Read Ebook: Poetical Works of Johnson Parnell Gray and Smollett With Memoirs Critical Dissertations and Explanatory Notes by Gray Thomas Johnson Samuel Parnell Thomas Smollett T Tobias Gilfillan George Editor

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S:-- Prologue Spoken by Mr Garrick, at the Opening of the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane, 1747 Prologue Spoken by Mr Garrick before the 'Masque of Comus', acted for the benefit of Milton's Grand-daughter Prologue to Goldsmith's Comedy of 'The Good-Natured Man', 1769 Prologue to the Comedy of 'A Word to the Wise,' spoken by Mr Hull

ODES:-- Spring Midsummer Autumn Winter

PARNELL'S POEMS.

The Life and Poetry of Thomas Parnell Hesiod; or, the Rise of Woman Song Song Song Anacreontic Anacreontic A Fairy Tale, in the Ancient English Style To Mr Pope Health: an Eclogue The Flies: an Eclogue An Elegy to an Old Beauty The Book-Worm An Allegory on Man An Imitation of some French Verses A Night-Piece on Death A Hymn to Contentment The Hermit

GRAY'S POEMS.

The Life and Poetry of Thomas Gray

MISCELLANEOUS:-- A Long Story Elegy written in a Country Churchyard Epitaph on Mrs Jane Clarke Stanzas, suggested by a View of the Seat and Ruins at Kingsgate, in Kent, 1766 Translation from Statius Gray on himself

SMOLLETT'S POEMS.

The Life of Tobias Smollett Advice: a Satire Reproof: a Satire The Tears of Scotland. Written in the year 1746 Verses on a Young Lady playing on a Harpsichord and Singing Love Elegy, in imitation of Tibullus Burlesque Ode Ode to Mirth Ode to Sleep Ode to Leven Water Ode to Blue-Eyed Ann Ode to Independence Songs

THE POETICAL WORKS

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON.

We feel considerable trepidation in beginning a life of Johnson, not so much on account of the magnitude of the man--for in Milton, and one or two others, we have already met his match--but on account of the fact that the field has been so thoroughly exhausted by former writers. It is in the shadow of Boswell, the best of all biographers, and not in that of Johnson, that we feel ourselves at present cowering. Yet we must try to give a rapid account of the leading incidents in Johnson's life, as well as a short estimate of his vast, rugged genius.

Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield, Staffordshire, on the 18th of September 1709, and was baptized the same day. His father was Michael Johnson, a bookseller and stationer, and his mother, Sarah Ford. Samuel was the first-born of the family. Nathaniel, who died in his twenty-fifth year, was the second and the last. Johnson very early began to manifest both his peculiar prejudices and his peculiar powers. When a mere child, we see him in Lichfield Cathedral, perched on his father's shoulders, gazing at Sacheverel, the famous Tory preacher. We hear him, about the same time, roaring to his mother, who had given him, a minute before, a collect in the Common Prayer-Book to get by heart as his day's task,--"Mother, I can say it already!" His first teacher, Dame Oliver, a widow, thought him, as she well might, the best scholar she ever had. From her he passed into the hands of one Tom Brown, an original, who once published a spelling-book, and dedicated it "to the Universe!"--without permission, we presume. He began to learn Latin first with a Mr Hawkins, and then with a Mr Hunter, head-master of Lichfield,--a petty tyrant, although a good scholar, under whom, to use Gay's language, Johnson was

"Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod."

At the age of fifteen, he was transferred to Stourbridge school, and to the care of a Mr Wentworth, who "taught him a great deal." There he remained twelve months, at the close of which he returned home, and for two years lived in his father's house, in comparative idleness, loitering in the fields, and reading much, but desultorily. In 1728, being flattered with some promises of aid from a Shropshire gentleman, named Corbet, which were never fulfilled, he went to Oxford, and was entered as a commoner in Pembroke College. His father accompanied and introduced him to Dr Adams, and to Jorden, who became his tutor, recommending his son as a good scholar and a poet. Under Jorden's care, however, he did little except translate Pope's "Messiah" into Latin verse,--a task which he performed with great rapidity, and so well, that Pope warmly commended it when he saw it printed in a miscellany of poems. About this time, the hypochondriac affection, which rendered Johnson's long life a long disease, began to manifest itself. In the vacation of 1729, he was seized with the darkest despondency, which he tried to alleviate by violent exercise and other means, but in vain. It seems to have left him during a fit of indignation at Dr Swinfen , but continued to recur at frequent intervals till the close of his life. His malady was undoubtedly of a maniacal cast, resembling Cowper's, but subdued by superior strength of will--a Bucephalus, which it required all the power of a Johnson to back and bridle. In his early days, he had been piously inclined, but after his ninth year, fell into a state of indifference to religion. This continued till he met, at Oxford, Law's "Serious Call," which, he says, "overmatched" and compelled him to consider the subject with earnestness. And whatever, in after years, were the errors of his life, he never, from that hour, ceased to have a solemn sense of the verities of the Christian religion.

