“Oh, how shocking and selfish!” exclaimed the sisterhood; but the man who had lived on a groat a day, and stood behind greasy screens to conceal his worn-out clothes, appreciated this remark as being that of a person who thought and decided for himself. He therefore defended its justice in a clear and forcible manner, though, perhaps, without conveying conviction to the minds of the decorous spinsters. At all events, he was so pleased with his new friend that they left the party together. Johnson went and supped at Reynold’s house; and thus was commenced an intimacy which was only terminated by death. Johnson became a frequent visitor, and went without ceremony to enjoy the great painter’s society, who, on his part, declared that no one had, like his illustrious friend, the faculty of teaching inferior minds the art of thinking. There is not, perhaps, in the wide world, so full of guile and selfishness, a fairer field for the cultivation of friendship than that which lies between the studio of the painter and the desk of the man of letters. There is little ground for envy, but many incitements to a generous rivalry; and the intercourse must be peculiarly advantageous if the artist is endowed with poetic perception, and the author gifted with an artistic eye. Reynolds and Johnson no doubt experienced, in their respective pursuits, the benefit of their familiar meetings, altogether independently of the pleasure derived from those hours of social enjoyment which were irradiated by the matchless discourse of Burke, and enlivened by the ludicrous displays of Goldsmith. His friendship with Johnson led to Reynolds furnishing three papers for the “Idler”――his first essay in literary composition, and in which may be traced the ideas which grew into his lectures. The effort cost him much thought and trouble: he sat up writing them all night, and had a sharp illness in consequence. Besides this contribution to the “Idler,” he supplied some notes to Johnson’s “Shakspeare,” published in 1705.