SCENE II.

DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS.

LIFE, POEMS, AND TALES.

THE

WORKS

OF

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

IN NINE VOLUMES.

VOLUME THE FIRST.

MDCCCXXV

ADVERTISEMENT.

It may be asserted, without a partial panegyric of the object of our

praise, that the works of no single author in the wide range of British

literature, not excepting, perhaps, even Addison, contain a richer and

more varied fund of rational entertainment and sound instruction than

those of Dr. Johnson. A correct edition of his works must, therefore, be

an acceptable contribution to the mass of national literature. That the

present edition has, perhaps, fairer claims on public approbation than

most preceding ones, we feel ourselves justified in asserting, without

envious detraction of those who have gone before us. It has been our

wish and diligent endeavour to give as accurate a text as possible, to

which we have subjoined notes, where elucidation seemed to be required.

They have been collected with care, and will prove our impartiality by

their occasional censures of the faults and failings of the writer whose

works it is our office to illustrate, and our more common and more

grateful task to praise. Though, being diffused over a wide space, they

appear less numerous than they really are, it has been our incessant

care to abstain from that method of redundant annotation, which tends to

display the ingenuity or mental resources of an editor, much more than

to illustrate the original writer. Notes have been chiefly introduced

for the purpose of guarding our readers against some political sophisms,

or to correct some hasty error. But happily, in the writings to which we

have devoted our time and attention, the chaff and dross lie so open to

view, and are so easily separated from purer matter, that a hint is

sufficient to protect the most incautious from harm. Accordingly, in our

notes and prefaces we have confined ourselves to simple and succinct

histories of the respective works under consideration, and have avoided,

as much as might be, a burdensome repetition of criticisms or anecdotes,

in almost every person's possession, or an idle pointing out of beauties

which none could fail to recognise. The length of time that has elapsed

since the writings of Johnson were first published, has amply developed

their intrinsic merits, and destroyed the personal and party prejudices

which assail a living author: but the years have been too few to render

the customs and manners alluded to so obsolete as to require much

illustrative research.[a] It may be satisfactory to subjoin, that care

has been exercised in every thing that we have advanced, and that when

we have erred, it has been on the side of caution.

All the usually received works of Dr. Johnson, together with Murphy's

Essay on his Life and Genius, are comprised in this edition. In

pursuance of our plan of brevity, we shall not here give a list of his

minor and unacknowledged productions, but refer our readers to Boswell;

a new, amended, and enlarged edition of whose interesting and

picturesque Memoirs we purpose speedily to present to the public, after

the style and manner of the present work.

One very important addition, however, we conceive that we have made, in

publishing the whole of his sermons. It has been hitherto the practice

to give one or two, with a cursory notice, that Johnson's theological

knowledge was scanty, or unworthy of his general fame. We have acted

under a very different impression; for though Johnson was not, nor

pretended to be, a polemical or controversial divine, he well knew how

to apply to the right regulation of our moral conduct the lessons of

that Christianity which was not promulged for a sect, but for mankind;

which sought not a distinctive garb in the philosopher's grove, nor

secluded itself in the hermit's cell, but entered without reserve every

walk of life, and sympathized with all the instinctive feelings of our

common nature. This high privilege of our religion Johnson felt, and to

the diffusion of its practical, not of its theoretical advantages, he

applied the energies of his heart and mind; and with what success, we

leave to every candid reader to pronounce.

In conclusion, we would express a hope that we shall not inaptly

commence a series of OXFORD ENGLISH CLASSICS with the works of one whose

writings have so enlarged and embellished the science of moral evidence,

which has long constituted a characteristic feature in the literary

discipline of this university. The science of mind and its progress, as

recorded by history, or unfolded by biography, was Johnson's favourite

study, and is still the main object of pursuit in the place whose system

and institutions he so warmly praised, and to which he ever professed

himself so deeply indebted. If the terseness of attic simplicity has

been desiderated by some in the pages of Johnson, they undeniably

display the depth of thought, the weight of argument, the insight into

mind and morals, which are to be found in their native dignity only in

the compositions of those older writers with whose spirit he was so

richly imbued. In this place, then, where those models which Johnson

admired and imitated are still upheld as the only sure guides to sound

learning, his writings can never be laid aside unread and neglected.

OXFORD, JUNE 23, 1825.

[a] See a remark on this subject made by Johnson, with reference to the

Spectator, and all other works of the same class, which describe

manners. Boswell, ii. 218, and Prefatory Notice to Rambler, vol. i.

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

ESSAY on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson

POEMS.

London

The Vanity of Human Wishes

Prologue, spoken by Mr. Garrick, at the opening of the theatre-royal,

Drury lane

Prefatory Notice to the tragedy of Irene

Prologue

Irene

Epilogue, by sir William Yonge

Prologue to the masque of Comus

Prologue to the comedy of the Good-natured Man

Prologue to the comedy of a Word to the Wise

Spring

Midsummer

Autumn

Winter

The Winter's Walk

To Miss ****, on her giving the author a gold and silk network purse, of

her own weaving

To Miss ****, on her playing upon the harpsichord, in a room hung with

flower-pieces of her own painting

Evening; an ode

To the same

To a friend

Stella in mourning

To Stella

Verses, written at the request of a gentleman, to whom a lady had given

a sprig of myrtle

To lady Firebrace, at Bury assizes

To Lyce, an elderly lady

On the death of Mr. Robert Levet

Epitaph on Claude Phillips

Epitaphium in Thomam Hanmer, baronettum

Paraphrase of the above, by Dr. Johnson

To Miss Hickman, playing on the spinet

Paraphrase of Proverbs, chap. vi. verses 6-11

Horace, lib. iv. ode vii. translated

Anacreon, ode ix

Lines written in ridicule of certain poems published in 1777

Parody of a translation from the Medea of Euripides

Translation from the Medea of Euripides

Translation of the two first stanzas of the song "Rio Verde, Rio Verde"

Imitation of the style of ****

Burlesque of some lines of Lopez de Vega

Translation of some lines at the end of Baretti's Easy Phraseology

Improviso translation of a distich on the duke of Modena's running away

from the comet in 1742 or 1743

Improviso translation of some lines of M. Benserade à son Lit

Epitaph for Mr. Hogarth

Translation of some lines, written under a print representing persons

skating

Impromptu translation of the same

To Mrs. Thrale, on her completing her thirty-fifth year

Impromptu translation of an air in the Clemenza di Tito of Metastasio

Translation of a speech of Aquileio in the Adriano of Metastasio

Burlesque of the modern versifications of ancient legendary tales

Friendship; an ode

On seeing a bust of Mrs. Montague

Improviso on a young heir's coming of age

Epitaphs--on his father

--his wife

--Mrs. Bell

--Mrs. Salusbury

--Dr. Goldsmith

--Mr. Thrale

POEMATA

Prefatory observations to the history of Rasselas

Rasselas, prince of Abissinia

LETTERS.

I. To Mr. James Elphinston

II. to XL. To Mrs. Thrale

XLI. To Mr. Thrale

XLII. to LIII. To Mrs. Thrale

LIV. To Mrs. Piozzi

AN ESSAY

ON

THE LIFE AND GENIUS

OF

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

When the works of a great writer, who has bequeathed to posterity a

lasting legacy, are presented to the world, it is naturally expected

that some account of his life should accompany the edition. The reader

wishes to know as much as possible of the author. The circumstances that

attended him, the features of his private character, his conversation,

and the means by which he arose to eminence, become the favourite

objects of inquiry. Curiosity is excited; and the admirer of his works

is eager to know his private opinions, his course of study, the

particularities of his conduct, and, above all, whether he pursued the

wisdom which he recommends, and practised the virtue which his writings

inspire. A principle of gratitude is awakened in every generous mind.

For the entertainment and instruction which genius and diligence have

provided for the world, men of refined and sensible tempers are ready to

pay their tribute of praise, and even to form a posthumous friendship

with the author.

In reviewing the life of such a writer, there is, besides, a rule of

justice to which the public have an undoubted claim. Fond admiration and

partial friendship should not be suffered to represent his virtues with

exaggeration; nor should malignity be allowed, under a specious

disguise, to magnify mere defects, the usual failings of human nature,

into vice or gross deformity. The lights and shades of the character

should be given; and if this be done with a strict regard to truth, a

just estimate of Dr. Johnson will afford a lesson, perhaps, as valuable

as the moral doctrine that speaks with energy in every page of his

works.

The present writer enjoyed the conversation and friendship of that

excellent man more than thirty years. He thought it an honour to be so

connected, and to this hour he reflects on his loss with regret; but

regret, he knows, has secret bribes, by which the judgment may be

influenced, and partial affection may be carried beyond the bounds of

truth. In the present case, however, nothing needs to be disguised, and

exaggerated praise is unnecessary. It is an observation of the younger

Pliny, in his epistle to his friend Tacitus, that history ought never to

magnify matters of fact, because worthy actions require nothing but the

truth: "nam nec historia debet egredi veritatem, et honeste factis

veritas sufficit." This rule, the present biographer promises, shall

guide his pen throughout the following narrative.

It may be said, the death of Dr. Johnson kept the public mind in

agitation beyond all former example. No literary character ever excited

so much attention; and, when the press has teemed with anecdotes,

apophthegms, essays, and publications of every kind, what occasion now

for a new tract on the same thread-bare subject? The plain truth shall

be the answer. The proprietors of Johnson's works thought the life,

which they prefixed to their former edition, too unwieldy for

republication. The prodigious variety of foreign matter, introduced into

that performance, seemed to overload the memory of Dr. Johnson, and, in

the account of his own life, to leave him hardly visible. They wished to

have a more concise, and, for that reason, perhaps, a more satisfactory

account, such as may exhibit a just picture of the man, and keep him the

principal figure in the foreground of his own picture. To comply with

that request is the design of this essay, which the writer undertakes

with a trembling hand. He has no discoveries, no secret anecdotes, no

occasional controversy, no sudden flashes of wit and humour, no private

conversation, and no new facts, to embellish his work. Every thing has

been gleaned. Dr. Johnson said of himself, "I am not uncandid, nor

severe: I sometimes say more than I mean, in jest, and people are apt to

think me serious[a]." The exercise of that privilege, which is enjoyed

by every man in society, has not been allowed to him. His fame has given

importance even to trifles; and the zeal of his friends has brought

every thing to light. What should be related, and what should not, has

been published without distinction: "dicenda tacenda locuti!" Every

thing that fell from him has been caught with eagerness by his admirers,

who, as he says in one of his letters, have acted with the diligence of

spies upon his conduct. To some of them the following lines, in Mallet's

poem on verbal criticism, are not inapplicable:

"Such that grave bird in northern seas is found.

Whose name a Dutchman only knows to sound;

Where'er the king of fish moves on before,

This humble friend attends from shore to shore;

With eye still earnest, and with bill inclined,

He picks up what his patron drops behind,

With those choice cates his palate to regale,

And is the careful Tibbald of a whale."

After so many essays and volumes of Johnsoniana, what remains for the

present writer? Perhaps, what has not been attempted; a short, yet full,

a faithful, yet temperate, history of Dr. Johnson.

SAMUEL JOHNSON was born at Lichfield, September 7, 1709, O. S[b]. His

father, Michael Johnson, was a bookseller in that city; a man of large,

athletic make, and violent passions; wrong-headed, positive, and, at

times, afflicted with a degree of melancholy, little short of madness.

His mother was sister to Dr. Ford, a practising physician, and father of

Cornelius Ford, generally known by the name of parson Ford, the same who

is represented near the punch-bowl in Hogarth's Midnight Modern

Conversation. In the life of Fenton, Johnson says, that "his abilities,

instead of furnishing convivial merriment to the voluptuous and

dissolute, might have enabled him to excel among the virtuous and the

wise." Being chaplain to the earl of Chesterfield, he wished to attend

that nobleman on his embassy to the Hague. Colley Cibber has recorded

the anecdote. "You should go," said the witty peer, "if to your many

vices you would add one more." "Pray, my lord, what is that?"

"Hypocrisy, my dear doctor." Johnson had a younger brother named

Nathaniel, who died at the age of twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Michael

Johnson, the father, was chosen, in the year 1718, under bailiff of

Lichfield; and, in the year 1725, he served the office of the senior

bailiff. He had a brother of the name of Andrew, who, for some years,

kept the ring at Smithfield, appropriated to wrestlers and boxers. Our

author used to say, that he was never thrown or conquered. Michael, the

father, died December 1731, at the age of seventy-six: his mother at

eighty-nine, of a gradual decay, in the year 1759. Of the family nothing

more can be related worthy of notice. Johnson did not delight in talking

of his relations. "There is little pleasure," he said to Mrs. Piozzi,

"in relating the anecdotes of beggary."

Johnson derived from his parents, or from an unwholesome nurse, the

distemper called the king's evil. The Jacobites at that time believed in

the efficacy of the royal touch, and, accordingly, Mrs. Johnson

presented her son, when two years old, before queen Anne, who, for the

first time, performed that office, and communicated to her young patient

all the healing virtue in her power[c]. He was afterwards cut for that

scrophulous humour, and the under part of his face was seamed and

disfigured by the operation. It is supposed, that this disease deprived

him of the sight of his left eye, and also impaired his hearing. At

eight years old, he was placed under Mr. Hawkins, at the free school in

Lichfield, where he was not remarkable for diligence or regular

application. Whatever he read, his tenacious memory made his own. In the

fields, with his schoolfellows, he talked more to himself than with his

companions. In 1725, when he was about sixteen years old, he went on a

visit to his cousin Cornelius Ford, who detained him for some months,

and, in the mean time, assisted him in the classics. The general

direction for his studies, which he then received, he related to Mrs.

Piozzi. "Obtain," says Ford, "some general principles of every science:

he who can talk only on one subject, or act only in one department, is

seldom wanted, and, perhaps, never wished for; while the man of general

knowledge can often benefit, and always please." This advice Johnson

seems to have pursued with a good inclination. His reading was always

desultory, seldom resting on any particular author, but rambling from

one book to another, and, by hasty snatches, hoarding up a variety of

knowledge. It may be proper, in this place, to mention another general

rule laid down by Ford for Johnson's future conduct: "You will make your

way the more easily in the world, as you are contented to dispute no

man's claim to conversation excellence: they will, therefore, more

willingly allow your pretensions as a writer." "But," says Mrs. Piozzi,

"the features of peculiarity, which mark a character to all succeeding

generations, are slow in coming to their growth." That ingenious lady

adds, with her usual vivacity, "Can one, on such an occasion, forbear

recollecting the predictions of Boileau's father, who said, stroking the

head of the young satirist, 'This little man has too much wit, but he

will never speak ill of any one.'"

On Johnson's return from Cornelius Ford, Mr. Hunter, then master of the

free school at Lichfield, refused to receive him again on that

foundation. At this distance of time, what his reasons were, it is vain

to inquire; but to refuse assistance to a lad of promising genius must

be pronounced harsh and illiberal. It did not, however, stop the

progress of the young student's education. He was placed at another

school, at Stourbridge in Worcestershire, under the care of Mr.

Wentworth. Having gone through the rudiments of classic literature, he

returned to his father's house, and was probably intended for the trade

of a bookseller. He has been heard to say that he could bind a book. At

the end of two years, being then about nineteen, he went to assist the

studies of a young gentleman, of the name of Corbet, to the university

of Oxford; and on the 31st of October, 1728, both were entered of

Pembroke college; Corbet as a gentleman-commoner, and Johnson as a

commoner. The college tutor, Mr. Jordan, was a man of no genius; and

Johnson, it seems, shewed an early contempt of mean abilities, in one or

two instances behaving with insolence to that gentleman. Of his general

conduct at the university there are no particulars that merit attention,

except the translation of Pope's Messiah, which was a college exercise

imposed upon him as a task by Mr. Jordan. Corbet left the university in

about two years, and Johnson's salary ceased. He was, by consequence,

straitened in his circumstances; but he still remained at college. Mr.

Jordan, the tutor, went off to a living; and was succeeded by Dr. Adams,

who afterwards became head of the college, and was esteemed through life

for his learning, his talents, and his amiable character. Johnson grew

more regular in his attendance. Ethics, theology, and classic

literature, were his favourite studies. He discovered, notwithstanding,

early symptoms of that wandering disposition of mind, which adhered to

him to the end of his life. His reading was by fits and starts,

undirected to any particular science. General philology, agreeably to

his cousin Ford's advice, was the object of his ambition. He received,

at that time, an early impression of piety, and a taste for the best

authors, ancient and modern. It may, notwithstanding, be questioned

whether, except his bible, he ever read a book entirely through. Late in

life, if any man praised a book in his presence, he was sure to ask,

"Did you read it through?" If the answer was in the affirmative, he did

not seem willing to believe it. He continued at the university, till the

want of pecuniary supplies obliged him to quit the place. He obtained,

however, the assistance of a friend, and, returning in a short time, was

able to complete a residence of three years. The history of his exploits

at Oxford, he used to say, was best known to Dr. Taylor and Dr. Adams.

Wonders are told of his memory, and, indeed, all who knew him late in

life can witness, that he retained that faculty in the greatest vigour.

From the university, Johnson returned to Lichfield. His father died soon

after, December, 1731; and the whole receipt out of his effects, as

appeared by a memorandum in the son's handwriting, dated 15th of June,

1732, was no more than twenty pounds[d]. In this exigence, determined

that poverty should neither depress his spirits nor warp his integrity,

he became under-master of a grammar school at Market Bosworth, in

Leicestershire. That resource, however, did not last long. Disgusted by

the pride of sir Wolstan Dixie, the patron of that little seminary, he

left the place in discontent, and ever after spoke of it with

abhorrence. In 1733, he went on a visit to Mr. Hector, who had been his

schoolfellow, and was then a surgeon at Birmingham, lodging at the house

of Warren, a bookseller. At that place Johnson translated a Voyage to

Abyssinia, written by Jerome Lobo, a Portuguese missionary. This was the

first literary work from the pen of Dr. Johnson. His friend, Hector, was

occasionally his amanuensis. The work was, probably, undertaken at the

desire of Warren, the bookseller, and was printed at Birmingham; but it

appears, in the Literary Magazine, or history of the works of the

learned, for March, 1735, that it was published by Bettesworth and

Hitch, Paternoster row. It contains a narrative of the endeavours of a

company of missionaries to convert the people of Abyssinia to the church

of Rome. In the preface to this work, Johnson observes, "that the

Portuguese traveller, contrary to the general view of his countrymen,

has amused his readers with no romantick absurdities, or incredible

fictions. He appears, by his modest and unaffected narration, to have

described things, as he saw them; to have copied nature from the life;

and to have consulted his senses, not his imagination. He meets with no

basilisks, that destroy with their eyes; his crocodiles devour their

prey, without tears; and his cataracts fall from the rock, without

deafening the neighbouring inhabitants. The reader will here find no

regions cursed with irremediable barrenness, or blessed with spontaneous

fecundity; no perpetual gloom, or unceasing sunshine; nor are the

nations, here described, either void of all sense of humanity, or

consummate in all private and social virtues; here are no Hottentots

without religion, polity or articulate language; no Chinese perfectly

polite, and completely skilled in all sciences; he will discover, what

will always be discovered by a diligent and impartial inquirer, that,

wherever human nature is to be found, there is a mixture of vice and

virtue, a contest of passion and reason; and that the Creator doth not

appear partial in his distributions, but has balanced, in most

countries, their particular inconveniencies, by particular favours."--We

have here an early specimen of Johnson's manner; the vein of thinking,

and the frame of the sentences, are manifestly his: we see the infant

Hercules. The translation of Lobo's narrative has been reprinted lately

in a separate volume, with some other tracts of Dr. Johnson's, and,

therefore, forms no part of this edition; but a compendious account of

so interesting a work, as father Lobo's discovery of the head of the

Nile, will not, it is imagined, be unacceptable to the reader.

"Father Lobo, the Portuguese missionary, embarked, in 1622, in the same

fleet with the count Vidigueira, who was appointed, by the king of

Portugal, viceroy of the Indies. They arrived at Goa; and, in January

1624, father Lobo set out on the mission to Abyssinia. Two of the

Jesuits, sent on the same commission, were murdered in their attempt to

penetrate into that empire. Lobo had better success; he surmounted all

difficulties, and made his way into the heart of the country. Then

follows a description of Abyssinia, formerly the largest empire of which

we have an account in history. It extended from the Red sea to the

kingdom of Congo, and from Egypt to the Indian sea, containing no less

than forty provinces. At the time of Lobo's mission, it was not much

larger than Spain, consisting then but of five kingdoms, of which part

was entirely subject to the emperour, and part paid him a tribute, as an

acknowledgment. The provinces were inhabited by Moors, Pagans, Jews, and

Christians. The last was, in Lobo's time, the established and reigning

religion. The diversity of people and religion is the reason why the

kingdom was under different forms of government, with laws and customs

extremely various. Some of the people neither sowed their lands, nor

improved them by any kind of culture, living upon milk and flesh, and,

like the Arabs, encamping without any settled habitation. In some places

they practised no rites of worship, though they believed that, in the

regions above, there dwells a being that governs the world. This deity

they call, in their language, Oul. The christianity, professed by the

people in some parts, is so corrupted with superstitions, errours, and

heresies, and so mingled with ceremonies borrowed from the Jews, that

little, besides the name of christianity, is to be found among them. The

Abyssins cannot properly be said to have either cities or houses; they

live in tents or cottages made of straw or clay, very rarely building

with stone. Their villages, or towns, consist of these huts; yet even of

such villages they have but few, because the grandees, the viceroys, and

the emperour himself, are always in camp, that they may be prepared,

upon the most sudden alarm, to meet every emergence in a country, which

is engaged, every year, either in foreign wars or intestine commotions.

Aethiopia produces very near the same kinds of provision as Portugal,

though, by the extreme laziness of the inhabitants, in a much less

quantity. What the ancients imagined of the torrid zone being a part of

the world uninhabitable, is so far from being true, that the climate is

very temperate. The blacks have better features than in other countries,

and are not without wit and ingenuity. Their apprehension is quick, and

their judgment sound. There are, in this climate, two harvests in the

year; one in winter, which lasts through the months of July, August, and

September; the other in the spring. They have, in the greatest plenty,

raisins peaches pomegranates, sugar-canes, and some figs. Most of these

are ripe about lent, which the Abyssins keep with great strictness. The

animals of the country are the lion, the elephant, the rhinoceros, the

unicorn, horses, mules, oxen, and cows without number. They have a very

particular custom, which obliges every man, that has a thousand cows, to

save every year one day's milk of all his herd, and make a bath with it

for his relations. This they do so many days in each year, as they have

thousands of cattle; so that, to express how rich a man is, they tell

you, 'he bathes so many times.'

"Of the river Nile, which has furnished so much controversy, we have a

full and clear description. It is called, by the natives, Abavi, the

Father of Water. It rises in Sacala, a province of the kingdom of

Goiama, the most fertile and agreeable part of the Abyssinian dominions.

On the eastern side of the country, on the declivity of a mountain,

whose descent is so easy, that it seems a beautiful plain, is that

source of the Nile, which has been sought after, at so much expense and

labour. This spring, or rather these two springs, are two holes, each

about two feet diameter, a stone's cast distant from each other. One of

them is about five feet and a half in depth. Lobo was not able to sink

his plummet lower, perhaps, because it was stopped by roots, the whole

place being full of trees. A line of ten feet did not reach the bottom

of the other. These springs are supposed, by the Abyssins, to be the

vents of a great subterraneous lake. At a small distance to the south,

is a village called Guix, through which you ascend to the top of the

mountain, where there is a little hill, which the idolatrous Agaci hold

in great veneration. Their priest calls them together to this place once

a year; and every one sacrifices a cow, or more, according to the

different degrees of wealth and devotion. Hence we have sufficient

proof, that these nations always paid adoration to the deity of this

famous river.

"As to the course of the Nile, its waters, after their first rise, run

towards the east, about the length of a musket-shot; then, turning

northward, continue hidden in the grass and weeds for about a quarter of

a league, when they reappear amongst a quantity of rocks. The Nile, from

its source, proceeds with so inconsiderable a current that it is in

danger of being dried up by the hot season; but soon receiving an

increase from the Gemma, the Keltu, the Bransa, and the other smaller

rivers, it expands to such a breadth in the plains of Boad, which is not

above three days' journey from its source, that a musket-ball will

scarcely fly from one bank to the other. Here it begins to run

northward, winding, however, a little to the east, for the space of nine

or ten leagues, and then enters the so-much-talked-of lake of Dambia,

flowing with such violent rapidity, that its waters may be distinguished

through the whole passage, which is no less than six leagues. Here

begins the greatness of the Nile. Fifteen miles farther, in the land of

Alata, it rushes precipitately from the top of a high rock, and forms

one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the world. Lobo says, he passed

under it without being wet, and resting himself, for the sake of the

coolness, was charmed with a thousand delightful rainbows, which the

sunbeams painted on the water, in all their shining and lively

colours[e]. The fall of this mighty stream, from so great a height,

makes a noise that may be heard at a considerable distance: but it was

not found, that the neighbouring inhabitants were deaf. After the

cataract, the Nile collects its scattered stream among the rocks, which

are so near each other, that, in Lobo's time, a bridge of beams, on

which the whole imperial army passed, was laid over them. Sultan Sequed

has since built a stone bridge of one arch, in the same place, for which

purpose he procured masons from India. Here the river alters its course,

and passes through various kingdoms, such as Amhara, Olaca, Choaa,

Damot, and the kingdom of Goiama, and, after various windings, returns

within a short day's journey of its spring. To pursue it through all its

mazes, and accompany it round the kingdom of Goiama, is a journey of

twenty-nine days. From Abyssinia, the river passes into the countries of

Fazulo and Ombarca, two vast regions little known, inhabited by nations

entirely different from the Abyssins. Their hair, like that of the other

blacks in those regions, is short and curled. In the year 1615, Rassela

Christos, lieutenant-general to sultan Sequed, entered those kingdoms in

a hostile manner; but, not being able to get intelligence, returned

without attempting any thing. As the empire of Abyssinia terminates at

these descents, Lobo followed the course of the Nile no farther, leaving

it to rage over barbarous kingdoms, and convey wealth and plenty into

Aegypt, which owes to the annual inundations of this river its envied

fertility[f]. Lobo knows nothing of the Nile in the rest of its passage,

except that it receives great increase from many other rivers, has

several cataracts like that already described, and that few fish are to

be found in it: that scarcity is to be attributed to the river-horse,

and the crocodile, which destroy the weaker inhabitants of the river.

Something, likewise, must be imputed to the cataracts, where fish cannot

fall without being killed. Lobo adds, that neither he, nor any with whom

he conversed about the crocodile, ever saw him weep; and, therefore, all

that hath been said about his tears, must be ranked among the fables,

invented for the amusement of children.

"As to the causes of the inundations of the Nile, Lobo observes, that

many an idle hypothesis has been framed. Some theorists ascribe it to

the high winds, that stop the current, and force the water above its

banks. Others pretend a subterraneous communication between the ocean

and the Nile, and that the sea, when violently agitated, swells the

river. Many are of opinion, that this mighty flood proceeds from the

melting of the snow on the mountains of Aethiopia; but so much snow and

such prodigious heat are never met with in the same region. Lobo never

saw snow in Abyssinia, except on mount Semen, in the kingdom of Tigre,

very remote from the Nile; and on Namara, which is, indeed, nor far

distant, but where there never falls snow enough to wet, when dissolved,

the foot of the mountain. To the immense labours of the Portuguese

mankind is indebted for the knowledge of the real cause of these

inundations, so great and so regular. By them we are informed, that

Abyssinia, where the Nile rises, is full of mountains, and, in its

natural situation, is much higher than Aegypt; that in the winter, from

June to September, no day is without rain; that the Nile receives in its

course, all the rivers, brooks, and torrents, that fall from those

mountains, and, by necessary consequence, swelling above its banks,

fills the plains of Aegypt with inundations, which come regularly about

the month of July, or three weeks after the beginning of the rainy

season in Aethiopia. The different degrees of this flood are such

certain indications of the fruitfulness or sterility of the ensuing

year, that it is publickly proclaimed at Cairo how much the water hath

gained during the night."

Such is the account of the Nile and its inundations, which, it is hoped,

will not be deemed an improper or tedious digression, especially as the

whole is an extract from Johnson's translation. He is, all the time, the

actor in the scene, and, in his own words, relates the story. Having

finished this work, he returned in February, 1734, to his native city;

and, in the month of August following, published proposals for printing,

by subscription, the Latin poems of Politian, with the history of Latin

poetry, from the aera of Petrarch to the time of Politian; and also the

life of Politian, to be added by the editor, Samuel Johnson. The book to

be printed in thirty octavo sheets, price five shillings. It is to be

regretted that this project failed for want of encouragement. Johnson,

it seems, differed from Boileau, Voltaire, and D'Alembert, who had taken

upon them to proscribe all modern efforts to write with elegance in a

dead language. For a decision pronounced in so high a tone, no good

reason can be assigned. The interests of learning require, that the

diction of Greece and Rome should be cultivated with care; and he who

can write a language with correctness, will be most likely to understand

its idiom, its grammar, and its peculiar graces of style. What man of

taste would willingly forego the pleasure of reading Vida, Fracastorius,

Sannazaro, Strada, and others, down to the late elegant productions of

bishop Lowth? The history which Johnson proposed to himself would,

beyond all question, have been a valuable addition to the history of

letters; but his project failed. His next expedient was to offer his

assistance to Cave, the original projector of the Gentleman's Magazine.

For this purpose he sent his proposals in a letter, offering, on

reasonable terms, occasionally to fill some pages with poems and

inscriptions, never printed before; with fugitive pieces that deserved

to be revived, and critical remarks on authors, ancient and modern. Cave

agreed to retain him as a correspondent and contributor to the magazine.

What the conditions were cannot now be known; but, certainly, they were

not sufficient to hinder Johnson from casting his eyes about him in

quest of other employment. Accordingly, in 1735, he made overtures to

the reverend Mr. Budworth, master of a grammar school at Brerewood, in

Staffordshire, to become his assistant. This proposition did not

succeed. Mr. Budworth apprehended, that the involuntary motions, to

which Johnson's nerves were subject, might make him an object of

ridicule with his scholars, and, by consequence, lessen their respect

for their master. Another mode of advancing himself presented itself

about this time. Mrs. Porter, the widow of a mercer in Birmingham,

admired his talents. It is said, that she had about eight hundred

pounds; and that sum, to a person in Johnson's circumstances, was an

affluent fortune. A marriage took place; and, to turn his wife's money

to the best advantage, he projected the scheme of an academy for

education. Gilbert Walmsley, at that time, registrar of the

ecclesiastical court of the bishop of Lichfield, was distinguished by

his erudition, and the politeness of his manners. He was the friend of

Johnson, and, by his weight and influence, endeavoured to promote his

interest. The celebrated Garrick, whose father, captain Garrick, lived

at Lichfield, was placed in the new seminary of education by that

gentleman's advice.--Garrick was then about eighteen years old. An

accession of seven or eight pupils was the most that could be obtained,

though notice was given by a public advertisement[g], that at Edial,

near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, young gentlemen are boarded and taught

the Latin and Greek languages, by Samuel Johnson.

The undertaking proved abortive. Johnson, having now abandoned all hopes

of promoting his fortune in the country, determined to become an

adventurer in the world at large. His young pupil, Garrick, had formed

the same resolution; and, accordingly, in March, 1737, they arrived in

London together. Two such candidates for fame, perhaps never, before

that day, entered the metropolis together. Their stock of money was soon

exhausted. In his visionary project of an academy, Johnson had probably

wasted his wife's substance; and Garrick's father had little more than

his half-pay.--The two fellow-travellers had the world before them, and

each was to choose his road to fortune and to fame. They brought with

them genius, and powers of mind, peculiarly formed by nature for the

different vocations to which each of them felt himself inclined. They

acted from the impulse of young minds, even then meditating great

things, and with courage anticipating success. Their friend, Mr.

Walmsley, by a letter to the reverend Mr. Colson, who, it seems, was a

great mathematician, exerted his good offices in their favour. He gave

notice of their intended journey: "Davy Garrick," he said, "will be with

you next week; and Johnson, to try his fate with a tragedy, and to get

himself employed in some translation, either from the Latin or French.

Johnson is a very good scholar and a poet, and, I have great hopes, will

turn out a fine tragedy-writer. If it should be in your way, I doubt not

but you will be ready to recommend and assist your countrymen." Of Mr.

Walmsley's merit, and the excellence of his character, Johnson has left

a beautiful testimonial at the end of the life of Edmund Smith. It is

reasonable to conclude, that a mathematician, absorbed in abstract

speculations, was not able to find a sphere of action for two men, who

were to be the architects of their own fortune. In three or four years

afterwards, Garrick came forth with talents that astonished the public.

He began his career at Goodman's fields, and there, "monstratus fatis

Vespasianus!" he chose a lucrative profession, and, consequently, soon

emerged from all his difficulties. Johnson was left to toil in the

humble walks of literature. A tragedy, as appears by Walmsley's letter,

was the whole of his stock. This, most probably, was Irene; but, if then

finished, it was doomed to wait for a more happy period. It was offered

to Fleetwood, and rejected. Johnson looked round him for employment.

Having, while he remained in the country, corresponded with Cave, under

a feigned name, he now thought it time to make himself known to a man,

whom he considered as a patron of literature. Cave had announced, by

public advertisement, a prize of fifty pounds for the best poem on life,

death, judgment, heaven, and hell; and this circumstance diffused an

idea of his liberality. Johnson became connected with him in business,

and in a close and intimate acquaintance. Of Cave's character it is

unnecessary to say any thing in this place, as Johnson was afterwards

the biographer of his first and most useful patron. To be engaged in the

translation of some important book was still the object which Johnson

had in view. For this purpose, he proposed to give the history of the

council of Trent, with copious notes, then lately added to a French

edition. Twelve sheets of this work were printed, for which Johnson

received forty-nine pounds, as appears by his receipt, in the

possession of Mr. Nichols, the compiler of that entertaining and useful

work, The Gentleman's Magazine. Johnson's translation was never

completed: a like design was offered to the public, under the patronage

of Dr. Zachary Pearce; and, by that contention, both attempts were

frustrated. Johnson had been commended by Pope, for the translation of

the Messiah into Latin verse; but he knew no approach to so eminent a

man. With one, however, who was connected with Pope, he became

acquainted at St. John's gate; and that person was no other than the

well-known Richard Savage, whose life was afterwards written by Johnson

with great elegance, and a depth of moral reflection. Savage was a man

of considerable talents. His address, his various accomplishments, and,

above all, the peculiarity of his misfortunes, recommended him to

Johnson's notice. They became united in the closest intimacy. Both had

great parts, and they were equally under the pressure of want. Sympathy

joined them in a league of friendship. Johnson has been often heard to

relate, that he and Savage walked round Grosvenor square till four in

the morning; in the course of their conversation reforming the world,

dethroning princes, establishing new forms of government, and giving

laws to the several states of Europe, till, fatigued at length with

their legislative office, they began to feel the want of refreshment,

but could not muster up more than four-pence-halfpenny. Savage, it is

true, had many vices; but vice could never strike its roots in a mind

like Johnson's, seasoned early with religion, and the principles of

moral rectitude. His first prayer was composed in the year 1738. He had

not, at that time, renounced the use of wine; and, no doubt,

occasionally enjoyed his friend and his bottle. The love of late hours,

which followed him through life, was, perhaps, originally contracted in

company with Savage. However that may be, their connexion was not of

long duration. In the year 1738, Savage was reduced to the last

distress. Mr. Pope, in a letter to him, expressed his concern for "the

miserable withdrawing of his pension after the death of the queen;" and

gave him hopes that, "in a short time, he should find himself supplied

with a competence, without any dependance on those little creatures,

whom we are pleased to call the great." The scheme proposed to him was,

that he should retire to Swansea in Wales, and receive an allowance of

fifty pounds a year, to be raised by subscription: Pope was to pay

twenty pounds. This plan, though finally established, took more than a

year before it was carried into execution. In the mean time, the

intended retreat of Savage called to Johnson's mind the third satire of

Juvenal, in which that poet takes leave of a friend, who was withdrawing

himself from all the vices of Rome. Struck with this idea, he wrote that

well-known poem, called London. The first lines manifestly point to

Savage.

"Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel,

When injur'd Thales bids the town farewell;

Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend;

I praise the hermit, but regret the friend:

Resolv'd, at length, from vice and London far,

To breathe, in distant fields, a purer air;

And, fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore,

Give to St. David one true Briton more."

Johnson, at that time, lodged at Greenwich. He there fixes the scene,

and takes leave of his friend; who, he says in his life, parted from him

with tears in his eyes. The poem, when finished, was offered to Cave. It

happened, however, that the late Mr. Dodsley was the purchaser, at the

price of ten guineas. It was published in 1738; and Pope, we are told,

said, "The author, whoever he is, will not be long concealed;" alluding

to the passage in Terence, "Ubi, ubi est, diu celari non potest."

