The Guinea hens and peacocks with their eggs,
And catch his loving subjects by the legs.
O! since the prince of gossips reads thy book,
To what high honours may not Bozzy look!
The sunshine of his smile may soon be thine.
Perchance, in converse thou may'st hear him shine.
Perchance, to stamp thy merit through the nation,
He begs of Johnson's Life, thy dedication;
Asks questions (1) of thee, O thou lucky elf,
And kindly answers every one himself.
Blessed with the classic learning of a college,
Our king is not a miser in his knowledge :
Nought in the storehouse of his brains turns musty:
No razor-wit, for want of use, grows rusty;
Whate'er his head suggests, whate'er he knows,
Free as election beer from tubs it flows!

Yet, ah! superior far!

- - it boasts the merit

Of never fuddling people with the spirit!

Say, Bozzy, when, to bless our anxious sight,
When shall thy volume (2) burst the gates of light

O! clothed in calf, ambitious brat, be born

Our kitchens, parlours, libraries adorn!

My fancy's keen anticipating eye

A thousand charming anecdotes can spy:

I read, I read of George (3) the learned display
On Lowth's and Warburton's immortal fray:
Of George, whose brain, if right the mark I hit,
Forms one huge cyclopædia of wit:

(1) Just after Dr. Johnson had been honoured with an interview with a certain great personage, in the Queen's library at Buckingham House, he was interrogated by a friend, concerning his reception, and his opinion of the royal intellect." His Majesty seems to be possessed of much goodnature, and much curiosity," replied the Doctor; "as for his yous, it is far from contemptible. His Majesty, indeed, was multifarious in his questions; but, thank God, he answered them all himself."

(2) The Life of Dr. Johnson.

(3) His Majesty's commentary on that quarrel, in which the Bishop and the Doctor pelted one the other with dirt so gracefully, will be a treasure to the lovers of literature! Mr. B. hath as good as promised it to the pub. lic, and, we hope, means to keep his word.

That holds the wisdom of a thousand ages,
And frightens all his workmen, and his pages!
O Bozzy, still thy tell-tale plan pursue :
The world is wondrous fond of something new:
And, let but Scandal's breath embalm the page,
It lives a welcome guest from age to age.
Not only say who breathes an arrant knave,
But who hath sneaked a rascal to his grave:
Make o'er his turf (in Virtue's cause) a rout,
And, like a damned good Christian, pull him out.
Without a fear on families harangue,

Say who shall lose their ears, and who shall hang;
Thy brilliant brain conjecture can supply,
To charm through every leaf the eager eye.
The blue-stocking (1) society describe,

And give thy comment on each joke and gibe:
Tell what the women are, their wit, their quality,
And dip them in thy streams of immortality!

Let Lord Mac Donald threat thy breech to kick (o),
And o'er thy shrinking shoulders shake his stick;
Treat with contempt the menace of this lord,
'Tis History's province, Bozzy, to record.
Though Wilkes abuse thy brain, that airy mill,
And swear poor Johnson murdered by thy quill;
What's that to thee? Why, let the victim bleed
Thy end is answer'd, if the nation read.
The fiddling knight (3), and tuneful Mrs. Thrale,
Who frequent hobbed or nobbed with Sam, in ale,

(1) A club, mostly composed of learned ladies, to which Mr. B. was admitted.

(2) A letter of severe remonstrance was sent to Mr. B., who in consequence omitted, in the second edition of his Journal, what is so generally pleasing to the public, viz. the scandalous passages relative to this nobleman.

(3) Sir John Hawkins, who (as well as Mrs. Thrale, now Madame Piozzi) threatens us with the Life of the late lexicographer.

Snatch up the pen (as thirst of fame inspires!)
To write his jokes and stories by their fires;
Then why not thou each joke and tale enrol,
Who, like a watchful cat before a hole,
Full twenty years (inflamed with letter'd pride)
Didst mousing sit before Sam's mouth so wide,
To catch as many scraps as thou wert able

A very Lazarus at the rich man's table?

