and dictated his first publication to Mr. Hector, who acted as his amanuenfis, to the moment he made me copy out those variations in Pope's Homer which are printed in the Poets Lives : "And now (faid he, when I had finished it for him), I fear not Mr. Nicholson of a pin." The fine Rambler on the subject of Procraftination was hastily composed, as I have heard, in Sir Joshua Reynolds's parlour, while the boy waited to carry it to press : and numberless are the instances of his writing under immediate pressure of importunity or distress. He told me that the character of Sober in the Idler, was by himself intended as his own portrait; and that he had his own outset into life in his eye when he wrote the eastern story of Gelaleddin. Of the allegorical papers in the Rambler, Labour and Rest was his favourite; but Serotinus, the man who returns late in life to receive honours in his native country, and meets with mortification instead of respect, was

by him confidered as a masterpiece in the science of life and manners. The character of Profpero in the fourth volume, Garrick took to be his; and I have heard the author say, that he never forgave the offence. Sophron was likewise a picture drawn from reality; and by Gelidus the philofopher, he meant to represent Mr. Coulson, a mathematician, who formerly lived at Rochester. The man immortalised for purring like a cat was, as he told me, one Busby, a proctor in the Commons. He who barked fo ingeniously, and then called the drawer to drive away the dog, was father to Dr. Salter of the Charterhouse. He who fung a fong, and by correspondent motions of his arm chalked out a giant on the wall, was one Richardson, an attorney. The letter figned Sunday, was written by Miss Talbot; and he fancied the billets in the first volume of the Rambler, were sent him by Miss Mulso, now Mrs. Chapone. The papers contributed by Mrs.

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Carter, had much of his esteem, though he always blamed me for preferring the letter figned Chariessa to the allegory, where religion and fuperftition are indeed most masterly delineated.

When Dr. Johnson read his own fatire, in which the life of a scholar is painted, with the various obstructions thrown in his way to fortune and to fame, he burst into a passion of tears one day: the family and Mr. Scott only were present, who, in a jocofe way, clapped him on the back, and faid, What's all this, my dear Sir? Why you, and I, and Hercules, you know, were all troubled with melancholy. As there are many gentlemen of the fame name, I should say, perhaps, that it was a Mr. Scott who married Mifs Robinson, and that I think I have heard Mr. Thrale call him George Lewis, or George Augustus, I have forgot which. He was a very large man, however, and made out the triumvirate

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with Johnfon and Hercules comically enough. The Doctor was so delighted at his odd fally, that he suddenly embraced him, and the subject was immediately changed. I never faw Mr. Scott but that once in my life.

Dr. Johnson was liberal enough in granting literary assistance to others, I think; and innumerable are the prefaces, fermons, lectures, and dedications which he used to make for people who begged of him. Mr. Murphy related in his and my hearing one day, and he did not deny it, that when Murphy joked him the week before for having been so diligent of late between Dodd's fermon and Kelly's prologue, that Dr. Johnson replied, "Why, Sir, when they come to me with a dead stay-maker and a dying parson, what can a man do?" He said, however, that " he hated to give away literary performances, or even to fell them too cheaply: the next generation shall not

accuse me (added he) of beating down the price of literature: one hates, befides, ever to give that which one has been accustomed to sell; would not you, Sir (turning to Mr. Thrale), rather give away money than porter ?"

Mr. Johnfon had never, by his own account, been a close student, and used to advise young people never to be without a book in their pocket, to be read at bye-times when they had nothing else to do. " It has been by that means (faid he to a boy at our house one day) that all my knowledge has been gained, except what I have picked up by running about the world with my wits ready to observe, and my tongue ready to talk. A man is seldom in a humour to unlock his book-cafe, set his desk in order, and betake himself to serious study; but a retentive memory will do something, and a fellow shall have strange credit given him, if he can but recollect striking