden harveſt. Johnſon was appriſed of his intention; and gave Mr. Foote to underſtand, that the licence under which he was permitted to entertain the town, would not juſtify the liberties he was accuſtomed to take with private characters, and that if he perſiſted in his deſign, himſelf would be a ſpectator of his diſgrace, and would, by a ſevere chaſ⯑tiſement of his repreſentative on the ſtage, and in the face of the whole audience, convince the world, that, whatever were his infirmities, or even his foibles, they ſhould not be made the ſport of the public, or the means of gain to any one of his profeſſion^*. [440] Foote, upon this intimation, had diſcretion enough to deſiſt from his purpoſe. Johnſon entertained no reſentment againſt him, and they were ever after friends.

Johnſon was inſenſible to the effects of this abuſe; but the poem above-mentioned had brought to re⯑membrance, that his edition of Shakeſpeare had long been due. His friends took the alarm, and, by all the arts of reaſoning and perſuaſion, laboured to convince him, that having taken ſubſcriptions for a work in which he had made no progreſs, his credit was at ſtake. He confeſſed he was culpable, and promiſed from time to time to begin a courſe of ſuch reading as was ne⯑ceſſary to qualify him for the work: this was no more than he had formerly done in an engagement with Coxeter, to whom he had bound himſelf to write the life of Shakeſpeare, but he never could be prevailed on to begin it, ſo that, even now, it was queſtioned whether his promiſes were to be relied on. For this reaſon, Sir Joſhua Reynolds, and ſome other of his friends, who were more concerned for his reputation than himſelf ſeemed to be, contrived to entangle him by a wager, or ſome other pecuniary engagement, to perform his taſk by a certain time, and this, toge⯑ther poſſibly with ſome diſtruſt of the continuance of his mental powers, ſet him to work; but, as he had been remiſs in making collections for the purpoſe, he [441] found it an irkſome taſk. Theobald declares, that to ſettle the text of his author, and to elucidate ob⯑ſcure paſſages in him, he had found it neceſſary to peruſe a great number of plays and other publications, to the very titles of moſt whereof it is certain Johnſon was a ſtranger. He, it is true, had red as many old Eng⯑liſh books as came in his way, but he had never ſought after any ſuch; he was no collector, and in fact was deſtitute of materials for his work. All therefore that he did, or could do, after the waſte of ſo much time, was, to read over his author in the former edi⯑tions, and ſolicit help from his friends; who, if he is not miſtaken in his aſſertion, were but ſlack in offer⯑ing him aſſiſtance. To me, among others, he did the honour of ſending for ſuch notes as he thought I might have made in the courſe of my reading. Mr. Garrick was his meſſenger, as he frequently paſſed by my gate in the country; and, though I was at that time deeply engaged in the Hiſtory of Muſic, I fur⯑niſhed him with a few remarks, which, unimportant as they are, he thought fit to inſert. Others, more valuable, he got from ſuch of his friends as were at leiſure to aſſiſt him.

The year 1765 gave to the world an edition of Shakeſpeare's dramatic works by Samuel Johnſon, the greateſt proficient in vernacular erudition, and one of the ableſt critics of his time. Much had been expected from it, and little now appeared to have been performed; a few conjectural emenda⯑tions of the text, and ſome ſcattered remarks on particular paſſages, were all that was preſented to our view that had any pretence to novelty, except [442] ſome general obſervations, which ſerve to illuſtrate the beauties and mark the defects of the ſeveral plays, and are inſerted at the end of each.

For the apparent meagreneſs of the work, the pau⯑city of the notes, and other evidences of the editor's want of induſtry, and indeed unfitneſs for the office of a ſcholiaſt, ſo far as it regards the illuſtration of the text, ſome atonement, it muſt be confeſſed, is made by the preface, wherein, as if the author had reſerved himſelf for one great effort of his genius, all the powers of eloquence and critical erudition are diſplayed. In truth, it is an eſſay on dramatic poeſy in general, in which, with a degree of perſpicacity that had never before been exerciſed on the ſubject, he has exhibited the perfections of his author in a blaze of ſplendour that diſtracts us with its radiance. To attemper our admiration, he has, however, thought fit to note the ſlumbers of even this great genius, his violations of hiſtorical truth, his deviations from dramatic regularity, his low conceits, and the frequent recurrence of ſcenes that ſuſpend actions of importance, and, wherever interpoſed, are ex⯑creſcences; and this not in a ſtyle of perfunctory diſquiſition, but with ſuch a degree of aſperity as critics diſcover when they are criticiſing the works of a rival.

For thus detracting from the merit of his favou⯑rite, Mr. Garrick was to the higheſt degree exaſpe⯑rated with Johnſon: he reproached him, though not to his face, with want of feeling and the knowledge of human nature, of which, he ſaid, he underſtood nothing, but what he had learned from books:—[443] ‘'All that he writes,' added he, 'comes from his head: Shakeſpeare, when he ſat down to write, dipped his pen into his own heart^*.'’

[444] Johnſon ſeemed to be conſcious that this work would fall ſhort of the expectations it had raiſed, and endeavoured to ward off the cenſure of the public by an inſinuation in the preface, that his friends had been backward in furniſhing him with aſſiſtance. The paſſage is pretty ſtrongly pointed, and is here given in his own words.

‘'Having claſſed the obſervations of others, I was at laſt to try what I could ſubſtitute for their miſ⯑takes, and how I could ſupply their omiſſions. I collated ſuch copies as I could procure, and wiſhed for more, but have not found the collectors of theſe rarities very communicative. Of the editions which chance or kindneſs put into my hands, I have given an enumeration, that I may not be blamed for neg⯑lecting what I had not the power to do.'’

Few there were who ſaw this paſſage, and knew that Mr. Garrick had the earlieſt editions of all Shakeſpeare's plays, but conſtrued this into a re⯑proach on him; in that ſenſe he underſtood it, and it gave him great offence. To clear himſelf of the imputation of a conduct ſo unfriendly, he pro⯑teſted to me, that his collection had ever been ac⯑ceſſible to Johnſon, and that himſelf had ſignified, that any or all the books in it were at his ſervice; and, farther to convince me, he, at the next viſit I made him, called in his man Charles, and bade him relate to me his inſtructions reſpecting the uſe of his library, or the loan of books to Johnſon.—‘'Sir,' ſaid the man, 'I was told to let Mr. Johnſon have what⯑ever books he wanted; but he never applied for any^*.'’

[445] To ſay the truth, Mr. Garrick was rather forward in offering the uſe of his library to the writers of the time: he did it to Mr. Whalley, when editing the works of Ben Jonſon, and to Dr. Percy, the collector and publiſher of the ‘'Reliques of ancient Engliſh poetry.'’ His view, as I conjecture, was, to receive, in return for his kindneſs, thanks, with perhaps ſome additional compliment; and in theſe two inſtances he was gratified with both. I imagine that Johnſon was unwilling to buy the favour intended him at that price, and that therefore he declined it.

We are not to ſuppoſe that the publication of Shakeſpeare, a work undertaken without any im⯑pulſe, and executed with reluctance, would greatly add to the literary reputation of Johnſon; yet ſuch was the character he had acquired by his dictionary, and other of his writings, that the heads of the uni⯑verſity of Dublin thought him worthy of the higheſt academical honour that it was in their power to con⯑fer, and accordingly, on the twenty-third day of July 1765, he was, by them, preſented with a diploma, creating him doctor in both laws; a diſtinction the more to be valued as it was unſolicited, and a volun⯑tary teſtimony of the eſteem in which he was held by that learned body. The cauſes aſſigned for beſtowing [446] it are contained in the following words, part of the inſtrument, ‘'ob egregiam ſcriptorum elegantiam et utilitatem.'’

His great affection for our own univerſities, and par⯑ticularly his attachment to Oxford, prevented Johnſon from receiving this honour as it was intended, and he never aſſumed the title which it conferred. He was as little pleaſed to be called Doctor in conſequence of it, as he was with the title of Domine, which a friend of his once incautiouſly addreſſed him by. He thought it alluded to his having been a ſchool⯑maſter; and, though he has ably vindicated Milton from the reproach that Salmaſius meant to fix on him, by ſaying that he was of that profeſſion^*, he wiſhed to have it forgot, that himſelf had ever been driven to it as the means of ſubſiſtence, and had failed in the attempt.

Johnſon was now arrived at the fifty-ſixth year of his age, and had actually attained to that ſtate of independence, which before he could only affect. He was now in poſſeſſion of an income that freed him from the apprehenſions of want, and exempted him from the neceſſity of mental labour. He had diſcharged his obligations to the public, and, with no incumbrance of a family, or any thing to controul his wiſhes or deſires, he had his mode of living to chuſe. Bleſt with what was to him a competence, he had it now in his power to ſtudy, to meditate, and to put in practice a variety of good reſolutions, which, almoſt from his firſt entrance into life, he had been making. [447] Some ſpecimens of theſe have been given in a collection of prayers and devotional exerciſes lately publiſhed by his direction, to which I could add a great number. They are the effuſions of a fervent piety, and the reſult of moſt ſevere examinations of himſelf in his hours of retirement; and have for their objects, early riſing, a good uſe of time, abſtinence, the ſtudy of the Scriptures, and a conſtant attendance on divine worſhip; in the performance of all which duties he ſeems to conſtrue his frequent interruptions into cri⯑minal remiſſneſs. One extract from his diary I how⯑ever here inſert, for the purpoſe of ſhewing the ſtate of his mind at about the beginning of the year 1766.

[448] It was a frequent practice with him, in his addreſſes to the divine Majeſty, to commemorate and recom⯑mend to mercy his wife and departed friends; and the knowledge thereof has induced a ſuſpicion, that he adopted the Romiſh tenet of Purgatory. To clear his memory from this imputation, I am ne⯑ceſſitated to mention a few particulars which I learned from him in converſation, that may ſerve to ſhew, that no ſuch concluſion is to be drawn from his practice in this reſpect; for that his ac⯑quieſcence therein aroſe from a controverſy, which, about the year 1715, was agitated between certain divines of a Proteſtant communion, that profeſſed to deny, not leſs than they did the doctrine of tranſubſtantiation, that of purgatory.

Theſe were, the non-juring clergy of the time; of whom, and alſo of their writings, Johnſon was ever uſed to ſpeak with great reſpect. One of them, Dr. Thomas Brett, was a man profoundly ſkilled in ritual literature, as appears by a diſſertation of his, printed, together with a collection of ancient liturgies, in 1720^*; and he, as I infer from the ſtyle of the book and the method of reaſoning therein, wrote a tract intitled, ‘'Reaſons for reſtoring ſome prayers and directions, as they ſtand in the communion-ſervice of the firſt Engliſh reformed liturgy, compiled by the biſhops in the ſecond and third years of king Edward VI.'’ among which he argues for the following pe⯑tition, [449] part of the prayer for the whole ſtate of Chriſt's church, ſince called a prayer for the whole ſtate of Chriſt's church militant here on earth. ‘'We commend unto thy mercye, O Lord, all other thy ſeruauntes, which are departed hence from us, with the ſigne of ſaythe, and now do reſte in the ſlepe of peace: Graunte unto them, we beſeche thee, thy mercy, and euerlaſtyng peace, and that at the daie of the generall reſurreccion, we and all they which bee of the miſticall body of thy ſonne, may altogether bee ſet on his right hand, and heare that his moſt ioyfull voice: Come unto me, O ye that be bleſſed of my father, and poſſeſſe the kingdome whiche is prepared for you from the begynning of the worlde: Graunt this, O Father, for Jeſus Chriſtes ſake, our onely mediatour and aduocate.'’

He firſt ſhews, that the recommending the dead to the mercy of God is nothing of the remains of popery, but a conſtant uſage of the primitive church, and for this aſſertion, he produces the authority of Tertullian, who flouriſhed within an hundred years after the death of the apoſtle St. John, and alſo, the authority of St. Cyprian, St. Cyril, St. Ambroſe, St. Epiphanius, St. Chryſoſtom, and St. Auguſtine, by citations from the ſeveral writings of thoſe fathers.

He then argues, that this cuſtom neither ſuppoſes the modern purgatory, nor gives encouragement to libertiniſm and vice; that the ancient church be⯑lieved the recommending the dead a ſerviceable office; that the cuſtom ſeems to have gone upon this principle, that ſupreme happineſs is not to be expected till the reſurrection, and that the interval [450] between death and the end of the world is a ſtate of imperfect bliſs; the church therefore, concludes he, might believe her prayers for good people would improve their condition, and raiſe the ſatisfactions of this period.

No one will ſay that theſe are mean authorities, or object to the practice of thus recommending the dead, as an innovation, excepting thoſe perſons who reject all tradition in matters of religion. Bucer was one that did, and, therefore, being conſulted in the reviſal of king Edward's firſt liturgy, he argued, that there being no expreſs warrant in Scripture for the practice, prayer for the dead was ſinful; and, accordingly, the words contended for were omitted in the ſecond.

This tract was, with great acuteneſs, and no leſs learning, anſwered by another nonjuring divine, in one intitled ‘'No ſufficient reaſons for reſtoring ſome prayers and directions of king Edward the ſixth's liturgy.'’ A reply was given to it, and the contro⯑verſy was carried on to a great length; the reſult of it was, a ſchiſm among the nonjurors: thoſe, for reſtoring the prayers, compiled a new communion-office; others, who were againſt widening the breach with the nati⯑onal church, choſe to abide by the preſent form; and this diverſity of ſentiments and practice was, as John⯑ſon once told me, the ruin of the nonjuring cauſe.

In the ſtudy of this controverſy, which I have rea⯑ſon to think intereſted Johnſon very deeply, he ſeems to have taken part with Dr. Brett and the ſeparatiſts his followers, whoſe conduct is accounted for and vindicated, in the diſſertation on liturgies above⯑mentioned.

[451] Such as are diſpoſed to charge Johnſon with weak⯑neſs and ſuperſtition, and are ſo weak as to inſinuate that, becauſe he recommended his deceaſed wife and friends to the divine mercy, (though with the quali⯑ſying words, ‘'ſo far as it may be lawful')’ he muſt have been popiſhly affected, or a believer in the doctrine of purgatory, may hence learn to be leſs ſevere in their cenſures, and lament their ignorance of eccleſiaſtical hiſtory, which would have taught them, that the prac⯑tice prevailed, long before popery was eſtabliſhed, or purgatory thought of; and that, though it may not upon the whole be defenſible, there is more to be ſaid for it, than many of the enemies to his memory are able to anſwer^*.

And to thoſe of his friends, who think that, for the ſake of his reputation, the prayers and meditations, in which theſe ſentiments have appeared, ſhould have been ſuppreſſed, it ought ſurely to be an anſwer, that they were put into the hands of the reverend divine, who, to my knowledge, attended him with great affection and aſſiduity through his laſt illneſs, with an expreſs charge to commit them to the preſs, and who, if he had forborne this friendly office, had deprived a charitable and laudable inſtitution of a be⯑nefit, which the performance of it was intended to confer.

With a view to improve the leiſure he now enjoyed, and ſeemingly determined to reform thoſe habits of indolence, which, in the former part of his life, he had [452] contracted, he removed from the Temple into a houſe in Johnſon's court, Fleet ſtreet, and invited thither his friend Mrs. Williams. An upper room, which had the advantages of a good light and free air, he fitted up for a ſtudy, and furniſhed with books, choſen with ſo little regard to editions or their external ap⯑pearance, as ſhewed they were intended for uſe, and that he diſdained the oſtentation of learning. Here, he was in a ſituation and circumſtances that en⯑abled him to enjoy the viſits of his friends, and to receive them in a manner ſuitable to the rank and condition of many of them. A ſilver ſtandiſh, and ſome uſeful plate, which he had been prevailed on to accept as pledges of kindneſs from ſome who moſt eſteemed him, together with furniture that would not have diſgraced a better dwelling, baniſhed thoſe ap⯑pearances of ſqualid indigence, which, in his leſs happy days, diſguſted thoſe who came to ſee him.

In one of his diaries he noted down a reſolution to take a ſeat in the church: this he might poſſibly do about the time of this his removal. The church he frequented was that of St. Clement Danes, which, though not his pariſh-church, he preferred to that of the Temple, which I recommended to him, as being free from noiſe, and, in other reſpects, more commo⯑dious. His only reaſon was, that in the former he was beſt known. He was not conſtant in his at⯑tendance on divine worſhip; but, from an opinion peculiar to himſelf, and which he once intimated to me, ſeemed to wait for ſome ſecret impulſe as a mo⯑tive to it.

[453] I could never collect from his diſcourſe, that he was drawn to public worſhip by the charms of pul⯑pit eloquence, or any affection for popular preachers, who, in general, are the worſt; nor can I form any judgment of the value he ſet on it, having never been preſent with him at church but once, and that at a time, when, in compliment to him, as it may be ſup⯑poſed, the preacher gave us a ſermon, that red like a Saturday's Rambler^*, and was, by many, ſoon diſ⯑covered to have been caſt in the ſame mould, or, in other words, of Johnſon's compoſing; but he ſeemed to think it a duty to accept in good part the endea⯑vours of all public inſtructors, however meanly qua⯑lified for the office, and ever to forbear exerciſing his critical talents on the effuſions of men inferior in learning and abilities to himſelf. Probably he, on ſuch occaſions, recollected the quaint diſtich of Her⯑bert:

Or he might have red, among the eſſays of the Meſſieurs of Port-Royal, one that teaches us how to profit by bad preaching.

The Sundays which he paſſed at home were, ne⯑vertheleſs, ſpent in private exerciſes of devotion^†, [454] and ſanctified by acts of charity of a ſingular kind: on that day he accepted of no invitation abroad, but gave a dinner to ſuch of his poor friends as might elſe have gone without one.

He had little now to conflict with but what he called his morbid melancholy, which, though oppreſ⯑ſive, had its intermiſſions, and left him the free ex⯑erciſe of all his faculties, and the power of enjoying the converſation of his numerous friends and viſitants. Theſe reliefs he owed in a great meaſure to the uſe of opium, which, as I have elſewhere mentioned, he was accuſtomed to take in large quantities, the effect whereof was generally ſuch an exhilaration of his ſpirits as he ſometimes ſuſpected for intoxication.

I am now about to mention a remarkable era of his life, diſtinguiſhed by a connexion that, for many years, was a ſource of great ſatisfaction and comfort to him. It was a friendſhip, contracted, as his diary imports, in 1765, with Mr. Thrale, a brewer, in Southwark, who, though a follower of a trade, which in other countries is lightly thought of, yet as in this it implies great opulence, and the power of conducing in various ways to the intereſts of the community, ranked as a gentleman. He had received the be⯑nefit of an univerſity education, and was a repreſen⯑tative in parliament, as his father had been, for the above-mentioned borough; and in every view of his character, could not but be deemed a valuable addi⯑tion [455] to the number of Johnſon's friends. To his villa at Streatham, in Surrey, Johnſon was invited, not as a gueſt, but as a reſiant, whenever he was diſpoſed to change the town for the coun⯑try air: for his accommodation, an apartment was allotted; for his entertainment, a library was fur⯑niſhed with ſuch books as himſelf choſe, and little was wanting to perſuade him, that, when at Streatham, he was at home. He ſoon experienced the ſalutary ef⯑fects of his new abode, and there is little doubt that to it he was indebted for ſome years of his life.

It might have been expected that Johnſon, in the eaſy circumſtances in which he had for ſome time felt himſelf, and with ſuch a love of independence as he affected, would have declined obligations that he was unable to repay, at leaſt in kind; but he knew that friendſhip weighs not in a balance the fa⯑vours it confers. Mr. Thrale's tenders carried in them all the evidences of ſincerity, and he had the example of men, equally wiſe with himſelf, to juſtify his acceptance of ſuch invitations as were now made him^*. The only obligation they ſubjected him to [456] was, that of ſupporting his character, and, in a family where there were many viſitants, furniſhing ſuch con⯑verſation, as was to be expected from a man who had diſtinguiſhed himſelf by his learning, his wit, and his eloquence. This, it muſt be confeſſed, was a burdenſome taſk to one who, like others, muſt be ſuppoſed to have had his ſombrous intervals, and, in the hour of repletion, to wiſh for the indulgence of being ſilent, or, at leaſt, of talking like other men. To be continually uttering apophthegms, or ſpeeches worthy of remembrance, was more than could have been expected of Socrates^†.

[457] Beſides the conveniences for ſtudy, with which he was furniſhed at Streatham, he had opportunities of exerciſe, and the pleaſure of airings and excurſions. He was once prevailed on by Mr. Thrale to join in [458] the pleaſures of the chace, in which he ſhewed himſelf a bold rider, for he either leaped, or broke through, many of the hedges that obſtructed him. This he did, not becauſe he was eager in the purſuit, but, as he ſaid, to ſave the trouble of alighting and remounting. He did not derive the pleaſure or benefit from riding that many do: it had no tendency to raiſe his ſpi⯑rits; and he once told me that, in a journey on horſe⯑back, he fell aſleep. In the exerciſe of a coach he had great delight; it afforded him the indulgence of indolent poſtures, and, as I diſcovered when I have had him in my own, the noiſe of it aſſiſted his hearing^*.

