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a hanger-on at the theatres, a great also was the body of Pythagoras, whom desire grew in me for more learning men had almost deified for his cona than had fallen to my share at Strat- junct perfection of mind and person. ford; but fickleness and impatience, To mention Alcibiades, Epaminondas, and the bewilderment caused by new Cæsar, and others, would be unseasonobjects, dispersed that wish into empty able ; since, although these men had air. Ah, my Lord, you cannot con- ability enough for the great advanceceive what a strange thing it was forment of their own or their country's so impressible a rustic, to find himself fortunes, the same portion might have turned loose in the midst of Babel. gone but a small way toward the exMy faculties wrought to such a degree, tension of knowledge in general. But that I was in a dream all day long. here we touch upon the distinction beMy bent was not then toward comedy, tween understanding and those enere for most objects seemed noble, and of gies which are necessary for the conmuch consideration. The music at duct of affairs. the theatre ravished my young heart; Shakspeare. Speaking of bodily haand amidst the goodly company of bitudes, is it true that your lordship spectators, I beheld, afar off, with swoons whenever the moon is eclipsed, dazzled sight, beauties who seemed to even though unaware of what is then outparagon Cleopatra of Egypt. Some passing in the heavens? of these primitive fooleries were after Bacon. No more true, than that the wards woven into Romeo and Juliet. moon eclipses whenever I swoon.

Bacon. Your Julius Cæsar and your Shakspeare. I had it from your chapa Richard the Third please me better. lain, my

lord. From my youth upward I have had a Bacon. My chaplain is a worthy brain politic and discriminative, and man; he has so great a veneration for less prone to marvelling and dreaming me, that he wishes to find marvels in than to scrutiny. Some part of my the common accidents of my life. juvenile time was spent at the court of Shakspeare. The same chaplain also France, with our ambassador, Sir told me, that a certain arch in Trinity Amias Paulet; and, to speak the College, Cambridge, would stand until a truth, although I was surrounded by greater man than your lordship should many dames of high birth and rare pass through it. beauty, I carried oftener Machiavelli Bacon. Did you ever pass through in my pocket than a book of madri- it, Mr Shakspeare ? gals, and heeded not although these Shakspeare. No, my lord. I never wantons made sport of my grave and was at Cambridge. scholarlike demeanour. When they Bacon. Then we cannot yet decide would draw me forth to an encounter which of us two is the greater man. of their wit, I paid them off with flat- I am told that most of the professors teries, till they forgot their aim in there pass under the arch without fear, thinking of themselves. Michael An- which indeed shews a wise contempt gelo said of Painting, that she was of the superstition. jealous, and required the whole man, Shakspeare. I rejoice to think that undivided. I was aware how much the world is yet to have a greater man more truly the same thing might be than your lordship, since the arch must said of Philosophy, and therefore cared fall at last. not how much the ruddy complexion Bacon. You say well, Mr Shake of my youth was sullied over the mid- speare ; and, now, if you will follow night lamp, or my outward comeliness me into another chamber, I shall shew sacrificed to my inward advancement. you the Queen's Book of Sonnets;

Shakspeare. The student's brain is which, not to commend up to the stars, fed at the expense of his body; and I would shew much blindness and want suspect that human nature is like a of judgment. Her Majesty is a great Frenchman's lace;—there is not enough princess, and must be well aware of of it to be pulled out both at the neck the versatility of her own parts, which and the sleeves.

fit her no less for a seat among the Bacon. What you observe is in part Muses, than to fill the throne of her true. Yet if we look back upon ancient times we shall find exceptions. Shakspeare. Were her Majesty to Plato's body was as large and beautiful listen to all that might be spoken of as that of any unthinking Greek; and so her good gifts, she would find the VOL. III.

2 M

ancestors.

S MIDNIGHT WALK.

you too far.

days too short for expeding any other so situated as to wish to have done business. The most her subjects can with calculation. do with their praise is, to thrust it Savage. Mr Johnson, you know upon her by snatches; and, as Jupi- what I once was. Is it wonderful ter is said to have had a small trap- that I should swear ? door in heaven, through which, when Johnson. This is a painful topic, open, ascended the foolish prayers and and an old one between us. vows of mankind, so might her Ma Savage. Well, let us wave it. I jesty's presence-room be provided with have some verses in my pocket which a golden funnel for receiving the in- I composed this morning, and wrote cense of those innumerable worship- on the back of a play-bill with a pen pers, whose hearts are full of her, al- which I procured in a grocer's shop. though their quality enables them pot If these lamps were not so dim, you to approach her person.

should hear them read. Bacon. Walk this way, Mr Shak Johnson. The ancients said of Love, speare. The Queen's book is not to that he had been cradled on rocks, be found among ordinary classics. and suckled by tigers.

