SAMUEL JOHNSON-whose name is so closely linked with the literature of his country-the events of whose "full life" have been related by so many biographerswas born at Litchfield, on the 7th of September, 1709. His father was a bookseller in that city; although he contrived to give his son a classical education, he was enabled to do little more than enter him at Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1728. His means being insufficient to maintain him there, he quitted it in August, 1731, became an usher to a school, and subsequently opened an academy in the vicinity of his birthplace. The attempt to better his fortune was unsuccessful. Having written a tragedy"Irene" he took the road to London and distinction, in company with David Garrick, some time his pupil, and always his friend; and commenced his "profession" as a public writer, distinguishing himself in every path of literature-as translator, philologist, lexicographer, moralist, historian, critic, poet, biographer, essayist, novelist, politician, dramatist, satirist-struggling with poverty and conquering fame.

His earlier days, his more advanced life, and indeed the close of his long and lauded career, was but a continual contest with pecuniary difficulties:-yet he was bold enough, and in mind independent enough, to write these memorable lines to Chesterfield, who had neglected him in his obscurity, and sought his acquaintance when in the zenith of his fame:-"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." Still, want compelled Johnson to continue a literary jobber, willing to accept a single guinea from a bookseller, for a preface to some obscure work, or for a dedication to some titled Nothing.

At length, when Johnson was harassed in temper, and sunk in mind by his long contest with almost absolute want, in the year 1762 he obtained a pension of 3001. a-year. After this period, however, he produced little that was great-if we except "the Lives of the Poets," partly published in 1779, and partly in 1781. For the selection he was not responsible; the work was a bookseller's speculation, and the choice was determined by the likelihood of popularity.

On the 13th of December, 1784, in the 75th year of his age, he died, and was interred in Westminster Abbey.

His person has been frequently described; it was large, robust, and unwieldy from corpulency. Of his limbs he is said never to have had the free and vigorous use; yet his strength was great, and his personal courage unquestionable. "His eyes," says Mrs. Piozzi, "were so wild, so piercing, and at times so fierce, that fear was, I believe, the first emotion in the hearts of all his beholders." In conversation, he was rude, intemperate, overbearing, and impatient of contradiction-fighting always for victory, and rarely for truth. Disappointment and penury had originally soured his temper and in after life, the universal homage he exacted or received, was not calculated to soften or subdue it. Yet there are as abundant proofs of the value of the metal as of the ruggedness of the ore :-self-sacrificing to relieve the wants of others→ warmly and actively benevolent-virtuous in example as well as in precept―grateful for services conferred, and always ready to attribute merit where it was due,-"he had nothing of the bear but his skin," and was beloved by his friends almost to adoration. With the vast mind and numerous productions of Dr. Johnson, however, we have here little to do. We have introduced him into this assemblage of British Poets, chiefly because, if absent, he would be missed from among them. The character of a poet is undoubtedly that in which he shines least. Indeed, except "London," "the Vanity of Human Wishes," and the Prologue on the Opening of Drury-lane, we can quote nothing of his beyond a few small scraps of paraphrases, translations, epistles, impromptus to friends, or his heavy and prosaic tragedy of " Irene,”—a mass of “unaffecting elegance and chill philosophy." His was not the soul of a poet-he was too much under the influence of reason. His verse is easy, correct, and sensible, but no more. He never dared to pass beyond the threshold of correctness, and consequently he did nothing either original or great.

ON Thames's banks, 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.

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 neighb'ring town.

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, AT THE OPENING OF THE
THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY-LANE, 1747.

WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose;
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new :
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,
And unresisted Passion storm'd 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 assail'd the heart:
Cold Approbation gave the ling'ring bays,

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

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wish'd 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 pleas'd their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspir'd to lasting praise,
And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days.
Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were strong,
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long:
Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd,
And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid.

Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refin'd,
For years the pow'r of Tragedy declin'd;
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till Declamation roar'd whilst Passion slept;
Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled.
But forc'd, at length, her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit;
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day,
And Pantomime and Song confirm'd 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 Durfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride:

Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?)
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.
Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune plac'd,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste;
With every meteor of caprice must play,
And chase the new-blown bubbles 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 salutary woe;

Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,

And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET, A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

CONDEMN'D 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 Levet to the grave descend,

Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.

When fainting nature call'd for aid,

And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow,

His vig'rous remedy display'd

The pow'r of art without the show.

In Misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely Want retir'd to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride,
The modest wants of ev'ry day
The toil of ev'ry day supplied.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th' Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.

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.

FROM THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.

"ENLARGE my life with multitude of days!"
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays:
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know
That life protracted is protracted woe.
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy :

In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r;
With listless eyes the dotard views the store,
He views, and wonders that they please no more;
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines,
And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns.

*

*

*

*

*

The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest, Perplex the fawning niece, and pamper'd guest,