It cannot be ſuppoſed but that theſe indulgences were a great relief to Johnſon in his declining years; they, nevertheleſs, indiſpoſed him for meditation and reflection; and, as he has noted in his diary, aſſigning for the reaſon the irregularity of the family, it broke his habit of early riſing, which he had perſiſted in from new-year's day 1765, to about the midſummer following^†. It is poſſible that the family, had they [459] been diſpoſed to it, might with equal truth have com⯑plained, that he was little leſs irregular, and that, if they obliged him to break his reſolution of early riſing, he often prevented their retiring to reſt, at a ſeaſonable hour, that he might not want the gratifi⯑cation of tea.

About this time, Johnſon had the honour of a con⯑verſation with his majeſty, in the library, at the queen's houſe. Whether the occaſion of it was accidental, or otherwiſe, I have never been informed; but from this account of it, given by him, it afforded him great ſa⯑tisfaction. He ſpoke to me of the king's behaviour, in terms of the higheſt gratitude and approbation, and deſcribed it as equalling in grace and condeſcen⯑ſion what might have been expected from Lewis the fourteenth, when the manners of the French court were in the higheſt ſtate of cultivation. The public are already in poſſeſſion of the handſome compliment which his majeſty made him; I will, nevertheleſs, give it here a place: he aſked Johnſon, if he intended to give the world any more of his compoſitions; Johnſon anſwered, he believed he ſhould not, for that he thought he had written enough; ‘'I ſhould have thought ſo too,' replied his majeſty, 'if you had not written ſo well^†.'’

[460] Johnſon was now approaching towards ſixty. He was an exact computer of time, and, as his eſſays abundantly ſhew, regretted deeply the lapſe of thoſe minutes that could not be recalled, and though, in his own judgment of himſelf, he had been criminal in the waſte of it, he was ever reſolving to ſubtract from his ſleep thoſe hours which are fitteſt for ſtudy and meditation. Numberleſs are the reſolutions that I meet with in his diaries, for a ſeries of years back, to riſe at eight; but he was unable, for any long conti⯑nuance, to perform them, a weakneſs, leſs inexcuſable than he thought it, for he was ever a bad ſleeper, and was ſufficiently ſenſible of his infirmity, in that reſpect, to have allayed his ſcrupuloſity, had he not been a moſt rigorous judge of his actions. To im⯑preſs the more ſtrongly on his mind the value of time, and the uſe it behoved every wiſe man to make of it, he indulged himſelf in an article of luxury, which, as far as my obſervation and remembrance will ſerve me, he never enjoyed till this late period of his liſe: it was a watch, which he cauſed to be made for him, in the year 1768, by thoſe eminent artiſts Mudge and Dutton: it was of metal, and the outer caſe covered with tortoiſe-ſhell; he paid for it ſeventeen guineas. On the dial-plate thereof, which [461] was of enamel, he cauſed to be inſcribed, in the ori⯑ginal Greek, theſe words of our bleſſed Saviour, [...] ^*, but with the miſtake of a letter μ for ν: the meaning of them is, ‘'For the night cometh.'’ This, though a memento of great importance, he, about three years after, thought pedantic; he, there⯑fore, exchanged the dial-plate for one in which the in⯑ſcription was omitted.

In the ſame year, 1768, upon the eſtabliſhment of the royal academy of painting, ſculpture, &c. Johnſon was nominated profeſſor of ancient literature, an of⯑fice merely honorary, and conferred on him, as it is ſuppoſed, upon the recommendation of the preſident, Sir Joſhua Reynolds.

In the variety of ſubjects on which he had exer⯑ciſed his pen, Johnſon had hitherto forborne to med⯑dle with the diſputes of contending factions, which is all, that, at this day, is to be underſtood by the word politics. He was ever a friend to government, in a general ſenſe of the term, as knowing what be⯑nefits ſociety derives from it; and was never tempted to write on the ſide of what is called oppoſition, but at a period of his life, when experience had not enabled him to judge of the motives which induce men to aſſume the characters of patriots. In the year 1769, he ſaw with indignation the methods which, in the buſineſs of Wilkes, were taken to work upon the po⯑pulace, and, in 1770, publiſhed a pamphlet, intitled, ‘'The falſe alarm,'’ wherein he aſſerts, and labours to ſhew, by a variety of arguments founded on prece⯑dents, that the expulſion of a member of the houſe of [462] commons, for ſuch offences as he had been convicted of, was both juſt and ſeaſonable, and that no ſuch calamity as the ſubverſion of the conſtitution, was to be feared from an act, that had uſage, which is the law of parliament, to warrant it. The non-acquieſ⯑cence of the people intereſted in the queſtion, is there⯑fore branded by him with folly and madneſs, in the following animated expreſſions:—‘'Every artifice of ſedition has been ſince practiſed to awaken diſcon⯑tent, and inflame indignation. The papers of every day have been filled with the exhortations and me⯑naces of faction. The madneſs has ſpread through all ranks and both ſexes; women and children have clamoured for Mr. Wilkes: honeſt ſimplicity has been cheated into fury, and only the wiſe have eſ⯑caped the infection.'’

To ridicule the conduct of oppoſition, he adopts a term, invented by the leaders thereof, and calls the conjuncture of events, at the time of which he is ſpeaking, an alarming criſis, but endeavours to abate the fears of its termination, by alluding to parliamen⯑tary deciſions apparently partial, and ſometimes op⯑preſſive; and ſhewing, that the vexation excited by injuſtice, ſuffered, or ſuppoſed to be ſuffered, by any private man or ſingle community, was local and tem⯑porary. This poſition he illuſtrates by the following obſervation: ‘'We have found by experience, that though a ſquire has given ale and veniſon in vain, and a borough has been compelled to ſee its deareſt intereſts in the hands of him whom it did not truſt, yet the general ſtate of the nation has continued the ſame. The ſun has riſen, and the corn has grown, and whatever talk has been of the danger of pro⯑perty, [463] yet he that ploughed the field commonly reaped it, and he that built the houſe was maſter of the door.'’

In a tone more grave, he addreſſes ſuch as are ca⯑pable of conviction, and tells them—that ‘'they have as much happineſs as the condition of life will eaſily receive; and that a government, of which an erro⯑neous, or unjuſt, repreſentation of one county only, is the greateſt crime that intereſt can diſcover, or malice can upbraid, is a government approaching nearer to perfection than any that experience has ſhewn, or hiſtory related.'’

The pamphlet concludes with ſome ſhrewd re⯑marks on the ſupport given to faction by the ſec⯑taries, and that frigid neutrality of the tories in this buſineſs, which he cenſures in theſe words: ‘'They do not yet conſider that they have at laſt a king, who knows not the name of a party, and who wiſhes to be the common father of his people.'’

It was not to be imagined, that a publication, ſo unpopular as this, would long remain unanſwered. Of many anſwers to it, one alone ſeemed to Johnſon worthy of a reply; but, in a conſultation with his friends, he was adviſed to forbear. Had he engaged in a vindication of ‘'The falſe alarm,'’ the world might poſſibly have been entertained with a ſpeci⯑men of his abilities in controverſial writing, in which there is little doubt that he would have diſplayed the temper and perſpicuity of Hooker, the ſtrength of Chillingworth, and the dexterity of Hoadly, though, in truth, he was no friend to controverſy; [464] his opinion on that ſubject being, that it ſeldom produced conviction, that an impotent argument againſt a book was beſt reſuted by ſilence, and that it is want of policy to give immortality to that which muſt of itſelf expire.

In the next ſucceeding year, a ſubject of more general importance to the intereſts of this country engaged his attention: it was a queſtion between us and the court of Spain, touching the pre-diſcovery, and, conſequently, the right of dominion over certain iſlands in the South ſeas, known to us by the name of Pepys's or Falkland's iſlands, and to the Spa⯑niards by that of the Malouines, ſpots of earth ſo inconſiderable, as Johnſon aſſerts, that in the deſert of the ocean they had almoſt eſcaped human notice; and which, if they had not happened to make a ſea⯑mark, had perhaps never had a name. Lord Anſon, in his voyage, had noticed theſe iſlands, and the re⯑lator thereof had recommended them as neceſſary to the ſucceſs of any future expedition againſt the coaſt of Chili, and, of ſuch importance, that the poſ⯑ſeſſion of them would produce many advantages in peace; and in war would make us maſters of the South ſea. In 1748, our miniſtry ſent out a few ſloops, for a fuller knowledge of Pepy's and Falk⯑land's iſlands, and for further diſcoveries in the South ſea; but, upon a remonſtrance of Wall, the Spaniſh ambaſſador here, maintaining the right of his maſter to the excluſive dominion of the South ſea, they relinquiſhed part of their original deſign, and our purpoſe of ſettling there was diſowned. Thus the matter reſted, till lord Egmont was appointed to the [465] direction of our naval operations, who, in the year 1765, ſent out an expedition, the commander whereof took poſſeſſion of Falkland's iſland in the name of his Britannic majeſty, and placed a garriſon in a place of defence, to which he gave the appellation of Port Egmont. In this ſettlement, we were ſoon after diſ⯑turbed; for Madariaga, a Spaniſh commodore, with five frigates and a train of artillery, appearing before the iſland, obliged our people to capitulate, and ob⯑tained poſſeſſion. This event was no ſooner known at our court, than hoſtilities againſt Spain were re⯑ſolved on, and a powerful fleet was aſſembled: theſe preparations brought on a conference between prince Maſſerano, the Spaniſh ambaſſador here, and our mi⯑niſter, and a ſubſequent negociation at Madrid, between Mr. Harris our miniſter there, and the marquis Gri⯑maldi: the reſult was, a diſavowal on the part of Spain of the violent enterpriſe of Buccarelli, the governor of Buenos Ayres, who had ſent the force that diſpoſſeſſed the Engliſh, and a promiſe to reſtore the port and fort called Egmont, with all the artillery and ſtores therein, but with a declaration, that this engagement ſhould not affect the queſtion of the prior right of ſovereignty of the Malouine, otherwiſe called Falkland's iſlands^*.

[466] The acquieſcence of our court in theſe conceſſions of that of Madrid, and the reference of a diſputable queſtion to the Greek calends, furniſhed the leaders of faction with a new topic for clamour, and war be⯑came the cry. The heavy burthen of debt, incurred by the laſt, was no reaſon againſt a new one, and mil⯑lions were to be expended, and thouſands murdered, for the titular ſovereignty of an iſland, which Johnſon thus ſtrongly and even poetically characteriſes:—‘'A bleak and gloomy ſolitude, an iſland thrown aſide from human uſe, ſtormy in winter, and barren in ſummer: an iſland which not the ſouthern ſava⯑ges have dignified with habitation; where a garriſon muſt be kept in a ſtate that contemplates with envy the exiles of Siberia; of which the expence will be perpetual, and the uſe only occaſional, and which, if fortune ſmile upon our labours, may become a neſt of ſmugglers in peace, and in war the future refuge of buccaniers.'’

Theſe are his ſentiments reſpecting the incommo⯑dities of this conteſted ſettlement: againſt the advan⯑tages ſuggeſted by the relator of Anſon's expedition, whom he repreſents as having written under the in⯑fluence of a heated imagination, he oppoſes the fol⯑lowing arguments, founded in true policy and ſound morality:

To ſilence this clamour, to defeat the purpoſes of a wicked and malevolent faction, to allay the thirſt for human blood, and to bring the deluded people to a ſenſe of their true intereſt, was the aim of Johnſon in writing this moſt judicious pamphlet: he ſucceeded in his endeavour, the miſeries of war were averted, the contractors diſappointed, and a few months reſtored the populace to the uſe of their underſtandings.

In a review of the ſeveral particulars herein before related, it will appear, that Johnſon's courſe of life [469] was very uniform. London was a place of reſidence which he preſerred to all others, as affording more intelligence, and better opportunities of converſation than were elſewhere to be found, and he was but little delighted either with rural ſcenes or manners. No⯑velty, and variety of occupations, it is true, were objects that engaged his attention, and from theſe he never failed to extract information. Though born and bred in a city, he well underſtood both the theory and prac⯑tice of agriculture, and even the management of a farm: he could deſcribe, with great accuracy, the pro⯑ceſs of malting; and, had neceſſity driven him to it, could have thatched a dwelling. Of field recreations, ſuch as hunting, ſetting, and ſhooting, he would diſ⯑courſe like a ſportſman, though his perſonal defects rendered him, in a great meaſure, incapable of de⯑riving pleaſure from any ſuch exerciſes.

But he had taken a very comprehenſive view of human life and manners, and, that he was well ac⯑quainted with the views and purſuits of all claſſes and characters of men, his writings abundantly ſhew. This kind of knowledge he was ever deſirous of in⯑creaſing, even as he advanced in years: to gratify it, he was acceſſible to all comers, and yielded to the in⯑vitations of ſuch of his friends as had reſidences in the country, to vary his courſe of living, and paſs the pleaſanter months of the year in the ſhades of ob⯑ſcurity.

In theſe viſits, where there were children in the family, he took great delight in examining them as to their progreſs in learning, or, to make uſe of a [470] term almoſt obſolete, of appoſing them^*. To this purpoſe, I once heard him ſay, that in a viſit to Mrs. Percy, who had the care of one of the young princes, at the queen's houſe, the prince of Wales, being then a child, came into the room, and began to play about; when Johnſon, with his uſual curioſity, took an op⯑portunity of aſking him what books he was reading, and, in particular, enquired as to his knowledge of the Scriptures: the prince, in his anſwers, gave him great ſatisfaction; and, as to the laſt, ſaid, that part of his daily exerciſes was to read Oſtervald. In many families into which he went, the fathers were often deſirous of producing their ſons to him for his opi⯑nion of their parts, and of the proficiency they had [471] made at ſchool, which, in frequent inſtances, came out to be but ſmall. He once told me, that being at the houſe of a friend, whoſe ſon in his ſchool-vacation was come home, the father ſpoke of this child as a lad of pregnant parts, and ſaid, that he was well verſed in the claſſics, and acquainted with hiſtory, in the ſtudy whereof he took great delight Having this infor⯑mation, Johnſon, as a teſt of the young ſcholar's at⯑tainments, put this queſtion to him:—‘'At what time did the heathen oracles ceaſe?'—’The boy, not in the leaſt daunted, anſwered:—‘'At the diſſo⯑lution of religious houſes.'’

By the exerciſe of ſuch offices as theſe; by his diſ⯑poſition to encourage children in their learning, and joining admonition to inſtruction, to exhort them to obedience to their parents and teachers, Johnſon r [...]ndered himſelf a welcome gueſt in all the families into which he was admitted, and, in various ways, did he employ his talents in the gratification of his friends. A gentleman, with whom he had maintained a long and ſtrict friendſhip, had the misfortune to loſe his wife, and wiſhed Johnſon, from the outlines of her ch [...]racter, which he ſhould give him, and his own knowledge of her worth, to compoſe a monumental inſcription for her: he returned the huſband thanks for the confidence he placed in him, and acquitted himſelf of the taſk in the following fine eulogium, now to be ſeen in the pariſh church of Watford in Hertfordſhire:

He had long been ſolicited by Mr. James Boſwell, a native of Scotland, and one that highly valued him, to accompany him in a journey to the Hebrides, or Weſtern iſlands of that kingdom, as to a part of the world in which nature was to be viewed in her rudeſt and moſt terrific form; and where, whatever was [473] wanting to delight the eye, or ſoothe the imagination, was made up by objects that could not fail to expand it, and turn delight into aſtoniſhment; and being now, in the year 1773, his own maſter, having no literary engagement to fulfil, he accepted the invi⯑tation. He began the tour propoſed, in the autumn of the year above-mentioned, and, computing from the eighteenth day of Auguſt, when he left Edin⯑burgh, to the ninth of November, when he returned thither, completed it in ſeven weeks and ſix days; and, at his return to England, drew up and publiſhed an account of it.

The Weſtern iſlands of Scotland are called by the ancient geographers, the Aebudae and Hebrides. The Scotch hiſtorians, namely, Hector Boethius, biſhop Leſly, Buchanan, and Johnſon, have given us little more concerning them than their names. Cam⯑den has given a general, but brief deſcription of them, and ſpeaks of their number as about forty-four; but biſhop Gibſon adds, that they have been reckoned at three hundred, in which computation every ſpot or iſlet muſt be ſuppoſed to be included: but a parti⯑cular deſcription of the Weſtern iſlands was wanting to the world till the year 1703, when a perſon of the name of Martin, publiſhed a book with that title, containing a full account of thoſe iſlands, and of the government, religion, and cuſtoms of the inhabitants thereof; and alſo, ‘'of the ſecond ſight or faculty of fore-ſeeing things by viſion, ſo common among them.'’

Of this writer little more is known, than that of which himſelf ſeems to be the relator, viz. that he was born in one of the moſt ſpacious and fertile iſles [474] in the weſt of Scotland; and, beſides his liberal edu⯑cation at the univerſity, had the advantage of ſeeing foreign places, and converſing with ſome of the royal ſociety; but who, nevertheleſs, ſeems to have been a very weak, credulous, and ſuperſtitious man, and, notwithſtanding his liberal education, with reſpect both to matter and form, an injudicious writer. The ſame perſon had a few years before made a voyage to St. Kilda, the moſt remote of the Weſtern iſlands, and, in 1698, publiſhed a deſcription thereof.

The defects of Martin, in the accounts given by him of the Hebrides, and the inhabitants of the ſe⯑veral iſles ſo called, are amply ſupplied by a late traveller thither, Mr. Pennant, who, in the years 1769 and 1772 made the tour of Scotland, and, with a curious and penetrating eye remarked all that ſeems to have been worthy of notice, reſpecting either the ſituation of the ſpots by him deſcribed, or the people whom neceſſity has doomed, or par⯑ticular circumſtances have led, to become dwellers there.

The extent of theſe iſlands, from north to ſouth, is computed at two hundred miles, and their medium width ſuch as, were they one continent, would make a country as large as Scotland. Of the inhabitants, thoſe of St. Kilda for inſtance, ſome are Chriſtians, reſembling, both in their religious tenets and the pu⯑rity of their lives, thoſe of the primitive times; others are of the Romiſh communion, and the reſt are of that denomination of proteſtants, who adhere to the reformation of that furious bigot John Knox. The civil conſtitution of theſe ſeveral tracts of land, for countries they are not to be called, is uniform: [475] it is feudatory, and of this the many caſtles and places of defence, every where viſible among them, in which their lords and chieftains reſide, are evident proofs. In extent of land they differ greatly: Sky, the largeſt of them, is above ſixty meaſured miles long; but, the greater number of them are leſs than four miles in length, and two in breadth. Iona, or Icolmkill, is but two miles long and one broad, yet, it was once an epiſcopal ſeat, and had on it a cathedral and a place of ſepulture, in which no fewer than forty-eight Scottiſh, eight Norwegian, and four Iriſh kings, are interred; and alſo, two monaſtic eſtabliſh⯑ments, the one for men, the other for women: the ruins of theſe edifices are yet remaining, and may be ſeen, accurately delineated, in Mr. Pennant's ‘'Tour in Scotland, and Voyage to the Hebrides,'’ made in 1772, and publiſhed in 1774. Others of theſe iſles are yet ſmaller: Cannay is three miles by one, and Staffa is a mile long, and half a mile broad, and has but one houſe.

The ſituation of theſe iſlands, in the boſom of the deep, expoſed to howling winds, and beating waves that excavate their very foundations, and rains whoſe intermiſſion is little more than caſual, together with the inconveniences of an exciſion from the continent, is a circumſtance ſo much againſt them, as to deprive the inhabitants of many of the greateſt ſocial com⯑forts, and the poſſibility of ſubſiſting under the want of them is hardly conceivable. It is true, that in ſome of the iſlands, neareſt the continent, the neceſſa⯑ries, and ſome of the luxuries, of life are attainable, by a communication with the neareſt ſhore; but extreme indigence is the lot of all the iſlanders, excepting their [476] chieftains, and the proprietors of land held in feudal ſubjection immediately under them. In the ſubordi⯑nate ranks, the condition of the people is ſo forlorn and deſtitute, that, were it not that they are as virtuous and innocent as they are poor, they muſt be deemed the moſt wretched inhabitants of the earth^*.

[477] The circumſtances of diſcrimination between theſe people and the reſt of mankind, are ſo many, and their characters, by conſequence, ſo different, their manners and cuſtoms ſo ſingular, and their mode of life ſo in⯑conſiſtent with all that can be conceived, even in the loweſt degree of civilization, that we are not to ſeek [478] for the motives which, at different times, have induced travellers to viſit them.

The iſlands which Johnſon and his friend ſaw, though few in compariſon with the whole number, [479] were ſome of the moſt conſiderable of the Hebrides; and his manner of deſcribing them and the inhabi⯑tants, as alſo, his reception, is entertaining; but it is not enough particular to render it intelligible to a ſtranger. In the relation of hiſtorical facts, and local circumſtances, Johnſon delighted not: whatever in⯑telligence came in his way, furniſhed him with mat⯑ter for reflection, and his book is rather a diſquiſition on Hebridian manners, than ſuch a deſcription of the iſlands and the people as it was in his power to give.

As an inſtance of Johnſon's inattention to hiſto⯑rical facts, let me mention his account of Icolmkill^*, called alſo Iona, which, though introduced by a ſen⯑timent that is admired for its piety and pathos of expreſſion, is ſo abrupt, as to diſpleaſe. He calls it that illuſtrious iſland which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence ſavage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge, and the bleſſings of religion; but who can read thus much, concerning a ſpot ſo dignified, without wiſhing, that the author had mentioned a few of thoſe hiſto⯑rical particulars, on which his reflections are founded? He might have told us from Bede, that the iſland takes its name from Columb, an abbot, who, about [480] the year 565, came from Ireland, and preached the Goſpel to the northern Picts, and was called the apoſtle of the Picts, and that Meliſchen their king, being converted to the faith of Chriſt, gave the abbot the iſle of Iona, by Bede called Hy or Hu, who built two churches thereon, in one whereof he is interred, and alſo a monaſtery.

