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 (1) 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.

(1) 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 (antè, Vol. II. p. 7.), and the Account of Johnson's

Conversation with George III. at Buckingham House (Vol.

III. p. 19.), to prevent his rivals making use of them.

No. II.- DR. JOHNSON'S GHOST.

[From the Gentleman's Magazine, Vol. Ivi. p. 427.]

'Twas at the solemn hour of night,
When men and spirits meet,
That JOHNSON, huge majestic sprite,
Repair'd to Boswell's feet.

His face was like the full-orb'd moon
Wrapt in a threatening cloud,
That bodes the tempest bursting soon,
And winds that bluster loud.

Terrific was his angry look,

His pendent eyebrows frown'd; Thrice in his hand he wav'd a book, Then dash'd it on the ground.

"Behold," he cry'd, "perfidious man!
This object of my rage:
Bethink thee of the sordid plan
That form'd this venal page.

"Was it to make this base record,

That you my friendship sought; Thus to retain each vagrant word, Each undigested thought?

"Dar'st thou pretend that, meaning praise,
Thou seek'st to raise my name;
When all thy babbling pen betrays
But gives me churlish fame?

"A traveller, whose discontent

No kindness can appease;
Who finds for spleen perpetual vent
In all he hears and sees :

"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,
Or steeple, spar'd by Knox!

He ceas d, and stalk'd from Boswell's sight

With fierce indignant mien,

Scornful as Ajax' sullen sprite,

By sage Ulysses seen.

Dead paleness Boswell's cheek o'erspread,

His limbs with horror shook;

With trembling haste he left his bed,

And burnt his fatal book.

No. III.-A POSTHUMOUS WORK OF S. JOHN

SON.

AN ODE. APRIL 15. 1786.

BY GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.

ST. Paul's deep bell, from stately tow'r,
Had sounded once and twice the hour,
Blue burnt the midnight taper;
Hags their dark spells o'er cauldron brew'd,
While Sons of Ink their work pursu❜d,
Printing the Morning Paper.

Say, Herald, Chronicle, or Post,

Which then beheld great JOHNSON'S Ghost,
Grim, horrible, and squalid?
Compositors their letters dropt,
Pressmen their groaning engine stopt,
And Devils all grew pallid.

Enough! the Spectre cried; Enough!
No more of your fugacious stuff,

Trite Anecdotes and Stories;

Rude Martyrs of SAM. JOHNSON's name,

You rob him of his honest fame,

First in the futile tribe is seen
TOM TYERS in the Magazine,
That teazer of Apollo !

With goose-quill he, like desperate knife,
Slices, as Vauxhall beef, my life,

And calls the town to swallow.

The cry once up, the Dogs of News,
Who hunt for paragraphs the stews,
Yelp out JOHNSONIANA !

Their nauseous praise but moves my bile,
Like Tartar, Carduus, Camomile,
Or Ipecacuanha.

Next BOSWELL comes (for 't was my lot
To find at last one honest Scot)
With constitutional vivacity;

Yet garrulous, he tells too much,
On fancied failings prone to touch,
With sedulous loquacity.

At length-Job's patience it would tire -
Brew'd on my lees, comes THRALE's Entire,
Straining to draw my picture;

For She a common-place-book kept,
JOHNSON at Streatham dined and slept,
And who shall contradict her?

THRALE, lost 'mongst Fidlers and Sopranos, With them play Fortes and Pianos,

Adagio and Allegro !

I lov'd THRALE's widow and THRALE'S wife; But now, believe, to write my life

I'd rather trust my Negro. (1)

His black servant.