recorded this anecdote, but did not know the name of the complainer. He was much in the world then, and used to depreciate Johnson as much as he could, by terming him “Nothing more than a literary Caliban.” “Well then,” said Johnson, when this was told him, “you must allow that he is the Punchinello of literature.”
Cooper was round and fat. He was, as Mr. Burke, who knew him well, told me, a master of French and Italian, well acquainted with the English poets, and a good classical scholar; but an insufferable coxcomb. Dr. Warton one day, when dining with Johnson and Burke, urged these circumstances in his favour: “He was at least very well-informed, and a good scholar.” “Yes,” said Johnson, “it cannot be denied that he has good materials for playing the fool; and he makes abundant use of them.”
The history of the Duke of Portland’s house at Bulstrode, near which I now write, is singular. It was built by Praise God Barebones, for a gentleman of the name of Bulstrode. It was then purchased by the infamous Chancellor Jeffries, who used to hold his seal in the great hall, and made the equity lawyers at the end of the term come down twenty miles to attend him there. From his son, Lord Jeffries, it was purchased by King William’s favourite, the Earl of Portland.
Sir Joshua Reynolds once saw Pope. It was about the year 1740, at an auction of books or pictures. He remembers that there was a lane
