tinguished, through life, for his
benevolence and other amiable qualities, used to say, that he paid a
morning visit to Johnson, intending, from his chambers, to send a letter
into the city; but, to his great surprise, he found an author by
profession, without pen, ink, or paper. The present bishop of Salisbury
was also among those who endeavoured, by constant attention, to sooth
the cares of a mind, which he knew to be afflicted with gloomy
apprehensions. At one of the parties made at his house, Boscovich, the
jesuit, who had then lately introduced the Newtonian philosophy at Rome,
and, after publishing an elegant Latin poem on the subject, was made a
fellow of the Royal Society, was one of the company invited to meet Dr.
Johnson. The conversation, at first, was mostly in French. Johnson,
though thoroughly versed in that language, and a professed admirer of
Boileau and La Bruyere, did not understand its pronunciation, nor
could he speak it himself with propriety. For the rest of the evening
the talk was in Latin. Boscovich had a ready current flow of that flimsy
phraseology, with which a priest may travel through Italy, Spain, and
Germany. Johnson scorned what he called colloquial barbarisms. It was
his pride to speak his best. He went on, after a little practice, with
as much facility as if it was his native tongue. One sentence this
writer well remembers. Observing that Fontenelle, at first, opposed the
Newtonian philosophy, and embraced it afterwards, his words were:
"Fontinellus, ni fallor, in extrema senectute, fuit transfuga ad castra
Newtoniana."

We have now travelled through that part of Dr. Johnson's life, which was
a perpetual struggle with difficulties. Halcyon days are now to open
upon him. In the month of May, 1762, his majesty, to reward literary
merit, signified his pleasure to grant to Johnson a pension of three
hundred pounds a year. The earl of Bute was minister. Lord Loughborough,
who, perhaps, was originally a mover in the business, had authority to
mention it. He was well acquainted with Johnson; but, having heard much
of his independent spirit, and of the downfal of Osborne, the
bookseller, he did not know but his benevolence might be rewarded with a
folio on his head. He desired the author of these memoirs to undertake
the task. This writer thought the opportunity of doing so much good the
most happy incident in his life. He went, without delay, to the
chambers, in the Inner Temple lane, which,