Bede flouriſhed about 734, and may be ſaid to ſpeak from recent authority. Biſhop Gibſon has re⯑cogniſed his account, and adds, that in a little village here, or hereabout, named Sodor, or, as others call it, Soa, a biſhop's ſee was erected, from which all the adjacent iſles, including Iona, took the name of So⯑dorenſes: the juriſdiction thereof, he elſewhere ſays, was given to the biſhop of the iſle of Man, and hence ariſes the compound appellative, biſhop of Sodor and Man. In the firſt of theſe particulars, he, how⯑ever, ſtands corrected in a relation cited by Mr. Pen⯑nant, and founded on good authority, purporting, that during the time that the Norwegians were in poſſeſſion of the iſles, they divided them into two parts; the northern, which comprehended all that lay to the north of a certain promontory, and were, there⯑fore, called the Norderys; and the ſouthern, which were thoſe that lay to the ſouth thereof, and were, for a ſimilar reaſon, called the Suderys. Voyage to the Hebrides, 257.

I have ſome reaſon to think that, in writing the account of his journey to the Weſtern iſlands, John⯑ſon had in his eye one of the moſt delightful books of the like kind in our language, ‘'Maundrell's journey from Aleppo to Jeruſalem.'’ The motives that in⯑duced him to undertake a labour ſo formidable to a [481] man of his age, as his tour muſt be thought, I will not enquire into: doubtleſs, curioſity was one of them; but, it was curioſity directed to no peculiar object. He was neither an antiquary nor a natura⯑liſt; he had little acquaintance with the treaſures which lie below the ſurface of the earth; and for the ſtudy of botany he never diſcovered the leaſt re⯑liſh. If any particular ſubject may be ſaid to have engaged his attention, it muſt have been the manners of a people of whom he knew little but by report, the knowledge whereof might furniſh him with new topics for reflection and diſquiſition, an exerciſe of his mental powers which, of all others, he moſt de⯑lighted in. That in this employment he has con⯑ducted himſelf with that impartiality which becomes a lover of truth, the natives of the kingdom he viſited deny; and, that he carried out of this country the tem⯑per of a man who hoped for an hoſpitable reception among ſtrangers, few are ſo hardy as to aſſert. Accord⯑ingly, we find in his narrative an intermixture, not only of praiſe and blame, but of gratitude and invective.

The volume which this tour gave birth to may pro⯑perly be called a diſſertation, for it has ſcarcely any facts, and conſiſts chiefly in propoſitions which he hunts down, and enlivens with amuſing diſquiſition. As he ſays himſelf, on another occaſion, the negative cata⯑logue of particulars is very copious: what he did not ſee, what he could not learn, what he would not believe, what he did not enquire about, and what he is not ſure of, altogether form a conſiderable enumeration. Yet the merit of this tract is great; for, though I will admit that no one going his route could derive from him direction or intelligence; though no remembrance [482] could be refreſhed, nor remarks corroborated; be⯑cauſe his web was ſpun, not from objects that pre⯑ſented themſelves to his view, but from his own pre⯑exiſtent ideas; I am convinced, that every body muſt have regretted the omiſſion, had he, for any reaſon, withheld ſo entertaining a ſeries of reflections.

A reference to the work will diſcover both the cauſe and effect of the confined obſervation that muſt be remarked in it: he pofeſſes his views to be directed to life and manners: of the former, if taken in its general ſenſe, he could obtain a very ina⯑dequate knowledge who was entertained by the opu⯑lent, at the beſt houſes, with the beſt fare of the country, and who, while he ſuffered no inconveni⯑ence within doors, enquired after little without; and, of the latter he could gain little information, for the manners he moſt cloſely obſerved were imported from the places where ſouthern elegance is taught. His known love of eaſe precluded him from intelligence: all deficiencies by which he could ſuffer, the natural hoſpitality of thoſe to whom he was a gueſt, tempo⯑rarily ſupplied or concealed, and happy was it for him that he found not the ſame prejudices that he carried with him.

In all Johnſon's diſquiſitions, whether argumentative or critical, there is a certain even-handed juſtice that leaves the mind in a ſtrange perplexity. When he ſpeaks of the paucity of trees in Scotland, his indig⯑nation ſeems excited at the ſupineneſs it manifeſted. He ſays—‘'to drop a ſeed into the ground can coſt nothing, and the trouble is not great of protecting the young plant till it is out of danger.'—’In this the reader willingly acquieſces, and wonders, with [483] Johnſon, that plantation is neglected, till he is told in the concluſion of the paragraph, that it muſt be al⯑lowed difficult, where there is neither wood for pali⯑ſades, nor thorns for hedges. He again, in a ſubſe⯑quent page, reſumes the ſame kind of ſatirical admi⯑ration, which he balances by obſerving, that the land which covers future foreſts cannot be arable. This alſo is ſatisfactory: the queſtion of firſt importance certainly is—Where ſhall corn grow?—no one will deny, that food muſt be ſecured, before the delights of foliage, or the emoluments of timber are thought of. But all our wonder and regret at national inac⯑tivity, is diſſipated, when we are told, that Sir James Macdonald had made an experiment by planting ſeveral millions of trees, which the want of fences to keep the cattle off, had rendered abortive. Thus it is that he frequently raiſes an edifice, which appears founded and ſupported to reſiſt any attack; and then, with the next ſtroke, annihilates it, and leaves the va⯑cuity he found.

With reſpect to the inaccuracy he has been charged with, it muſt, in juſtice, be imputed to the defect of his perceptions: he neither ſaw nor heard clearly; and, though this might be urged againſt his attempt⯑ing to relate what he had met with or been told, it muſt be admitted in excuſe for any miſ-repreſenta⯑tion; ſince no one could acquire credit by doubting the uniform veracity of Johnſon. He candidly con⯑feſſes his inability, whenever he ſuſpected it; and owns, that his thoughts are the thoughts of one who has ſeen little.

I wiſh I could as readily apologize for the manner in which he ſpeaks of the people of that part of Scot⯑land [484] he viſited. He ſeems to think a barren ſoil diſgraceful to the proprietors; and his averſion is moſt excited, where he finds the comforts of life moſt ſparingly beſtowed: where he meets with refinement, he is placid, and is unwilling to depart from elegance; but, when he is diſpleaſed, or unſatisfied, he expreſſes himſelf with a keenneſs of ſatire, which, however it may delight by its poignancy, is not to be juſtified; and I have reaſon to think very highly, not only of the kindneſs which conſulted his humour, but of that temper and forbearance which reſtrained thoſe perſons who, while they were endeavouring to gratify him, received indubitable proof of his antipathy to their country.

But it is due to him to take notice, that in civility he has preſerved the ſame equilibrium as in argu⯑ment. If he has ſtigmatized Scotland as a country, and the Scots as a people, his compliments to indi⯑viduals, in ſome meaſure atone for it: they are judi⯑cious, elegant, and well conceived, and expreſs the ſenſe of gratitude proportioned to the favours he experienced.

I will not repeat, for I do not wiſh to perpetuate, thoſe paſſages that have given diſguſt. I have ever eſteemed the Scots as a brave, uſeful, and virtuous people, and ſhould be very ſorry if they imagined Johnſon's prejudices common to their ſouthern neighbours. If, in his journey acroſs their continent, he had remembered, that a very commendable and well-directed ſpirit of literary induſtry had diſtin⯑guiſhed them, and, when among the Hebridians, that a perpetual ſtruggle againſt difficulties, and a pa⯑tient toleration of irremediable evils, is eminently [485] laudable, I am perſuaded he would have written with leſs aſperity, and that his remarks would not have given that offence which I cannot but own well founded.

It is no leſs to be lamented, that he left not behind him thoſe prejudices againſt the eccleſiaſtical eſtab⯑liſhment of Scotland and the religious perſuaſion of the people, which, though in England they gave little offence, could not, in that kingdom, be indulged without the ſuſpicion of bigotry. It is pretty well agreed that, between the church of England and that of Scotland, the queſtions in diſpute relate not to doctrines, but to diſcipline, which, in the judgment of many ſober perſons, is numbered among things indifferent. Being in a country of which Chriſtianity, in its utmoſt purity, is the religion, it might have been expected, that Johnſon, with a true catholic ſpirit, and as a teſtimony of reſpect for their teachers, would occaſionally have been preſent at divine ſervice in their churches; but his narrative contains not the leaſt hint of any ſuch compliance, though he has noted his joining in public worſhip at the Engliſh non-juring epiſcopal chapel at Aberdeen^*.

From a tour to which he had no ſtronger an incen⯑tive, from which he was ſo little able to extract plea⯑ſure, and which had occaſioned a ſuſpenſion of the enjoyments he found in a metropolis, it ſeems at firſt wonderful, that he ſhould have returned ſatisfied: [486] that he did ſo is certain; and it muſt be attributed to the gratification he felt in the reſpect that had been paid to him, in ſeeing the celebrity he had acquired, and in increaſing the ſtock of his ideas.

Had Johnſon been more explicit in his acknow⯑ledgments of the hoſpitable and courteous treatment he experienced from a people, who had reaſon to look on him rather as a ſpy than a traveller, and might have ſaid to him—‘'To diſcover the naked⯑neſs of the land are ye come,'—’he would have given a proof, that he had, in ſome degree, overcome his prejudices againſt them and their country; but they ſeemed to be unconquerable.

One of the laſt duties we learn, is that of conſi⯑dering mankind as one great family, and the natives of foreign countries, however differing from us in opinions, manners, cuſtoms, and other particulars, as ſtanding in the ſame relation with ourſelves to the common Father of us all: a duty which leads us, as Thompſon elegantly expreſſes it, to

Johnſon's prejudices were too ſtrong to permit him to extend his philanthropy much beyond the limits of his native country, and the pale of his own church; and, that he was unable to conquer his habits of think⯑ing and judging, is the only apology that can be offered for his aſperity towards the people whoſe country and manners he, in his journey above ſpoken of, has taken upon him to deſcribe; or that he has forborne to diſplay any ſuch generous ſentiments reſpecting the inhabitants of Scotland as others have done who have viſited that country.

[487] In the cloſe of his book he might have at large expreſſed ſome ſenſe of gratitude for the many courteſies that had been ſhewn him. He might at leaſt have ſaid, ‘'the barbarous people ſhewed us much kindneſs;'’ but the laſt paragraph is frigid and unanimated to an exceſs of affectation, and muſt ever ſuffer by a compariſon with the concluſion of Mr. Pennant's Tour, which, as well for its elegance, as the benevolent ſpirit which it evidences, I here inſert.

‘'I look back to the North, and with a grateful mind acknowledge every benefit I received, from the remoteſt of the Hebrides to the preſent ſpot; whether I think of the hoſpitality of the rich, or the efforts of unblameable poverty, ſtraining every nerve to accommodate me, amidſt dreary hills and ungenial ſkies. The little accidents of diet or of lodging, affect not me: I look farther than the mere differences of living or of cuſtoms, to the good heart, and extenſive benevolence, which ſoftens every hardſhip, and turns into delicacies the groſſeſt fare. My conſtitution never yet was diſpoſed to apathy, for which I can claim no merit, but am thankful to the author of my frame.'—’And, in a quotation from the Religio Medici of Sir Thomas Brown, he adds:—‘"I feel not in myſelf thoſe common antipathies that I can diſcover in others: thoſe national repugnancies do not touch me; nor do I behold with prejudice the French, Italian, Spaniard, or Dutch, much more my fellow⯑ſubjects, howſoever remotely placed from me. But, where I find their actions in balance with my coun⯑trymen's, I honour, love, and embrace them in [488] ſome degree. I was born in the right climate, but ſeem to be framed and conſtellated unto all: all places, all airs, make unto me one country; I am in England every where and under every me⯑ridian."’

I muſt here obſerve, as it was a circumſtance that gave him ſome trouble after his return to England, that during his ſtay in the Hebrides, Johnſon was very induſtrious in his enquiries touching the Earſe language, with a view to aſcertain the degree of credit due to certain poems then lately publiſhed and aſ⯑cribed to Oſſian, an ancient bard, who, till then, had ſcarce been heard of. His opinion, upon the queſtion of their genuineneſs, is pretty deciſive, and will ap⯑pear beſt in his own words.

No ſooner did this ſtrong and unequivocal de⯑claration of Johnſon's opinion of the poems of Oſſian appear, than Mr. James Macpherſon, the publiſher of them, not only repelled the charge of forgery therein contained, but, in a letter to the author of it, threatened him with corporal chaſtiſement. If Mr. Macpherſon had known his man, he would pro⯑bably have forborne the thought of ſuch a revenge. To ſhew his contempt of him and all that he was able to do that could hurt him, Johnſon returned the following brief but ſpirited anſwer:

Whether Johnſon was apprehenſive that his adver⯑ſary would put his threat in execution, or that he meant to ſhew all who came to ſee him, that he ſtood upon his guard, he provided himſelf with a weapon, both of the defenſive and offenſive kind. It was an oak-plant of a tremendous ſize; a plant, I ſay, and not a ſhoot or branch, for it had had a root, which being trimmed to the ſize of a large orange, became the head of it. Its height was upwards of ſix feet, and from about an inch in diameter at the lower end, increaſed to near three: this he kept in his bed-chamber, ſo near the chair in which he con⯑ſtantly ſat, as to be within reach.

But this precaution for his defence turned out to be unneceſſary. Johnſon's letter, above inſerted, put an end to the diſpute between him and Macpherſon; but, by other perſons, it was continued with a degree of aſperity equal to that which was ſhewn in the con⯑troverſy [492] concerning the genuineneſs of Phalaris's epiſtles, and with as much acuteneſs as that which tended to aſcertain the queſtion, whether the poems lately aſcribed to Rowlie are not forgeries. Mode⯑rators have alſo interpoſed, as there did in the diſpute about the authenticity of the Sybilline oracles, and with as little ſucceſs: the world remains, and is likely ever to remain, without ſatisfaction in reſpect of either the one or the other.

Before this time, Johnſon had undertaken to reviſe the former edition of his Shakeſpeare, and extend his plan, by admitting the corrections and illuſtrations of various other commentators. He therefore, in con⯑junction with Mr. George Steevens, publiſhed in 1773, a new edition of that author, in ten octavo volumes, which was republiſhed with additions in 1778.

In 1774, the parliament having been diſſolved, and Mr. Wilkes perſiſting in his endeavours to be⯑come a repreſentative in that which was about to be choſen, Johnſon addreſſed to the electors of Great Britain a pamphlet, entitled ‘'The Patriot;'’ the de⯑ſign whereof is to guard them from impoſition, and teach them to diſtinguiſh that which, of itſelf ſeems ſufficiently obvious, the difference between true and falſe patriotiſm; but the madneſs of the people was then at its height, and they needed to be told how often in their lucid intervals they had lamented the deceits practiſed on them by artful and deſigning men. With this view, he deſcribes a patriot, as one whoſe public conduct is regulated by one ſingle mo⯑tive, the love of his country; who, as an agent in parliament, has, for himſelf, neither hope nor fear, neither kindneſs nor reſentment, but refers every [493] thing to the common intereſt. Theſe, and other marks of patriotiſm by him pointed out, he allows to be ſuch as artifice may counterfeit, or folly miſ⯑apply; but he enumerates ſeveral characteriſtical modes of ſpeaking and acting, which may prove a man not to be a patriot; which diſcrimination he illuſtrates in ſundry inſtances, by pointed references to the conduct of many of thoſe men who were courting the favour of the people: theſe, an abridg⯑ment would injure, and I therefore give them in his own words: ‘'It may ſafely be pronounced, that thoſe men are no patriots, who, when the nati⯑onal honour was vindicated in the ſight of Europe, and the Spaniards having invaded what they call their own, had ſhrunk to a diſavowal of their at⯑tempt, and a relaxation of their claim, would ſtill have inſtigated us to a war for a bleak and barren ſpot in the Magellanic ocean, of which no uſe could be made, unleſs it were a place of exile for the hy⯑pocrites of patriotiſm.—He that wiſhes to ſee his country robbed of its rights, cannot be a pa⯑triot. That man, therefore, is no patriot, who juſtifies the ridiculous claims of American uſur⯑pation; who endeavours to deprive the nation of its natural and lawful authority over its own colo⯑nies, thoſe colonies which were ſettled under Eng⯑liſh protection, were conſtituted by an Engliſh char⯑ter, and have been defended by Engliſh arms. To ſuppoſe, that, by ſending out a colony, the nation eſtabliſhed an independent power; that when, by indulgence and favour, emigrants are become rich, they ſhall not contribute to their own defence, but at their own pleaſure, and that they ſhall not be [494] included, like millions of their fellow ſubjects, in the general ſyſtem of repreſentation, involves ſuch an accumulation of abſurdity, as nothing but the ſhew of patriotiſm would palliate.'—’His laſt de⯑ſignation of the claſs of men whom he means to ſtig⯑matiſe, is the following:—‘'That man is not a pa⯑triot, who denies his governors their due praiſe, and who conceals from the public the benefits which they receive. Thoſe, therefore, can lay no claim to this illuſtrious appellation, who impute want of public ſpirit to the late parliament; an aſſembly of men, whom, notwithſtanding ſome fluctuations of counſel, and ſome weakneſs of agency, the nation muſt always remember with gratitude, ſince it is indebted to them for a very ample conceſſion in the reſignation of protections, and a wiſe and honeſt attempt to improve the conſtitution, in the new judi⯑cature inſtituted to try elections.'’

Johnſon publiſhed alſo in 1775, a pamphlet intitled, ‘'Taxation no Tyranny,'’ an anſwer to the reſolutions and addreſs of the American congreſs; in which, as the ground of his argument, he aſſumes as ſelf-evident, the following propoſition:

With much wit does he ridicule, and with force of reaſoning refute, the arguments founded on the in⯑ability of the Americans to bear taxation, their powers of reſiſtance, the ſtubbornneſs of their tempers, and the profits accruing to this country by its commerce with them: theſe, he tells us, are uſed only as auxiliaries to that other, which, as he briefly ſtates it, is—‘'that to tax the colonies is uſurpation and oppreſſion, an in⯑vaſion of natural and legal rights, and a violation of thoſe principles which ſupport the conſtitution of the Engliſh government.'’

He next conſiders the legal conſequences of migra⯑tion from a mother-country, and afterwards proceeds to an examination of that fallacious poſition, that from [496] an Engliſhman nothing can be taken but by his own conſent, and of the argument grounded thereon, that the Americans, being unrepreſented in parliament, cannot be ſaid to have conſented in their corporate capacity, and that, refuſing their conſent as individuals, they cannot legally be taxed.

Of this he ſays, that ‘'it is a poſition of a mighty ſound, but that every man that utters it, with what⯑ever confidence, and every man that hears it, with whatever acquieſcence, if conſent be ſuppoſed to imply the power of refuſal, feels to be falſe, for that, in wide extended dominions, the buſineſs of the pub⯑lic muſt be done by delegation, and the choice of delegates is by a ſelect number of electors, who are often far from unanimity in their choice; and where the numbers approach to equality, almoſt half muſt be governed, not only without, but againſt their choice.'’ Of thoſe, who are not electors, he ſays:—‘'they ſtand idle and helpleſs ſpectators of the common⯑weal, wholly unconcerned in the government of them⯑ſelves.'’ The reſolution of the Congreſs, that their an⯑ceſtors, who firſt ſettled the colonies, were, at the time of their emigration from the mother-country, entitled to all the rights, liberties, and immunities of free and natural-born ſubjects within the realm of England, he admits; but granting it, he contends, that their boaſt of original rights is at an end, and that, by their emi⯑gration, they ſunk down into coloniſts, governed by a charter; and that though, by ſuch emigration, they had not forfeited, ſurrendered, or loſt, any of thoſe rights, they had loſt them by natural effects, that is to ſay, had abandoned them.—‘'A man,' ſays he, 'can be but in one place at once; he cannot have the ad⯑vantages [497] of multiplied reſidence. He that will en⯑joy the brightneſs of ſunſhine, muſt quit the coolneſs of the ſhade. And though an emigrant, having a right to vote for a knight or burgeſs, by croſſing the Atlantic does not nullify that right, he renders the exertion of it no longer poſſible.—But the privileges of an American,' adds he, 'ſcorn the limits of place; they are part of himſelf, and can⯑not be loſt by departure from his country; they float in the air, or glide under the ocean.'’

He next conſiders the legal operation of charters, and forgets not to note, that from the exemption of the firſt ſettlers in Maſſachuſet's bay from taxes for ſeven years, it muſt be inferred, that at the end thereof they were liable to taxation.

It is not my purpoſe to give at length the ſeveral arguments contained in this moſt excellent pamphlet. I ſhall, therefore, content myſelf with extracting from it a few paſſages, which ſtand diſtinguiſhed from others, either by their wit, or the ſtrength of reaſoning diſplayed in them. Of that claſs are theſe that follow:

To the menaces of the heroes of Boſton, that they would leave their town and be free, rather than ſubmit to the ſtamp-act, in which caſe he ſays, they would leave good houſes to wiſer men, he oppoſes this ſober advice:

In a more ſerious ſtrain of reaſoning, he thus argues: ‘'Our colonies, however diſtant, have been hitherto treated as conſtituent parts of the Britiſh empire. The inhabitants, incorporated by Engliſh charters, are entitled to all the rights of Engliſhmen. They are governed by Engliſh laws, entitled to Engliſh dignities, regulated by Engliſh counſels, and pro⯑tected by Engliſh arms; and it ſeems to follow by conſequence not eaſily avoided, that they are ſub⯑ject to Engliſh government, and chargeable by Eng⯑liſh taxation.'’

