f what are called the unities. The observation, that a quibble was the
Cleopatra for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it, is
more pointed than just. Shakspeare cannot be said to have lost the
world; for his fame has not only embraced the circle of his own country,
but is continually spreading over new portions of the globe; nor is
there any reason to conclude that he would have acquiesced in such a
loss. Like most other writers, he indulged himself in a favourite
propensity, aware, probably, that if it offended some, it would win him
the applause of others. One avenue of knowledge, that was open to
Shakspeare in common with the rest of mankind, none of his commentators
appear to have sufficiently considered. We cannot conceive him to have
associated frequently with men of larger acquirements than himself, and
not to have made much of their treasures his own. The conversation of
such a man as Ben Jonson alone, supposing him to have made no more
display of his learning than chance or vanity would occasionally
produce, must have supplied ample sources of information to a mind so
curious, watchful, and retentive, that it did not suffer the slightest
thing to escape its grasp. Johnson is distinguished in his notes from
the other commentators, chiefly by the acute remarks on many of the
characters, and on the conduct of some of the fables, which he has
subjoined to the different plays. In other respects he is not superior
to the rest; in some, particularly in illustrating his author from
antecedent or contemporary writers, he is inferior to them. A German
critic of our own days, Schlegel, has surpassed him even in that which
he has done best.

From Boswell I have collected an account of the little journeys with
which he from time to time relieved the uniformity of his life. They
will be told in order as they occur, and I hope will not weary the
reader. The days of a scholar are frequently not distinguished by
varieties even as unimportant as these. Johnson found his mind grow
stagnant by a constant residence in the neighbourhood of Charing-cross
itself, where he thought human happiness at its flood: and once, when
moving rapidly along the road in a carriage with Boswell, cried out to
his fellow-traveller, "Sir, life has few things better than this." In
the winter of 1766 he went to Oxford, where he resided for a month, and
formed an intimacy with Chambers, afterwards one of the judges in India.
During this per