Notwithstanding that prediction, it does not appear that, besides the

copy-money, any advantage accrued to the author of a poem, written with

the elegance and energy of Pope. Johnson, in August, 1738, went, with

all the fame of his poetry, to offer himself a candidate for the

mastership of the school at Appleby, in Leicestershire. The statutes of

the place required, that the person chosen should be a master of arts.

To remove this objection, the then lord Gower was induced to write to a

friend, in order to obtain for Johnson a master's degree in the

university of Dublin, by the recommendation of Dr. Swift. The letter was

printed in one of the magazines, and was as follows:

SIR,--Mr. Samuel Johnson, author of London, a satire, and some other

poetical pieces, is a native of this county, and much respected by some

worthy gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who are trustees of a

charity-school, now vacant; the certain salary of which is sixty pounds

per year, of which they are desirous to make him master; but,

unfortunately, he is not capable of receiving their bounty, which would

make him happy for life, by not being a master of arts, which, by the

statutes of the school, the master of it must be.

Now these gentlemen do me the honour to think, that I have interest

enough in you, to prevail upon you to write to dean Swift, to persuade

the university of Dublin to send a diploma to me, constituting this poor

man master of arts in their university. They highly extol the man's

learning and probity; and will not be persuaded, that the university

will make any difficulty of conferring such a favour upon a stranger, if

he is recommended by the dean. They say, he is not afraid of the

strictest examination, though he is of so long a journey; and yet he

will venture it, if the dean thinks it necessary, choosing rather to die

upon the road, than to be starved to death in translating for

booksellers, which has been his only subsistence for some time past.

I fear there is more difficulty in this affair than these good-natured

gentlemen apprehend, especially as their election cannot be delayed

longer than the eleventh of next month. If you see this matter in the

same light that it appears to me, I hope you will burn this, and pardon

me for giving you so much trouble about an impracticable thing; but, if

you think there is a probability of obtaining the favour asked, I am

sure your humanity and propensity to relieve merit, in distress, will

incline you to serve the poor man, without my adding any more to the

trouble I have already given you, than assuring you, that I am, with

great truth, sir,

Your faithful humble servant,

Trentham, Aug. 1st. GOWER.

This scheme miscarried. There is reason to think, that Swift declined to

meddle in the business; and, to that circumstance, Johnson's known

dislike of Swift has been often imputed.

It is mortifying to pursue a man of merit through all his difficulties;

and yet this narrative must be, through many following years, the

history of genius and virtue struggling with adversity. Having lost the

school at Appleby, Johnson was thrown back on the metropolis. Bred to no

profession, without relations, friends, or interest, he was condemned to

drudgery in the service of Cave, his only patron. In November, 1738, was

published a translation of Crousaz's Examen of Pope's Essay on Man;

containing a succinct view of the system of the fatalists, and a

confutation of their opinions; with an illustration of the doctrine of

free will; and an enquiry, what view Mr. Pope might have in touching

upon the Leibnitzian philosophy, and fatalism: by Mr. Crousaz, professor

of philosophy and mathematics at Lausanne. This translation has been

generally thought a production of Johnson's pen; but it is now known,

that Mrs. Elizabeth Carter has acknowledged it to be one of her early

performances. It is certain, however, that Johnson was eager to promote

the publication. He considered the foreign philosopher as a man zealous

in the cause of religion; and with him he was willing to join against

the system of the fatalists, and the doctrine of Leibnitz. It is well

known, that Warburton wrote a vindication of Mr. Pope; but there is

reason to think, that Johnson conceived an early prejudice against the

Essay on Man; and what once took root in a mind like his, was not easily

eradicated. His letter to Cave on this subject is still extant, and may

well justify sir John Hawkins, who inferred that Johnson was the

translator of Crousaz. The conclusion of the letter is remarkable: "I am

yours, Impransus." If by that Latin word was meant, that he had not

dined, because he wanted the means, who can read it, even at this hour,

without an aching heart?

With a mind naturally vigorous, and quickened by necessity, Johnson

formed a multiplicity of projects; but most of them proved abortive. A

number of small tracts issued from his pen with wonderful rapidity; such

as Marmor Norfolciense; or an essay on an ancient prophetical

inscription, in monkish rhyme, discovered at Lynn, in Norfolk. By Probus

Britannicus. This was a pamphlet against sir Robert Walpole. According

to sir John Hawkins, a warrant was issued to apprehend the author, who

retired, with his wife, to an obscure lodging near Lambeth marsh, and

there eluded the search of the messengers. But this story has no

foundation in truth. Johnson was never known to mention such an incident

in his life; and Mr. Steele, late of the treasury, caused diligent

search to be made at the proper offices, and no trace of such a

proceeding could be found. In the same year (1739) the lord chamberlain

prohibited the representation of a tragedy, called Gustavus Vasa, by

Henry Brooke. Under the mask of irony, Johnson published, A Vindication

of the Licenser from the malicious and scandalous Aspersions of Mr.

Brooke. Of these two pieces, sir John Hawkins says, "they have neither

learning nor wit; nor a single ray of that genius, which has since

blazed forth;" but, as they have been lately reprinted, the reader, who

wishes to gratify his curiosity, is referred to the fourteenth volume of

Johnson's works, published by Stockdale[h]. The lives of Boerhaave,

Blake, Barratier, father Paul, and others, were, about that time,

printed in the Gentleman's Magazine. The subscription of fifty pounds a

year for Savage was completed; and, in July 1739, Johnson parted with

the companion of his midnight hours, never to see him more. The

separation was, perhaps, an advantage to him, who wanted to make a right

use of his time, and even then beheld, with self-reproach, the waste

occasioned by dissipation. His abstinence from wine and strong liquors

began soon after the departure of Savage. What habits he contracted in

the course of that acquaintance cannot now be known. The ambition of

excelling in conversation, and that pride of victory, which, at times,

disgraced a man of Johnson's genius, were, perhaps, native blemishes. A

fierce spirit of independence, even in the midst of poverty, may be seen

in Savage; and, if not thence transfused by Johnson into his own

manners, it may, at least, be supposed to have gained strength from the

example before him. During that connexion, there was, if we believe sir

John Hawkins, a short separation between our author and his wife; but a

reconciliation soon took place. Johnson loved her, and showed his

affection in various modes of gallantry, which Garrick used to render

ridiculous by his mimicry. The affectation of soft and fashionable airs

did not become an unwieldy figure: his admiration was received by the

wife with the flutter of an antiquated coquette; and both, it is well

known, furnished matter for the lively genius of Garrick.

It is a mortifying reflection, that Johnson, with a store of learning

and extraordinary talents, was not able, at the age of thirty, to force

his way to the favour of the public:

"Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd."

"He was still," as he says himself, "to provide for the day that was

passing over him." He saw Cave involved in a state of warfare with the

numerous competitors, at that time, struggling with the Gentleman's

Magazine; and gratitude for such supplies as Johnson received, dictated

a Latin ode on the subject of that contention. The first lines,

"Urbane, nullis fesse laboribus,

Urbane, nullis victe calumniis,"

put one in mind of Casimir's ode to Pope Urban:

"Urbane, regum maxime, maxime

Urbane vatum."--

The Polish poet was, probably, at that time, in the hands of a man, who

had meditated the history of the Latin poets. Guthrie, the historian,

had, from July, 1736, composed the parliamentary speeches for the

magazine; but, from the beginning of the session, which opened on the

19th of November, 1740, Johnson succeeded to that department, and

continued it from that time to the debate on spirituous liquors, which

happened in the house of lords, in February, 1742-3. The eloquence, the

force of argument, and the splendor of language, displayed in the

several speeches, are well known, and universally admired. That Johnson

was the author of the debates, during that period, was not generally

known; but the secret transpired several years afterwards, and was

avowed, by himself, on the following occasion. Mr. Wedderburne, now lord

Loughborough[i], Dr. Johnson, Dr. Francis, the translator of Horace, the

present writer, and others, dined with the late Mr. Foote. An important

debate, towards the end of sir Robert Walpole's administration, being

mentioned, Dr. Francis observed, "that Mr. Pitt's speech, on that

occasion, was the best he had ever read." He added, "that he had

employed eight years of his life in the study of Demosthenes, and

finished a translation of that celebrated orator, with all the

decorations of style and language within the reach of his capacity; but

he had met with nothing equal to the speech above mentioned." Many of

the company remembered the debate, and some passages were cited, with

the approbation and applause of all present. During the ardour of

conversation, Johnson remained silent. As soon as the warmth of praise

subsided, he opened with these words: "That speech I wrote in a garret

in Exeter street." The company was struck with astonishment. After

staring at each other in silent amaze, Dr. Francis asked, "how that

speech could be written by him?" "Sir," said Johnson, "I wrote it in

Exeter street. I never had been in the gallery of the house of commons

but once. Cave had interest with the door-keepers. He, and the persons

employed under him, gained admittance; they brought away the subject of

discussion, the names of the speakers, the side they took, and the order

in which they rose, together with notes of the arguments advanced in the

course of the debate. The whole was afterwards communicated to me, and I

composed the speeches in the form which they now have in the

parliamentary debates." To this discovery, Dr. Francis made answer:

"Then, sir, you have exceeded Demosthenes himself; for to say, that you

have exceeded Francis's Demosthenes, would be saying nothing." The rest

of the company bestowed lavish encomiums on Johnson: one, in particular,

praised his impartiality; observing, that he dealt out reason and

eloquence, with an equal hand to both parties. "That is not quite true,"

said Johnson; "I saved appearances tolerably well; but I took care that

the WHIG DOGS should not have the best of it." The sale of the magazine

was greatly increased by the parliamentary debates, which were continued

by Johnson till the month of March, 1742-3. From that time the magazine

was conducted by Dr. Hawkesworth.

In 1743-4, Osborne, the bookseller, who kept a shop in Gray's inn,

purchased the earl of Oxford's library, at the price of thirteen

thousand pounds. He projected a catalogue in five octavo volumes, at

five shillings each. Johnson was employed in that painful drudgery. He

was, likewise, to collect all such small tracts as were, in any degree,

worth preserving, in order to reprint and publish the whole in a

collection, called The Harleian Miscellany. The catalogue was completed;

and the miscellany, in 1749, was published in eight quarto volumes. In

this business Johnson was a day-labourer for immediate subsistence, not

unlike Gustavus Vasa, working in the mines of Dalecarlia. What Wilcox, a

bookseller of eminence in the Strand, said to Johnson, on his first

arrival in town, was now almost confirmed. He lent our author five

guineas, and then asked him, "How do you mean to earn your livelihood in

this town?" "By my literary labours," was the answer. Wilcox, staring at

him, shook his head: "By your literary labours! You had better buy a

porter's knot." Johnson used to tell this anecdote to Mr. Nichols: but

he said, "Wilcox was one of my best friends, and he meant well." In

fact, Johnson, while employed in Gray's inn, may be said to have carried

a porter's knot. He paused occasionally to peruse the book that came to

his hand. Osborne thought that such curiosity tended to nothing but

delay, and objected to it with all the pride and insolence of a man who

knew that he paid daily wages. In the dispute that of course ensued,

Osborne, with that roughness which was natural to him, enforced his

argument by giving the lie. Johnson seized a folio, and knocked the

bookseller down. This story has been related as an instance of Johnson's

ferocity; but merit cannot always take the spurns of the unworthy with a

patient spirit[k].

That the history of an author must be found in his works is, in general,

a true observation; and was never more apparent than in the present

narrative. Every aera of Johnson's life is fixed by his writings. In

1744, he published the life of Savage; and then projected a new edition

of Shakespeare. As a prelude to that design, he published, in 1745,

Miscellaneous Observations on the Tragedy of Macbeth, with remarks on

sir Thomas Hanmer's edition; to which were prefixed, Proposals for a new

Edition of Shakespeare, with a specimen. Of this pamphlet, Warburton, in

the preface to Shakespeare, has given his opinion: "As to all those

things, which have been published under the title of essays, remarks,

observations, &c. on Shakespeare, if you except some critical notes on

Macbeth, given as a specimen of a projected edition, and written, as

appears, by a man of parts and genius, the rest are absolutely below a

serious notice." But the attention of the public was not excited; there

was no friend to promote a subscription; and the project died to revive

at a future day. A new undertaking, however, was soon after proposed;

namely, an English dictionary upon an enlarged plan. Several of the most

opulent booksellers had meditated a work of this kind; and the agreement

was soon adjusted between the parties. Emboldened by this connexion,

Johnson thought of a better habitation than he had hitherto known. He

had lodged with his wife in courts and alleys about the Strand; but now,

for the purpose of carrying on his arduous undertaking, and to be nearer

his printer and friend, Mr. Strahan, he ventured to take a house in

Gough square, Fleet street. He was told, that the earl of Chesterfield

was a friend to his undertaking; and, in consequence of that

intelligence, he published, in 1747, The Plan of a Dictionary of the

English Language, addressed to the right honourable Philip Dormer, earl

of Chesterfield, one of his majesty's principal secretaries of state.

Mr. Whitehead, afterwards poet laureate, undertook to convey the

manuscript to his lordship: the consequence was an invitation from lord

Chesterfield to the author. A stronger contrast of characters could not

be brought together; the nobleman, celebrated for his wit, and all the

graces of polite behaviour; the author, conscious of his own merit,

towering in idea above all competition, versed in scholastic logic, but

a stranger to the arts of polite conversation, uncouth, vehement, and

vociferous. The coalition was too unnatural. Johnson expected a

Maecenas, and was disappointed. No patronage, no assistance followed.

Visits were repeated; but the reception was not cordial. Johnson, one

day, was left a full hour, waiting in an antichamber, till a gentleman

should retire, and leave his lordship at leisure. This was the famous

Colley Cibber. Johnson saw him go, and, fired with indignation, rushed

out of the house[l]. What lord Chesterfield thought of his visitor may

be seen in a passage in one of that nobleman's letters to his son[m].

"There is a man, whose moral character, deep learning, and superior

parts, I acknowledge, admire, and respect; but whom it is so impossible

for me to love, that I am almost in a fever, whenever I am in his

company. His figure (without being deformed) seems made to disgrace or

ridicule the common structure of the human body. His legs and arms are

never in the position which, according to the situation of his body,

they ought to be in, but constantly employed in committing acts of

hostility upon the graces. He throws any where, but down his throat,

whatever he means to drink; and mangles what he means to carve.

Inattentive to all the regards of social life, he mistimes and misplaces

every thing. He disputes with heat indiscriminately, mindless of the

rank, character, and situation of those with whom he disputes.

Absolutely ignorant of the several gradations of familiarity and

respect, he is exactly the same to his superiors, his equals, and his

inferiors; and, therefore, by a necessary consequence, is absurd to two

of the three. Is it possible to love such a man? No. The utmost I can do

for him is, to consider him a respectable Hottentot." Such was the idea

entertained by lord Chesterfield. After the incident of Colley Cibber,

Johnson never repeated his visits. In his high and decisive tone, he has

been often heard to say, "lord Chesterfield is a wit among lords, and a

lord among wits."

In the course of the year 1747, Garrick, in conjunction with Lacy,

became patentee of Drury lane playhouse. For the opening of the theatre,

at the usual time, Johnson wrote, for his friend, the well-known

prologue, which, to say no more of it, may, at least, be placed on a

level with Pope's to the tragedy of Cato. The playhouse being now under

Garrick's direction, Johnson thought the opportunity fair to think of

his tragedy of Irene, which was his whole stock on his first arrival in

town, in the year 1737. That play was, accordingly, put into rehearsal

in January, 1749. As a precursor to prepare the way, and to awaken the

public attention, The Vanity of human Wishes, a poem in imitation of the

tenth satire of Juvenal, by the author of London, was published in the

same month. In the Gentleman's Magazine, for February, 1749, we find

that the tragedy of Irene was acted at Drury lane, on Monday, February

the 6th, and, from that time, without interruption, to Monday, February

the 20th, being in all thirteen nights. Since that time, it has not been

exhibited on any stage. Irene may be added to some other plays in our

language, which have lost their place in the theatre, but continue to

please in the closet. During the representation of this piece, Johnson

attended every night behind the scenes. Conceiving that his character,

as an author, required some ornament for his person, he chose, upon that

occasion, to decorate himself with a handsome waistcoat, and a gold-laced

hat. The late Mr. Topham Beauclerc, who had a great deal of that

humour, which pleases the more for seeming undesigned, used to give a

pleasant description of this green-room finery, as related by the author

himself; "But," said Johnson, with great gravity, "I soon laid aside my

gold-laced hat, lest it should make me proud." The amount of the three

benefit nights for the tragedy of Irene, it is to be feared, was not

very considerable, as the profit, that stimulating motive, never invited

the author to another dramatic attempt. Some years afterwards, when the

present writer was intimate with Garrick, and knew Johnson to be in

distress, he asked the manager, why he did not produce another tragedy

for his Lichfield friend? Garrick's answer was remarkable: "When Johnson

writes tragedy, 'declamation roars, and passion sleeps:' when

Shakespeare wrote, he dipped his pen in his own heart."

There may, perhaps, be a degree of sameness in this regular way of

tracing an author from one work to another, and the reader may feel the

effect of a tedious monotony; but, in the life of Johnson, there are no

other landmarks. He was now forty years old, and had mixed but little

with the world. He followed no profession, transacted no business, and

was a stranger to what is called a town life. We are now arrived at the

brightest period, he had hitherto known. His name broke out upon mankind

with a degree of lustre that promised a triumph over all his

difficulties. The life of Savage was admired, as a beautiful and

instructive piece of biography. The two imitations of Juvenal were

thought to rival even the excellence of Pope; and the tragedy of Irene,

though uninteresting on the stage, was universally admired in the

closet, for the propriety of the sentiments, the richness of the

language, and the general harmony of the whole composition. His fame was

widely diffused; and he had made his agreement with the booksellers for

his English dictionary at the sum of fifteen hundred guineas; a part of

which was to be, from time to time, advanced, in proportion to the

progress of the work. This was a certain fund for his support, without

being obliged to write fugitive pieces for the petty supplies of the

day. Accordingly we find that, in 1749, he established a club,

consisting of ten in number, at Horseman's, in Ivy lane, on every

Tuesday evening. This is the first scene of social life to which Johnson

can be traced, out of his own house. The members of this little society

were, Samuel Johnson; Dr. Salter, father of the late master of the

Charter house; Dr. Hawkesworth; Mr. Ryland, a merchant; Mr. Payne, a

bookseller, in Paternoster row; Mr. Samuel Dyer, a learned young man;

Dr. William M'Ghie, a Scotch physician; Dr. Edmund Barker, a young

physician; Dr. Bathurst, another young physician; and sir John Hawkins.

This list is given by sir John, as it should seem, with no other view

than to draw a spiteful and malevolent character of almost every one of

them. Mr. Dyer, whom sir John says he loved with the affection of a

brother, meets with the harshest treatment, because it was his maxim,

that "to live in peace with mankind, and in a temper to do good offices,

was the most essential part of our duty." That notion of moral goodness

gave umbrage to sir John Hawkins, and drew down upon the memory of his

friend, the bitterest imputations. Mr. Dyer, however, was admired and

loved through life. He was a man of literature. Johnson loved to enter

with him into a discussion of metaphysical, moral, and critical

subjects; in those conflicts, exercising his talents, and, according to

his custom, always contending for victory. Dr. Bathurst was the person

on whom Johnson fixed his affection. He hardly ever spoke of him without

tears in his eyes. It was from him, who was a native of Jamaica, that

Johnson received into his service Frank[n], the black servant, whom, on

account of his master, he valued to the end of his life. At the time of

instituting the club in Ivy lane, Johnson had projected the Rambler. The

title was most probably suggested by the Wanderer; a poem which he

mentions, with the warmest praise, in the life of Savage. With the same

spirit of independence with which he wished to live, it was now his

pride to write. He communicated his plan to none of his friends: he

desired no assistance, relying entirely on his own fund, and the

protection of the divine being, which he implored in a solemn form of

prayer, composed by himself for the occasion. Having formed a resolution

to undertake a work that might be of use and honour to his country, he

thought, with Milton, that this was not to be obtained "but by devout

prayer to that eternal spirit, that can enrich with all utterance and

knowledge, and send out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his

altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases."

Having invoked the special protection of heaven, and by that act of

piety fortified his mind, he began the great work of the Rambler. The

first number was published on Tuesday, March the 20th, 1750; and from

that time was continued regularly every Tuesday and Saturday, for the

space of two years, when it finally closed on Saturday, March 14, 1752.

As it began with motives of piety, so it appears that the same religious

spirit glowed, with unabating ardour, to the last. His conclusion is:

"The essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own

intentions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of

christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness and levity

of the present age. I, therefore, look back on this part of my work with

pleasure, which no man shall diminish or augment. I shall never envy the

honours which wit and learning obtain in any other cause, if I can be

numbered among the writers who have given ardour to virtue, and

confidence to truth." The whole number of essays amounted to two hundred

and eight. Addison's, in the Spectator, are more in number, but not half

in point of quantity: Addison was not bound to publish on stated days;

he could watch the ebb and flow of his genius, and send his paper to the

press, when his own taste was satisfied. Johnson's case was very

different. He wrote singly and alone. In the whole progress of the work

he did not receive more than ten essays. This was a scanty contribution.

For the rest, the author has described his situation: "He that condemns

himself to compose on a stated day, will often bring to his task an

attention dissipated, a memory embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed,

a mind distracted with anxieties, a body languishing with disease: he

will labour on a barren topick, till it is too late to change it; or, in

the ardour of invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance,

which the pressing hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine

or reduce." Of this excellent production, the number sold on each day

did not amount to five hundred: of course, the bookseller, who paid the

author four guineas a week, did not carry on a successful trade. His

generosity and perseverance deserve to be commended; and happily, when

the collection appeared in volumes, were amply rewarded. Johnson lived

to see his labours nourish in a tenth edition. His posterity, as an

ingenious French writer has said, on a similar occasion, began in his

life-time.

In the beginning of 1750, soon after the Rambler was set on foot,

Johnson was induced, by the arts of a vile impostor, to lend his

assistance, during a temporary delusion, to a fraud not to be paralleled

in the annals of literature[o]. One Lauder, a native of Scotland, who

had been a teacher in the university of Edinburgh, had conceived a

mortal antipathy to the name and character of Milton. His reason was,

because the prayer of Pamela, in sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, was, as he

supposed, maliciously inserted by the great poet in an edition of the

Eikôn Basilike, in order to fix an imputation of impiety on the

memory of the murdered king. Fired with resentment, and willing to reap

the profits of a gross imposition, this man collected, from several

Latin poets, such as Masenius the jesuit, Staphorstius, a Dutch divine,

Beza, and others, all such passages as bore any kind of resemblance to

different places in the Paradise Lost; and these he published, from time

to time, in the Gentleman's Magazine, with occasional interpolations of

lines, which he himself translated from Milton. The public credulity

swallowed all with eagerness; and Milton was supposed to be guilty of

plagiarism from inferior modern writers. The fraud succeeded so well,

that Lauder collected the whole into a volume, and advertised it under

the title of An Essay on Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns, in

his Paradise Lost; dedicated to the universities of Oxford and

Cambridge. While the book was in the press, the proof-sheets were shown

to Johnson, at the Ivy lane club, by Payne, the bookseller, who was one

of the members. No man in that society was in possession of the authors

from whom Lauder professed to make his extracts. The charge was

believed, and the contriver of it found his way to Johnson, who is

represented, by sir John Hawkins, not indeed as an accomplice in the

fraud, but, through motives of malignity to Milton, delighting in the

detection, and exulting that the poet's reputation would suffer by the

discovery. More malice to a deceased friend cannot well be imagined.

Hawkins adds, "that he wished well to the argument must be inferred from

the preface, which, indubitably, was written by him." The preface, it is

well known, was written by Johnson, and for that reason is inserted in

this edition. But if Johnson approved of the argument, it was no longer

than while he believed it founded in truth. Let us advert to his own

words in that very preface. "Among the inquiries to which the ardour of

criticism has naturally given occasion, none is more obscure in itself,

or more worthy of rational curiosity, than a retrospection of the

progress of this mighty genius in the construction of his work; a view

of the fabrick gradually rising, perhaps from small beginnings, till its

foundation rests in the centre, and its turrets sparkle in the skies; to

trace back the structure, through all its varieties, to the simplicity

of the first plan; to find what was projected, whence the scheme was

taken, how it was improved, by what assistance it was executed, and from

what stores the materials were collected; whether its founder dug them

from the quarries of nature, or demolished other buildings to embellish

his own." These were the motives that induced Johnson to assist Lauder

with a preface; and are not these the motives of a critic and a scholar?

What reader of taste, what man of real knowledge, would not think his

time well employed in an enquiry so curious, so interesting, and

instructive? If Lauder's facts were really true, who would not be glad,

without the smallest tincture of malevolence, to receive real

information? It is painful to be thus obliged to vindicate a man who, in

his heart, towered above the petty arts of fraud and imposition, against

an injudicious biographer, who undertook to be his editor, and the

protector of his memory. Another writer, Dr. Towers, in an Essay on the

Life and Character of Dr. Johnson, seems to countenance this calumny. He

says: "It can hardly be doubted, but that Johnson's aversion to

Milton's politics was the cause of that alacrity, with which he joined

with Lauder in his infamous attack on our great epic poet, and which

induced him to assist in that transaction." These words would seem to

describe an accomplice, were they not immediately followed by an express

declaration, that Johnson was "unacquainted with the imposture." Dr.

Towers adds, "It seems to have been, by way of making some compensation

to the memory of Milton, for the share he had in the attack of Lauder,

that Johnson wrote the prologue, spoken by Garrick, at Drury lane

theatre, 1750, on the performance of the Masque of Comus, for the

benefit of Milton's granddaughter." Dr. Towers is not free from

prejudice; but, as Shakespeare has it, "he begets a temperance, to give

it smoothness." He is, therefore, entitled to a dispassionate answer.

When Johnson wrote the prologue, it does appear that he was aware of the

malignant artifices practised by Lauder. In the postscript to Johnson's

preface, a subscription is proposed, for relieving the granddaughter of

the author of Paradise Lost. Dr. Towers will agree, that this shows

Johnson's alacrity in doing good. That alacrity showed itself again, in

the letter printed in the European Magazine, January, 1785, and there

said to have appeared originally in the General Advertiser, 4th April,

1750, by which the public were invited to embrace the opportunity of

paying a just regard to the illustrious dead, united with the pleasure

of doing good to the living. The letter adds, "To assist industrious

indigence, struggling with distress, and debilitated by age, is a

display of virtue, and an acquisition of happiness and honour. Whoever,

therefore, would be thought capable of pleasure, in reading the works of

our incomparable Milton, and not so destitute of gratitude, as to refuse

to lay out a trifle, in a rational and elegant entertainment, for the

benefit of his living remains, for the exercise of their own virtue, the

increase of their reputation, and the consciousness of doing good,

should appear at Drury lane theatre, to-morrow, April 5, when Comus will

be performed, for the benefit of Mrs. Elizabeth Foster, granddaughter to

the author, and the only surviving branch of his family. _Nota bene_,

there will be a new prologue on the occasion, written by the author of

Irene, and spoken by Mr. Garrick." The man, who had thus exerted himself

to serve the granddaughter, cannot be supposed to have entertained

personal malice to the grandfather. It is true, that the malevolence of

Lauder, as well as the impostures of Archibald Bower, were fully

detected by the labours, in the cause of truth, of the reverend Dr.

Douglas, the late lord bishop of Salisbury,

--"Diram qui contudit Hydram

Notaque fatali portenta labore subegit."

But the pamphlet, entitled, Milton vindicated from the Charge

of Plagiarism brought against him by Mr. Lauder, and Lauder himself

convicted of several forgeries, and gross impositions on the public, by

John Douglas, M.A. rector of Eaton Constantine, Salop, was not published

till the year 1751. In that work, p. 77, Dr. Douglas says, "It is to be

hoped, nay, it is expected, that the elegant and nervous writer, whose

judicious sentiments, and inimitable style, point out the author of

Lauder's preface and postcript, will no longer allow a man to plume

himself with his feathers, who appears so little to have deserved his

assistance; an assistance which, I am persuaded, would never have been

communicated, had there been the least suspicion of those facts, which I

have been the instrument of conveying to the world." We have here a

contemporary testimony to the integrity of Dr. Johnson, throughout the

whole of that vile transaction. What was the consequence of the

requisition made by Dr. Douglas? Johnson, whose ruling passion may be

said to be the love of truth, convinced Lauder, that it would be more

for his interest to make a full confession of his guilt, than to stand

forth the convicted champion of a lie; and, for this purpose, he drew

up, in the strongest terms, a recantation, in a letter to the reverend

Mr. Douglas, which Lauder signed, and published in the year 1751. That

piece will remain a lasting memorial of the abhorrence, with which

Johnson beheld a violation of truth. Mr. Nichols, whose attachment to

his illustrious friend was unwearied, showed him, in 1780, a book,

called Remarks on Johnson's Life of Milton; in which the affair of

Lauder was renewed with virulence; and a poetical scale in the Literary

Magazine, 1758, (when Johnson had ceased to write in that collection,)

was urged as an additional proof of deliberate malice. He read the

libellous passage with attention, and instantly wrote on the margin: "In

the business of Lauder I was deceived, partly by thinking the man too

frantick to be fraudulent. Of the poetical scale, quoted from the

magazine, I am not the author. I fancy it was put in after I had quitted

that work; for I not only did not write it, but I do not remember it."

As a critic and a scholar, Johnson was willing to receive what numbers,

at the time, believed to be true information: when he found that the

whole was a forgery, he renounced all connexion with the author.

In March, 1752, he felt a severe stroke of affliction in the death of

his wife. The last number of the Rambler, as already mentioned, was on

the 14th of that month. The loss of Mrs. Johnson was then approaching,

and, probably, was the cause that put an end to those admirable

periodical essays. It appears that she died on the 28th of March, in a

memorandum, at the foot of the Prayers and Meditations, that is called

her Dying Day. She was buried at Bromley, under the care of Dr.

Hawkesworth. Johnson placed a Latin inscription on her tomb, in which he

celebrated her beauty. With the singularity of his prayers for his

deceased wife, from that time to the end of his days, the world is

sufficiently acquainted. On Easter day, 22nd April, 1764, his memorandum

says: "Thought on Tetty, poor dear Tetty! with my eyes full. Went to

church. After sermon I recommended Tetty in a prayer by herself; and my

father, mother, brother, and Bathurst, in another. I did it only once,

so far as it might be lawful for me." In a prayer, January 23, 1759, the

day on which his mother was buried, he commends, as far as may be

lawful, her soul to God, imploring for her whatever is most beneficial

to her in her present state. In this habit he persevered to the end of

his days. The reverend Mr. Strahan, the editor of the Prayers and

Meditations, observes, "that Johnson, on some occasions, prays that the

Almighty _may have had mercy_ on his wife and Mr. Thrale; evidently

supposing their sentence to have been already passed in the divine mind;

and, by consequence, proving, that he had no belief in a state of

purgatory, and no reason for praying for the dead that could impeach the

sincerity of his profession as a protestant." Mr. Strahan adds, "that,

in praying for the regretted tenants of the grave, Johnson conformed to

a practice which has been retained by many learned members of the

established church, though the liturgy no longer admits it, if _where

the tree, falleth, there it shall be_; if our state, at the close of

life, is to be the measure of our final sentence, then prayers for the

dead, being visibly fruitless, can be regarded only as the vain

oblations of superstition. But of all superstitions this, perhaps, is

one of the least unamiable, and most incident to a good mind. If our

sensations of kindness be intense, those, whom we have revered and

loved, death cannot wholly seclude from our concern. It is true, for the

reason just mentioned, such evidences of our surviving affection may be

thought ill judged; but surely they are generous, and some natural

tenderness is due even to a superstition, which thus originates in piety

and benevolence." These sentences, extracted from the reverend Mr.

Strahan's preface, if they are not a full justification, are, at least,

a beautiful apology. It will not be improper to add what Johnson himself

has said on the subject. Being asked by Mr. Boswell[p], what he thought

of purgatory, as believed by the Roman catholicks? his answer was, "It

is a very harmless doctrine. They are of opinion, that the generality of

mankind are neither so obstinately wicked, as to deserve everlasting

punishment; nor so good as to merit being admitted into the society of

blessed spirits; and, therefore, that God is graciously pleased to allow

a middle state, where they may be purified by certain degrees of

suffering. You see there is nothing unreasonable in this; and if it be

once established, that there are souls in purgatory, it is as proper to

pray for them, as for our brethren of mankind, who are yet in this

life." This was Dr. Johnson's guess into futurity; and to guess is the

utmost that man can do:

"Shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it."

Mrs. Johnson left a daughter, Lucy Porter, by her first husband. She had

contracted a friendship with Mrs. Anne Williams, the daughter of Zachary

Williams, a physician of eminence in South Wales, who had devoted more

than thirty years of a long life to the study of the longitude, and was

thought to have made great advances towards that important discovery.

His letters to lord Halifax, and the lords of the admiralty, partly

corrected and partly written by Dr. Johnson, are still extant in the

hands of Mr. Nichols[q]. We there find Dr. Williams, in the eighty-third

year of his age, stating, that he had prepared an instrument, which

might be called an epitome or miniature of the terraqueous globe,

showing, with the assistance of tables, constructed by himself, the

variations of the magnetic needle, and ascertaining the longitude, for

the safety of navigation. It appears that this scheme had been referred

to sir Isaac Newton; but that great philosopher excusing himself on

account of his advanced age, all applications were useless, till 1751,

when the subject was referred, by order of lord Anson, to Dr. Bradley,

the celebrated professor of astronomy. His report was unfavourable[r],

though it allows that a considerable progress had been made. Dr.

Williams, after all his labour and expense, died in a short time after,

a melancholy instance of unrewarded merit. His daughter possessed

uncommon talents, and, though blind, had an alacrity of mind that made

her conversation agreeable, and even desirable. To relieve and appease

melancholy reflexions, Johnson took her home to his house in Gough

square. In 1755, Garrick gave her a benefit play, which produced two

hundred pounds. In 1766, she published, by subscription, a quarto volume

of miscellanies, and increased her little stock to three hundred pounds.

That fund, with Johnson's protection, supported her, through the

remainder of her life.

During the two years in which the Rambler was carried on, the Dictionary

proceeded by slow degrees. In May, 1752, having composed a prayer,

preparatory to his return from tears and sorrow to the duties of life,

he resumed his grand design, and went on with vigour, giving, however,

occasional assistance to his friend, Dr. Hawkesworth, in the Adventurer,

which began soon after the Rambler was laid aside. Some of the most

valuable essays in that collection were from the pen of Johnson. The

Dictionary was completed towards the end of 1754; and, Cave being then

no more, it was a mortification to the author of that noble addition to

our language, that his old friend did not live to see the triumph of his

labours. In May, 1755, that great work was published. Johnson was

desirous that it should come from one who had obtained academical

honours; and for that purpose his friend, the rev. Thos. Warton,

obtained for him, in the preceding month of February, a diploma for a

master's degree, from the university of Oxford.--Garrick, on the

publication of the Dictionary, wrote the following lines:

"Talk of war with a Briton, he'll boldly advance,

That one English soldier can beat ten of France.

Would we alter the boast, from the sword to the pen,

Our odds are still greater, still greater our men.

In the deep mines of science, though Frenchmen may toil,

Can their strength be compar'd to Locke, Newton, or Boyle?

Let them rally their heroes, send forth all their powers,

Their versemen and prosemen, then match them with ours.

First Shakespeare and Milton, like gods in the fight,

Have put their whole drama and epic to flight.

In satires, epistles, and odes would they cope?

Their numbers retreat before Dryden and Pope.

And Johnson, well arm'd, like a hero of yore,

Has beat forty French, and will beat forty more."

It is, perhaps, needless to mention, that forty was the number of the

French academy, at the time when their dictionary was published to

settle their language.

In the course of the winter, preceding this grand publication, the late

earl of Chesterfield gave two essays in the periodical paper, called The

World, dated November 28, and December 5, 1754, to prepare the public

for so important a work. The original plan, addressed to his lordship in

the year 1747, is there mentioned, in terms of the highest praise; and

this was understood, at the time, to be a courtly way of soliciting a

dedication of the Dictionary to himself. Johnson treated this civility

with disdain. He said to Garrick and others: "I have sailed a long and

painful voyage round the world of the English language; and does he now

send out two cockboats to tow me into harbour?" He had said, in the last

number of the Rambler, "that, having laboured to maintain the dignity of

virtue, I will not now degrade it by the meanness of dedication." Such a

man, when he had finished his Dictionary, "not," as he says himself, "in

the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academick

bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in

sorrow, and without the patronage of the great," was not likely to be

caught by the lure, thrown out by lord Chesterfield. He had, in vain,

sought the patronage of that nobleman; and his pride, exasperated by

disappointment, drew from him the following letter, dated in the month

of February, 1755.

"TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

MY LORD,--I have been lately informed, by the proprietors of The

World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the

publick, were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an

honour which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great,

I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I

was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your

address, and could not forbear to wish, that I might boast myself "le

vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre;" that I might obtain that regard

for which I saw the world contending. But I found my attendance so

little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to

continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in publick, I had

exhausted all the art of pleasing, which a retired and uncourtly

scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well

pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

Seven years, my lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward

room, or was repulsed from your door; during which time, I have been

pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to

complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication,

without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile

of favour. Such treatment I did not expect; for I never had a patron

before.

The shepherd in Virgil grew acquainted with love, and found him a

native of the rocks.

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man

struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground,

encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to

take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been

delayed, till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am

solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I

hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations, where

no benefit has been received; or to be unwilling that the publick

should consider me as owing that to a patron, which providence has

enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work, thus far, with so little obligation to any

favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed, though I should

conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long

wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself, with

so much exultation,

My lord,

your lordship's most humble

and most obedient servant,

SAMUEL JOHNSON."

It is said, upon good authority, that Johnson once received from lord

Chesterfield the sum of ten pounds. It were to be wished that the secret

had never transpired. It was mean to receive it, and meaner to give it.

It may be imagined, that for Johnson's ferocity, as it has been called,

there was some foundation in his finances; and, as his Dictionary was

brought to a conclusion, that money was now to flow in upon him. The

reverse was the case. For his subsistence, during the progress of the

work, he had received, at different times, the amount of his contract;

and, when his receipts were produced to him at a tavern dinner, given by

the booksellers, it appeared, that he had been paid a hundred pounds and

upwards more than his due. The author of a book, called Lexiphanes[s],

written by a Mr. Campbell, a Scotchman, and purser of a man of war,

endeavoured to blast his laurels, but in vain. The world applauded, and

Johnson never replied. "Abuse," he said, "is often of service: there is

nothing so dangerous to an author as silence; his name, like a

shittlecock [Transcriber's note: sic], must be beat backward and forward,

or it falls to the ground." Lexiphanes professed to be an imitation of the

pleasant manner of Lucian; but humour was not the talent of the writer of

Lexiphanes. As Dryden says, "he had too much horse-play in his raillery."

It was in the summer, 1754, that the present writer became acquainted

with Dr. Johnson. The cause of his first visit is related by Mrs.

Piozzi, nearly in the following manner:--Mr. Murphy being engaged in a

periodical paper, the Gray's inn Journal, was at a friend's house in the

country, and, not being disposed to lose pleasure for business, wished

to content his bookseller by some unstudied essay. He, therefore, took

up a French Journal Littéraire, and, translating something he liked,

sent it away to town. Time, however, discovered that he translated from

the French, a Rambler, which had been taken from the English, without

acknowledgment. Upon this discovery, Mr. Murphy thought it right to make

his excuses to Dr. Johnson. He went next day, and found him covered with

soot, like a chimney-sweeper, in a little room, as if he had been acting

Lungs, in the Alchemist, "making ether." This being told by Mr. Murphy,

in company, "Come, come," said Dr. Johnson, "the story is black enough;

but it was a happy day that brought you first to my house." After this

first visit, the author of this narrative, by degrees, grew intimate

with Dr. Johnson. The first striking sentence, that he heard from him,

was in a few days after the publication of lord Bolingbroke's posthumous

works. Mr. Garrick asked him, "If he had seen them." "Yes, I have seen

them." "What do you think of them?" "Think of them!" He made a long

pause, and then replied: "Think of them! A scoundrel, and a coward! A

scoundrel, who spent his life in charging a gun against christianity;

and a coward, who was afraid of hearing the report of his own gun; but

left half a crown to a hungry Scotchman to draw the trigger, after his

death." His mind, at this time strained, and over-laboured by constant

exertion, called for an interval of repose and indolence. But indolence

was the time of danger: it was then that his spirits, not employed

abroad, turned with inward hostility against himself. His reflections on

his own life and conduct were always severe; and, wishing to be

immaculate, he destroyed his own peace by unnecessary scruples. He tells

us, that when he surveyed his past life, he discovered nothing but a

barren waste of time, with some disorders of body, and disturbances of

mind, very near to madness. His life, he says, from his earliest years,

was wasted in a morning bed; and his reigning sin was a general

sluggishness, to which he was always inclined, and, in part of his life,

almost compelled, by morbid melancholy, and weariness of mind. This was

his constitutional malady, derived, perhaps, from his father, who was,

at times, overcast with a gloom that bordered on insanity. When to this

it is added, that Johnson, about the age of twenty, drew up a

description of his infirmities, for Dr. Swinfen, at that time an eminent

physician, in Staffordshire; and received an answer to his letter,

importing, that the symptoms indicated a future privation of reason; who

can wonder, that he was troubled with melancholy, and dejection of

spirit? An apprehension of the worst calamity that can befall human

nature hung over him all the rest of his life, like the sword of the

tyrant suspended over his guest. In his sixtieth year he had a mind to

write the history of his melancholy; but he desisted, not knowing

whether it would not too much disturb him. In a Latin poem, however, to

which he has prefixed, as a title, [Greek: GNOTHI SEAUTON], he has left

a picture of himself, drawn with as much truth, and as firm a hand, as

can be seen in the portraits of Hogarth, or sir Joshua Reynolds. The

learned reader will find the original poem in this volume; and it is

hoped, that a translation, or rather imitation, of so curious a piece,

will not be improper in this place.

KNOW YOURSELF.

(AFTER REVISING AND ENLARGING THE ENGLISH LEXICON, OR DICTIONARY.)

When Scaliger, whole years of labour past,

Beheld his lexicon complete at last,

And weary of his task, with wond'ring eyes,

Saw, from words pil'd on words, a fabric rise,

He curs'd the industry, inertly strong,

In creeping toil that could persist so long;

And if, enrag'd he cried, heav'n meant to shed

Its keenest vengeance on the guilty head,

The drudgery of words the damn'd would know,

Doom'd to write lexicons in endless woe[t].

Yes, you had cause, great genius, to repent;

"You lost good days, that might be better spent;"

You well might grudge the hours of ling'ring pain,

And view your learned labours with disdain.

To you were given the large expanded mind,

The flame of genius, and the taste refin'd.

'Twas yours, on eagle wings, aloft to soar,

And, amidst rolling worlds, the great first cause explore,

To fix the aeras of recorded time,

And live in ev'ry age and ev'ry clime;

Record the chiefs, who propt their country's cause;

Who founded empires, and establish'd laws;

To learn whate'er the sage, with virtue fraught,

Whate'er the muse of moral wisdom taught.

These were your quarry; these to you were known,

And the world's ample volume was your own.

Yet, warn'd by me, ye pigmy wits, beware,

Nor with immortal Scaliger compare.

For me, though his example strike my view,

Oh! not for me his footsteps to pursue.

Whether first nature, unpropitious, cold,

This clay compounded in a ruder mould;

Or the slow current, loit'ring at my heart,

No gleam of wit or fancy can impart;

Whate'er the cause, from me no numbers flow,

No visions warm me, and no raptures glow.

A mind like Scaliger's, superior still,

No grief could conquer, no misfortune chill.

Though, for the maze of words, his native skies

He seem'd to quit, 'twas but again to rise;

To mount, once more, to the bright source of day,

And view the wonders of th' ethereal way.

The love of fame his gen'rous bosom fir'd;

Each science hail'd him, and each muse inspir'd.

For him the sons of learning trimm'd the bays,

And nations grew harmonious in his praise.

My task perform'd, and all my labours o'er,

For me what lot has fortune now in store?

The listless will succeeds, that worst disease,

The rack of indolence, the sluggish ease.

Care grows on care, and o'er my aching brain

Black melancholy pours her morbid train.

No kind relief, no lenitive at hand,

I seek, at midnight clubs, the social band;

But midnight clubs, where wit with noise conspires,

Where Comus revels, and where wine inspires,

Delight no more: I seek my lonely bed,

And call on sleep to sooth my languid head.

But sleep from these sad lids flies far away;

I mourn all night, and dread the coming day.

Exhausted, tir'd, I throw my eyes around,

To find some vacant spot on classic ground;

And soon, vain hope! I form a grand design;

Languor succeeds, and all my pow'rs decline.

If science open not her richest vein,

Without materials all our toil is vain.

A form to rugged stone when Phidias gives--

Beneath his touch a new creation lives.

Remove his marble, and his genius dies:

With nature then no breathing statue vies.

Whate'er I plan, I feel my pow'rs confin'd

By fortune's frown, and penury of mind.

I boast no knowledge, glean'd with toil and strife,

That bright reward of a well acted life.

I view myself, while reason's feeble light

Shoots a pale glimmer through the gloom of night;

While passions, error, phantoms of the brain,

And vain opinions, fill the dark domain;

A dreary void, where fears, with grief combin'd,

Waste all within, and desolate the mind.

What then remains? Must I, in slow decline,

To mute inglorious ease old age resign?

Or, bold ambition kindling in my breast,

Attempt some arduous task? Or, were it best,

Brooding o'er lexicons to pass the day,

And in that labour drudge my life away?

Such is the picture for which Dr. Johnson sat to himself. He gives the

prominent features of his character; his lassitude, his morbid

melancholy, his love of fame, his dejection, his tavern-parties, and his

wandering reveries, "Vacuae mala somnia mentis," about which so much has

been written; all are painted in miniature, but in vivid colours, by his

own hand. His idea of writing more dictionaries was not merely said in

verse. Mr. Hamilton, who was at that time an eminent printer, and well

acquainted with Dr. Johnson, remembers that he engaged in a Commercial

Dictionary, and, as appears by the receipts in his possession, was paid

his price for several sheets; but he soon relinquished the undertaking.

It is probable, that he found himself not sufficiently versed in that

branch of knowledge.

He was again reduced to the expedient of short compositions, for the

supply of the day. The writer of this narrative has now before him a

letter, in Dr. Johnson's handwriting, which shows the distress and

melancholy situation of the man, who had written the Rambler, and

finished the great work of his Dictionary. The letter is directed to Mr.

Richardson, the author of Clarissa, and is as follows:

"SIR,--I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under an

arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I

should have received the necessary help in this case, is not at home;

and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Millar. If you will be so good as

to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and add it to

all former obligations. I am, sir,

Your most obedient,

and most humble servant,

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Gough square, 16 March."

In the margin of this letter, there is a memorandum in these words:

"March 16, 1756, sent six guineas. Witness, Wm. Richardson." For the

honour of an admired writer it is to be regretted, that we do not find a

more liberal entry. To his friend, in distress, he sent eight shillings

more than was wanted. Had an incident of this kind occurred in one of

his romances, Richardson would have known how to grace his hero; but in

fictitious scenes, generosity costs the writer nothing.

About this time Johnson contributed several papers to a periodical

miscellany, called The Visiter, from motives which are highly honourable

to him, a compassionate regard for the late Mr. Christopher Smart. The

criticism on Pope's epitaphs appeared in that work. In a short time

after, he became a reviewer in the Literary magazine, under the auspices

of the late Mr. Newbery, a man of a projecting head, good taste, and

great industry. This employment engrossed but little of Johnson's time.

He resigned himself to indolence, took no exercise, rose about two, and

then received the visits of his friends. Authors, long since forgotten,

waited on him, as their oracle, and he gave responses in the chair of

criticism. He listened to the complaints, the schemes, and the hopes and

fears of a crowd of inferior writers, "who," he said, in the words of

Roger Ascham, "lived _men knew not how, and died obscure, men marked not

when_." He believed, that he could give a better history of Grub street

than any man living. His house was filled with a succession of visitors

till four or five in the evening. During the whole time he presided at

his tea-table. Tea was his favourite beverage; and, when the late Jonas

Hanway pronounced his anathema against the use of tea, Johnson rose in

defence of his habitual practice, declaring himself "in that article, a

hardened sinner, who had for years diluted his meals with the infusion

of that fascinating plant; whose tea-kettle had no time to cool; who,

with tea, solaced the midnight hour, and with tea welcomed the morning."

The proposal for a new edition of Shakespeare, which had formerly

miscarried, was resumed in the year 1756. The booksellers readily agreed

to his terms: and subscription-tickets were issued out. For undertaking

this work, money, he confessed, was the inciting motive. His friends

exerted themselves to promote his interest; and, in the mean time, he

engaged in a new periodical production, called The Idler. The first

number appeared on Saturday, April 15, 1758 and the last, April 5, 1760.

The profits of this work, and the subscriptions for the new edition of

Shakespeare, were the means by which he supported himself for four or

five years. In 1759, was published Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia. His

translation of Lobo's Voyage to Abissinia, seems to have pointed out

that country for the scene of action; and Rassela Christos, the general

of sultan Sequed, mentioned in that work, most probably suggested the

name of the prince. The author wanted to set out on a journey to

Lichfield, in order to pay the last offices of filial piety to his

mother, who, at the age of ninety, was then near her dissolution; but

money was necessary. Mr. Johnston, a bookseller, who has, long since,

left off business, gave one hundred pounds for the copy. With this

supply Johnson set out for Lichfield; but did not arrive in time to

close the eyes of a parent whom he loved. He attended the funeral,

which, as appears among his memorandums, was on the 23rd of January,

1759.

Johnson now found it necessary to retrench his expenses. He gave up his

house in Gough square. Mrs. Williams went into lodgings. He retired to

Gray's inn, and soon removed to chambers in the Inner Temple lane, where

he lived in poverty, total idleness, and the pride of literature: "Magni

stat nominis umbra." Mr. Fitzherbert, the father of lord St. Helens, the

present minister at Madrid, a man distinguished, through life, for his

benevolence and other amiable qualities, used to say, that he paid a

morning visit to Johnson, intending, from his chambers, to send a letter

into the city; but, to his great surprise, he found an author by

profession, without pen, ink, or paper. The present bishop of Salisbury

was also among those who endeavoured, by constant attention, to sooth

the cares of a mind, which he knew to be afflicted with gloomy

apprehensions. At one of the parties made at his house, Boscovich, the

jesuit, who had then lately introduced the Newtonian philosophy at Rome,

and, after publishing an elegant Latin poem on the subject, was made a

fellow of the Royal Society, was one of the company invited to meet Dr.

Johnson. The conversation, at first, was mostly in French. Johnson,

though thoroughly versed in that language, and a professed admirer of

Boileau and La Bruyère, did not understand its pronunciation, nor

could he speak it himself with propriety. For the rest of the evening

the talk was in Latin. Boscovich had a ready current flow of that flimsy

phraseology, with which a priest may travel through Italy, Spain, and

Germany. Johnson scorned what he called colloquial barbarisms. It was

his pride to speak his best. He went on, after a little practice, with

as much facility as if it was his native tongue. One sentence this

writer well remembers. Observing that Fontenelle, at first, opposed the

Newtonian philosophy, and embraced it afterwards, his words were:

"Fontinellus, ni fallor, in extrema senectute, fuit transfuga ad castra

Newtoniana."

We have now travelled through that part of Dr. Johnson's life, which was

a perpetual struggle with difficulties. Halcyon days are now to open

upon him. In the month of May, 1762, his majesty, to reward literary

merit, signified his pleasure to grant to Johnson a pension of three

hundred pounds a year. The earl of Bute was minister. Lord Loughborough,

who, perhaps, was originally a mover in the business, had authority to

mention it. He was well acquainted with Johnson; but, having heard much

of his independent spirit, and of the downfal of Osborne, the

bookseller, he did not know but his benevolence might be rewarded with a

folio on his head. He desired the author of these memoirs to undertake

the task. This writer thought the opportunity of doing so much good the

most happy incident in his life. He went, without delay, to the

chambers, in the Inner Temple lane, which, in fact, were the abode of

wretchedness. By slow and studied approaches the message was disclosed.

Johnson made a long pause: he asked if it was seriously intended: he

fell into a profound meditation, and his own definition of a pensioner

occurred to him. He was told, "that he, at least, did not come within

the definition." He desired to meet next day, and dine at the Mitre

tavern. At that meeting he gave up all his scruples. On the following

day, lord Loughborough conducted him to the earl of Bute. The

conversation that passed, was, in the evening, related to this writer,

by Dr. Johnson. He expressed his sense of his majesty's bounty, and

thought himself the more highly honoured, as the favour was not bestowed

on him for having dipped his pen in faction. "No, sir," said lord Bute,

"it is not offered to you for having dipped your pen in faction, nor

with a design that you ever should." Sir John Hawkins will have it,

that, after this interview, Johnson was often pressed to wait on lord

Bute, but with a sullen spirit refused to comply. However that be,

Johnson was never heard to utter a disrespectful word of that nobleman.

The writer of this essay remembers a circumstance, which may throw some

light on this subject. The late Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, whom Johnson

loved and respected, contended for the pre-eminence of the Scotch

writers; and Ferguson's book on Civil Society, then on the eve of

publication, he said, would give the laurel to North Britain. "Alas!

what can he do upon that subject?" said Johnson: "Aristotle, Polybius,

Grotius, Puffendorf, and Burlemaqui, have reaped in that field before

him." "He will treat it," said Dr. Rose, "in a new manner." "A new

manner! Buckinger had no hands, and he wrote his name with his toes, at

Charing Cross, for half a crown a piece; that was a new manner of

writing!" Dr. Rose replied: "If that will not satisfy you, I will name a

writer, whom you must allow to be the best in the kingdom." "Who is

that?" "The earl of Bute, when he wrote an order for your pension."

"There, sir," said Johnson, "you have me in the toil: to lord Bute I

must allow whatever praise you claim for him." Ingratitude was no part

of Johnson's character.

Being now in the possession of a regular income, Johnson left his

chambers in the temple, and, once more, became master of a house in

Johnson's court, Fleet street. Dr. Levet, his friend and physician in

ordinary[u], paid his daily visits, with assiduity; made tea all the

morning, talked what he had to say, and did not expect an answer. Mrs.

Williams had her apartment in the house, and entertained her benefactor

with more enlarged conversation. Chymistry was a part of Johnson's

amusement. For this love of experimental philosophy, sir John Hawkins

thinks an apology necessary. He tells us, with great gravity, that

curiosity was the only object in view; not an intention to grow suddenly

rich by the philosopher's stone, or the transmutation of metals. To

enlarge this circle, Johnson, once more, had recourse to a literary

club. This was at the Turk's head, in Gerard street, Soho, on every

Tuesday evening through the year. The members were, besides himself, the

right honourable Edmund Burke, sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Nugent, Dr.

Goldsmith, the late Mr. Topham Beauclerc, Mr. Langton, Mr. Chamier, sir

J. Hawkins, and some others. Johnson's affection for sir Joshua was

founded on a long acquaintance, and a thorough knowledge of the virtuous

and amiable qualities of that excellent artist. He delighted in the

conversation of Mr. Burke. He met him, for the first time, at Mr.

Garrick's, several years ago. On the next day he said: "I suppose,

Murphy, you are proud of your countryman: 'Cum talis sit, utinam noster

esset!'" From that time, his constant observation was, "that a man of

sense could not meet Mr. Burke, by accident, under a gateway, to avoid a

shower, without being convinced, that he was the first man in England."

Johnson felt not only kindness, but zeal and ardour for his friends. He

did every thing in his power to advance the reputation of Dr. Goldsmith.

He loved him, though he knew his failings, and particularly the leaven

of envy, which corroded the mind of that elegant writer, and made him

impatient, without disguise, of the praises bestowed on any person

whatever. Of this infirmity, which marked Goldsmith's character, Johnson

gave a remarkable instance. It happened that he went with sir Joshua

Reynolds and Goldsmith, to see the fantoccini, which were exhibited,

some years ago, in or near the Haymarket. They admired the curious

mechanism by which the puppets were made to walk the stage, draw a chair

to the table, sit down, write a letter, and perform a variety of other

actions, with such dexterity, that "though nature's journeymen made the

men, they imitated humanity," to the astonishment of the spectator. The

entertainment being over, the three friends retired to a tavern. Johnson

and sir Joshua talked with pleasure of what they had seen; and, says

Johnson, in a tone of admiration: "How the little fellow brandished his

spontoon!" "There is nothing in it," replied Goldsmith, starting up with

impatience, "give me a spontoon; I can do it as well myself."

Enjoying his amusements at his weekly club, and happy in a state of

independence, Johnson gained, in the year 1765, another resource, which

contributed, more than any thing else, to exempt him from the

solicitudes of life. He was introduced to the late Mr. Thrale and his

family. Mrs. Piozzi has related the fact, and it is, therefore, needless

to repeat it in this place. The author of this narrative looks back to

the share he had in that business, with self-congratulation, since he

knows the tenderness which, from that time, soothed Johnson's cares at

Streatham, and prolonged a valuable life. The subscribers to Shakespeare

began to despair of ever seeing the promised edition. To acquit himself

of this obligation, he went to work unwillingly, but proceeded with

vigour. In the month of October, 1765, Shakespeare was published; and,

in a short time after, the university of Dublin sent over a diploma, in

honourable terms, creating him a doctor of laws. Oxford, in eight or ten

years afterwards, followed the example; and, till then, Johnson never

assumed the title of doctor. In 1766, his constitution seemed to be in a

rapid decline; and that morbid melancholy, which often clouded his

understanding, came upon him with a deeper gloom than ever. Mr. and Mrs.

Thrale paid him a visit in this situation, and found him on his knees,

with Dr. Delap, the rector of Lewes, in Sussex, beseeching God to

continue to him the use of his understanding. Mr. Thrale took him to his

house at Streatham, and Johnson, from that time, became a constant

resident in the family. He went, occasionally, to the club in Gerard

street, but his headquarters were fixed at Streatham. An apartment was

fitted up for him, and the library was greatly enlarged. Parties were

constantly invited from town; and Johnson was every day at an elegant

table, with select and polished company. Whatever could be devised by

Mr. and Mrs. Thrale to promote the happiness, and establish the health

of their guest, was studiously performed from that time to the end of

Mr. Thrale's life. Johnson accompanied the family, in all their summer

excursions, to Brighthelmstone, to Wales, and to Paris. It is but

justice to Mr. Thrale to say, that a more ingenuous frame of mind no man

possessed. His education at Oxford gave him the habits of a gentleman;

his amiable temper recommended his conversation; and the goodness of his

heart made him a sincere friend. That he was the patron of Johnson, is

an honour to his memory.

In petty disputes with contemporary writers, or the wits of the age,

Johnson was seldom entangled. A single incident of that kind may not be

unworthy of notice, since it happened with a man of great celebrity in

his time. A number of friends dined with Garrick on a Christmas day.

Foote was then in Ireland. It was said, at table, that the modern

Aristophanes (so Foote was called) had been horsewhipped by a Dublin

apothecary, for mimicking him on the stage. "I wonder," said Garrick,

"that any man should show so much resentment to Foote; he has a patent

for such liberties; nobody ever thought it worth his while to quarrel

with him in London." "I am glad," said Johnson, "to find that the man is

rising in the world." The expression was afterwards repeated to Foote,

who, in return, gave out, that he would produce the Caliban of

literature on the stage. Being informed of this design, Johnson sent

word to Foote: "that the theatre being intended for the reformation of

vice, he would step from the boxes on the stage, and correct him before

the audience." Foote knew the intrepidity of his antagonist, and

abandoned the design. No ill will ensued. Johnson used to say: "that for

broad-faced mirth, Foote had not his equal."

Dr. Johnson's fame excited the curiosity of the king. His majesty

expressed a desire to see a man of whom extraordinary things were said.

Accordingly, the librarian at Buckingham house invited Johnson to see

that elegant collection of books, at the same time giving a hint of what

was intended. His majesty entered the room, and, among other things,

asked the author, "if he meant to give the world any more of his

compositions." Johnson answered: "that he thought he had written

enough." "And I should think so too," replied his majesty, "if you had

not written so well."

Though Johnson thought he had written enough, his genius, even in spite

of bodily sluggishness, could not lie still. In 1770 we find him

entering the lists, as a political writer. The flame of discord that

blazed throughout the nation, on the expulsion of Mr. Wilkes, and the

final determination of the house of commons, that Mr. Luttrell was duly

elected by two hundred and six votes, against eleven hundred and

forty-three, spread a general spirit of discontent. To allay the tumult,

Dr. Johnson published the False Alarm. Mrs. Piozzi informs us, "that this

pamphlet was written at her house, between eight o'clock on Wednesday

night and twelve on Thursday night." This celerity has appeared

wonderful to many, and some have doubted the truth. It may, however, be

placed within the bounds of probability. Johnson has observed, that

there are different methods of composition. Virgil was used to pour out

a great number of verses in the morning, and pass the day in retrenching

the exuberances, and correcting inaccuracies; and it was Pope's custom

to write his first thoughts in his first words, and gradually to

amplify, decorate, rectify, and refine them. Others employ, at once,

memory and invention, and, with little intermediate use of the pen, form

and polish large masses by continued meditation, and write their

productions only, when, in their opinion, they have completed them. This

last was Johnson's method. He never took his pen in hand till he had

well weighed his subject, and grasped, in his mind, the sentiments, the

train of argument, and the arrangement of the whole. As he often thought

aloud, he had, perhaps, talked it over to himself. This may account for

that rapidity with which, in general, he despatched his sheets to the

press, without being at the trouble of a fair copy. Whatever may be the

logic or eloquence of the False Alarm, the house of commons have since

erased the resolution from the journals. But whether they have not left

materials for a future controversy may be made a question.

In 1771, he published another tract, on the subject of Falkland islands.

The design was to show the impropriety of going to war with Spain for an

island, thrown aside from human use, stormy in winter, and barren in

summer. For this work it is apparent, that materials were furnished by

direction of the minister.

At the approach of the general election in 1774, he wrote a short

discourse, called The Patriot, not with any visible application to Mr.

Wilkes; but to teach the people to reject the leaders of opposition, who

called themselves patriots. In 1775, he undertook a pamphlet of more

importance, namely, Taxation no Tyranny, in answer to the Resolutions

and Address of the American congress. The scope of the argument was,

that distant colonies, which had, in their assemblies, a legislature of

their own, were, notwithstanding, liable to be taxed in a British

parliament, where they had neither peers in one house, nor

representatives in the other. He was of opinion, that this country was

strong enough to enforce obedience. "When an Englishman," he says, "is

told that the Americans shoot up like the hydra, he naturally considers

how the hydra was destroyed." The event has shown how much he and the

minister of that day were mistaken.

The account of the Tour to the Western Islands of Scotland, which was

undertaken in the autumn of 1773, in company with Mr. Boswell, was not

published till some time in the year 1775. This book has been variously

received; by some extolled for the elegance of the narrative, and the

depth of observation on life and manners; by others, as much condemned,

as a work of avowed hostility to the Scotch nation. The praise was,

beyond all question, fairly deserved; and the censure, on due

examination, will appear hasty and ill founded. That Johnson entertained

some prejudices against the Scotch must not be dissembled. It is true,

as Mr. Boswell says, "that he thought their success in England exceeded

their proportion of real merit, and he could not but see in them that

nationality which no liberal-minded Scotsman will deny." The author of

these memoirs well remembers, that Johnson one day asked him, "have you

observed the difference between your own country impudence and Scotch

impudence?" The answer being in the negative: "then I will tell you,"

said Johnson. "The impudence of an Irishman is the impudence of a fly,

that buzzes about you, and you put it away, but it returns again, and

flutters and teases you. The impudence of a Scotsman is the impudence of

a leech, that fixes and sucks your blood." Upon another occasion, this

writer went with him into the shop of Davies, the bookseller, in Russell

street, Covent garden. Davies came running to him, almost out of breath

with joy: "The Scots gentleman is come, sir; his principal wish is to

see you; he is now in the back parlour." "Well, well, I'll see the

gentleman," said Johnson. He walked towards the room. Mr. Boswell was

the person. This writer followed, with no small curiosity. "I find,"

said Mr. Boswell, "that I am come to London, at a bad time, when great

popular prejudice has gone forth against us North Britons; but, when I

am talking to you, I am talking to a large and liberal mind, and you

know that I cannot help coming from Scotland." "Sir," said Johnson, "no

more can the rest of your countrymen[x]."

He had other reasons that helped to alienate him from the natives of

Scotland. Being a cordial well-wisher to the constitution in church and

state, he did not think that Calvin and John Knox were proper founders

of a national religion. He made, however, a wide distinction between the

dissenters of Scotland and the separatists of England. To the former he

imputed no disaffection, no want of loyalty. Their soldiers and their

officers had shed their blood with zeal and courage in the service of

great Britain; and the people, he used to say, were content with their

own established modes of worship, without wishing, in the present age,

to give any disturbance to the church of England.

This he was, at all times, ready to admit; and, therefore, declared,

that, whenever he found a Scotchman, to whom an Englishman was as a

Scotchman, that Scotchman should be as an Englishman to him. In this,

surely, there was no rancour, no malevolence. The dissenters, on this

side the Tweed, appeared to him in a different light. Their religion, he

frequently said, was too worldly, too political, too restless and

ambitious. The doctrine of cashiering kings, and erecting, on the ruins

of the constitution, a new form of government, which lately issued from

their pulpits, he always thought was, under a calm disguise, the

principle that lay lurking in their hearts. He knew, that a wild

democracy had overturned kings, lords, and commons; and that a set of

republican fanatics, who would not bow at the name of Jesus, had taken

possession of all the livings, and all the parishes in the kingdom. That

those scenes of horror might never be renewed, was the ardent wish of

Dr. Johnson; and, though he apprehended no danger from Scotland, it is

probable, that his dislike of calvinism mingled, sometimes, with his

reflections on the natives of that country. The association of ideas

could not be easily broken; but it is well known, that he loved and

respected many gentlemen from that part of the island. Dr. Robertson's

History of Scotland, and Dr. Beattie's Essays, were subjects of his

constant praise. Mr. Boswell, Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, Andrew Millar, Mr.

Hamilton, the printer, and the late Mr. Strahan, were among his most

intimate friends. Many others might be added to the list. He scorned to

enter Scotland as a spy; though Hawkins, his biographer, and the

professing defender of his fame, allowed himself leave to represent him

in that ignoble character. He went into Scotland to survey men and

manners. Antiquities, fossils, and minerals, were not within his

province. He did not visit that country to settle the station of Roman

camps, or the spot, where Galgacus fought the last battle for public

liberty. The people, their customs, and the progress of literature, were

his objects. The civilities which he received in the course of his tour,

have been repaid with grateful acknowledgment, and, generally, with

great elegance of expression. His crime is, that he found the country

bare of trees, and he has stated the fact. This, Mr. Boswell, in his

tour to the Hebrides, has told us, was resented, by his countrymen, with

anger inflamed to rancour; but he admits that there are few trees on the

east side of Scotland. Mr. Pennant, in his tour, says, that, in some

parts of the eastern side of the country, he saw several large

plantations of pine, planted by gentlemen near their seats; and, in this

respect, such a laudable spirit prevails, that, in another half-century,

it never shall be said, "To spy the nakedness of the land are you come."

Johnson could not wait for that half-century, and, therefore, mentioned

things as he found them. If, in any thing, he has been mistaken, he has

made a fair apology, in the last paragraph of his book, avowing with

candour: "That he may have been surprised by modes of life, and

appearances of nature, that are familiar to men of wider survey, and

more varied conversation. Novelty and ignorance must always be

reciprocal: and he is conscious that his thoughts on national manners,

are the thoughts of one who has seen but little."

The poems of Ossian made a part of Johnson's inquiry, during his

residence in Scotland and the Hebrides. On his return to England,

November, 1773, a storm seemed to be gathering over his head; but the

cloud never burst, and the thunder never fell.--Ossian, it is well

known, was presented to the public, as a translation from the Erse; but

that this was a fraud, Johnson declared, without hesitation. "The Erse,"

he says, "was always oral only, and never a written language. The Welsh

and the Irish were more cultivated. In Erse, there was not in the world

a single manuscript a hundred years old. Martin, who, in the last

century, published an account of the Western Islands, mentions Irish,

but never Erse manuscripts, to be found in the islands in his time. The

bards could not read; if they could, they might, probably, have written.

But the bard was a barbarian among barbarians, and, knowing nothing

himself, lived with others that knew no more. If there is a manuscript

from which the translation was made, in what age was it written, and

where is it? If it was collected from oral recitation, it could only be

in detached parts, and scattered fragments: the whole is too long to be

remembered. Who put it together in its present form?" For these, and

such like reasons, Johnson calls the whole an imposture. He adds, "The

editor, or author, never could show the original, nor can it be shown by

any other. To revenge reasonable incredulity, by refusing evidence, is a

degree of insolence with which the world is not yet acquainted; and

stubborn audacity is the last refuge of guilt." This reasoning carries

with it great weight. It roused the resentment of Mr. Macpherson. He

sent a threatening letter to the author; and Johnson answered him in the

rough phrase of stern defiance. The two heroes frowned at a distance,

but never came to action.

In the year 1777, the misfortunes of Dr. Dodd excited his compassion. He

wrote a speech for that unhappy man, when called up to receive judgment

of death; besides two petitions, one to the king, and another to the

queen; and a sermon to be preached by Dodd to the convicts in Newgate.

It may appear trifling to add, that, about the same time, he wrote a

prologue to the comedy of a Word to the Wise, written by Hugh Kelly. The

play, some years before, had been damned by a party on the first night.

It was revived for the benefit of the author's widow. Mrs. Piozzi

relates, that when Johnson was rallied for these exertions, so close to

one another, his answer was, "When they come to me with a dying parson,

and a dead stay-maker, what can a man do?"

We come now to the last of his literary labours. At the request of the

booksellers, he undertook the Lives of the Poets. The first publication

was in 1779, and the whole was completed in 1781. In a memorandum of

that year, he says, some time in March he finished the Lives of the

Poets, which he wrote in his usual way, dilatorily and hastily,

unwilling to work, yet working with vigour and haste. In another place,

he hopes they are written in such a manner, as may tend to the promotion

of piety. That the history of so many men, who, in their different

degrees, made themselves conspicuous in their time, was not written

recently after their deaths, seems to be an omission that does no honour

to the republic of letters. Their contemporaries, in general, looked on

with calm indifference, and suffered wit and genius to vanish out of the

world in total silence, unregarded and unlamented. Was there no friend

to pay the tribute of a tear? No just observer of life to record the

virtues of the deceased? Was even envy silent? It seemed to have been

agreed, that if an author's works survived, the history of the man was

to give no moral lesson to after-ages. If tradition told us that Ben

Jonson went to the Devil tavern; that Shakespeare stole deer, and held

the stirrup at play-house doors; that Dryden frequented Button's

coffee-house; curiosity was lulled asleep, and biography forgot the best

part of her function, which is, to instruct mankind by examples taken from

the school of life. This task remained for Dr. Johnson, when years had

rolled away; when the channels of information were, for the most part,

choked up, and little remained besides doubtful anecdote, uncertain

tradition, and vague report.

"Nunc situs informis premit et deserta vetustas."

The value of biography has been better understood in other ages, and in

other countries. Tacitus informs us, that to record the lives and

characters of illustrious men, was the practice of the Roman authors, in

the early periods of the republic. In France, the example has been

followed. Fontenelle, D'Alembert, and monsieur Thomas, have left models

in this kind of composition. They have embalmed the dead. But it is

true, that they had incitements and advantages, even at a distant day,

which could not, by any diligence, be obtained by Dr. Johnson. The wits

of France had ample materials. They lived in a nation of critics, who

had, at heart, the honour done to their country by their poets, their

heroes, and their philosophers. They had, besides, an academy of

belles-lettres, where genius was cultivated, refined, and encouraged.

They had the tracts, the essays, and dissertations, which remain in the

memoirs of the academy, and they had the speeches of the several members,

delivered at their first admission to a seat in that learned assembly.

In those speeches the new academician did ample justice to the memory of

his predecessor; and though his harangue was decorated with the colours

of eloquence, and was, for that reason, called panegyric, yet, being

pronounced before qualified judges, who knew the talents, the conduct,

and morals of the deceased, the speaker could not, with propriety,

wander into the regions of fiction. The truth was known, before it was

adorned. The academy saw the marble before the artist polished it. But

this country has had no academy of literature. The public mind, for

centuries, has been engrossed by party and faction; "by the madness of

many for the gain of a few;" by civil wars, religious dissensions, trade

and commerce, and the arts of accumulating wealth. Amidst such

attentions, who can wonder that cold praise has been often the only

reward of merit? In this country, Dr. Nathaniel Hodges, who, like the

good bishop of Marseilles, drew purer breath amidst the contagion of the

plague in London, and, during the whole time, continued in the city,

administering medical assistance, was suffered, as Johnson used to

relate, with tears in his eyes, to die for debt, in a gaol. In this

country, the man who brought the New river to London, was ruined by that

noble project; and, in this country, Otway died for want, on Tower hill;

Butler, the great author of Hudibras, whose name can only die with the

English language, was left to languish in poverty; the particulars of

his life almost unknown, and scarce a vestige of him left, except his

immortal poem. Had there been an academy of literature, the lives, at

least, of those celebrated persons, would have been written for the

benefit of posterity. Swift, it seems, had the idea of such an

institution, and proposed it to lord Oxford; but whig and tory were more

important objects. It is needless to dissemble, that Dr. Johnson, in the

life of Roscommon, talks of the inutility of such a project. "In this

country," he says, "an academy could be expected to do but little. If an

academician's place were profitable, it would be given by interest; if

attendance were gratuitous, it would be rarely paid, and no man would

endure the least disgust. Unanimity is impossible, and debate would

separate the assembly." To this it may be sufficient to answer, that the

Royal society has not been dissolved by sullen disgust; and the modern

academy, at Somerset house, has already performed much, and promises

more. Unanimity is not necessary to such an assembly. On the contrary,

by difference of opinion, and collision of sentiment, the cause of

literature would thrive and flourish. The true principles of criticism,

the secret of fine writing, the investigation of antiquities, and other

interesting subjects, might occasion a clash of opinions; but, in that

contention, truth would receive illustration, and the essays of the

several members would supply the memoirs of the academy. "But," says Dr.