The above citations are evidences of Johnſon's ſkill in political controverſy, and are but ſlight ſpe⯑cimens of that ſpecies of oratory which delights the ear, and convinces the underſtanding. With reſpect to logical preciſion, and ſtrength of argument, the tracts, from whence they are ſeverally taken, defy all com⯑pariſon; and, as they abound in wit, and diſcover nothing of that acrimony which diſgraces former controverſies, the Diſciplinarian and Bangorian not excepted, may be conſidered as ſtanding exemplars of polemical eloquence, and political ratiocination.

The friends of ſedition and rebellion were highly exaſperated againſt Johnſon for his interfering, by theſe publications, in the debate of political queſtions: they were provoked to ſee ſuch talents as his employed in expoſing the malignity of faction, and detecting [500] the artifices of thoſe, who, by ſpecious oratory and falſe reaſoning, were courting popularity, and deluding the inhabitants of this country into a reſignation of their rights. It was not, ſaid they, for a man of his abſtracted genius, a philoſopher, a moraliſt, and a poet, to concern himſelf in the contentions be⯑tween a parent-ſtate and its offspring. The muſes, gentle creatures! are of no party: they

And, in conformity to this character, it behoved him to be a ſilent ſpectator of all that was paſſing, and leave the agitation of political queſtions to men, whoſe malevolence comprehended in it all the qua⯑lifications neceſſary in the courſe of ſuch a war⯑fare^*.

But Johnſon was of another mind: he was con⯑ſcious of his own abilities, and felt within himſelf ſuch powers of reaſoning, ſuch a knowledge of the principles of civil policy, as qualified him for a conteſt, not with American planters, or colony agents, but with tumid orators, factious lawyers, and intereſted ſelfiſh merchants. And, in this exerciſe of his pen, [501] he was not leſs ſincere than formidable. Admitting him to be a tory, he was a friend to both the eccleſi⯑aſtical and civil eſtabliſhment of his country; and he thought it his duty, as a good ſubject, when the legiſ⯑lative authority was denied, to refute the arguments of ſuch as reſiſted it.

It has been inſinuated, that in his vindication of the meaſures of government, as contained in the ſeveral pamphlets before cited, Johnſon had an eye rather to the obligation which his penſion implied, than to the queſtions in debate. This, if it could be proved, might be an objection to his integrity, but ſets him but on a level with his opponents, whoſe apparent and known motive to oppoſition and clamour was the deſire of popularity, as a means, whereby the ambi⯑tious among them hoped to attain power, and the indigent to acquire places or emoluments; and who will ſay, that an itch for vulgar applauſe is not as corrupt a motive to an action as any that can be im⯑puted to one in Johnſon's ſituation? But with matters of opinion, motives have nothing to do: arguments alone are the weapons of controverſy. With reſpect to the firſt pamphlet, ‘'The Falſe Alarm,'’ the queſtion there agitated was, whether the expulſion of a member of one of the houſes of parliament, by a majority of votes, imported a deſign on the liberties of the peo⯑ple; and impartial poſterity, which muſt decide upon it, will look no farther than to the reaſoning of each party.

Of thoſe who endeavour at this time to excite ſuſ⯑picions of this nature, it may be truly ſaid, that they underſtand neither the conſtitution, nor the politics of this country; nor do they know, that the former [502] is now ſo amended by the conceſſions which, ſince the reſtoration, have been made by the crown to the people, that leſs is to be feared from princes or their miniſters, who are ever reſponſible for their conduct, than from artful and deſigning men, ſtimulated by ambition, or provoked by diſappointment, and fur⯑niſhed with the faſcinating powers of popular elo⯑quence.

I forbear to animadvert on the two next ſucceeding pamphlets, ‘'Falkland's iſlands,'’ and ‘'The Patriot;'’ but ſhall obſerve that the laſt of the four, ‘'Taxation no Tyranny,'’ has not only never received an anſwer, but the converſe of the propoſition has never yet been ſo proved, by arguments founded on legal principles, as to make a vindication of Johnſon's reaſoning ne⯑ceſſary, for any other purpoſe, than that of preventing the ignorant from being miſled. The principle aſ⯑ſumed by Johnſon, that ‘'the ſupreme power of every community has the right of requiring from all its ſubjects ſuch contributions as are neceſſary to the public ſafety, or public proſperity,'’ is as ſelf-evident, as that obedience is due from children to parents, and is not refuted by the aſſertion, that the conſent of thoſe who are required thus to contribute, is ne⯑ceſſary, for, were it ſo, what becomes of the right? Neither is the poſition, that taxation and repreſentation are correlative, to be admitted as a principle of the Engliſh conſtitution, ſeeing it does not, nor ever did, exiſt as a part of it; and that the far greater number of the ſubjects of England, men who are not free⯑holders to a certain amount, copyholders, who are a third of the landholders in this kingdom, and all women, are unrepreſented in parliament, and bound by laws enacted by the repreſentatives of others, but [503] in no ſenſe of themſelves. In cities, and boroughs, the repreſentation is often of the meaneſt of the people; in London, for inſtance, where a mechanic, if he be a liveryman, has a vote, and a freeholder, wanting that qualification, though aſſeſſed ever ſo high to the land-tax, has none.

This aſſertion might poſſibly have place in a ſtate about to be founded, as none ever was or is likely to be, on ſolemn agreement, or that political fiction called an original contract; but, the conſtitution of a ſtate already formed, is to be taken as we find it. Nor has any one of thoſe who deny the right of a mother⯑country to tax its colonies, attempted to prove an exemption, by any arguments than are to be found in Mr. Locke's Eſſay on Government, a diſ⯑courſe of general import, and which applies to no ex⯑iſting conſtitution on earth^*.

The above tracts, as they contain no evidence of a perſonal attachment of the author to thoſe who, at the reſpective times of their appearance, had the direction of the public councils, are a refutation of all thoſe ſlanders which they drew on him; and, as [504] the ſubjects of them, ſeverally, are queſtions of the greateſt national importance, ſufficiently diſtinguiſh him from thoſe hireling ſcribblers, who, in the con⯑teſts of factions, are retained on the ſide of either party, and whom the vulgar ſtyle political writers. In like manner did Addiſon and Hoadly employ their talents: they were both friends of government, and wrote in defence of the public meaſures, and not only eſcaped obloquy, but were and ſtill are celebrated as lovers of their country.

I have hitherto forborne to ſpeak, otherwiſe than in general terms, of Johnſon's political principles; but, the taſk of reviewing the tracts above cited, has revived in my memory many of his ſentiments, which, at different times, he communicated to me, on the ſubjects of government, the Engliſh conſtitution, and the motives to party oppoſition. That he was a tory, he not only never heſitated to confeſs, but, by his frequent invectives againſt the whigs, was forward to proclaim: yet, was he not ſo beſotted in his no⯑tions, as to abett what is called the patriarchal ſcheme, as delineated by Sir Robert Filmer and other writers on government; nor, with others of a more ſober caſt, to acquieſce in the opinion that, becauſe ſubmiſ⯑ſion to governors is, in general terms, inculcated in the Holy Scriptures, the reſiſtance of tyranny and op⯑preſſion is, in all caſes, unlawful: he ſeemed rather to adopt the ſentiments of Hooker on the ſubject, as ex⯑plained by Hoadly, and, by conſequence, to look on ſubmiſſion to lawful authority as a moral obligation: he, therefore, condemned the conduct of James the ſecond during his ſhort reign; and, had he been a ſubject of that weak and infatuated monarch, would, [505] I am perſuaded, have reſiſted any invaſion of his right, or unwarrantable exertion of power, with the ſame ſpirit, as did the preſident and fellows of Mag⯑dalen college, or thoſe conſcientious divines the ſeven biſhops. This diſpoſition, as it leads to whiggiſm, one would have thought, might have reconciled him to the memory of his ſucceſſor, whoſe exerciſe of the regal authority among us merited better returns than were made him; but, it had no ſuch effect: he never ſpoke of king William but in terms of reproach, and, in his opinion of him, ſeemed to adopt all the preju⯑dices of jacobite bigotry and rancour.

For the Engliſh conſtitution, as originally framed, he ever expreſſed a profound reverence. He under⯑ſtood it well, and had noted in his mind the changes it had at various periods undergone, that is to ſay, firſt, in the reign of Hen. VII. when the yeomanry were put into a ſtate of competition with the nobility; afterwards, when by the abolition of tenures, and the putting down the court of wards and liveries, occaſion was given to Sir Harbottle Grimſton to ſay that, in that tranſaction, neither did the crown know what it loſt, nor the people what they had gained; and laſtly, by the erecting a monied, in oppoſition to the landed, intereſt, and the introduction of the ſcience and practice of funding.

He, therefore, looked not on Magna Charta as the palladium of our liberties, (knowing full well, that, excepting that chapter thereof, which has been ſo often partially cited, that is to ſay, with the omiſſion of the words, vel per legem terrae^*, very little of the [506] whole ſtatute will apply to the conſtitution in its now improved ſtate;) but to the ſubſequent conceſſions of the crown in favour of the people, ſuch as are the petition of right, the habeas-corpus act, the bill of rights, and numercus other ſtatutes of a like beneficial tendency.

To party-oppoſition he ever expreſſed great aver⯑ſion; and, of the pretences of patriots, always ſpoke with indignation and contempt. He partook of the ſhort-lived joy that infatuated the public, when Sir Robert Walpole ceaſed to have the direction of the national councils, and truſted to the profeſſions of Mr. Pulteney and his adherents, who called themſelves the country-party, that all elections ſhould thenceforward be free and uninfluenced, and that bribery and cor⯑ruption, which were never practiſed but by courtiers and their agents, ſhould be no more. A few weeks, nay, a few days, convinced Johnſon, and indeed all England, that what had aſſumed the appearance of patriotiſm, was perſonal hatred and inveterate malice in ſome, and in others, an ambition for that power, which, when they had got it, they knew not how to exerciſe. A change of men, and in ſome reſpect, of meaſures, took place; Mr. Pulteney's ambition was gratified by a peerage; the wants of his aſſociates were relieved by places, and ſeats at the public boards; and, in a ſhort time, the ſtream of government reſumed its former channel, and ran with a current as even as it had ever done.

[507] Upon this development of the motives, the views, and the conſiſtency of the above-mentioned band of patriots, Johnſon once remarked to me, that it had given more ſtrength to government than all that had been written in its defence, meaning thereby, that it had deſtroyed all confidence in men of that character. Little did he then think, that the people of this country would again be deluded, by fallacious reaſoning and ſpecious eloquence, into a fruitleſs expenditure of near one hundred millions, or that ſtatues would ever be erected to eternize the memory of a miniſter, of whom, in 1771, he ſaid it would be happy if the nation ſhould diſmiſs him to nameleſs obſcurity.

Hiſtory has been ſaid to be philoſophy teaching by example, and well would it be for mankind, if they would convert events into precepts, and not poſtpone their care to prevent evils, till their own ex⯑perience ſhall have brought them home to themſelves. New generations of men ariſe in ſucceſſion, who, in the nonage of their faculties, are credulous, weak, and open to deceit: theſe, unhackneyed in the ways of the world, truſt to the profeſſions of all who pretend a friendſhip for them; and, when they are told they are ill governed, are as ready, as were the Iſraelites of old, to murmur againſt their rulers. And let all be ſaid that can of a principle in men inveſted with power, to abuſe it and become tyrants, the hiſtory of the world will inform us, that there is alſo a diſeaſe, which the Scriptures emphatically term, the madneſs of the people, from which evils greater than from deſpotiſm are to be feared, and that government, even where it is beſt adminiſtered, ſubſiſts more by force than by the conſent of thoſe who derive benefit from it. [508] What an advantage, then, does this diſpoſition in a people give to ambitious men, endowed with that kind of eloquence, which faſcinates without conviction, and, while it delights, ſtupifies!

His frequent reflections on the politics of this country, and the willingneſs of the people to be de⯑ceived, had begot in Johnſon ſuch an apathy, as ren⯑dered him deaf to the calls of thoſe who were watching over our deareſt rights. When the cry was loudeſt againſt general warrants, he took not the alarm; and, when they were declared illegal, he proteſted to me, that he would, at no time of his life, have given half a crown to be for ever indemnified againſt their ope⯑ration. The queſtion of the legality of that kind of proceſs is now at an end, and I will not arraign the deciſion that condemned it; but it will ever remain a queſtion, whether we have not loſt more by it than we have gained; and, that the friends of liberty, par⯑ticularly the citizens of London, may be enabled to diſcuſs it, I will furniſh them with a few facts, that I believe they have never yet been aware of.

Few are ſo ignorant as not to know, that the Engliſh manufactures excel thoſe of all other coun⯑tries; but many there are who need to be told, that the time may come, when they ſhall ceaſe to maintain that character. Many of the princes of Europe have become emulous of our greatneſs, and have long been labouring to eſtabliſh, in their dominions, ſuch articles of trade, as ſhould not only rival our's, but, in reſpect of cheapneſs, gain a preference at foreign markets. To this end, it has, for ſome years paſt, been the practice of the emiſſaries of foreign courts, by their agents, and the temptation of large [509] premiums, to engage artificers to leave this country, and, taking with them their wives and families, as alſo their engines, tools, and implements of their reſpec⯑tive trades, to ſettle abroad. Clothiers, weavers, frame-work-knitters, watch-makers, and men of va⯑rious other occupations, have been the people whom they have chiefly thus inveigled, and have, from time to time, in great numbers, in ſhips provided and ſtationed for the purpoſe, tranſported out of the kingdom. To check this practice, acts of parliament have been made, which lay ſuch emigrants under great diſabilities, even to the depriving them of the privileges of ſubjects, and others that inflict heavy penalties on thoſe that ſeduce them; and the aid of government has been frequently implored to reſtrain, in their flight from their native land, ſhip-loads of the moſt uſeful of all ſubjects. The method has uniformly been, upon information given at his office, for a ſecretary of ſtate to iſſue his warrant, a general one, that is to ſay, without any ſpecification of names, to ſtop the ſailing of the veſſel, which, perhaps, was lying at Wapping, Ratcliff, or Blackwall, ready with the tide to depart. Warrants of this kind ſeldom failed of their effect; the emigrants were ſeized, and the miſchief prevented.

This relief it is now not in the power of govern⯑ment or its miniſters to grant: the anſwer to ſuch an application is now, and muſt be—‘'General warrants have been determined to be illegal: furniſh us with the names of the perſons whom you would have ap⯑prehended, or we cannot help you^*.'’

[510] The licence, which this determination affords, has already begun to operate, and, perhaps, in no inſtance more than in the article of watches. For many years paſt, this manufacture has flouriſhed to ſuch a degree, that large fortunes have been acquired by it, and that chiefly in our commerce with Spain, in which country, a watch, fabricated in England, has been deemed a preſent for a grandee, and even for a ſovereign prince. It is well known, that the late king of Spain was extremely fond of clocks and watches, and that he was uſed, by letters in his own hand-writing, to correſpond with Mr. Ellicot on the ſubject of his art; and, that this ingenious artificer [511] learnt the Spaniſh language, to enable him to main⯑tain the correſpondence with his majeſty. Since that time, the French, and alſo the Genevans, have become our rivals in this curious ſpecies of mechaniſm, and we have lately experienced, that Engliſh watches no longer find their vent abroad^*. The woollen, the ſilk, the linen, and the cotton manufactures have been obliged to the legiſlature for aſſiſtance againſt the endeavours of other European powers, to eſtab⯑liſh them in their ſeveral countries, where, as labour is cheaper than it is with us, they would have a good chance to flouriſh, and exclude us from foreign markets.

Theſe miſchiefs have followed from the reſtraint of a power, which, as it had oftener been exerciſed for the benefit of the trade and manufactures of this kingdom, than to the hurt of individuals, might well have been ſuffered to remain where it was, eſpecially as the miniſters thereof were, at all times, reſponſible for any abuſe of it.

The probable conſequence of this innovation will be, that in a few years, we ſhall ſee the French and neighbouring nations excel us as much in other manufactures, as they already do in thoſe of camb⯑rick and paper, in printing, and other of the manual arts.

[512] The calamities which enſue from the ſtagnation of commerce, are many and grievous, and, when theſe begin to be felt, as they ſhortly may, thoſe good people of this country, who have of late been ſo clamorous for liberty, may recover their wits, and be half perſuaded, that a ſinking trade, empty ware⯑houſes and unfurniſhed ſhops are greater evils than any loyal and peaceable ſubject need fear from the operation of a general warrant.

The publication of Johnſon's political tracts, ex⯑hibited him to the world in a new character: he ceaſed now to be conſidered as one who, having been occu⯑pied in literary ſtudies, and more converſant with books than with men, knew little of active life, the views of parties, or the artifices of deſigning men: on the contrary, they diſcovered that he had, by the force of his own genius, and the obſervations he had made on the hiſtory of our own and other countries, attained to ſuch ſkill in the grand leading principles of political ſcience, as are ſeldom acquired by thoſe in the moſt active and important ſtations, even after long experience; and that, whatever opinions he might have formed on this ſubject, he had ability by ſtrong reaſoning to defend, and by a manly and con⯑vincing eloquence to enforce.

Mr. Thrale, a man of ſlow conceptions, but of a ſound judgment, was not one of the laſt that diſ⯑cerned in his friend this talent, and believing, that the exerciſe of it might redound to the benefit of the public, entertained a deſign of bringing Johnſon into parliament. We muſt ſuppoſe that he had previouſly determined to furniſh him with a legal qualification, and Johnſon, it is certain, was willing to accept the [513] truſt. Mr. Thrale had two meetings with the mi⯑niſter, who, at firſt, ſeemed inclined to find him a ſeat; but, whether upon converſation he doubted his fitneſs for his purpoſe, or that he thought himſelf in no need of his aſſiſtance, the project failed.

Had it ſucceeded, and Johnſon become a member of the houſe of commons, as he was one of the moſt correct ſpeakers ever known^*, he would undoubtedly have exhibited to that aſſembly a perfect model of ſenatorial eloquence; and might probably have pre⯑vented the introduction therein of a great number of words, phraſes, and forms of ſpeech, to which neither dictionaries, nor the example of any Engliſh writer of authority, have given a ſanction^†.

Johnſon was a little ſoured at this diſappoint⯑ment: he ſpoke of lord North in terms of aſperity, as indeed he did of all thoſe miniſters whoſe councils indicated a want of ſpirit to carry into action the meaſures which were reſolved on as expedient: in which particular, the above miniſter muſt ſurely [514] be exculpated, whoſe deſigns, it is too well known, were blaſted by thoſe to whom the execution of them was committed. Of the abilities of Mr. Grenville, he alſo entertained but a mean opinion, for his giving up the Manila ranſom.—‘'Grenville,' he would ſay, if he 'could have got the Manila ranſom, was able to have counted the money, but he knew not how to enforce the payment of it.'’ Of Sir Robert Walpole, not⯑withſtanding that he had written againſt him in the early part of his life, he had a high opinion: he ſaid of him, that he was a fine fellow, and that his very enemies deemed him ſo before his death: he ho⯑noured his memory for having kept this country in peace many years, as alſo for the goodneſs and placa⯑bility of his temper; of which Pulteney, earl of Bath, thought ſo highly, that, in a converſation with John⯑ſon, he ſaid, that Sir Robert was of a temper ſo calm and equal, and ſo hard to be provoked, that he was very ſure he never felt the bittereſt invectives againſt him for half an hour^*. To the ſame purpoſe, Johnſon related the following anecdote, which he ſaid he had [515] from lord North: Sir Robert having got into his hands ſome treaſonable letters of his inveterate enemy, Will. Shippen, one of the heads of the Jacobite fac⯑tion, he ſent for him, and burned them before his face. Some time afterwards, Shippen had occaſion to take the oaths to the government in the houſe of commons, which, while he was doing, Sir Robert, who ſtood next him, and knew his principles to be the ſame as ever, ſmiled:—‘'Egad Robin,' ſaid Shippen, who had obſerved him, 'that's hardly fair.'’

It is not a little wonderful, that Sir Robert Wal⯑pole could preſerve ſuch an equanimity under the greateſt provocations, as he is known to have done, or that he could entertain a kindneſs for any one, ſeeing he is known to have aſſerted, that every man has his price; to which I will add, from unqueſtion⯑able authority, that ſome time before his death, he uttered this ſentiment—‘'that ſo great is the depra⯑vity of the human heart, that miniſters, who only could know it, were, in charity to mankind, bound to keep it a ſecret.'—’Agreeable to this of Dr. Young,

In the year 1775, Johnſon received from the univer⯑ſity of Oxford the higheſt teſtimony of eſteem, which that learned body could confer, in a diploma creating him a doctor in the faculty of law. The inſtrument bears date the thirtieth day of March, in the above year, and recites the motives for this honourable diſtinction in [516] the following eulogium:—‘'Sciatis, virum illuſtrem, Samuelem Johnſon, in omni humaniorum literarum genere eruditum, omniumque ſcientiarum compre⯑henſione feliciſſimum, ſcriptis ſuis, ad popularium mores formandos ſummâ verborum elegantiâ ac ſententiarum gravitate compoſitis, ita olim incla⯑ruiſſe, ut dignus videretur cui ab academiâ ſuâ eximia quaedam laudis praemia deferrentur, quique in venerabilem magiſtrorum ordinem ſummâ cum dignitate co-optaretur. Cum vero eundem clariſſi⯑mum virum tot poſtea tantique labores, in patriâ praeſertim linguâ ornandâ et ſtabiliendâ feliciter impenſi, ita inſigniverint, ut in literarum repub⯑licâ princeps jam et primarius jure habeatur, Nos Cancellarius, &c.'’

