instruments; but who can be insensible to the powerful impressions of the majestic organ?

His 'Taxation no Tyranny' being mentioned, he said: 'I think I have not been attacked enough for it. Attack is the reaction; I never think I have hit hard unless it rebounds.' BoSWELL: 'I don't know, sir, what you would be at. Five or six shots of small arms in every newspaper, and repeated cannonading in pamphlets, might, I think, satisfy you. But, sir, you'll never make out this match of which we have talked, with a certain political lady, since you are so severe against her principles.' JOHNSON: 'Nay, sir, I have the better chance for that. She is like the Amazons of old: she must be courted by the sword. But I have not been severe upon her.' BoswELL: 'Yes, sir, you have made her ridiculous.' JOHNSON: 'That was already done, sir. To endeavour to make her ridiculous is like blacking the chimney.'

I put him in mind that the landlord at Ellon in Scotland said, that he heard he was the greatest man in England,—next to Lord Mansfield. ́Ay, sir (said he), the exception defined the idea. A Scotchman could go no further:

"The force of Nature could no further go."

Lady Miller's collection of verses by fashionable people, which were put into her Vase at Batheaston villa, near Bath, in competition for honorary prizes, being mentioned, he held them very cheap; Bouts rimés (said he), is a mere conceit, and an old conceit now; I wonder how people were persuaded to write in that manner for this lady.' I named a gentleman of his acquaintance who wrote for the Vase.

JOHNSON: 'He was a blockhead for his pains.' BosWELL: The Duchess of Northumberland wrote.' JOHNSON: Sir, the Duchess of Northumberland may do what she pleases: nobody will say anything to a lady of her high rank. But I should be apt to throw -'s verses in his face.'

I talked of the cheerfulness of Fleet Street, owing to the constant quick succession of people which we perceive passing through it. JOHNSON: 'Why, sir, Fleet Street has a very animated appearance; but I think the full tide of human existence is at Charing Cross.'

He made the common remark on the unhappiness which men who have led a busy life experience, when they retire in expectation of enjoying themselves at ease, and that they generally languish for want of their habitual occupation, and wish to return to it. He mentioned as strong an instance of this as can well be imagined. An eminent tallow-chandler in London, who had acquired a considerable fortune, gave the trade in favour of his foreman, and went to live at a country house near town. He soon grew weary, and paid frequent visits to his old shop, where he desired they might let him know their melting-days, and he would come and assist them; which he accordingly did. Here, sir, was a man, to whom the most disgusting circumstances in the business to which he had been used was a relief from idleness.'

On Wednesday, April 5, I dined with him at Messieurs Dilly's, with Mr. John Scott of Amwell, the Quaker; Mr. Langton; Mr. Miller (now Sir John); and Dr. Thomas Campbell, an Irish clergyman, whom I took the liberty of inviting to Mr. Dilly's table,