Johnson, "suppose the philological decree made and promulgated, what

would be its authority? In absolute government there is, sometimes, a

general reverence paid to all that has the sanction of power the

countenance of greatness.--How little this is the state of our country,

needs not to be told. The edicts of an English academy would, probably,

be read by many, only that they may be sure to disobey them. The present

manners of the nation would deride authority, and, therefore, nothing is

left, but that every writer should criticise himself." This, surely, is

not conclusive. It is by the standard of the best writers, that every

man settles, for himself, his plan of legitimate composition; and since

the authority of superior genius is acknowledged, that authority, which

the individual obtains, would not be lessened by an association with

others of distinguished ability. It may, therefore, be inferred, that an

academy of literature would be an establishment highly useful, and an

honour to literature. In such an institution, profitable places would

not be wanted. "Vatis avarus haud facile est animus;" and the minister,

who shall find leisure, from party and faction, to carry such a scheme

into execution, will, in all probability, be respected by posterity, as

the Maecenas of letters.

We now take leave of Dr. Johnson, as an author. Four volumes of his

Lives of the Poets were published in 1778, and the work was completed in

1781. Should biography fall again into disuse, there will not always be

a Johnson to look back through a century, and give a body of critical

and moral instruction. In April, 1781, he lost his friend Mr. Thrale.

His own words, in his diary, will best tell that melancholy event. "On

Wednesday, the 11th of April, was buried my dear friend Mr. Thrale, who

died on Wednesday, the 4th, and with him were buried many of my hopes

and pleasures. About five, I think, on Wednesday morning, he expired. I

felt almost the last flutter of his pulse, and looked, for the last

time, upon the face, that, for fifteen years before, had never been

turned upon me but with respect and benignity. Farewell: may God, that

delighteth in mercy, have had mercy on thee! I had constantly prayed for

him before his death. The decease of him, from whose friendship I had

obtained many opportunities of amusement, and to whom I turned my

thoughts, as to a refuge from misfortunes, has left me heavy. But my

business is with myself."--From the close of his last work, the malady

that persecuted him through life came upon him with alarming severity,

and his constitution declined apace. In 1782, his old friend, Levet,

expired, without warning and without a groan. Events like these reminded

Johnson of his own mortality. He continued his visits to Mrs. Thrale, at

Streatham, to the 7th day of October, 1782, when, having first composed

a prayer for the happiness of a family, with whom he had, for many

years, enjoyed the pleasures and comforts of life, he removed to his own

house in town. He says he was up early in the morning, and read

fortuitously in the Gospel, "which was his parting use of the library."

The merit of the family is manifested by the sense he had of it, and we

see his heart overflowing with gratitude. He leaves the place with

regret, and "casts a lingering look behind."

The few remaining occurrences may be soon despatched. In the month of

June, 1783, Johnson had a paralytic stroke, which affected his speech

only. He wrote to Dr. Taylor, of Westminster; and to his friend Mr.

Allen, the printer, who lived at the next door. Dr. Brocklesby arrived

in a short time, and by his care, and that of Dr. Heberden, Johnson soon

recovered. During his illness, the writer of this narrative visited him,

and found him reading Dr. Watson's Chymistry. Articulating with

difficulty, he said, "From this book, he who knows nothing may learn a

great deal; and he who knows, will be pleased to find his knowledge

recalled to his mind in a manner highly pleasing." In the month of

August he set out for Lichfield, on a visit to Mrs. Lucy Porter, the

daughter of his wife by her first husband; and, in his way back, paid

his respects to Dr. Adams, at Oxford. Mrs. Williams died, at his house

in Bolt court, in the month of September, during his absence. This was

another shock to a mind like his, ever agitated by the thoughts of

futurity. The contemplation of his own approaching end was constantly

before his eyes; and the prospect of death, he declared, was terrible.

For many years, when he was not disposed to enter into the conversation

going forward, whoever sat near his chair, might hear him repeating,

from Shakespeare,

"Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods"--

And from Milton,

--"Who would lose,

For fear of pain, this intellectual being?"

By the death of Mrs. Williams he was left in a state of destitution,

with nobody but Frank, his black servant, to sooth his anxious moments.

In November, 1783, he was swelled from head to foot with a dropsy. Dr.

Brocklesby, with that benevolence with which he always assists his

friends, paid his visits with assiduity. The medicines prescribed were

so efficacious, that, in a few days, Johnson, while he was offering up

his prayers, was suddenly obliged to rise, and, in the course of the

day, discharged twenty pints of water.

Johnson, being eased of his dropsy, began to entertain hopes that the

vigour of his constitution was not entirely broken. For the sake of

conversing with his friends, he established a conversation club, to meet

on every Wednesday evening; and, to serve a man whom he had known in Mr.

Thrale's household for many years, the place was fixed at his house, in

Essex street, near the Temple. To answer the malignant remarks of sir

John Hawkins, on this subject, were a wretched waste of time. Professing

to be Johnson's friend, that biographer has raised more objections to

his character, than all the enemies to that excellent man. Sir John had

a root of bitterness that "put rancours in the vessel of his peace."

Fielding, he says, was the inventor of a cant phrase, "Goodness of

heart, which means little more than the virtue of a horse or a dog." He

should have known, that kind affections are the essence of virtue: they

are the will of God implanted in our nature, to aid and strengthen moral

obligation; they incite to action: a sense of benevolence is no less

necessary than a sense of duty. Good affections are an ornament, not

only to an author, but to his writings. He who shows himself upon a cold

scent for opportunities to bark and snarl throughout a volume of six

hundred pages, may, if he will, pretend to moralise; but goodness of

heart, or, to use that politer phrase, "the virtue of a horse or a dog,"

would redound more to his honour. But sir John is no more: our business

is with Johnson. The members of his club were respectable for their

rank, their talents, and their literature. They attended with

punctuality, till about Midsummer, 1784, when, with some appearance of

health, Johnson went into Derbyshire, and thence to Lichfield. While he

was in that part of the world, his friends, in town, were labouring for

his benefit. The air of a more southern climate, they thought, might

prolong a valuable life. But a pension of three hundred pounds a year

was a slender fund for a travelling valetudinarian, and it was not then

known that he had saved a moderate sum of money. Mr. Boswell and sir

Joshua Reynolds undertook to solicit the patronage of the chancellor.

With lord Thurlow, while he was at the bar, Johnson was well acquainted.

He was often heard to say, "Thurlow is a man of such vigour of mind,

that I never knew I was to meet him, but--I was going to say, I was

afraid, but that would not be true, for I never was afraid of any man;

but I never knew that I was to meet Thurlow, but I knew I had something

to encounter." The chancellor undertook to recommend Johnson's case; but

without success. To protract, if possible, the days of a man, whom he

respected, he offered to advance the sum of five hundred pounds. Being

informed of this at Lichfield, Johnson wrote the following letter:

"MY LORD,--After a long, and not inattentive observation of mankind,

the generosity of your lordship's offer raises in me not less wonder

than gratitude. Bounty, so liberally bestowed, I should gladly

receive, if my condition made it necessary; for to such a mind who

would not be proud to own his obligations? But it has pleased God to

restore me to so great a measure of health, that, if I should now

appropriate so much of a fortune destined to do good, I could not

escape from myself the charge of advancing a false claim. My journey

to the continent, though I once thought it necessary, was never much

encouraged by my physicians; and I was very desirous that your

lordship should be told it, by sir Joshua Reynolds, as an event very

uncertain; for, if I grew much better, I should not be willing; if

much worse, I should not be able to migrate. Your lordship was first

solicited without my knowledge; but when I was told that you were

pleased to honour me with your patronage, I did not expect to hear of

a refusal; yet, as I have had no long time to brood hopes, and have

not rioted in imaginary opulence, this cold reception has been scarce

a disappointment; and from your lordship's kindness I have received a

benefit which only men, like you, are able to bestow. I shall now live

_mihi carior_, with a higher opinion of my own merit.

I am, my lord,

Your lordship's most obliged,

Most grateful, and most humble servant,

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

September, 1784."

We have, in this instance, the exertion of two congenial minds; one,

with a generous impulse, relieving merit in distress; and the other, by

gratitude and dignity of sentiment, rising to an equal elevation.

It seems, however, that greatness of mind is not confined to greatness

of rank. Dr. Brocklesby was not content to assist with his medical art;

he resolved to minister to his patient's mind, and pluck from his memory

the sorrow which the late refusal from a high quarter might occasion. To

enable him to visit the south of France, in pursuit of health, he

offered, from his own funds, an annuity of one hundred pounds, payable

quarterly. This was a sweet oblivious antidote, but it was not accepted,

for the reasons assigned to the chancellor. The proposal, however, will

do honour to Dr. Brocklesby, as long as liberal sentiment shall be

ranked among the social virtues.

In the month of October, 1784, we find Dr. Johnson corresponding with

Mr. Nichols, the intelligent compiler of the Gentleman's Magazine, and,

in the languor of sickness, still desirous to contribute all in his

power to the advancement of science and useful knowledge. He says, in a

letter to that gentleman, dated Lichfield, October 20, that "he should

be glad to give so skilful a lover of antiquities any information." He

adds, "At Ashbourne, where I had very little company, I had the luck to

borrow Mr. Bowyer's Life, a book, so full of contemporary history, that

a literary man must find some of his old friends. I thought that I

could, now and then, have told you some hints worth your notice: we,

perhaps, may talk a life over. I hope we shall be much together. You

must now be to me what you were before, and what dear Mr. Allen was

besides. He was taken unexpectedly away, but, I think, he was a very

good man. I have made very little progress in recovery. I am very weak,

and very sleepless; but I live on and hope."

In that languid condition he arrived, on the 16th of November, at his

house in Bolt court, there to end his days. He laboured with the dropsy

and an asthma. He was attended by Dr. Heberden, Dr. Warren, Dr.

Brocklesby, Dr. Butter, and Mr. Cruikshank, the eminent surgeon.

Eternity presented to his mind an awful prospect, and, with as much

virtue as, perhaps, ever is the lot of man, he shuddered at the thought

of his dissolution. His friends awakened the comfortable reflection of a

well-spent life; and, as his end drew near, they had the satisfaction of

seeing him composed, and even cheerful, insomuch that he was able, in

the course of his restless nights, to make translations of Greek

epigrams from the Anthologia; and to compose a Latin epitaph for his

father, his mother, and his brother Nathaniel. He meditated, at the same

time, a Latin inscription to the memory of Garrick; but his vigour was

exhausted.

His love of literature was a passion that stuck to his last sand. Seven

days before his death he wrote the following letter to his friend Mr.

Nichols:

"SIR,--The late learned Mr. Swinton, of Oxford, having one day

remarked, that one man, meaning, I suppose, no man but himself, could

assign all the parts of the Ancient Universal History to their proper

authors, at the request of sir Robert Chambers, or myself, gave the

account which I now transmit to you, in his own hand, being willing

that of so great a work the history should be known, and that each

writer should receive his due proportion of praise from posterity.

I recommend to you to preserve this scrap of literary intelligence, in

Mr. Swinton's own hand, or to deposit it in the Museum[y], that the

veracity of this account may never be doubted.

I am, sir,

Your most humble servant,

SAM. JOHNSON.

Dec. 6, 1784."

Mr. Swinton.

The History of the Carthaginians.

--Numidians.

--Mauritanians.

--Gaetulians.

--Garamantes.

--Melano-Gaetulians.

--Nigritae.

--Cyrenaica.

--Marmarica.

--Regio Syrtica.

--Turks, Tartars, and Moguls.

--Indians.

--Chinese.

The Dissertation on the peopling of America.

The Dissertation on the Independency of the Arabs.

The Cosmogony, and a small part of the History immediately following.

By Mr. Sale.

To the Birth of Abraham. Chiefly by Mr. Shelvock.

History of the Jews, Gauls, and Spaniards. By Mr. Psalmanazai.

Xenophon's Retreat. By the same.

History of the Persians, and the Constantinopolitan Empire. By Dr.

Campbell.

History of the Romans. By Mr. Bower[z].

On the morning of December 7, Dr. Johnson requested to see Mr. Nichols.

A few days before, he had borrowed some of the early volumes of the

magazine, with a professed intention to point out the pieces which he

had written in that collection. The books lay on the table, with many

leaves doubled down, and, in particular, those which contained his share

in the parliamentary debates. Such was the goodness of Johnson's heart,

that he then declared, that "those debates were the only parts of his

writings which gave him any compunction: but that, at the time he wrote

them, he had no conception that he was imposing upon the world, though

they were, frequently, written from very slender materials, and often

from none at all, the mere coinage of his own imagination." He added,

"that he never wrote any part of his work with equal velocity." "Three

columns of the magazine in an hour," he said, "was no uncommon effort;

which was faster than most persons could have transcribed that quantity.

In one day, in particular, and that not a very long one, he wrote twelve

pages, more in quantity than ever he wrote at any other time, except in

the Life of Savage, of which forty-eight pages, in octavo, were the

production of one long day, including a part of the night."

In the course of the conversation, he asked whether any of the family of

Faden, the printer, were living. Being told that the geographer, near

Charing Cross, was Faden's son, he said, after a short pause, "I

borrowed a guinea of his father near thirty years ago; be so good as to

take this, and pay it for me."

Wishing to discharge every duty, and every obligation, Johnson

recollected another debt of ten pounds, which he had borrowed from his

friend, Mr. Hamilton, the printer, about twenty years before. He sent

the money to Mr. Hamilton, at his house in Bedford row, with an apology

for the length of time. The reverend Mr. Strahan was the bearer of the

message, about four or five days before Johnson breathed his last.

Mr. Sastres, whom Dr. Johnson esteemed and mentioned in his will,

entered the room, during his illness. Dr. Johnson, as soon as he saw

him, stretched forth his hand, and, in a tone of lamentation, called

out, "Jam moriturus!" But the love of life was still an active

principle. Feeling himself swelled with the dropsy, he conceived that,

by incisions in his legs, the water might be discharged. Mr. Cruikshank

apprehended that a mortification might be the consequence; but, to

appease a distempered fancy, he gently lanced the surface. Johnson cried

out, "Deeper, deeper! I want length of life, and you are afraid of

giving me pain, which I do not value."

On the 8th of December, the reverend Mr. Strahan drew his will, by

which, after a few legacies, the residue, amounting to about fifteen

hundred pounds, was bequeathed to Frank, the black servant, formerly

consigned to the testator by his friend Dr. Bathurst.

The history of a death-bed is painful. Mr. Strahan informs us, that the

strength of religion prevailed against the infirmity of nature; and his

foreboding dread of the divine justice subsided into a pious trust, and

humble hope of mercy, at the throne of grace. On Monday, the 13th day of

December, the last of his existence on this side the grave, the desire

of life returned with all its former vehemence. He still imagined, that,

by puncturing his legs, relief might be obtained. At eight in the

morning he tried the experiment, but no water followed. In an hour or

two after, he fell into a doze, and about seven in the evening expired

without a groan.

On the 20th of the month his remains, with due solemnities, and a

numerous attendance of his friends, were buried in Westminster abbey,

near the foot of Shakespeare's monument, and close to the grave of the

late Mr. Garrick. The funeral service was read by his friend, Dr.

Taylor.

A black marble over his grave has the following inscription:

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

obiit XIII die Decembris,

Anno Domini

MDCCLXXXIV.

Aetatis suae LXXV.

If we now look back, as from an eminence, to view the scenes of life,

and the literary labours in which Dr. Johnson was engaged, we may be

able to delineate the features of the man, and to form an estimate of

his genius.

As a man, Dr. Johnson stands displayed in open daylight. Nothing remains

undiscovered. Whatever he said is known; and without allowing him the

usual privilege of hazarding sentiments, and advancing positions for

mere amusement, or the pleasure of discussion, criticism has endeavoured

to make him answerable for what, perhaps, he never seriously thought.

His diary, which has been printed, discovers still more. We have before

us the very heart of the man, with all his inward consciousness; and yet

neither in the open paths of life, nor in his secret recesses, has any

one vice been discovered. We see him reviewing every year of his life,

and severely censuring himself, for not keeping resolutions, which

morbid melancholy, and other bodily infirmities, rendered impracticable.

We see him, for every little defect, imposing on himself voluntary

penance, going through the day with only one cup of tea without milk,

and to the last, amidst paroxysms and remissions of illness, forming

plans of study and resolutions to amend his life[aa]. Many of his

scruples may be called weaknesses; but they are the weaknesses of a

good, a pious, and most excellent man.

His person, it is well known, was large and unwieldy. His nerves were

affected by that disorder, for which, at two years of age, he was

presented to the royal touch. His head shook, and involuntary motions

made it uncertain that his legs and arms would, even at a tea-table,

remain in their proper place. A person of lord Chesterfield's delicacy

might, in his company, be in a fever. He would, sometimes, of his own

accord, do things inconsistent with the established modes of behaviour.

Sitting at table with the celebrated Mrs. Cholmondeley, who exerted

herself to circulate the subscription for Shakespeare, he took hold of

her hand, in the middle of dinner, and held it close to his eye,

wondering at the delicacy and whiteness, till, with a smile, she asked,

"Will he give it to me again, when he has done with it?" The exteriors

of politeness did not belong to Johnson. Even that civility, which

proceeds, or ought to proceed, from the mind, was sometimes violated.

His morbid melancholy had an effect on his temper; his passions were

irritable; and the pride of science, as well as of a fierce independent

spirit, inflamed him, on some occasions, above all bounds of moderation.

Though not in the shade of academic bowers, he led a scholastic life;

and the habit of pronouncing decisions to his friends and visitors, gave

him a dictatorial manner, which was much enforced by a voice naturally

loud, and often overstretched. Metaphysical discussion, moral theory,

systems of religion, and anecdotes of literature, were his favourite

topics. General history had little of his regard. Biography was his

delight. The proper study of mankind is man. Sooner than hear of the

Punic war, he would be rude to the person that introduced the subject.

Johnson was born a logician; one of those, to whom only books of logic

are said to be of use. In consequence of his skill in that art, he loved

argumentation. No man thought more profoundly, nor with such acute

discernment. A fallacy could not stand before him; it was sure to be

refuted by strength of reasoning, and a precision, both in idea and

expression, almost unequalled. When he chose, by apt illustration, to

place the argument of his adversary in a ludicrous light, one was almost

inclined to think ridicule the test of truth. He was surprised to be

told, but it is certainly true, that, with great powers of mind, wit and

humour were his shining talents. That he often argued for the sake of

triumph over his adversary, cannot be dissembled. Dr. Rose, of Chiswick,

has been heard to tell of a friend of his, who thanked him for

introducing him to Dr. Johnson, as he had been convinced, in the course

of a long dispute, that an opinion, which he had embraced as a settled

truth, was no better than a vulgar error. This being reported to

Johnson, "Nay," said he, "do not let him be thankful, for he was right,

and I was wrong." Like his uncle Andrew, in the ring at Smithfield,

Johnson, in a circle of disputants, was determined neither to be thrown

nor conquered. Notwithstanding all his piety, self-government or the

command of his passions in conversation, does not seem to have been

among his attainments. Whenever he thought the contention was for

superiority, he has been known to break out with violence, and even

ferocity. When the fray was over, he generally softened into repentance,

and, by conciliating measures, took care that no animosity should be

left rankling in the breast of his antagonist. Of this defect he seems

to have been conscious. In a letter to Mrs. Thrale, he says, "Poor

Baretti! do not quarrel with him; to neglect him a little will be

sufficient. He means only to be frank and manly and independent, and,

perhaps, as you say, a little wise. To be frank, he thinks, is to be

cynical; and to be independent, is to be rude. Forgive him, dearest

lady, the rather, because of his misbehaviour, I am afraid, he learned

part of me. I hope to set him, hereafter, a better example." For his own

intolerant and over-bearing spirit he apologized, by observing, that it

had done some good; obscenity and impiety were repressed in his company.

It was late in life, before he had the habit of mixing, otherwise than

occasionally, with polite company. At Mr. Thrale's he saw a constant

succession of well-accomplished visiters. In that society he began to

wear off the rugged points of his own character. He saw the advantages

of mutual civility, and endeavoured to profit by the models before him.

He aimed at what has been called, by Swift, the "lesser morals," and by

Cicero, "minores virtutes." His endeavour, though new and late, gave

pleasure to all his acquaintance. Men were glad to see that he was

willing to be communicative on equal terms and reciprocal complacence.

The time was then expected, when he was to cease being what George

Garrick, brother to the celebrated actor, called him, the first time he

heard him converse, "a tremendous companion." He certainly wished to be

polite, and even thought himself so; but his civility still retained

something uncouth and harsh. His manners took a milder tone, but the

endeavour was too palpably seen. He laboured even in trifles. He was a

giant gaining a purchase to lift a feather.

It is observed, by the younger Pliny, that "in the confines of virtue

and great qualities, there are, generally, vices of an opposite nature."

In Dr. Johnson not one ingredient can take the name of vice. From his

attainments in literature, grew the pride of knowledge; and from his

powers of reasoning, the love of disputation and the vain glory of

superior vigour.--His piety, in some instances, bordered on

superstition. He was willing to believe in preternatural agency, and

thought it not more strange, that there should be evil spirits than evil

men. Even the question about second sight held him in suspense. "Second

sight," Mr. Pennant tells us, "is a power of seeing images impressed on

the organs of sight, by the power of fancy; or on the fancy, by the

disordered spirits operating on the mind. It is the faculty of seeing

spectres or visions, which represent an event actually passing at a

distance, or likely to happen at a future day. In 1771, a gentleman, the

last who was supposed to be possessed of this faculty, had a boat at

sea, in a tempestuous night, and, being anxious for his freight,

suddenly started up, and said his men would be drowned, for he had seen

them pass before him with wet garments and dropping locks. The event

corresponded with his disordered fancy. And thus," continues Mr.

Pennant, "a distempered imagination, clouded with anxiety, may make an

impression on the spirits; as persons, restless, and troubled with

indignation, see various forms and figures, while they lie awake in

bed." This is what Dr. Johnson was not willing to reject. He wished for

some positive proof of communications with another world. His

benevolence embraced the whole race of man, and yet was tinctured with

particular prejudices. He was pleased with the minister in the isle of

Skie, and loved him so much, that he began to wish him not a

presbyterian. To that body of dissenters his zeal for the established

church, made him, in some degree, an adversary; and his attachment to a

mixed and limited monarchy, led him to declare open war against what he

called a sullen republican. He would rather praise a man of Oxford than

of Cambridge. He disliked a whig, and loved a tory. These were the

shades of his character, which it has been the business of certain

party-writers to represent in the darkest colours.

Since virtue, or moral goodness, consists in a just conformity of our

actions to the relations, in which we stand to the supreme being and to

our fellow-creatures, where shall we find a man who has been, or

endeavoured to be, more diligent in the discharge of those essential

duties? His first prayer was composed in 1738; he continued those

fervent ejaculations of piety to the end of his life. In his Meditations

we see him scrutinizing himself with severity, and aiming at perfection

unattainable by man. His duty to his neighbour consisted in universal

benevolence, and a constant aim at the production of happiness. Who was

more sincere and steady in his friendships? It has been said, that there

was no real affection between him and Garrick. On the part of the

latter, there might be some corrosions of jealousy. The character of

Prospero, in the Rambler, No. 200, was, beyond all question, occasioned

by Garrick's ostentatious display of furniture and Dresden china. It was

surely fair to take, from this incident, a hint for a moral essay; and,

though no more was intended, Garrick, we are told, remembered it with

uneasiness. He was also hurt, that his Lichfield friend did not think so

highly of his dramatic art, as the rest of the world. The fact was,

Johnson could not see the passions, as they rose, and chased one

another, in the varied features of that expressive face; and, by his own

manner of reciting verses, which was wonderfully impressive, he plainly

showed, that he thought, there was too much of artificial tone and

measured cadence, in the declamation of the theatre. The present writer

well remembers being in conversation with Dr. Johnson, near the side of

the scenes, during the tragedy of King Lear: when Garrick came off the

stage, he said, "You two talk so loud, you destroy all my feelings."

"Prithee," replied Johnson, "do not talk of feelings, Punch has no

feelings." This seems to have been his settled opinion; admirable as

Garrick's imitation of nature always was, Johnson thought it no better

than mere mimickry. Yet, it is certain, that he esteemed and loved

Garrick; that he dwelt with pleasure on his praise; and used to declare,

that he deserved his great success, because, on all applications for

charity, he gave more than was asked. After Garrick's death, he never

talked of him, without a tear in his eye. He offered, if Mrs. Garrick

would desire it of him, to be the editor of his works, and the historian

of his life[bb]. It has been mentioned, that, on his death-bed, he

thought of writing a Latin inscription to the memory of his friend.

Numbers are still living who know these facts, and still remember, with

gratitude, the friendship which he showed to them, with unaltered

affection, for a number of years. His humanity and generosity, in

proportion to his slender income, were unbounded. It has been truly

said, that the lame, the blind, and the sorrowful, found, in his house,

a sure retreat. A strict adherence to truth he considered as a sacred

obligation, insomuch that, in relating the most minute anecdote, he

would not allow himself the smallest addition to embellish his story.

The late Mr. Tyers, who knew Dr. Johnson intimately, observed, "that he

always talked, as if he was talking upon oath."

After a long acquaintance with this excellent man, and an attentive

retrospect to his whole conduct, such is the light in which he appears

to the writer of this essay. The following lines of Horace, may be

deemed his picture in miniature:

"Iracundior est paulo? minus aptus acutis

Naribus horum hominum? rideri possit, eo quod

Rusticius tonso toga defluit, et male laxus

In pede calceus haeret? At est bonus, ut melior vir

Non alius quisquam: at tibi amicus: at ingenium ingens

Inculto latet hoc sub corpore."

"Your friend is passionate, perhaps unfit

For the brisk petulance of modern wit.

His hair ill-cut, his robe, that awkward flows,

Or his large shoes, to raillery expose

The man you love; yet is he not possess'd

Of virtues, with which very few are blest?

While underneath this rude, uncouth disguise,

A genius of extensive knowledge lies."

Francis's Hor. book i. sat. 3.

It remains to give a review of Johnson's works; and this, it is

imagined, will not be unwelcome to the reader.

Like Milton and Addison, he seems to have been fond of his Latin poetry.

Those compositions show, that he was an early scholar; but his verses

have not the graceful ease, that gave so much suavity to the poems of

Addison. The translation of the Messiah labours under two disadvantages:

it is first to be compared with Pope's inimitable performance, and

afterwards with the Pollio of Virgil. It may appear trifling to remark,

that he has made the letter _o_, in the word _virgo_, long and short in

the same line: "Virgo, virgo parit." But the translation has great

merit, and some admirable lines. In the odes there is a sweet

flexibility, particularly--to his worthy friend Dr. Lawrence; on himself

at the theatre, March 8, 1771; the ode in the isle of Skie; and that to

Mrs. Thrale, from the same place.

His English poetry is such as leaves room to think, if he had devoted

himself to the muses, that he would have been the rival of Pope. His

first production, in this kind, was London, a poem in imitation of the

third satire of Juvenal. The vices of the metropolis are placed in the

room of ancient manners. The author had heated his mind with the ardour

of Juvenal, and, having the skill to polish his numbers, he became a

sharp accuser of the times. The Vanity of Human Wishes, is an imitation

of the tenth satire of the same author. Though it is translated by

Dryden, Johnson's imitation approaches nearest to the spirit of the

original. The subject is taken from the Alcibiades of Plato, and has an

intermixture of the sentiments of Socrates, concerning the object of

prayers offered up to the deity. The general proposition is, that good

and evil are so little understood by mankind, that their wishes, when

granted, are always destructive. This is exemplified in a variety of

instances, such as riches, state-preferment, eloquence, military glory,

long life, and the advantages of form and beauty. Juvenal's conclusion

is worthy of a christian poet, and such a pen as Johnson's. "Let us," he

says, "leave it to the gods to judge what is fittest for us. Man is

dearer to his creator than to himself. If we must pray for special

favour, let it be for a sound mind in a sound body. Let us pray for

fortitude, that we may think the labours of Hercules, and all his

sufferings, preferable to a life of luxury, and the soft repose of

Sardanapalus. This is a blessing within the reach of every man; this we

can give ourselves. It is virtue, and virtue only, that can make us

happy." In the translation, the zeal of the christian conspired with the

warmth and energy of the poet; but Juvenal is not eclipsed. For the

various characters in the original, the reader is pleased, in the

English poem, to meet with cardinal Wolsey, Buckingham stabbed by

Felton, lord Strafford, Clarendon, Charles the twelfth of Sweden; and

for Tully and Demosthenes, Lydiat, Galileo, and archbishop Laud. It is

owing to Johnson's delight in biography, that the name of Lydiat is

called forth from obscurity. It may, therefore, not be useless to tell,

that Lydiat was a learned divine and mathematician in the beginning of

the last century. He attacked the doctrine of Aristotle and Scaliger,

and wrote a number of sermons on the harmony of the evangelists. With

all his merit, he lay in the prison of Bocardo, at Oxford, till bishop

Usher, Laud, and others, paid his debts. He petitioned Charles the first

to be sent to Ethiopia, to procure manuscripts. Having spoken in favour

of monarchy and bishops, he was plundered by the puritans, and twice

carried away, a prisoner, from his rectory. He died, very poor, in 1646.

The tragedy of Irene is founded on a passage in Knolles's History of the

Turks; an author highly commended in the Rambler, No. 122. An incident

in the life of Mahomet the great, first emperor of the Turks, is the

hinge on which the fable is made to move. The substance of the story is

shortly this: In 1453, Mahomet laid siege to Constantinople, and having

reduced the place, became enamoured of a fair Greek, whose name was

Irene. The sultan invited her to embrace the law of the prophet, and to

grace his throne. Enraged at this intended marriage, the janizaries

formed a conspiracy to dethrone the emperor. To avert the impending

danger, Mahomet, in a full assembly of the grandees, "catching with one

hand," as Knolles relates it, "the fair Greek by the hair of her head,

and drawing his falchion with the other, he, at one blow, struck off her

head, to the great terror of them all; and, having so done, said unto

them: 'Now by this, judge whether your emperor is able to bridle his

affections or not.'" The story is simple, and it remained for the author

to amplify it, with proper episodes, and give it complication and

variety. The catastrophe is changed, and horror gives place to terror

and pity. But, after all, the fable is cold and languid. There is not,

throughout the piece, a single situation to excite curiosity, and raise

a conflict of passions. The diction is nervous, rich, and elegant; but

splendid language, and melodious numbers, will make a fine poem--not a

tragedy. The sentiments are beautiful, always happily expressed, but

seldom appropriated to the character, and generally too philosophic.

What Johnson has said of the tragedy of Cato, may be applied to Irene:

"It is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama; rather a succession of

just sentiments, in elegant language, than a representation of natural

affections. Nothing excites or assuages emotion. The events are expected

without solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the

agents we have no care; we consider not what they are doing, nor what

they are suffering; we wish only to know, what they have to say. It is

unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy." The following speech, in

the mouth of a Turk, who is supposed to have heard of the British

constitution, has been often selected from the numberless beauties with

which Irene abounds:

"If there be any land, as fame reports,

Where common laws restrain the prince and subject;

A happy land, where circulating power

Flows through each member of th' embodied state,

Sure, not unconscious of the mighty blessing,

Her grateful sons shine bright with ev'ry virtue;

Untainted with the LUST OF INNOVATION;

Sure, all unite to hold her league of rule,

Unbroken, as the sacred chain of nature,

That links the jarring elements in peace."

These are British sentiments. Above forty years ago, they found an echo

in the breast of applauding audiences; and to this hour they are the

voice of the people, in defiance of the metaphysics, and the new lights

of certain politicians, who would gladly find their private advantage in

the disasters of their country; a race of men, "quibus nulla ex honesto

spes."

The prologue to Irene is written with elegance, and, in a peculiar

style, shows the literary pride and lofty spirit of the author. The

epilogue, we are told, in a late publication, was written by sir William

Yonge. This is a new discovery, but by no means probable. When the

appendages to a dramatic performance are not assigned to a friend, or an

unknown hand, or a person of fashion, they are always supposed to be

written by the author of the play. It is to be wished, however, that the

epilogue, in question, could be transferred to any other writer. It is

the worst jeu d'esprit that ever fell from Johnson's pen[cc].

An account of the various pieces contained in this edition, such as

miscellaneous tracts, and philological dissertations, would lead beyond

the intended limits of this essay. It will suffice to say, that they are

the productions of a man, who never wanted decorations of language, and

always taught his reader to think. The life of the late king of Prussia,

as far as it extends, is a model of the biographical style. The review

of the Origin of Evil was, perhaps, written with asperity; but the angry

epitaph which it provoked from Soame Jenyns, was an ill-timed

resentment, unworthy of the genius of that amiable author.

The Rambler may be considered, as Johnson's great work. It was the basis

of that high reputation, which went on increasing to the end of his

days. The circulation of those periodical essays was not, at first,

equal to their merit. They had not, like the Spectators, the art of

charming by variety; and, indeed, how could it be expected? The wits of

queen Anne's reign sent their contributions to the Spectator; and

Johnson stood alone. A stagecoach, says sir Richard Steele, must go

forward on stated days, whether there are passengers or not. So it was

with the Rambler, every Tuesday and Saturday, for two years. In this

collection Johnson is the great moral teacher of his countrymen; his

essays form a body of ethics; the observations on life and manners, are

acute and instructive; and the papers, professedly critical, serve to

promote the cause of literature. It must, however, be acknowledged, that

a settled gloom hangs over the author's mind; and all the essays, except

eight or ten, coming from the same fountain-head, no wonder that they

have the raciness of the soil from which they sprang. Of this uniformity

Johnson was sensible. He used to say, that if he had joined a friend or

two, who would have been able to intermix papers of a sprightly turn,

the collection would have been more miscellaneous, and, by consequence,

more agreeable to the generality of readers. This he used to illustrate

by repeating two beautiful stanzas from his own ode to Cave, or Sylvanus

Urban:

"Non ulla musis pagina gratior,

Quam quae severis ludicra jungere

Novit, fatigatamque nugis

Utilibus recreare mentem.

Texente nymphis serta Lycoride,

Rosae ruborem sic viola adjuvat

Iramista, sic Iris refulget

Aethereis variata fucis."

It is remarkable, that the pomp of diction, which has been objected to

Johnson, was first assumed in the Rambler. His Dictionary was going on

at the same time, and, in the course of that work, as he grew familiar

with technical and scholastic words, he thought that the bulk of his

readers were equally learned; or, at least, would admire the splendour

and dignity of the style. And yet it is well known, that he praised, in

Cowley, the ease and unaffected structure of the sentences. Cowley may

be placed at the head of those who cultivated a clear and natural style.