In the ſummer of the ſame year, Johnſon ac⯑cepted of an invitation from his friend Mr. Thrale, to make one of a party with him and his wiſe, in a tour to Paris. No memoirs of this journey, in his own hand-writing, are extant; nor is the want thereof to be regretted, unleſs it were certain, that he was enough maſter of the French language to be able to converſe in it^*, and that he had noted down the reflections he may be ſuppoſed to have made in a viſit to a ſtrange country, and a reſidence among a people whoſe national character differs from our own. His garb and mode of dreſſing, if it could be called dreſſing, had long been ſo inflexibly determined, as [517] to reſiſt all the innovations of faſhion. His friends had therefore great difficulty in perſuading him to ſuch a compliance in this reſpect, as might ſerve to keep them in countenance, and ſecure him from the danger of ridicule: he yielded to their remonſtrances ſo far as to dreſs in a ſuit of black and a Bourgeois wig, but reſiſted their importunity to wear ruffles^*.

In the courſe of this narrative it has been ſhewn, that although, and that by his own declarations, the literary faculties of Johnſon were, at moſt times, inert, and that he could ſeldom be ſtimulated to the exerciſe of his pen, but by the immediate proſpect of gain; yet, he was ever ready to aſſiſt the publication of any work that had either novelty or any intrinſic worth, with a life of the author, a dedication, preface, or an introduction tending to recommend it, as in the caſe of ‘'Aſcham's Pieces,'’ the laſt edition of Sir Thomas Browne's ‘'Chriſtian Morals,'’ and Kennedy's ‘'Scripture Chronology,'’ and many more, all of which he uſhered into the world, and, for aught that appears, without any recompence. With a like benevolent diſpoſition, he was ready to aſſiſt with a prologue, or an epilogue, the repreſentation of a play written by a friend; or with an occaſional addreſs of the ſame kind, under cir⯑cumſtances that put it in his power to promote the intereſts of the family of a deceaſed author: accord⯑ingly, he wrote, for his friend Goldſmith, a prologue to a comedy written by him, called ‘'The Good⯑natured man,'’ and acted in 1769; and, for the grand⯑daughter of Milton, a prologue to Comus, exhibited on the fifth day of April, 1750.

[518] The ſame good office he performed for the wife and children of Mr. Hugh Kelly, the author of a comedy called, ‘'A Word to the Wiſe,'’ which, in the year 1770, was brought on the ſtage, but, by the malice of a party, was obſtructed in the repreſen⯑tation, and conſigned to oblivion. This perſon, it is ſaid, was originally a ſtay-maker, but, being a man of wit and parts, he quitted that unmanly occupation, and having, as we muſt ſuppoſe, ſome ſlender means to enable him thereto, he betook himſelf to reading and ſtudy, and, at a time when the diſcipline of the inns of court was ſcandalouſly lax, got himſelf called to the bar, and practiſed at the quarter-ſeſſi⯑ons under me, but with little ſucceſs. In aid of this profeſſion, he became the conductor of a paper called ‘'The Public Ledger,'’ and took up that precarious one of a writer for the ſtage, in which he met with ſome encouragement, till it was inſinuated, that he was a penſioner of the miniſter, and, therefore, a fit object of patriotic vengeance. He died in the year 1769, and leaving a wife and five children unprovided for, the proprietors of Covent-garden theatre, in 1777; with their uſual generoſity, permitted to be acted at their houſe, for the benefit of his family, the comedy above-mentioned; and, to ſoften the hearts of the au⯑dience, Johnſon was eaſily prevailed on to write upon the occaſion the following very fine lines:

In the year 1777, he was induced, by a caſe of a very extraordinary nature, to the exerciſe of that in⯑diſcriminate humanity, which, in him, was obedient to every call. A divine of the church of England, Dr. William Dodd, already mentioned in the courſe of this account, and who had aſſiſted in the education of the preſent earl of Cheſterfield, having, by his extravagance, involved himſelf in difficulties, had re⯑courſe to the following, among many other expe⯑dients, to raiſe money. As a pretended agent for this nobleman, and in conſideration of the ſum of 600l. he forged the hand of the earl to the grant of an annuity, chargeable on his eſtate, which for⯑gery being detected, Dodd was convicted of felony, and ſentenced to the uſual puniſhment for ſuch of⯑fences. The public were, at firſt, very little intereſted in the fate of a man, who, beſides the arts he had practiſed to make himſelf conſpicuous as a man of letters, had rendered himſelf ſcandalous, by an offer, to the firſt law-officer in the kingdom, of a large ſum of money, for a preſentation to a valuable rectory; but, by various artifices, and particularly, the inſer⯑tion of his name in the public papers, with ſuch palliatives as he and his friends could invent, never without the epithet of unfortunate, they were be⯑trayed into ſuch an enthuſiaſtic commiſeration of his [521] caſe, as would have led a ſtranger to believe, that himſelf had been no acceſſary to his diſtreſſes, but that they were the inflictions of Providence.

Great endeavours were uſed with the earl, to pre⯑vail on him to deſiſt from a proſecution, but without effect. His lordſhip preferred a bill of indictment for felony, and the ſame being found before me at Hicks's Hall, upon the evidence of himſelf, and other witneſſes, Dodd was, at the Old Bailey, arraigned thereon, and convicted.

The evidence on the trial, was ſo very full and clear, that the jury heſitated not in the leaſt to pro⯑nounce him guilty of the indictment; and, no cir⯑cumſtances of alleviation appearing, they did not, as juries ſeldom fail to do where that is the caſe, re⯑commend him as an object of that clemency, which his majeſty is ever ready to exert, in favour of thoſe who have the leaſt claim to it.

We live in an age in which humanity is the faſhion. If the reports of the gaol-committee in 1726 are, in all particulars, to be depended on, and do not exagge⯑rate the facts therein ſtated, there was a time when, as well priſoners for debt, as for offences, were cruelly treated by thoſe who had the cuſtody of them; but, at this day, the temper of the times is under a con⯑trary biaſs, for, not only in actual confinement, are priſoners treated with greater lenity than till of late years was ever known, but, in courts of juſtice, the regard ſhewn to offenders falls little ſhort of reſpect. In proſecutions at the ſuit of the crown, the indul⯑gence of priſoners is nearly as great as it ought to be, were that true which the law does but hardly preſume, viz. that every offender, who is brought to a legal trial, [522] is innocent, till his guilt be proved. Thoſe whoſe duty it is to conduct the evidence, fearing the cenſure that others have incurred by a contrary treatment of priſoners, are reſtrained from enforcing it; and, as it is an exerciſe of compaſſion that coſts nothing, and is ſure to gain the applauſe of vulgar hearers, every one intereſts himſelf on the ſide of the priſoner, and hopes, by his zeal in his behalf, to be diſtinguiſhed as a man of more than ordinary humanity.

The tenderneſs of our courts of juſtice, in proſe⯑cutions that affect the life or liberty of the offender, is acknowledged and celebrated by all writers on the ſubjects of juriſprudence and internal policy; but, be⯑ſide this, the chances of eluding conviction, or, if not that, of puniſhment, are ſo many, that they deter many injured perſons from the proſecution of great criminals; and, as it is a ſpeculation that has often employed my thoughts, I will endeavour at an enume⯑ration of them. The chances are theſe: 1 That the offender is not diſcovered, or, if diſcovered, not apprehended. 2 That the perſon injured is not both able and willing to proſecute him. 3 That the evidence is not ſufficient for the finding of the bill, or if it be, 4 That the indictment is ſo framed as that the offender cannot be convicted on it; or, 5 That the witneſſes to ſupport it may die, or be prevailed upon to abſcond, or to ſoften their teſtimony; or, 6 They may be entangled or made to contradict themſelves, or each other, in a croſs exa⯑mination, by the priſoner's council; or, 7 A mild judge; or, 8 An ignorant or perverſe jury: 9 A re⯑commendation to mercy; or, 10 Appeals to the public by ſtates of his caſe in pamphlets, or news-paper pa⯑ragraphs, [523] which the Newgate ſolicitors know very well how to get drawn. 11 Practices with a jury to ob⯑tain a declaration, that ſome of them were diſſatisfied with the verdict. 12 A motion in arreſt of judgment. 13 A writ of error grounded on ſome defect or miſ⯑take on the face of the record. 14 An eſcape; and laſtly, Intereſt to procure a pardon^*.

[524] But Dodd's caſe was ſuch as excluded him from the benefit of all the above chances, excepting the laſt; and of that he laboured with all his might to avail himſelf. A petition to the throne for a pardon, was an expedient that naturally ſuggeſted itſelf, but, as it required the utmoſt powers of eloquence to pal⯑liate his offence, he found means to intereſt Dr. Johnſon in his behalf, and eaſily procured from him two of the moſt energetic compoſitions of the kind ever ſeen, the one a petition from himſelf to the king, the other, a like addreſs from his wife to the queen, ſeverally conceived in the terms fol⯑lowing:

[527] To the firſt of theſe petitions, but not without diffi⯑culty, Mrs. Dodd firſt got the hands of the jury that found the bill againſt her huſband, and after that, as it is ſuppoſed, of the jury that tried him. It was then circulated about, and all the while the cry for mercy was kept up in the news-papers, and the merits and ſufferings of the unfortunate divine were ſo artfully repreſented by paragraphs therein inſerted, that, in a ſhort ſpace of time, no fewer than twenty-three thou⯑ſand names were ſubſcribed thereto. Moreover, letters and addreſſes, written alſo by Johnſon, imploring their interpoſition, were ſent to the miniſter and other great perſons.

While the two petitions were in ſuſpence, the fol⯑lowing obſervations, penned by Dr. Johnſon, appeared in the public papers:

While Dodd was waiting the event of the petitions, his wife and friends were not idle. Dr. Johnſon told [529] me, that they had offered Akerman, the keeper of Newgate, a thouſand pounds to let him eſcape; and that failing, that a number of them, with bank⯑notes in their pockets, to the amount of five hun⯑dred pounds, had watched for a whole evening, about the door of the priſon, for an opportunity of corrupting the turnkey; but could not ſucceed in the attempt.

When all hopes of a favourable anſwer to either of the petitions were at an end, Johnſon drew up for publication a ſmall collection of what are called‘'Occaſional papers by the late William Dodd, L.L.D.'’ and five hundred copies thereof were printed for the benefit of his wife; but ſhe, con⯑ſcious that they were not of her huſband's writing, would not conſent to their being publiſhed; and the whole number, except two or three copies, was ſup⯑preſſed. The laſt office he performed for this wretched man, was the compoſing a ſermon, which he delivered in the chapel of Newgate, on Friday 6th June, 1777, and which was ſoon after publiſhed with the title of ‘'The Convict's Addreſs.'’

Johnſon had never ſeen the face of Dodd in his life. His wife had found her way to him during his confinement, and had intereſted him ſo ſtrongly in his behalf, that he lamented his fate, as he would have done that of an intimate friend under the like circumſtances. He was deeply concerned at the failure of the petitions; and aſked me at the time, if the requeſt contained in them was not ſuch an one as ought to have been granted to the prayer of twen⯑ty-three thouſand ſubjects? to which I anſwered, that the ſubſcription of popular petitions was a thing of [530] courſe, and that, therefore, the difference between twenty and twenty thouſand names was inconſiderable. He further cenſured the clergy very ſeverely, for not interpoſing in his behalf, and ſaid, that their inactivity aroſe from a paltry fear of being reproached with partiality towards one of their own order.

Here I cannot forbear remarking, an inconſiſtency in the opinion of Johnſon reſpecting the caſe of Dodd. He aſſiſted in the ſolicitations for his pardon, yet, in his private judgment, he thought him unworthy of it, having been known to ſay, that had he been the ad⯑viſer of the king, he ſhould have told him that, in par⯑doning Dodd, his juſtice, in remitting the Perreaus to their ſentence, would have been called in queſtion.

About this time, Dr. Johnſon changed his dwelling in Johnſon's court, for a ſomewhat larger in Bolt court, Fleet ſtreet, where he commenced an intimacy with the landlord of it, a very worthy and ſenſible man, ſome time ſince deceaſed, Mr. Edmund Allen the printer. Behind it was a garden, which he took delight in watering; a room on the ground-floor was aſſigned to Mrs. Williams, and the whole of the two pair of ſtairs floor was made a repoſitory for his books; one of the rooms thereon being his ſtudy. Here, in the intervals of his reſidence at Streatham, he received the viſits of his friends, and, to the moſt intimate of them, ſometimes gave, not inelegant dinners.

Being at eaſe in his circumſtances, and free from that ſolicitude which had embittered the former part of his life, he ſunk into indolence, till his faculties feemed to be impaired: deafneſs grew upon him; long intervals of mental abſence interrupted his con⯑verſation, [531] and it was difficult to engage his attention to any ſubject. His friends, from theſe ſymptoms, concluded, that his lamp was emitting its laſt rays, but the lapſe of a ſhort period gave them ample proofs to the contrary.

In the year 1774, the long-agitated queſtion of li⯑terary property received a final deciſion, on an appeal to the ſupreme judicature of this kingdom, whereby it was, in effect, declared, that ſuch property was merely ideal, and exiſted only in imagination^*. The immediate conſequence of this determination [532] was, a ſcramble of the loweſt and leaſt principled of the bookſellers, for the jewel thus caſt among them. Regardleſs of that obvious rule of natural juſtice, which gives the poſſeſſor a right to what he has purchaſed, they printed books, for the copy-right whereof very large ſums had been paid by book⯑ſellers, who, for their liberality to authors, and the encouragement by them given to voluminous works, had been looked on and acknowledged as the patrons of literature. Among theſe numerous depredators was one, who projected an edition of the Engliſh poets, which, by advertiſements conceived in the moſt hyperbolical terms, and calculated to impoſe upon the credulity of the ignorant, was obtruded on the public.

The bookſellers, againſt whoſe intereſt this intended publication was likely to operate, derived their right to the works of many of the poets, included in the above deſign by meſne aſſignments, from thoſe ever reſpectable men the Tonſons, who had purchaſed them of their authors. To check this attempt, therefore, they determined themſelves to publiſh an edition of the poets, and, in order to obtain for it a preference, engaged Johnſon to write the lives of all, or the chief of them; and he undertook and exe⯑cuted the taſk with great alacrity, and in a manner that argued not the leaſt decline of his faculties.

When Johnſon had determined on this work, he was to ſeek for the beſt mode of executing it. On a hint from a literary lady of his acquaintance and mine, he adopted, for his outline, that form in which the counteſs D'Aunois has drawn up the memoirs of the [533] French poets, in her ‘'Recueils des plus belles pieces des Poëtes François;'’ and the foundation of his work was, the lives of the dramatic poets by Lang⯑baine, and the lives of the poets at large by Win⯑ſtanley, and that more modern one than either, their lives by Giles Jacob, whoſe information, in many inſtances, was communicated by the perſons them⯑ſelves. Nevertheleſs, the materials which Johnſon had to work on were very ſcanty. He was never a ſedulous enquirer after facts or anecdotes, nor very accurate in fixing dates: Oldys was the man of all others the beſt qualified for ſuch an employment; Johnſon's talent was diſquiſition; a genius like his, diſdained ſo ſervile a labour. Whenever, therefore, he found himſelf at a loſs for ſuch intelligence as his work required, he availed himſelf of the induſtry of a friend or two, who took pleaſure in furniſhing him with ſuch particulars as are to be found in the lives of Addiſon, Prior, Pope, Swift, Gay, and a few others, whoſe perſons, habits, and characters, ſome yet, or very lately living, were able, either from their own knowledge, or authenticated tradition, to deſcribe.

The book came abroad in the year 1778, in ten ſmall volumes, and no work of Johnſon has been more celebrated. It has been ſaid to contain the ſoundeſt principles of criticiſm, and the moſt judi⯑cious examen of the effuſions of poetic genius, that any country, not excepting France, has to ſhew; and ſo much of this is true, that, in our peruſal of it, we find our curioſity, as to facts and circumſtances, ab⯑ſorbed in the contemplation of thoſe penetrating reflections and nice diſcriminations, which are far the greater part of it.

[534] It is, nevertheleſs, to be queſtioned, whether John⯑ſon poſſeſſed all the qualities of a critic, one of which ſeems to be a truly poetic faculty. This may ſeem a ſtrange doubt, of one who has transfuſed the ſpirit of one of Mr. Pope's fineſt poems into one written by himſelf in a dead language, and, in two inſtances, nearly equalled the greateſt of the Roman ſatyriſts. By the poetic faculty, I mean that power which is the reſult of a mind ſtored with beautiful images, and which exerts itſelf in creation and deſcription: of this Johnſon was totally devoid. His organs, im⯑perfect as they were, could convey to his imagination but little of that intelligence which forms the poetic character, and produces that enthuſiaſm which diſtin⯑guiſhes it. If we try his ability by Shakeſpeare's fa⯑mous deſcription;

he will appear deficient. We know that he wanted this power; that he had no eye that could be ſaid to [...]oll or glance, and, therefore, that all his conceptions of the grandeur and magnificence of external objects, of beautiful ſcenes, and extenſive proſpects, were derived from the reports of others, and conſequently were but the feeble impreſſions of their archetypes; [535] ſo that it may be queſtioned whether, either waking or ſleeping,

were ever preſented to his view.

This defect in his imaginative faculty, may well account for the frigid commendation which Johnſon beſtows on Thomſon, and other of the deſcriptive poets, on many fine paſſages in Dryden, and on the Henry and Emma of Prior. Moral ſentiments, and verſification, ſeem chiefly to have engaged his atten⯑tion, and on theſe his criticiſms are accurate, but ſevere, and not always impartial. His avowed fond⯑neſs for rhyme is one of the blemiſhes in his judg⯑ment: he entertained it in oppoſition to Milton, and cheriſhed it through the whole of his life; and it led him into many errors. Dryden had his doubts about the preference of rhyme to blank verſe; and I have heard Johnſon accuſe him for want of principle in this reſpect, and of veering about in his opinion on the ſubject. No ſuch imputation could faſten on himſelf.

That Johnſon had no ſenſe of the harmony of mu⯑ſical ſounds, himſelf would frequently confeſs, but this defect leſt him not without the power of deriving pleaſure from metrical harmony, from that commix⯑ture of long and ſhort quantities, which the laws of proſody have reduced to rule, and from whence ariſes a delight in thoſe whoſe ear is unaffected by conſonance. The ſtrokes on the pulſatile inſtruments, the drum for inſtance, though they produce monoto⯑nous ſounds, have, if made by rule, mathematical ra⯑tios of duple and triple, with numberleſs fractions, [536] and admit of an infinite variety of combinations, which give pleaſure to the auditory faculty; but of this Johnſon ſeems alſo to have been inſenſible. That his own numbers are ſo harmonious as, in general, we find them, muſt have been the effect of his ſedu⯑lous attention to the writings of Dryden and Pope, and the diſcovery of ſome ſecret in their verſification, of which he was able to avail himſelf.

If Johnſon be to be numbered among thoſe poets in whom the powers of underſtanding, more than thoſe of the imagination, are ſeen to exiſt, we have a reaſon for that coldneſs and inſenſibility which he ſo often diſcovers in the courſe of this work; and, when we recollect that he profeſſed himſelf to be a faſti⯑dious critic, we are not to wonder, that he is ſome⯑times backward in beſtowing applauſe on paſſages that ſeem to merit it. In ſhort, he was a ſcrupulous eſtimator of beauties and blemiſhes, and poſſeſſed a ſpirit of criticiſm, which, by long exerciſe, may be ſaid to have become mechanical. So nicely has he balanced the one againſt the other, that, in ſome in⯑ſtances, he has made neither ſcale preponderate, and, in others, by conſidering the failings of his authors as poſitive demerit, he has left ſome celebrated names in a ſtate of reputation below mediocrity. A ſpirit like this, had before actuated him in his preface to Shakeſpeare, in which, by a kind of arithmetical proceſs, ſubtracting from his excellencies his failings, he has endeavoured to ſink him in the opinion of his numerous admirers, and to perſuade us, againſt reaſon and our own feelings, that the former are an⯑nihilated by the latter.

[537] His cenſures of the writings of lord Lyttelton, and of Gray, gave great offence to the friends of each: the firſt coſt him the friendſhip of a lady, whoſe re⯑marks on the genius of Shakeſpeare have raiſed her to a degree of eminence among the female writers of this time; and the ſuppoſed injury done by him to the memory of Gray, is reſented by the whole uni⯑verſity of Cambridge. The character of Swift he has ſtigmatized with the brand of pride and ſelfiſhneſs, ſo deeply impreſſed, that the marks thereof ſeem inde⯑lible. In the praiſes of his wit, he does him no more than juſtice; of his moral qualities, he has made the moſt; and of his learning, of which Swift poſſeſſed but a very ſmall portion, he has ſaid nothing. Few can be offended at Johnſon's account of this man, whoſe arrogance and malevolence were a reproach to human nature; and in whoſe voluminous writings little is to be found, that can conduce to the improve⯑ment or benefit of mankind, or, indeed, that it be⯑ſeemed a clergyman to publiſh.

