Mr. Thrale’s death was a very essential loss to Johnson, who, although he did not foresee all that afterwards happened, was sufficiently convinced that the comforts which Mr. Thrale’s family afforded him, would now in a great measure cease.  He, however, continued to shew a kind attention to his widow and children as long as it was acceptable; and he took upon him, with a very earnest concern, the office of one of his executors, the importance of which seemed greater than usual to him, from his circumstances having been always such, that he had scarcely any share in the real business of life.  His friends of the club were in hopes that Mr. Thrale might have made a liberal provision for him for his life, which, as Mr. Thrale left no son, and a very large fortune, it would have been highly to his honour to have done; and, considering Dr. Johnson’s age, could not have been of long duration; but he bequeathed him only two hundred pounds, which was the legacy given to each of his executors.  I could not but be somewhat diverted by hearing Johnson talk in a pompous manner of his new office, and particularly of the concerns of the brewery, which it was at last resolved should be sold.  Lord Lucan tells a very good story, which, if not precisely exact, is certainly characteristical:  that when the sale of Thrale’s brewery was going forward, Johnson appeared bustling about, with an ink-horn and pen in his button-hole, like an excise-man; and on being asked what he really considered to be the value of the property which was to be disposed of, answered, ’We are not here to sell a parcel of boilers and vats, but the potentiality of growing rich, beyond the dreams of avarice.’

On Friday, April 6, he carried me to dine at a club, which, at his desire, had been lately formed at the Queen’s Arms, in St. Paul’s Church-yard.  He told Mr. Hoole, that he wished to have a City Club, and asked him to collect one; but, said he, ‘Don’t let them be patriots.’  The company were to-day very sensible, well-behaved men.

On Friday, April 13, being Good-Friday, I went to St. Clement’s church with him as usual.  There I saw again his old fellow-collegian, Edwards, to whom I said, ’I think, Sir, Dr. Johnson and you meet only at Church.’—­’Sir, (said he,) it is the best place we can meet in, except Heaven, and I hope we shall meet there too.’  Dr. Johnson told me, that there was very little communication between Edwards and him, after their unexpected renewal of acquaintance.  ’But, (said he, smiling), he met me once, and said, “I am told you have written a very pretty book called The Rambler.”  I was unwilling that he should leave the world in total darkness, and sent him a set.’