broke college, Oxford. Misfortunes in trade happened to the elder Johnson, and Samuel was compelled ompelled to leave the university without a degree. He was Dr Johnson's Room in Pembroke College. a short time usher in a school at Market Bosworth; but marrying a widow, Mrs Porter (whose age was double his own), he set up a private academy near his native city. He had only three pupils, one of whom was David Garrick. After an unsuccess ful career of a year and a-half, Johnson went to London, accompanied by Garrick. He now commenced author by profession, contributing essays, reviews, &c., to the Gentleman's Magazine. In 1738 appeared his London, a satire; in 1744 his Life of Savage; in 1749 The Vanity of Human Wishes, an imitation of Juvenal's tenth Satire, and the tragedy of Frene; in 1750-52 the Rambler, published in numbers; in 1755 his Dictionary of the English Language, which had engaged him above seven years; in 1758-60 the Idler, another series of essays; in 1759 Rasselas; in 1775 the Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland; and in 1781 the Lives of the Poets. The high church and Tory pre dilections of Johnson led him to embark on the troubled sea of party politics, and he wrote some vigorous pamphlets in defence of the ministry and against the claims of the Americans. His degree of LL.D. was conferred upon him first by Trinity college, Dublin, and afterwards by the university of Oxford. His majesty, in 1762, settled upon him an annuity of £300 per annum. Johnson died on the 13th of December 1784. As an illustration of Johnson's character, and incidentally of his prose style, we subjoin his celebrated letter to Lord Chesterfield. The courtly nobleman had made great professions to the retired scholar, but afterwards neglected him, for some years. When his 'Dictionary' was on the eve of publication, Chesterfield (hoping the work might be dedicated to him) attempted to conciliate the author by writing two papers in the periodical called 'The World,' in recommendation of the work. Johnson thought all was 'false and hollow,' and penned his indignant letter. 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 : February 7, 1755. 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. When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre, that I might might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in 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. Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the 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. 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.' Pope also admired the composition. 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 philosophie 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 Expatiates free o'er all this scene of man. severe morality and pathos with which the contem- Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, plative poet 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, How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, And ask no questions but the price of votes; In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, 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 gazettes pompous tale, With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. * 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; The dangers gather as the treasures rise. For such the steady Romans shook the world; For such in distant lands the Britons shine, Wealth heaped on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirled, 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; single And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine; On what foundations stands the warrior's pride, The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, He left the name, at which the world grew pale, All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, From Persia's tyrant, to Bavaria's lord. In gay hostility and barbarous pride, With half mankind embattled at his side, Great Xerxes came to seize the certain prey, And starves exhausted regions in his way; Attendant flattery counts his myriads o'er, Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more ; Fresh praise is tried till madness fires the mind, The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind; New powers are claimed, new powers are still bestowed, Till rude resistance lops the spreading god; The daring Greeks deride the martial show, And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe; The insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains, A single skiff to speed his flight remains; The encumbered oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the passages of joy: * In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, No sounds, alas! would touch the impervious ear, ** To show 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 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 farther: "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). O what a figure, and what a fine picture he would make, the one-eyed 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.1 Go, madman; hurry over the savage Alps, to please the schoolboys, 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. Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers attend, sneer, And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear; But grant the virtues of a temperate prime, But few there are whom hours like these await, Where, then, shall hope and fear their objects find? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain, 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, 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, But who the coming changes can presage, Then prompt no more the follies you decry, And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage. On the Death of Dr Robert Levett-1782. 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, The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, His frame was firm-his powers were bright, Then with no fiery throbbing pain, WILLIAM COLLINS. None of our poets have lived more under the 'skiey influences' of imagination than that exquisite but ill-fated bard, COLLINS. His works are imbued with a fine ethereal fancy and purity of taste; and though, like the poems of Gray, they are small in number and amount, they are rich in vivid imagery and beautiful description. His history is brief but painful. William Collins was the son of a respectable tradesman, a hatter, at Chichester, where he was born on Christmas day, 1720. In his 'Ode to Pity,' the poet alludes to his 'native plains,' which are bounded by the South Down hills, and to the small river Arun, one of the streams of Sussex, near which Otway, also, was born. But wherefore need I wander wide Deserted stream and mute! Collins received a learned education, in which he was aided by pecuniary assistance from his uncle, Colonel Martin, stationed with his regiment in Flanders. While at Magdalen college, Oxford, he published his Oriental Eclogues, which, to the disgrace of the university and the literary public, were wholly neglected. Meeting shortly afterwards with some repulse or indignity at the university, he suddenly quitted Oxford, and repaired to London, full of high hopes and magnificent schemes. His learning was extensive, but he wanted steadiness of purpose and application. Two years afterwards, in 1746, he published his Odes, which were purchased by Millar the bookseller, but failed to attract attention. Collins sunk under the disappointment, and became still more indolent and dissipated. The fine promise of his youth, his ardour and ambition, melted away under this baneful and depressing influence. Once again, however, he strung his lyre with poetical enthusiasm. Thomson died in 1747: Collins seems to have known and loved him, and he POETS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. honoured his memory with an Ode, which is certainly one of the finest elegiac productions in the language. Among his friends was also Home, the author of 'Douglas, to whom he addressed an Ode, which was found unfinished after his death, on the Superstitions of the Highlands. He loved to dwell on these dim and visionary objects, and the compliment he pays to Tasso, may be applied equally to himself Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung. Collins, in the course of one generation, without any At this period, Collins seems to have contemplated rative language and descriptions, the simplicity and a journey to Scotland The time shall come when I perhaps may tread And mourn on Yarrow's banks where Willy's laid. Collins's Monument in Chichester Cathedral. Mr Southey has remarked, that, though utterly neglected on their first appearance, the Odes' of beauty of their dialogues and sentiments, and their Eclogue II.-Hassan; or the Camel Driver. In silent horror, o'er the boundless waste, Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind, Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear 31 |