able place. In the meantime, always careful of his friends, he had secured a small office at Gibraltar, through the interest of Mr. Windham, for one of the younger Jephsons, who in action with an enemy’s ship on the passage thither, had an opportunity, as a volunteer in working a gun, of distinguishing himself, and was complimented on the occasion by Lord St. Vincent.
Early in 1795 death unexpectedly carried off his friend Boswell, whose volumes have ensured fame, while among the waspish professors of criticism they have scarcely given him character. Between the biographer and his labours some have drawn a very wide distinction. One has taken rank among the undying productions of our country. The other is absurdly alleged to have been a simpleton, a toady, a flatterer, almost a fool. Nay, undoubted independence and truthtelling even made him enemies at the moment. “I will not pare my tiger’s claws down to those of a cat for any one,” was the manly declaration regarding Dr. Johnson’s sarcasms. An opportunity was, therefore, taken in one of the newspapers after his death, and recently in works of more pretension, to sketch him unfairly; to take measure of the workman, not of the work; to lower the greater to the standard of the less. But Malone flew to the rescue; and as we might expect from a kindly spirit, rendered due credit to an erring nature of many foibles, but with talents beyond dispute.[1] Nay, the departed seemed almost to have expected something of posthumous aid from his goodhumoured friend; for Bennet Langton thus writes to Malone in August, 1795—
- ↑ Gentleman’s Magazine, June, 1795.