In his own judgment of the lives of the poets, Johnſon gave the preference to that of Cowley, as containing a nicer inveſtigation and diſcrimination of the characteriſtics of wit, than is elſewhere to be found. Others have aſſigned to Dryden's life the pre-eminence. Upon the whole, it is a finely written, and an enter⯑taining book, and is likely to be coeval with the memory of the beſt of the writers whom it cele⯑brates.

To the life of Pope, he thought proper to adjoin a criticiſm on the epitaphs of that poet, written ſome years before, and inſerted in a monthly pamphlet, intitled ‘'The Viſitor,'’ in which he detects a great [538] number of faulty paſſages, and puerile ſentiments. An attempt of the like kind had formerly been made by Concanen, one of the Dunciad heroes, in a paper called ‘'The Speculatiſt,'’ firſt publiſhed in one of the periodical papers of the day, and afterwards collected into an octavo volume; but it went no farther than to a cenſure of the inſcription on Craggs's monument in Weſtminſter abbey, which, by the way, was never in⯑tended for an epitaph, but is an eulogium on that ſtateſ⯑man, taken from Pope's ‘'Epiſtle to Mr. Addiſon, oc⯑caſioned by his dialogues on medals.'’ Johnſon has no⯑ticed this, and apologizing for ſome faults in it, imputes them, in his ſtrong manner of expreſſion, to the violence with which the lines were torn from the original. The whole of Concanen's criticiſm turns upon the length of the inſcription, which is ſix lines, and, by a ſtrange blunder of Pope, is recommended as a motto for the ſuppoſed medal to be ſtruck in commemoration of his ſervices, and gives occaſion to the critic to aſk—‘'Is this a motto for a medal or a mill⯑ſtone.'’

But Johnſon, who never examined the writings of any author, but with an eye the moſt penetrating, has taken a nearer view of theſe compoſitions of Pope, as they appear in his works, and diſcovered, that ſcarce any one of them, notwithſtanding the beauty of ver⯑ſification which they diſplay, will bear the teſt of ſound criticiſm. For his remarks on them, this is no fit place: the inquiſitive reader is therefore referred for the peruſal of them to the life of Pope, among the poets; and, for farther information on the ſubject of monumental inſcriptions, to ‘'An Eſſay on Epitaphs,'’ among his philological tracts.

[539] All that is neceſſary to remark on his examen of Pope's epitaphs is, that, in one inſtance, it was pro⯑ductive of a ſingular event, the total eraſure of that epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller's monument in Weſt⯑minſter abbey, which had long been objected to, as being a very indifferent imitation of cardinal Bembo's famous diſtich on Raphael; and it ſeems that the author thought ſo, for, in the later editions of his works, he has omitted it.

After he had finiſhed the lives of the poets, Johnſon, contemplating the ſtrength of his mental powers, was ſo little ſenſible of any decay in them, that he enter⯑tained a deſign of giving to the world a tranſlation of that voluminous work of Thuanus, the hiſtory of his own times, an undertaking ſurely too laborious for one who had nearly completed the age of man, and whoſe mind was generally occupied by ſubjects of greater importance than any that relate to this world. But, in this eſtimate of his abilities, he ſoon found himſelf deceived. Sleepleſs nights, and the uſe of opium, which he took in large quantities, alternately depreſſed and raiſed his ſpirits, and ren⯑dered him an incompetent judge of his own powers, ſo that, had he purſued his reſolution, he would, doubt⯑leſs, have ſunk under the burden of ſo great a la⯑bour.

It may farther be queſtioned whether, upon trial, he would not have found himſelf unequal to the taſk of transfuſing into an Engliſh verſion the ſpirit [540] of his author. Johnſon's talent was original thinking, and though he was ever able to expreſs his own ſen⯑timents in nervous language, he did not always ſuc⯑ceed in his attempts to familiariſe the ſenſe of others: his tranſlation of Pere Lobo's voyage has little to recommend it but the ſubject-matter. Among his papers was found, a tranſlation from Salluſt of the ‘'Bellum Catilinarium,'’ ſo flatly and inſipidly rendered, that the ſuffering it to appear would have been an in⯑deligible diſgrace to his memory.

We muſt now take our leave of Johnſon as an au⯑thor, and view him as a man worn out with literary labour and diſeaſe, contemplating his diſſolution, and exerting all his powers to reſiſt that conſtitutional malady which now, more than ever, oppreſſed him. To divert himſelf from a train of thinking which often involved him in a labyrinth of doubts and difficulties touching a future ſtate of exiſtence, he ſolicited the frequent viſits of his friends and ac⯑quaintance, the moſt diſcerning of whom could not but ſee, that the fabric of his mind was tottering; and, to allay thoſe ſcruples and terrors which haunted him in his vacant hours, he betook himſelf to the reading of books of practical divinity, and, among the reſt, the writings of Baxter, and others of the old puritan and non-conforming divines. Of Baxter, he entertained a very high opinion, and often ſpoke of him to me as a man of great parts, profound learn⯑ing, and exemplary piety: he ſaid, of the office for the communion drawn up by him and produced at the Savoy-conference, that it was one of the fineſt compoſitions of the ritual kind he had ever ſeen^*. [541] It was a circumſtance to be wondered at, that a high⯑churchman, as Johnſon ever profeſſed himſelf to be, ſhould be driven to ſeek for ſpiritual comfort in the writings of ſectaries; men whom he affected, as well to condemn for their ignorance, as to hate for their principles; but, as his acquaintance with the world, and with the writings of ſuch men as Watts, Foſter, Lardner, and Lowman, increaſed, theſe prejudices were greatly ſoftened. Of the early puritans, he thought their want of general learning was atoned for by their ſkill in the Scriptures, and the holineſs of their lives^*; and, to juſtify his opinion of them, [542] and their writings, he once cited to me a ſaying of Howell in one of his letters, that to make a man a complete Chriſtian, he muſt have the works of a Papiſt, the words of a Puritan, and the faith of a Proteſtant^*. At times when he was moſt diſtreſſed, I recommended to him the peruſal of biſhop Taylor's ‘'Rules and Exerciſes of holy Living and Dying,'’ and alſo, his ‘'Ductor Dubitantium,'’ a book abounding in erudi⯑tion, and moſt aptly ſuiting his circumſtances. Of the former, though he placed the author at the head of all the divines that have ſucceeded the fathers, he ſaid, that in the reading thereof, he had found little more than he brought himſelf; and, at the mention of the latter, he ſeemed to ſhrink. His Greek teſtament was generally within his reach, and he red much in it. He was competently ſkilled in the writings of the fathers, yet was he more converſant with thoſe of the great Engliſh church-men, namely, Hooker, Uſher, Mede, Hammond, Sanderſon, Hall, and others of that claſs. Dr. Henry More, of Cam⯑bridge, he did not much affect: he was a platoniſt, and, in Johnſon's opinion, a viſionary. He would frequently cite from him, and laugh at, a paſſage to this effect:—‘'At the conſummation of all things, it ſhall come to paſs, that eternity ſhall ſhake hands with opacity.'’ He had never, till I mentioned [543] him, heard of Dr. Thomas Jackſon, of Corpus Chriſti college, Oxon. Upon my recommendation of his works, in three folio volumes, he made me a promiſe to buy and ſtudy them, which he lived not to perform. He was, for ſome time, pleaſed with Kempis's, or rather John Gerſon's tract ‘'De Imi⯑tatione Chriſti,'’ but at length laid it aſide, ſay⯑ing, that the main deſign of it was to promote mo⯑naſtic piety, and inculcate eccleſiaſtical obedience. One ſentiment therein, he, however, greatly ap⯑plauded, and I find it adopted by biſhop Taylor, who gives it in the following words:—‘'It is no great matter to live lovingly with good-natured, with humble and meek perſons; but he that can do ſo with the froward, with the wilful, and the ignorant, with the peeviſh and perverſe, he only hath true charity. Always remembering, that our true ſolid peace, the peace of God, conſiſts rather in compliance with others, than in being complied with; in ſuffering and forbearing, rather than in contention and victory^*.'’

In the courſe of theſe ſtudies, he exerciſed his powers of eloquence, in the compoſition of forms of devotion, adapted to his circumſtances and the ſtate of his mind at different times. Of theſe, a ſpecimen has lately been given to the public. He alſo tranſlated into Latin many of the collects in our liturgy. This was a practice which he took up in his early years, and continued through his life, as he did alſo the noting down the particular occurrences of each day thereof, but in a looſe and deſultory way, [544] in books of various forms, and in no regular or con⯑tinued ſucceſſion.

He ſeemed to acquieſce in that famous ſaying of John Valdeſſo, which induced the emperor Charles the fifth to reſign his crown, and betake himſelf to religious retirement; ‘'Oportet inter vitae negotia, et diem mortis, ſpatium aliquod intercedere^*,'’ never⯑theleſs, he was but an ill huſband of his time. He was, throughout his life, making reſolutions to riſe at eight, no very early hour, and breaking them. The viſits of idle, and ſome of them very worthleſs perſons, were never unwelcome to him; and though they interrupted him in his ſtudies and meditations, yet, as they gave him opportunities of diſcourſe, and furniſhed him with intelligence, he ſtrove rather to protract that ſhorten or diſcountenance them; and, when abroad, ſuch was the laxity of his mind, that he conſented to the doing of many things, otherwiſe indifferent, for the avowed reaſon that they would drive on time.

Of his viſitors at this time myſelf was one, and having known the ſtate of his mind at different periods, and his habitual dread of inſanity, I was greatly deſirous of calming his mind, and rendering him ſuſceptible of the many enjoyments of which I thought him then in poſſeſſion, namely, a permanent income, tolerable health, a high degree of reputation for his moral qualities and literary exertions, by which latter he had made a whole country ſenſible of its obligation to him, and, laſtly, that he had as [545] few enemies as a man of his eminence could expect. On one day in particular, when I was ſuggeſting to him theſe and the like reflections, he gave thanks to Almighty God, but added, that notwithſtanding all the above benefits, the proſpect of death, which was now at no great diſtance from him, was become ter⯑rible, and that he could not think of it but with great pain and trouble of mind.

I was very much ſurpriſed and ſhocked at ſuch a declaration from ſuch a man, and told him, that from my long acquaintance with him, I conceived his life to have been an uniform courſe of virtue, that he had ever ſhewn a deep ſenſe of, and zeal for, religion, and that, both by his example and his writings, he had recommended the practice of it: that he had not reſted, as many do, in the exerciſe of common ho⯑neſty, avoiding the groſſer enormities, yet rejecting thoſe advantages that reſult from the belief of divine revelation, but that he had, by prayer, and other ex⯑erciſes of devotion, cultivated in his mind the ſeeds of goodneſs, and was become habitually pious. Theſe ſuggeſtions made little impreſſion on him: he la⯑mented the indolence in which he had ſpent his life, talked of ſecret tranſgreſſions, and ſeemed deſirous of telling me more to that purpoſe than I was willing to hear.

From theſe perturbations of mind, he had, how⯑ever, at times, relief. Upon a viſit, that I made him ſome months after, I found him much altered in his ſentiments. He ſaid that, having reflected on the tranſactions of his life, and acknowledged his ſins before God, he felt within himſelf a confidence in his [546] mercy, and that, truſting to the merits of his Redeemer, his mind was now in a ſtate of perfect tranquillity.

In theſe diſcourſes, he would frequently mention, with great energy and encomiums, the penitence of the man who aſſumed the name, and by that I muſt call him, of George Pſalmanaazar, a Frenchman, but who pretended to be a native of the iſland of For⯑moſa, and a convert from paganiſm to Chriſtianity, and, as ſuch, received baptiſm. By the help of his great learning and endowments, he eluded all attempts to de⯑tect his impoſtures, but, in his more advanced age, be⯑came a ſincere penitent, and, without any other mo⯑tive than a ſenſe of his ſin, publiſhed a confeſſion of them, and begged the pardon of mankind in terms the moſt humble and affecting. The remainder of his life was exemplary, and he died in 1763. The habitation of this perſon was in Ironmonger row, Old ſtreet, Middleſex, in the neighbourhood whereof he was ſo well known and eſteemed, that, as Dr Hawkeſworth once told me, ſcarce any perſon, eve [...] children, paſſed him without ſhewing him the uſua [...] ſigns of reſpect. He was one of the writers of th [...] Univerſal-Hiſtory, and, by his intercourſe with th [...] bookſellers it was, as I conceive, that Johnſon becam [...] acquainted with him^*.

I mention the above particulars, as well to corrobo⯑rate thoſe teſtimonies of Johnſon's piety already extan [...] as to refute the objections of many infidels, who, de⯑ſirous of having him thought to be of their party [547] endeavoured to make it believed, that he was a mere moraliſt, and that, when writing on religious ſubjects, he accommodated himſelf to the notions of the vul⯑gar: and alſo, becauſe a certain female ſceptic, of his acquaintance, was once heard to ſay, that ſhe was ſure Dr. Johnſon was too great a philoſopher to be a believer.

From this digreſſion, which I mean as an intro⯑duction to certain particulars of his behaviour in his laſt illneſs, hereafter related, I proceed to the future events of his life. In the year 1781, death put an end to the friendſhip that, for ſome years, had ſubſiſted between him and Mr. Thrale, but gave birth to a relation that ſeemed to be but a continuation of it, viz. that of an executor, the duties of which office involved in it the management of an immenſe trade, the diſpoſal of a large fortune, and the intereſts of children riſing to maturity. For the trouble it might create him, Mr. Thrale bequeathed to him, as he did to each of his other executors, a legacy of two hundred pounds.

Dr. Johnſon was not enough a man of the world to be capable alone of ſo important a truſt. Indeed, it required, for the execution of it, ſomewhat like a board, a kind of ſtanding council, adapted, by the ſeveral qua⯑lifications of the individuals that compoſed it, to all emergencies. Mr. Thrale wiſely foreſaw this, and aſſociated with Johnſon three other perſons, men of great experience in buſineſs, and of approved worth and integrity. It was eaſy to ſee, as Johnſon was unſkilled in both money and commercial tranſactions, that Mr. Thrale's view, in conſtituting him one of his executors, could only be, that, by his philoſophical [548] prudence and ſagacity, of which himſelf had, in ſome inſtances, found the benefit^*, he might give a general direction to the motions of ſo vaſt a machine as they had to conduct. Perhaps he might alſo think, that the celebrity of Johnſon's character would give a luſtre to that conſtellation, in which he had thought proper to place him. This may be called vanity, but it ſeems to be of the ſame kind with that which induced Mr. Pope to appoint Mr. Murray, now earl of Mansfield, one of the executors of his will.

No ſooner had this truſt devolved on him, than he applied to me for advice. He had never been an executor before, and was at a loſs in the ſteps to be taken. I told him the firſt was proving the will, a term that he underſtood not. I explained it to him, as alſo the oath that would be tendered to him, faith⯑fully to execute it, to adminiſter the teſtator's effects according to law, and to render a true account thereof when required. I told him that in this act he would be joined by the other executors, whom, as they were all men of buſineſs, he would do well to follow.

[549] Johnſon had all his life long been uſed to lead, to direct, and inſtruct, and did not much reliſh the thoughts of following men, who, in all the ſitua⯑tions he could conceive, would have looked up to him: he therefore, as he afterwards confeſſed to me, began to form theories and viſionary projects, adapted as well to the continuation and extenſion of the trade, which, be it remembered, was brewing, as the diſpoſal of it; but in this, as he alſo acknowledged, he found himſelf at a loſs. The other executors, after reflecting on the difficulty of conducting ſo large an undertaking, the diſagreeableneſs of an office that would render them, in effect, tax-gatherers, as all of that trade are, and place them in a ſituation between the public and the revenue, determined to make ſale of the whole, and blew up Johnſon's ſchemes for their commencing brewers, into the air. In the carrying this reſolution into act, the executors had a great difficulty to encounter: Mr. Thrale's trade had been improving for two generations, and was become of ſuch an enormous magnitude, as nothing but an ag⯑gregate of ſeveral fortunes was equal to; a circum⯑ſtance, which could not but affect the intrinſic value of the object, and increaſe the difficulty of finding purchaſers: of things indiviſible expoſed to ſale, an eſtimate may be formed, till their value riſes to a certain amount; but, after that, a conſiderable abate⯑ment from their intrinſic worth muſt be made, to meet the circumſtance of a paucity of purchaſers. This was the caſe in the ſale of Pitt's diamond, which, in the ratio by which jewels are valued, was computed to be worth 225,000l. but, becauſe [550] only a very few perſons were able to purchaſe it, was ſold to the laſt king of France for little more than 67,000l.

This difficulty, great as it was, Mr. Thrale's exe⯑cutors found the way to ſurmount: they commenced a negociation with ſome perſons of worth and cha⯑racter, which, being conducted on both ſides with fairneſs and candour, terminated in a conveyance of the trade, with all its appendages, for which the con⯑ſideration was, an hundred and thirty-five thouſand pounds. Of this arduous tranſaction, Johnſon was little more than a ſpectator, and, when called upon to ratify it, he readily acquieſced. There only remained for him to do juſtice to the memory of him, whom he could not but conſider as both his friend and bene⯑factor, and this he did, by an exerciſe of his talent, in the following monumental inſcription:‘Hic conditur quod reliquum eſt
HENRICI THRALE,
Qui res ſeu civiles, ſeu domeſticas, ita egit,
Ut vitam illi longiorem multi optarent;
Ita ſacras,
Ut quam brevem eſſet habiturus preſcire videretur;
Simplex, apertus, ſibique ſemper ſimilis,
Nihil oſtentavit, aut arte fictum, aut cura
Elaboratum.
In ſenatu, regi, patriaeque,
Fideliter ſtuduit;
Vulgi obſtrepentis contemptor animoſus:
Domi inter mille mercaturae negotia,
Literarum elegantiam minimè neglexit,
Amicis, quocunque modo laborantibus,
[551]Conciliis, auctoritate, muneribus adfuit.
Inter familiares, comites, convivas, hoſpites,
Tam facili fuit morum ſuavitate,
Ut omnium animos ad ſe alliceret;
Tam felici ſermonis libertate,
Ut nulli adulatus, omnibus placeret.
Natus 1724. Ob. 1781.
Conſortes tumuli habet Rodolphum patrem,
Strenuum fortemque virum, et Henricum,
Filium unicum, quem ſpei parentum
Mors inopina decennem
Praeripuit.
Ita
Domus felix et opulenta, quam erexit
Avus, auxitque pater, cum nepote decidit.
Abi viator,
Et vicibus rerum humanarum perſpectis,
Eternitatem cogita.’

The death of Mr. Thrale diſſolved the friendſhip between him and Johnſon; but it abated not in the latter, that care for the intereſts of thoſe whom his friend had left behind him, which he thought himſelf bound to cheriſh, as a living principle of gratitude. The favours he had received from Mr. Thrale, were to be repaid by the exerciſe of kind offices towards his relict and her children, and theſe, circumſtanced as Johnſon was, could only be prudent councils, friendly admonition to the one, and preceptive in⯑ſtruction to the others, both which he was ever ready to interpoſe. Nevertheleſs, it was obſerved by myſelf, and other of Johnſon's friends, that, ſoon after the deceaſe of Mr. Thrale, his viſits to Streatham be⯑came [552] leſs and leſs frequent, and that he ſtudiouſly avoided the mention of the place or family^*.

Having now no calls, and, as I believe, very little temptation, to become a ſojourner, or even a gueſt, in the habitation of his departed friend, he had leiſure to indulge himſelf in excurſions to the city of his na⯑tivity, as alſo to Oxford; for both which places he ever entertained an enthuſiaſtic affection. In the former, he was kindly received, and reſpectfully treated, by Mrs. Lucy Porter, the daughter, by her former huſband, of his deceaſed wife, and in the latter, by the reverend Dr. Adams, who had been his tutor at Pembroke college, and is now the head of that ſeminary. While he was thus reſident in the uni⯑verſity, he received daily proofs of the high eſti⯑mation in which he was there held, by ſuch mem⯑bers of that body as were of the greateſt eminence for learning, or were any way diſtinguiſhed for their na⯑tural or acquired abilities.

Beſides the places above-mentioned, Johnſon had other ſummer-retreats, to which he was ever welcome, the ſeats of his friends in the country. At one of theſe, in the year 1782, he was alarmed by a tumour, by ſurgeons termed a ſarcocele, that, as it increaſed, gave him great pain, and, at length, hurried him to town, with a reſolution to ſubmit, if it ſhould be thought neceſſary, to a dreadful chirurgical operation; but, on his arrival, one leſs ſevere reſtored him to a [553] ſtate of perfect eaſe in the part affected. But he had diſorders of another kind to ſtruggle with: he had frequent fits of pain which indicated the paſſage of a gall-ſtone, and he now felt the preſſure of an aſthma, a conſtitutional diſeaſe with him, from which he had formerly been relieved by copious bleedings, but his advanced age forbade the repetition of them.

In the beginning of the year 1782, death de⯑prived him of his old friend and companion; he who had, for near forty years, had the care of his health, and had attended him almoſt conſtantly every morning, to enquire after the ſtate of his body, and fill out his tea, the mute, the officious, and the humble Mr. Levett. Of this diſaſtrous event, as ſoon as it happened, Johnſon ſent to his friend, Dr. Lawrence, the following account:

[554] I find in one of Johnſon's diaries the following note: ‘'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. Commendari.—May God have had mercy on him. May he have mercy on me!'’