Dryden, Tillotson, and sir William Temple followed. Addison, Swift, and

Pope, with more correctness, carried our language well nigh to

perfection. Of Addison, Johnson was used to say, "he is the Raphael of

essay writers." How he differed so widely from such elegant models, is a

problem not to be solved, unless it be true, that he took an early

tincture from the writers of the last century, particularly sir Thomas

Browne. Hence the peculiarities of his style, new combinations,

sentences of an unusual structure, and words derived from the learned

languages. His own account of the matter is: "When common words were

less pleasing to the ear, or less distinct in their signification, I

familiarized the terms of philosophy, by applying them to popular

ideas." But he forgot the observation of Dryden: "If too many foreign

words are poured in upon us, it looks, as if they were designed, not to

assist the natives, but to conquer them." There is, it must be admitted,

a swell of language, often out of all proportion to the sentiment; but

there is, in general, a fulness of mind, and the thought seems to expand

with the sound of the words. Determined to discard colloquial barbarisms

and licentious idioms, he forgot the elegant simplicity that

distinguishes the writings of Addison. He had, what Locke calls, a

round-about view of his subject; and, though he never was tainted, like

many modern wits, with the ambition of shining in paradox, he may be

fairly called an original thinker. His reading was extensive. He

treasured in his mind whatever was worthy of notice, but he added to it

from his own meditation. He collected, "quae reconderet, auetaque

promeret." Addison was not so profound a thinker. He was "born to write,

converse, and live with ease;" and he found an early patron in lord

Somers. He depended, however, more upon a fine taste than the vigour of

his mind. His Latin poetry shows, that he relished, with a just

selection, all the refined and delicate beauties of the Roman classics;

and, when he cultivated his native language, no wonder that he formed

that graceful style, which has been so justly admired; simple, yet

elegant; adorned, yet never over-wrought; rich in allusion, yet pure and

perspicuous; correct, without labour; and though, sometimes, deficient

in strength, yet always musical. His essays, in general, are on the

surface of life; if ever original, it was in pieces of humour. Sir Roger

de Coverly, and the tory fox-hunter, need not to be mentioned. Johnson

had a fund of humour, but he did not know it; nor was he willing to

descend to the familiar idiom, and the variety of diction, which that

mode of composition required. The letter, in the Rambler, No. 12, from a

young girl that wants a place, will illustrate this observation. Addison

possessed an unclouded imagination, alive to the first objects of nature

and of art. He reaches the sublime without any apparent effort. When he

tells us, "If we consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame,

that are each of them attended with a different set of planets; if we

still discover new firmaments, and new lights, that are sunk further in

those unfathomable depths of ether; we are lost in a labyrinth of suns

and worlds, and confounded with the magnificence and immensity of

nature;" the ease, with which this passage rises to unaffected grandeur,

is the secret charm that captivates the reader. Johnson is always lofty;

he seems, to use Dryden's phrase, to be "o'erinform'd with meaning," and

his words do not appear to himself adequate to his conception. He moves

in state, and his periods are always harmonious. His Oriental Tales are

in the true style of eastern magnificence, and yet none of them are so

much admired, as the Visions of Mirza. In matters of criticism, Johnson

is never the echo of preceding writers. He thinks, and decides, for

himself. If we except the essays on the Pleasures of Imagination,

Addison cannot be called a philosophical critic. His moral essays are

beautiful; but in that province nothing can exceed the Rambler, though

Johnson used to say, that the essay on "the burthens of mankind," (in

the Spectator, No. 558,) was the most exquisite he had ever read.

Talking of himself, Johnson said, "Topham Beauclerk has wit, and every

thing comes from him with ease; but when I say a good thing, I seem to

labour." When we compare him with Addison, the contrast is still

stronger: Addison lends grace and ornament to truth; Johnson gives it

force and energy. Addison makes virtue amiable; Johnson represents it as

an awful duty: Addison insinuates himself with an air of modesty;

Johnson commands like a dictator; but a dictator in his splendid robes,

not labouring at the plough: Addison is the Jupiter of Virgil, with

placid serenity talking to Venus,

"Vultu, quo coelum tempestatesque serenat."

Johnson is Jupiter Tonans: he darts his lightning and rolls his thunder,

in the cause of virtue and piety. The language seems to fall short of

his ideas; he pours along, familiarizing the terms of philosophy, with

bold inversions, and sonorous periods; but we may apply to him, what

Pope has said of Homer: "It is the sentiment that swells and fills out

the diction, which rises with it, and forms itself about it: like glass

in the furnace, which grows to a greater magnitude, as the breath within

is more powerful, and the heat more intense."

It is not the design of this comparison to decide between these two

eminent writers. In matters of taste every reader will choose for

himself. Johnson is always profound, and, of course, gives the fatigue

of thinking. Addison charms, while he instructs; and writing, as he

always does, a pure, an elegant, and idiomatic style, he may be

pronounced the safest model for imitation.

The essays written by Johnson in the Adventurer, may be called a

continuation of the Rambler. The Idler, in order to be consistent with

the assumed character, is written with abated vigour, in a style of ease

and unlaboured elegance. It is the Odyssey, after the Iliad. Intense

thinking would not become the Idler. The first number presents a well-drawn

portrait of an Idler, and from that character no deviation could

be made. Accordingly, Johnson forgets his austere manner, and plays us

into sense. He still continues his lectures on human life, but he

adverts to common occurrences, and is often content with the topic of

the day. An advertisement in the beginning of the first volume informs

us, that twelve entire essays were a contribution from different hands.

One of these, No. 33, is the journal of a senior fellow, at Cambridge,

but, as Johnson, being himself an original thinker, always revolted from

servile imitation, he has printed the piece with an apology, importing,

that the journal of a citizen, in the Spectator, almost precluded the

attempt of any subsequent writer. This account of the Idler may be

closed, after observing, that the author's mother being buried on the

23rd of January, 1759, there is an admirable paper occasioned by that

event, on Saturday, the 27th of the same month, No. 41. The reader, if

he pleases, may compare it with another fine paper in the Rambler, No.

54, on the conviction that rushes on the mind at the bed of a dying

friend.

"Rasselas," says sir John Hawkins, "is a specimen of our language

scarcely to be paralleled; it is written in a style refined to a degree

of immaculate purity, and displays the whole force of turgid eloquence."

One cannot but smile at this encomium. Rasselas, is, undoubtedly, both

elegant and sublime. It is a view of human life, displayed, it must be

owned, in gloomy colours. The author's natural melancholy, depressed, at

the time, by the approaching dissolution of his mother, darkened the

picture. A tale, that should keep curiosity awake by the artifice of

unexpected incidents, was not the design of a mind pregnant with better

things. He, who reads the heads of the chapters, will find, that it is

not a course of adventures that invites him forward, but a discussion of

interesting questions; reflections on human life; the history of Imlac,

the man of learning; a dissertation upon poetry; the character of a wise

and happy man, who discourses, with energy, on the government of the

passions, and, on a sudden, when death deprives him of his daughter,

forgets all his maxims of wisdom, and the eloquence that adorned them,

yielding to the stroke of affliction, with all the vehemence of the

bitterest anguish. It is by pictures of life, and profound moral

reflection, that expectation is engaged, and gratified throughout the

work. The history of the mad astronomer, who imagines that, for five

years, he possessed the regulation of the weather, and that the sun

passed, from tropic to tropic, by his direction, represents, in striking

colours, the sad effects of a distempered imagination. It becomes the

more affecting when we recollect, that it proceeds from one who lived in

fear of the same dreadful visitation; from one who says emphatically:

"Of the uncertainties in our present state, the most dreadful and

alarming is the uncertain continuance of reason." The inquiry into the

cause of madness, and the dangerous prevalence of imagination, till, in

time, some particular train of ideas fixes the attention, and the mind

recurs constantly to the favourite conception, is carried on in a strain

of acute observation; but it leaves us room to think, that the author

was transcribing from his own apprehensions. The discourse on the nature

of the soul, gives us all that philosophy knows, not without a tincture

of superstition. It is remarkable, that the vanity of human pursuits

was, about the same time, the subject that employed both Johnson and

Voltaire; but Candide is the work of a lively imagination; and Rasselas,

with all its splendour of eloquence, exhibits a gloomy picture. It

should, however, be remembered, that the world has known the weeping, as

well as the laughing philosopher.

The Dictionary does not properly fall within the province of this essay.

The preface, however, will be found in this edition. He who reads the

close of it, without acknowledging the force of the pathethic and

sublime, must have more insensibility in his composition, than usually

falls to the share of a man. The work itself, though, in some instances,

abuse has been loud, and, in others, malice has endeavoured to undermine

its fame, still remains the MOUNT ATLAS of English literature.

"Though storms and tempests thunder on its brow,

And oceans break their billows at its feet,

It stands unmov'd, and glories in its height."

That Johnson was eminently qualified for the office of a commentator on

Shakespeare, no man can doubt; but it was an office which he never

cordially embraced. The public expected more than he had diligence to

perform; and yet his edition has been the ground, on which every

subsequent commentator has chosen to build. One note, for its

singularity, may be thought worthy of notice in this place. Hamlet says,

"For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god-kissing

carrion." In this Warburton discovered the origin of evil. Hamlet, he

says, breaks off in the middle of the sentence; but the learned

commentator knows what he was going to say, and, being unwilling to keep

the secret, he goes on in a train of philosophical reasoning, that

leaves the reader in astonishment. Johnson, with true piety, adopts the

fanciful hypothesis, declaring it to be a noble emendation, which almost

sets the critic on a level with the author. The general observations at

the end of the several plays, and the preface, will be found in this

edition. The former, with great elegance and precision, give a summary

view of each drama. The preface is a tract of great erudition and

philosophical criticism.

Johnson's political pamphlets, whatever was his motive for writing them,

whether gratitude for his pension, or the solicitation of men in power,

did not support the cause for which they were undertaken. They are

written in a style truly harmonious, and with his usual dignity of

language. When it is said that he advanced positions repugnant to the

"common rights of mankind," the virulence of party may be suspected. It

is, perhaps, true, that in the clamour, raised throughout the kingdom,

Johnson overheated his mind; but he was a friend to the rights of man,

and he was greatly superior to the littleness of spirit, that might

incline him to advance what he did not think and firmly believe. In the

False Alarm, though many of the most eminent men in the kingdom

concurred in petitions to the throne, yet Johnson, having well surveyed

the mass of the people, has given, with great humour, and no less truth,

what may be called, "the birth, parentage, and education of a

remonstrance." On the subject of Falkland's islands, the fine dissuasive

from too hastily involving the world in the calamities of war, must

extort applause even from the party that wished, at that time, for

scenes of tumult and commotion. It was in the same pamphlet, that

Johnson offered battle to Junius, a writer, who, by the uncommon

elegance of his style, charmed every reader, though his object was to

inflame the nation in favour of a faction. Junius fought in the dark; he

saw his enemy, and had his full blow; while he himself remained safe in

obscurity. "But let us not," said Johnson, "mistake the venom of the

shaft, for the vigour of the bow." The keen invective which he

published, on that occasion, promised a paper war between two

combatants, who knew the use of their weapons. A battle between them was

as eagerly expected, as between Mendoza and Big Ben. But Junius,

whatever was his reason, never returned to the field. He laid down his

arms, and has, ever since, remained as secret as the man in the mask, in

Voltaire's history.

The account of his journey to the Hebrides, or western isles of

Scotland, is a model for such as shall, hereafter, relate their travels.

The author did not visit that part of the world in the character of an

antiquary, to amuse us with wonders taken from the dark and fabulous

ages; nor, as a mathematician, to measure a degree, and settle the

longitude and latitude of the several islands. Those, who expected such

information, expected what was never intended. "In every work regard the

writer's end." Johnson went to see men and manners, modes of life, and

the progress of civilization. His remarks are so artfully blended with

the rapidity and elegance of his narrative, that the reader is inclined

to wish, as Johnson did, with regard to Gray, that "to travel, and to

tell his travels, had been more of his employment."

As to Johnson's Parliamentary Debates, nothing, with propriety, can be

said in this place. They are collected, in two volumes, by Mr.

Stockdale, and the flow of eloquence which runs through the several

speeches, is sufficiently known.

It will not be useless to mention two more volumes, which may form a

proper supplement to this edition. They contain a set of sermons, left

for publication by John Taylor, LL.D. The reverend Mr. Hayes, who

ushered these discourses into the world, has not given them, as the

composition of Dr. Taylor. All he could say for his departed friend was,

that he left them, in silence, among his papers. Mr. Hayes knew them to

be the production of a superior mind; and the writer of these memoirs

owes it to the candour of that elegant scholar, that he is now warranted

to give an additional proof of Johnson's ardour in the cause of piety,

and every moral duty. The last discourse in the collection was intended

to be delivered by Dr. Taylor, at the funeral of Johnson's wife; but

that reverend gentleman declined the office, because, as he told Mr.

Hayes, the praise of the deceased was too much amplified. He, who reads

the piece, will find it a beautiful moral lesson, written with temper,

and nowhere overcharged with ambitious ornaments. The rest of the

discourses were the fund, which Dr. Taylor, from time to time, carried

with him to his pulpit. He had the _largest bull_[dd] in England, and

some of the best sermons.

We come now to the Lives of the Poets, a work undertaken at the age of

seventy, yet, the most brilliant, and, certainly, the most popular, of

all our author's writings. For this performance he needed little

preparation. Attentive always to the history of letters, and, by his own

natural bias, fond of biography, he was the more willing to embrace the

proposition of the booksellers. He was versed in the whole body of

English poetry, and his rules of criticism were settled with precision.

The dissertation, in the life of Cowley, on the metaphysical poets of

the last century, has the attraction of novelty, as well as sound

observation. The writers, who followed Dr. Donne, went in quest of

something better than truth and nature. As Sancho says, in Don Quixote,

they wanted better bread than is made with wheat. They took pains to

bewilder themselves, and were ingenious for no other purpose than to

err. In Johnson's review of Cowley's works, false wit is detected in all

its shapes, and the Gothic taste for glittering conceits, and far-fetched

allusions, is exploded, never, it is hoped, to revive again.

An author who has published his observations on the Life and Writings of

Dr. Johnson, speaking of the Lives of the Poets, says, "These

compositions, abounding in strong and acute remark, and with many fine,

and even sublime, passages, have, unquestionably, great merit; but, if

they be regarded, merely as containing narrations of the lives,

delineations of the characters, and strictures of the several authors,

they are far from being always to be depended on." He adds: "The

characters are sometimes partial, and there is, sometimes, too much

malignity of misrepresentation, to which, perhaps, may be joined no

inconsiderable portion of erroneous criticism." The several clauses of

this censure deserve to be answered, as fully as the limits of this

essay will permit.

In the first place, the facts are related upon the best intelligence,

and the best vouchers that could be gleaned, after a great lapse of

time. Probability was to be inferred from such materials, as could be

procured, and no man better understood the nature of historical evidence

than Dr. Johnson; no man was more religiously an observer of truth. If

his history is any where defective, it must be imputed to the want of

better information, and the errors of uncertain tradition.

"Ad nos vix tenuis famae perlabitur aura."

If the strictures on the works of the various authors are not always

satisfactory, and if erroneous criticism may sometimes be suspected, who

can hope, that in matters of taste, all shall agree? The instances, in

which the public mind has differed, from the positions advanced by the

author, are few in number. It has been said, that justice has not been

done to Swift; that Gay and Prior are undervalued; and that Gray has

been harshly treated. This charge, perhaps, ought not to be disputed.

Johnson, it is well known, had conceived a prejudice against Swift. His

friends trembled for him, when he was writing that life, but were

pleased, at last, to see it executed with temper and moderation. As to

Prior, it is probable that he gave his real opinion, but an opinion that

will not be adopted by men of lively fancy. With regard to Gray, when he

condemns the apostrophe, in which father Thames is desired to tell who

drives the hoop, or tosses the ball, and then adds, that father Thames

had no better means of knowing than himself; when he compares the abrupt

beginning of the first stanza of the bard, to the ballad of Johnny

Armstrong, "Is there ever a man in all Scotland;" there are, perhaps,

few friends of Johnson, who would not wish to blot out both the

passages.

It may be questioned, whether the remarks on Pope's Essay on Man can be

received, without great caution. It has been already mentioned, that

Crousaz, a professor in Switzerland, eminent for his Treatise of Logic,

started up a professed enemy to that poem. Johnson says, "his mind was

one of those, in which philosophy and piety are happily united. He

looked, with distrust, upon all metaphysical systems of theology, and

was persuaded, that the positions of Pope were intended to draw mankind

away from revelation, and to represent the whole course of things, as a

necessary concatenation of indissoluble fatality." This is not the place

fur a controversy about the Leibnitzian system. Warburton, with all the

powers of his large and comprehensive mind, published a vindication of

Pope; and yet Johnson says, that, "in many passages, a religious eye may

easily discover expressions not very favourable to morals, or to

liberty." This sentence is severe, and, perhaps, dogmatical. Crousaz

wrote an Examen of the Essay on Man, and, afterwards, a commentary on

every remarkable passage; and, though it now appears, that Mrs.

Elizabeth Carter translated the foreign critic, yet it is certain, that

Johnson encouraged the work, and, perhaps, imbibed those early

prejudices, which adhered to him to the end of his life. He shuddered at

the idea of irreligion. Hence, we are told, in the life of Pope, "Never

were penury of knowledge, and vulgarity of sentiment, so happily

disguised; Pope, in the chair of wisdom, tells much that every man

knows, and much that he did not know himself; and gives us comfort in

the position, that though man's a fool, yet God is wise; that human

advantages are unstable; that our true honour is, not to have a great

part, but to act it well; that virtue only is our own, and that

happiness is always in our power." The reader, when he meets all this in

its new array, no longer knows the talk of his mother and his nurse.

But, may it not be said, that every system of ethics must, or ought, to

terminate, in plain and general maxims for the use of life? and, though

in such anxioms no discovery is made, does not the beauty of the moral

theory consist in the premises, and the chain of reasoning that leads to

the conclusion? May not truth, as Johnson himself says, be conveyed to

the mind by a new train of intermediate images? Pope's doctrine, about

the ruling passion, does not seem to be refuted, though it is called, in

harsh terms, pernicious, as well as false, tending to establish a kind

of moral predestination, or overruling principle, which cannot be

resisted. But Johnson was too easily alarmed in the cause of religion.

Organized as the human race is, individuals have different inlets of

perception, different powers of mind, and different sensations of

pleasure and pain.

"All spread their charms, but charm not all alike,

On different senses different objects strike:

Hence different passions more or less inflame,

As strong or weak the organs of the frame.

And hence one master-passion in the breast,

Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest."

Brumoy says, Pascal, from his infancy, felt himself a geometrician; and

Vandyke, in like manner, was a painter. Shakespeare, who, of all poets,

had the deepest insight into human nature, was aware of a prevailing

bias in the operations of every mind. By him we are told, "Masterless

passion sways us to the mood of what it likes or loathes."

It remains to inquire, whether, in the lives before us, the characters

are partial, and too often drawn with malignity of misrepresentation? To

prove this, it is alleged, that Johnson has misrepresented the

circumstances relative to the translation of the first Iliad, and

maliciously ascribed that performance to Addison, instead of Tickell,

with too much reliance on the testimony of Pope, taken from the account

in the papers left by Mr. Spence. For a refutation of the fallacy

imputed to Addison, we are referred to a note in the Biographia

Britannica, written by the late judge Blackstone, who, it is said,

examined the whole matter with accuracy, and found, that the first

regular statement of the accusation against Addison, was published by

Ruffhead, in his life of Pope, from the materials which he received from

Dr. Warburton. But, with all due deference to the learned judge, whose

talents deserve all praise, this account is by no means accurate.

Sir Richard Steele, in a dedication of the comedy of the Drummer, to Mr.

Congreve, gave the first insight into that business. He says, in a style

of anger and resentment: "If that gentleman (Mr. Tickell) thinks himself

injured, I will allow I have wronged him upon this issue, that, if the

reputed translator of the first book of Homer shall please to give us

another book, there shall appear another good judge in poetry, besides

Mr. Alexander Pope, who shall like it." The authority of Steele

outweighs all opinions, founded on vain conjecture, and, indeed, seems

to be decisive, since we do not find that Tickell, though warmly

pressed, thought proper to vindicate himself.

But the grand proof of Johnson's malignity, is the manner in which he

has treated the character and conduct of Milton. To enforce this charge

has wearied sophistry, and exhausted the invention of a party. What they

cannot deny, they palliate; what they cannot prove, they say is

probable. But why all this rage against Dr. Johnson? Addison, before

him, had said of Milton:

"Oh! had the poet ne'er profan'd his pen,

To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men!"

And had not Johnson an equal right to avow his sentiments? Do his

enemies claim a privilege to abuse whatever is valuable to Englishmen,

either in church or state? and must the liberty of unlicensed printing

be denied to the friends of the British constitution?

It is unnecessary to pursue the argument through all its artifices,

since, dismantled of ornament and seducing language, the plain truth may

be stated in a narrow compass. Johnson knew that Milton was a

republican: he says, "an acrimonious and surly republican, for which it

is not known that he gave any better reason than, that a popular

government was the most frugal; for the trappings of a monarchy would

set up an ordinary commonwealth." Johnson knew that Milton talked aloud

"of the danger of readmitting kingship in this nation;" and when Milton

adds, "that a commonwealth was commended, or rather enjoined, by our

Saviour himself, to all christians, not without a remarkable

disallowance, and the brand of gentilism upon kingship," Johnson thought

him no better than a wild enthusiast. He knew, as well as Milton, "that

the happiness of a nation must needs be firmest and certainest in a full

and free council of their own electing, where no single person, but

reason only, sways;" but the example of all the republicks, recorded in

the annals of mankind, gave him no room to hope, that reason only would

be heard. He knew, that the republican form of government, having little

or no complication, and no consonance of parts, by a nice mechanism

forming a regular whole, was too simple to be beautiful, even in theory.

In practice it, perhaps, never existed. In its most flourishing state,

at Athens, Rome, and Carthage, it was a constant scene of tumult and

commotion. From the mischiefs of a wild democracy, the progress has ever

been to the dominion of an aristocracy; and the word aristocracy,

fatally includes the boldest and most turbulent citizens, who rise by

their crimes, and call themselves the best men in the state. By

intrigue, by cabal, and faction, a pernicious oligarchy is sure to

succeed, and end, at last, in the tyranny of a single ruler. Tacitus,

the great master of political wisdom, saw, under the mixed authority of

king, nobles, and people, a better form of government than Milton's

boasted republick; and what Tacitus admired in theory, but despaired of

enjoying, Johnson saw established in this country. He knew that it had

been overturned by the rage of frantic men; but he knew that, after the

iron rod of Cromwell's usurpation, the constitution was once more

restored to its first principles. Monarchy was established, and this

country was regenerated. It was regenerated a second time, at the

revolution: the rights of men were then defined, and the blessings of

good order, and civil liberty, have been ever since diffused through the

whole community.

The peace and happiness of society were what Dr. Johnson had at heart.

He knew that Milton called his defence of the regicides, a defence of

the people of England; but, however glossed and varnished, he thought it

an apology for murder. Had the men, who, under a show of liberty,

brought their king to the scaffold, proved, by their subsequent conduct,

that the public good inspired their actions, the end might have given

some sanction to the means; but usurpation and slavery followed. Milton

undertook the office of secretary, under the despotic power of Cromwell,

offering the incense of adulation to his master, with the titles of

"director of public councils, the leader of unconquered armies, the

father of his country." Milton declared, at the same time, "that nothing

is more pleasing to God, or more agreeable to reason, than that the

highest mind should have the sovereign power." In this strain of servile

flattery, Milton gives us the right divine of tyrants. But it seems, in

the same piece, he exhorts Cromwell "not to desert those great

principles of liberty which he had professed to espouse; for, it would

be a grievous enormity, if, after having successfully opposed tyranny,

he should himself act the part of a tyrant, and betray the cause that he

had defended." This desertion of every honest principle the advocate for

liberty lived to see. Cromwell acted the tyrant; and, with vile

hypocrisy, told the people, that he had consulted the Lord, and the Lord

would have it so. Milton took an under part in the tragedy. Did that

become the defender of the people of England? Brutus saw his country

enslaved; he struck the blow for freedom, and he died with honour in the

cause. Had he lived to be a secretary under Tiberius, what would now be

said of his memory?

But still, it seems, the prostitution with which Milton is charged,

since it cannot be defended, is to be retorted on the character of

Johnson. For this purpose, a book has been published, called Remarks on

Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton; to which are added, Milton's Tractate of

Education, and Areopagitica. In this laboured tract we are told, "There

is one performance, ascribed to the pen of the Doctor, where the

prostitution is of so singular a nature, that it would be difficult to

select an adequate motive for it, out of the mountainous heap of

conjectural causes of human passions, or human caprice. It is the speech

of the late unhappy Dr. William Dodd, when he was about to hear the

sentence of the law pronounced upon him, in consequence of an indictment

for forgery. The voice of the public has given the honour of

manufacturing this speech to Dr. Johnson; and the style, and

configuration of the speech itself, confirm the imputation. But it is

hardly possible to divine what could be his motive for accepting the

office. A man, to express the precise state of mind of another, about to

be destined to an ignominious death, for a capital crime, should, one

would imagine, have some consciousness, that he himself had incurred

some guilt of the same kind." In all the schools of sophistry, is there

to be found so vile an argument? In the purlieus of Grub street, is

there such another mouthful of dirt? In the whole quiver of malice, is

there so envenomed a shaft?

After this, it is to be hoped, that a certain class of men will talk no

more of Johnson's malignity. The last apology for Milton is, that he

acted according to his principles. But Johnson thought those principles

detestable; pernicious to the constitution, in church and state,

destructive of the peace of society, and hostile to the great fabric of

civil policy, which the wisdom of ages has taught every Briton to

revere, to love, and cherish. He reckoned Milton in that class of men,

of whom the Roman historian says, when they want, by a sudden

convulsion, to overturn the government, they roar and clamour for

liberty; if they succeed, they destroy liberty itself: "Ut imperium

evertant, libertatem praeferunt; si perverterint, libertatem ipsam

aggredientur." Such were the sentiments of Dr. Johnson; and it may be

asked, in the language of Bolingbroke, "Are these sentiments, which any

man, who is born a Briton, in any circumstances, in any situation, ought

to be ashamed, or afraid to avow?" Johnson has done ample justice to

Milton's poetry: the criticism on Paradise Lost is a sublime

composition. Had he thought the author as good and pious a citizen as

Dr. Watts, he would have been ready, notwithstanding his nonconformity,

to do equal honour to the memory of the man.

It is now time to close this essay, which the author fears has been

drawn too much into length. In the progress of the work, feeble as it

may be, he thought himself performing the last human office to the

memory of a friend, whom he loved, esteemed, and honoured:

"His saltern accumulem donis, et fungar inani

Munere."--

The author of these memoirs has been anxious to give the features of the

man, and the true character of the author. He has not suffered the hand

of partiality to colour his excellencies with too much warmth; nor has

he endeavoured to throw his singularities too much into the shade. Dr.

Johnson's failings may well be forgiven, for the sake of his virtues.

His defects were spots in the sun. His piety, his kind affections, and

the goodness of his heart, present an example worthy of imitation. His

works still remain a monument of genius and of learning. Had he written

nothing but what is contained in this edition, the quantity shows a life

spent in study and meditation. If to this be added, the labour of his

Dictionary, and other various productions, it may be fairly allowed, as

he used to say of himself, that he has written his share. In the volumes

here presented to the public the reader will find a perpetual source of

pleasure and instruction. With due precautions, authors may learn to

grace their style with elegance, harmony, and precision; they may be

taught to think with vigour and perspicuity; and, to crown the whole, by

a diligent attention to these books, all may advance in virtue.

FOOTNOTES

[a] Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. ii. p. 465, 4to. edit.

[b] This appears in a note to Johnson's Diary, prefixed to the first of

his Prayers. After the alteration of the style, he kept his birthday

on the 18th of September, and it is accordingly marked September

7/18

[c] The impression which this interview left on Johnson's fancy, is

recorded by Mrs. Piozzi in her anecdotes; and Johnson's description

of it is picturesque and poetical. Being asked if he could remember

queen Anne, "he had (he said) a confused, but somehow a sort of

solemn recollection of a lady in diamonds, and a long black hood."

--ED.

[d] The entry of this is remarkable for his early resolution to preserve

through life a fair and upright character. "1732, Junii 15. Undecim

aureos deposui, quo die, quidquid ante matris funus (quod serum sit

precor) de paternis bonis sperare licet, viginti scilicet libras,

accepi. Usque adeo mihi mea fortuna fingenda est. Interea, ne

paupertate vires animi languescant, nec in flagitia egestas abigat,

cavendum."

[e] This, Mr. Bruce, the late traveller, avers to be a downright

falsehood. He says, a deep pool of water reaches to the very foot of

the rock; and, allowing that there was a seat or bench (which there

is not) in the middle of the pool, it is absolutely impossible, by

any exertion of human strength, to have arrived at it. But it may be

asked, can Mr. Bruce say what was the face of the country in the

year 1622, when Lobo saw the magnificent sight which he has

described? Mr. Bruce's pool of water may have been formed since; and

Lobo, perhaps, was content to sit down without a bench.

[f] After comparing this description with that lately given by Mr.

Bruce, the reader will judge, whether Lobo is to lose the honour of

having been at the head of the Nile, near two centuries before any

other European traveller.

[g] See the Gentleman's Magazine for 1736, p. 418.

[h] It is added to the present edition of Dr. Johnson's works; vol. v.

p. 202.

[i] Afterwards earl of Roslin. He died January 3, 1805.

[Transcriber's Note: There is no Footnote [j]]

[k] Mr. Boswell says, "The simple truth I had from Johnson himself.

'Sir, he was impertinent to me, and I beat him. But it was not in

his shop: it was in my own chamber.'"

[l] Dr. Johnson denies the whole of this story. See Boswell's Life, vol.

i. p. 128. oct. edit. 1804.

[m] Letter 212.

[n] See Gent. Mag. vol. lxxi. p. 190.

[o] It has since been paralleled, in the case of the Shakespeare MSS. by

a yet more vile impostor.

[p] Life of Johnson, vol. i. p.328. 4to. edit.

[q] See Gentleman's Magazine for Nov. and Dec. 1787.

[r] See Gentleman's Magazine for Dec. 1787, p. 1042.

[s] This work was not published until the year 1767, when Dr. Johnson's

Dictionary was fully established in reputation.

[t] See Scaliger's epigram on this subject, (communicated, without

doubt, by Dr. Johnson,) Gent. Mag. 1748, p. 8.

[u] See Johnson's epitaph on him, in this volume, p. 130.

[Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [v] or Footnote [w]]

[x] Mr. Boswell's account of this introduction is very different from

the above. See his Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 360. 8vo. edit. 1804.

[y] It is there deposited.

[z] Before this authentic communication, Mr. Nichols had given, in the

volume of the Gentleman's Magazine, for 1781, p. 370, the following

account of the Universal History. The proposals were published

October 6, 1729; and the authors of the first seven volumes were,

Vol. I. Mr. Sale, translator of the Koran. IV. The same as vol. iii.

II. George Psalmanazar. V. Mr. Bower.

III. George Psalmanazar. VI. Mr. Bower.

Archibald Bower. Rev. John Swinton.

Captain Shelvock. VII. Mr. Swinton.

Dr. Campbell. Mr. Bower.

[aa] On the subject of voluntary penance, see the Rambler, No. 110.

[bb] It is to be regretted, that he was not encouraged in this

undertaking. The assistance, however, which he gave to Davies, in

writing the Life of Garrick, has been acknowledged, in general

terms, by that writer, and, from the evidence of style, appears to

have been very considerable.

[cc] Dr. Johnson informed Mr. Boswell, that this epilogue was written by

sir William Yonge. See Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 469--

70. 8vo. edit. 1804. The internal evidence, that it is not

Johnson's, is very strong, particularly in the line, "But how the

devil," &c.

[dd] See Johnson's letters from Ashbourne, in this volume.

POEMS.

PREFATORY OBSERVATIONS

TO THE IMITATIONS OF THE

THIRD AND TENTH SATIRES OF JUVENAL.

We will not examine here Johnson's poetical merits, since that

discussion will more properly introduce his Lives of the Poets, but

merely offer some few biographical remarks. In the poem of London, Mr.

Boswell was of opinion, that Johnson did not allude to Savage, under the

name of Thales, and adds, for his reason, that Johnson was not so much

as acquainted with Savage when he _wrote_ his London. About a month,

however, before he _published_ this poem, he addressed the following

lines to him, through the Gentleman's Magazine, for April, 1738.

AD RICARDUM SAVAGE.

Humanani studium generis cui pectore fervet

O colat humanum te, foveatque, genus!

We cannot certainly infer, from this, an intimacy with Savage, but it is

more probable, that these lines flowed from a feeling of private

friendship, than mere admiration of an author, in a public point of

view; and they, at any rate, give credibility to the general opinion,

that, under the name of Thales, the poet referred to the author of the

Wanderer, who was, at this time, preparing for his retreat to Wales,

whither he actually went in the ensuing year.

The names of Lydiat, Vane, and Sedley, which are brought forward in the

poem on the Vanity of Human Wishes, as examples of inefficiency of

either learning or beauty, to shield their possessors from distress,

have exercised inquiry. The following is the best account of them we can

collect:

THOMAS LYDIAT was born in 1572. After passing through the studies of the

university of Oxford, with applause, he was elected fellow of New

college; but his defective utterance induced him to resign his

fellowship, in order to avoid entering holy orders, and to live upon a

small patrimony. He was highly esteemed by the accomplished and

unfortunate prince Henry, son of James the first. But his hopes of

provision in that quarter were blasted by that prince's premature death;

and he then accompanied the celebrated Usher into Ireland. After two or

three years, he returned to England, and poverty induced him now to

accept the rectory of Okerton, near Banbury, which he had before

declined. Here he imprudently became security for the debts of a

relation, and, being unable to pay, was imprisoned for several years. He

was released, at last, by his patron, Usher, sir W. Boswell, Dr. Pink,

then warden of New college, and archbishop Laud, to whom he showed his

gratitude by writing in defence of his measures of church-government. He

now applied to Charles the first for his protection and encouragement to

travel into the east, to collect MSS. but the embarrassed state of the

king's affairs prevented his petition from receiving attention. Lastly,

his well-known attachment to the royal cause drew upon him the repeated

violence of the parliament troops, who plundered, imprisoned, and abused

him, in the most cruel manner. He died in obscurity and indigence, in

1646. A stone was laid over his grave in Okerton church, in 1669, by the

society of New college, who also erected an honorary monument to his

memory in the cloisters of their college. We have dwelt thus long on

Lydiat's name, because, when this poem was published, it was a subject

of inquiry, who Lydiat was, though some of his contemporaries, both in

England and on the continent, ranked him with lord Bacon, in

mathematical and physical knowledge. For a more detailed account, see

Chalmers' Biographical Dictionary, vol. xxi. whence the above facts have

been extracted, and Gentleman's Magazine, vol. lxviii. GALILEO, and his

history, are too well known to require a note in this place.

The VANE, who told, "what ills from beauty spring," was not Lady Vane,

the subject of Smollett's memoirs, in Peregrine Pickle, but, according

to Mr. Malone, she was Anne Vane, mistress to Frederick prince of Wales,

and died in 1736, not long before Johnson settled in London. Some

account of her was published, under the title of the Secret History of

Vanella, 8vo. 1732, and in other similar works, referred to in Boswell,

i. 173. In Mr. Boswell's Tour to the Hebrides, we find lord Hailes

objecting to the instances of unfortunate beauties selected by Johnson,

and suggesting, in place of Vane and Sedley, the names of Shore and

Valière.

CATHERINE SEDLEY was daughter of sir Charles Sedley, mistress of king

James the second, who created her countess of Dorchester. She was a

woman of a sprightly and agreeable wit, which could charm without the

aid of beauty, and longer maintain its power. She had been the king's

mistress before he ascended the throne, and soon after (January 2,

1685-6) was created countess of Dorchester. Sir C. Sedley, her father,

looked on this title, as a splendid indignity, purchased at the expense of

his daughter's honour; and when he was very active against the king, about

the time of the revolution, he said, that, in gratitude, he should do

his utmost to make his majesty's daughter a queen, as the king had made

his own a countess. The king continued to visit her, which gave great

uneasiness to the queen, who employed her friends, particularly the

priests, to persuade him to break off the correspondence. They

remonstrated with him on the guilt of the commerce, and the reproach it

would bring on the catholic religion; she, on the contrary, employed the

whole force of her ridicule against the priests and their counsels.

They, at length, prevailed, and he is said to have sent her word to

retire to France, or that her pension of 4,000_l_. a year should be

withdrawn. She then, probably, repented of having been the royal

mistress, and "cursed the form that pleased the king."

See Manning and Bray's Surrey, ii. 788. where the countess's issue is

also given. See, also, Christian's note on Blackstone's Com. iv. p. 65.

It is remarkable, that when Johnson was asked, at a late period of his

life, to whom he had alluded, under the name of Sedley, he said, that he

had quite forgotten. See note on Idler, No. 36.--ED.

LONDON; A POEM:

IN IMITATION OF

THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL

WRITTEN IN 1738.

--Quis ineptae

Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se? JUV.

[a]Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel,

When injur'd Thales bids the town farewell,

Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend,

I praise the hermit, but regret the friend;

Resolv'd at length, from vice and London far,

To breathe, in distant fields, a purer air,

And, fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore,

Give to St. David one true Briton more.

[b]For who would leave, unbrib'd, Hibernia's land,

Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand?

There none are swept by sudden fate away,

But all, whom hunger spares, with age decay:

Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire,

And now a rabble rages, now a fire;

Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay,

And here the fell attorney prowls for prey;

Here falling houses thunder on your head,

And here a female atheist talks you dead.

[c]While Thales waits the wherry, that contains

Of dissipated wealth the small remains,

On Thames's banks, in silent thought, we stood

Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood;

Struck with the seat that gave Eliza[A] birth,

We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth;

In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew,

And call Britannia's glories back to view;

Behold her cross triumphant on the main,

The guard of commerce, and the dread of Spain,

Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd

Or English honour grew a standing jest.

A transient calm the happy scenes bestow,

And, for a moment, lull the sense of woe.

At length awaking, with contemptuous frown,

Indignant Thales eyes the neighb'ring town.

