or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. Hast. So that, with eating above stairs and drinking below, with receiving your friends within and amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling life of it. Hard. I do stir about a good deal, that's certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. Mar. At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains. Mar. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. Hard. Their impudence confounds me. [Andr.] Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen? Mar. Item: a pork-pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a florentine, a shaking-pudding, and a dish of tiff-tad Mar. [After drinking.] And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in West-taffety cream. minster Hall, Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. Mar. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. [Aside. Hast. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack them with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. [Drinks. Hard. Good, very good; thank you; ha! ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Mar. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper? Hard. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request to a man in his own house? [Aside. Mar. Yes, sir; supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. Hard. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. [Aside.] Why really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cookmaid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. Mar. You do, do you? Hard. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. Hast. Confound your made dishes! I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating. Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like; but if there be anything you have a particular fancy to - Mar. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper and now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of. Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. Mar. Leave that to you! I protest, sir, you must excuse me; I always look to these things myself. Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head. Mar. You see I'm resolved on it. A very troublesome fellow, as ever I met with. [Aside Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. [A side. [Exeunt Mar, and Hard. In the reign of George II. the witty and artificial comedies of Vanbrugh and Farquhar began to lose their ground, partly on account of their licentiousness, and partly in consequence of the demand for new pieces, necessary to keep up the interest of the theatres. A taste for more natural portraiture and language began to prevail. Among the first of the plays in which this improvement was seen, was the Suspicious Husband of Dr Hoadly (1706-1757), son of the bishop, and author Hard. O no, sir, none in the least: yet, I don't know of several works in prose and verse. In the Sushow, our Bridget, the cookmaid, is not very communi-picious Husband (1747) there is a slight dash of cative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she the license of Farquhar, but its leading character, might scold us all out of the house. Ranger, is still a favourite. Mar. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir. Hast. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. Mar. (To Hardcastle, who looks at them with surprise.] Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too. Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper: believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. [Servant brings in the bill of fare, and exit. Hast. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel! We shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. [Aside.] But let's hear the bill of fare. Mar. [Perusing.] What's here? For the first course; for the second course; for the dessert. The devil, sir! Do you think we have brought down the whole Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. Hast. But let's hear it. Mar. [Reading.] For the first course: at the top, a pig and pruin sauce. Hast. Confound your pig, I say. Mar. And confound your pruin sauce, say I. Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig with pruin sauce is very good eating. This period may be said to have given birth to the well-known species of sub-comedy entitled the Farce-a kind of entertainment more peculiarly English than comedy itself, and in which the liter ature of our country is rich. HENRY CAREY. Several farces and musical pieces once popular on the stage, were written by HENRY CAREY (died in 1743), an illegitimate son of George Saville, Marquis of Halifax. His Chrononhotonthologos, 1734, and The Dragon of Wantley, 1737, were long theatrical favourites, and some of his songs (especially what may be called his classical lyric of Sally in our Alley*) are still admired and sung. Both the words and melody are by Carey. Carey says the occasion of his ballad was this: A shoemaker's apprentice making holiday with his sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bedlam, the puppet-shows, the flying chairs, and all the elegancies of Moorfields: from whence proceeding to the Farthing Piehouse, he gave her a collation of buns, cheese-cakes, gammon of bacon, stuffed beef, and bottled ale; through all which scenes the author dodged them (charmed with the simplicity of their song, he adds, made