"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 Valiere.

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 4,000l. 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 scaped;" but, as the rest of the paragraph was in the present tense, he altered it to scapes; 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.