[d] Since worth, he cries, in these degen'rate days,

Wants ev'n the cheap reward of empty praise;

In those curs'd walls, devote to vice and gain,

Since unrewarded science toils in vain;

Since hope but sooths to double my distress,

And ev'ry moment leaves my little less;

While yet my steady steps no [e]staff sustains,

And life, still vig'rous, revels in my veins;

Grant me, kind heaven, to find some happier place,

Where honesty and sense are no disgrace;

Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play,

Some peaceful vale, with nature's paintings gay;

Where once the harass'd Briton found repose,

And, safe in poverty, defied his foes;

Some secret cell, ye pow'rs, indulgent give,

[f]Let--live here, for--has learn'd to live.

Here let those reign, whom pensions can incite

To vote a patriot black, a courtier white;

Explain their country's dear-bought rights away,

And plead for[B] pirates in the face of day;

With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth,

And lend a lie the confidence of truth.

[g]Let such raise palaces, and manors buy,

Collect a tax, or farm a lottery;

With warbling eunuchs fill a [C]licens'd [D]stage,

And lull to servitude a thoughtless age.

Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride shall hold,

What check restrain your thirst of pow'r and gold?

Behold rebellious virtue quite o'erthrown,

Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives, your own.

To such the plunder of a land is giv'n,

When publick crimes inflame the wrath of heaven:

[h]But what, my friend, what hope remains for me.

Who start at theft, and blush at perjury?

Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he sing,

To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing;

A statesman's logick unconvinc'd can hear.

And dare to slumber o'er the [E]Gazetteer;

Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd,

And strive, in vain, to laugh at Clodio's jest[F].

[i]Others, with softer smiles, and subtler art,

Can sap the principles, or taint the heart;

With more address a lover's note convey,

Or bribe a virgin's innocence away.

Well may they rise, while I, whose rustick tongue

Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong,

Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy,

Live unregarded, unlamented die.

[k]For what but social guilt the friend endears?

Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune shares.

[l]But thou, should tempting villany present

All Marlb'rough hoarded, or all Villiers spent,

Turn from the glitt'ring bribe thy scornful eye,

Nor sell for gold, what gold could never buy,

The peaceful slumber, self-approving day,

Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay.

[m] The cheated nation's happy fav'rites, see!

Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me!

London! the needy villain's gen'ral home,

The common sewer of Paris and of Rome;

With eager thirst, by folly or by fate,

Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.

Forgive my transports, on a theme like this,

[n]I cannot bear a French metropolis.

[o]Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day,

The land of heroes and of saints survey;

Nor hope the British lineaments to trace,

The rustick grandeur, or the surly grace;

But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty show,

Behold the warriour dwindled to a beau;

Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away,

Of France the mimick, and of Spain the prey.

All that at home no more can beg or steal,

Or like a gibbet better than a wheel;

Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court,

Their air, their dress, their politicks, import;

[p]Obsequious, artful, voluble and gay,

On Britain's fond credulity they prey.

No gainful trade their industry can 'scape,

[q]They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a clap:

All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows,

And, bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.

[r]Ah! what avails it, that, from slav'ry far,

I drew the breath of life in English air;

Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,

And lisp the tale of Henry's victories;

If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,

And flattery prevails, when arms are vain![G]

[s]Studious to please, and ready to submit,

The supple Gaul was born a parasite:

Still to his int'rest true, where'er he goes,

Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bestows;

In ev'ry face a thousand graces shine,

From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine.

[t]These arts in vain our rugged natives try,

Strain out, with fault'ring diffidence, a lie,

And get a kick[H] for awkward flattery.

Besides, with justice, this discerning age

Admires their wondrous talents for the stage:

[u]Well may they venture on the mimick's art,

Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part;

Practis'd their master's notions to embrace,

Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;

With ev'ry wild absurdity comply,

And view each object with another's eye;

To shake with laughter, ere the jest they hear,

To pour at will the counterfeited tear;

And, as their patron hints the cold or heat.

To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.

[x]How, when competitors, like these, contend,

Can surly virtue hope to fix a friend?

Slaves that with serious impudence beguile,

And lie without a blush, without a smile;

Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore,

Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore:

Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear,

He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.

For arts, like these, preferr'd, admir'd, caress'd,

They first invade your table, then your breast;

[y]Explore your secrets with insidious art,

Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart;

Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay,

Commence your lords, and govern or betray.

[z]By numbers here from shame or censure free,

All crimes are safe, but hated poverty.

This, only this, the rigid law pursues,

This, only this, provokes the snarling muse.

The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak

Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;

With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,

And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.

[aa]Of all the griefs, that harass the distress'd,

Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;

Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,

Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.

[bb]Has heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor,

No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore?

No secret island in the boundless main?

No peaceful desert, yet unclaim'd by Spain?[I]

Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,

And bear oppression's insolence no more.

This mournful truth is ev'ry where confess'd,

[cc]SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D:

But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,

Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold;

Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd,

The groom retails the favours of his lord.

But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries

Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies:

Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and pow'r,

Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow'r,

Aghast you start, and scarce, with aching sight,

Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light;

Swift from pursuing horrours take your way,

And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;

[dd]Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam;

For where can starving merit find a home?

In vain your mournful narrative disclose,

While all neglect, and most insult your woes.

[ee]Should heav'n's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound,

[J]And spread his flaming palace on the ground,

Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies,

And publick mournings pacify the skies;

The laureate tribe in venal verse relate,

How virtue wars with persecuting fate;

[ff]With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band

Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.

See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,

And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome;

The price of boroughs and of souls restore;

And raise his treasures higher than before.

Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great,

The polish'd marble and the shining plate,

[gg]Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,

And hopes from angry heav'n another fire.

[hh]Could'st thou resign the park and play, content,

For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;

There might'st thou find some elegant retreat,

Some hireling senator's deserted seat;

And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,

For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;

There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,

Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;

[K] And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,

Despise the dainties of a venal lord:

There ev'ry bush with nature's musick rings;

There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings;

On all thy hours security shall smile,

And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.

[ii]Prepare for death, if here at night you roam,

And sign your will, before you sup from home.

[kk] Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,

Who sleeps on brambles, till he kills his man;

Some frolick drunkard, reeling from a feast,

Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.

[ll]Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay,

Lords of the street, and terrours of the way;

Flush'd, as they are, with folly, youth, and wine;

Their prudent insults to the poor confine;

Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach,

And shun the shining train, and golden coach.

[mm]In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close,

And hope the balmy blessings of repose;

Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,

The midnight murd'rer bursts the faithless bar;

Invades the sacred hour of silent rest,

[L]And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

[nn]Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die,

With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.

Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band,

Whose ways and means[M]support the sinking land:

Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring,

To rig another convoy for the king[N].

[oo]A single gaol, in Alfred's golden reign,

Could half the nation's criminals contain;

Fair justice, then, without constraint ador'd,

Held high the steady scale, but sheath'd the sword [D];

No spies were paid, no special juries known,

Blest age! but ah! how different from our own!

[pp]Much could I add,--but see the boat at hand,

The tide, retiring, calls me from the land:

[qq] Farewell!--When youth, and health, and fortune spent,

Thou fly'st for refuge to the wilds of Kent;

And, tir'd, like me, with follies and with crimes,

In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times;

Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid,

Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;

In virtue's cause, once more, exert his rage,

Thy satire point, and animate thy page.

FOOTNOTES

[a]

Quamvis digressu veteris confusus amici,

Laudo, tamen, vacuis quod sedem figere Cumis

Destinet atque unum civcm donare Sibyllae.

[b]

--Ego vel Prochytam praepono Suburae.

Nam quid tam miserum, tam solum vidimus, ut non

Deterius credas horrere incendia, lapsus

Tectorum assiduos, ae mille pericula saevae

Urbis et Augusto recitantes mense poetas

[c]

Sed dum tota domus reda componitur una,

Substitit ad veteres arcus--

[d]

Hic tunc Umbricius; Quando artibus, inquit, honestis

Nullus in urbe locus, nulla emolumenta laborum,

Res hodie minor est, here quam fuit, atque eadem eras

Deteret exiguis aliquid: proponimus illue

Ire, fatigatas ubi Daedalus exuit alas,

Dum nova canities,--

[e]

--et pedibus me

Porto meis, nullo dextram subeunte bacillo.

[f]

Cedamus patria: vivant Artorius istic

Et Catulus: maneant, qui nigrum in candida vertunt.

[g]

Queis facile est aedem conducere, flumina, portus,

Siccandam eluviem, portandum ad busta cadaver,--

Munera nunc edunt.

[h]

Quid Romae faciam? Mentiri nescio: librum,

Si malus est, nequeo laudare et poscere:--

[i]

--Ferre ad nuptam, quae mittit adulter,

Quae mandat, norunt alii; me nemo ministro

Fur erit, atque ideo nulli comes exeo,--

[Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [j]]

[k]

Quis nune diligitur, nisi conscius?--

Carus erit Verri, qui Verrem tempore, quo vult,

Acuusare potest.--

[l]

--Tanti tibi non sit opaci

Omnis arena Tagi, quodque in mare volvitur aurum,

Ut somno careas--

[m]

Quae nunc divitibus gens acceptissima nostris

Et quos praecipue fugiam, properabo fateri.

[n]

--Non possum ferre, Quirites,

Graecam urbem:--

[o]

Rusticus ille tuus sumit trechedipna, Quirine,

Et ceromatico fert niceteria collo.

[p]

Ingenium velox, audacia perdita, sermo

Promptus--

[q]

Augur, schoenobates, medicus, magus: omnia novit.

Graeculus esuriens in coelum, jusseris, ibit.

[r]

Usque adeo nihil est, quod nostra infantia coelum

Hausit Aventinum?--

[s]

Quid? quod adulandi gens prudentissima laudat

Sermonem indocti, faciem deformis amici?

[t]

Haec eadem licet et nobis laudare: sed illis

Creditur.--

[u]

Natio comoeda est. Rides? majore cachinno

Coneutitur, &c.

[Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [v] or Footnote [w]]

[x]

Non sumus ergo pares: melior, qui semper et omni

Nocte dieque potest alienum sumere vultum,

A facie jactare manus, laudare paratus,

Si bene ructavit, si rectum minxit amicus.--

[y]

Scire volunt secreta domus atque inde timeri.

[z]

--Materiam praebet causasque jocorum

Omnibus hic idem, si foeda et scissa lacerna, &c.

[aa]

Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se,

Quam quod ridiculos homines facit.--

[bb]

--Agmine facto,

Debuerant olim tenues migrasse Quirites.

[cc]

Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat

Res angusta domi; sed Romae; durior illis

Conatus:--

--Omnia Romaae

Cum pretio.--

Cogimur, et cultis augere peculia servis.

[dd]

--Ultimus autem

Aerumnae cumulus, quod nudum et frustra rogautem

Nemo cibo, nemo hospitio tectoque juvabit.

[ee]

Si magna Asturii cecidit domus, horrida mater:

Pullati proccres,--

[ff]

--Jam accurrit, qui marmora donet,

Conferat impensas: hic &c.

[gg]

Hic modium argenti. Meliora, ac plura reponit

Persicus orborum lautissimus--

[hh]

Si potes avelli Circensibus, optima Sorae,

Aut Fabrateriae domus, aut Frusinone paratur,

Quanti nunc tenebras unum conducis in annum.

Hortulus hic--

Vive bidentis amans et culti villicus horti;

Unde epulum possis centum dare Pythagoreis.

[ii]

--Possis ignavus haberi

Et subiti casus improvidus, ad coenam si

Intestatus eas.--

[Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [jj]]

[kk]

Ebrius, ac petulans, qui nullum forte cecidit,

Dat poenas, noetem patitur lugentis amicum

Pelidae.--

[ll]

--Sed, quamvis improbus annis,

Atque mero fervens, cavet hunc, quem coccina lae [Transcriber's note:

remainder of word illegible]

Vitari jubet, et comitum longissimus ordo,

Multum praeterca flammarum, atque aenca lampas,

[mm]

Nec tamen hoc tantum metuas: nam qui spoliet te,

Non deerit, clausis domibus, &c.

[nn]

Maximus in vinclis ferri modus, ut timeas, ne

Vomer deficiat, ne marrae et sarcula desint.

[oo]

Felices proavorum atavos, felicia dicas

Saecula, quae quondam sub regibus atque tribunis

Viderunt uno contentam carcere Romam.

[pp]

His alias poteram, et plures subnectere causas:

Sed jumenta vocant--

[qq]

--Ergo vale nostri memor et, quoties te

Roma tuo refici properantem reddet Aquino,

Me quoque ad Helvinam Cererem vestramque Dianam

Convelle a Cumis. Satirarum ego, ni pudet illas,

Adjutor gelidos veniam caligatus in agros.

[A] Queen Elizabeth, born at Greenwich.

[B] The invasions of the Spaniards were defended in the houses of

parliament.

[C] The licensing act was then lately made.

[D] _Our silenc'd._

[E] The paper which, at that time, contained apologies for the court.

[F] H--y's jest.

[G] And what their armies lost, their cringes gain

[H] And _gain_ a kick.

[I] The Spaniards at this time were said to make claim to some of our

American provinces.

[J] This was by Hitch, a bookseller. Justly observed to be no picture of

modern manners, though it might be true at Rome. MS. note in Dr.

Johnson's hand-writing.

[K] And, while thy _beds_.

[L] And _plants_ unseen.

[M] A cant term in the house of commons for methods of raising money.

[N] The nation was discontented at the visits made by the king to

Hanover.

[O] _Sustain'd_ the _balance_, but _resign'd_ the sword.

THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES;

IN IMITATION OF

THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.

Let[a] observation, with extensive view,

Survey mankind, from China to Peru;

Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,

And watch the busy scenes of crowded life;

Then say, how hope and fear, desire and hate

O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate,

Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride

To tread the dreary paths, without a guide,

As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude,

Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good;

How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice,

Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice.

How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd,

When vengeance listens to the fool's request.

Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart,

Each gift of nature, and each grace of art;

With fatal heat impetuous courage glows,

With fatal sweetness elocution flows,

Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath,

And restless fire precipitates on death.

[b]But, scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold

Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold;

Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfin'd,

And crowds with crimes the records of mankind;

For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws,

For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws;

Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys,

The dangers gather as the treasures rise.

Let hist'ry tell where rival kings command,

And dubious title shakes the madded land,

When statutes glean the refuse of the sword,

How much more safe the vassal than the lord;

Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of power,

And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower[c],

Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound,

Though confiscation's vultures hover round[d].

The needy traveller, serene and gay,

Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away.

Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy;

Increase his riches, and his peace destroy;

[e]Now fears, in dire vicissitude, invade,

The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade;

Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief,

One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief.

[f] Yet still one gen'ral cry[g] the skies assails,

And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales:

Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care,

Th' insidious rival, and the gaping heir.

[h]Once more, Democritus, arise on earth,

With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth,

See motley life in modern trappings dress'd,

And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest:

Thou, who could'st laugh where want enchain'd caprice,

Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece;

Where wealth, unlov'd, without a mourner died;

And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride;

Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate,

Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state;

Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws,

And senates heard, before they judg'd a cause;

How would'st thou shake at Britain's modish tribe,

Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe?

Attentive truth and nature to descry,

And pierce each scene with philosophick eye;

To thee were solemn toys, or empty show,

The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woe:

All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain,

Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain.

Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind,

Renew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind;

How just that scorn, ere yet thy voice declare,

Search ev'ry state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r.

[i]Unnumber'd suppliants crowd preferment's gate,

Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great;

Delusive fortune hears th' incessant call,

They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.

On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend,

Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.

Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door

Pours in the morning worshipper no more;

For growing names the weekly scribbler lies,

To growing wealth the dedicator flies;

From ev'ry room descends the painted face,

That hung the bright palladium of the place;

And, smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold,

To better features yields the frame of gold;

For now no more we trace in ev'ry line

Heroick worth, benevolence divine:

The form, distorted, justifies the fall,

And detestation rids th' indignant wall.

But will not Britain hear the last appeal,

Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal?

Through freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings,

Degrading nobles and controling kings;

Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,

And ask no questions but the price of votes;

With weekly libels and septennial ale,

Their wish is full to riot and to rail.

In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand,

Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand;

To him the church, the realm their pow'rs consign,

Through him the rays of regal bounty shine;

Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows,

His smile alone security bestows.

Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r,

Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r;

Till conquest, unresisted, ceas'd to please,

And rights, submitted, left him none to seize.

At length his sov'reign frowns--the train of state

Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.

Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye,

His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;

Now drops, at once, the pride of awful state,

The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate,

The regal palace, the luxurious board,

The liv'ried army, and the menial lord.

With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd,

He seeks the refuge of monastick rest:

Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings,

And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.

Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine,

Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine?

Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content,

[k]The wisest justice on the banks of Trent?

For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate,

On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight?

Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow,

With louder ruin to the gulfs below?

[l]What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's knife,

And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life?

What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hyde,

By kings protected, and to kings allied?

What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine,

And pow'r too great to keep, or to resign?

[m]When first the college rolls receive his name,

The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;

[n]Through all his veins the fever of renown

Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown;

O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread,

And [o]Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head.

Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth,

And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth!

Yet, should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat

Till captive science yields her last retreat;

Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray,

And pour on misty doubt resistless day;

Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,

Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright;

Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain,

[p]And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain;

Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,

Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart;

Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,

Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade;

Yet hope not life, from grief or danger free,

Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee:

Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,

And pause awhile from letters, to be wise;

There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,

Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol[q].

See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,

To buried merit raise the tardy bust.

If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,

Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end[r].

Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows,

The glitt'ring eminence exempt from woes;

See, when the vulgar scape[s], despis'd or aw'd,

Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud.

From meaner minds though smaller fines content,

The plunder'd palace, or sequester'd rent;

Mark'd out by dang'rous parts, he meets the shock,

And fatal learning leads him to the block:

Around his tomb let art and genius weep,

But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep.

[t]The festal blazes, the triumphal show,

The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe,

The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale,

With force resistless o'er the brave prevail.

Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd;

For such the steady Romans shook the world;

For such, in distant lands, the Britons shine,

And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine;

This pow'r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm,

Till fame supplies the universal charm.

Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game,

Where wasted nations raise a single name;

And mortgag'd states, their grandsires' wreaths regret.

From age to age in everlasting debt;

Wreaths which, at last, the dear-bought right convey

To rust on medals, or on stones decay.

[u]On what foundation stands the warriour's pride,

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide;

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;

[x]O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,

Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain;

No joys to him pacifick sceptres yield,

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;

Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs combine,

And one capitulate, and one resign;

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain;

"Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "till nought remain,

On Moscow's walls till Gothick standards fly,

And all be mine beneath the polar sky."

The march begins in military state,

And nations on his eye suspended wait;

Stern famine guards the solitary coast,

And winter barricades the realm of frost;

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;--

Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day:

The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,

And shows his miseries in distant lands;

Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait,

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.

But did not chance, at length, her errour mend?

Did no subverted empire mark his end?

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?

Or hostile millions press him to the ground?

His fall was destin'd to a barren strand,

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;

He left the name, at which the world grew pale,

To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

[y]All times their scenes of pompous woes afford,

From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord.

In gay hostility and barb'rous pride,

With half mankind embattl'd at his side,

Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey,

And starves exhausted regions in his way;

Attendant flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er,

Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more;

Fresh praise is try'd till madness fires his mind,

The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind,

New pow'rs are claim'd, new pow'rs are still bestow'd,

Till rude resistance lops the spreading god;

The daring Greeks deride the martial show,

And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe;

Th' insulted sea, with humbler thoughts, he gains;

A single skiff to speed his flight remains;

Th' incumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast

Through purple billows and a floating host.

The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour,

Tries the dread summits of Caesarean pow'r,

With unexpected legions bursts away,

And sees defenceless realms receive his sway;--

Short sway! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms,

The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms;

From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze

Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise;

The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar,

[z]With all the sons of ravage, crowd the war;

The baffled prince, in honour's flatt'ring bloom

Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom,

His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame,

And steals to death from anguish and from shame.

[aa]Enlarge my life with multitude of days!

In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays;

Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know,

That life protracted is protracted woe.

Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,

And shuts up all the passages of joy;

In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,

The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r;

With listless eyes the dotard views the store,

He views, and wonders that they please no more;

Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines,

And luxury with sighs her slave resigns.

Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain,

[bb]Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain:

No sounds, alas! would touch th' impervious ear,

Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus near;

Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow'rs attend,

Nor sweeter musick of a virtuous friend;

But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue,

Perversely grave, or positively wrong.

The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest,

Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest,

While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring sneer,

And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear;

The watchful guests still hint the last offence;

The daughter's petulance, the son's expense,

Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill,

And mould his passions till they make his will.

Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade,

Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade;

But unextinguish'd av'rice still remains,

And dreaded losses aggravate his pains;

He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands,

His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands;

Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes,

Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies.

But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime

Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime;

[cc]An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay,

And glides in modest innocence away;

Whose peaceful day benevolence endears,

Whose night congratulating conscience cheers;

The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend;

Such age there is, and who shall wish its end[dd]?

Yet e'en on this her load misfortune flings,

To press the weary minutes' flagging wings;

New sorrow rises as the day returns,

A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns.

Now kindred merit fills the sable bier,

Now lacerated friendship claims a tear;

Year chases year, decay pursues decay,

Still drops some joy from with'ring life away;

New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage,

Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage,

Till pitying nature signs the last release,

And bids afflicted worth retire to peace.

But few there are whom hours like these await,

Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate.

From Lydia's monarch should the search descend,

By Solon caution'd to regard his end,

In life's last scene what prodigies surprise,

Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise!

From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,

And Swift expires a driv'ller and a show.

[ee]The teeming mother, anxious for her race,

Begs for each birth the fortune of a face;

Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring;

And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king.

Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes,

Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise;

Whom joys with soft varieties invite,

By day the frolick, and the dance by night;

Who frown with vanity, who smile with art,

And ask the latest fashion of the heart;

What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save,

Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave?

Against your fame with fondness hate combines,

The rival batters, and the lover mines.

With distant voice neglected virtue calls,

Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls;

Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign,

And pride and prudence take her seat in vain.

In crowd at once, where none the pass defend,

The harmless freedom, and the private friend.

The guardians yield, by force superiour ply'd:

To int'rest, prudence; and to flatt'ry, pride.

Here beauty falls, betray'd, despis'd, distress'd,

And hissing infamy proclaims the rest.

[ff]Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?

Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?

Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,

Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,

No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?

Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain

Which heav'n may hear; nor deem religion vain.

Still raise for good the supplicating voice,

But leave to heav'n the measure and the choice.

Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar

The secret ambush of a specious pray'r;

Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,

Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best.

Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,

And strong devotion to the skies aspires[gg],

Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,

Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;

For love, which scarce collective man can fill;

For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill;

For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,

[hh]Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat:

These goods for man the laws of heav'n ordain;

These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain;

With these celestial wisdom calms the mind,

And makes the happiness she does not find.

FOOTNOTES

[a] Ver. 1--11.

[b] Ver. 12--22.

[c] In the first edition, "the _bonny_ traitor!" an evident

allusion to the Scotch lords who suffered for the rebellion in 1745.

[d] Clang around.

[e] New fears.

[f] Ver. 23-37.

[g] Yet still the gen'ral cry.

[h] Ver. 28-55.

[i] Ver. 56--107.

[Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [j]]

[k] The richest landlord.

[l] Ver. 108--113.

[m] Ver. 114--132.

[n]

_Resistless burns the_ fever of renown,

_Caught_ from the strong contagion of the gown.

Mr. Boswell tells us, that when he remarked to Dr. Johnson, that

there was an awkward repetition of the word spreads in this passage,

he altered it to "Burns from the strong contagion of the gown;" but

this expression, it appears, was only resumed from the reading in

the first edition.

[o] There is a tradition, that the study of friar Bacon, built on an

arch over the bridge, will fall, when a man greater than Bacon shall

pass under it. To prevent so shocking an accident, it was pulled

down many years since.

[p] And sloth's _bland_ opiates _shed_ their fumes in vain.

[q] The _garret_ and the gaol.

[r] See Gent. Mag. vol. lxviii. p. 951, 1027.

[s] This was first written, "See, when the vulgar scap_ed_;" but,

as the rest of the paragraph was in the present tense, he altered it

to scape_s_; but again recollecting that the word _vulgar_

is never used as a singular substantive, he adopted the reading of

the text.

[t] Ver. 133--146.

[u] Ver. 147--167.

[Transcriber's note: There is no Footnote [v] or Footnote [w]]

[x] O'er love or _force_.

[y] Ver. 168--187.

[z] _And_ all the sons.

[aa] Ver. 188--288.

[bb] And _yield_.

[cc] An age that melts _in_.

[dd] _Could_ wish its end.

[ee] Ver. 289-345.

[ff] Ver. 346-366.

[gg]

Yet, _with_ the sense of sacred presence _press'd_,

_When_ strong devotion _fills thy glowing breast_.

[hh] _Thinks_ death.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, AT THE OPENING OF THE

THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY LANE, 1747.

When learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes

First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose;

Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,

Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new:

Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,

And panting time toil'd after him in vain:

His pow'rful strokes presiding truth impress'd,

And unresisted passion storm'd the breast.

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school

To please in method, and invent by rule;

His studious patience and laborious art,

By regular approach, assail'd the heart:

Cold approbation gave the ling'ring bays;

For those, who durst not censure, scarce could praise:

A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doom,

But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,

Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakespeare's flame:

Themselves they studied, as they felt, they writ;

Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit;

Vice always found a sympathetick friend;

They pleas'd their age, and did not aim to mend.

Yet bards, like these, aspir'd to lasting praise,

And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days.

Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were strong;

Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long:

Till shame regain'd the post that sense betray'd,

And virtue call'd oblivion to her aid.

Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd, as refin'd,

For years the pow'r of tragedy declin'd;

From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,

Till declamation roar'd, while passion slept;

Yet still did virtue deign the stage to tread,

Philosophy remain'd, though nature fled.

But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit,

She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit;

Exulting folly hail'd the joyful day,

And pantomime and song confirm'd her sway.

But who the coming changes can presage,

And mark the future periods of the stage?

Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore,

New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store;

Perhaps, where Lear has ray'd, and Hamlet dy'd,

On flying cars new sorcerers may ride:

Perhaps, (for who can guess th' effects of chance?)

Here Hunt[a] may box, or Mahomet may dance.

Hard is his lot that, here by fortune plac'd,

Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste;

With ev'ry meteor of caprice must play,

And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day.

Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice,

The stage but echoes back the publick voice;

The drama's laws the drama's patrons give,

For we that live to please, must please to live.

Then prompt no more the follies you decry,

As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die;

'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence

Of rescued nature and reviving sense;

To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show,

For useful mirth and salutary woe;

Bid scenick virtue form the rising age,

And truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

[a] Hunt, a famous boxer on the stage; Mahomet, a ropedancer, who had

exhibited at Covent garden theatre the winter before, said to be a

Turk.

PREFATORY NOTICE TO

THE TRAGEDY OF IRENE.

The history of this tragedy's composition is interesting, as affording

dates to distinguish Johnson's literary progress. It was begun, and

considerably advanced, while he kept a school at Edial, near Lichfield,

in 1736. In the following year, when he relinquished the task of a

schoolmaster, so little congenial with his mind and disposition, and

resolved to seek his fortunes in the metropolis, Irene was carried along

with him as a foundation for his success. Mr. Walmsley, one of his early

friends, recommended him, and his fellow-adventurer, Garrick, to the

notice and protection of Colson, the mathematician. Unless Mrs. Piozzi

is correct, in rescuing the character of Colson from any identity with

that of Gelidus, in the Rambler[a], Johnson entertained no lively

recollection of his first patron's kindness. He was ever warm in

expressions of gratitude for favours, conferred on him in his season of

want and obscurity; and from his deep silence here, we may conclude,

that the recluse mathematician did not evince much sympathy with the

distresses of the young candidate for dramatic fame. Be this, however,

as it may, Johnson, shortly after this introduction, took lodgings at

Greenwich, to proceed with his Irene in quiet and retirement, but soon

returned to Lichfield, to complete it. The same year that saw these

successive disappointments, witnessed also Johnson's return to London,

with his tragedy completed, and its rejection by Fleetwood, the

patentee, at that time, of Drury lane theatre. Twelve years elapsed,

before it was acted, and, after many alterations by his pupil and

companion, Garrick, who was then manager of the theatre, it was, by his

zeal, and the support of the most eminent performers of the day, carried

through a representation of nine nights. Johnson's profits, after the

deduction of expenses, and together with the hundred pounds, which he

received from Robert Dodsley, for the copy, were nearly three hundred

pounds. So fallacious were the hopes cherished by Walmsley, that Johnson

would "turn out a fine tragedy writer[b]."

"The tragedy of Irene," says Mr. Murphy, "is founded on a passage in

Knolles's History of the Turks;" an author highly commended in the

Rambler, No. 122. An incident in the life of Mahomet the great, first

emperor of the Turks, is the hinge, on which the fable is made to move.

The substance of the story is shortly this:--In 1453, Mahomet laid siege

to Constantinople, and, having reduced the place, became enamoured of a

fair Greek, whose name was Irene. The sultan invited her to embrace the

law of the prophet, and to grace his throne. Enraged at this intended

marriage, the janizaries formed a conspiracy to dethrone the emperor. To

avert the impending danger, Mahomet, in a full assembly of the grandees,

"catching, with one hand," as Knolles relates it, "the fair Greek by the

hair of her head, and drawing his falchion with the other, he, at one

blow, struck off her head, to the great terror of them all; and, having

so done, said unto them, 'Now, by this, judge whether your emperor is

able to bridle his affections or not[c].'" We are not unjust, we

conceive, in affirming, that there is an interest kept alive in the

plain and simple narrative of the old historian, which is lost in the

declamatory tragedy of Johnson.

It is sufficient, for our present purpose, to confess that he _has_

failed in this his only dramatic attempt; we shall endeavour, more

fully, to show _how_ he has failed, in our discussion of his powers as a

critic. That they were not blinded to the defects of others, by his own

inefficiency in dramatic composition, is fully proved by his judicious

remarks on Cato, which was constructed on a plan similar to Irene: and

the strongest censure, ever passed on this tragedy, was conveyed in

Garrick's application of Johnson's own severe, but correct critique, on

the wits of Charles, in whose works

"Declamation roar'd, while passion slept."[d]

"Addison speaks the language of poets," says Johnson, in his preface to

Shakespeare, "and Shakespeare of men. We find in Cato innumerable

beauties, which enamour us of its author, but we see nothing that

acquaints us with human sentiments, or human actions; we place it with

the fairest and the noblest progeny which judgment propagates by

conjunction with learning; but Othello is the vigorous and vivacious

offspring of observation, impregnated by genius. Cato affords a splendid

exhibition of artificial and fictitious manners, and delivers just and

noble sentiments, in diction easy, elevated and harmonious; but its

hopes and fears communicate no vibration to the heart: the composition

refers us only to the writer; we pronounce the name of Cato, but we

think on Addison." The critic's remarks on the same tragedy, in his Life

of Addison, are as applicable as the above to his own production. "Cato

is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama; rather a succession of just

sentiments in elegant language, than a representation of natural

affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing

here 'excites or assuages emotion:' here is no 'magical power of raising

phantastick terrour or wild anxiety.' The events are expected without

solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we

have no care; we consider not what they are doing, or what they are

suffering; we wish only to know what they have to say."

But, while we thus pronounce Johnson's failure in the production of

dramatic effect, we will not withhold our tribute of admiration from

Irene, as a moral piece. For, although a remark of Fox's on an

unpublished tragedy of Burke's, that it was rather rhetorical than

poetical, may be applied to the work under consideration; still it

abounds, throughout, with the most elevated and dignified lessons of

morality and virtue. The address of Demetrius to the aged Cali, on the

dangers of procrastination[e]; Aspasia's reprobation of Irene's

meditated apostasy[f]; and the allusive panegyric on the British

constitution[g], may be enumerated, as examples of its excellence in

sentiment and diction.

Lastly, we may consider Irene, as one other illustrious proof, that the

most strict adherence to the far-famed unities, the most harmonious

versification, and the most correct philosophy, will not vie with a

single and simple touch of nature, expressed in simple and artless

language. "But how rich in reputation must that author be, who can spare

_an Irene_, and not feel the loss [h]."

FOOTNOTES

[a] Rambler, No. 24, and note.

[b] Boswell's Life, i.

[c] Murphy's Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson.

[d] Prologue at the opening of Drury lane theatre, 1747.

[e] Act iii. scene ii. "To-morrow's action!" &c.

[f] Act iii. scene viii. "Reflect, that life and death," &c.

[g] Act i. scene ii. "If there be any land, as fame reports," &c.

[h] Dr. Young's remark on Addison's Cato. See his Conjectures on

Original Composition. Works, vol. v.

PROLOGUE.

Ye glitt'ring train, whom lace and velvet bless,

Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress!

From grov'ling bus'ness and superfluous care,

Ye sons of avarice, a moment spare!

Vot'ries of fame, and worshippers of power,

Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour!

Our daring bard, with spirit unconfin'd,

Spreads wide the mighty moral for mankind.

Learn here, how heaven supports the virtuous mind,

Daring, though calm; and vig'rous, though resign'd;

Learn here, what anguish racks the guilty breast,

In pow'r dependant, in success depress'd.

Learn here, that peace from innocence must flow;

All else is empty sound, and idle show.

If truths, like these, with pleasing language join;

Ennobled, yet unchang'd, if nature shine;

If no wild draught depart from reason's rules;

Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools;

Intriguing wits! his artless plot forgive;

And spare him, beauties! though his lovers live.

Be this, at least, his praise, be this his pride;

To force applause, no modern arts are try'd.

Should partial catcals all his hopes confound,

He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound.

Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit,

He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit;

No snares, to captivate the judgment, spreads,

Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.

Unmov'd, though witlings sneer, and rivals rail,

Studious to please, yet not asham'd to fail,

He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain,

With merit needless, and without it vain.

In reason, nature, truth, he dares to trust:

Ye fops, be silent: and, ye wits, be just!

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN.

MAHOMET, Emperour of the Turks, Mr. BARRY.

CALI BASSA, First vizier, Mr. BERRY.

MUSTAPHA, A Turkish aga, Mr. SOWDEN.

ABDALLA, An officer, Mr. HAVARD.

HASAN, \ / Mr. USHER,

Turkish captains,

CARAZA, / \ Mr. BURTON.

DEMETRIUS, \ / Mr. GARRICK,

Greek noblemen,

LEONTIUS, / \ MR. BLAKES.

MURZA, An eunuch, Mr. KING.

WOMEN.

ASPASIA, \ / Mrs. GIBBER,

Greek ladies,

IRENE, / \ Mrs. PRITCHARD.

Attendants on IRENE.

ACT I.--SCENE I.

DEMETRIUS _and_ LEONTIUS, _in Turkish habits_.

LEONTIUS.

And, is it thus Demetrius meets his friend,

Hid in the mean disguise of Turkish robes,

With servile secrecy to lurk in shades,

And vent our suff'rings in clandestine groans?

DEMETRIUS.

Till breathless fury rested from destruction,

These groans were fatal, these disguises vain:

But, now our Turkish conquerors have quench'd

Their rage, and pall'd their appetite of murder,

No more the glutted sabre thirsts for blood;

And weary cruelty remits her tortures.

LEONTIUS.

Yet Greece enjoys no gleam of transient hope,

No soothing interval of peaceful sorrow:

The lust of gold succeeds the rage of conquest;

--The lust of gold, unfeeling and remorseless,

The last corruption of degen'rate man!

Urg'd by th' imperious soldiers' fierce command,

The groaning Greeks break up their golden caverns,

Pregnant with stores, that India's mines might envy,

Th' accumulated wealth of toiling ages.

DEMETRIUS.

That wealth, too sacred for their country's use!

That wealth, too pleasing to be lost for freedom!

That wealth, which, granted to their weeping prince,

Had rang'd embattled nations at our gates!

But, thus reserv'd to lure the wolves of Turkey,

Adds shame to grief, and infamy to ruin.

Lamenting av'rice, now too late, discovers

Her own neglected in the publick safety.

LEONTIUS.

Reproach not misery.--The sons of Greece,

Ill fated race! so oft besieg'd in vain,

With false security beheld invasion.

Why should they fear?--That pow'r that kindly spreads

The clouds, a signal of impending show'rs,

To warn the wand'ring linnet to the shade,

Beheld without concern expiring Greece;

And not one prodigy foretold our fate.

DEMETRIUS.

A thousand horrid prodigies foretold it:

A feeble government, eluded laws,

A factious populace, luxurious nobles,

And all the maladies of sinking states.

When publick villany, too strong for justice,

Shows his bold front, the harbinger of ruin,

Can brave Leontius call for airy wonders,

Which cheats interpret, and which fools regard?

When some neglected fabrick nods beneath

The weight of years, and totters to the tempest,

Must heav'n despatch the messengers of light,

Or wake the dead, to warn us of its fall?

LEONTIUS.

