isy of misery.
What have you to do with Liberty and Necessity? Or what more than to
hold your tongue about it? Do not doubt but I shall be most heartily
glad to see you here again, for I love every part about you but your
affectation of distress.

'I have at last finished my Lives, and have laid up for you a load of
copy, all out of order, so that it will amuse you a long time to set it
right. Come to me, my dear Bozzy, and let us be as happy as we can. We
will go again to the Mitre, and talk old times over. I am, dear Sir,
yours affectionately,

'March 14, 1781.'

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

On Monday, March 19, I arrived in London, and on Tuesday, the 20th, met
him in Fleet-street, walking, or rather indeed moving along; for his
peculiar march is thus described in a very just and picturesque manner,
in a short Life of him published very soon after his death:--'When he
walked the streets, what with the constant roll of his head, and the
concomitant motion of his body, he appeared to make his way by that
motion, independent of his feet.' That he was often much stared at while
he advanced in this manner, may easily be believed; but it was not safe
to make sport of one so robust as he was. Mr. Langton saw him one day,
in a fit of absence, by a sudden start, drive the load off a porter's
back, and walk forward briskly, without being conscious of what he had
done. The porter was very angry, but stood still, and eyed the huge
figure with much earnestness, till he was satisfied that his wisest
course was to be quiet, and take up his burthen again.

Our accidental meeting in the street after a long separation was
a pleasing surprize to us both. He stepped aside with me into
Falcon-court, and made kind inquiries about my family, and as we were
in a hurry going different ways, I promised to call on him next day;
he said he was engaged to go out in the morning. 'Early, Sir?' said I.
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, a London morning does not go with the sun.'

I waited on him next evening, and he gave me a great portion of his
original manuscript of his Lives of the Poets, which he had preserved
for me.

I found on visiting his friend, Mr. Thrale, that he was now very ill,
and had removed, I suppose by the solicitation of Mrs. Thrale, to a
house in Grosvenor-square. I was sorry to see him sadly changed in his
appearance.

He told me I might now have the pleasure to see Dr. Johnson drink
wine again, for he had lately returned to it. When I me