d, early in the day, was
obliged to go by himself on horseback, leaving his coach to Johnson and
me. Johnson was in such good spirits, that every thing seemed to please
him as we drove along.

Our conversation turned on a variety of subjects. He thought
portrait-painting an improper employment for a woman. 'Publick
practice of any art, (he observed,) and staring in men's faces, is very
indelicate in a female.' I happened to start a question, whether, when a
man knows that some of his intimate friends are invited to the house
of another friend, with whom they are all equally intimate, he may join
them without an invitation. JOHNSON. 'No, Sir; he is not to go when he
is not invited. They may be invited on purpose to abuse him' (smiling).

As a curious instance how little a man knows, or wishes to know, his own
character in the world, or, rather, as a convincing proof that Johnson's
roughness was only external, and did not proceed from his heart, I
insert the following dialogue. JOHNSON. 'It is wonderful, Sir, how rare
a quality good humour is in life. We meet with very few good humoured
men.' I mentioned four of our friends, none of whom he would allow to be
good humoured. One was ACID, another was MUDDY, and to the others he had
objections which have escaped me. Then, shaking his head and stretching
himself at ease in the coach, and smiling with much complacency, he
turned to me and said, 'I look upon MYSELF as a good humoured fellow.'
The epithet FELLOW, applied to the great Lexicographer, the stately
Moralist, the masterly critick, as if he had been SAM Johnson, a mere
pleasant companion, was highly diverting; and this light notion of
himself struck me with wonder. I answered, also smiling, 'No, no, Sir;
that will NOT do. You are good natured, but not good humoured: you are
irascible. You have not patience with folly and absurdity. I believe you
would pardon them, if there were time to deprecate your vengeance; but
punishment follows so quick after sentence, that they cannot escape.

I had brought with me a great bundle of Scotch magazines and
news-papers, in which his Journey to the Western Islands was attacked in
every mode; and I read a great part of them to him, knowing they would
afford him entertainment. I wish the writers of them had been present:
they would have been sufficiently vexed. One ludicrous imitation of his
style, by Mr. Maclaurin, now one of the Scotch Judges, with the title of
Lord Dreghorn, was d