its way into the polite world, and was more courtship), from whence he drew this little sketch of nature. The than once mentioned with approbation by 'the divine Addison.' Sally in our Alley. Of all the girls that are so smart, Her father he makes cabbage-nets, To such as please to buy 'em : But sure such folks could ne'er beget When she is by, I leave my work Of all the days that's in the week, And that's the day that comes betwixt For then I'm dressed all in my best, My master carries me to church, As soon as text is named: I leave the church in sermon time, When Christmas comes about again, I would it were ten thousand pounds, My master and the neighbours all But when my seven long years are out, O then we 'll wed, and then we 'll bed, From Henry Carey, as Lord Macaulay has remarked, 'descended that Edmund Kean, who in our time transformed himself so marvellously into Shylock, Iago, and Othello.' DAVID GARRICK-HENRY FIELDING CHARLES MACKLIN-JAMES TOWNLEY. The greatest of all English actors, eminent alike in tragedy and in comedy, DAVID GARRICK (1716-1779) was also author of some slight dramatic pieces. Garrick was a native of Lichfield, and a pupil of Dr Johnson, with whom he came to London to push his fortune. He entered himself a student of Lincoln's Inn, but receiving a legacy of £1000 from an uncle who had been in the wine-trade in Lisbon, he commenced business, in partnership with an elder brother, as wine-merchant of London and Lichfield. A passion for the stage led him to attempt the character of Richard III. 19th October 1741, and his success was so decided that he adopted the profession of an actor. His merits quickly raised him to the head of his profession. As the manager of one of the principal theatres for a long course of years, he banished from the stage many plays which had an immoral tendency; and his personal character, though marked by excessive vanity and other foibles, gave a dignity and respectability to the profession of an actor. As an author he was more lively and various than vigorous or original. He wrote some epigrams, and even ventured on an ode or two; he succeeded in the composition of some dramatic pieces, and the adaptation of others to the stage. His principal plays are The Lying Valet and Miss in her Teens, which are still favourites. But, unquestionably, the chief strength of Garrick lay in his powers as an actor, by which he gave a popularity and importance to the drama that it had not possessed since its palmy days in the reigns of Elizabeth and James. Sheridan honoured his memory with a florid sentimental monody, in which he invoked the 'gentle muse' to guard his laurelled shrine'— And with soft sighs disperse the irreverent dust Which time may strew upon his sacred bust. FIELDING was another distinguished writer in this walk, though of all his pieces only one, Tom Thumb, has been able to keep possession of the stage. He threw off these light plays to meet the demands of the town for amusement, and parry his own clamorous necessities, and they generally have the appearance of much haste. Love-à-laMode, by CHARLES MACKLIN (1760), presented a humorous satire on the Scottish character, which was followed up by his more sarcastic comedy of The Man of the World. Macklin was an actor by profession, remarkable for his personation of Shylock after he was ninety years of age; and his dramatic pieces are lively and entertaining. He survived till 1797, when he is said to have attained to the extraordinary age of 107. The Rev. JAMES TOWNLEY (1715-1778), master of Merchant Taylors' School, was author of High Life below Stairs, a happy burlesque on the extravagance and affectation of servants in aping the manners of their masters, and which had the effect, by a well-timed exposure, of correcting abuses in the domestic establishments of the opulent classes. But by far the greatest of this class of dramatists was SAMUEL FOOTE (circa 1720-1777). He was born at Truro, in Cornwall, of a good family, and studied at Worcester College, Oxford; but squandering away his fortune, he became an actor and dramatic writer. In powers of mimicry, and in broad humour, Foote has had few equals. Johnson, though he disliked the man for his easy morals and his making the burlesquing of private characters a profession, was forced to admit his amazing powers and the fascination of his conversation. It was in 1747 that Foote commenced his new entertainments in the Haymarket Theatre, in which he was himself the sole performer, and which proved highly attractive, in consequence of the humorous and whimsical portraits of character which they presented, many of these being transcripts or caricatures of persons well known. The Diversions of the Morning, The Auction of Pictures, and The Englishman in Paris, were the names of some of these pieces. Of the regular farces of Foote, which were somewhat later in production, The Minor-an unjustifiable attack upon the Methodists-was the most successful. It was followed by The Mayor of Garratt, a coarse but humorous sketch, including two charactersMajor Sturgeon, the city militia officer, and Jerry Sneak-which can never be completely obsolete. His plays are twenty in number, and he boasted, at the close of his life, that he had added sixteen decidedly new characters to the English stage. Char. The paltry ambition of levying and following titles. Serj. Titles! I don't understand you. Char. I mean the poverty of fastening in public upon men of distinction, for no other reason but because of their rank; adhering to Sir John till the baronet is superseded by my lord; quitting the puny peer for an earl ; and sacrificing all three to a duke. Serj. Keeping good company !