No, Sir, Claret Is The Liquor For

My Mind Was, As It Were, Strongly Impregnated With The Johnsonian Ether.

After I Went To Bed I Had A Curious Fancy As To Dreams. In Sleep The Doors Of The Mind Are Shut, And Thoughts Come Jumping In At The Windows. They Tumble Headlong, And Therefore Are So Disorderly And Strange. Sometimes They Are Stout And Light On Their Feet, And Then They Are Rational Dreams.

In Every Picture There Should Be Shade As Well As Light.

I Went To My Father's At Night. He Spoke Of Poor John [boswell's Brother] With Disgust. I Was Shocked And Said, "he's Your Son, And God Made Him." He Answered Very Harshly, "if My Sons Are Idiots, Can I Help It?

My Wife, Who Does Not Like Journalizing, Said It Was Leaving Myself Embowelled To Posterity--a Good Strong Figure. But I Think Itis Rather Leaving Myself Embalmed. It Is Certainly Preserving Myself.