We have now travelled through that part of Dr. Johnson’s life, which was a perpetual struggle with difficulties.  Halcyon days are now to open upon him.  In the month of May, 1762, his majesty, to reward literary merit, signified his pleasure to grant to Johnson a pension of three hundred pounds a year.  The earl of Bute was minister.  Lord Loughborough, who, perhaps, was originally a mover in the business, had authority to mention it.  He was well acquainted with Johnson; but, having heard much of his independent spirit, and of the downfal of Osborne, the bookseller, he did not know but his benevolence might be rewarded with a folio on his head.  He desired the author of these memoirs to undertake the task.  This writer thought the opportunity of doing so much good the most happy incident in his life.  He went, without delay, to the chambers, in the Inner Temple lane, which, in fact, were the abode of wretchedness.  By slow and studied approaches the message was disclosed.  Johnson made a long pause:  he asked if it was seriously intended:  he fell into a profound meditation, and his own definition of a pensioner occurred to him.  He was told, “that he, at least, did not come within the definition.”  He desired to meet next day, and dine at the Mitre tavern.  At that meeting he gave up all his scruples.  On the following day, lord Loughborough conducted him to the earl of Bute.  The conversation that passed, was, in the evening, related to this writer, by Dr. Johnson.  He expressed his sense of his majesty’s bounty, and thought himself the more highly honoured, as the favour was not bestowed on him for having dipped his pen in faction.  “No, sir,” said lord Bute, “it is not offered to you for having dipped your pen in faction, nor with a design that you ever should.”  Sir John Hawkins will have it, that, after this interview, Johnson was often pressed to wait on lord Bute, but with a sullen spirit refused to comply.  However that be, Johnson was never heard to utter a disrespectful word of that nobleman.  The writer of this essay remembers a circumstance, which may throw some light on this subject.  The late Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, whom Johnson loved and respected, contended for the pre-eminence of the Scotch writers; and Ferguson’s book on Civil Society, then on the eve of publication, he said, would give the laurel to North Britain.  “Alas! what can he do upon that subject?” said Johnson:  “Aristotle, Polybius, Grotius, Puffendorf, and Burlemaqui, have reaped in that field before him.”  “He will treat it,” said Dr. Rose, “in a new manner.”  “A new manner!  Buckinger had no hands, and he wrote his name with his toes, at Charing Cross, for half a crown a piece; that was a new manner of writing!” Dr. Rose replied:  “If that will not satisfy you, I will name a writer, whom you must allow to be the best in the kingdom.”  “Who is that?” “The earl of Bute, when he wrote an order for your pension.”  “There, sir,” said Johnson, “you have me in the toil:  to lord Bute I must allow whatever praise you claim for him.”  Ingratitude was no part of Johnson’s character.