nor can my consolation have any effect but that of showing that I wish to comfort you. What can be done, you must do for yourself. Remember first, that your child is happy; and then, that he is safe, not only from the ills of this world, but from those more formidable dangers which extend their mischief to eternity. You have brought into the world a rational being; you have seen him happy during the little life that has been granted him; and you can have no doubt but that his happiness is now permanent and immutable.

When you have obtained by prayer such tranquillity as nature will admit, force your attention, as you can, upon your accustomed duties and accustomed entertainments. You can do no more for our dear boy; but you must not, therefore, think less on those whom your attention may make fitter for the place to which he is gone.

I am, dearest madam,

Your most affectionate, humble servant,

Samuel Johnson.

Dear sir,

LETTER XV.

To James Boswell, esq.

Bolt Court, Nov. 16, 1776.

I had great pleasure in hearing that you are at last on good terms with your father. Cultivate his kindness by all honest and manly means. Life is short; no time can be afforded but for the indulgence of real sorrow, or contests upon questions seriously momentous. Let us not throw away any of our days upon useless resentment, or contend who shall hold out longest in stubborn malignity. It is best not to be angry; and

best, in the next place, to be quickly reconciled. May you and your father pass the remainder of your time in reciprocal benevolence!

Mrs. Williams, whom you may reckon as one of your wellwishers, is in a feeble and languishing state. She went for some part of the autumn into the country, but she is little benefited; and Dr. Lawrence confesses that his art is at an end. I am sorry for her pain, and more sorry for her decay.

I was some weeks this autumn at Brighthelmstone. The place was very dull, and I was not well; the expedition to the Hebrides was the most pleasant journey that I ever made. Such an effort annually would give the world a little diversity.

Every year, however, we cannot wander; and we must, therefore, endeavour to spend our time at home as well as we can. I believe it is best to throw life into a method, that every hour may bring its employment, and every employment have its hour. Xenophon observes, in his "Treatise of Economy," that if every thing is kept in a certain place, when any thing is worn out or consumed, the vacuity which it leaves will show what is wanting; so, if every part of time has its duty, the hour will call into remembrance its proper engage

ment.

I have not practised all this prudence myself, but I have suffered much for want of it; and I would have you, by timely recollection and steady resolution, escape from those evils which have lain heavy upon me.

I am, my dearest Boswell,

Your most humble servant,

Samuel Johnson.

LETTER XVI.

To Saunders Welsh, esq. at Rome.

Dear sir,

February 3, 1778.

To have suffered one of my best and dearest friends to pass almost two years in foreign countries without a letter, has a very shameful appearance of inattention. But the truth is, that there was no occasion on which I had any thing particular to say; and general expressions of good will, I hope, our friendship is grown too solid to want.

Of public affairs you have information from the newspapers wherever you go; and of other things, Mrs. Nollekins informs you. My intelligence could therefore be of no use; and your daughter's letters made it unlikenecessary to write to you for information. I was wise for some time out of humour, to find that motion, and nearer approaches to the sun, did not restore your health so fast as I expected. Of your health, the accounts have lately been more pleasing; and I have the gratification of imagining to myself a length of years which I hope you have gained, and of which the enjoyment will be improved by a vast accession of images and observations, that your journeys and various residence have enabled you to make and accumulate. You have travelled with this felicity, almost peculiar to yourself, that your companion is not to part from you at your journey's end; but you are to live on together, to help each other's recollection, and to supply each other's omissions. The world has few greater pleasures than that which two friends enjoy, in tracing back, at some distant time, those transactions and events through which

they have passed together. One of the old man's miseries is, that he cannot easily find a companion able to partake with him of the past. You and your fellowtraveller have this comfort in store, that your conversation will not easily be exhausted; one will always be glad to say what the other will always be willing to hear.

That you may enjoy this pleasure long, your health must have your constant attention. I suppose you propose to return this year. Do not come hither before the height of summer, that you may fall gradually into the inconveniences of your native clime. After having travelled so far to find health, you must take care not to lose it at home; and I hope a little care will effectually preserve it.

Your daughter has doubtless kept a constant and copious journal. She must not expect to be welcome when she returns, without a great mass of information. Let her review her journal often, and set down what she finds herself to have omitted, that she may trust to memory as little as possible, for memory is soon confused by a quick succession of things; and she will grow every day less confident of the truth of her own narratives, unless she can recur to some written memorials. If she has satisfied herself with hints, instead of full representations, let her supply the deficiences now while her memory is yet fresh, and while her father's memory may help her. If she observes this direction, she will bring home a book with which she may entertain herself to the end of life. If it were not now too late, I would advise her to note the impression which the first sight of any thing new and wonderful made upon her mind. Let her now set her thoughts down as she can recollect

them; for faint as they may already be, they will grow every day fainter. ⠀

Perhaps I do not flatter myself unreasonably when I imagine that you may wish to know something of me. I can gratify your benevolence with no account of health. The hand of time, or of disease, is very heavy upon me., I pass restless and uneasy nights; and restless nights. make heavy days. But nothing will be mended by: complaints, and therefore I will make an end. When we meet, we will try to forget our cares and our maladies; and contribute, as we can, to the cheerfulness of each other. If I had gone with you, I believe I should, have been better; but I do not know that it was in my power.

Not many days ago Dr. Lawrence showed me a letter, in which you make kind mention of me: I hope, therefore, you will not be displeased that I endea, vour to preserve your good will by a few observations which your letter suggested to me,

You are afraid of falling into some improprieties in the daily service, by reading to an audience that requires no exactness. Your fear, I hope, secures you from danger. They who contract absurd habits, are such as have no fear. It is impossible to do the same thing very often, without some peculiarity of manner; but that man