vently hope, life will yet be spared him to make a happy one. The author was in the action with Byng. It is now pretty generally understood that this unfortunate man was sacrificed to popular clamour; Mr. Stockdale's testimony, however, is decidedly against him. We have no wish to agitate the question. The execution of the admiral, whatever might be the motive, was of infinite advantage to the service, and, as Du Clos observes, in his memoirs of Louis XV. " from the blood of Byng sprang up our subsequent victories." Mr. S. now appears as a recruiting officer at Biggleswade. There he writes verses which no one reads; makes love for which no one cares; and passes his time very agreeably. The camp at Chatham, to which he next removes, displeases him. The summer was hot, and the tents close; so, "about this time he began to be tired of the army;" resumed his clerical pursuits, and was ordained a deacon by the bishop of Durham, in 1759. As Mr. S. was indebted to the benevolence of Mr. Sharp for the means of study and existence, he takes the earliest opportunity of decrying his benefactor's writings, and evincing his own attachment to the doctrine which he had just sworn, in the sight of Heaven, to maintain and defend. "The consequences of the most unchristian and fiery disputes which those mysteries (of the Trinity) have occasioned, are the greatest disgrace of human nature, and exhibit more detestable pictures of our species than are presented to us in the annals of the pagan world. Mr. Sharp has gone deep into the doctrine of the Trinity. By this good man Mr. S. is presented to a curacy in London, for which he immediately proceeds. We hear not a syllable of his church, but a great deal of Barbarossa, Athelstan, &c. This was not precisely what Mr. Sharp wished to know, and he, therefore, seems to have dismissed his curate, who returned to Berwick, where he continued till the general feeling of the neighbourhood hinted to him the necessity of making a second trip to the Mediterranean. At Berwick, however, he commenced the unfortunate profession of an author, and, among many temporary pieces, which, he hopes, will, "at some time, not be without their glory," published "a poetical address to the Supreme Being." "It is distinguished throughout," he says, "with a rational and fervid piety; it is flowing and poetical; it is not without its pathos." p. 23. Notwithstanding all this condiment, the confection is good for nothing; for he has just discovered that this "flowing, fervid, and poetical address" is not animated with that vigour which gives dignity and impression to poetry. During his residence in Italy, he employed himself in translating histories and novels, for which the booksellers would not pay. On his return, he settled in London, and undertook a translation of the Aminta. Of this version he speaks with great complacency. As we never heard of it before, we suspect the feeling was confined to his own breast; notwithstanding he hurried. Dr. Hawkesworth into a coffeehouse, forced a specimen of it into his hand, and extorted from him an exclamation of high emphasis and "Mere curious pleasure, and ingenious warmth. p. 54. pain !" "What is the result of such idle speculations? We do not gain a particle of instruction, and we lose many of Christian charity." Vol. 2, p. 12. By degrees, for the Aminta could do nothing better for him, he sunk into a writer for the Critical Review, at the rate (blushing we record it) of two guineas a sheet. This golden period of criticism was of short duration; it began in March, 1770, and closed in the April of the succeeding year, because the proprietors would not hear of an augmentation of pay. The Monthly Reviewers were requited, it seems, " for their dark and inhuman assassinations, with four guineas a sheet;" and Mr. S. thought it a matter of conscience not to perform his bloody business for less. Yet this seems to have been the bright period of our author's life, and his detail of it, forms by far the most interesting part of his memoirs. As he always hung loose on society, and had a day, a week, a month, at any one's command, it is not surprising that he should have a pretty large acquaintance among the idle frequenters of the booksellers' shops and the theatres. He lived a good deal with Garrick, and was a visiter of Johnson; and he relates many entertaining anecdotes of both. Garrick's first theatrical appearance was in 1741, not long before the death of Pope, who was then in a weak and declining state. The poet had, however, the satisfaction of seeing him in one of his principal characters; and Mr. S. has given Garrick's interesting account of the awful moment of trial. "When I was told that Pope was in the house, I instantaneously felt a palpitation at my heart; a tumultuous, not a disagreeable, emotion in my mind. I was then in the prime of youth; and in the zenith of my theatrical ambition. It gave me a particular pleasure that Richard was my character, when Pope was to see and hear me. As I opened my part, I saw our little poetical hero, dressed in black, seated in a side box near the stage; and viewing me with a serious and earnest attention. His look shot, and thrilled like lightning, through my frame; and I had some hesitation in proceeding, from anxiety and from joy. As Richard gradually blazed forth, the house was in a roar of applause, and the conspiring hand of POPE shadowed me with laurels.' Garrick was informed of Pope's opinion of his theatrical merit, and nothing could be more delightful than his praise. That young man, said Pope, never had his equal, as an actor; and he will never have a rival." Vol. 2, p. 153. from our fathers that when Pope entered the theatre, the audience usually rose up out of respect to him. It is now the fashion to insult his memory. This may disgrace ourselves, but cannot injure him; and the coming age will assuredly do justice to both parties. The foible of Garrick was his excessive jealousy even of the lowest talents, and his avidity of flattery even from the meanest