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

"Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not expect, for

I never had a patron before.

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

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

"Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favorer of learning, I shall not be dis

appointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation, my lord,

"Your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, "SAMUEL JOHNSON."

The book appeared without a dedication, and, when some friend expressed surprise, Johnson said: "I confess no obligation. I feel my own dignity, sir. I have made a voyage round the world of the English language, and while I am coming into port, with a fair wind, on a sunshiny day, my Lord Chesterfield sends out two little cockboats to tow me into port."

So has the peerless genius of the lexicographer fastened to the page of history this heartless libertine, as the naturalist sometimes impales a gilded butterfly or loathsome bug, and places it upon the walls of his cabinet, as an object of interest to students in other years. While tugging at his oar in this long but successful voyage, his great mind was busy in other directions. In 1749 he brought out another "Satire," on the "Vanity of Human Wishes," rather too profound and philosophical for general admiration. His friend Garrick was discouraged. He said that "London" was very readable, the second "Satire was hard as Greek, and he supposed the third would be Hebrew. Yet, although the style is ponderous, it has a vigor and power equal to Juvenal himself. Walter Scott said, he "enjoyed these satires more than other poetry." He also started, and carried on, almost without help, a paper called The Rambler, which he modelled after The Spectator, but there was little resemblance to that sprightly sheet; The Idler, which followed, was more readable, but not at all tempting for a leisure hour, the long sermons and labored language being rather fatiguing to a common mind.

Here is a fair sample of the style from a Rambler, of April, 1750: "If the most active and industrious of mankind was able, at the close of life, to recollect distinctly his past moments, and distribute them in a regular account, according to the manner in which they have been spent, it is scarcely to be imagined how few would be marked out to the mind by any permanent or visible effects, how small a proportion his real action would bear to his seeming possibilities of action, how many chasms he would find of wide and continued vacuity, and how many interstitial spaces unfilled, even in the most tumultuous hurries of business, and in the most eager vehemence of pursuit."

Johnson thought and talked like an ordinary person, but wrote in "Johnsonese." If he ever forgot himself and wrote simply, a correction would be sure to follow. His letters to Mrs. Thrale from the Hebrides are often easy and entertaining; but he translated them into "Johnsonese as soon as he returned. He tells her, when he went up-stairs, a dirty fellow bounced out of the bed on which one of us was to lie." But in the "Journal" you find the incident transformed thus: "Out of one of the beds on which we were to repose started up at our entrance a man black as a Cyclops from the forge." Goldsmith said very truly, "If you were to write a fable about little fishes, doctor, you would make them talk like whales.

The death of his wife in 1752 put an end to his writing. for some time. He mourned for her as if she had been all that he fancied her. On her monument he placed a Latin epitaph, describing her as beautiful, cultivated, witty, and religious; and when speaking of her in afteryears would exclaim, "Pretty creature!" as if recalling a dream of loveliness. The old proverb that "love is blind" was certainly verified in his case. Six years later, in 1758, he lost his good mother, who died in her ninety

first year, at the old home in Lichfield. He was then just fifty; but in his last letter he forgets his stately style, and writes like a child. He says:

"DEAR HONORED MOTHER:

Neither your condition nor your character make it fit for me to say much. You have been the best mother, and are, I believe, the best woman in the world. I thank you for your indulgence to me, and beg forgiveness for all that I have done ill, and all I have omitted to do well. God grant you His Holy Spirit, and admit you to everlasting happiness, for Jesus Christ's sake! Amen. Lord Jesus, receive your Spirit! Amen.

"I am, dear, dear mother, your dutiful son,

"SAM JOHNSON."

To pay the expenses of her funeral, he wrote diligent

ly for a week, and the result was "Rasselas," a story of Abyssinia-in fact, a series of moral essays, full of beautiful thoughts on his old theme, the "vanity of human wishes," very slightly covered by an imaginary tale of Eastern life.. The book had a great success, being translated into almost all the languages of Europe.

The world at last began to discover Johnson's worth. The king even heard of him as the man who compiled the dictionary-a poor scribbler, who needed money—and he conferred on him a yearly pension of three hundred pounds. The following year he met in Mr. Davies's back parlor a person who had been longing for such an interview-to whom, vain, disagreeable, and garrulous though he may have been, both Johnson and his friends owe much.

I beg leave to introduce to my readers Johnson's shadow, James Boswell, Esq., of Scotland. Ever after that memorable evening, Boswell seemed to have but one idea in his head (some severe critics have suggested that one was an improvement on the previous emptiness), and

that was Dr. Johnson!

To follow his every step, to

catch every word that fell from his lips and record it, was the ambition of his life. Every thing was ennobled that his new hero had touched or worn. His brown coat, his little scorched wig, his cocked hat, his heavy shoes, and huge cane, were all sacred in his eyes. He not only described his favorite dishes, but noted down just how much he ate of the fish-sauce, or the veal-pie with plums; nor did he forget what was more important.

Much of Johnson's remarkable talk would have been lost had Boswell been less of a slave and toady. He seemed proud of any notice from his master, and would note it down, though it were but an insult. He would usually call out the great moralist by asking a question, or contradicting a statement. Sometimes he got nothing but a rebuke, which would have silenced most persons forever. On one occasion he had been teasing Johnson with many direct questions, as, "What did you do, sir?" "What did you say, sir?" until he became enraged, and thundered, "I will not be put to the question, sir! Don't you consider, sir, that these are not the manners of a gentleman? I will not be baited with 'what' and 'why;' 'What is this?' 'What's that?' 'Why is a cow's tail long?' 'Why is a fox's tail bushy?"" "Why, sir," replied the humbled yet persistent questioner, "you are so good that I ventured to trouble you!" "Sir," growled Johnson, "my being so good is no reason that you should be so ill. You have but two topics-yourself and meand I am sick of both!" So did this literary lion treat this spaniel that forever fawned upon him. Miss Burney, one of the popular writers of that day, describes Boswell as perfectly regardless of every thing and everybody, except Johnson-not even answering questions put to him, lest he might lose the smallest word from the doctor's lips. His father, the old laird of Auchinlech, was annoyed and