It was a delightful day:  as we walked to St. Clement’s church, I again remarked that Fleet-street was the most cheerful scene in the world.  ‘Fleet-street (said I,) is in my mind more delightful than Tempe.’  Johnson.  ‘Ay, Sir; but let it be compared with Mull.’

There was a very numerous congregation to-day at St. Clement’s church, which Dr. Johnson said he observed with pleasure.

And now I am to give a pretty full account of one of the most curious incidents in Johnson’s life, of which he himself has made the following minute on this day:  ’In my return from church, I was accosted by Edwards, an old fellow-collegian, who had not seen me since 1729.  He knew me, and asked if I remembered one Edwards; I did not at first recollect the name, but gradually as we walked along, recovered it, and told him a conversation that had passed at an ale-house between us.  My purpose is to continue our acquaintance.’

It was in Butcher-row that this meeting happened.  Mr. Edwards, who was a decent-looking elderly man in grey clothes, and a wig of many curls, accosted Johnson with familiar confidence, knowing who he was, while Johnson returned his salutation with a courteous formality, as to a stranger.  But as soon as Edwards had brought to his recollection their having been at Pembroke-College together nine-and-forty years ago, he seemed much pleased, asked where he lived, and said he should be glad to see him in Bolt-court.  Edwards.  ‘Ah, Sir! we are old men now.’  Johnson. (who never liked to think of being old,) ’Don’t let us discourage one another.’  Edwards.  ’Why, Doctor, you look stout and hearty, I am happy to see you so; for the news-papers told us you were very ill.’  Johnson.  ‘Ay, Sir, they are always telling lies of us old fellows.’

Wishing to be present at more of so singular a conversation as that between two fellow-collegians, who had lived forty years in London without ever having chanced to meet, I whispered to Mr. Edwards that Dr. Johnson was going home, and that he had better accompany him now.  So Edwards walked along with us, I eagerly assisting to keep up the conversation.  Mr. Edwards informed Dr. Johnson that he had practised long as a solicitor in Chancery, but that he now lived in the country upon a little farm, about sixty acres, just by Stevenage in Hertfordshire, and that he came to London (to Barnard’s Inn, No. 6), generally twice a week.  Johnson appearing to me in a reverie, Mr. Edwards addressed himself to me, and expatiated on the pleasure of living in the country.  Boswell.  ’I have no notion of this, Sir.  What you have to entertain you, is, I think, exhausted in half an hour.’  Edwards.  ’What? don’t you love to have hope realized?  I see my grass, and my corn, and my trees growing.  Now, for instance, I am curious to see if this frost has not nipped my fruit-trees.’  Johnson. (who we did not imagine was attending,) ’You find, Sir, you have fears as well as hopes.’—­So well did he see the whole, when another saw but the half of a subject.