of No. 1, Inner-Temple-lane, and I entered them with an impression given me by the Reverend Dr. Blair, of Edinburgh, who had been introduced to him not long before, and described his having “found the giant in his den”; an expression which, when I came to be pretty well acquainted with Johnson, I repeated to him, and he was diverted at this picturesque account of himself.  Dr. Blair had been presented to him by Dr. James Fordyce.  At this time the controversy concerning the pieces published by Mr. James Macpherson as translations of Ossian was at its height.  Johnson had all along denied their authenticity; and what was still more provoking to their admirers, maintained that they had no merit.  The subject having been introduced by Dr. Fordyce, Dr. Blair, relying on the internal evidence of their antiquity, asked Dr. Johnson whether he thought any man of a modern age could have written such poems.  Johnson replied, “Yes, sir, many men, many women, and many children.”  Johnson, at this time, did not know that Dr. Blair had just published a Dissertation, not only defending their authenticity, but seriously ranking them with the poems of Homer and Virgil; and when he was afterwards informed of this circumstance, he expressed some displeasure at Dr. Fordyce’s having suggested the topic, and said, “I am not sorry that they got thus much for their pains.  Sir, it was like leading one to talk of a book when the author is concealed behind the door.”

He received me very courteously; but it must be confessed that his apartment and furniture and morning dress were sufficiently uncouth.  His brown suit of clothes looked very rusty; he had on a little shriveled unpowdered wig, which was too small for his head; his shirt-neck and the knees of his breeches were loose; his black worsted stockings ill drawn up; and he had a pair of unbuckled shoes by way of slippers.  But all these slovenly particularities were forgotten the moment that he began to talk.  Some gentlemen, whom I do not recollect, were sitting with him; and when they went away, I also rose; but he said to me, “Nay, don’t go.”—­“Sir” (said I), “I am afraid that I intrude upon you.  It is benevolent to allow me to sit and hear you.”  He seemed pleased with this compliment, which I sincerely paid him, and answered, “Sir, I am obliged to any man who visits me.”

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In February, 1767, there happened one of the most remarkable incidents of Johnson’s life, which gratified his monarchical enthusiasm, and which he loved to relate with all its circumstances, when requested by his friends.  This was his being honored by a private conversation with his Majesty, in the library at the Queen’s house.  He had frequently visited those splendid rooms and noble collection of books, which he used to say was more numerous and curious than he supposed any person could have made in the time which the King had employed.  Mr. Barnard, the librarian, took care that he should have every accommodation that could contribute to his ease and convenience, while indulging his literary taste in that place; so that he had here a very agreeable resource at leisure hours.