The grief which the loſs of friends occaſioned Johnſon, ſeems to have been a frequent ſtimulative with him to compoſition. His ſenſe of Levett's worth he expreſſed in the following lines, which may, perhaps, contribute, more than any one circumſtance in his character, to keep the memory of his exiſtence alive:

About the middle of June 1783, his conſtitution ſuſtained a ſeverer ſhock than it had ever before felt: this was a ſtroke of the palſy, ſo very ſudden and ſevere, that it awakened him out of a ſound ſleep, and rendered him, for a ſhort time, ſpeechleſs. As it had not affected his intellectual powers, he, in that cumbent poſture to which he was confined, attempted to repeat, firſt in Engliſh, then in Latin, and afterwards in Greek, the Lord's Prayer, but ſucceeded in only the laſt effort, immediately after which, finding himſelf again bereft of the power of ſpeech, he rang for his ſervant, and making ſigns for pen, ink, and paper, wrote and ſent the following note to his friend and next-door neighbour, Mr. Allen the printer.

[557] Mr. Allen immediately roſe to his aſſiſtance, and, in the morning, diſpatched a meſſage to Dr. He⯑berden and Dr. Brockleſby, who, in a few days, ſo far relieved him, that his ſpeech became, to a good degree, articulate, and, till his organs began to tire, he was able to hold converſation. By the ſkill and attention of theſe two worthy perſons, he was, at length, reſtored to ſuch a degree of health that, on the 27th of the ſame month, he was able to water his garden, and had no remaining ſymptoms of diſeaſe, excepting that his legs were obſerved to be ſwoln, and he had ſome preſages of an hydropic affection. Theſe gave him ſome concern, and in⯑duced him to note, more particularly than he had formerly done^*, the variations of the ſtate of his health.

But bodily afflictions were not the only trials he had to undergo. He had been a mourner for many friends, and was now in danger of loſing one, who had not only cheared him in his ſolitude, and helped him to paſs with comfort thoſe hours which, other⯑wiſe, would have been irkſome to him, but had relieved him from domeſtic cares, regulated and watched over the expences of his houſe, and kept at a diſtance ſome of thoſe neceſſitous viſitants, towards whom his bounty, though it had ſeldom wrought any good, had often been exerciſed.

[558] This perſon was Mrs. Williams, whoſe calamitous hiſtory is related among the events recorded in the foregoing pages. She had for ſome months been declining, and during the doctor's late illneſs was confined to her bed. The reſtoration of his health made it neceſſary for him to retire into the country; but, before his departure, he compoſed and made uſe of the following energetic prayer.

During his abſence from London, viz. on the ſixth day of September 1783, Mrs. Williams was releaſed from all her cares and troubles by an eaſy death, for which ſhe was well prepared. The laſt offices were performed for her by thoſe of her friends who were [559] about her in the time of her illneſs, and had admi⯑niſtered to her all the aſſiſtance in their power.

At his return to London, Johnſon found himſelf in a forlorn and helpleſs condition: his habitual melancholy had now a real ſubject to work on, and repreſented his houſe as a dreary manſion. Soli⯑tude was ever ungrateful to him, and the want of a companion, with whom he might paſs his evening hours, often drove him to ſeek relief in the conver⯑ſation of perſons in all reſpects his inferiors. To talk much, and to be well attended to, was, through⯑out his life, his chief delight: his vein of diſcourſe, which has often enough been deſcribed, was calcu⯑lated to attract the applauſe, and even admiration, of ſmall circles; to him, therefore, a confraternity of perſons, aſſembled for the purpoſe of free commu⯑nication, or, in other words, a club, could not but be a ſource of pleaſure, and he now projected one, which will hereafter be deſcribed. In every aſſociation of this kind, he was ſure, unleſs by conceſſion, to pre⯑ſide, and, ex cathedra, to diſcuſs the ſubjects of enquiry and debate.

The death of Mr. Thrale, and Johnſon's eſtrange⯑ment from the dwelling and family of this his valued friend, have already been mentioned: it remains to ſay of this event, that it was not followed by a total oblivion, on the part of his relict, of the intimacy that had ſubſiſted between him and her huſband, it appearing, that an intercourſe by letters was ſtill kept up between them. It was, nevertheleſs, eaſy to diſcover by his converſation, that he no longer looked on himſelf as a welcome gueſt at Streatham, and that he did but ill brook the change in his courſe of life that he now experienced. He had, for near twenty years, par⯑ticipated [560] in moſt of thoſe enjoyments that make wealth and affiuence deſirable; had partaken, in common with their owners, of the delights of a villa, and the convenience of an equipage; and had been entertained with a variety of amuſements and occu⯑pations. In ſhort, during the whole of that period, his life had been as happy as it had been in the power of ſuch perſons to make it.

That this celebrated friendſhip ſubſiſted ſo long as it did, was a ſubject of wonder to moſt of John⯑ſon's intimates, for ſuch were his habits of living, that he was by no means a deſirable inmate. His unmanly thirſt for tea made him very troubleſome. At Streatham, he would ſuffer the miſtreſs of the houſe to ſit up and make it for him, till two or three hours after midnight. When retired to reſt, he in⯑dulged himſelf in the dangerous practice of reading in bed. It was a very hard matter to get him de⯑cently dreſſed by dinner-time, even when ſelect com⯑panies were invited; and no one could be ſure, that in his table-converſation with ſtrangers, he would not, by contradiction, or the general aſperity of his beha⯑viour, offend them.

Theſe irregularities were not only borne with by Mr. Thrale, but he ſeemed to think them amply atoned for by the honour he derived from ſuch a gueſt as no table in the three kingdoms could pro⯑duce; but, he dying, it was not likely that the ſame ſentiments and opinions ſhould deſcend to thoſe of his family who were left behind. Such a friendly con⯑nection and correſpondence as I have juſt mentioned, continued, however, between Johnſon and the widow, till it was interrupted by an event that will ſhortly be related.

[561] I have in his diary met with ſundry notes, ſignifying that, while he was at Streatham, he endeavoured, by reading, to acquire a knowledge of the Dutch lan⯑guage, but that his progreſs in the ſtudy thereof was very ſlow.

It has been already related that, being ſeized with a paralyſis about the month of June 1783, he was ſo far recovered therefrom, as to entertain a hope, that he had nearly worn out all his diſorders. ‘'What a man am I!'’ ſaid he to me, in the month of No⯑vember following, ‘'who have got the better of three diſeaſes, the palſy, the gout, and the aſthma, and can now enjoy the converſation of my friends, with⯑out the interruptions of weakneſs or pain!'—’To theſe flattering teſtimonies I muſt add, that in this ſeeming ſpring-tide of his health and ſpirits, he wrote me the following note:

Our intended meeting was prevented by a cir⯑cumſtance, which the following note will explain:

With this invitation I chearfully complied, and met, at the time and place appointed, all who could be muſtered of our ſociety, namely, Johnſon, Mr. Ryland, and Mr. Payne of the bank. When we were collected, the thought that we were ſo few, occa⯑ſioned ſome melancholy reflections, and I could not but compare our meeting, at ſuch an advanced pe⯑riod of life as it was to us all, to that of the four old men in the ‘'Senile Colloquium'’ of Eraſmus. We dined, and in the evening regaled with coffee. At ten, we broke up, much to the regret of Johnſon, who propoſed ſtaying; but finding us inclined to ſeparate, he left us, with a ſigh that ſeemed to come from his heart, lamenting that he was retiring to ſoli⯑tude and chearleſs meditation.

Johnſon had propoſed a meeting, like this, once a month, and we had one more; but, the time ap⯑proaching for a third, he began to feel a return of ſome of his complaints, and ſignified a wiſh, that we would dine with him at his own houſe; and, ac⯑cordingly, we met there, and were very chearfully entertained by him.

[563] A few days after, he ſent for me, and informed me, that he had diſcovered in himſelf the ſymptoms of a dropſy, and, indeed, his very much increaſed bulk, and the ſwoln appearance of his legs, ſeemed to in⯑dicate no leſs. He told me, that he was deſirous of making a will, and requeſted me to be one of his executors: upon my conſenting to take on me the office, he gave me to underſtand, that he meant to make a proviſion for his ſervant Frank, of about 70l. a year for life, and concerted with me a plan for in⯑veſting a ſum ſufficient for the purpoſe: at the ſame time he opened to me the ſtate of his circumſtances, and the amount of what he had to diſpoſe of.

In a viſit, which I made him in a few days, in con⯑ſequence of a very preſſing requeſt to ſee me, I found him labouring under great dejection of mind. He bade me draw near him, and ſaid, he wanted to enter into a ſerious converſation with me; and, upon my expreſſing a willingneſs to join in it, he, with a look that cut me to the heart, told me, that he had the proſpect of death before him, and that he dreaded to meet his Saviour. I could not but be aſtoniſhed at ſuch a declaration, and adviſed him, as I had done once before, to reflect on the courſe of his life, and the ſer⯑vices he had rendered to the cauſe of religion and virtue, as well by his example, as his writings; to which he anſwered, that he had written as a philoſo⯑pher, but had not lived like one. In the eſtimation of his offences, he reaſoned thus—‘'Every man knows his own ſins, and alſo, what grace he has reſiſted. But, to thoſe of others, and the circumſtances under which they were committed, he is a ſtranger: he is, there⯑fore, to look on himſelf as the greateſt ſinner that [564] he knows of^*.'’ At the concluſion of this argument, which he ſtrongly enforced, he uttered this paſſionate exclamation,—‘'Shall I, who have been a teacher of others, myſelf be a caſtaway?'’

Much to the ſame purpoſe paſſed between us in this and other converſations that I had with him, in all which I could not but wonder, as much at the freedom with which he opened his mind, and the compunc⯑tion he ſeemed to feel for the errors of his paſt life, as I did, at his making choice of me for his confeſſor, knowing full well how meanly qualified I was for ſuch an office.

It was on a Thurſday that I had this converſation with him; and here, let not the ſupercilious lip of ſcorn protrude itſelf, while I relate that, in the courſe thereof, he declared his intention to devote the whole of the next day to faſting, humiliation, and ſuch other devotional exerciſes, as became a man in his ſituation. On the Saturday following, I made him a viſit, and, upon entering his room, obſerved in his countenance ſuch a ſerenity, as indicated that ſome re⯑markable criſis of his diſorder had produced a change in his feelings. He told me, that, purſuant to the re⯑ſolution he had mentioned to me, he had ſpent the preceding day in an abſtraction from all worldly con⯑cerns; that, to prevent interruption, he had, in the morning, ordered Frank not to admit any one to him, and, the better to enforce the charge, had added theſe awful words, ‘'For your maſter is preparing himſelf to die.'’ He then mentioned to me, that, in the [565] courſe of this exerciſe, he found himſelf relieved from that diſorder which had been growing on him, and was become very oppreſſing, the dropſy, by a gradual evacuation of water to the amount of twenty pints, a like inſtance whereof he had never before experienced, and aſked me what I thought of it.

I was well aware of the lengths that ſuperſtition and enthuſiaſm will lead men, and how ready ſome are to attribute favourable events to ſupernatural cauſes, and ſaid, that it might ſavour of preſumption to ſay that, in this inſtance, God had wrought a miracle; yet, as divines recognize certain diſpenſations of his provi⯑dence, recorded in the Scripture by the denomination of returns of prayer, and his omnipotence is now the ſame as ever, I thought it would be little leſs than criminal, to aſcribe his late relief to cauſes merely natural, and, that the ſafer opinion was, that he had not in vain humbled himſelf before his Maker. He ſeemed to acquieſce in all that I ſaid on this important ſubject, and, ſeveral times, while I was diſcourſing with him, cried out, ‘'It is wonderful, very won⯑derful!'’

His zeal for religion, as manifeſted in his writings and converſation, and the accounts extant that atteſt his piety, have induced the enemies to his memory to tax him with ſuperſtition. To that charge, I oppoſe his behaviour on this occaſion, and leave it to the judgment of ſober and rational perſons, whether ſuch an unexpected event, as that above-mentioned, would not have prompted a really ſuperſtitious man, to ſome more paſſionate exclamation, than that it was won⯑derful^*.

[566] He had no ſooner experienced the eaſe and comfort which followed from the remarkable event above⯑mentioned, than he began to entertain a hope, that he had got the better of that diſeaſe which moſt op⯑preſſed him, and that length of days might yet be his portion; he, therefore, ſought for a relief from that ſolitude, to which the loſs of Mrs. Williams and others of his domeſtic companions, ſeemed to have doomed him; and, in the ſame ſpirit that induced him to at⯑tempt the revival of the Ivy lane club, ſet about the eſtabliſhment of another. I was not made privy to this his intention, but, all circumſtances conſidered, it was no matter of ſurpriſe to me when I heard, as I did from a friend of mine, that the great Dr. Johnſon had, in the month of December 1783, formed a ſix⯑penny club, at an ale-houſe in Eſſex-ſtreet, and that, though ſome of the members thereof were perſons of note, ſtrangers, under reſtrictions, for three pence each night, might, three nights in a week, hear him talk, and partake of his converſation. I ſoon after⯑wards learned from the doctor, the nature of, as alſo the motives to this inſtitution, which, as to him, was novel, in this reſpect, that, as the preſidency [567] paſſed in rotation, he was oftner excluded from, than entitled to enjoy, that pre-eminence which, at all times, and in all convivial aſſemblies, was conſidered as his right.

The more intimate of Johnſon's friends looked on this eſtabliſhment, both as a ſorry expedient to kill time, and a degradation of thoſe powers which had adminiſtered delight to circles, compoſed of perſons, of both ſexes, diſtinguiſhed as well by their rank, as by their talents for polite converſation. It was a mortification to them, to aſſociate in idea the clink of the tankard, with moral diſquiſition and literary inveſ⯑tigation; and many of them were led to queſtion whether that pleaſure could be very great, which he had rendered ſo cheap: they, however, concealed their ſentiments, and, from motives of mere com⯑paſſion, ſuffered him to enjoy a comfort, which was now become almoſt the only one of which he was capable; and this he did for the ſhort ſpace of about ten months, when the increaſe of his complaints ob⯑liged him to forego it.

I have now brought him to the ſeventy-fifth year of his age, and the laſt of his life, in which two re⯑markable events occurred, the one whereof gave him great uneaſineſs, and the other, though much talked of, little or none. The time I am ſpeaking of, is the year 1784, by about the middle whereof, he was, to appearance, ſo well recovered, that both himſelf and his friends hoped, that he had ſome years to live. He had recovered from the paralytic ſtroke of the laſt year, to ſuch a degree, that, ſaving a little diffi⯑culty in his articulation, he had no remains of it: he had alſo undergone a ſlight fit of the gout, and [568] conquered an oppreſſion on his lungs, ſo as to be able, as himſelf told me, to run up the whole ſtair-caſe of the Royal Academy, on the day of the annual dinner there. In ſhort, to ſuch a degree of health was he reſtored, that he forgot all his complaints: he reſumed ſitting to Opie for his picture, which had been begun the year before, but, I believe, was never finiſhed, and accepted an invitation to the houſe of a friend, at Aſhbourn in Derbyſhire, propoſing to ſtay there till towards the end of the ſummer, and, in his return, to viſit Mrs. Porter, his daughter-in-law, and others of his friends, at Lichfield.

A few weeks before his ſetting out, he was made uneaſy by a report, that the widow of his friend Mr. Thrale was about to diſpoſe of herſelf in marriage to a foreigner, a ſinger by profeſſion, and with him to quit the kingdom. Upon this occaſion he took the alarm, and to prevent a degradation of herſelf, and, what as executor of her huſband was more his con⯑cern, the deſertion of her children, wrote to her, ſhe then being at Bath, a letter, a ſpurious copy whereof, beginning ‘'If you are not already ignominiouſly married,'’ is inſerted in the Gentleman's Magazine for December 1784. That this letter is ſpurious, as to the language, I have Johnſon's own authority for ſaying; but, in reſpect of the ſentiments, he avowed it, in a declaration to me, that not a ſentence of it was his, but yet, that it was an adumbration of one that he wrote upon the occaſion. It may, therefore, be ſuſ⯑pected, that ſome one who had heard him repeat the contents of the letter, had given it to the public in the form in which it appeared.

What anſwer was returned to his friendly monition, [569] I know not, but it ſeems that it was ſucceeded by a letter of greater length, written, as it afterwards ap⯑peared, too late to do any good, in which he expreſſed an opinion, that the perſon to whom it was addreſſed had forfeited her fame. The anſwer to this I have ſeen: it is written from Bath, and contains an indignant vin⯑dication as well of her conduct as her fame, an inhi⯑bition of Johnſon from following her to Bath, and a farewell, concluding—‘'Till you have changed your opinion of—let us converſe no more.'’

In this tranſaction, Johnſon ſeemed to have for⯑gotten the ſtory of the Epheſian Matron, related by Petronius, but was, by this time, convinced that, in his endeavours to prevent an attachment, which he foreſaw would be prejudicial to the intereſts of his friend's children, and fix an indelible diſgrace on their mother, who was about to abandon them and her country, he had been labouring to hedge in the cuckow. From the ſtyle of the letter, a concluſion was to be drawn, that baffled all the powers of rea⯑ſoning and perſuaſion:

which being the caſe, he contented himſelf with re⯑flecting on what he had done to prevent that which he thought one of the greateſt evils that could befall the progeny of his friend, the alienation of the affec⯑tions of their mother. He looked upon the deſer⯑tion of children by their parents, and the withdrawing from them that protection, that mental nutriment which, in their youth, they are capable of receiving, the expoſing them to the ſnares and temptations of [570] the world, and the ſolicitations and deceits of the artful and deſigning, as moſt unnatural; and, in a letter on the ſubject to me, written from Aſhbourn, thus delivered his ſentiments:

‘'Poor Thrale! I thought that either her virtue or her vice,' [meaning, as I underſtood, by the former, the love of her children, and, by the latter, her pride,] 'would have reſtrained her from ſuch a marriage. She is now become a ſubject for her enemies to exult over, and for her friends, if ſhe has any left, to forget or pity.'’

In the mention of the above particulars, it is far from my deſign to reprehend the conduct of the lady to whom they relate. Being her own miſtreſs, ſhe had a right to diſpoſe of herſelf, and is unamenable to any known judicature. Johnſon, in his relation of executor to her huſband, as alſo in gratitude to his memory, was under an obligation to promote the welfare of his family. It was alſo his duty, as far as he was able, to avert an evil which threatened their intereſts. What he endeavoured, for that purpoſe, is part of his hiſtory, and, as ſuch only, I relate it.

While Dr. Johnſon was in the country, his friends in town were labouring for his benefit. Mr. Thrale, a ſhort time before his death, had meditated a journey to Italy, and formed a party, in which Johnſon was in⯑cluded, but the deſign never took effect. It was now conceived, by Johnſon's friends, that a foreign air would contribute to the reſtoration of his health; and his inclination concurring with their ſentiments, a plan was formed for his viſiting the continent, attended with a male-ſervant. The only obſtacle to the journey was, an apprehenſion, that the expence of it would be [571] greater than his income would bear; and, to get over this difficulty, Sir Joſhua Reynolds undertook to ſoli⯑cit an addition of 200l. to his penſion, and to that end, applied to lord Thurlow, who, as the public have been fully informed, exerted his endeavours for the purpoſe, but the application failing, he de⯑clared himſelf willing, upon the ſecurity of that pen⯑ſion of which Johnſon was in poſſeſſion, to advance him 500l^*. This generous offer Johnſon thought proper to decline by a letter, of which the following is an authentic copy, being taken from his own draft now in my hands.

An incorrect copy of the above letter, though of a private nature, found its way into the public pa⯑pers^* in this manner. It was given to Sir Joſhua Reynolds, unſealed, to be delivered to lord Thurlow. Sir Joſhua, looking upon it as a handſome teſtimony of gratitude, and, as it related to a tranſaction in which he had concerned himſelf, took a copy of it, and ſhewed it to a few of his friends. Among theſe, was a lady of quality, who, having heard it red, the next day deſired to be gratified with the peruſal of it at home: the uſe ſhe made of this favour was, the copying and ſending it to one of the news-papers, [573] whence it was taken and inſerted in others, as alſo in the Gentleman's and many other Magazines. Johnſon, upon being told that it was in print, exclaimed in my hearing—'I am betrayed,'—but ſoon after forgot, as he was ever ready to do all real or ſuppoſed in⯑juries, the error that made the publication poſſible.

Dr. Brockleſby was one of thoſe phyſicians who would not encourage Johnſon in a wiſh to viſit the con⯑tinent; nevertheleſs, to conſole him for his late diſ⯑appointment, and that the ſuppoſed narrowneſs of his circumſtances might be no hindrance to ſuch a deſign, he made him a voluntary offer of 100 l. a year, payable quarterly, towards his ſupport abroad, but could not prevail on him to accept it^*.

