Whether I shall see the man again is known alone to the Mysterious Contriver of human meetings and partings. There is much good in him; he hath fair measure of scholarship, and a heart not readily turned to ill. Small indeed he must be confessed, but against his limitation of mind and narrowness of horizon may be set a busy, bustling, inquiring spirit, not apt to be offended, and not readily rushing into enmity. He has, despite his frivolous affectation of gloom, the cheerfulness of a caged lark, and may, indeed, be likened to that sprightly songster at many points. There is a riotous joy of life in him, as in the bird, which, exhibited even in a prisoned fowl at all seasons, becomes irritating, but which, displayed in a human creature, must cause first amazement, then annoyance, and finally contempt. That he will have the energy and industry to complete and publish such a life of me as my friends have declared he designs is difficult to believe; while as for my own hasty annotations of a week in the society of Mr. Boswell, they may well terminate upon this page. And as the subsequent perusal of such a trifle would give neither pleasure nor edification to my fellows, this idle fragment shall now be relegated to the recesses of my waste-paper basket or the inflammatory embraces of my hearth. EDITOR’S NOTE.--Dr. Johnson doubtless selected the waste-paper basket; hence our ability to publish this unknown fragment from his Titan pen. THE NINE MUSKETEERS Two draped figures stood at the entrance of the Criterion Restaurant, and the electric light played upon the huge feathers in their hats, glittered on their trappings, and touched their gilt spurs. One was an enormous man, nearly a foot taller than those about him; the other, though of medium height, appeared to be made of Damascus steel. “’Tis the hour, D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, as a church clock struck six. “And the men!” answered D’Artagnan; whereupon two other romantic figures leapt from a hansom-cab. “Athos!” “Aramis!” “God be with us all!” The friends embraced, then entered the restaurant. For a few brief hours they had secured leave of absence from the Stygian Fields, and before pushing on to Paris, had determined to visit a scene precious by reason of its manifold memories. Porthos ordered dinner. “Come hither, lackey,” he roared in a voice that made the china jingle. “The best--the best of everything--and champagne; no baser wine.” He flung down his sword, and made his chair creak and groan. “What thoughts of Milady and dear Lord Winter rise up in memory!” mused Athos. “Of Buckingham and the Court,” said D’Artagnan. Aramis read the evening paper. Suddenly he became violently agitated and transported with feverish excitement. “Behold!” he cried, “the mummers have us! the mummers have us! At the playhouse named ‘Her Majesty’s’ _The Musketeers_ fret their hour nightly to crowded houses!”