‘Now, Muse, let’s sing of rats.’

And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company, who slily overlooked the reader, perceived that the word had been originally mice, and had been altered to rats, as more dignified.

Johnson said, that Dr. Grainger was an agreeable man; a man who would do any good that was in his power.  His translation of Tibullus, he thought, was very well done; but The Sugar-Cane, a poem, did not please him; for, he exclaimed, ’What could he make of a sugar-cane?  One might as well write the “Parsley-bed, a Poem;” or “The Cabbage-garden, a Poem."’ Boswell.  ‘You must then pickle your cabbage with the sal atticum.’  Johnson.  ’You know there is already The Hop-Garden, a Poem:  and, I think, one could say a great deal about cabbage.  The poem might begin with the advantages of civilized society over a rude state, exemplified by the Scotch, who had no cabbages till Oliver Cromwell’s soldiers introduced them; and one might thus shew how arts are propagated by conquest, as they were by the Roman arms.’  He seemed to be much diverted with the fertility of his own fancy.

I told him, that I heard Dr. Percy was writing the history of the wolf in Great-Britain.  Johnson.  ’The wolf, Sir! why the wolf? why does he not write of the bear, which we had formerly?  Nay, it is said we had the beaver.  Or why does he not write of the grey rat, the Hanover rat, as it is called, because it is said to have come into this country about the time that the family of Hanover came?  I should like to see The History of the Grey Rat, by Thomas Percy, D. D., Chaplain in Ordinary to his Majesty,’ (laughing immoderately).  Boswell.  ’I am afraid a court chaplain could not decently write of the grey rat.’  Johnson.  ’Sir, he need not give it the name of the Hanover rat.’  Thus could he indulge a luxuriant sportive imagination, when talking of a friend whom he loved and esteemed.

On Friday, March 22, having set out early from Henley, where we had lain the preceding night, we arrived at Birmingham about nine o’clock, and, after breakfast, went to call on his old schoolfellow Mr. Hector.  A very stupid maid, who opened the door, told us, that ’her master was gone out; he was gone to the country; she could not tell when he would return.’  In short, she gave us a miserable reception; and Johnson observed, ’She would have behaved no better to people who wanted him in the way of his profession.’  He said to her, ’My name is Johnson; tell him I called.  Will you remember the name?’ She answered with rustick simplicity, in the Warwickshire pronunciation, ’I don’t understand you, Sir.’—­’Blockhead, (said he,) I’ll write.’  I never heard the word blockhead applied to a woman before, though I do not see why it should not, when there is evident occasion for it.  He, however, made another attempt to make her understand him, and roared loud in her ear, ‘Johnson,’ and then she catched the sound.