-a laudable ambition! Char. True, sir, if the virtues that procured the father a peerage could with that be entailed on the son. Serj. Have a care, hussy; there are severe laws against speaking evil of dignities. Char. Sir! Serj. Scandalum magnatum is a statute must not be trifled with: why, you are not one of those vulgar sluts that think a man the worse for being a lord? Char. No, sir; I am contented with only not thinking him the better. Serj. For all this, I believe, hussy, a right honourable proposal would soon make you alter your mind. Char. Not unless the proposer had other qualities than what he possesses by patent. Besides, sir, you know Sir Luke is a devotee to the bottle. Serj. Not a whit the less honest for that. Char. It occasions one evil at least; that when under its influence, he generally reveals all, sometimes more 'than he knows. Serj. Proofs of an open temper, you baggage; but come, come, all these are but trifling objections. Char. You mean, sir, they prove the object a trifle. Serj. Why, you pert jade, do you play on my words? I say Sir Luke is SIR LUKE LIMP makes his appearance, and after a short dialogue, enter a Servant, and delivers a card to SIR LUKE. Sir Luke. [Reads] Sir Gregory Goose desires the honour of Sir Luke Limp's company to dine. been engaged for these three weeks. answer is desired.' Gadso! a little unlucky; I have Serj. What! I find Sir Gregory is returned for the corporation of Fleecem. Šir Luke. Is he so? Oh, oh! that alters the case. George, give my compliments to Sir Gregory, and I'll certainly come and dine there. Order Joe to run to Alderman Inkle's in Threadneedle Street; sorry can't wait upon him, but confined to bed two days with the new influenza. [Exit Servant. Char. You make light, Sir Luke, of these sort of engagements. when one has the misfortune to meet them-take scandalous advantage: when will you do me the honour, pray, Sir Luke, to take a bit of mutton with me? Do you name the day? They are as bad as a beggar who attacks your coach at the mounting of a hill; there is no getting rid of them without a penny to one, and a promise to t' other. Sir Luke. What can a man do? These fellows Serj. True; and then for such a time too-three weeks! I wonder they expect folks to remember. It is like a retainer in Michaelmas term for the summer assizes. Sir Luke. Not but upon these occasions no man in England is more punctual than Enter a SERVANT, who gives SIR LUKE a letter. Sir Luke. Answer! By your leave, Mr Serjeant and Charlotte. [Reads] Taste for music-Mons. Duportfail-dinner upon table at five.' Gadso! I hope Sir Gregory's servant an't gone. Serv. Immediately upon receiving the answer. Sir Luke. Run after him as fast as you can tell him quite in despair-recollect an engagement that can't in nature be missed, and return in an instant. [Exit Servant. Char. You see, sir, the knight must give way for my lord. Sir Luke. No, faith, it is not that, my dear Charlotte; you saw that was quite an extempore business. No, hang it, no, it is not for the title; but, to tell you the truth, Brentford has more wit than any man in the world: it is that makes me fond of his house. Char. By the choice of his company he gives an unanswerable instance of that. Sir Luke. You are right, my dear girl. But now to give you a proof of his wit; you know Brentford's finances are a little out of repair, which procures him some visits that he would very gladly excuse. Serj. What need he fear? His person is sacred; for by the tenth of William and Mary Sir Luke. He knows that well enough; but for all that Serj. Indeed, by a late act of his own house-which does them infinite honour-his goods or chattels may be Sir Luke. Seized upon when they can find them; but he lives in ready furnished lodgings, and hires his coach by the month. Serj. Nay, if the sheriff return 'non inventus.' Sir Luke. A plague o' your law; you make me lose sight of my story. One morning a Welsh coachmaker came with his bill to my lord, whose name was unluckily Lloyd. My lord had the man up. You are called, I think, Mr Lloyd? At your lordship's service, my lord. What, Lloyd with an L! It was with an L, indeed, my lord. Because in your part of the world I have heard that Lloyd and Flloyd were synonymous, the very same names. Very often indeed, my lord. But you always spell yours with an L? Always. That, Mr Lloyd, is a little unlucky; for you must know I am now paying my debts alphabetically, and in four or five years you might have come in with an F; but I am afraid I can give you no hopes for your L. Ha, ha, ha! Enter a SERVANT. Serv. There was no overtaking the servant. Sir Luke. That is unlucky: tell my lord I'll attend him. I'll call on Sir Gregory myself. [Exit Serv. Serj. Why, you won't leave us, Sir Luke? Sir Luke. Pardon, dear Serjeant and Charlotte; have a thousand things to do for half a million of people, positively; promised to procure a husband for Lady Cicely Sulky, and match a coach-horse for Brigadier Whip; after that, must run into the city to borrow a thousand for young At-all at Almack's; send a Cheshire cheese by the stage to