At Oxford, he paid little attention to his regular tasks, but read, or rather devoured, all the books he could lay his hands on, and began to display his unrivalled conversational powers, being often seen "lounging about the college gates, with a circle of young students around him, whom he was entertaining with wit, keeping from their studies, and sometimes rousing to rebellion against the college discipline." He was, at this time, so miserably poor, that his shoes were worn to tatters, and his feet appeared through them, to the scandal of the Christ-Church men, when he occasionally visited their college. Some compassionate individual laid a new pair at his door, which he tossed away with indignation. At last,--his debts increasing, his supplies diminishing, and his father becoming bankrupt,--he was, in autumn 1731, compelled to leave college without a degree. In the December of the same year his father died.

To London he had probably looked as to the great mart of genius, but at first he met with mortifying disappointment. He made one influential friend, however, in an officer named Henry Hervey, of whom he said, "He was a vicious man, but very kind to me; were you to call a dog Hervey, I shall love him." In summer he came back to Lichfield, where he stayed three months, and finished his tragedy. He returned to London in autumn, along with his wife, and tried, but in vain, to get "Irene" presented on the stage. This did not happen till 1749, when his old pupil David Garrick had become manager of Drury Lane Theatre.

In 1776 nothing remarkable occurred in his history, unless it were the interview which Boswell so admirably manoeuvred to bring about between him and Jack Wilkes. Everybody remembers how well the bear and the monkey for the time agreed, and how both turned round to snub the spaniel, who had been the medium of their introduction to each other.

In 1777 he was requested by the London booksellers to prefix prefaces to the "English Poets," part of which was issued the next year, and the rest in 1780 and 1781, as the "Lives of English Poets." This work has generally been regarded as Johnson's masterpiece. It nowhere, indeed, displays so much of the creative, the inventive, the poetical, as his "Rasselas," and many of his smaller tales and fictions. Its judgments, too, have been often and justly controverted. The book is, undoubtedly, a storehouse of his prejudices, as well as of his wisdom. Its treatment of Milton, the man, for instance, is insufferably insolent, although ample justice is done to Milton, the poet of the "Paradise Lost." Some poetasters he has overpraised, and some true but minor poets he has thrust down too far in the scale. But the work, as a whole, is full of inextinguishable life, and has passages verging on the eloquence and power of genius. A piece of stern, sober, yet broad and animated composition, rather careless in dates, and rather cursory in many of its criticisms, it displays unequalled force of thought, and pointed vigour of style, and when taken in connexion with the age of the author , is altogether marvellous. Truly there were "giants in those days," and this was a Briareus.

For the details of his later life, his conversations, growing weakness, little journeys, unconquerable love of literature, &c., we must refer our readers to Boswell's teeming narrative. In 1783, he had a stroke of palsy, which deprived him for a time of speech. That returned to him, however, but a complication of complaints, including asthma, sciatica, and dropsy, began gradually to undermine his powerful frame. He continued to the last to cherish the prospect of a tour to Italy, but never accomplished his purpose. Death had all along been his great object of dread, and its fast approaches were regarded with unmitigated terror. "Cut deeper," he cried to the physicians who were operating on his limbs; "cut deeper; I don't care for pain, but I fear death." He fixed all his dying hope upon the Cross, and recommended Clarke's Sermons as fullest on the doctrine of a Propitiation. He spoke of the Bible and of the Sabbath with the warmest feelings of belief and respect. At last, on the 13th day of December 1784, in the seventy-fifth year of his age, this great, good man, whose fears had subsided, and who had become as a little child, fell asleep in Jesus. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, on Monday, December 20th, and his funeral was attended by the most distinguished men of the day.

Perhaps no literary man ever exerted, during his lifetime, the same personal influence as Samuel Johnson. Shelley used to call Byron the "Byronic Energy," from a sense of his exceeding power. The author of "Rasselas" was the "Johnsonian Energy;" and the demon within him, if not so ethereal and terrible as Byron's, was far more massive, equally strong, and in conversation, at least, much more ready to do his work. First-rate conversation generally springs from a desire to shine, or from the effort of a full mind to relieve itself, or from exuberant animal spirits, or from deep-seated misery. In Johnson it sprang from a combination of all these causes. He went to conversation as to an arena--his mind was richly-stored, even to overflowing--in company his spirits uniformly rose--and yet there was always at his heart a burden of wretchedness, seeking solace, not in silence, but in speech. Hence, with the exception of Burke, no one ever matched him in talk; and Burke, we imagine, although profounder in thought, more varied in learning, and more brilliant in imagination, seldom fairly pitted himself against Johnson. He was a younger man, and held the sage in too much reverence to encounter him often with any deliberate and determined purpose of contest. He frequently touched the shield of the general challenger, not with the sharp, but with the butt-end of his lance. He said, on one occasion, when asked why he had not talked more in Johnson's company, "Oh! it is enough for me to have rung the bell to him!"

