66 Johnson, intending from his chambers to send a letter into the city, but, to his great surprise, he found this giant of literature without pen, ink, or paper. Here, he used to write his Idler, himself no bad illustration of the title of his work; for he would frequently lie in bed until three o'clock in the afternoon, and then saturate himself with tea for two or three hours, from that tea-kettle of his "which had no time to cool." With tea he solaced the midnight hour, and with tea welcomed the morning." Hither also he used to convey those mysterious pieces of dried orange-rind, which so intensely excited the curiosity and wonder of Boswell, and the use of which remains to this day "a marvel and a secret--be it so." Here also he used to muse over his lost Tetty, and pray for her, "as far as it might be lawful for him ;" and here his fits of morbid melancholy used to attack him, which rendered life wretched, and death terrible. In these chambers, Murphy communicated to him the first news of his pension, and argued with him that he did not come within his own definition of a pensioner. But the lexicographer shook his head, and made a long pause: a dinner however, at the Mitre the next day, overcame all his scruples, and he was pensioned accordingly. The Mitre was one of Johnson's favourite resorts, and many anecdotes of his visits there have been recorded by the tenacious memory of his toad-eater Boswell. Here, also, the enraged author levelled a folio at the head of Osborne the bookseller, for giving him the lie; and here, without doubt, he has been compelled to pass many a day impransus. There is another person, whose shade I sometimes fancy I see flitting through the cloisters and along Pump-court to his ancient residence-poor, innocent, vain, clever Goldy! Goldsmith, when he first came to reside in the Temple, took chambers on the library staircase: he afterwards removed to King's Bench Walk: Persuasion tips his tongue whene'er he talks, And he has chambers in the King's Bench Walks. And soon after he removed to No. 2, Brick-court; from whence his next removal was to a colder lodging-the Temple burialground. I almost fancied the other day, as I was passing through Brick-court, that I saw Oliver gazing out of the window of the first-floor chamber; but alas! it was some retainer of the law, who had probably never heard his name. He was ugly enough, however, to be mistaken for the doctor. In these chambers, probably, he meditated that dire revenge against the editor of the Ledger; and here perhaps he examined his horsewhip, to try whether it was tough and good. Here, he lived in disappointment, and died of Dr. James's powder. There is another man of genius also, who had chambers in the Temple for a short time-the young and accomplished Richard West, Gray's Favonius; but the dry dusty study of the law suited not with a spirit fondly attached to the elegance of classical pursuits. It could not be said of West, that "the smell Of ancient parchment pleased him well." It did not please him, and he accordingly removed as far as he could from its influence. In one of his letters to Gray, he says, "I lived in the Temple till I was sick of it. It is certain at least that I can study the law here (Bond-street), as well as I could there. My being in chambers did not signify to me a pinch of snuff." Very improper all this. If, indeed, there be any pleasure in high associations, in dwelling where the great have dwelt, and thus tracing back the steps of time to honourable antiquity-if there be any virtue in the memory of brave deeds, or any influence in the recollection of departed wisdom, then is the edifice, which contained the bravest and most learned of our ancestors, a pleasant dwellingplace; and when I leave it-hopeless to find another spot consecrated by so much valour and so much wisdom-it should be for some angulus terræ, some wood-girt corner, which the foot of soldier or of lawyer has never yet been known to press. E. R. READING AND WRITING. Accurs'd the man, whom fate ordains, in spite, CHURCHILL's Author. SOLOMON, whom, like Burns, I resemble in every thing-his wisdom excepted, has hinted that in much reading is much weariness: if so, this would seem, judging from the activity of the press, the most wearisome age, that ever existed since the foundation of the world. Churchill then, as quoted above, appears to be right only half way; and that, as it respects our being taught to read-unless he was so simple as to believe it necessary that an author should read, as well as write. How it might have been in his time, I cannot pretend to say, "mais nous avons changé tout ça." Writing is clearly free from any objection, and is doubtless the most lively, agreeable, indolent, pleasant thing imaginable. Witness, for instance, the numbers, who, according to the epigram, "Write with ease, to shew their breeding :”— but it is true that the next line intimates that "Easy writing's d hard reading," and for this reason we have, it must be confessed, frequent cause to complain of our " cruel parents." An old writer, whose name I forget, makes this remark on a certain prodigious reader-it is in Latin, but the substance runs thus-"If I had read as much, I should have been as great a fool as he is" and Lord Bacon's advice is "not many, but good books," which is, by the by, a very ill-considered phrase, for, if he had merely said "good books," he might have spared himself the trouble of saying "not many." This, however, is not the class, that we have to deal with; we have free souls, and are not to be cooped up in a nut-shell in this way. I speak of modern literature, belles lettres, and the groaning shelves of a fashionable repository of what are very inexpressively called light publications. Behold! here is a gorgeous feast for the mind-not that mind has any thing to do with its production, more than the cook has with the production of mutton or turnips. Shakspeare, who, it is well known, had a way of saying things quite unlike any other human