Garrick.’  Johnson.  ’My dear Sir, had I mentioned him, I must have mentioned many more:  Mrs. Pritchard, Mrs. Cibber,—­nay, and Mr. Cibber too; he too altered Shakspeare.’  Boswell.  ‘You have read his apology, Sir?’ Johnson.  ’Yes, it is very entertaining.  But as for Cibber himself, taking from his conversation all that he ought not to have said, he was a poor creature.  I remember when he brought me one of his Odes to have my opinion of it; I could not bear such nonsense, and would not let him read it to the end; so little respect had I for that great man! (laughing.) Yet I remember Richardson wondering that I could treat him with familiarity.’

I mentioned to him that I had seen the execution of several convicts at Tyburn, two days before, and that none of them seemed to be under any concern.  Johnson.  ‘Most of them, Sir, have never thought at all.’  Boswell.  ‘But is not the fear of death natural to man?’ Johnson.  ’So much so, Sir, that the whole of life is but keeping away the thoughts of it.’  He then, in a low and earnest tone, talked of his meditating upon the aweful hour of his own dissolution, and in what manner he should conduct himself upon that occasion:  ’I know not (said he,) whether I should wish to have a friend by me, or have it all between god and myself.’

Talking of our feeling for the distresses of others;—­Johnson.  ’Why, Sir, there is much noise made about it, but it is greatly exaggerated.  No, Sir, we have a certain degree of feeling to prompt us to do good:  more than that, Providence does not intend.  It would be misery to no purpose.’  Boswell.  ’But suppose now, Sir, that one of your intimate friends were apprehended for an offence for which he might be hanged.’  Johnson.  ’I should do what I could to bail him, and give him any other assistance; but if he were once fairly hanged, I should not suffer.’  Boswell.  ‘Would you eat your dinner that day, Sir?’ Johnson.  ’Yes, Sir; and eat it as if he were eating it with me.  Why, there’s Baretti, who is to be tried for his life to-morrow, friends have risen up for him on every side; yet if he should be hanged, none of them will eat a slice of plumb-pudding the less.  Sir, that sympathetic feeling goes a very little way in depressing the mind.’

I told him that I had dined lately at Foote’s, who shewed me a letter which he had received from Tom Davies, telling him that he had not been able to sleep from the concern which he felt on account of ’This sad affair of Baretti,’ begging of him to try if he could suggest any thing that might be of service; and, at the same time, recommending to him an industrious young man who kept a pickle-shop.  Johnson.  ’Ay, Sir, here you have a specimen of human sympathy; a friend hanged, and a cucumber pickled.  We know not whether Baretti or the pickle-man has kept Davies from sleep; nor does he know himself.  And as to his not sleeping,