trifle away his time; but the spell under which he lay resisted
prayer and sacrament. His private notes at this time are made up
of self-reproaches. "My indolence," he wrote on Easter Eve in
1764, "has sunk into grosser sluggishness. A kind of strange
oblivion has overspread me, so that I know not what has become of
the last year." Easter 1765 came, and found him still in the
same state. "My time," he wrote, "has been unprofitably spent,
and seems as a dream that has left nothing behind. My memory
grows confused, and I know not how the days pass over me."
Happily for his honour, the charm which held him captive was at
length broken by no gentle or friendly hand. He had been weak
enough to pay serious attention to a story about a ghost which
haunted a house in Cock Lane, and had actually gone himself with
some of his friends, at one in the morning, to St John's Church,
Clerkenwell, in the hope of receiving a communication from the
perturbed spirit. But the spirit, though adjured with all
solemnity, remained obstinately silent; and it soon appeared that
a naughty girl of eleven had been amusing herself by making fools
of so many philosophers. Churchill, who, confidant in his
powers, drunk with popularity, and burning with party spirit, was
looking for some man of established fame and Tory politics to
insult, celebrated the Cock Lane Ghost in three cantos, nicknamed
Johnson Pomposo, asked where the book was which had been so long
promised and so liberally paid for, and directly accused the
great moralist of cheating. This terrible word proved effectual;
and in October 1765 appeared, after a delay of nine years, the
new edition of Shakspeare.

This publication saved Johnson's character for honesty, but added
nothing to the fame of his abilities and learning. The preface,