Savage. What of that?

Johnson. It is astonishing under No VI.

what unfavourable circumstances poJOHNSON's

etical enthusiasm, which is one of the

finest movements of the soul, will Scenethe Streets of London.

sometimes thrive and fructify. I do Savage. Mr Johnson, I must insist not much wonder at Cervantes havupon your going home to your lodg- ing written Don Quixote in prison ; ings.

for it would appear that the assemJohnson. No, sir; I had as leif bling of humorous conceptions is a walk with you, and chat with you. harsh and hardy operation of the mind, Savage. Your complaisance carries and not liable to interruption from

Necessity has accustome slight inconveniences. We find hu. ed me to pass the night in this man mour among men, whom the rigours ner. But you have a lodging, and of their situation have entirely bluntneed not encounter these hardships. ed to tenderness. Take, for instance,

Johnson. A man, sir, takes a plea- sailors and highwaymen. sure in tasting the diversities of life, Savage. What do you suppose to be when he knows it is in his option the hardiest of all faculties? whether he shall do so or not.

Johnson. That of ratiocination, sir. Savage. Your frame is robust. You But it requires to be supported. When will catch no harm, at any rate, from I lived, as at one time I was obliged your present whim.

do, upon four pence a-day, I exJohnson. Why, sir, I love occasione perienced frequent defalcation of menally to aberrate from routine. It a tal activity. wakens and varies my ideas. The Savage. Starvation may enfeeble the streets are almost silent just now. faculties, but in me it leaves the pasa These large and opaque masses of sions as active as ever. It leaves me building have nothing in their exte- still the same proud and incontrollable rior to set the mind a-going ; but they Richard Savage. affect us, sir, because we know them Johnson. Nature has probably orto be pregnant with the workings of dered things in such a manner, that the human heart, from the cellar to our personal energies shall be the last the garret. There is no time when to suffer from bodily exhaustion. In mankind so distinctly feel their hap- many cases the intellectual faculties piness or misery, as before retiring to may be considered as mere superflusleep. Action being then suspended, ities; while, on the other hand, the they have time to estimate its results, personal energies are requisite to the and to calculate what remains to be last in our intercourse with human enjoyed or suffered.

society, even although they should Sarage. Damn calculation ! Damn have some ill-directed tendencies, as I it--ah!

fear is the case with yours. Johnson. I have never yet been so Savage. I will permit you to say so, situated as to—(I will not repeat your Mr Johnson, for I know you are my. expression,) but I have never yet been friend.

man.

Johnson. After dinner, sir, I gene- qualities do not rise in society, unless rally feel inclined to meditation. Read their possessor has the art of making ing is then less agreeable to me, be- them subservient to the wants of othcause of the trouble of holding the ers. A man who appears at Vanity book to my eyes.

Fair, with a species of merchandise Savage. When do you dine? which every person can do without, Johnson. Generally at three. will only be laughed at if he gives Savage. Heigho! you are a happy himself airs.

You will one day do credit to Savage. Who lies herei-Some one literature, when poor Savage

sleeping upon a bulk. Poor fellow ! Johnson. Nay, sir, do not speak his coat appears to have seen better thus. I am but a harmless drudge, a days. His hat has dropped off, and word-hunter-little worthy of being may perhaps become the prey of some envied. He that deludes his imagi- light-fingered passenger. Shall I anation with golden dreams of the dig- waken him? nity of literature, peed only enter the Johnson. Is it an author ? garret of the lexicographer, and see him Savage. I am uncertain. He does at his diurnal task, to be convinced not seem to be a drunkard; for he that learning is honoured only in its breathes quite freely, I rather think results, and not in the person of the it is an author. possessor.

Johnson. Do you know the indivi, Savage. Have you visited my Lord dual? Chesterfield lately?

Savage. I believe it is a Mr An, Johnson. Whý, no, sir. I found drew Carmichael, a young man from that I was kept waiting for hours in Scotland, author of an elegant little the anti-chamber, while his Lordship poem, entitled the Woes of Genius. was engaged with such persons as Johnson. Nay, sir, if he is from Cibber,

Scotland, let him lie. Savage. D-n him. Stupid scound Savage. The poor young man will rel! Fellows like that get on well lose his bat. wherever they go.

