Johnson was every day at an elegant table, with select and polished company. Whatever could be devised by Mr. and Mrs. Thrale to promote the happiness, and establish the health of their guest, was studiously performed from that time to the end of Mr. Thrale's life. Johnson accompanied the family in all their summer excursions to Brighthelmstone, to Wales, and to Paris. It is but justice to Mr. Thrale to say, that a more ingenuous frame of mind no man possessed.

the mind of that elegant writer, and made him impatient, without disguise, of the praises bestowed on any person whatever. Of this infirmity, which marked Goldsmith's character, Johnson gave a remarkable instance. It hap pened that he went with Sir Joshua Reynolds and Goldsmith to see the Fantoccini, which were exhibited some years ago in or near the Haymarket. They admired the curious mechanism by which the puppets were made to walk the stage, draw a chair to the table, sit| His education at Oxford gave him the habits of down, write a letter, and perform a variety of other actions, with such dexterity, that "though Nature's journeymen made the men, they imitated humanity" to the astonishment of the spectator. The entertainment being over, the three friends retired to a tavern. Johnson and Sir Joshua talked with pleasure of what they had seen; and says Johnson, in a tone of admiration, "How the little fellow brandished his spontoon!" "There is nothing in it," replied Goldsmith, starting up with impatience; "give me a spontoon; I can do it as well myself."

Enjoying his amusements at his weekly club, and happy in a state of independence, Johnson gained in the year 1765 another resource, which contributed more than any thing else to exempt him from the solicitudes of life. He was introduced to the late Mr. Thrale and his family. Mrs. Piozzi has related the fact. and it is therefore needless to repeat it in this place. The author of this narrative looks back to the share he had in that business with self-congratulation, since he knows the tenderness which from that time scothed Johnson's cares at Streatham, and prolonged a valuable life. The subscribers to Shakspeare began to despair of ever seeing the promised edition. To acquit himself of this obligation, he went to work unwillingly, but pro ceeded with vigour. In the month of October, 1765, Shakspeare was published; and, in a short time after, the University of Dublin sent over a diploma, in honourable terms, creating him a Doctor of Laws. Oxford, in eight or ten years afterwards, followed the example; and till then Johnson never assumed the title of Doctor. In 1766 his constitution seemed to be in a rapid decline; and that morbid melancholy which often clouded his understanding, came upon him with a deeper gloom than ever. Mr. and Mrs. Thrale paid him a visit in this situation, and found him on his knees, with Dr. Delap, the Rector of Lewes, in Sussex, beseeching God to continue to him the use of his understanding. Mr. Thrale took him to his house at Streatham; and Johnson from that time became a constant resident in the family. He went occasionally to the club in Gerard-street; but his head-quarters were fixed at Streatham. An apartment was fitted up for him, and the library was greatly enlarged. Parties were constantly invited from town; and

a gentleman; his amiable temper recommended his conversation; and the goodness of his heart made him a sincere friend. That he was the patron of Johnson is an honour to his memory.

In petty disputes with contemporary writers, or the wits of the age, Johnson was seldom entangled. A single incident of that kind may not be unworthy of notice, since it happened with a man of great celebrity in his time. A number of friends dined with Garrick on a Christmas-day. Foote was then in Ireland. It was said at table, that the modern Aristophanes (so Foote was called) had been horse-whipped by a Dublin apothecary, for mimicking him on the stage. "I wonder," said Garrick, "that any man should show so much resentment to Foote; he has a patent for such liberties; nobody ever thought it worth his while to quarrel with him in London." "I am glad," said Johnson, "to find that the man is rising in the world." The expression was afterwards reported to Foote; who, in return, gave out, that he would produce the Caliban of Literature on the stage. Being informed of this design, Johnson sent word to Foote, "That the theatre being intended for the reformation of vice, he would step from the boxes on the stage, and correct him before the audience." Foote knew the intrepidity of his antagonist, and abandoned the design. No ill-will ensued. Johnson used to say, "That, for broad-faced mirth, Foote had not his equal.'

Dr. Johnson's fame excited the curiosity of the King. His Majesty expressed a desire to see a man of whom extraordinary things were said. Accordingly, the librarian at Buckingham-house invited Johnson to see that elegant collection of books, at the same time giving a hint of what was intended. His Majesty entered the room; and, among other things, asked the author, "if he meant to give the world any more of his compositions?" Johnson answered, "That he thought he had written enough." "And I should think so too," replied his Majesty, "if you had not written so well."

