. poems by Richard Jackson, a contemporary of the great poet, are
some verses beginning, "From the rich Lavinian shore," inscribed as
"Shakespeare's rime, which he made at ye 'Mitre,' in Fleet Street." The
balcony was set on flames during the Great Fire, and had to be pulled
down. Here, in June, 1763, Boswell came by solemn appointment to meet
Johnson, so long the god of his idolatry. They had first met at the shop
of Davis, the actor and bookseller, and afterwards near an eating-house
in Butcher Row. Boswell describes his feelings with delightful sincerity
and self-complacency. "We had," he says, "a good supper and port wine,
of which Johnson then sometimes drank a bottle. The orthodox High Church
sound of the Mitre, the figure and manner of the celebrated Samuel
Johnson, the extraordinary power of his conversation, and the pride
arising from finding myself admitted as his companion, produced a
variety of sensations and a pleasing elevation of mind beyond what I had
ever before experienced." That memorable evening Johnson ridiculed
Colley Cibber's birthday odes and Paul Whitehead's "grand nonsense," and
ran down Gray, who had declined his acquaintance. He talked of other
poets, and praised poor Goldsmith as a worthy man and excellent author.
Boswell fairly won the great man by his frank avowals and his adroit
flattery. "Give me your hand," at last cried the great man to the small
man: "I have taken a liking to you." They then finished a bottle of port
each, and parted between one and two in the morning. As they shook
hands, on their way to No. 1, Inner Temple Lane, where Johnson then
lived, Johnson said, "Sir, I am glad we have met. I hope we shall pass
many evenings, and mornings too, together." A few weeks after the Doctor
and his young disciple met again at the "Mitre," and Goldsmith was
present. The poet was full of love for Dr. Johnson, and speaking of some
scapegrace, said tenderly, "He is now become miserable, and that insures
the protection of Johnson." At another "Mitre" meeting, on a Scotch
gentleman present praising Scotch scenery, Johnson uttered his bitter
gibe, "Sir, let me tell you that the noblest prospect which a Scotchman
ever sees is the high road that leads him to England." In the same month
Johnson and Boswell met again at the "Mitre." The latter confessed his
nerves were much shaken by the old port and the late tavern hours; and
Johnson laughed at people who had accepted a pension from the house of