JOHNSON'S POEMS.

LONDON:

A POEM IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL, 1738.

"--Quis ineptae Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se?"

--JUVENAL.

Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel When injured Thales bids the town farewell, Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend; I praise the hermit, but regret the friend; Resolved, 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.

For who would leave, unbribed, Hibernia's land, Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand? 10 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.

While Thales waits the wherry that contains Of dissipated wealth the small remains, 20 On Thames's bank in silent thought we stood, Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood; Struck with the seat that gave Eliza 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. 30

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 neighbouring town. Since worth, he cries, in these degenerate days, Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise; In those cursed walls, devote to vice and gain, Since unrewarded science toils in vain; Since hope but soothes to double my distress, And every moment leaves my little less; 40 While yet my steady steps no staff sustains, And life, still vigorous, 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 Powers indulgent! give; Let--live here, for--has learn'd to live. 50 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 pirates in the face of day; With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth, And lend a lie the confidence of truth. Let such raise palaces, and manors buy, Collect a tax, or farm a lottery; With warbling eunuchs fill our silenced stage, And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. 60 Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride shall hold? What check restrain your thirst of power 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 given, When public crimes inflame the wrath of Heaven. 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; 70 A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear, And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer; Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd, And strive in vain to laugh at Clodio's jest?

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 rustic tongue Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, 80 Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, Live unregarded, unlamented die.

For what but social guilt the friend endears? Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune shares. But thou, should tempting villany present All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers spent, Turn from the glittering 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. 90

The cheated nation's happy favourites see! Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! London, the needy villain's general 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-- I cannot bear a French metropolis.

Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day, The land of heroes and of saints survey; 100 Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace; But lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away, Of France the mimic, 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 politics import; 110 Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay, On Britain's fond credulity they prey. No gainful trade their industry can 'scape. 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. Ah! what avails it that, from slavery 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; 120 If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain, And flattery prevails, when arms are vain?

Studious to please, and ready to submit, The supple Gaul was born a parasite: Still to his interest true where'er he goes, Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows; In every face a thousand graces shine, From every tongue flows harmony divine. These arts in vain our rugged natives try, Strain out, with faltering diffidence, a lie, 130 And get a kick for awkward flattery.

Besides, with justice, this discerning age Admires their wondrous talents for the stage: Well may they venture on the mimic's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; Practised their master's notions to embrace, Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face; With every wild absurdity comply, And view its object with another's eye; To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 140 To pour at will the counterfeited tear; And as their patron hints the cold or heat, To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.

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, every vice adore, Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore, Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 150 He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.

For arts like these preferr'd, admired, caress'd, They first invade your table, then your breast; 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.

Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 170 No pathless waste or undiscover'd shore; No secret island in the boundless main; No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain? Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, And bear Oppression's insolence no more. This mournful truth is every where confess'd, 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 implored, 180 The groom retails the favours of his lord.

But hark! the affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies: Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth and power, Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower, Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous light; Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, And leave your little ALL to flames a prey; Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam, 190 For where can starving merit find a home? In vain your mournful narrative disclose, While all neglect, and most insult your woes. Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound, And spread his flaming palace on the ground, Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies, And public mournings pacify the skies; The laureate tribe in venal verse relate, How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate; With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band 200 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, Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire, And hopes from angry Heaven another fire.

Could'st thou resign the park and play, content, 210 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; And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford, Despise the dainties of a venal lord: There every bush with Nature's music rings, 220 There every breeze bears health upon its wings; On all thy hours Security shall smile, And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.

Prepare for death, if here at night you roam, And sign your will before you sup from home. Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man; Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast, Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest. Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay, 230 Lords of the street, and terrors of the way; Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine, Their prudent insults to the poor confine; Afar they mark the flambeaux's bright approach, And shun the shining train, and golden coach.

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 murderer bursts the faithless bar; Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, 240 And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

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 support the sinking land, Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring To rig another convoy for the king.

A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign, Could half the nation's criminals contain; Fair Justice then, without constraint adored, 250 Held high the steady scale, but sheathed the sword; No spies were paid, no special juries known, Blest age! but, ah! how different from our own!

Much could I add--but see the boat at hand, The tide retiring, calls me from the land: Farewell!--When, youth, and health, and fortune spent Thou fliest for refuge to the wilds of Kent; And, tired like me with follies and with crimes, In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times, Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, 260 Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade; In Virtue's cause once more exert his rage, Thy satire point, and animate thy page.

THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.

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