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.
We next called on Mr. Lloyd, one of the people called Quakers. He too was not at home;
but Mrs. Lloyd was, and received us courteously, and asked us to dinner. Johnson said to
me, 'After the uncertainty of all human things at Hector's, this invitation came very well.'
We walked about the town, and he was pleased to see it increasing.
Mr. Lloyd joined us in the street; and in a little while we met Friend Hector, as Mr. Lloyd
called him. It gave me pleasure to observe the joy which Johnson and he expressed on
seeing each other again. Mr. Lloyd and I left them together, while he obligingly shewed
me some of the manufactures of this very curious assemblage of artificers. We all met at
dinner at Mr. Lloyd's, where we were entertained with great hospitality. Mr. and Mrs.
Lloyd had been married the same year with their Majesties, and like them, had been
blessed with a numerous family of fine children, their numbers being exactly the same.
Johnson said, 'Marriage is the best state for a man in general; and every man is a worse
man, in proportion as he is unfit for the married state.'
Dr. Johnson said to me in the morning, 'You will see, Sir, at Mr. Hector's, his sister, Mrs.
Careless, a clergyman's widow. She was the first woman with whom I was in love. It
dropt out of my head imperceptibly; but she and I shall always have a kindness for each
other.' He laughed at the notion that a man never can be really in love but once, and
considered it as a mere romantick fancy.
On our return from Mr. Bolton's, Mr. Hector took me to his house, where we found
Johnson sitting placidly at tea, with his first love; who, though now advanced in years,
was a genteel woman, very agreeable, and well-bred.
Johnson lamented to Mr. Hector the state of one of their school- fellows, Mr. Charles
Congreve, a clergyman, which he thus described: 'He obtained, I believe, considerable
preferment in Ireland, but now lives in London, quite as a valetudinarian, afraid to go into
any house but his own. He takes a short airing in his post-chaise every day. He has an
elderly woman, whom he calls cousin, who lives with him, and jogs his elbow when his
glass has stood too long empty, and encourages him in drinking, in which he is very
willing to be encouraged; not that he gets drunk, for he is a very pious man, but he is
always muddy. He confesses to one bottle of port every day, and he probably drinks
more. He is quite unsocial; his conversation is quite monosyllabical: and when, at my last
visit, I asked him what a clock it was? that signal of my departure had so pleasing an
effect on him, that he sprung up to look at his watch, like a greyhound bounding at a
hare.' When Johnson took leave of Mr. Hector, he said, 'Don't grow like Congreve; nor let
me grow like him, when you are near me.'
When he again talked of Mrs. Careless to-night, he seemed to have had his affection
revived; for he said, 'If I had married her, it might have been as happy for me.'
BOSWELL. 'Pray, Sir, do you not suppose that there are fifty women in the world, with
any one of whom a man may be as happy, as with any one woman in particular?'
JOHNSON. 'Ay, Sir, fifty thousand.' BOSWELL. 'Then, Sir, you are not of opinion with
some who imagine that certain men and certain women are made for each other; and that
they cannot be happy if they miss their counterparts?' JOHNSON. 'To be sure not, Sir. I
believe marriages would in general be as happy, and often more so, if they were all made
by the Lord Chancellor, upon a due consideration of characters and circumstances,
without the parties having any choice in the matter.'
I wished to have staid at Birmingham to-night, to have talked more with Mr. Hector; but
my friend was impatient to reach his native city; so we drove on that stage in the dark,
and were long pensive and silent. When we came within the focus of the Lichfield lamps,
'Now (said he,) we are getting out of a state of death.' We put up at the Three Crowns, not
one of the great inns, but a good old fashioned one, which was kept by Mr. Wilkins, and
was the very next house to that in which Johnson was born and brought up, and which
was still his own property. We had a comfortable supper, and got into high spirits. I felt
all my Toryism glow in this old capital of Staffordshire. I could have offered incense
genio loci; and I indulged in libations of that ale, which Boniface, in The Beaux
Stratagem, recommends with such an eloquent jollity.
Next morning he introduced me to Mrs. Lucy Porter, his step- daughter. She was now an
old maid, with much simplicity of manner. She had never been in London. Her brother, a
Captain in the navy, had left her a fortune of ten thousand pounds; about a third of which
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