Well might the weakness of our empire sink

Before such foes of more than human force:

Some pow'r invisible, from heav'n or hell,

Conducts their armies, and asserts their cause.

DEMETRIUS.

And yet, my friend, what miracles were wrought

Beyond the pow'r of constancy and courage?

Did unresisted lightning aid their cannon?

Did roaring whirlwinds sweep us from the ramparts?

'Twas vice that shook our nerves, 'twas vice, Leontius,

That froze our veins, and wither'd all our pow'rs.

LEONTIUS.

Whate'er our crimes, our woes demand compassion.

Each night, protected by the friendly darkness,

Quitting my close retreat, I range the city,

And, weeping, kiss the venerable ruins;

With silent pangs, I view the tow'ring domes,

Sacred to pray'r; and wander through the streets,

Where commerce lavish'd unexhausted plenty,

And jollity maintain'd eternal revels--

DEMETRIUS.

--How chang'd, alas!--Now ghastly desolation,

In triumph, sits upon our shatter'd spires;

Now superstition, ignorance, and errour,

Usurp our temples, and profane our altars.

LEONTIUS.

From ev'ry palace bursts a mingled clamour,

The dreadful dissonance of barb'rous triumph,

Shrieks of affright, and waitings of distress.

Oft when the cries of violated beauty

Arose to heav'n, and pierc'd my bleeding breast,

I felt thy pains, and trembled for Aspasia.

DEMETRIUS.

Aspasia!--spare that lov'd, that mournful name:

Dear, hapless maid--tempestuous grief o'erbears

My reasoning pow'rs--Dear, hapless, lost Aspasia!

LEONTIUS.

Suspend the thought.

DEMETRIUS.

All thought on her is madness;

Yet let me think--I see the helpless maid;

Behold the monsters gaze with savage rapture,

Behold how lust and rapine struggle round her!

LEONTIUS.

Awake, Demetrius, from this dismal dream;

Sink not beneath imaginary sorrows;

Call to your aid your courage and your wisdom;

Think on the sudden change of human scenes;

Think on the various accidents of war;

Think on the mighty pow'r of awful virtue;

Think on that providence that guards the good.

DEMETRIUS.

O providence! extend thy care to me;

For courage droops, unequal to the combat;

And weak philosophy denies her succours.

Sure, some kind sabre in the heat of battle,

Ere yet the foe found leisure to be cruel,

Dismiss'd her to the sky.

LEONTIUS.

Some virgin martyr,

Perhaps, enamour'd of resembling virtue,

With gentle hand, restrain'd the streams of life,

And snatch'd her timely from her country's fate.

DEMETRIUS.

From those bright regions of eternal day,

Where now thou shin'st among thy fellow-saints,

Array'd in purer light, look down on me:

In pleasing visions and assuasive dreams,

O! sooth my soul, and teach me how to lose thee.

LEONTIUS.

Enough of unavailing tears, Demetrius:

I come obedient to thy friendly summons,

And hop'd to share thy counsels, not thy sorrows:

While thus we mourn the fortune of Aspasia,

To what are we reserv'd?

DEMETRIUS.

To what I know not:

But hope, yet hope, to happiness and honour;

If happiness can be, without Aspasia.

LEONTIUS.

But whence this new-sprung hope?

DEMETRIUS.

From Cali bassa,

The chief, whose wisdom guides the Turkish counsels.

He, tir'd of slav'ry, though the highest slave,

Projects, at once, our freedom and his own;

And bids us, thus disguis'd, await him here.

LEONTIUS.

Can he restore the state he could not save?

In vain, when Turkey's troops assail'd our walls,

His kind intelligence betray'd their measures;

Their arms prevail'd, though Cali was our friend.

DEMETRIUS.

When the tenth sun had set upon our sorrows,

At midnight's private hour, a voice unknown

Sounds in my sleeping ear, 'Awake, Demetrius,

Awake, and follow me to better fortunes.'

Surpris'd I start, and bless the happy dream;

Then, rousing, know the fiery chief Abdalla,

Whose quick impatience seiz'd my doubtful hand,

And led me to the shore where Cali stood,

Pensive, and list'ning to the beating surge.

There, in soft hints, and in ambiguous phrase,

With all the diffidence of long experience,

That oft had practis'd fraud, and oft detected,

The vet'ran courtier half reveal'd his project.

By his command, equipp'd for speedy flight,

Deep in a winding creek a galley lies,

Mann'd with the bravest of our fellow-captives,

Selected by my care, a hardy band,

That long to hail thee chief.

LEONTIUS.

But what avails

So small a force? or, why should Cali fly?

Or, how can Call's flight restore our country?

DEMETRIUS.

Reserve these questions for a safer hour;

Or hear himself, for see the bassa comes.

SCENE II.

DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS, CALI.

CALI.

Now summon all thy soul, illustrious Christian!

Awake each faculty that sleeps within thee:

The courtier's policy, the sage's firmness,

The warriour's ardour, and the patriot's zeal.

If, chasing past events with vain pursuit,

Or wand'ring in the wilds of future being,

A single thought now rove, recall it home.--

But can thy friend sustain the glorious cause,

The cause of liberty, the cause of nations?

DEMETRIUS.

Observe him closely, with a statesman's eye,

Thou, that hast long perus'd the draughts of nature,

And know'st the characters of vice and virtue,

Left by the hand of heav'n on human clay.

CALI.

His mien is lofty, his demeanour great;

Nor sprightly folly wantons in his air;

Nor dull serenity becalms his eyes.

Such had I trusted once, as soon as seen,

But cautious age suspects the flatt'ring form,

And only credits what experience tells.

Has silence press'd her seal upon his lips?

Does adamantine faith invest his heart?

Will he not bend beneath a tyrant's frown?

Will he not melt before ambition's fire?

Will he not soften in a friend's embrace?

Or flow dissolving in a woman's tears?

DEMETRIUS.

Sooner the trembling leaves shall find a voice,

And tell the secrets of their conscious walks;

Sooner the breeze shall catch the flying sounds,

And shock the tyrant with a tale of treason.

Your slaughter'd multitudes, that swell the shore

With monuments of death, proclaim his courage;

Virtue and liberty engross his soul,

And leave no place for perfidy, or fear.

LEONTIUS.

I scorn a trust unwillingly repos'd;

Demetrius will not lead me to dishonour;

Consult in private, call me, when your scheme

Is ripe for action, and demands the sword. [_Going_.

DEMETRIUS.

Leontius, stay.

CALI.

Forgive an old man's weakness,

And share the deepest secrets of my soul,

My wrongs, my fears, my motives, my designs.--

When unsuccessful wars, and civil factions

Embroil'd the Turkish state, our sultan's father,

Great Amurath, at my request, forsook

The cloister's ease, resum'd the tott'ring throne,

And snatch'd the reins of abdicated pow'r

From giddy Mahomet's unskilful hand.

This fir'd the youthful king's ambitious breast:

He murmurs vengeance, at the name of Cali,

And dooms my rash fidelity to ruin.

DEMETRIUS.

Unhappy lot of all that shine in courts,

For forc'd compliance, or for zealous virtue,

Still odious to the monarch, or the people.

CALI.

Such are the woes, when arbitrary pow'r

And lawless passion hold the sword of justice.

If there be any land, as fame reports,

Where common laws restrain the prince and subject,

A happy land, where circulating pow'r

Flows through each member of th' embodied state;

Sure, not unconscious of the mighty blessing,

Her grateful sons shine bright with every virtue;

Untainted with the lust of innovation,

Sure, all unite to hold her league of rule

Unbroken, as the sacred chain of nature

That links the jarring elements in peace.

LEONTIUS.

But say, great bassa, why the sultan's anger,

Burning in vain, delays the stroke of death?

CALI.

Young, and unsettled in his father's kingdoms,

Fierce as he was, he dreaded to destroy

The empire's darling, and the soldier's boast;

But now confirm'd, and swelling with his conquests,

Secure, he tramples my declining fame,

Frowns unrestrain'd, and dooms me with his eyes.

DEMETRIUS.

What can reverse thy doom?

CALI.

The tyrant's death.

DEMETRIUS.

But Greece is still forgot.

CALI.

On Asia's coast,

Which lately bless'd my gentle government,

Soon as the sultan's unexpected fate

Fills all th' astonish'd empire with confusion,

My policy shall raise an easy throne;

The Turkish pow'rs from Europe shall retreat,

And harass Greece no more with wasteful war.

A galley mann'd with Greeks, thy charge, Leontius,

Attends to waft us to repose and safety.

DEMETRIUS.

That vessel, if observ'd, alarms the court,

And gives a thousand fatal questions birth:

Why stor'd for flight? and why prepar'd by Cali?

CALI.

This hour I'll beg, with unsuspecting face,

Leave to perform my pilgrimage to Mecca;

Which granted, hides my purpose from the world,

And, though refus'd, conceals it from the sultan.

LEONTIUS.

How can a single hand attempt a life,

Which armies guard, and citadels enclose?

CALI.

Forgetful of command, with captive beauties,

Far from his troops, he toys his hours away.

A roving soldier seiz'd, in Sophia's temple,

A virgin, shining with distinguish'd charms,

And brought his beauteous plunder to the sultan--

DEMETRIUS.

In Sophia's temple!--What alarm!--Proceed.

CALI.

The sultan gaz'd, he wonder'd, and he lov'd:

In passion lost, he bade the conqu'ring fair

Renounce her faith, and be the queen of Turkey.

The pious maid, with modest indignation,

Threw back the glitt'ring bribe.

DEMETRIUS.

Celestial goodness!

It must, it must be she;--her name?

CALI.

Aspasia.

DEMETRIUS.

What hopes, what terrours, rush upon my soul!

O lead me quickly to the scene of fate;

Break through the politician's tedious forms;

Aspasia calls me, let me fly to save her.

LEONTIUS.

Did Mahomet reproach, or praise her virtue?

CALI.

His offers, oft repeated, still refus'd,

At length rekindled his accustomed fury,

And chang'd th' endearing smile, and am'rous whisper

To threats of torture, death, and violation.

DEMETRIUS.

These tedious narratives of frozen age

Distract my soul;--despatch thy ling'ring tale;

Say, did a voice from heav'n restrain the tyrant?

Did interposing angels guard her from him?

CALI.

Just in the moment of impending fate,

Another plund'rer brought the bright Irene;

Of equal beauty, but of softer mien,

Fear in her eye, submission on her tongue,

Her mournful charms attracted his regards,

Disarm'd his rage, and, in repeated visits,

Gain'd all his heart; at length, his eager love

To her transferr'd the offer of a crown,

LEONTIUS.

Nor found again the bright temptation fail?

CALI.

Trembling to grant, nor daring to refuse,

While heav'n and Mahomet divide her fears,

With coy caresses and with pleasing wiles

She feeds his hopes, and sooths him to delay.

For her, repose is banish'd from the night,

And bus'ness from the day: in her apartments

He lives--

LEONTIUS.

And there must fall.

CALI.

But yet, th' attempt

Is hazardous.

LEONTIUS.

Forbear to speak of hazards;

What has the wretch, that has surviv'd his country,

His friends, his liberty, to hazard?

CALI.

Life.

DEMETRIUS.

Th' inestimable privilege of breathing!

Important hazard! What's that airy bubble,

When weigh'd with Greece, with virtue, with Aspasia?--

A floating atom, dust that falls, unheeded,

Into the adverse scale, nor shakes the balance.

CALI.

At least, this day be calm--If we succeed,

Aspasia's thine, and all thy life is rapture.--

See! Mustapha, the tyrant's minion, comes;

Invest Leontius with his new command;

And wait Abdalla's unsuspected visits:

Remember freedom, glory, Greece, and love.

[_Exeunt_ Demetrius _and_ Leontius.

SCENE III.

CALI, MUSTAPHA.

MUSTAPHA.

By what enchantment does this lovely Greek

Hold in her chains the captivated sultan?

He tires his fav'rites with Irene's praise,

And seeks the shades to muse upon Irene;

Irene steals, unheeded, from his tongue,

And mingles, unperceiv'd, with ev'ry thought.

CALI.

Why should the sultan shun the joys of beauty,

Or arm his breast against the force of love?

Love, that with sweet vicissitude relieves

The warriour's labours and the monarch's cares.

But, will she yet receive the faith of Mecca?

MUSTAPHA.

Those pow'rful tyrants of the female breast,

Fear and ambition, urge her to compliance;

Dress'd in each charm of gay magnificence,

Alluring grandeur courts her to his arms,

Religion calls her from the wish'd embrace,

Paints future joys, and points to distant glories.

CALI.

Soon will th' unequal contest be decided.

Prospects, obscur'd by distance, faintly strike;

Each pleasure brightens, at its near approach,

And ev'ry danger shocks with double horrour.

MUSTAPHA.

How shall I scorn the beautiful apostate!

How will the bright Aspasia shine above her!

CALI.

Should she, for proselytes are always zealous,

With pious warmth receive our prophet's law--

MUSTAPHA.

Heav'n will contemn the mercenary fervour,

Which love of greatness, not of truth, inflames.

CALI.

Cease, cease thy censures; for the sultan comes

Alone, with am'rous haste to seek his love.

SCENE IV.

MAHOMET, CALI, MUSTAPHA.

CALI.

Hail! terrour of the monarchs of the world;

Unshaken be thy throne, as earth's firm base;

Live, till the sun forgets to dart his beams,

And weary planets loiter in their courses!

MAHOMET.

But, Cali, let Irene share thy prayers;

For what is length of days, without Irene?

I come from empty noise, and tasteless pomp,

From crowds, that hide a monarch from himself,

To prove the sweets of privacy and friendship,

And dwell upon the beauties of Irene.

CALI.

O may her beauties last, unchang'd by time,

As those that bless the mansions of the good!

MAHOMET.

Each realm, where beauty turns the graceful shape,

Swells the fair breast, or animates the glance,

Adorns my palace with its brightest virgins;

Yet, unacquainted with these soft emotions,

I walk'd superiour through the blaze of charms,

Prais'd without rapture, left without regret.

Why rove I now, when absent from my fair,

From solitude to crowds, from crowds to solitude,

Still restless, till I clasp the lovely maid,

And ease my loaded soul upon her bosom?

MUSTAPHA.

Forgive, great sultan, that intrusive duty

Inquires the final doom of Menodorus,

The Grecian counsellor.

MAHOMET.

Go, see him die;

His martial rhet'rick taught the Greeks resistance;

Had they prevail'd, I ne'er had known Irene.

[_Exit_ Mustapha.

SCENE V.

MAHOMET, CALI.

MAHOMET.

Remote from tumult, in th' adjoining palace,

Thy care shall guard this treasure of my soul:

There let Aspasia, since my fair entreats it,

With converse chase the melancholy moments.

Sure, chill'd with sixty winter camps, thy blood,

At sight of female charms, will glow no more.

CALI.

These years, unconquer'd Mahomet, demand

Desires more pure, and other cares than love.

Long have I wish'd, before our prophet's tomb,

To pour my pray'rs for thy successful reign,

To quit the tumults of the noisy camp,

And sink into the silent grave in peace.

MAHOMET.

What! think of peace, while haughty Scanderbeg,

Elate with conquest, in his native mountains,

Prowls o'er the wealthy spoils of bleeding Turkey!

While fair Hungaria's unexhausted valleys

Pour forth their legions; and the roaring Danube

Rolls half his floods, unheard, through shouting camps!

Nor could'st thou more support a life of sloth

Than Amurath--

CALI.

Still, full of Amurath! [_Aside_.

MAHOMET.

Than Amurath, accustom'd to command,

Could bear his son upon the Turkish throne.

CALI.

This pilgrimage our lawgiver ordain'd--

MAHOMET.

For those, who could not please by nobler service.--

Our warlike prophet loves an active faith.

The holy flame of enterprising virtue

Mocks the dull vows of solitude and penance,

And scorns the lazy hermit's cheap devotion.

Shine thou, distinguish'd by superiour merit;

With wonted zeal pursue the task of war,

Till ev'ry nation reverence the koran,

And ev'ry suppliant lift his eyes to Mecca.

CALI.

This regal confidence, this pious ardour,

Let prudence moderate, though not suppress.

Is not each realm, that smiles with kinder suns,

Or boasts a happier soil, already thine?

Extended empire, like expanded gold,

Exchanges solid strength for feeble splendour.

MAHOMET.

Preach thy dull politicks to vulgar kings,

Thou know'st not yet thy master's future greatness,

His vast designs, his plans of boundless pow'r.

When ev'ry storm in my domain shall roar,

When ev'ry wave shall beat a Turkish shore;

Then, Cali, shall the toils of battle cease,

Then dream of pray'r, and pilgrimage, and peace.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT II.--SCENE I.

ASPASIA, IRENE.

IRENE.

Aspasia, yet pursue the sacred theme;

Exhaust the stores of pious eloquence,

And teach me to repel the sultan's passion.

Still, at Aspasia's voice, a sudden rapture

Exalts my soul, and fortifies my heart;

The glitt'ring vanities of empty greatness,

The hopes and fears, the joys and pains of life,

Dissolve in air, and vanish into nothing.

ASPASIA.

Let nobler hopes and juster fears succeed,

And bar the passes of Irene's mind

Against returning guilt.

IRENE.

When thou art absent,

Death rises to my view, with all his terrours;

Then visions, horrid as a murd'rer's dreams,

Chill my resolves, and blast my blooming virtue:

Stern torture shakes his bloody scourge before me,

And anguish gnashes on the fatal wheel.

ASPASIA.

Since fear predominates in ev'ry thought,

And sways thy breast with absolute dominion,

Think on th' insulting scorn, the conscious pangs,

The future mis'ries, that wait th' apostate;

So shall timidity assist thy reason,

And wisdom into virtue turn thy frailty.

IRENE.

Will not that pow'r, that form'd the heart of woman,

And wove the feeble texture of her nerves,

Forgive those fears that shake the tender frame?

ASPASIA.

The weakness we lament, ourselves create;

Instructed, from our infant years, to court,

With counterfeited fears, the aid of man,

We learn to shudder at the rustling breeze,

Start at the light, and tremble in the dark;

Till, affectation ripening to belief,

And folly, frighted at her own chimeras,

Habitual cowardice usurps the soul.

IRENE.

Not all, like thee, can brave the shocks of fate.

Thy soul, by nature great, enlarg'd by knowledge,

Soars unincumber'd with our idle cares,

And all Aspasia, but her beauty's man.

ASPASIA.

Each gen'rous sentiment is thine, Demetrius,

Whose soul, perhaps, yet mindful of Aspasia,

Now hovers o'er this melancholy shade,

Well pleas'd to find thy precepts not forgotten.

Oh! could the grave restore the pious hero,

Soon would his art or valour set us free,

And bear us far from servitude and crimes.

IRENE.

He yet may live.

ASPASIA.

Alas! delusive dream!

Too well I know him; his immoderate courage,

Th' impetuous sallies of excessive virtue,

Too strong for love, have hurried him on death.

SCENE II.

ASPASIA, IRENE, CALI, ABDALLA.

CALI _to_ ABDALLA, _as they advance_.

Behold our future sultaness, Abdalla;--

Let artful flatt'ry now, to lull suspicion,

Glide, through Irene, to the sultan's ear.

Would'st thou subdue th' obdurate cannibal

To tender friendship, praise him to his mistress.

[_To_ IRENE.]

Well may those eyes, that view these heav'nly charms,

Reject the daughters of contending kings;

For what are pompous titles, proud alliance,

Empire or wealth, to excellence like thine?

ABDALLA.

Receive th' impatient sultan to thy arms;

And may a long posterity of monarchs,

The pride and terrour of succeeding days,

Rise from the happy bed; and future queens

Diffuse Irene's beauty through the world!

IRENE.

Can Mahomet's imperial hand descend

To clasp a slave? or can a soul, like mine,

Unus'd to pow'r, and form'd for humbler scenes,

Support the splendid miseries of greatness?

CALI.

No regal pageant, deck'd with casual honours,

Scorn'd by his subjects, trampled by his foes;

No feeble tyrant of a petty state,

Courts thee to shake on a dependant throne;

Born to command, as thou to charm mankind,

The sultan from himself derives his greatness.

Observe, bright maid, as his resistless voice

Drives on the tempest of destructive war,

How nation after nation falls before him.

ABDALLA.

At his dread name the distant mountains shake

Their cloudy summits, and the sons of fierceness,

That range uncivilized from rock to rock,

Distrust th' eternal fortresses of nature,

And wish their gloomy caverns more obscure.

ASPASIA.

Forbear this lavish pomp of dreadful praise;

The horrid images of war and slaughter

Renew our sorrows, and awake our fears.

ABDALLA.

Cali, methinks yon waving trees afford

A doubtful glimpse of our approaching friends;

Just as I mark'd them, they forsook the shore,

And turn'd their hasty steps towards the garden.

CALI.

Conduct these queens, Abdalla, to the palace:

Such heav'nly beauty, form'd for adoration,

The pride of monarchs, the reward of conquest!

Such beauty must not shine to vulgar eyes.

SCENE III.

CALI, _solus_.

How heav'n, in scorn of human arrogance,

Commits to trivial chance the fate of nations!

While, with incessant thought, laborious man

Extends his mighty schemes of wealth and pow'r,

And towers and triumphs in ideal greatness;

Some accidental gust of opposition

Blasts all the beauties of his new creation,

O'erturns the fabrick of presumptuous reason,

And whelms the swelling architect beneath it.

Had not the breeze untwin'd the meeting boughs,

And, through the parted shade, disclos'd the Greeks,

Th' important hour had pass'd, unheeded, by,

In all the sweet oblivion of delight,

In all the fopperies of meeting lovers;

In sighs and tears, in transports and embraces,

In soft complaints, and idle protestations.

SCENE IV.

CALI, DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS.

CALI.

Could omens fright the resolute and wise,

Well might we fear impending disappointments.

LEONTIUS.

Your artful suit, your monarch's fierce denial,

The cruel doom of hapless Menodorus--

DEMETRIUS.

And your new charge, that dear, that heav'nly maid--

LEONTIUS.

All this we know already from Abdalla.

DEMETRIUS.

Such slight defeats but animate the brave

To stronger efforts and maturer counsels.

CALI.

My doom confirm'd establishes my purpose.

Calmly he heard, till Amurath's resumption

Rose to his thought, and set his soul on fire:

When from his lips the fatal name burst out,

A sudden pause th' imperfect sense suspended,

Like the dread stillness of condensing storms.

DEMETRIUS.

The loudest cries of nature urge us forward;

Despotick rage pursues the life of Cali;

His groaning country claims Leontius' aid;

And yet another voice, forgive me, Greece,

The pow'rful voice of love, inflames Demetrius;

Each ling'ring hour alarms me for Aspasia.

CALI.

What passions reign among thy crew, Leontius?

Does cheerless diffidence oppress their hearts?

Or sprightly hope exalt their kindling spirits?

Do they, with pain, repress the struggling shout,

And listen eager to the rising wind?

LEONTIUS.

All there is hope, and gaiety, and courage,

No cloudy doubts, or languishing delays;

Ere I could range them on the crowded deck,

At once a hundred voices thunder'd round me,

And ev'ry voice was liberty and Greece.

DEMETRIUS.

Swift let us rush upon the careless tyrant,

Nor give him leisure for another crime.

LEONTIUS.

Then let us now resolve, nor idly waste

Another hour in dull deliberation.

CALI.

But see, where destin'd to protract our counsels,

Comes Mustapha.--Your Turkish robes conceal you.

Retire with speed, while I prepare to meet him

With artificial smiles, and seeming friendship.

SCENE V.

CALI, MUSTAPHA.

CALI.

I see the gloom, that low'rs upon thy brow;

These days of love and pleasure charm not thee;

Too slow these gentle constellations roll;

Thou long'st for stars, that frown on human kind,

And scatter discord from their baleful beams.

MUSTAPHA.

How blest art thou, still jocund and serene,

Beneath the load of business, and of years!

CALI.

Sure, by some wond'rous sympathy of souls,

My heart still beats responsive to the sultan's;

I share, by secret instinct, all his joys,

And feel no sorrow, while my sov'reign smiles.

MUSTAPHA.

The sultan comes, impatient for his love;

Conduct her hither; let no rude intrusion

Molest these private walks, or care invade

These hours, assign'd to pleasure and Irene.

SCENE VI.

MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA.

MAHOMET.

Now, Mustapha, pursue thy tale of horrour.

Has treason's dire infection reach'd my palace?

Can Cali dare the stroke of heav'nly justice,

In the dark precincts of the gaping grave,

And load with perjuries his parting soul?

Was it for this, that, sick'ning in Epirus,

My father call'd me to his couch of death,

Join'd Cali's hand to mine, and falt'ring cried,

Restrain the fervour of impetuous youth

With venerable Cali's faithful counsels?

Are these the counsels, this the faith of Cali?

Were all our favours lavish'd on a villain?

Confest?--

MUSTAPHA.

Confest by dying Menodorus.

In his last agonies, the gasping coward,

Amidst the tortures of the burning steel,

Still fond of life, groan'd out the dreadful secret,

Held forth this fatal scroll, then sunk to nothing.

MAHOMET. _examining the paper_.

His correspondence with our foes of Greece!

His hand! his seal! The secrets of my soul,

Conceal'd from all but him! All, all conspire

To banish doubt, and brand him for a villain!

Our schemes for ever cross'd, our mines discover'd,

Betray'd some traitor lurking near my bosom.

Oft have I rag'd, when their wide-wasting cannon

Lay pointed at our batt'ries yet unform'd,

And broke the meditated lines of war.

Detested Cali, too, with artful wonder,

Would shake his wily head, and closely whisper,

Beware of Mustapha, beware of treason.

MUSTAPHA.

The faith of Mustapha disdains suspicion;

But yet, great emperour, beware of treason;

Th' insidious bassa, fir'd by disappointment--

MAHOMET.

Shall feel the vengeance of an injur'd king.

Go, seize him, load him with reproachful chains;

Before th' assembled troops, proclaim his crimes;

Then leave him, stretch'd upon the ling'ring rack,

Amidst the camp to howl his life away.

MUSTAPHA.

Should we, before the troops, proclaim his crimes,

I dread his arts of seeming innocence,

His bland address, and sorcery of tongue;

And, should he fall, unheard, by sudden justice,

Th' adoring soldiers would revenge their idol.

MAHOMET.

Cali, this day, with hypocritick zeal,

Implor'd my leave to visit Mecca's temple;

Struck with the wonder of a statesman's goodness,

I rais'd his thoughts to more sublime devotion.

Now let him go, pursu'd by silent wrath,

Meet unexpected daggers in his way,

And, in some distant land, obscurely die.

MUSTAPHA.

There will his boundless wealth, the spoil of Asia,

Heap'd by your father's ill-plac'd bounties on him,

Disperse rebellion through the eastern world;

Bribe to his cause, and list beneath his banners,

Arabia's roving troops, the sons of swiftness,

And arm the Persian heretick against thee;

There shall he waste thy frontiers, check thy conquests,

And, though at length subdued, elude thy vengeance.

MAHOMET.

Elude my vengeance! No--My troops shall range

Th' eternal snows that freeze beyond Maeotis,

And Africk's torrid sands, in search of Cali.

Should the fierce north, upon his frozen wings,

Bear him aloft, above the wond'ring clouds,

And seat him in the pleiads' golden chariots,

Thence shall my fury drag him down to tortures;

Wherever guilt can fly, revenge can follow.

MUSTAPHA.

Wilt thou dismiss the savage from the toils,

Only to hunt him round the ravag'd world?

MAHOMET.

Suspend his sentence--Empire and Irene

Claim my divided soul. This wretch, unworthy

To mix with nobler cares, I'll throw aside

For idle hours, and crush him at my leisure.

MUSTAPHA.

Let not th' unbounded greatness of his mind

Betray my king to negligence of danger.

Perhaps, the clouds of dark conspiracy

Now roll, full fraught with thunder, o'er your head.

Twice, since the morning rose, I saw the bassa,

Like a fell adder swelling in a brake,

Beneath the covert of this verdant arch,

In private conference; beside him stood

Two men unknown, the partners of his bosom;

I mark'd them well, and trac'd in either face

The gloomy resolution, horrid greatness,

And stern composure, of despairing heroes;

And, to confirm my thoughts, at sight of me,

As blasted by my presence, they withdrew,

With all the speed of terrour and of guilt.

MAHOMET.

The strong emotions of my troubled soul

Allow no pause for art or for contrivance;

And dark perplexity distracts my counsels.

Do thou resolve: for, see, Irene comes!

At her approach each ruder gust of thought

Sinks, like the sighing of a tempest spent,

And gales of softer passion fan my bosom.

[Cali _enters with_ Irene, _and exit [Transcriber's note: sic] with_

Mustapha.

SCENE VII.

MAHOMET, IRENE.

MAHOMET.

Wilt thou descend, fair daughter of perfection,

To hear my vows, and give mankind a queen?

Ah! cease, Irene, cease those flowing sorrows,

That melt a heart impregnable till now,

And turn thy thoughts, henceforth, to love and empire.

How will the matchless beauties of Irene,

Thus bright in tears, thus amiable in ruin,

With all the graceful pride of greatness heighten'd,

Amidst the blaze of jewels and of gold,

Adorn a throne, and dignify dominion!

IRENE.

Why all this glare of splendid eloquence,

To paint the pageantries of guilty state?

Must I, for these, renounce the hope of heav'n,

Immortal crowns, and fulness of enjoyment?

MAHOMET.

Vain raptures all--For your inferiour natures,

Form'd to delight, and happy by delighting,

Heav'n has reserv'd no future paradise,

But bids you rove the paths of bliss, secure

Of total death, and careless of hereafter;

While heaven's high minister, whose awful volume

Records each act, each thought of sov'reign man,

Surveys your plays with inattentive glance,

And leaves the lovely trifler unregarded.

IRENE.

Why then has nature's vain munificence

Profusely pour'd her bounties upon woman?

Whence, then, those charms thy tongue has deign'd to flatter,

That air resistless, and enchanting blush,

Unless the beauteous fabrick was design'd

A habitation for a fairer soul?

MAHOMET.

Too high, bright maid, thou rat'st exteriour grace:

Not always do the fairest flow'rs diffuse

The richest odours, nor the speckled shells

Conceal the gem; let female arrogance

Observe the feather'd wand'rers of the sky;

With purple varied, and bedrop'd with gold,

They prune the wing, and spread the glossy plumes,

Ordain'd, like you, to flutter and to shine,

And cheer the weary passenger with musick.

IRENE.

Mean as we are, this tyrant of the world

Implores our smiles, and trembles at our feet.

Whence flow the hopes and fears, despair and rapture,

Whence all the bliss and agonies of love?

MAHOMET.

Why, when the balm of sleep descends on man,

Do gay delusions, wand'ring o'er the brain,

Sooth the delighted soul with empty bliss?

To want, give affluence? and to slav'ry, freedom?

Such are love's joys, the lenitives of life,

A fancy'd treasure, and a waking dream.

IRENE.

Then let me once, in honour of our sex,

Assume the boastful arrogance of man.

Th' attractive softness, and th' endearing smile,

And pow'rful glance, 'tis granted, are our own;

Nor has impartial nature's frugal hand

Exhausted all her nobler gifts on you.

Do not we share the comprehensive thought,

Th' enlivening wit, the penetrating reason?

Beats not the female breast with gen'rous passions,

The thirst of empire, and the love of glory?

MAHOMET.

Illustrious maid, new wonders fix me thine;

Thy soul completes the triumphs of thy face.

I thought (forgive, my fair,) the noblest aim,

The strongest effort of a female soul,

Was but to choose the graces of the day;

To tune the tongue, to teach the eyes to roll,

Dispose the colours of the flowing robe,

And add new roses to the faded cheek.

Will it not charm a mind, like thine, exalted,

To shine, the goddess of applauding nations;

To scatter happiness and plenty round thee,

To bid the prostrate captive rise and live,

To see new cities tow'r, at thy command,

And blasted kingdoms flourish, at thy smile?

IRENE.

Charm'd with the thought of blessing human kind,

Too calm I listen to the flatt'ring sounds.

MAHOMET.

O! seize the power to bless--Irene's nod

Shall break the fetters of the groaning Christian;

Greece, in her lovely patroness secure,

Shall mourn no more her plunder'd palaces.

IRENE.

Forbear--O! do not urge me to my ruin!

MAHOMET.

To state and pow'r I court thee, not to ruin:

Smile on my wishes, and command the globe.

Security shall spread her shield before thee,

And love infold thee with his downy wings.

If greatness please thee, mount th' imperial seat;

If pleasure charm thee, view this soft retreat;

Here ev'ry warbler of the sky shall sing;

Here ev'ry fragrance breathe of ev'ry spring:

To deck these bow'rs each region shall combine,

And e'en our prophet's gardens envy thine:

Empire and love shall share the blissful day,

And varied life steal, unperceiv'd, away.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT III.--SCENE I.

CALI, ABDALLA.

[CALI _enters, with a discontented air; to him enters_ ABDALLA.]

CALI.

Is this the fierce conspirator, Abdalla?

Is this the restless diligence of treason?

Where hast thou linger'd, while th' incumber'd hours

Fly, lab'ring with the fate of future nations,

And hungry slaughter scents imperial blood?

ABDALLA.

Important cares detain'd me from your counsels.

CALI.

Some petty passion! some domestick trifle!

Some vain amusement of a vacant soul!

A weeping wife, perhaps, or dying friend,

Hung on your neck, and hinder'd your departure.

Is this a time for softness or for sorrow?

Unprofitable, peaceful, female virtues!

When eager vengeance shows a naked foe,

And kind ambition points the way to greatness.

ABDALLA.

Must then ambition's votaries infringe

The laws of kindness, break the bonds of nature,

And quit the names of brother, friend, and father?

CALI.

This sov'reign passion, scornful of restraint,

E'en from the birth, affects supreme command,

Swells in the breast, and, with resistless force,

O'erbears each gentler motion of the mind:

As, when a deluge overspreads the plains,

The wand'ring rivulet, and silver lake,

Mix undistinguish'd with the gen'ral roar.

ABDALLA.

Yet can ambition, in Abdalla's breast,

Claim but the second place: there mighty love

Has fix'd his hopes, inquietudes, and fears,

His glowing wishes, and his jealous pangs.

CALI.

Love is, indeed, the privilege of youth;

Yet, on a day like this, when expectation

Pants for the dread event--But let us reason--

ABDALLA.

Hast thou grown old, amidst the crowd of courts,

And turn'd th' instructive page of human life,

To cant, at last, of reason to a lover?

Such ill-tim'd gravity, such serious folly,

Might well befit the solitary student,

Th' unpractis'd dervis, or sequester'd faquir.

Know'st thou not yet, when love invades the soul,

That all her faculties receive his chains?

That reason gives her sceptre to his hand,

Or only struggles to be more enslav'd?

Aspasia, who can look upon thy beauties?

Who hear thee speak, and not abandon reason?

Reason! the hoary dotard's dull directress,

That loses all, because she hazards nothing!

Reason! the tim'rous pilot, that, to shun

The rocks of life, for ever flies the port!

CALI.

But why this sudden warmth?

ABDALLA.

Because I love:

Because my slighted passion burns in vain!

Why roars the lioness, distress'd by hunger?

Why foam the swelling waves, when tempests rise?

Why shakes the ground, when subterraneous fires

Fierce through the bursting caverns rend their way?

CALI.

Not till this day, thou saw'st this fatal fair;

Did ever passion make so swift a progress?

Once more reflect; suppress this infant folly.

ABDALLA.

Gross fires, enkindled by a mortal hand,

Spread, by degrees, and dread th' oppressing stream;

The subtler flames, emitted from the sky,

Flash out at once, with strength above resistance.

CALI.

How did Aspasia welcome your address?

Did you proclaim this unexpected conquest?

Or pay, with speaking eyes, a lover's homage?

ABDALLA.

Confounded, aw'd, and lost in admiration,

I gaz'd, I trembled; but I could not speak;

When e'en, as love was breaking off from wonder,

And tender accents quiver'd on my lips,

She mark'd my sparkling eyes, and heaving breast,

And smiling, conscious of her charms, withdrew.

[_Enter_ Demetrius _and_ Leontius.

CALI.

Now be, some moments, master of thyself;

Nor let Demetrius know thee for a rival.

Hence! or be calm--To disagree is ruin.

SCENE II.

CALI, DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS, ABDALLA.

DEMETRIUS.

When will occasion smile upon our wishes,

And give the tortures of suspense a period?

Still must we linger in uncertain hope?

Still languish in our chains, and dream of freedom,

Like thirsty sailors gazing on the clouds,

Till burning death shoots through their wither'd limbs?

CALI.

Deliverance is at hand; for Turkey's tyrant,

Sunk in his pleasures, confident and gay,

With all the hero's dull security,

Trusts to my care his mistress and his life,

And laughs, and wantons in the jaws of death.

LEONTIUS.

So weak is man, when destin'd to destruction!--

The watchful slumber, and the crafty trust.

CALI.

At my command, yon iron gates unfold;

At my command, the sentinels retire;

With all the license of authority,

Through bowing slaves, I range the private rooms,

And of to-morrow's action fix the scene.

