He also wrote for the magazine a monthly account of the proceedings in parliament, under the title of Reports of the Debates of the Senate of Lilliput. Notes of the speeches were furnished to him, and he extended them in his own peculiar, grandiloquent style (which was early formed), taking care, as he said, 'that the Whig dogs should not have the best of it.' He was himself a determined Tory. In 1738 appeared his poem of London, in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal, for which Dodsley gave him ten guineas. It instantly became popular, and a second edition was called for within a week. The author's name was not prefixed to the work. Pope made inquiries after the author, saying such a man would soon be known, and recommended Johnson to Lord Gower, who would have obtained for the poor poet the mastership of a grammar-school in Leicestershire, had not the academical degree of M.A. been indispensable, and this Johnson could not procure. He struggled on, writing task-work for Cave, the proprietor of the Gentleman's Magazine, and in 1744 published the Life of Savage, who had died the previous year. This admirable specimen of biography was also published anonymously, but it was known to be Johnson's, and his reputation continued to advance, so that the chief booksellers in London engaged him to prepare a Dictionary of the English Language, for which he was to receive 1500 guineas. The prospectus of the Dictionary was addressed to Lord Chesterfield, who acknowledged the honour by awarding Johnson a honorarium of ten guineas. Seven years and more elapsed before the Dictionary was completed, and when it was on the eve of publication, Chesterfield-hoping, as Johnson believed, that the work might be dedicated to him-wrote two papers in the periodical called the World in recommendation of the plan of the Dictionary. Johnson thought all was false and hollow, and penned an indignant letter to the earl. He did Chesterfield injustice in the affair, as from a collation of the facts and circumstances is now apparent; but as a keen and dignified expression of wounded pride and surly independence, the composition is inimitable : Letter to Lord Chesterfield. February 7, 1755 during which time I have been pushing on my work Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with uncon- While his Dictionary was in progress, Johnson sought relaxation as well as pecuniary help from other tasks. In 1748 he published The Vanity of Human Wishes, an imitation of the tenth satire of Juvenal, for which he received fifteen guineas. Next year Garrick brought out Irene, and though not successful, by good management the representation realised £195, 17s. Besides For 100 from Dodsley for the copyright of the play. The subsequent works of Johnson (to be afterwards noticed in this section) were the Rambler, 1750-52, the Idler, 1758-60, and, in 1759, the tale of Rasselas. The last was written to pay some small debts, and defray the funeral expenses of his mother, who had died at the age of ninety. this moral tale so piously undertaken, Johnson received £100, with £25 afterwards for a second edition. In 1762 a new and brighter era commenced-a pension of £300 was settled upon Johnson, chiefly through the influence of Lord Bute, then the all-potent minister, and ever afterwards the life of the great moralist was free from the corroding anxieties of poverty. In 1764 the Literary Club was established, including Burke, Reynolds, Goldsmith, Gibbon, Garrick, Murphy, and others; and in this enlightened and popular resort Johnson reigned supreme, the most brilliant conversationalist of his age. In 1765 appeared, after many years' promises and delays, his edition of Shakspeare, about which, he said, he felt no soliciWhen, upon some slight encouragement, I first tude, and the public was nearly as indifferent. It visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest contained proofs of his acuteness and insight into of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and human nature, but was a careless and unsatisfaccould not forbear to wish that I might boast myself tory piece of editorial work. Made easy by his le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre that I might pension and writings, Johnson undertook, in the obtain that regard for which I saw the world contend-autumn of 1773, his celebrated journey to the ing; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, Hebrides, in company with Boswell. It was certhat neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, 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. MY LORD-I have been lately informed by the proprietor of the World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, 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. Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; tainly a remarkable undertaking for a man of sixtyfour, heavy, near-sighted, somewhat deaf, full of English prejudices, and who preferred Fleet Street to all the charms of Arcadia. He had to perform great part of the journey on horseback, travelling over mountains and bogs, and to cross stormy firths and arms of the sea in open boats. But Johnson had a stout heart, and accompanied by his faithful squire, was willing to encounter all dangers. His narrative of his travels, published in 1775, is one of his most interesting works, but unquestionably the most valuable of all is his last work, the Lives of the Poets, prefixed as prefaces to an edition of the English poets, 1779-81. For this work Johnson received three hundred guineas -one hundred more than he had stipulated for, but Malone says the booksellers made five or six thousand pounds by the undertaking. The Tory predilections of Johnson, heightened by the recollection of his pension, induced him in his latter days to embark on the troubled sea of party politics, and he wrote two pamphlets in defence of the ministry and against the claims of the Americans, but they are unworthy of his reputation. His work was now done. His health had always been precarious. He had from his birth been afflicted with a scrofulous taint, and all his life he was a prey to constitutional melancholy (often on the verge of insanity), and had a horror of death. While he was an inmate in the family of Mr