Johnson’s last work was a series of short lives of some of the English poets from the seventeenth century onwards.  It is generally looked upon as his best.  And although some of the poets of whom he wrote are almost forgotten, and although we may think that he was wrong in his criticisms of many of the others, this is the book of Johnson’s which is still most read.  For it must be owned that the great Sam is not much read now, although he is such an important figure in the history of our literature.  It is as a person that we remember him, not as a writer.  He stamped his personality, as it is called, upon his age.  Boswell caught that personality and preserved it for us, so that, for generation after generation, Johnson lives as no other character in English literature lives.  Boswell gave a new meaning to the word biographer, that is the writer of a life, and now when a great man has had no one to write his life well, we say “He lacks a Boswell.”

Boswell after a time joined the famous club at which Johnson and his friends met together and talked.  Johnson loved to argue, and he made a point of always getting the best of an argument.  If he could not do so by reason, he simply roared his opponent down and silenced him by sheer rudeness.  “There is no arguing with Johnson,” said one of his friends, Oliver Goldsmith, “for when his pistol misses fire he knocks you down with the butt end of it.”  And perhaps Goldy, as Johnson called him, had to suffer more rudeness from him than any of his friends to save Bozzy.  Yet the three were often to be found together, and it was Goldsmith who said of Johnson, “No man alive has a more tender heart.  He has nothing of the bear but his skin.”

And indeed in Johnson’s outward appearance there was much of the bear.  He was a sloven in dress.  His clothes were shabby and thrown on anyhow.  “I have no passion for clean linen,” he said himself.  At table he made strange noises and ate greedily, yet in spite of all that, added to his noted temper and rude manners, men loved him and sought his company more than that of any other writer of his day, for “within that shaggy exterior of his there beat a heart warm as a mother’s, soft as a little child’s."*

Carlyle.

After Johnson received his pension we may look upon him as a lumbering vessel which has weathered many a strong sea and has now safely come to port.  His life was henceforth easy.  He received honorary degrees, first from Dublin and then from Oxford, so that he became Dr. Johnson.  For two-and-twenty years he enjoyed his pension, his freedom and his honors; then, in 1784, surrounded by his friends, he died in London, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

BOOKS TO READ

Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.  A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland.

Chapter LXX GOLDSMITH—­THE VAGABOND