It was not only for his personal grievances that Boswell was anxious to contradict Sir John Hawkins and Mrs. Piozzi, but also because he had a different conception of Johnson, a far more loving appreciation and veneration, which was a reason in itself that he should write the life of his friend; to vindicate his character and express his admiration would be some tribute to their long friendship. Boswell, indeed, always retained something of the 'mysterious veneration' of his early years. Johnson to him was always the hero; he was the 'literary Colossus,' the 'Rambler,' the 'awful and majestick Philosopher.' The thought that he might lose his reverence was a source of anxiety to Boswell: In my interview with Dr. Johnson this evening, I was quite easy, quite as his companion; upon which I find in my journal the following reflection: 'So ready is my mind to suggest matter for dissatisfaction that I felt a sort of regret that I was so easy. I missed that awful reverence with which I used to contemplate Mr. Samuel Johnson, in the complex magnitude of his literary, moral, and religious character. I have a wonderful superstitious love of mystery.' Boswell, as a matter of fact, as we may see from the 'Life,' preserved his 'reverence,' and his view of Johnson as the solemn and wise writer and moralist has tinged the biography. He records a jovial mood of Johnson's as a most extraordinary moment in a man of his dignified character: I have known him at times exceedingly diverted at what seemed to others a very small sport. He now laughed immoderately, without any reason that we could perceive, at our friend's making his will; called him the _testator_, and added, 'I daresay, he thinks he has done a mighty thing.' ... In this playful manner did he run on, exulting in his own pleasantry, which certainly was not such as might be expected from the authour of The Rambler, but which is here preserved, that my readers may be acquainted even with the slightest occasional characteristicks of so eminent a man. He goes on to tell how Dr. Johnson 'could not stop his merriment, but continued it all the way till he got without the Temple Gate. He then burst into such a fit of laughter that he appeared to be almost in a convulsion; and, in order to support himself, laid hold of one of the posts at the side of the foot pavement, and sent forth peals so loud, that in the silence of the night his voice seemed to resound from Temple Bar to Fleetditch.' Boswell talks of the episode as 'this most ludicrous exhibition of the awful, melancholy, and venerable Johnson.' [Footnote 1: Sir John Hawkins wrote the official life.] [Footnote 2: _Letters to Temple_, p. 252.] [Footnote 3: _Ib._, p. 267.] [Footnote 4: _Ib._, p. 265.] [Footnote 5: _Letters to Temple_, p. 338.] [Footnote 6: _Ib._, p. 218.] [Footnote 7: Nichols' _Illustrations_, vii, 309.]