Thrale, the opulent brewer, the agreeable society he met there, and especially the conversation and attentions of Mrs Thrale (afterwards Mrs Piozzi), soothed and delighted him; but after this connection was rudely broken up, Johnson's residence in Bolt Court was but a sad and gloomy residence. The end, however, was peace. He wished, he said, to meet his God with an unclouded mind, and his prayer was heard. He died in a serene and happy frame of mind on the 13th of December 1784. The poetry of Johnson forms but a small portion of the history of his mind or of his works. His imitations of Juvenal are, however, among the best imitations of a classic author which we possess; and Gray has pronounced an opinion, that 'London'-the first in time, and by far the inferior of the two-has all the ease and all the spirit of an original.' In The Vanity of Human Wishes, Johnson departs more from his original, and takes wider views of human nature, society, and manners. His pictures of Wolsey and Charles of Sweden have a strength and magnificence that would do honour to Dryden, while the historical and philosophic paintings are contrasted by reflections on the cares, vicissitudes, and sorrows of life, so profound, so true and touching, that they may justly be denominated 'mottoes of the heart.' Sir Walter Scott has termed this poem 'a satire, the deep and pathetic morality of which has often extracted tears from those whose eyes wander dry over pages professedly sentimental.' Johnson was too prone to indulge in dark and melancholy views of human life; yet those who have experienced its disappointments and afflictions, must subscribe to the severe morality and pathos with which the contemplative poet Expatiates free o'er all this scene of man. The peculiarity of Juvenal, according to Johnson's own definition, 'is a mixture of gaiety and stateliness, of pointed sentences and declamatory grandeur.' He had less reflection and less moral dignity than his English imitator. The other poetical pieces of Johnson are short and occasional; but his beautiful Prologue on the Opening of Drury Lane, and his lines On the Death of Levett, are in his best manner. From the Vanity of Human Wishes. Let 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 wavering man, betrayed by venturous pride, To tread the dreary paths without a guide; As treacherous 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 oppressed, When vengeance listens to the fool's request. Fate wings with every wish the 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 powerful breath, And restless fire precipitates on death. But scarce observed, the knowing and the bold, Fall in the general massacre of gold ; Wide-wasting pest! that rages unconfined, 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 heaped on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, The dangers gather as the treasures rise. Let history tell where rival kings command, And dubious title shakes the maddened land; When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, How much more safe the vassal than the lord; Low skulks the hind beneath the rage of power, And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, Untouched his cottage, and his slumbers sound, Though confiscation's vultures hover round.. Unnumbered suppliants crowd preferment's gate, Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; Delusive fortune hears the incessant call, They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. On every 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 every room descends the painted face, That hung the bright palladium of the place, And smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold, To better features yields the frame of gold; For now no more we trace in every line Heroic worth, benevolence divine; The form distorted justifies the fall, And detestation rids the indignant wall. But will not Britain hear the last appeal, Sign her foes' doom, or guard her favourites' zeal? Through freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings, Degrading nobles, and controlling 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, Still to new heights his restless wishes tower ; Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye, Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, What gave great Villiers to the assassin's knife, The festal blazes, the triumphal show, And mortgaged states their grandsires' wreaths regret, Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convey To rust on medals, or on stones decay. On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; 'Think nothing gained,' he cries, 'till nought remain, The march begins in military state, He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To shew how admirably Johnson has imitated this part of Juvenal, applying to the modern hero, Charles XII. what the Roman satirist directed against Hannibal, we subjoin a ; But grant the virtues of a temperate prime, Yet even on this her load misfortune flings, Still drops some joy from withering life away; But few there are whom hours like these await, In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, And Swift expires a driveller and a show. . . . Where, then, shall hope and fear their objects Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, literal version of the words of Juvenal: Weigh Hannibalhow many pounds weight will you find in that consummate general? This is the man whom Africa, washed by the Moorish sea, and stretching to the warm Nile, cannot contain. Again, in addition to Ethiopia, and other elephant-breeding countries, Spain is added to his empire. He jumps over the Pyrenees: in vain nature opposed to him the Alps with their snows; he severed the rocks, and rent the mountains with vinegar. Now he reaches Italy, yet he determines to go further: "Nothing is done," says, he, "unless with our Punic soldiers we break down their gates, and I plant my standard in the midst of Saburra (street)." what a figure, and what a fine picture he would make, the oneeyed general, carried by the Getulian brute! What, after all, was the end of it? Alas for glory! this very man is routed, and flies headlong into banishment, and there the great and wonderful commander sits like a poor dependent at the palace