Boswell, was not
published till some time in the year 1775. This book has been variously
received; by some extolled for the elegance of the narrative, and the
depth of observation on life and manners; by others, as much condemned,
as a work of avowed hostility to the Scotch nation. The praise was,
beyond all question, fairly deserved; and the censure, on due
examination, will appear hasty and ill founded. That Johnson entertained
some prejudices against the Scotch must not be dissembled. It is true,
as Mr. Boswell says, "that he thought their success in England exceeded
their proportion of real merit, and he could not but see in them that
nationality which no liberal-minded Scotsman will deny." The author of
these memoirs well remembers, that Johnson one day asked him, "have you
observed the difference between your own country impudence and Scotch
impudence?" The answer being in the negative: "then I will tell you,"
said Johnson. "The impudence of an Irishman is the impudence of a fly,
that buzzes about you, and you put it away, but it returns again, and
flutters and teases you. The impudence of a Scotsman is the impudence of
a leech, that fixes and sucks your blood." Upon another occasion, this
writer went with him into the shop of Davies, the bookseller, in Russell
street, Covent garden. Davies came running to him, almost out of breath
with joy: "The Scots gentleman is come, sir; his principal wish is to
see you; he is now in the back parlour.
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