Though Johnson thought he had written enough, his genius, even in spite of bodily sluggishness, could not lie still. In 1770 we find him entering the lists as a political writer. The flame of discord that blazed throughout the nation on the expulsion of Mr. Wilkes, and the

final determination of the House of Commons, | considers how the hydra was destroyed." The

trees on the east side of Scotland. Mr. Pen-
nant, in his Tour, says, that in some parts of
the eastern side of the country, he saw several
large plantations of pine planted by gentlemen
near their seats; and in this respect such a
laudable spirit prevails, that, in another half cen-
tury it never shall be said, "To spy the nakedness
of the land are you come.' Johnson could not
wait for that half century, and therefore men-
tioned things as he found them. If in any thing
he has been mistaken, he has made a fair apo-

of England. To the former he imputed no dis-
affection, no want of loyalty. Their soldiers
and their officers had shed their blood with zeal
and courage in the service of Great Britain;
and the people, he used to say, were content
with their own established modes of worship,
without wishing, in the present age, to give any
disturbance to the Church of England. This
he was at all times ready to admit; and there-
fore declared, that whenever he found a Scotch-
man to whom an Englishman was as a Scotch-
man, that Scotchman should be as an English-logy in the last paragraph of his book, avowing
man to him. In this, surely, there was no ran-
cour, no malevolence. The Dissenters on this
side the Tweed appeared to him in a different
light. Their religion, he frequently said, was
too worldly, too political, too restless and am-
bitious. The doctrine of cashiering kings, and
erecting on the ruins of the constitution a new
form of government, which lately issued from
their pulpits, he always thought was, under a
calm disguise, the principle that lay lurking in
their hearts. He knew that a wild democracy
had overturned Kings, Lords, and Commons;
and that a set of Republican Fanatics, who
would not bow at the name of Jesus, had taken
possession of all the livings and all the parishes
in the kingdom. That those scenes of horror
might never be renewed, was the ardent wish
of Dr. Johnson; and though he apprehended
no danger from Scotland, it is probable that his
dislike of Calvinism mingled sometimes with
his reflections on the natives of that country.
The association of ideas could not be easily
broken; but it is well known that he loved and
respected many gentlemen from that part of the
island. Dr. Robertson's History of Scotland,
and Dr. Beattie's Essays, were subjects of his
constant praise. Mr. Boswell, Dr. Rose of
Chiswick, Andrew Millar, Mr. Hamilton, the
printer, and the late Mr. Strahan, were among
his most intimate friends. Many others might
be added to the list. He scorned to enter Scot-
land as a spy; though Hawkins, his biographer,
and the professing defender of his fame, allowed
himself leave to represent him in that ignoble
character. He went into Scotland, to survey
men and manners. Antiquities, fossils, and
minerals, were not within his province. He
did not visit that country to settle the station of
Roman camps, or the spot where Galgacus
fought the last battle for public liberty. The
people, their customs, and the progress of litera-
ture, were his objects. The civilities which he
received in the course of his tour have been re-fuge of guilt." This reasoning carries with it
paid with grateful acknowledgment, and, gene-
rally, with great elegance of expression. His
crime is, that he found the country bare of trees,
and he has stated the fact. This, Mr. Boswell,
in his Tour to the Hebrides, has told us, was
resented by his countrymen with anger inflamed
to raucour; but he admits that there are few

with candour, "That he may have been sur-
prised by modes of life, and appearances of na-
ture, that are familiar to men of wider survey,
and more varied conversation. Novelty and
ignorance must always be reciprocal; and he is
conscious that his thoughts on national manners
are the thoughts of one who has seen but little."
The Poems of Ossian made a part of John-
son's inquiry during his residence in Scotland
and the Hebrides. On his return to England,
November 1773, a storm seemed to be gathering
over his head; but the cloud never burst, and
the thunder never fell.-Ossian, it is well
known, was presented to the public as a tran-
slation from the Earse; but that this was a
fraud, Johnson declared without hesitation.
"The Earse," he says, "was always oral only,
and never a written language. The Welsh and
the Irish were more cultivated. In Earse there
was not in the world a single manuscript a
hundred years old. Martin, who in the last
century published an Account of the Western
Islands, mentions Irish, but never Earse manu-
scripts, to be found in the islands in his time.
The bards could not read; if they could, they
might probably have written. But the bard
was a barbarian among barbarians, and, know-
ing nothing himself, lived with others that
knew no more. If there is a manuscript from
which the translation was made, in what age
was it written, and where is it? If it was col-
lected from oral recitation, it could only be in
detached parts and scattered fragments: the
whole is too long to be remembered. Who put
it together in its present form?" For these, and
such like reasons, Johnson calls the whole an
imposture. He adds, "The editor, or author,
never could show the original, nor can it be
shown by any other. To revenge reasonable
incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a degree of
insolence with which the world is not yet ac-
quainted; and stubborn audacity is the last re-

great weight. It roused the resentment of Mr.
Macpherson. He sent a threatening letter to
the author; and Johnson answered him in the
rough phrase of stern defiance. The two heroes
frowned at a distance, but never came to action.
In the year 1777, the misfortunes of Dr. Dodd
excited his compassion. He wrote a speech for
d