door of a king, till it please the Bithynian tyrant to awake. That life, which had so long disturbed all human affairs, was brought to an end, not by swords, nor stones, nor darts, but by that redresser of Cannæ, and avenger of the blood that had been shed-a ring. Go, madman ; hurry over the savage Alps, to please the school-boys, and become their subject of declamation! It will be recollected that Hannibal, to prevent his falling into the hands of the Romans, swallowed poison, which he carried in a ring on his finger. Prologue spoken by Mr Garrick, at the Opening of the When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes Then Jonson came, instructed from the school, For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise. The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Then crushed by rules, and weakened as refined, And Pantomime and song confirmed her sway. But who the coming changes can presage, Hard is his lot that, here by fortune placed, To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show, On the Death of Dr Robert Levett-1782. Well tried through many a varying year, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, When fainting nature called for aid, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest cavern known, No summons mocked by chill delay, The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, The single talent well employed. The busy day-the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, MRS THRALE. MRS THRALE is author of an interesting little moral poem, the Three Warnings, which is so superior to her other compositions, that it was supposed to have been partly written, or at least corrected, by Johnson. It first appeared in a volume of Miscellanies, published by Mrs Anna Williams (the blind inmate of Johnson's house) in 1766. Hester Lynch Salusbury (afterwards Mrs Thrale) was a native of Bodvel, Carnarvonshire, born in 1739. In 1763 she was married to Mr Henry Thrale, an eminent brewer, who had taste enough to appreciate the rich and varied conversation of Johnson, and whose hospitality and wealth afforded the great moralist an asylum in his house. After the death of this excellent man in 1781, his widow in 1784 married Signior Piozzi, an Italian music-master, a step which Johnson never could forgive. The lively lady proceeded with her husband on a continental tour, and they took up their abode for some time on the banks of the Arno. In 1785, she published a volume of miscellaneous pieces, entitled The Florence Miscellany, and afforded a subject for the satire of Gifford, whose Baviad and Mæviad was written to lash the Della Cruscan songsters with whom Mrs Piozzi was associated. Returning to England, she became a rather voluminous writer. In 1786 she issued Anecdotes of Dr Johnson; in 1788, Letters to and from Dr Johnson; in 1789, A Journey through France, Italy, and Germany; in 1794, British Synonymy, or an Attempt at regulating Hunt, a famous boxer on the stage: Mahomet, a rope-dancer the Choice of Words in familiar Conversation; in who had exhibited at Covent Garden Theatre the winter before. 670 1801, Retrospection, or a Review of the most striking and important Events, &c. which the late 1800 years have presented to the view of Mankind, &c. In her 80th year Mrs Piozzi had a flirtation with a young actor, William Augustus Conway, aged 27. A collection of her 'love-letters' was surreptitiously published in 1843. She died at Clifton, May 2, 1821. Mrs Piozzi's eldest daughter, Viscountess Keith (Johnson's 'Queeny'), lived to the age of 95, and one of her sisters to the age of 90. The anecdotes and letters of Dr Johnson, by Mrs Piozzi, are the only valuable works which proceeded from her pen. She was a minute and clever observer of men and manners, but deficient in judgment, and not particular as to the accuracy of her relations. In 1861, the Autobiography, Letters, and Literary Remains of Mrs Piozzi were published, with notes and memoir, by A. Hayward. The Three Warnings. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave- You must,' says he, 'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.' With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!' the hapless husband cried; And grant a kind reprieve; In hopes you'll have no more to say; Well pleased the world will leave.' What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wise, how well, He chaffered, then he bought and sold, Nor thought of Death as near: His friends not false, his wife no shrew, Many his gains, his children few, He passed his hours in peace. Brought on his eightieth year. The unwelcome messenger of Fate Half-killed with anger and surprise, 'So soon returned!' old Dodson cries. 'So soon, d'ye call it?' Death replies : 'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.' 'So much the worse,' the clown rejoined; 'To spare the aged would be kind : However, see your search be legal; And your authority—is 't regal? Else you come on a fool's errand, Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.' 'I know,' cries Death, 'that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least ; I little thought you'd still be able 'Hold!' says the farmer; 'not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' 'And no great wonder,' Death replies ; 'However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.' 'Perhaps,' says Dodson, so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.' "This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.' 'There's none,' cries he; 'and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.' 'Nay, then,' the spectre stern rejoined, "These are unjustifiable yearnings: If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You've had your Three sufficient Warnings; So come along; no more we'll part;' He said, and touched him with his dart. And now old Dodson, turning pale, Yields to his fate-so ends my tale. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774), whose writings range over every department of miscellaneous literature, challenges attention as a poet chiefly for the unaffected ease, grace, and tenderness of his descriptions of rural and domestic life, and for *An allusion to the illegal warrant used against Wilkes, which was the cause of so much contention in its day. |