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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
through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain,
and have brought it at last to the verge of publication,
without one act of assistance, one word of encourage-
ment, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did
not expect, for I never had a patron before.
Love, and found him a native of the rocks.
The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with uncon-
cern on a man struggling for life in the water, and
when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help?
The notice which you have been pleased to take of my
labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has
been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy
it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I
am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very
cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no
benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the
public should consider me as owing that to a patron
which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.
Having carried on my work thus far with so little
obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be
disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be
possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from
that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself
with so much exultation, my lord-Your lordship's
most humble, most obedient servant.
SAM. JOHNSON.

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,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand:
To him the church, the realm, their powers consign;
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine;
Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows,
His smile alone security bestows:

Still to new heights his restless wishes tower ;
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power;
Till conquest unresisted ceased to please,
And rights submitted, left him none to seize.
At length his sovereign 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 glittering plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liveried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed,
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.
Grief aids disease, remembered 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,
The wisest Justice on the banks of Trent?
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate,
On weak foundations raise the enormous weight!
Why, but to sink beneath misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin to the gulfs below.

What gave great Villiers to the assassin's knife,
And fixed disease on Harley's closing life?
What murdered Wentworth, and what exiled Hyde,
By kings protected, and to kings allied?
What, but their wish indulged in courts to shine,
And power too great to keep, or to resign!

The festal blazes, the triumphal show,
The ravished 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 whirled,
For such the steady Roman shook the world;
For such in distant lands the Britons shine,
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine;
This power has praise, the 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 mortgaged 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.

On what foundation stands the warrior'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;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain.
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in

vain ;

'Think nothing gained,' he cries, 'till nought remain,
On Moscow's walls till Gothic 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 realms of frost :
He comes, nor want, nor cold, his course delay;
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day:
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
And shews his miseries in distant lands;
Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not chance at length her error 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 destined 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.*. . .

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,
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime
An age that melts with unperceived decay,
And glides in modest innocence away;
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears,
Whose night congratulating conscience cheers :
The general favourite as the general friend;
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end?

Yet even 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 withering life away;
New forms arise, and different views engage,
Superfluous lags the veteran 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 cautioned 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 driveller and a show. . . .

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 Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to heaven the measure and the choice.
Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer.
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,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resigned;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat :
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
These goods he grants, who grants the power to
gain;

With these celestial wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

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
Theatre in Drury Lane, in 1747.

When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First reared the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose ;
Each change of many-coloured life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new :
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toiled after him in vain :
His powerful strokes presiding truth impressed,
And unresisted passion stormed 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 essayed the heart:
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays,

For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.
A mortal born, he met the general doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,
Nor wished for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's flame ;
Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ,
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise,
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days:
Their cause was general, their supports were strong,
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long;
Till shame regained the post that sense betrayed,
And virtue called oblivion to her aid.

Then crushed by rules, and weakened as refined,
For years the power of Tragedy declined:
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till declamation roared, whilst passion slept ;
Yet still did virtue deign the stage to tread;
Philosophy remained, though nature fled.
But forced at length her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit :
Exulting folly hailed the joyful day,

And Pantomime and song confirmed 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 D'Urfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride:
Perhaps for who can guess the effects of chance?—
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance."

Hard is his lot that, here by fortune placed,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste;
With every meteor of caprice must play,
And chase the new-blown bubble of the day.
Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice,
The stage but echoes back the public 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 solitary woe,
Bid Scenic Virtue form the rising age,
And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

On the Death of Dr Robert Levett-1782.
Condemned to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,
And hovering death prepared the blow,

His vigorous remedy displayed

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish poured his groan,
And lonely want retired to die.

No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride;
The modest wants of every day,

The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found

The single talent well employed.

The busy day-the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm-his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain,

No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.

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
So much, that in our latter stages,

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,

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.'

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With you! and quit my Susan's side?

With you!' the hapless husband cried;
'Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know.'
What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
'Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave.'
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,

How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

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.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

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,
With but a secretary's warrant.*

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
To stump about your farm and stable :
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!'

'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.

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