DEMETRIUS.

To-morrow's action! Can that hoary wisdom,

Borne down with years, still dote upon to-morrow?

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,

The coward, and the fool, condemn'd to lose

An useless life, in waiting for to-morrow,

To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow,

Till interposing death destroys the prospect!

Strange! that this gen'ral fraud, from day to day,

Should fill the world with wretches undetected.

The soldier, lab'ring through a winter's march,

Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumph;

Still to the lover's long-expecting arms

To-morrow brings the visionary bride.

But thou, too old to bear another cheat,

Learn, that the present hour alone is man's.

LEONTIUS.

The present hour, with open arms, invites;

Seize the kind fair, and press her to thy bosom.

DEMETRIUS.

Who knows, ere this important morrow rise,

But fear or mutiny may taint the Greeks?

Who knows, if Mahomet's awaking anger

May spare the fatal bowstring till to-morrow?

ABDALLA.

Had our first Asian foes but known this ardour,

We still had wander'd on Tartarian hills.

Rouse, Cali; shall the sons of conquer'd Greece

Lead us to danger, and abash their victors?

This night, with all her conscious stars, be witness,

Who merits most, Demetrius or Abdalla.

DEMETRIUS.

Who merits most!--I knew not, we were rivals.

CALI.

Young man, forbear--the heat of youth, no more--

Well,--'tis decreed--This night shall fix our fate.

Soon as the veil of ev'ning clouds the sky,

With cautious secrecy, Leontius, steer

Th' appointed vessel to yon shaded bay,

Form'd by this garden jutting on the deep;

There, with your soldiers arm'd, and sails expanded,

Await our coming, equally prepar'd

For speedy flight, or obstinate defence. [Exit Leont.

SCENE III.

CALI, ABDALLA, DEMETRIUS.

DEMETRIUS.

Now pause, great bassa, from the thoughts of blood,

And kindly grant an ear to gentler sounds.

If e'er thy youth has known the pangs of absence,

Or felt th' impatience of obstructed love,

Give me, before th' approaching hour of fate,

Once to behold the charms of bright Aspasia,

And draw new virtue from her heav'nly tongue.

CALI.

Let prudence, ere the suit be farther urg'd,

Impartial weigh the pleasure with the danger.

A little longer, and she's thine for ever.

DEMETRIUS.

Prudence and love conspire in this request,

Lest, unacquainted with our bold attempt,

Surprise o'erwhelm her, and retard our flight.

CALI.

What I can grant, you cannot ask in vain--

DEMETRIUS.

I go to wait thy call; this kind consent

Completes the gift of freedom and of life. [_Exit_ Dem.

SCENE IV.

CALI, ABDALLA.

ABDALLA.

And this is my reward--to burn, to languish,

To rave, unheeded; while the happy Greek,

The refuse of our swords, the dross of conquest,

Throws his fond arms about Aspasia's neck,

Dwells on her lips, and sighs upon her breast.

Is't not enough, he lives by our indulgence,

But he must live to make his masters wretched?

CALI.

What claim hast thou to plead?

ABDALLA.

The claim of pow'r,

Th' unquestion'd claim of conquerors and kings!

CALI.

Yet, in the use of pow'r, remember justice.

ABDALLA.

Can then th' assassin lift his treach'rous hand

Against his king, and cry, remember justice?

Justice demands the forfeit life of Cali;

Justice demands, that I reveal your crimes;

Justice demands--but see th' approaching sultan!

Oppose my wishes, and--remember justice.

CALI.

Disorder sits upon thy face--retire.

[_Exit_ Abdalla; enter Mahomet.

SCENE V.

CALI, MAHOMET.

CALI.

Long be the sultan bless'd with happy love!

My zeal marks gladness dawning on thy cheek,

With raptures, such as fire the pagan crowds,

When, pale and anxious for their years to come,

They see the sun surmount the dark eclipse,

And hail, unanimous, their conqu'ring god.

MAHOMET.

My vows, 'tis true, she hears with less aversion;

She sighs, she blushes, but she still denies.

CALI.

With warmer courtship press the yielding fair:

Call to your aid, with boundless promises,

Each rebel wish, each traitor inclination,

That raises tumults in the female breast,

The love of pow'r, of pleasure, and of show.

MAHOMET.

These arts I try'd, and, to inflame her more,

By hateful business hurried from her sight,

I bade a hundred virgins wait around her,

Sooth her with all the pleasures of command,

Applaud her charms, and court her to be great.

[_Exit_ Mahomet.

SCENE VI.

CALI, _solus_.

He's gone--Here rest, my soul, thy fainting wing;

Here recollect thy dissipated pow'rs.--

Our distant int'rests, and our diff'rent passions.

Now haste to mingle in one common centre.

And fate lies crowded in a narrow space.

Yet, in that narrow space what dangers rise!--

Far more I dread Abdalla's fiery folly,

Than all the wisdom of the grave divan.

Reason with reason fights on equal terms;

The raging madman's unconnected schemes

We cannot obviate, for we cannot guess.

Deep in my breast be treasur'd this resolve,

When Cali mounts the throne, Abdalla dies,

Too fierce, too faithless, for neglect or trust.

[_Enter_ Irene _with attendants_.

SCENE VII.

CALI, IRENE, ASPASIA, &c.

CALI.

Amidst the splendour of encircling beauty,

Superiour majesty proclaims thee queen,

And nature justifies our monarch's choice.

IRENE.

Reserve this homage for some other fair;

Urge me not on to glitt'ring guilt, nor pour

In my weak ear th' intoxicating sounds.

CALI.

Make haste, bright maid, to rule the willing world;

Aw'd by the rigour of the sultan's justice,

We court thy gentleness.

ASPASIA.

Can Cali's voice

Concur to press a hapless captive's ruin?

CALI.

Long would my zeal for Mahomet and thee

Detain me here. But nations call upon me,

And duty bids me choose a distant walk,

Nor taint with care the privacies of love.

SCENE VIII.

IRENE, ASPASIA, _attendants_.

ASPASIA.

If yet this shining pomp, these sudden honours,

Swell not thy soul, beyond advice or friendship,

Nor yet inspire the follies of a queen,

Or tune thine ear to soothing adulation,

Suspend awhile the privilege of pow'r,

To hear the voice of truth; dismiss thy train,

Shake off th' incumbrances of state, a moment,

And lay the tow'ring sultaness aside,

Irene _signs to her attendants to retire_.

While I foretell thy fate: that office done,--

No more I boast th' ambitious name of friend,

But sink among thy slaves, without a murmur.

IRENE.

Did regal diadems invest my brow,

Yet should my soul, still faithful to her choice,

Esteem Aspasia's breast the noblest kingdom.

ASPASIA.

The soul, once tainted with so foul a crime,

No more shall glow with friendship's hallow'd ardour:

Those holy beings, whose superiour care

Guides erring mortals to the paths of virtue,

Affrighted at impiety, like thine,

Resign their charge to baseness and to ruin[a].

[a] In the original copy of this tragedy, given to Mr. Langton, the

above speech is as follows; and, in Mr. Boswell's judgment, is

finer than in the present editions:

"Nor think to say, here will I stop;

Here will I fix the limits of transgression,

Nor farther tempt the avenging rage of heaven.

When guilt, like this, once harbours in the breast,

Those holy beings, whose unseen direction

Guides, through the maze of life, the steps of man.

Fly the detested mansions of impiety,

And quit their charge to horrour and to ruin."

See Boswell, i. for other compared extracts from the first sketch.

--ED.

IRENE.

Upbraid me not with fancied wickedness;

I am not yet a queen, or an apostate.

But should I sin beyond the hope of mercy,

If, when religion prompts me to refuse,

The dread of instant death restrains my tongue?

ASPASIA.

Reflect, that life and death, affecting sounds!

Are only varied modes of endless being;

Reflect, that life, like ev'ry other blessing,

Derives its value from its use alone;

Not for itself, but for a nobler end,

Th' Eternal gave it, and that end is virtue.

When inconsistent with a greater good,

Reason commands to cast the less away:

Thus life, with loss of wealth, is well preserv'd,

And virtue cheaply say'd, with loss of life.

IRENE.

If built on settled thought, this constancy

Not idly flutters on a boastful tongue,

Why, when destruction rag'd around our walls,

Why fled this haughty heroine from the battle?

Why, then, did not this warlike amazon

Mix in the war, and shine among the heroes?

ASPASIA.

Heav'n, when its hand pour'd softness on our limbs,

Unfit for toil, and polish'd into weakness,

Made passive fortitude the praise of woman:

Our only arms are innocence and meekness.

Not then with raving cries I fill'd the city;

But, while Demetrius, dear, lamented name!

Pour'd storms of fire upon our fierce invaders,

Implor'd th' eternal pow'r to shield my country,

With silent sorrows, and with calm devotion.

IRENE.

O! did Irene shine the queen of Turkey,

No more should Greece lament those pray'rs rejected;

Again, should golden splendour grace her cities,

Again, her prostrate palaces should rise,

Again, her temples sound with holy musick:

No more should danger fright, or want distress

The smiling widows, and protected orphans.

ASPASIA.

Be virtuous ends pursued by virtuous means,

Nor think th' intention sanctifies the deed:

That maxim, publish'd in an impious age,

Would loose the wild enthusiast to destroy,

And fix the fierce usurper's bloody title;

Then bigotry might send her slaves to war,

And bid success become the test of truth:

Unpitying massacre might waste the world,

And persecution boast the call of heaven.

IRENE.

Shall I not wish to cheer afflicted kings,

And plan the happiness of mourning millions?

ASPASIA.

Dream not of pow'r, thou never canst attain:

When social laws first harmoniz'd the world,

Superiour man possess'd the charge of rule,

The scale of justice, and the sword of power,

Nor left us aught, but flattery and state.

IRENE.

To me my lover's fondness will restore

Whate'er man's pride has ravish'd from our sex.

ASPASIA.

When soft security shall prompt the sultan,

Freed from the tumults of unsettled conquest,

To fix his court, and regulate his pleasures,

Soon shall the dire seraglio's horrid gates

Close, like th' eternal bars of death, upon thee.

Immur'd, and buried in perpetual sloth,

That gloomy slumber of the stagnant soul,

There shalt thou view, from far, the quiet cottage,

And sigh for cheerful poverty in vain;

There wear the tedious hours of life away,

Beneath each curse of unrelenting heav'n,

Despair and slav'ry, solitude and guilt.

IRENE.

There shall we find the yet untasted bliss

Of grandeur and tranquillity combin'd.

ASPASIA.

Tranquillity and guilt, disjoin'd by heaven,

Still stretch in vain their longing arms afar;

Nor dare to pass th' insuperable bound.

Ah! let me rather seek the convent's cell;

There, when my thoughts, at interval of prayer,

Descend to range these mansions of misfortune,

Oft shall I dwell on our disastrous friendship,

And shed the pitying tear for lost Irene.

IRENE.

Go, languish on in dull obscurity;

Thy dazzled soul, with all its boasted greatness,

Shrinks at th' o'erpow'ring gleams of regal state,

Stoops from the blaze, like a degen'rate eagle,

And flies for shelter to the shades of life.

ASPASIA.

On me should providence, without a crime,

The weighty charge of royalty confer;

Call me to civilize the Russian wilds,

Or bid soft science polish Britain's heroes;

Soon should'st thou see, how false thy weak reproach,

My bosom feels, enkindled from the sky,

The lambent flames of mild benevolence,

Untouch'd by fierce ambition's raging fires.

IRENE.

Ambition is the stamp, impress'd by heav'n

To mark the noblest minds; with active heat

Inform'd, they mount the precipice of pow'r,

Grasp at command, and tow'r in quest of empire;

While vulgar souls compassionate their cares,

Gaze at their height, and tremble at their danger:

Thus meaner spirits, with amazement, mark

The varying seasons, and revolving skies,

And ask, what guilty pow'r's rebellious hand

Rolls with eternal toil the pond'rous orbs;

While some archangel, nearer to perfection,

In easy state, presides o'er all their motions,

Directs the planets, with a careless nod,

Conducts the sun, and regulates the spheres.

ASPASIA.

Well may'st thou hide in labyrinths of sound

The cause that shrinks from reason's pow'rful voice.

Stoop from thy flight, trace back th' entangled thought,

And set the glitt'ring fallacy to view.

Not pow'r I blame, but pow'r obtain'd by crime;

Angelick greatness is angelick virtue.

Amidst the glare of courts, the shout of armies,

Will not th' apostate feel the pangs of guilt,

And wish, too late, for innocence and peace,

Curst, as the tyrant of th' infernal realms,

With gloomy state and agonizing pomp?

SCENE IX.

IRENE, ASPASIA, MAID.

MAID.

A Turkish stranger, of majestick mien,

Asks at the gate admission to Aspasia,

Commission'd, as he says, by Cali bassa.

IRENE.

Whoe'er thou art, or whatsoe'er thy message, [Aside.

Thanks for this kind relief--With speed admit him.

ASPASIA.

He comes, perhaps, to separate us for ever;

When I am gone, remember, O! remember,

That none are great, or happy, but the virtuous.

[_Exit_ Irene; _enter_ Demetrius.

SCENE X.

ASPASIA, DEMETRIUS.

DEMETRIUS.

'Tis she--my hope, my happiness, my love!

Aspasia! do I, once again, behold thee?

Still, still the same--unclouded by misfortune!

Let my blest eyes for ever gaze--

ASPASIA.

Demetrius!

DEMETRIUS.

Why does the blood forsake thy lovely cheek?

Why shoots this chilness through thy shaking nerves?

Why does thy soul retire into herself?

Recline upon my breast thy sinking beauties:

Revive--Revive to freedom and to love.

ASPASIA.

What well-known voice pronounc'd the grateful sounds,

Freedom and love? Alas! I'm all confusion;

A sudden mist o'ercasts my darken'd soul;

The present, past, and future swim before me,

Lost in a wild perplexity of joy.

DEMETRIUS.

Such ecstasy of love, such pure affection,

What worth can merit? or what faith reward?

ASPASIA.

A thousand thoughts, imperfect and distracted,

Demand a voice, and struggle into birth;

A thousand questions press upon my tongue,

But all give way to rapture and Demetrius.

DEMETRIUS.

O say, bright being, in this age of absence,

What fears, what griefs, what dangers, hast thou known?

Say, how the tyrant threaten'd, flatter'd, sigh'd!

Say, how he threaten'd, flatter'd, sigh'd in vain!

Say, how the hand of violence was rais'd!

Say, how thou call'dst in tears upon Demetrius!

ASPASIA.

Inform me rather, how thy happy courage

Stemm'd in the breach the deluge of destruction,

And pass'd, uninjur'd, through the walks of death.

Did savage anger and licentious conquest

Behold the hero with Aspasia's eyes?

And, thus protected in the gen'ral ruin,

O! say, what guardian pow'r convey'd thee hither.

DEMETRIUS.

Such strange events, such unexpected chances,

Beyond my warmest hope, or wildest wishes,

Concurr'd to give me to Aspasia's arms,

I stand amaz'd, and ask, if yet I clasp thee.

ASPASIA.

Sure heav'n, (for wonders are not wrought in vain!)

That joins us thus, will never part us more.

SCENE XI.

DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, ABDALLA.

ABDALLA.

It parts you now--The hasty sultan sign'd

The laws unread, and flies to his Irene.

DEMETRIUS.

Fix'd and intent on his Irene's charms,

He envies none the converse of Aspasia.

ABDALLA.

Aspasia's absence will inflame suspicion;

She cannot, must not, shall not, linger here;

Prudence and friendship bid me force her from you.

DEMETRIUS.

Force her! profane her with a touch, and die!

ABDALLA.

'Tis Greece, 'tis freedom, calls Aspasia hence;

Your careless love betrays your country's cause.

DEMETRIUS.

If we must part--

ASPASIA.

No! let us die together.

DEMETRIUS.

If we must part--

ABDALLA.

Despatch; th' increasing danger

Will not admit a lover's long farewell,

The long-drawn intercourse of sighs and kisses.

DEMETRIUS.

Then--O! my fair, I cannot bid thee go.

Receive her, and protect her, gracious heav'n!

Yet let me watch her dear departing steps;

If fate pursues me, let it find me here.

Reproach not, Greece, a lover's fond delays,

Nor think thy cause neglected, while I gaze;

New force, new courage, from each glance I gain,

And find our passions not infus'd in vain. [_Exeunt_.

ACT IV.--SCENE I.

DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, _enter as talking_.

ASPASIA.

Enough--resistless reason calms my soul--

Approving justice smiles upon your cause,

And nature's rights entreat th' asserting sword.

Yet, when your hand is lifted to destroy,

Think, but excuse a woman's needless caution,--

Purge well thy mind from ev'ry private passion,

Drive int'rest, love, and vengeance, from thy thoughts;

Fill all thy ardent breast with Greece and virtue;

Then strike secure, and heav'n assist the blow!

DEMETRIUS.

Thou kind assistant of my better angel,

Propitious guide of my bewilder'd soul,

Calm of my cares, and guardian of my virtue!

ASPASIA.

My soul, first kindled by thy bright example,

To noble thought and gen'rous emulation,

Now but reflects those beams that flow'd from thee.

DEMETRIUS.

With native lustre and unborrow'd greatness,

Thou shin'st, bright maid, superiour to distress;

Unlike the trifling race of vulgar beauties,

Those glitt'ring dewdrops of a vernal morn,

That spread their colours to the genial beam,

And, sparkling, quiver to the breath of May;

But, when the tempest, with sonorous wing,

Sweeps o'er the grove, forsake the lab'ring bough,

Dispers'd in air, or mingled with the dust.

ASPASIA.

Forbear this triumph--still new conflicts wait us,

Foes unforeseen, and dangers unsuspected.

Oft, when the fierce besiegers' eager host

Beholds the fainting garrison retire,

And rushes joyful to the naked wall,

Destruction flashes from th' insidious mine,

And sweeps th' exulting conqueror away.

Perhaps, in vain the sultan's anger spar'd me,

To find a meaner fate from treach'rous friendship--

Abdalla!--

DEMETRIUS.

Can Abdalla then dissemble!

That fiery chief, renown'd for gen'rous freedom,

For zeal unguarded, undissembled hate,

For daring truth, and turbulence of honour!

ASPASIA.

This open friend, this undesigning hero,

With noisy falsehoods, forc'd me from your arms,

To shock my virtue with a tale of love.

DEMETRIUS.

Did not the cause of Greece restrain my sword,

Aspasia should not fear a second insult.

ASPASIA.

His pride and love, by turns, inspir'd his tongue,

And intermix'd my praises with his own;

His wealth, his rank, his honours, he recounted,

Till, in the midst of arrogance and fondness,

Th' approaching sultan forc'd me from the palace;

Then, while he gaz'd upon his yielding mistress,

I stole, unheeded, from their ravish'd eyes,

And sought this happy grove in quest of thee.

DEMETRIUS.

Soon may the final stroke decide our fate,

Lest baleful discord crush our infant scheme,

And strangled freedom perish in the birth!

ASPASIA.

My bosom, harass'd with alternate passions,

Now hopes, now fears--

DEMETRIUS.

Th' anxieties of love.

ASPASIA.

Think, how the sov'reign arbiter of kingdoms

Detests thy false associates' black designs,

And frowns on perjury, revenge, and murder.

Embark'd with treason on the seas of fate,

When heaven shall bid the swelling billows rage,

And point vindictive lightnings at rebellion,

Will not the patriot share the traitor's danger?

Oh! could thy hand, unaided, free thy country,

Nor mingled guilt pollute the sacred cause!

DEMETRIUS.

Permitted oft, though not inspir'd, by heaven,

Successful treasons punish impious kings.

ASPASIA.

Nor end my terrours with the sultan's death;

Far as futurity's untravell'd waste

Lies open to conjecture's dubious ken,

On ev'ry side confusion, rage, and death,

Perhaps, the phantoms of a woman's fear,

Beset the treach'rous way with fatal ambush;

Each Turkish bosom burns for thy destruction,

Ambitious Cali dreads the statesman's arts,

And hot Abdalla hates the happy lover.

DEMETRIUS.

Capricious man! to good and ill inconstant,

Too much to fear or trust is equal weakness.

Sometimes the wretch, unaw'd by heav'n or hell,

With mad devotion idolizes honour.

The bassa, reeking with his master's murder,

Perhaps, may start at violated friendship.

ASPASIA.

How soon, alas! will int'rest, fear, or envy,

O'erthrow such weak, such accidental virtue,

Nor built on faith, nor fortified by conscience!

DEMETRIUS.

When desp'rate ills demand a speedy cure,

Distrust is cowardice, and prudence folly.

ASPASIA.

Yet, think a moment, ere you court destruction,

What hand, when death has snatch'd away Demetrius,

Shall guard Aspasia from triumphant lust.

DEMETRIUS.

Dismiss these needless fears--a troop of Greeks,

Well known, long try'd, expect us on the shore.

Borne on the surface of the smiling deep,

Soon shalt thou scorn, in safety's arms repos'd,

Abdalla's rage and Cali's stratagems.

ASPASIA.

Still, still, distrust sits heavy on my heart.

Will e'er a happier hour revisit Greece?

DEMETRIUS.

Should heav'n, yet unappeas'd, refuse its aid,

Disperse our hopes, and frustrate our designs,

Yet shall the conscience of the great attempt

Diffuse a brightness on our future days;

Nor will his country's groans reproach Demetrius.

But how canst thou support the woes of exile?

Canst thou forget hereditary splendours,

To live obscure upon a foreign coast,

Content with science, innocence, and love?

ASPASIA.

Nor wealth, nor titles, make Aspasia's bliss.

O'erwhelm'd and lost amidst the publick ruins,

Unmov'd, I saw the glitt'ring trifles perish,

And thought the petty dross beneath a sigh.

Cheerful I follow to the rural cell;

Love be my wealth, and my distinction virtue.

DEMETRIUS.

Submissive, and prepar'd for each event,

Now let us wait the last award of heav'n,

Secure of happiness from flight or conquest;

Nor fear the fair and learn'd can want protection.

The mighty Tuscan courts the banish'd arts

To kind Italia's hospitable shades;

There shall soft leisure wing th' excursive soul,

And peace, propitious, smile on fond desire;

There shall despotick eloquence resume

Her ancient empire o'er the yielding heart;

There poetry shall tune her sacred voice,

And wake from ignorance the western world.

SCENE II.

DEMETRIUS, ASPASIA, CALI.

CALI.

At length th' unwilling sun resigns the world

To silence and to rest. The hours of darkness,

Propitious hours to stratagem and death,

Pursue the last remains of ling'ring light.

DEMETRIUS.

Count not these hours, as parts of vulgar time;

Think them a sacred treasure lent by heaven,

Which, squander'd by neglect, or fear, or folly,

No prayer recalls, no diligence redeems.

To-morrow's dawn shall see the Turkish king

Stretch'd in the dust, or tow'ring on his throne;

To-morrow's dawn shall see the mighty Cali

The sport of tyranny, or lord of nations.

CALI.

Then waste no longer these important moments

In soft endearments, and in gentle murmurs;

Nor lose, in love, the patriot and the hero.

DEMETRIUS.

'Tis love, combin'd with guilt alone, that melts

The soften'd soul to cowardice and sloth;

But virtuous passion prompts the great resolve,

And fans the slumbering spark of heavenly fire.

Retire, my fair; that pow'r that smiles on goodness,

Guide all thy steps, calm ev'ry stormy thought,

And still thy bosom with the voice of peace!

ASPASIA.

Soon may we meet again, secure and free,

To feel no more the pangs of separation! [_Exit_.

DEMETRIUS, CALI.

DEMETRIUS.

This night alone is ours--Our mighty foe,

No longer lost in am'rous solitude,

Will now remount the slighted seat of empire,

And show Irene to the shouting people:

Aspasia left her, sighing in his arms,

And list'ning to the pleasing tale of pow'r;

With soften'd voice she dropp'd the faint refusal,

Smiling consent she sat, and blushing love.

CALI.

Now, tyrant, with satiety of beauty

Now feast thine eyes; thine eyes, that ne'er hereafter

Shall dart their am'rous glances at the fair,

Or glare on Cali with malignant beams.

SCENE III.

DEMETRIUS, CALI, LEONTIUS, ABDALLA.

LEONTIUS.

Our bark, unseen, has reach'd th' appointed bay,

And, where yon trees wave o'er the foaming surge,

Reclines against the shore: our Grecian troop

Extends its lines along the sandy beach,

Elate with hope, and panting for a foe.

ABDALLA.

The fav'ring winds assist the great design,

Sport in our sails, and murmur o'er the deep.

CALI.

'Tis well--A single blow completes our wishes;

Return with speed, Leontius, to your charge;

The Greeks, disorder'd by their leader's absence,

May droop dismay'd, or kindle into madness.

LEONTIUS.

Suspected still!--What villain's pois'nous tongue

Dares join Leontius' name with fear or falsehood?

Have I for this preserv'd my guiltless bosom,

Pure as the thoughts of infant innocence?

Have I for this defy'd the chiefs of Turkey,

Intrepid in the flaming front of war?

CALI.

Hast thou not search'd my soul's profoundest thoughts?

Is not the fate of Greece and Cali thine?

LEONTIUS.

Why has thy choice then pointed out Leontius,

Unfit to share this night's illustrious toils?

To wait, remote from action, and from honour,

An idle list'ner to the distant cries

Of slaughter'd infidels, and clash of swords?

Tell me the cause, that while thy name, Demetrius,

Shall soar, triumphant on the wings of glory,

Despis'd and curs'd, Leontius must descend

Through hissing ages, a proverbial coward,

The tale of women, and the scorn of fools?

DEMETRIUS.

Can brave Leontius be the slave of glory?

Glory, the casual gift of thoughtless crowds!

Glory, the bribe of avaricious virtue!

Be but my country free, be thine the praise;

I ask no witness, but attesting conscience,

No records, but the records of the sky.

LEONTIUS.

Wilt thou then head the troop upon the shore,

While I destroy th' oppressor of mankind?

DEMETRIUS.

What canst thou boast superiour to Demetrius?

Ask, to whose sword the Greeks will trust their cause,

My name shall echo through the shouting field:

Demand, whose force yon Turkish heroes dread,

The shudd'ring camp shall murmur out Demetrius.

CALI

Must Greece, still wretched by her children's folly,

For ever mourn their avarice or factions?

Demetrius justly pleads a double title;

The lover's int'rest aids the patriot's claim.

LEONTIUS.

My pride shall ne'er protract my country's woes;

Succeed, my friend, unenvied by Leontius.

DEMETRIUS.

I feel new spirit shoot along my nerves;

My soul expands to meet approaching freedom.

Now hover o'er us, with propitious wings,

Ye sacred shades of patriots and of martyrs!

All ye, whose blood tyrannick rage effus'd,

Or persecution drank, attend our call;

I And from the mansions of perpetual peace

Descend, to sweeten labours, once your own!

CALI.

Go then, and with united eloquence

Confirm your troops; and, when the moon's fair beam

Plays on the quiv'ring waves, to guide our flight,

Return, Demetrius, and be free for ever.

[_Exeunt_ Dem. _and_ Leon.

SCENE IV.

CALI, ABDALLA.

ABDALLA.

How the new monarch, swell'd with airy rule,

Looks down, contemptuous, from his fancy'd height,

And utters fate, unmindful of Abdalla!

CALI.

Far be such black ingratitude from Cali!

When Asia's nations own me for their lord,

Wealth, and command, and grandeur shall be thine!

ABDALLA.

Is this the recompense reserv'd for me?

Dar'st thou thus dally with Abdalla's passion?

Henceforward, hope no more my slighted friendship;

Wake from thy dream of power to death and tortures,

And bid thy visionary throne farewell.

CALI.

Name, and enjoy thy wish--

ABDALLA.

I need not name it;

Aspasia's lovers know but one desire,

Nor hope, nor wish, nor live, but for Aspasia.

CALI.

That fatal beauty, plighted to Demetrius,

Heaven makes not mine to give.

ABDALLA.

Nor to deny.

CALI.

Obtain her, and possess; thou know'st thy rival.

ABDALLA.

Too well I know him, since, on Thracia's plains,

I felt the force of his tempestuous arm,

And saw my scatter'd squadrons fly before him.

Nor will I trust th' uncertain chance of combat;

The rights of princes let the sword decide,

The petty claims of empire and of honour:

Revenge and subtle jealousy shall teach

A surer passage to his hated heart.

CALI.

Oh! spare the gallant Greek, in him we lose

The politician's arts, and hero's flame.

ABDALLA.

When next we meet, before we storm the palace,

The bowl shall circle to confirm our league;

Then shall these juices taint Demetrius' draught,

[_Showing a phial_.

And stream, destructive, through his freezing veins:

Thus shall he live to strike th' important blow,

And perish, ere he taste the joys of conquest.

SCENE V.

MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, CALI, ABDALLA.

MAHOMET.

Henceforth, for ever happy be this day,

Sacred to love, to pleasure, and Irene!

The matchless fair has bless'd me with compliance;

Let every tongue resound Irene's praise,

And spread the gen'ral transport through mankind.

CALI.

Blest prince, for whom indulgent heav'n ordains,

At once, the joys of paradise and empire,

Now join thy people's and thy Cali's prayers;

Suspend thy passage to the seats of bliss,

Nor wish for houries in Irene's arms.

MAHOMET.

Forbear--I know the long-try'd faith of Cali.

CALI.

Oh! could the eyes of kings, like those of heav'n,

Search to the dark recesses of the soul,

Oft would they find ingratitude and treason,

By smiles, and oaths, and praises, ill disguis'd.

How rarely would they meet, in crowded courts,

Fidelity so firm, so pure, as mine.

MUSTAPHA.

Yet, ere we give our loosen'd thoughts to rapture,

Let prudence obviate an impending danger:

Tainted by sloth, the parent of sedition,

The hungry janizary burns for plunder,

And growls, in private, o'er his idle sabre.

MAHOMET.

To still their murmurs, ere the twentieth sun

Shall shed his beams upon the bridal bed,

I rouse to war, and conquer for Irene.

Then shall the Rhodian mourn his sinking tow'rs,

And Buda fall, and proud Vienna tremble;

Then shall Venetia feel the Turkish pow'r,

And subject seas roar round their queen in vain.

ABDALLA.

Then seize fair Italy's delightful coast,

To fix your standard in imperial Rome.

MAHOMET.

Her sons malicious clemency shall spare,

To form new legends, sanctify new crimes;

To canonize the slaves of superstition,

And fill the world with follies and impostures,

Till angry heav'n shall mark them out for ruin,

And war o'erwhelm them in their dream of vice.

O! could her fabled saints and boasted prayers

Call forth her ancient heroes to the field,

How should I joy, midst the fierce shock of nations,

To cross the tow'rings of an equal soul,

And bid the master-genius rule the world!

Abdalla, Cali, go--proclaim my purpose.

[_Exeunt_ Cali _and_ Abdalla.

SCENE VI.

MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA.

MAHOMET.

Still Cali lives: and must he live to-morrow?

That fawning villain's forc'd congratulations

Will cloud my triumphs, and pollute the day.

MUSTAPHA.

With cautious vigilance, at my command,

Two faithful captains, Hasan and Caraza,

Pursue him through his labyrinths of treason,

And wait your summons to report his conduct.

MAHOMET.

Call them--but let them not prolong their tale,

Nor press, too much, upon a lover's patience.

[_Exit_ Mustapha.

SCENE VII.

Mahomet, _Solus_.

Whome'er the hope, still blasted, still renew'd,

Of happiness lures on from toil to toil,

Remember Mahomet, and cease thy labour.

Behold him here, in love, in war, successful;

Behold him, wretched in his double triumph!

His fav'rite faithless, and his mistress base.

Ambition only gave her to my arms,

By reason not convinc'd, nor won by love.

Ambition was her crime; but meaner folly

Dooms me to loathe, at once, and dote on falsehood,

And idolize th' apostate I contemn.

If thou art more than the gay dream of fancy,

More than a pleasing sound, without a meaning,

O happiness! sure thou art all Aspasia's.

SCENE VIII.

MAHOMET, MUSTAPHA, HASAN, CARAZA.

MAHOMET.

Caraza, speak--have ye remark'd the bassa?

CARAZA.

Close, as we might unseen, we watch'd his steps:

His hair disorder'd, and his gait unequal,

Betray'd the wild emotions of his mind.

Sudden he stops, and inward turns his eyes,

Absorb'd in thought; then, starting from his trance,

Constrains a sullen smile, and shoots away.

With him Abdalla we beheld--

MUSTAPHA.

Abdalla!

MAHOMET.

He wears, of late, resentment on his brow,

Deny'd the government of Servia's province.

CARAZA.

We mark'd him storming in excess of fury,

And heard, within the thicket that conceal'd us,

An undistinguish'd sound of threat'ning rage.

MUSTAPHA.

How guilt, once harbour'd in the conscious breast,

Intimidates the brave, degrades the great;

See Cali, dread of kings, and pride of armies,

By treason levell'd with the dregs of men!

Ere guilty fear depress'd the hoary chief,

An angry murmur, a rebellious frown,

Had stretch'd the fiery boaster in the grave.

MAHOMET.

Shall monarchs fear to draw the sword of justice,

Aw'd by the crowd, and by their slaves restrain'd?

Seize him this night, and, through the private passage,

Convey him to the prison's inmost depths,

Reserv'd to all the pangs of tedious death.

[_Exeunt_ Mahomet _and_ Mustapha.

SCENE IX.

HASAN, CARAZA.

HASAN.

Shall then the Greeks, unpunish'd and conceal'd,

Contrive, perhaps, the ruin of our empire;

League with our chiefs, and propagate sedition?

CARAZA.

Whate'er their scheme, the bassa's death defeats it,

And gratitude's strong ties restrain my tongue.

HASAN.

What ties to slaves? what gratitude to foes?

CARAZA.

In that black day, when slaughter'd thousands fell

Around these fatal walls, the tide of war

Bore me victorious onward, where Demetrius

Tore, unresisted, from the giant hand

Of stern Sebalias, the triumphant crescent,

And dash'd the might of Asam from the ramparts.

There I became, nor blush to make it known,

The captive of his sword. The coward Greeks,

Enrag'd by wrongs, exulting with success,

Doom'd me to die with all the Turkish captains;

But brave Demetrius scorn'd the mean revenge,

And gave me life.--

HASAN.

Do thou repay the gift,

Lest unrewarded mercy lose its charms.

Profuse of wealth, or bounteous of success,

When heav'n bestows the privilege to bless,

Let no weak doubt the gen'rous hand restrain;

For when was pow'r beneficent in vain? [_Exeunt._

ACT V.--SCENE I.

ASPASIA, _sola_.

In these dark moments of suspended fate,

While yet the future fortune of my country

Lies in the womb of providence conceal'd,

And anxious angels wait the mighty birth;

O! grant thy sacred influence, pow'rful virtue!

Attentive rise, survey the fair creation,

Till, conscious of th' encircling deity,

Beyond the mists of care thy pinion tow'rs.

This calm, these joys, dear innocence! are thine:

Joys ill exchang'd for gold, and pride, and empire.

[_Enter_ Irene _and attendants_.

SCENE II.

ASPASIA, IRENE _and attendants_.

IRENE.

See how the moon, through all th' unclouded sky,

Spreads her mild radiance, and descending dews

Revive the languid flow'rs; thus nature shone

New from the maker's hand, and fair array'd

In the bright colours of primeval spring;

When purity, while fraud was yet unknown,

Play'd fearless in th' inviolated shades.

This elemental joy, this gen'ral calm,

Is, sure, the smile of unoffended heav'n.

Yet! why--

MAID.

Behold, within th' embow'ring grove

Aspasia stands--

IRENE.

With melancholy mien,

Pensive, and envious of Irene's greatness.

Steal, unperceiv'd, upon her meditations

But see, the lofty maid, at our approach,

Resumes th' imperious air of haughty virtue.

Are these th' unceasing joys, th' unmingled pleasures,

[_To_ Aspasia.

For which Aspasia scorn'd the Turkish crown?

Is this th' unshaken confidence in heav'n?

Is this the boasted bliss of conscious virtue?

When did content sigh out her cares in secret?

When did felicity repine in deserts?

ASPASIA.

Ill suits with guilt the gaieties of triumph;

When daring vice insults eternal justice,

The ministers of wrath forget compassion,

And snatch the flaming bolt with hasty hand.

IRENE.

Forbear thy threats, proud prophetess of ill,

Vers'd in the secret counsels of the sky.

ASPASIA.

Forbear!--But thou art sunk beneath reproach;

In vain affected raptures flush the cheek,

And songs of pleasure warble from the tongue,

When fear and anguish labour in the breast,

And all within is darkness and confusion.

Thus, on deceitful Etna's flow'ry side,

Unfading verdure glads the roving eye;

While secret flames, with unextinguish'd rage,

Insatiate on her wasted entrails prey,

And melt her treach'rous beauties into ruin.

[_Enter_ Demetrius.