Though he often enlarged upon the evil of intoxication, he was by no means harsh and unforgiving to those who indulged in occasional excess of wine. One of his friends, I well remember, came to sup at a tavern with him and some other gentlemen, and too plainly discovered that he had drunk too much at dinner. When one who loved mischief, thinking to produce a severe censure, asked Johnson, a few days afterward, "Well, sir, what did your friend say to you, as an apology for being in such a situation ?" Johnson answered, "Sir, he said all that a man should say: he said he was sorry for it.”—Boswell.

Another evening Johnson's kind indulgence toward me had a pretty difficult trial. I had dined at the Duke of Montrose's with a very agreeable party, and his Grace, according to his usual custom, had circulated the bottle very freely. Lord Graham and I went together to Miss Monckton's, where I certainly was in extraordinary spirits, and above all fear or awe. In the midst of a great number of persons of the first rank, among whom I recollect, with confusion, a noble lady of the most stately decorum, I placed myself next to Johnson, and, thinking myself now fully his match, talked to him in a loud and boisterous manner, desirous to let the company know how I could contend with Ajax. I particularly remember pressing him upon the value of the pleasures of the imagination, and, as an illustration of my argument, asking him, "What, sir, supposing I were to fancy that the (naming the most charming duchess in his Majesty's dominions) were in love with me, should I not be very happy?" My friend with much address evaded my interrogatories, and kept me as quiet as possible; but it may easily be conceived how he must have felt. However, when, a few days afterward, I waited upon him and made an apology, he behaved with the most friendly gentleness.-Boswell.

His humane, forgiving disposition was put to a pretty

strong test, on his return to London, by a liberty which Mr. Thomas Davies had taken with him in his absence, which was to publish two volumes, entitled "Miscellaneous and Fugitive Pieces," which he advertised in the newspapers "By the Author of 'The Rambler."" In this collection, several of Dr. Johnson's acknowledged writings, several of his anonymous performances, and some which he had written for others, were inserted; but there were also some in which he had no concern whatever. He was at first very angry, as he had good reason to be. But, upon consideration of his poor friend's narrow circumstances, and that he had only a little profit in view, and meant no harm, he soon relented, and continued his kindness to him as formerly.-Boswell.

When Davies printed the "Fugitive Pieces" without his knowledge or consent, "How," said I, "would Pope have raved had he been served so!" "We should never," replied Johnson, "have heard the last on't, to be sure; but then Pope was a narrow man. I will, however," added he, storm and bluster myself a little this time". -so he went to London in all the wrath he could muster up. At his return I asked how the affair ended. "Why," said he, "I was a fierce fellow, and pretended to be very angry; and Thomas was a good-natured fellow, and pretended to be very sorry; so there the matter ended. I believe the dog loves me dearly. Mr. Thrale (turning around to my husband), what shall you and I do that is good for Tom Davies? We will do something for him, to be sure."-Mrs. Piozzi.

On Friday I had a visit from Dr. Johnson. He came on purpose to reason with me about this pamphlet, which he had heard from my father had so greatly disturbed me. Shall I not love him more than ever? However, Miss Young was just arrived, and Mr. Bremner spent the evening here, and therefore he had the delicacy and goodness to forbear

coming to the point. Yet he said several things that I understood, though they were unintelligible to all others; and he was more kind, more good-humored, more flattering to me than ever. He repeatedly charged me not to fret. Indeed, he was all good-humor and kindness, and seemed quite bent on giving me comfort as well as flattery.-Madame D'Arblay.

His generous humanity to the miserable was almost beyond example. The following instance is well attested: Coming home late one night, he found a poor woman lying in the street so much exhausted that she could not walk. He took her upon his back and carried her to his house, where he discovered that she was one of those wretched females who had fallen into the lowest state of vice, poverty, and disease. Instead of harshly upbraiding her, he had her taken care of with all tenderness for a long time, at a considerable expense, till she was restored to health, and endeavored to put her into a virtuous way of living. -Boswell.