Johnson. Sir, a Scotchman has no Johnson. And what if they do, sir? need of a hat. It only supplies They are more gainly, sir, than we, warmth and stimulus to the seat of because they are meaner, You are knavery. to consider that their progress is pur Savage. If you will allow me to chased by the loss of what we think make you acquainted with this gentleone of the greatest luxuries in life, man, you will find his conversation namely, the habit of following the well calculated to remove these prewayward impulses of personal inclina- possessions.

Ho! friend ; get up. tion. Sir, the man who approaches Don't you recollect Savage?-Aħ, people like Chesterfield must not have Derrick'! is it you? any humours of his own. Now, sir, Derrick. For whom did you take I am not one of those who can clear me? their foreheads, and look pleasant Savage. For the poor lad Car, whenever occasion requires. ` I love michael. The Woes of Genius, you to be as sour as I please. Mea virtu- know. te me involvo.

Derrick. You need not look for Savage. But surely Lord Chester- him. He is off the list. field ought to make some distinction Savage. How? What say you ? between

Derrick. Tucked himself up the Johnson. Chesterfield, I believe, other morning. 'Tis a shocking story; does as we ourselves would do in his but he was desperate. He was oris situation. He knows what it is to be ginally a tutor in a Scottish family, a courtier, and he expects to be court- where he gave so little satisfaction, ed in his turn, for whatever he has to that he was turned off, and came to give.

London full of authorship. When he Savage. Learning and worth ought first arrived, he used to dine at a shill. Johnson. Nay, sir, do not talk stuff

. ing chop-house. By degrees, however, Learning and worth may pace the he came down to a sixpenny one, and streets, and reflect on their own merits then to a fourpenny one. Afterwards till they are weary, but the world has he became irregular, and lived only other matters to think of. Personal when he could. In the meantime, his

son.

.

appearance and dress fell off rapidly. make us as zealous in serving manHe grew hollow and yellow about the kind as ourselves. But the mere love eyes, and was seldom seen as formerly of a respectable reputation is a better about the booksellers' shops. He used principle. It urges us to no mischief, to compose elegies, however, full of and it restrains us from much evil. the most high-sounding phrases, and Savage. Respectable reputation is recite them aloud with passionate em- not enough to slake the thirst of restphasis. Gradually he lost heart, even less minds; and we see around us at this. His pride began to be sapped, multitudes, who, rather than remain and his hopes to leave him, and the merely respectable, push forward into catastrophe

notoriety, and become ridiculous. Savage. Was what you have told These are the men upon whom the us. Say no more about it.

snug and cautious members of society Derrick. Your servant, Mr John- pour forth the vials of their wrath.

You see that I have just been We are all fond of fame in our hearts; taking a nap in an easy way. Our but some have sense enough to perfriend, Savage, prefers walking. He ceive that it is beyond their reach; is so little fond of stone cushions, that and their suppressed hopes are natuI believe he would not lie still, even rally enough changed into malice aif a sculptor were to provide him with gainst bolder adventures. one in Westminster Abbey.

Derrick. Which is felt, to their Johnson. Westminster Abbey !- cost, by unsuccessful authors, players, Why, sir, that is a long look forward. politicians, orators, schemers, &c.

Savage. Yet the love of fame is a Johnson. In society, sir, there is a noble propensity

sort of conventional status, which may Johnson. The love of fame, sir, be acquired by any individual who never made a great man. When an lives secundum bonos mor But individual possesses extraordinary when a man becomes a candidate for faculties, the pleasure of exercising celebrity, he ventures upon different them is what first sets him a-going. ground. He abandons his convenFame, or what is more powerful, tional status, and throws his weight money, may afterwards be necessary upon his personal pretensions; and he to overcome his indolence, and to must sink or swim along with them. make him encounter the labour of Derrick. The life of a professed au. committing his mental riches to such thor is certainly far from being a trana vehicle as will transfer them to other quil one. It is a state of severe trial, minds. But all great advances of unless his talents and good fortune are thought, and achievements of concep- such as to convey him aloft into the tion, are made from the love of think- arm-chair of established reputation. ing and conceiving; and all artists Johnson. Arm-chair enjoyment, sir, who become eminent, become so from is the lot of few. the love of their art. We see, on the Derrick. I wish I had followed the stage, that bad actors are continually trade of a grocer, as was originally inwooing and consulting the audience tended by my friends in Holborn. I with their eyes; but good actors seem should then have speedily acquired a wrapt up in their own feelings. large chin and a cheerful eye, and be