retainer of the theatre: that of Johnson seems to have been an unreasonable grudg ing at those publick honours and rewards which poured upon one with whom, in youth, he walked from Litchfield to London, and who had now so far out-stripped him in the pursuit of fortune. The following anecdotes, which blend what was little, with what was truly great, in the characters of these extraordinary men, are highly worth preserving. "When Dr. Johnson and I were talking of Garrick, I observed, that he was a very moderate, fair, and pleasing companion; had flowed upon him, both of fortune and fame, to throw him off of his bias of moral and social self-government. Sir, (replied Johnson, in his usual emphatical and glowing manner) you are very right in your remark. Garrick has undoubtedly the merit of a temperate, and unassuming behaviour in society; for more pains have been taken to spoil that fellow, than if he had been heir apparent to the empire of India." when we considered what a constant influx When Johnson praised Garrick, it was generally with an appearance of dislike, or rather of affected contempt. In their latter years there was very little communication between them. Garrick, indeed, bore, for some time, Johnson's rudeness with great good nature; but their coolness gradually terminated in a complete separation. There are times, however, when the better feelings triumph over the meaner passions. Garrick, after complaining to Mr. S. one day, of Johnson's illiberal conduct, added: "I question This is excellent! We have heard whether, in his calmest and, most dispassionate moments, he would allow me that theatrical merit which the world has been so generous as to attribute to me:" upon which Mr. S. determined to make the trial; and we rejoice that he did so. Finding Johnson alone, and in good humour, he began a conversation on Garrick, and asked whether he deserved that high theatrical character, and that prodigious fame which he had acquired?" Oh, sir," replied Johnson, "he deserves every thing that he has acquired; for having seized the very soul of Shakspeare; for having embodied it in himself; and for having expanded its glory over the world." I was not slow in communicating this to Garrick. The tear started in his eye. "O, Stockdale!" he exclaimed, "such a praise from such a man! this atones for all that has passed." p. 185. Retournons à nos moutons. About this time our author wrote a "Life of Waller," and a " Defence of Pope." When Johnson's Life of Waller appeared, though, in his biography, says Mr. S. "he paid a large tribute to the abilities of Goldsmith and Hawkesworth, yet he made no mention of my name!" It is evident that he did not care to remember it. When the doctor was busied on the Life of Pope, Mr. S. wrote "a pathetick letter" to him, earnestly imploring" a generous tribute from his authority!" Johnson was still silent, and Mr. S. subjoins, with some degree of fretful naïveté, "in his sentiments towards me he was divided between a benevolence to my interests, and a coldness to my fame." We have always had a high sense of Johnson's humanity and critical acumen, and this little anecdote is by no means calculated to lessen it. To the needy author he would readily listen; to the importunate mendicant for undeserved fame, he never failed to turn a deaf ear. When the booksellers determined to give a new edition of Chambers's Cyclopedia, Mr. S. who had been recommended to Strahan's notice by VOL. III. U 1 Dr. Johnson, was offered the supervisal of it. Upon communicating the circumstance to his friend, he declared his readiness to undertake the work himself, if Mr. S. should decline it. This surprised our author, who expressed his astonishment that he "who at all times could pour such a rich and eloquent strain of prose, ardent sentiment, and striking imagery, should think of preparing for the press a voluminous, tedious, scientifick dictionary. His answer surprised me as much as his proposal. Sir,' said he,' I like that muddling work.' This was his very expression!" The edition however was consigned to the care of Dr. Rees; and we see no reason to regret it. Mr. S. was by his own account, unequal to the task; and though Johnson would have muddled in it to an excellent purpose, yet, as we should, in all probability have then lost the Lives of the Poets," the collusion," as Goodman Dull has it," would not have held in the exchange." 6 Among the innumerable productions of Mr. S. was a history of Gibraltar. In a moment of despair, he immolated his unfortunate offspring, the only one of his family in whose welfare we found ourselves at all interested. The agonies of a disappointed author cannot, indeed, be contemplated without pain: but we write to instruct, and the following quotation may have its use. "When I had arrived at within a day's work of its conclusion, in consequence of some immediate and mortifying accidents, my literary adversity and all my other misfortunes took fast hold of my mind; oppressed it extremely; and reduced it to a stage of the deepest dejection and despondency, In this unhappy view of life, I made a sudden resolution, never more to prosecute the profession of an author; to retire altogether from the world; and read only for consolation and amusement. I committed to the flames my history of Gibraltar, and my translation of Marsollier's life of Cardinal Ximenes; for which the bookseller had refused to pay me the fifty guineas ac cording to our agreement.”