By this time ‘the waning night was growing old,’ and we were yet several miles from Sir John Dalrymple’s.  Dr. Johnson did not seem much troubled at our having treated the baronet with so little attention to politeness; but when I talked of the grievous disappointment it must have been to him that we did not come to the feast that he had prepared for us, (for he told us he had killed a seven-year old sheep on purpose,) my friend got into a merry mood, and jocularly said, ’I dare say, Sir, he has been very sadly distressed:  Nay, we do not know but the consequence may have been fatal.  Let me try to describe his situation in his own historical style, I have as good a right to make him think and talk, as he has to tell us how people thought and talked a hundred years ago, of which he has no evidence.  All history, so far as it is not supported by contemporary evidence, is romance[1116]—­Stay now.—­Let us consider!’ He then (heartily laughing all the while) proceeded in his imitation, I am sure to the following effect, though now, at the distance of almost twelve years, I cannot pretend to recollect all the precise words:—­

’Dinner being ready, he wondered that his guests were not yet come.  His wonder was soon succeeded by impatience.  He walked about the room in anxious agitation; sometimes he looked at his watch, sometimes he looked out at the window with an eager gaze of expectation, and revolved in his mind the various accidents of human life.  His family beheld him with mute concern.  “Surely (said he, with a sigh,) they will not fail me.”  The mind of man can bear a certain pressure; but there is a point when it can bear no more.  A rope was in his view, and he died a Roman death[1117].

It was very late before we reached the seat of Sir John Dalrymple, who, certainly with some reason, was not in very good humour.  Our conversation was not brilliant.  We supped, and went to bed in ancient rooms, which would have better suited the climate of Italy in summer, than that of Scotland in the month of November.

I recollect no conversation of the next day, worth preserving, except one saying of Dr. Johnson, which will be a valuable text for many decent old dowagers, and other good company, in various circles to descant upon.  He said, ’I am sorry I have not learnt to play at cards.  It is very useful in life:  it generates kindness, and consolidates society[1118].’  He certainly could not mean deep play.

My friend and I thought we should be more comfortable at the inn at Blackshields, two miles farther on.  We therefore went thither in the evening, and he was very entertaining; but I have preserved nothing but the pleasing remembrance, and his verses on George the Second and Cibber[1119], and his epitaph on Parnell[1120], which he was then so good as to dictate to me.  We breakfasted together next morning, and then the coach came, and took him up.  He had, as one of his companions in it, as far as Newcastle, the worthy and ingenious Dr. Hope, botanical professor at Edinburgh.  Both Dr. Johnson and he used to speak of their good fortune in thus accidentally meeting; for they had much instructive conversation, which is always a most valuable enjoyment, and, when found where it is not expected, is peculiarly relished.