Sir Timothy Tankard in Suffolk; and get at the Heralds' Office a coat-of-arms to clap on the coach of Billy Bengal, a nabob newly arrived; so you see I have not a moment to lose. Serj. True, true. Sir Luke. At your toilet to-morrow you may[Enter a Servant abruptly, and runs against Sir Luke.] Can't you see where you are running, you rascal? Serv. Sir, his grace the Duke of Sir Luke. Grace! Where is he? Where-Serv. In his coach at the door. If you an't better engaged, would be glad of your company to go into the city, and take a dinner at Dolly's. Sir Luke. In his own coach, did you say? Sir Luke. With the coronets-or Serv. I believe so. ESSAYISTS. An attempt was made at this period to revive the style of periodical literature, which had proved so successful in the hands of Addison and Steele. After the cessation of the Guardian, there was a long interval, during which periodical writing was chiefly confined to politics. An effort was made to connect it again with literature by Dr Johnson, who published the first paper of the Rambler on the 20th of March 1750, and it was continued twice a week, without interruption, till the 14th of March 1752. Johnson received only four contributions, one from Richardson the novelist, during the whole course of the publication, and, consequently, the work bore the stamp of but one mind, and that mind cast in a peculiar mould. The light graces and genialities of Steele were wanting, and sketches of the fashions and frivolities of the times, which had contributed so much to the popularity of the former essayists, found no place in the grave and gloomy pages of the Rambler. work was ill calculated for general readers, and it The serious and somewhat pedantic style of the was no favourite with the public. Johnson, when he collected these essays, revised and corrected them with great care, but even then they appeared heavy and cumbrous; his attempts at humour were not happy, and the female characters introduced were all, as Garrick remarked, Johnsons in petticoats. They all speak the same measured lofty style, and resemble figures in sculpture rather than real life. The author's use of hard Sir Luke. There's no resisting of that. Bid Joe run words was a common complaint; but it is someto Sir Gregory Goose's. Serv. He is already gone to Alderman Inkle's. Sir Luke. Then do you step to the knight-hey-no -you must go to my lord's-hold, hold, no-I have itstep first to Sir Greg's, then pop in at Lord Brentford's just as the company are going to dinner. Serv. What shall I say to Sir Gregory? Sir Luke. What!-Why, tell him that my uncle from Epsom-no-that won't do, for he knows I don't care a farthing for him-hey! Why, tell him-hold, I have it. Tell him that as I was going into my chair to obey his commands, I was arrested by a couple of bailiffs, forced into a hackney-coach, and carried into the Pied Bull in the Borough; I beg ten thousand pardons for making his grace wait, but his grace knows my misfor [Exeunt Sir Luke and Serv. Char. Well, sir, what d'ye think of the proofs ? I flatter myself I have pretty well established my The popularity of The Beggar's Opera being partly owing to the excellent music which accompanied the piece, we find in this period a number of comic operas, in which songs and dialogues alternate. The Devil to Pay, by C. COFFEY (died 1745), was long a favourite, chiefly for the female character, Nell, which made the fortune of several actresses; and among the best pieces of this description are those by ISAAC BICKERSTAFF (1735-1787), whose operas, The Padlock, Love in a Village, Lionel Clarissa, &c. present a pleasing union of lyrical pieces with dramatic incident and dialogue. become of what curious to find, among the words objected to in the Rambler, resuscitation, narcotic, fatuity, and germination, which have now daily use, and carry with them no appearance of pedantry. The turgid style of Johnson, however, often rose into passages of grandeur and beauty; his imagery is striking and original, and his inculcation of moral and religious duty was earnest and impressive. Goldsmith declared that a system of morals might be drawn from these essays. No other English writer of that day could have moralised in such a dignified strain as in the following. passages: On Useful Knowledge and Kindness. To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined' to look on the common business of the world, and the unwillingness with which they condescend to learn what is not to be found in any system of philosophy, it may be necessary to consider, that though admiration is excited by abstruse researches and remote discoveries, yet pleasure is not given, nor affection conciliated, but by softer accomplishments, and qualities more easily communicable to those about us. He that can only converse upon questions about which only a small part of mankind has knowledge sufficient to make them curious, must loose his days in unsocial silence, and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can only be useful on great occasions may die without exercising his abilities, and stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations which fret away happiness, and which nothing is required to remove but a little dexterity of conduct and readiness of expedients. No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him above the want of hourly assistance, or to extinguish the desire