rs.
Johnson, should catch cold by serving in the shop. There Lucy Porter
took her place, standing behind the counter, nor thought it a disgrace
to thank a poor person who purchased from her a penny battledore [10].

To defray the expenses of his mother's funeral, he had recourse to his
pen; and, in the evenings of one week produced the Rasselas, for which
he received one hundred pounds, and was presented by the purchasers with
twenty-five more on its reaching a second edition. Rasselas is a noble
monument of the genius of its author. Reflections so profound, and so
forcible a draught of some of the great outlines of the human intellect
and passions, are to be found in few writers of any age or country. The
mind is seldom presented with any thing so marvellous as the character
of the philosopher, who has persuaded himself that he is entrusted with
the management of the elements. Johnson's dread of insanity was,
perhaps, relieved by embodying this mighty conception. He had seen the
shadowy form in the twilight, and might have dissipated or eased his
apprehensions by coming up to it more closely, and examining into the
occasion of his fears. In this tale, the censure which he has elsewhere
passed on Milton, that he is a lion who has no skill in dandling the
kid, recoils upon himself. His delineation of the female character is
wanting in delicacy.

In this year he supplied Mr. Newbery with an Introduction to the World
Displayed, a Collection of Voyages and Travels: till the publication of
his Shakspeare, in 1765, the only writings acknowledged by himself were
a Review of Tytler's Vindication of Mary Queen of Scots, in the
Gentleman's Magazine; an Introduction to the Proceedings of the
Committee for Clothing the French Prisoners; the Preface to Bolt's
Dictionary of Trade and Commerce; a Dedication to the King, of Kennedy's
Complete System of Astronomical Chronology, unfolding the Scriptures;
and a Dedication to the Queen, of Hoole's Tasso.

In the course of this period, he made a short visit to Lichfield, and
thus communicates his feelings on the occasion, in a letter dated July
20, 1762, to Baretti, his Italian friend, who was then at Milan.

Last winter I went down to my native town, where I found the streets
much narrower and shorter than I thought I had left them, inhabited by
a new race of people, to whom I was very little known. My play-fellows
were grown old, and forced me to suspect that I am no longer you