Sir, these are objects which are not seen at the same time nor in the same place." Bozz. “I think, Sir, that old women in general are used to see ghosts.” Pozz. “Yes, Sir, and their conversation is full of the subject : I would have an old woman to record such conversations; their loquacity tends to minuteness.”

We talked of a person who had a very bad character. Pozz. “ Sir, he is a scoundrel.” Bozz. “ I hate a scoundrel.” Pozz. “ There you are wrong:

don't hate scoundrels. Scoundrels, Sir, are useful. There are many things we cannot do without scoundrels. I would not choose to keep company with scoundrels, but something may be got from them.' Bozz. “ Are not scoundrels generally fools ?” Pozz. “ No, Sir, they are not. A scoundrel must be a clever fellow; he must know many things of which a fool is ignorant. Any man may be a fool. I think a good book might be made out of scoundrels. I would have a Biographia Flagitiosa, the Lives of Eminent Scoundrels, from the earliest accounts to the present day.” I mentioned hanging: I thought it a very awkward situation. Pozz. “No, Sir, hanging is not an awkward situation ; it is proper, Sir, that a man whose actions tend towards flagitious obliquity should appear perpendicular at last.” I told him that I had lately been in company with some gentlemen, every one of 'whom could recollect some friend or other who had been hanged. Pozz. “ Yes, Sir, that is the easiest way. We know those who have been hanged; we can recollect that: but we cannot number those who deserve it; it would not be decorous, Sir, in a mixed company. No, Sir, that is one of the few things which we are compelled to think.

Our regard for literary property () prevents our making a larger extract from the above important work. We have, however, we hope, given such passages as will tend to impress our readers with a high idea of this vast undertaking.—Note by the Author.

(1) (This alludes to the jealousy about copyright, which Mr. Boswell carried so far that he actually printed separately, and entered at Stationers' Hall, Johnson's Letter to Lord Chesterfield, and the account of Johnson's Conversation with George III. at Buckingham House, to prevent his rivals making use of them. — C.]


[From the Gentleman's Magazine, vol. Ivi. p. 427.]

'Twas at the solemn hour of night

When men and spirits meet,
That Johnson, huge majestic sprite,

Repair’d to Boswell's feet.

His face was like the full orb'd moon

Wrapt in a threatening cloud,
That bodes the tempest bursting soon,

And winds that bluster loud.

Terrific was his angry look,

His pendent eyebrows frown'd; Thrice in his hand he wav'd a book,

Then dash'd it on the ground.

“Behold,” he cry'd, “perfidious man!

This object of my rage : Bethink thee of the sordid plan

That form’d this venal page.

“ Was it to make this base record,

That you my friendship sought ;
Thus to retain each vagrant word,

Each undigested thought?

“Dar'st thou pretend that, meaning praise,

Thou seek'st to raise my name; When all thy babbling pen betrays

But gives me churlish fame?

“ Do readers in these annals trace

The man that's wise and good ?
No! — rather one of savage race,

Illib'ral, fierce, and rude :

A traveller, whose discontent

No kindness can appease ;
Who finds for spleen perpetual vent

In all he hears and sees :

“One whose ingratitude displays

The most ungracious guest;
Who hospitality repays

With bitter, biting jest.

Ah! would, as o'er the hills we sped,

And climb'd the sterile rocks,
me vengeful stone had struck thee dead,
Or steeple, spar'd by Knox!

“ Thy adulation now I see,

And all its schemes unfold :
Thy av'rice, Boswell, cherish'd me,

To turn me into gold.

“So keepers guard the beasts they show,

And for their wants provide;
Attend their steps where'er they go,

And travel by their side.

O! were it not that, deep and low,

Beyond thy reach I'm laid,
Rapacious Boswell had ere now

JOHNSON a mummy made."

He ceas'd, and stalk'd from Boswell's sight

With fierce indignant mien,
Scornful as Ajax' sullen sprite,

By sage Ulysses seen.

Dead paleness Boswell's cheek o'erspread,

His limbs with horrow shook ;
With trembling haste he left his bed,

And burnt his fatal book.

And thrice he call'd on Johnson's name,

Forgiveness to implore !
Then thrice repeated — “injured fame !"

And word wrote never more.


AN ODE. APRIL 15. 1786.

By George COLMAN, Esq.

St. Paul's deep bell, from stately tow'r,
Had sounded once and twice the hour,

Blue burnt the midnight taper ;
Hags their dark spells o'er cauldron brew'd,
While Sons of Ink their work pursu'd,

Printing the Morning Paper.

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I gave the Public works of merit,
Written with vigour, fraught with spirit;

Applause crown'd all my labours :
But thy delusive pages speak
My palsied pow'rs, exhausted, weak,

The scoff of friends and neighbours.

They speak me insolent and rude,
Light, trivial, puerile, and crude,

The child of Pride and Vanity;
Poor Tuscan-like Improvisation
Is but of English sense castration,

And infantine inanity.

Such idle rhymes, like Sybils' leaves,
Kindly the scatt'ring wind receives ;

The gath'rer proves a scorner.
But hold! I see the coming day!
The Spectre said, and stalk'd away

To sleep in Poets' CORNER.



On his Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, with the celebrated Doctor


By Peter PINDAR, Esq. (1)

Τρώεσσιν έβούλετο κουδος ορέξαι.


O BOSWELL, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame ;
Thou jackall, leading lion Johnson forth,
To eat M‘Pherson 'midst his native North ;
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore -
All hail ! — At length, ambitious Thane, thy rage
To give one spark to Fame's bespangled page
Is amply gratified - a thousand eyes
Survey thy books with rapture and surprise !
Loud, of thy Tour, a thousand tongues have spoken,
And wondered - that thy bones were never broken !

(1) [Dr. Walcot, published in 1787.]

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