Derrick. You will admit, however, come like one of those over-grown that the love of fame sometimes rascals whom I see wallowing in cloprompts men to great actions. Wit ver behind their counters. No liteness the heroes of antiquity, some of rary carpings would then have diswhom were almost entirely actuated turbed my repose.; and my gossipby this passion.

pings would have been only about Johnson. Why, sir, that is a differ- Broughton's last boxing-match, or the ent thing. Although the love of fame Cock-lane ghost. will not confer genius or intellect, it Savage. Ilave you heard any thing may induce an individual to persevere new concerning the Cock-lane resin such a laudable course of conduct, ponses ? as will secure the applause of his fel Derrick. Nothing. But as I passed low citizens who profit by it; and in- through Cock-lane about an hour ago, deed if fame were to be obtained only I saw numerous carriages stopping at hy good actions, vanity would be the the house. Some of them brought labest of all passions, since it would dies of rank, and others set down

clergymen in full dress, with powder- of their own unambitious and ignorant ed hair and black silk stockings. I self-complacency. But even upon that never saw such a bustle. Some of the occasion, we must say, there appeared audience are said to bring biscuit in to us to be something not a little ridis their pockets, to enable them to sus- culous in the furious zeal with which tain the fatigues of the night; and so many grave academics laid aside the others chew figs to disguise the chat- sober honours of the inactive toga, and tering of their teeth. The whole is started forth in the unwonted and una conducted with a solemnity that shakes natural succinctness of the sagum, to the firmest nerves.

repell the assault of a “telum imbelle Savage. What a strange species of sine ictu” which had glanced with iminfatuation!

potent malignity against the venerable Johnson. (Solemnly.) Gentlemen, towers of their Alma Mater. A tutor, I must leave you.

or professor of this time-hallowed seSavace. We need not part yet. We minary, feels as severely the slightest shall accompany you home.

sarcasm against its character, as a senJohnson. (Angrily.) Nay, sir, I timental lover does an imputation aam not going home.

gainst the chastity of his mistress. Derrick. Where, then ?

Wrapped in the sable swaddling-bands Johnson. (Sternly.) Sir, . 'tis not of his dignity, and strutting for ever agreeable to me to be questioned. I under echoing arches, he soon comes bid you good night.

to fancy himself a constituent part of Derrick. He is off. What can be the gloomy and gothic grandeur which the meaning of this ? ..

is familiar to his eye. He is satisfied Savage. I have a shrewd suspicion that he is a fixture; and, with excusethat this man, venerable for his learn- able vanity, dreams that it is his busiing, and formidable for superior in- ness to be a prop, where nature and tellect, is now stalking towards Cock- art have only meant him to be a penlane. He has an unaccountable hank- dicle. ering after the marvellous.

A more amusing instance of the abDerrick. Impossible !

surd excitability of the Oxonian pride, Savage. It would grieve me to of- has not often been exhibited than in fend him by dogging his steps, but we this formal little pamphlet of Dr Kidd. can follow, unobserved, at a distance. The doctor himself is, we understand, The lion must be tracked warily, a man of much modesty and merit, Softly—softly—there he goes—just in and withal, one who has commonly the direction I expected. I was sure been supposed to be a great deal more of it.

free from the besetting prejudices of the place than almost any of his brethren. If a man of his acknowledged

eminence and excellence can display KIDD AND BRANDE.

so much violence upon so little provo

cation, what must be the exquisite No being can be more tenderly alive

soreness felt upon similar occasions by to the very semblance of offence, or, to

the every-day members of the order to use a common sort of phrase, more

which his name is an ornament,—the thin-skinned, than an Oxford profes

mere common-place masters of arts, sor. We have a very high respect for

and bachelors, and doctors of divinity, the ancient university itself; we scorp

who imagine themselves to be exemand despise the paltry attacks which

plifying the highest possible glories of were made upon its general character

the “ contemplative life” of the Peripaand usefulness a few years ago, by cer

tetics, when they are swaggering along tain sceptical wits, who cannot be per

Christ-church meadow, or assisting in suaded that there is any thing either

all the ineffable grandeur of dulness, good or great beyond the petty sphere

at the diurnal solemnities of the high

table ? • An Answer to a Charge against the The wrath, however, of these ordiEnglish Universities contained in the Supplement to the Edinburgh Encyclopædia.

nary graduates, intense and ebullient By J. Kidd, M.D. Professor of Chemistry

as its heat may be, commonly evaporin the University of Oxford. Sold by J. ates in the harmless shape of highParker and by R. Bliss, Oxford ; and Messrs church toasts, and songs from The SauRivington, London. 1818.

sage, uttered with the full emphasis of

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