What though against thee porters bounce the door (1),
And bid thee hunt for secrets there no more;
With pen and ink so ready at thy coat,
Exciseman-like, each syllable to note,

That given to printer's devils (a precious load!)
On wings of print comes flying all abroad!
Watch then the venal valets-smack the maids,
And try with gold to make them rogues and jades:
Yet should their honesty thy bribes resent,

Fly to thy fertile genius and invent:

Like old Voltaire, who placed his greatest glory,

In cooking up an entertaining story;

Who laugh'd at Truth, whene'er her simple tongue
Would snatch amusement from a tale or song.

O! whilst amid the anecdotic mine,

Thou labour'st hard to bid thy hero shine,
Run to Bolt Court (2), exert thy Curl-like soul,

And fish for golden leaves from hole to hole :

Find when he eat, and drank, and cough'd, and sneezed
Let all his motions in thy book be squeezed:

On tales, however strange, impose thy claw;

Yes, let thy amber lick up every straw;

(1) This is literally true- Nobody is at home. Our great people want the taste to relish Mr. Boswell's vehicles to immortality. Though in Lon. don, poor Bozzy is in a desert.

(2) In Fleet Street, where the Doctor lived and died.

Sam's nods, and winks, and laughs, will form a treat;
For all that breathes of Johnson must be great!

Bless'd be thy labours, most adventurous Bozzy,
Bold rival of Sir John, and Dame Piozzi;
Heavens with what laurels shall thy head be crown'd!
A grove, a forest, shall thy ears surround!
Yes! whilst the Rambler shall a comet blaze,
And gild a world of darkness with his rays,
Thee too, that world, with wonderment, shall hail,
A lively, bouncing cracker at his tail!

POSTSCRIPT.

As Mr. Boswell's Journal has afforded such universal pleasure by the relation of minute incidents, and the great moralist's opinion of men and things, during his northern tour; it will be adding greatly to the anecdotical treasury, as well as making Mr. B. happy, to communicate part of a dialogue that took place between Dr. Johnson and the author of this Congratulatory Epistle, a few months before the Doctor paid the great debt of nature. The Doctor was very cheerful on that day; had on a black coat and waistcoat, a black plush pair of breeches, and black worsted stockings; a handsome grey wig, a shirt, a muslin neckcloth, a black pair of buttons in his shirt sleeves, a pair of shoes ornamented with the very identical little buckles that accompanied the philosopher to the Hebrides; his nails were very neatly pared, and his beard fresh shaved with a razor fabricated by the ingenious Mr. Savigny.

P. P. Pray, Doctor, what is your opinion of Mr. Boswell's literary powers?

Johnson. Sir, my opinion is, that whenever Bozzy expires, he will create no vacuum in the region of literature - he seems strongly affected by the cacoethes scribendi; wishes to be thought a rara avis; and in truth so he is — your knowledge in ornithology, Sir, will easily discover to what species of bird I al

P. P. What think you, Sir, of his account of Corsica ?— of his character of Paoli?

Johnson. Sir, he hath made a mountain of a wart. But Paoli has virtues. The account is a farrago of disgusting

egotism and pompous inanity.

P. P. I have heard it whispered, Doctor, that, should you die before him, Mr. B. means to write your life.

Johnson. Sir, he cannot mean me so irreparable an injury. Which of us shall die first, is only known to the great Disposer of events ; but were I sure that James Boswell would write my life, I do not know whether I would not anticipate the measure, by taking his. [Here he made three or four strides across the room, and returned to his chair with violent emotion.] P. P. I am afraid that he means to do you the favour. Johnson. He dares not- he would make a scarecrow of me. I give him liberty to fire his blunderbuss in his own face, but not to murder me. Sir, I heed not his auros epa. - Boswell write my life! why the fellow possesses not abilities for writing the life of an ephemeron.

No. V.

INSCRIPTION ON A CARICATURE OF JOHNSON AND MADAME PIOZZI, BY SAYERS. (1)

Madam (my debt to nature paid),

I thought the grave with hallow'd shade

Would now protect my name:

Yet there in vain I seek repose,

My friends each little fault disclose,
And murder Johnson's fame.

First, Boswell, with officious care,
Show'd me as men would show a bear,
And call'd himself my friend;

(1) [From the European Magazine.]