the Bishop of Killaloe, Dr. Percy, Mr. Chamberlayne[321], of the
Treasury, &c. &c. Somebody said the life of a mere literary man could
not be very entertaining. JOHNSON. 'But it certainly may. This is a
remark which has been made, and repeated, without justice; why should
the life of a literary man be less entertaining than the life of any
other man? Are there not as interesting varieties in such a life[322]?
As _a literary life_ it may be very entertaining.' BOSWELL. 'But it must
be better surely, when it is diversified with a little active variety--
such as his having gone to Jamaica; or--his having gone to the
Hebrides.' Johnson was not displeased at this.

Talking of a very respectable authour, he told us a curious circumstance
in his life, which was, that he had married a printer's devil. REYNOLDS.
'A printer's devil, Sir! Why, I thought a printer's devil was a creature
with a black face and in rags.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir. But I suppose, he
had her face washed, and put clean clothes on her. (Then looking very
serious, and very earnest.) And she did not disgrace him; the woman had
a bottom of good sense. The word _bottom_ thus introduced, was so
ludicrous when contrasted with his gravity, that most of us could not
forbear tittering and laughing; though I recollect that the Bishop of
Killaloe kept his countenance with perfect steadiness, while Miss Hannah
More slyly hid her face behind a lady's back who sat on the same settee
with her. His pride could not bear that any expression of his should
excite ridicule, when he did not intend it; he therefore resolved to
assume and exercise despotick power, glanced sternly around, and called
out in a strong tone, 'Where's the merriment?' Then collecting himself,
and looking aweful, to make us feel how he could impose restraint, and
as it were searching his mind for a still more ludicrous word, he slowly
pronounced, 'I say the _woman_ was _fundamentally_ sensible;' as if he
had said, hear this now, and laugh if you dare. We all sat composed as
at a funeral[323].

He and I walked away together; we stopped a little while by the rails of
the Adelphi, looking on the Thames, and I said to him with some emotion
that I was now thinking of two friends we had lost, who once lived in
the buildings behind us, Beauclerk and Garrick. 'Ay, Sir, (said he,
tenderly) and two such friends as cannot be supplied[324].'

For some time after this day I did not see him very often, and of the
conversa