Thus Dickens marvellously enriched this quaint story.  It may be found amusing to trace the genesis of the tale.  In Boswell it runs: “Mr. Fitzherbert, who loved buttered muffins, but durst not eat them because they disagreed with his stomach, resolved to shoot himself, and then eat three buttered muffins for breakfast, knowing that he should not be troubled with indigestion.”  We find that De Quincey, in one of his essays, reports the case of an officer holding the rank of lieutenant-colonel who could not tolerate a breakfast without muffins.  But he suffered agonies of indigestion.  “He would stand the nuisance no longer, but yet, being a just man, he would give Nature one final chance of reforming her dyspeptic atrocities.  Muffins therefore being laid at one angle of the table and pistols at the other, with rigid equity the

Colonel awaited the result.  This was naturally pretty much as usual; and then the poor man, incapable of retreating from his word of honour, committed suicide, having left a line for posterity to the effect, “that a muffinless world was no world for him.”

It will be recollected that, during the Christmas festivities at Manor Farm, after a certain amount of kissing had taken place under the mistletoe, Mr. Pickwick was “standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all that was passing round him, when the young lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and putting her arm round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek, and before he distinctly knew what was the matter he was surrounded by the whole bevy, and kissed by every one of them.”  Compare with this

what happened to Dr. Johnson in the Hebrides:

“This evening one of our married ladies, a lively, pretty little woman, good-humouredly sat down upon Dr. Johnson’s knee, and being encouraged by some of the company, put her hands round his neck and kissed him.  “Do it again,” said he, “and let us see who will tire first.”  He kept her on his knee some time while he and she drank tea.  He was now like a buck indeed.  All the company were much entertained to find him so easy and pleasant.  To me it was highly comic to see the grave philosopher—the Rambler—toying with a Highland beauty!  But what could he do?  He must have been surly, and weak too, had he not behaved as he did.  He would have been laughed at, and not more respected, though less loved.”

Was not this Mr. Pickwick exactly?

Or, we might fancy this little scene taking place at Dunvegan Castle, on the night of the dance, when Johnson was in such high good-humour.  His faithful henchman might

have come up to him and have said jocosely, “You, sir, in silk stockings?”

“And why not, sir—why not?” said the Doctor warmly.  “Oh, of course,” I answered, “there is no reason why you should not wear them.”  “I imagine not, sir—I imagine not,” said the Doctor in a very peremptory tone.  I had contemplated a laugh, but found it was a serious matter.  I looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern.  “I hope they are,” said Dr. Johnson, fixing his eyes upon me.  “You see nothing extraordinary in these stockings as stockings, I trust, sir?”  “Certainly not; oh, certainly not,” I replied, and my revered friend’s countenance assumed its customary benign expression.

Now, is not this Pickwickian all over?  Yet it is the exact record of what occurred at Manor Farm, in “Pickwick,” with a change only in the names, and would pass very fairly as an amiable outburst of the redoubtable Doctor’s.

Or, again, let us put a bit of “Boz” into

“Bozzy’s” work.  The amiable “Goldy” was partial to extravagant dress, and to showing himself off.

When a masquerade at Ranelagh was talked of, he said to Doctor Johnson, “I shall go as a Corsican.”  “What!” said the Doctor, with a sudden start.  “As a Corsican,” Dr. Goldsmith repeated mildly.  “You don’t mean to say,” said the Doctor to him, gazing at him with solemn sternness, “that it is your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket with a two-inch tail?”  “Such is my intention, sir,” replied Goldsmith warmly; “and why not, sir?”  “Because, sir,” said the Doctor, considerably excited, “you are too old.”  “Too old!” exclaimed Goldsmith.  “And if any further ground of objection be wanting,” said Dr. Johnson, “You are too fat, sir.”  “Sir,” said Dr. Goldsmith, his face suffused with a crimson glow, “this is an insult.”  “Sir,” said the sage in the same tone, “it is not half the insult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket with two-inch tail would be to me.”  “Sir,” said Dr. Goldsmith, “you’re

a fellow.”  “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “you’re another!”

Winkle in a very amusing way often suggests Boswell; and Mr. Pickwick treats him with as great rudeness as did Johnson his Winkle.  When that unhappy gentleman, or follower exhibited himself on the ice, Mr. Pickwick, we are told, was excited and indignant.  “He beckoned to Mr. Weller and said in a stern voice: Take the skates off.”  “No, but I had scarcely began,” remonstrated Mr. Winkle.  “Take his skates off,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly.  The command was not to be resisted.  “Lift him up,” said Mr. Pickwick—Sam assisted him to rise.  Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standers and beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look on him and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words: “You’re a humbug, sir.”  “A what?” said Mr. Winkle, starting.  “A humbug, sir, I will speak plainer if you wish it—an impostor, sir.” 

With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined his friends.  Was not this exactly the Sage’s treatment of his “Bozzy” on many occasions?

There is yet another odd coincidence.  Everyone knows how Bob Sawyer’s party was disturbed by Mrs. Raddle’s angry expostulations, and the guests had to disperse.  Well, Mr. Boswell, who had much of the Sawyer tone—gave a party at his rooms in Downing Street, and his landlord behaved so outrageously, that he gave him notice, and the next day quitted his rooms.  “I feel I shall have to give my landlady notice,” said Mr. Sawyer with a ghastly smile.  Mr. Boswell had actually to take some of the invited guests to the Mitre and entertain them there.

There is a pleasant passage connected with Dr. Johnson’s visit to Plymouth, with his old friend Sir Joshua.  He was much pleased with this jaunt and declared he had derived from it a great accession of new ideas. . .

“The magnificence of the Navy the ship building and all its circumstances afforded him a grand subject of contemplation.”  He contemplated it in fact, as Mr. Pickwick contemplated Chatham and the Medway.  The commissioner of the dockyard paid him the compliment, etc.  The characteristic part, however, was that the Doctor entered enthusiastically into the local politics.  “There was a new town rising up round the dockyard, as a