drinks." Pozz. "No, sir, to know what one drinks is nothing; but the science consists of three parts. Now, sir, were I to drink wine, I should wish to known them all; I should wish to know when I had too little, when I had enough, and when I had too much. There is our friend ******* (mentioning a gentleman of our acquaintance); he knows when he has too little, and when he has too much, but he knows not when he has enough. Now, sir, that is the science of drinking, to know when one has enough." We talked this day of a variety of topics, but I find very few memorandums in my journal. On small beer, he said it was flatulent liquor. He disapproved of those who deny the utility of absolute power, and seemed to be offended with a friend of ours who would always have his eggs poached. Sign-posts, he observed, had degenerated within his memory; and he particularly found fault with the moral of the "Beggar's Opera." I endeavoured to defend a work which had afforded me so much pleasure, but could not master that strength of mind with which he argued; and it was with great satisfaction that he communicated to me afterwards a method of curing corns by applying a piece of oiled silk. In the early history of the world, he preferred Sir Isaac Newton's Chronology; but as they gave employ ment to useful artisans, he did not dislike the large buckles then coming into use. Next day we dined at the Mitre. I mentioned spirits. Pozz. "Sir, there is as much evidence for the existence of spirits as against it. You may not believe it, but you cannot deny it." I told him that my great grandmother once saw a spirit. He asked me to relate it, which I did very minutely, while he listened with profound attention. When I mentioned that the spirit once appeared in the shape of a shoulder of mutton, and another time in that of a tea-pot, he interrupted me:-Pozz. There, sir, is the point; the evidence is good, but the scheme is defective in consistency. We cannot deny that the spirit appeared in these shapes; but then we cannot reconcile them. What has a tea-pot to do with a shoulder of mutton! Neither is it a terrific object. There is nothing contemporaneous. Sir, these are objects which are not seen at the same time 66 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. (*) [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.] No. II.-DR. JOHNSON'S GHOST. [From the Gentleman's Magazine, vol. lvi. p. 427.] 'Twas at the solemn hour of night His face was like the full-orb'd moon Terrific was his angry look, His pendant eyebrows frown'd; "Behold," he cry'd, "perfidious man! "Was it to make this base record, "Dar'st thou pretend that, meaning praise, "Do readers in these annals trace "A traveller, whose discontent "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, Some vengeful stone had struck thee dead, 'Thy adulation now I see, And all its schemes unfold: Thy av'rice, Boswell, cherish'd me, "So keepers guard the beasts they show, "O! were it not that, deep and low, He ceas'd, and stalk'd from Boswell's sight By sage Ulysses seen. Dead paleness Boswell's cheek o'erspread, With trembling haste he left his bed, And thrice he call'd on JOHNSON's name, Then thrice repeated-" injured fame!" No. III-A POSTHUMOUS WORK OF S. JOHNSON. AN ODE. APRIL 15, 1786. BY GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ. ST. PAUL'S deep bell, from stately tow'r, Say, Herald, Chronicle, or Post, Which then beheld great JOHNSON'S Ghost, Compositors their letters dropt, Enough! the Spectre cried; Enough! Trite Anecdotes and Stories; First in the futile tribe is seen With goose-quill he, like desperate knife, And calls the town to swallow. The cry once up, the Dogs of News, Their nauseous praise but moves my bile, Next BOSWELL comes (for 'twas my With constitutional vivacity; lot At length-Job's patience it would tire- For She a common place book kept, THRALE, lost 'mongst Fiddlers and Sopranos, Adagio and Allegro! I lov'd THRALE'S widow and THRALE's wife; I gave the Public works of merit, But thy delusive pages speak My palsied pow'rs, exhausted, weak, They speak me insolent and rude, (*) His black servant. |