—p. 256 But the vows of authors are not more binding than those of lovers! When the country was alarmed with the reports of a French invasion, my poetical spirit," says Mr. Stockdale, "excited me to write my poem of The Invincible Island. I never found myself in a happier disposition to compose, nor ever wrote with more pleasure. I presumed warmly to hope, that unless inveterate prejudice and malice were as invincible as our island itself, it would have the diffusive circulation which I earnestly desired." The catastrophe of the poet is, perhaps, much better told than any thing in the poem: "Flushed with this idea-born impetuously along, by ambition and by hope; though they had often deluded me, I set off in the mail coach from Durbam, for London, on the 9th of December, 1797, at midnight, and in a severe storm. On my arrival in town, my poem was advertised, printed and published with great expedition. It was printed for Clarke, in New Bond Street. For several days, the sale was very promising; and my bookseller, as well as myself, entertained sanguine hopes But the demand for the poem relaxed gradually! From this last of many literary misfortunes, I inferred, that prejudice and malignity, in my fate as an author, seemed, indeed, to be invincible !-Vol. ii. p 310. We must now dismiss Mr. Stockdale, and we are sorry that we cannot do it in better humour. His Memoirs are, perhaps, the most valuable part of his works: but this is not saying much. They contain some sensible observations, and not a few amusing anecdotes of his contemporaries, delivered in a style, frequentJy incorrect, indeed, but always sprightly and vivacious, and distinguished by a wildness of idea, peculiar to himself. The author seems to have led rather a busy than an industrious life, and, in his desultory course, to have flown over more occupations" than Autolycus. From his own statements, he appears to be of a most untoward nature. He scarcely mentions an acquaintance whose memory he does not insult; and he proves his "forgiving dispo sition" by the most splenetick attacks upon his relations, his benefactors, his masters, nay, his dames, at the distance of threescore years! In all his disputes, and his Memoirs are full of them, he appears decidedly in the wrong; and in his contests with his spiritual superiours, outrageous and irreverent in the highest degree. He is not ashamed to avow that, in his examination for priest's orders, he was guilty of deliberate falsehood; infected, as he adds, "by the air of Lambeth.” These aberrations we willingly attribute to a disordered imagination, rather than to a want of moral feelself no concern about the matter. ing. But Mr. Stockdale gives himIn every case, he appeals to some interiour rule of right, which supersedes all written obligation, and easily convinces him that his worst actions are the effect of "disinterested, persevering, and sublime virtue!" p. 227. Much of the misery of his life has arisen from a fatal errour concerning his talents; his friends unfortunately mistook his animal spirits for genius, and, by directing them into the walk of poetry, bewildered him for ever. Though he never wrote a line beyond the powers of the bellman, or the stone cutter, though he confesses that all his verses have been received with negligence or contempt, yet the mediocrity, the absolute poverty of his genius, has not once occurred to him! While he is forgotten faster than he writes, he still dreams of " immortality," and confidently predicts that his ephemeral trifles, which passed unnoticed at their birth, will yet force attention, and descend with "glory" to futurity! It is enough to give wisdom to the foolish, and seriousness to the giddy, to contemplate the afflicting picture of self-delusion SO warm in the colouring, and so true to the life! Mr. S. has embittered his days by a restless and tormenting thirst after waters, which nature placed far beyond his reach; and which those who have tasted of them, have seldom found to be the purest draught of human felicity! We cannot close this article without observing, that if the populace of writers become thus querulous after fame (to which they have no pretensions) we shall expect to see an epidemical rage for auto-biography break out, more wide in its influence, and more pernicious in its tendency, than the strange madness of the Abderites, so accurately described by Lucian. London, like Abdera, will be peopled solely by "men of genius;" and as the frosty season, the grand specifick for such evils, is over, we tremble for the consequences. Symptoms of this dreadful malady (though somewhat less violent) have appeared amongst us before; and the case of one of the poor, infected creatures (a maternal ancestor of Mr. S.) is thus technically described by honest Anthony Wood. "This Edward Waterhouse wrote a rhapsodical, indigested, and whimsical work; and not in the least to be taken into the hand of any sober scholar, unless it be to make him laugh, or wonder at the simplicity of some people. He was a brained man, and afterwards took Orders." cock FROM THE LITERARY PANORAMA. Poems and Translations, from the minor Greek Poets, and others. Written chiefly between the ages of Ten and Sixteen, by a Lady. 8vo. pp. 198. Price 8s. London, 1808. Second edition. MIDNIGHT WANDERERS. SOLDIER. THE fugitive pieces, which com- THE SOLDIER'S RETURN; OR THE pose this collection, were written chiefly between the ages of eleven [Written in Scotland, at twelve years of age.] and sixteen, in the leisure hours allowed by a domestick education. They are published with the timidity excited by their imperfections; but with a most grateful sense of the indulgence they have already received from a liberal publick. The translations or imitations of the minor Greek poets were the productions of a still earlier age. A most indulgent father, in the retirement permitted by his station in the church, found amusement in familiarizing his only child with the poets of antiquity. Such is the fair writer's statement. The poems are pretty. As to the propriety of familiarizing so young.a mind with the poet of love and wine, in his original language, that must rest on circumstances, of which, while this lady preserves her incognito, we cannot pretend to judge. But, we shall select our specimens of the talents of the fair authoress from what we consider as more fayourable to the efforts of her muse. WHAT taper lends its dying gleam JESSIE. Ere sin' the dewfall of the night SOLDIER. A kirk yard turf, a nameless stane, If never meant to shine. JESSIE. O never in my father's cot Shall sorrow dim my e'e, |