A day or two afterwards some one rallied Johnson on his appearance at Mrs. Abingdon’s benefit.  “Why did you go?” he asked.  “Did you see?” “No, sir.”  “Did you hear?” “No, sir.”  “Why, then, sir, did you go?” “Because, sir, she is a favourite of the public; and when the public cares the thousandth part for you that it does for her, I will go to your benefit too.”

The day after, Boswell won a bet from Lady Di Beauclerk by venturing to ask Johnson what he did with the orange-peel which he used to pocket.  Johnson received the question amicably, but did not clear the mystery.  “Then,” said Boswell, “the world must be left in the dark.  It must be said, he scraped them, and he let them dry, but what he did with them next he never could be prevailed upon to tell.”  “Nay, sir,” replied Johnson, “you should say it more emphatically—­he could not be prevailed upon, even by his dearest friends to tell.”

This year Johnson received the degree of LL.D. from Oxford.  He had previously (in 1765) received the same honour from Dublin.  It is remarkable, however, that familiar as the title has become, Johnson called himself plain Mr. to the end of his days, and was generally so called by his intimates.  On April 2nd, at a dinner at Hoole’s, Johnson made another assault upon Gray and Mason.  When Boswell said that there were good passages in Mason’s Elfrida, he conceded that there were “now and then some good imitations of Milton’s bad manner.”  After some more talk, Boswell spoke of the cheerfulness of Fleet Street.  “Why, sir,” said Johnson, “Fleet Street has a very animated appearance, but I think that the full tide of human existence is at Charing Cross.”  He added a story of an eminent tallow-chandler who had made a fortune in London, and was foolish enough to retire to the country.  He grew so tired of his retreat, that he begged to know the melting-days of his successor, that he might be present at the operation.

On April 7th, they dined at a tavern, where the talk turned upon Ossian.  Some one mentioned as an objection to its authenticity that no mention of wolves occurred in it.  Johnson fell into a reverie upon wild beasts, and, whilst Reynolds and Langton were discussing something, he broke out, “Pennant tells of bears.”  What Pennant told is unknown.  The company continued to talk, whilst Johnson continued his monologue, the word “bear” occurring at intervals, like a word in a catch.  At last, when a pause came, he was going on:  “We are told that the black bear is innocent, but I should not like to trust myself with him.”  Gibbon muttered in a low tone, “I should not like to trust myself with you”—­a prudent resolution, says honest Boswell who hated Gibbon, if it referred to a competition of abilities.

The talk went on to patriotism, and Johnson laid down an apophthegm, at “which many will start,” many people, in fact, having little sense of humour.  Such persons may be reminded for their comfort that at this period patriot had a technical meaning.  “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”  On the 10th of April, he laid down another dogma, calculated to offend the weaker brethren.  He defended Pope’s line—­