[574] His excurſion to Aſhbourn was leſs beneficial than he hoped it would be: his diſorders began to return, and he wanted company and amuſement. During his ſtay there, he compoſed ſundry prayers, adapted to the ſtate of his body and mind; and tranſlated from Horace, lib. IV. the ode, ‘'Diffugêre nives, redeunt jam gramina campis,'’ in the words following:

In his return to London, he ſtopped at Lichfield, and from thence wrote to me ſeveral letters, that ſerved but to prepare me for meeting him in a worſe ſtate of health than I had ever ſeen him in. The concluding paragraph of the laſt of them is as follows: ‘'I am relapſing into the dropſy very faſt, and ſhall make ſuch haſte to town that it will be uſeleſs to write to me; but when I come, let me have the benefit of your advice, and the conſolation of your company.' [dated Nov. 7, 1784.]’ After about a fortnight's ſtay there, he took his leave of that city, and of Mrs. Porter, whom he never afterwards ſaw, and arrived in town on the ſixteenth day of No⯑vember.

After the declaration he had made of his intention to provide for his ſervant Frank, and before his going into the country, I had frequently preſſed him to make a will, and had gone ſo far as to make a draft of one, with blanks for the names of the executors and reſiduary legatee, and directing in what manner it was to be executed and atteſted; but he was exceedingly averſe to this buſineſs; and, while he was in Derbyſhire, I repeated my ſolicitations, for this purpoſe, by letters. When he arrived in town, he had done nothing in it, and, to what I formerly ſaid, I now added, that he had never mentioned to me the diſpoſal of the reſidue of his eſtate, which, [576] after the purchaſe of an annuity for Frank, I found would be ſomething conſiderable, and that he would do well to bequeath it to his relations. His anſwer was, ‘'I care not what becomes of the reſidue.'—’A few days after, it appeared that he had executed the draft, the blanks remaining, with all the ſolemnities of a real will. I could get him no farther, and thus, for ſome time, the matter reſted.

He had ſcarce arrived in town, before it was found to be too true, that he was relapſing into a dropſy; and farther, that he was at times grievouſly afflicted with an aſthma. Under an apprehenſion that his end was ap⯑proaching, he enquired of Dr. Brockleſby, with great earneſtneſs indeed, how long he might probably live, but could obtain no other than unſatisfactory anſwers: and, at the ſame time, if I remember right, under a ſeeming great preſſure of mind, he thus addreſſed him, in the words of Shakeſpeare:

To which the doctor, who was nearly as well red in the above author as himſelf, readily replied,

Upon which Johnſon exclaimed—‘'Well applied:—that's more than poetically true.'’

[577] He had, from the month of July in this year, mark⯑ed the progreſs of his diſeaſes, in a journal which he intitled ‘'Aegri Ephemeris,'’ noting therein his many ſleepleſs nights by the words, Nox inſomnis. This he often contemplated, and, finding very little ground for hope that he had much longer to live, he ſet him⯑ſelf to prepare for his diſſolution, and betook himſelf to private prayer and the reading of Eraſmus on the New Teſtament, Dr. Clarke's ſermons, and ſuch other books as had a tendency to calm and comfort him.

In this ſtate of his body and mind, he ſeemed to be very anxious in the diſcharge of two offices that he had hitherto neglected to perform: one was, the com⯑municating to the world the names of the perſons con⯑cerned in the compilation of the Univerſal Hiſtory; the other was, the reſcuing from oblivion the memory of his father and mother, and alſo, of his brother: the former of theſe he diſcharged, by delivering to Mr. Nichols the printer, in my preſence, a paper con⯑taining the information above-mentioned, and direc⯑tions to depoſit it in the Britiſh muſeum. The other, by compoſing a memorial of his deceaſed parents and his brother, intended for their tomb-ſtone, which, whether it was ever inſcribed thereon or not, is extant in the Gentleman's Magazine for January 1785. The note aſcertaining the names of the compilers of the Univerſal Hiſtory, is inſerted in the Magazine for the preceding month. The monumental inſcription is as follows:

He would alſo have written, in Latin verſe, an epi⯑taph for Mr. Garrick, but found himſelf unequal to the taſk of original poetic compoſition in that lan⯑guage.

Nevertheleſs, he ſucceeded in an attempt to render into Latin metre, from the Greek Anthologia, ſundry of the epigrams therein contained, that had been omit⯑ted by other tranſlators, alledging as a reaſon, which he had found in Fabricius, that Henry Stephens, Bu⯑chanan, Grotius, and others, had paid a like tribute to [579] literature^*. The performance of this taſk was the employment of his ſleepleſs nights, and, as he im⯑formed me, it afforded him great relief.

His complaints ſtill increaſing, I continued preſſing him to make a will, but he ſtill procraſtinated that buſineſs. On the twenty-ſeventh of November, in the morning, I went to his houſe, with a purpoſe ſtill farther to urge him not to give occaſion, by dying inteſtate, for litigation among his relations; but finding that he was gone to paſs the day with the reverend Mr. Strahan, at Iſlington, I followed him thither, and found there our old friend Mr. Ryland, and Mr. Hoole. Upon my ſitting down, he ſaid, that the proſpect of the change he was about to un⯑dergo, and the thought of meeting his Saviour, trou⯑bled him, but that he had hope that he would not reject him. I then began to diſcourſe with him about his will, and the proviſion for Frank, till he grew angry. He told me, that he had ſigned and ſealed the paper I left him;—but that, ſaid I, had blanks in it, which, as it ſeems, you have not filled up with the names of the executors.—‘'You ſhould have filled them up yourſelf,'’ anſwered he.—I replied, that ſuch an act would have looked as if I meant to prevent his choice of a fitter perſon.—‘'Sir,' ſaid he, 'theſe minor virtues are not to be exerciſed in matters of ſuch importance as this.'—’At length, he ſaid, that on his return home, he would ſend for a clerk, and dictate a will to him.—You will then, ſaid I, be inops conſilii; rather do it now. [580] With Mr. Strahan's permiſſion, I will be his gueſt at dinner; and, if Mr. Hoole will pleaſe to hold the pen, I will, in a few words, make ſuch a diſpoſition of your eſtate as you ſhall direct.—To this he aſſented; but ſuch a paroxyſm of the aſthma ſeized him, as prevented our going on. As the fire burned up, he found himſelf relieved, and grew chearful. ‘'The fit,' ſaid he, 'was very ſharp; but I am now eaſy.'’ After I had dictated a few lines, I told him, that the ancient form of wills contained a profeſſion of the faith of the teſtator; and that, he being a man of eminence for learning and parts, it would afford an illuſtrious example, and well become him, to make ſuch an explicit declaration of his belief, as might obviate all ſuſpicions that he was any other than a Chriſtian^*. He thanked me for the hint, and, calling for paper, wrote on a ſlip, that I had in my hand and gave him, the following words: ‘'I humbly com⯑mit to the infinite and eternal goodneſs of Almighty God, my ſoul polluted with many ſins; but, as I hope, purified by repentance, and redeemed, as I truſt, by the death of Jeſus Chriſt;'’ and, returning it to me, ſaid, ‘'This I commit to your cuſtody.'’

[581] Upon my calling on him for directions to proceed, he told me, that his father, in the courſe of his trade of a bookſeller, had become bankrupt, and that Mr. William Innys had aſſiſted him with money or credit to continue his buſineſs—‘'This,' ſaid he, 'I conſider as an obligation on me to be grateful to his deſcen⯑dants, and I therefore mean to give 200l. to his re⯑preſentative.'—’He then meditated a deviſe of his houſe at Lichfield to the corporation of that city for a charitable uſe; but, it being freehold, he ſaid—‘'I cannot live a twelve-month, and the laſt ſtatute of mortmain^* ſtands in the way: I muſt, therefore, think of ſome other diſpoſition of it,'—’His next conſideration was, a proviſion for Frank, concerning the amount whereof I found he had been conſulting Dr. Brockleſby, to whom he had put this queſtion—‘'What would be a proper annuity to bequeath to a favourite ſervant?'—’The doctor anſwered, that the circumſtances of the maſter were the trueſt meaſure, and that, in the caſe of a nobleman, 50l. a year was deemed an adequate reward for many years' faithful ſervice.—‘'Then, ſhall I,' ſaid Johnſon, 'be nobiliſſimus; for, I mean to leave Frank 70l. a year, and I deſire you to tell him ſo.'—’And now, at the making of the will, a deviſe, equivalent to ſuch a proviſion, was therein inſerted. The reſidue of his eſtate and effects, which took in, though he intended it not, the houſe at Lichfield, he bequeathed to his executors, in truſt for a religious aſſociation, which it is needleſs to deſcribe.

[582] Having executed the will with the neceſſary forma⯑lities, he would have come home, but being preſſed by Mr. and Mrs. Strahan to ſtay, he conſented, and we all dined together. Towards the evening, he grew chearful, and I having promiſed to take him in my coach, Mr. Strahan and Mr. Ryland would accom⯑pany him home. In the way thither he appeared much at eaſe, and told ſtories. At eight I ſet him down, and Mr. Strahan and Mr. Ryland betook themſelves to their reſpective homes.

Sunday 28th. I ſaw him about noon; he was dozing; but waking, he found himſelf in a circle of his friends. Upon opening his eyes, he ſaid, that the proſpect of his diſſolution was very terrible to him, and addreſſed himſelf to us all, in nearly theſe words: ‘'You ſee the ſtate in which I am; conflicting with bodily pain and mental diſtraction: while you are in health and ſtrength, labour to do good, and avoid evil, if ever you hope to eſcape the diſtreſs that now oppreſſes me.'—A little while after,—'I had, very early in my life, the ſeeds of goodneſs in me: I had a love of virtue, and a reverence for religion; and theſe, I truſt, have brought forth in me fruits meet for repentance; and, if I have re⯑pented as I ought, I am forgiven. I have, at times, entertained a loathing of ſin and of myſelf, parti⯑cularly at the beginning of this year, when I had the proſpect of death before me; and this has not abated when my fears of death have been leſs; and, at theſe times, I have had ſuch rays of hope ſhot into my ſoul, as have almoſt perſuaded me, that I am in a ſtate of reconciliation with God.'’

[583] 29th. Mr. Langton, who had ſpent the evening with him, reported, that his hopes were increaſed, and that he was much cheared upon being reminded of the general tendency of his writings, and of his example.

30th. I ſaw him in the evening, and found him chearful. Was informed, that he had, for his dinner, eaten heartily of a French duck pie and a pheaſant.

Dec. 1. He was buſied in deſtroying papers.—Gave to Mr. Langton and another perſon, to fair copy, ſome tranſlations of the Greek epigrams, which he had made in the preceding nights, and tranſcribed the next morning, and they began to work on them.

3d. Finding his legs continue to ſwell, he ſigni⯑fied to his phyſicians a ſtrong deſire to have them ſcarified, but they, unwilling to put him to pain, and fearing a mortification, declined adviſing it. He afterwards conſulted his ſurgeon, and he performed the operation on one leg.

4th. I viſited him: the ſcarification, made yeſterday in his leg, appeared to have had little effect.—He ſaid to me, that he was eaſier in his mind, and as fit to die at that inſtant, as he could be a year hence.—He re⯑queſted me to receive the ſacrament with him on Sunday, the next day. Complained of great weak⯑neſs, and of phantoms that haunted his imagination.

5th. Being Sunday, I communicated with him and Mr. Langton, and other of his friends, as many as nearly filled the room. Mr. Strahan, who was conſtant in his attendance on him throughout his illneſs, performed the office. Previous to reading the exhortation, Johnſon knelt, and, with a degree of fervour that I had never been witneſs to before, [584] uttered the following moſt eloquent and energetic prayer:

‘'Almighty and moſt merciful Father, I am now, as to human eyes it ſeems, about to commemorate, for the laſt time, the death of thy ſon Jeſus Chriſt, our Saviour and Redeemer. Grant, O Lord, that my whole hope and confidence may be in his me⯑rits and in thy mercy: forgive and accept my late converſion; enforce and accept my imperfect repen⯑tance; make this commemoration of him available to the confirmation of my faith, the eſtabliſhment of my hope, and the enlargement of my charity; and make the death of thy ſon Jeſus effectual to my re⯑demption. Have mercy upon me, and pardon the multitude of my offences. Bleſs my friends, have mercy upon all men. Support me by the grace of they holy ſpirit in the days of weakneſs, and at the hour of death, and receive me, at my death, to ever⯑laſting happineſs, for the ſake of Jeſus Chriſt.—Amen.'’

Upon riſing from his knees, after the office was concluded, he ſaid, that he dreaded to meet God in a ſtate of idiocy, or with opium in his head; and, that having now communicated with the effects of a doſe upon him, he doubted if his exertions were the genuine operations of his mind, and repeated from biſhop Taylor this ſentiment, ‘'That little, that has been omitted in health, can be done to any purpoſe in ſickneſs^*.’

[585] 6th. I again viſited him. Before my departure, Dr. Brockleſby came in, and, taking him by the wriſt, Johnſon gave him a look of great contempt, and ri⯑diculed the judging of his diſorder by the pulſe. He complained, that the ſarcocele had again made its appearance, and aſked, if a puncture would not relieve him, as it had done the year before: the doctor anſwered, that it might, but that his ſurgeon was the beſt judge of the effect of ſuch an operation. Johnſon, upon this, ſaid, ‘'How many men in a year die through the timidity of thoſe whom they con⯑ſult for health! I want length of life, and you fear giving me pain, which I care not for.'’

8th. I viſited him with Mr. Langton, and found him dictating to Mr. Strahan another will, the former being, as he had ſaid at the time of making it, a tem⯑porary one. On our entering the room, he ſaid, ‘'God bleſs you both.'’ I arrived juſt time enough to direct the execution, and alſo the atteſtation of it. After he had publiſhed it, he deſired Mr. Strahan to ſay the Lord's prayer, which he did, all of us joining. Johnſon, after it, uttered, extempore, a few pious ejaculations.

9th. I ſaw him in the evening, and found him dictating, to Mr. Strahan, a codicil to the will he had [586] made the evening before. I aſſiſted them in it, and received from the teſtator a direction, to inſert a deviſe to his executors of the houſe at Lichfield, to be ſold for the benefit of certain of his relations, a bequeſt of ſundry pecuniary and ſpecific legacies, a proviſion for the annuity of 70l. for Francis, and, after all, a deviſe of all the reſt, reſidue, and remainder of his eſtate and effects, to his executors, in truſt for the ſaid Francis Barber, his executors and adminiſtrators; and, having dictated accordingly, Johnſon executed and publiſhed it as a codicil to his will^*.

He was now ſo weak as to be unable to kneel, and lamented, that he muſt pray ſitting, but, with an effort, he placed himſelf on his knees, while Mr. Strahan repeated the Lord's Prayer. During the whole of the evening, he was much compoſed and re⯑ſigned. Being become very weak and helpleſs, it was [587] thought neceſſary that a man ſhould watch with him all night; and one was found in the neighbourhood, who, for half a crown a night, undertook to ſit up with, and aſſiſt him. When the man had left the room, he, in the preſence and hearing of Mr. Stra⯑han and Mr. Langton, aſked me, where I meant to bury him. I anſwered, doubtleſs, in Weſtminſter abbey: ‘'If,' ſaid he, 'my executors think it proper to mark the ſpot of my interment by a ſtone, let it be ſo placed as to protect my body from injury.'’ I aſſured him it ſhould be done. Before my departure, he deſired Mr. Langton to put into my hands, money to the amount of upwards of 100l. with a direction to keep it till called for.

10th. This day at noon I ſaw him again. He ſaid to me, that the male nurſe to whoſe care I had com⯑mitted him, was unfit for the office. ‘'He is,' ſaid he, 'an idiot, as aukward as a turnſpit juſt put into the wheel, and as ſleepy as a dormouſe.'’ Mr. Cruik⯑ſhank came into the room, and, looking on his ſcari⯑fied leg, ſaw no ſign of a mortification.

11th. At noon, I found him dozing, and would not diſturb him.

12th. Saw him again; found him very weak, and, as he ſaid, unable to pray.

13th. At noon, I called at the houſe, but went not into his room, being told, that he was dozing. I was further informed by the ſervants, that his appetite was totally gone, and that he could take no ſuſtenance. At eight in the evening, of the ſame day, word was brought me by Mr. Saſtres, to whom, in his laſt moments, he uttered theſe words, ‘'Jam moriturus,'’ that, at a quarter paſt ſeven, he had, without a groan, or the leaſt ſign of pain or uneaſineſs, yielded his laſt breath.

[588] At eleven, the ſame evening, Mr. Langton came to me, and, in an agony of mind, gave me to under⯑ſtand, that our friend had wounded himſelf in ſeveral parts of the body. I was ſhocked at the news; but, upon being told that he had not touched any vital part, was eaſily able to account for an action, which would elſe have given us the deepeſt concern. The fact was, that conceiving himſelf to be full of water, he had done that, which he had often ſolicited his medical aſſiſtants to do, made two or three inciſions in his lower limbs, vainly hoping for ſome relief from the flux that might follow.

Early the next morning, Frank came to me; and, being deſirous of knowing all the particulars of this tranſaction, I interrogated him very ſtrictly concerning it, and received from him anſwers to the following effect:

That, at eight in the morning of the preceding day, upon going into the bedchamber, his maſter, being in bed, ordered him to open a cabinet, and give him a drawer in it; that he did ſo, and that out of it his maſter took a caſe of lancets, and chooſing one of them, would have conveyed it into the bed, which Frank, and a young man that ſat up with him, ſeeing, they ſeized his hand, and intreated him not to do a raſh action: he ſaid he would not; but drawing his hand under the bed-clothes, they ſaw his arm move. Upon this, they turned down the clothes, and ſaw a great effuſion of blood, which ſoon ſtopped—That ſoon after, he got at a pair of ſciſſars that lay in a drawer by him, and plunged them deep in the calf of each leg—That immediately they ſent for Mr. Cruikſhank, and the apothecary, and they, or one of them, dreſſed the wounds—That he then fell into that dozing which [589] carried him off.—That it was conjectured he loſt eight or ten ounces of blood; and that this effuſion brought on the dozing, though his pulſe continued firm till three o'clock.

That this act was not done to haſten his end, but to diſcharge the water that he conceived to be in him, I have not the leaſt doubt. A dropſy was his diſeaſe; he looked upon himſelf as a bloated carcaſe; and, to attain the power of eaſy reſpiration, would have un⯑dergone any degree of temporary pain. He dreaded neither punctures nor inciſions, and, indeed, defied the trochar and the lancet: he had often reproached his phyſicians and ſurgeon with cowardice; and, when Mr. Cruikſhank ſcarified his leg, he cried out—‘'Deeper, deeper;—I will abide the conſequence: you are afraid of your reputation, but that is no⯑thing to me.'—’To thoſe about him, he ſaid,—‘'You all pretend to love me, but you do not love me ſo well as I myſelf do.'’

I have been thus minute in recording the parti⯑culars of his laſt moments, becauſe I wiſhed to attract attention to the conduct of this great man, under the moſt trying circumſtances human nature is ſubject to. Many perſons have appeared poſſeſſed of more ſerenity of mind in this awful ſcene; ſome have remained unmoved at the diſſo⯑lution of the vital union; and, it may be deemed a diſcouragement from the ſevere practice of religion, that Dr. Johnſon, whoſe whole life was a preparation for his death, and a conflict with natural infirmity, was diſturbed with terror at the proſpect of the grave. Let not this relax the circumſpection of any one. It is true, that natural firmneſs of ſpirit, or the [90] confidence of hope, may buoy up the mind to the laſt; but, however heroic an undaunted death may appear, it is not what we ſhould pray for. As Johnſon lived the life of the righteous, his end was that of a Chriſtian: he ſtrictly fulfilled the injunction of the apoſtle, to work out his ſalvation with fear and trembling; and, though his doubts and ſcruples were certainly very diſtreſſing to himſelf, they give his friends a pious hope, that he, who added to almoſt all the virtues of Chriſtianity, that religious humi⯑lity which its great Teacher inculcated, will, in the fullneſs of time, receive the reward promiſed to a patient continuance in well-doing.

A few days after his departure, Dr. Brockleſby and Mr. Cruikſhank, who, with great aſſiduity and huma⯑nity, (and I muſt add, generoſity, for neither they, nor Dr. Heberden, Dr. Warren, nor Dr. Butter, would accept any fees) had attended him, ſignified a wiſh, that his body might be opened. This was done, and the report made was to this effect:

• Two of the valves of the aorta oſlified.
• The air-cells of the lungs unuſually diſtended.
• One of the kidneys deſtroyed by the preſſure of the water.
• The liver ſchirrous.
• A ſtone in the gall-bladder, of the ſize of a com⯑mon gooſeberry.

On Monday the 20th of December, his funeral was celebrated and honoured by a numerous attendance of his friends, and among them, by particular invi⯑tation, of as many of the literary club as were then in town, and not prevented by engagements. The dean of Weſtminſter, upon my application, would [591] gladly have performed the ceremony of his interment, but, at the time, was much indiſpoſed in his health; the office, therefore, devolved upon the ſenior pre⯑bendary, Dr. Taylor, who performed it with becoming gravity and ſeriouſneſs. All the prebendaries, except ſuch as were abſent in the country, attended in their ſurplices and hoods: they met the corpſe at the weſt door of their church, and performed, in the moſt reſ⯑pectful manner, all the honours due to the memory of ſo great a man.

His body, encloſed in a leaden coffin, is depoſited in the ſouth tranſept of the abbey, near the foot of Shakeſ⯑peare's monument, and cloſe to the coffin of his friend Garrick. Agreeable to his requeſt, a ſtone of black marble covers his grave, thus inſcribed:‘SAMUEL JOHNSON, L.L.D.
Obiit XIII die Decembris,
Anno Domini
M DCC LXXXIV,
Aetatis ſuae LXXV.’