Man never is but always to be blest.

And being asked if man did not sometimes enjoy a momentary happiness, replied, “Never, but when he is drunk.”  It would be useless to defend these and other such utterances to any one who cannot enjoy them without defence.

On April 11th, the pair went in Reynolds’s coach to dine with Cambridge, at Twickenham.  Johnson was in high spirits.  He remarked as they drove down, upon the rarity of good humour in life.  One friend mentioned by Boswell was, he said, acid, and another muddy.  At last, stretching himself and turning with complacency, he observed, “I look upon myself as a good-humoured fellow”—­a bit of self-esteem against which Boswell protested.  Johnson, he admitted, was good-natured; but was too irascible and impatient to be good-humoured.  On reaching Cambridge’s house, Johnson ran to look at the books.  “Mr. Johnson,” said Cambridge politely, “I am going with your pardon to accuse myself, for I have the same custom which I perceive you have.  But it seems odd that one should have such a desire to look at the backs of books.”  “Sir,” replied Johnson, wheeling about at the words, “the reason is very plain.  Knowledge is of two kinds.  We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.  When we inquire into any subject, the first thing we have to do is to know what books have treated of it.  This leads us to look at catalogues, and the backs of books in libraries.”

A pleasant talk followed.  Johnson denied the value attributed to historical reading, on the ground that we know very little except a few facts and dates.  All the colouring, he said, was conjectural.  Boswell chuckles over the reflection that Gibbon, who was present, did not take up the cudgels for his favourite study, though the first-fruits of his labours were to appear in the following year.  “Probably he did not like to trust himself with Johnson.”

The conversation presently turned upon the Beggar’s Opera, and Johnson sensibly refused to believe that any man had been made a rogue by seeing it.  Yet the moralist felt bound to utter some condemnation of such a performance, and at last, amidst the smothered amusement of the company, collected himself to give a heavy stroke:  “there is in it,” he said, “such a labefactation of all principles as may he dangerous to morality.”

A discussion followed as to whether Sheridan was right for refusing to allow his wife to continue as a public singer.  Johnson defended him “with all the high spirit of a Roman senator.”  “He resolved wisely and nobly, to be sure.  He is a brave man.  Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having his wife sing publicly for hire?  No, sir, there can be no doubt here.  I know not if I should not prepare myself for a public singer as readily as let my wife be one.”