of fond endearments and tender officiousness; and, therefore, no one should think it unnecessary to learn those arts by which friendship may be gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of benefits or interchange of pleasures; but such benefits only can be bestowed as others are capable to receive, and such pleasures only imparted as others are qualified to enjoy. By this descent from the pinnacles of art, no honour will be lost; for the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An elevated genius employed in little things, appears, to use the simile of Longinus, like the sun in his evening declination; he remits his splendour, but retains his magnitude, and pleases more though he dazzles less. On Revenge. A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the true value of time, and will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom and malice and perturbations of stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity: a combination of a passion which all endeavour to avoid, with a passion which all concur to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage-whose thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of ruin-whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of another-may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladness of prosperity nor the calm of innocence. Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only because we have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger of error and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and ourselves, to domestic tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary, or despised by the world. It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that 'all pride is abject and mean.' It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants. Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way to anything but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice or overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own lives. The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue without regard to present dangers or advantages; a continual reference of every action to the divine will; a habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But that pride which many, who presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of men; of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what they have never examined; and whose sentence is therefore of no weight, till it has received the ratification of our own conscience. He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price of his innocence—he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to withhold his attention from the commands of the universal sovereign-has little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind; whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and folly. Óf him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other motive. On this great duty eternity is suspended; and to him that refuses to practise it, the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world has been born in vain. A still finer specimen of Johnson's style is afforded in an essay on Retirement from the World. On him that appears to pass through things temporal with no other care than not to lose finally the things eternal, I look with such veneration as inclines me to approve his conduct in the whole, without a minute examination of its parts; yet I could never forbear to wish, that while Vice is every day multiplying seducements, and stalking forth with more hardened effrontery, Virtue would not withdraw the influence of her presence, or forbear to assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance in the right. Piety practised in solitude, like the flower that blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of heaven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and the actions of men; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings, and, however free from taints of impurity, yet wants the sacred splendour of beneficence. These sentences shew the stately artificial style of Johnson, which, when supported by elevated sentiment or pointed morality, as in the foregoing extracts, appears to great advantage, but is unsuited to ordinary topics of life and conversation. Hence, he shines more in his colloquial displays, as recorded by Boswell, where much of this extraneous pomp was left off, while all the point and vigour of his understanding, and his powers of wit and imagination, were retained. He is in fact, as Burke first remarked, a greater man in the pages of his biographer than in his own works. The intellectual gladiator of the club evinced a more powerful, ready, and various mind than he could embody in his deliberate writings in the closet. Goldsmith was directly the reverse: he could argue best, as he said, with the pen in his hand. The Adventurer, by Dr Hawkesworth, succeeded the Rambler, and was published twice a week 1773) rose from being a watchmaker to considerfrom 1752 to 1754. JOHN HAWKESWORTH (1715able literary eminence by his talents and learning. He was employed to write the narrative of Captain Cook's discoveries in the Pacific Ocean, by which he realised a large sum of money, and he made an excellent translation of Telemachus. With the aid of Dr Johnson, Warton, and others, he carried on the Adventurer with considerable success. |