uished the undertaking.
It is probable, that he found himself not sufficiently versed in that
branch of knowledge.

He was again reduced to the expedient of short compositions, for the
supply of the day. The writer of this narrative has now before him a
letter, in Dr. Johnson's handwriting, which shows the distress and
melancholy situation of the man, who had written the Rambler, and
finished the great work of his Dictionary. The letter is directed to Mr.
Richardson, the author of Clarissa, and is as follows:

"SIR,--I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under an
arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I
should have received the necessary help in this case, is not at home;
and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Millar. If you will be so good as
to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and add it to
all former obligations. I am, sir,

Your most obedient,

and most humble servant,

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Gough square, 16 March."

In the margin of this letter, there is a memorandum in these words:
"March 16, 1756, sent six guineas. Witness, Wm. Richardson." For the
honour of an admired writer it is to be regretted, that we do not find a
more liberal entry. To his friend, in distress, he sent eight shillings
more than was wanted. Had an incident of this kind occurred in one of
his romances, Richardson would have known how to grace his hero; but in
fictitious scenes, generosity costs the writer nothing.

About this time Johnson contributed several papers to a periodical
miscellany, called The Visiter, from motives which are highly honourable
to him, a compassionate regard for the late Mr. Christopher Smart. The
criticism on Pope's epitaphs appeared in that work. In a short time
after, he became a reviewer in the Literary magazine, under the auspices
of the late Mr. Newbery, a man of a projecting head, good taste, and
great industry. This employment engrossed but little of Johnson's time.
He resigned himself to indolence, took no exercise, rose about two, and
then received the visits of his friends. Authors, long since forgotten,
waited on him, as their oracle, and he gave responses in the chair of
criticism. He listened to the complaints, the schemes, and the hopes and
fears of a crowd of inferior writers, "who," he said, in the words of
Roger Ascham, "lived _men knew not how, and died obscure, men marked not
when_." He believed, that he could give a bet