1070

position. They have embalmed the dead. But it is true, that they had incitements and advantages, even at a distant day, which could not, by any diligence, be obtained by Dr. Johnson. The wits of France had ample materials. They lived in a nation of critics, who had at heart the honour done to their country by their Poets, their Heroes, and their Philosophers. They had, besides, an Academy of Belles-Lettres, where Genius was cultivated, refined, and encouraged. They had the tracts, the essays, and dissertations, which remain in the memoirs of the Academy, and they had the speeches of the several members, delivered at their first admission to a seat in that learned Assembly. In those speech

that unhappy man, when called up to receive judgment of death; besides two petitions, one to the King, and another to the Queen and a sermon to be preached by Dodd to the convicts in Newgate. It may appear trifling to add, that about the same time he wrote a prologue to the comedy of "A Word to the Wise," written by Hugh Kelly. The play, some years before, had been damned by a party on the first night. It was revived for the benefit of the author's widow. Mrs. Piozzi relates, that when Johnson was rallied for these exertions, so close to one another, his answer was, "When they come to me with a dying Parson, and a dead Stay-maker, what can a man do?" We come now to the last of his literary labours. At the requestes the new Academician did ample justice to of the Booksellers he undertook the Lives of the Poets. The first publication was in 1779, and the whole was completed in 1781. In a memorandum of that year he says, some time in March he finished the Lives of the Poets, which he wrote in his usual way, dilatorily and hastily, unwilling to work, yet working with vigour and haste. In another place, he hopes they are written in such a manner as may tend to the promotion of piety. That the history of so many men, who, in their different degrees, made themselves conspicuous in their time, was not written recently after their deaths, seems to be an omission that does no honour to the Republic of Letters. Their contemporaries in general ooked on with calm indifference, and suffered Wit and Genius to vanish out of the world in total silence, unregarded, and unlamented. Was there no friend to pay the tribute of a tear? No just observer of life, to record the virtues of the deceased? Was even Envy silent? It seemed to have been agreed, that if an author's works survived, the history of the man was to give no moral lesson to after ages. If tradition told us that Ben Johnson went to the Devil Tavern; that Shakspeare stole deer, and held the stirrup at playhouse doors; that Dryden frequented Button's Coffee-house; curiosity was lulled asleep, and biography forgot the best part of her function, which is to instruct mankind by examples taken from the school of life. This task remained for Dr. Johnson, when years had rolled away; when the channels of information were, for the most part, choked up, and little remained besides doubtful anecdote, uncertain tradition, and vague report.

"Nunc situs informis premit et deserta Vetustas." The value of Blography has been better understood in other ages, and in other countries. Tacitus informs us, that to record the lives and characters of illustrious men was the practice of the Roman authors, in the early periods of the Republic. In France the example has been followed. Fontenelle, D'Alembert, and Monsieur Thomas, have left models in this kind of com

the memory of his predecessor; and though his
harangue was decorated with the colours of elo-
quence, and was, for that reason, called panegy-
ric, yet being pronounced before qualified judges,
who knew the talents, the conduct, and morals
of the deceased, the speaker could not, with
propriety, wander into the regions of fiction.
The truth was known, before it was adorned.
The Academy saw the marble before the artist
polished it. But this country has had no Aca-
demy of Literature. The public mind, for
centuries, has been engrossed by party and fac-
tion; by the madness of many for the gain of a
few; by civil wars, religious dissensions, trade
and commerce, and the arts of accumulating
wealth. Amidst such attentions, who can won-
der that cold praise has been often the only re-
ward of merit? In this country Doctor Na-
thaniel Hodges, who, like the good bishop of
Marseilles, drew purer breath amidst the conta-
gion of the plague in London, and, during the
whole time, continued in the city, administering
medical assistance, was suffered, as Johnson
used to relate with tears in his eyes, to die for
debt in a gaol. In this country, the man who
brought the New River to London was ruined
by that noble project; and in this country, Ot-
way died for want on Tower Hill; Butler, the
great author of Hudibras, whose name can
only die with the English language, was left to
languish in poverty, the particulars of his life
almost unknown, and scarce a vestige of him
left except his immortal poem. Had there been
an Academy of Literature, the lives, at least, of
those celebrated persons would have been writ-
ten for the benefit of posterity. Swift, it seems,
had the idea of such an institution, and pro-
posed it to Lord Oxford; but Whig and Tory
were more important objects. It is needless
to dissemble, that Dr. Johnson, in the Life
of Roscommon, talks of the inutility of such
a project. "In this country," he
66
says, an
Academy could be expected to do but little.
If an Academician's place were profitable, it
would be given by interest; if attendance were
gratuitous, it would be rarely paid, and no man