When Goldsmith's comedy, the "Good-natured Man," was produced at Covent Garden, Johnson did everything in his power to insure its success; he wrote a prologue for it, attended its rehearsal, and went to the theatre, with other members of the Club, upon the night of its production. The comedy was received with small favor; sentimental comedies were just then the fashion, and the audience pronounced Goldsmith's humor coarse and low. Indeed, nothing saved this admirable play but the acting of Shuter, the original "Croaker;" as it was, the escape was so narrow that the author could hardly be congratulated upon a success. What followed has been so happily told by John Forster, in his Life of Goldsmith, that I shall adopt his narrative:

"Poor Goldsmith had, meanwhile, been suffering exquisite

distress; had lost all faith in his comedy and in himself; and when the curtain fell, could only think of his debt of gratitude to Shuter. 'He hurried round to the green-room,' says Cooke, thanked him in his honest, sincere manner, before all the performers;' and told him he had exceeded his own idea of the character, and that the fine comic richness of his coloring made it almost appear as new to him as to any other person in the house!' Then, with little heart for doubtful congratulations, he turned off to meet his friends in Gerrard Street.* By the time he arrived there, his spirits had to all appearance returned. He had forgotten the hisses. The members might have seen that he eat no supper, but he chatted gayly as if nothing had happened amiss. Nay, to impress his friends still more forcibly with an idea of his magnanimity, he even sung his favorite song, which he never consented to sing but on special occasions, about an 'An Old Woman tossed in a Blanket seventeen times as high as the Moon;' and was altogether very noisy and loud. But some time afterward, when he and Johnson were dining with Percy at the chaplain's table at St. James's, he confessed what his feelings this night had really been, and told how the night had ended. 'All the while,' he said, 'I was suffering horrid tortures, and verily believe that if I had put a bit into my mouth it would have strangled me on the spot, I was so excessively ill; but I made more noise than usual to cover all that, and so they never perceived my not eating, nor, I believe, at all imaged to themselves the anguish of my heart. But when all were gone except Johnson here, I burst out a-crying, and even swore by — that I would never write again.' Johnson sat in amazement while Goldsmith made the confession, and then confirmed it. All which, Doctor,' he said, 'I thought had been a secret between you and me; and I am sure I would not have said anything about it for the

*Where the Club met.

world.' That is very certain. No man so unlikely as Johnson, when he had a friend's tears to wipe away, critically to ask himself, or afterward discuss, whether or not they ought to have been shed; but none so likely, if they came to be discussed by others, to tell you how much he despised them. What he says must thus be taken with what he does-in all his various opinions of Goldsmith more especially. When Mrs. Thrale asked him of this matter, he spoke of it with contempt, and said that 'no man should be expected to sympathize with the sorrows of vanity.' But he had sympathized with them, at least to the extent of consoling them. Goldsmith never flung himself in vain on that great, rough, tender heart. The weakness he did his best to hide from even the kindly Langton, the humane and generous Reynolds, was sobbed out freely there; nor is it difficult to guess how Johnson comforted him. 'Sir,' he said to Boswell, when that ingenious young gentleman, now a practising Scotch advocate, joined him a month or two later at Oxford, and talked slightingly of the 'Good-natured Man,' 'it is the best comedy that has appeared since the "Provok'd Husband." There has not been of late any such character exhibited on the stage as that of Croaker. Sir, "False Delicacy" is totally devoid of character.' Who can doubt that Goldsmith had words of reassurance at least as kindly as these to listen to, as he walked home that night from Gerrard Street with Samuel Johnson ?"

TENDERNESS.

SUCH was his sensibility, and so much was he affected by pathetic poetry, that, when he was reading Dr. Beattie's "Hermit," in my presence, it brought tears into his eyes.— Boswell.

His affection for Topham Beauclerk was so great, that