being, observes something about men dying when their brains are out, and even expresses surprise that it was not so in the case of Banquo. A similar astonishment is described by one Niccolo Forteguerri, in his Ricciardetto, when a man, who had been decapitated, takes his head up in his hand, and walks down stairs†—a circumstance, which at any rate proves that it is of no consequence whether a man's brains be under or over his shoulders, or any where at all. This dying, or "effect defective," might " come by cause," in Shakspeare's time; but it is not so now with writers, for the absence of this article does not prevent their presence, and the active use of their goose-quill; they die not for the want of it, though their works do. I have often thought what a snug revenue it would be, if I could get a grant of the postage of all letters, which people repented of writing, or which there was no sort of reason for them ever to have written; but how my income would be improved, if I could have, in addition, the value of all books, that is, (to prevent misconstructions) the value of the paper, printing, and advertising, under similar circumstances: as to the value of the time of the authors, I am not avaricious, and by no means insist upon that. There is, I admit, some poetry of eternal verdure, which flourishes on heights inaccessible. Of such I speak not; but of that produced by those unlucky wights, who, not attending to the great master, "Equo ne credite," have, rashly bestriding the winged-horse, found themselves suddenly rolling at the foot of the hill. Nor do I allude to that hapless, yet, perhaps, happy mortal, ὡς ὑπερτατα δωματα ναιει, who, like the gods, lives in the upper story; or, as the epilogue has it, sojourns "high in Drury-lane, Fann'd by soft zephyrs, thro' a broken pane:-" but I mean those demireps among the Muses, who pour forth their unbidden lays, sometimes "most musical," 66 "Perfect then only deem'd, when they dispense A happy tuneful vacancy of sense,' 66 and always "most melancholy," sharing with the nightingale the poet's description of her song, miserabile carmen."+ Here, however, I must explain what I understand, or would signify, by the term demirep. Dr. Johnson makes these observations: A man of letters, for the most part, spends, in the privacies of study, that season of life, in which the manners are to be softened into ease, and polished into elegance; and, when he has gained knowledge enough to be respected, has neglected the minuter acts, by which he might have pleased;"-but it is difficult for us, at this time of the day, to conceive what the worthy doctor is driving at. We know of no such persons. Our authors are all petit-maîtres, the best dressed, and the most polished ornaments of the gayest assemblies. How they get there, leads me to the etymology of a demirep, which I take to be, demi, half, and rep, an abreviation of reputation; and this half I imagine to consist, not in the approbation or reading of his work, but in his having published, or rather printed, a book, and having consequently become Mr. Thingumbob, the author of Whatdyecallum. Ovvoμa TоλаKI TEρTEL, says the Syracusan, a name often charms, and with many, indeed, is all in all: but the oddest thing is, that such persons, or I should perhaps say, "men of letters," are, at their introduction into these circles, called lions--one would really think that it did not require much wit to have hit upon a more obvious and appropriate appellation. As such have not the inward and spiritual grace of poetry, neither have they the outward and visible garb of the poet. Murphy, in one of his farces, ushers in a gentleman with a very thread-bare coat, as "a servant of the Muses," adding, "you may know him by their livery." But there is yet one comfort, which, amongst the blessings of En. ii. 48. Trust not the horse. + Geo. iv. 514. Idyl. xxviii. 40. printing, has never yet been noticed. The Romans, according to Horace, Martial, and others, were often condemned in private, and in their baths and elsewhere, to hear these birds of song pour their throats," in the recitation of bad verses, till patience gave up the ghost, and died in despair. Not so with us; our ears are our own: they may print, but they can't make us read, or hear read-" tenet occiditque legendo" would be indictable at sessions. As I am speaking of those, who swell the lists of dulness, I might mention pamphleteers, and writers of moral essays, but I refrain, as I could only speak by report; for I never read either, especially the latter, which, I am told, are at every turn constantly giving one some unpleasant ugly slap. The little compendiums too (or per saltums, as I may call them) of experimental philosophy, chemistry, &c. for ladies, are not in my way, though their instruction was very much in the way of a bas bleu relation of mine, who, by the bursting of a retort (uncourteous) lost a finger, and by an experiment with fulminating powder blew off her thumb. Good, tender-hearted, unscientific people, , are shocked at this, but they may spare their pity. My aunt is more proud of the honours of that day, than was ever hero of the scars of glorious war. Travellers are privileged persons. If they encounter perils by "flood and field," dauntlessly quitting Dover for Calais, and Calais for Paris, and see what nobody else does, or ever will see, it is fit that they should publish, and give the world the benefit of their ordinary and extraordinary discoveries. I have no quarrel with them. Why should they travel like their trunks, and get nothing but the jumble and the dust? No, let every traveller of every description write his tour; every one is qualified, for, as Shakspeare says, "it is as easy as lying." Modern dramatists are not fair game; they do not come within my scope, for they do not write to be read t; therefore why, in nine cases out of ten, they write at all, is best known to themselves. Time, breath, pen, ink, and paper, would fail to enumerate and comment on the infinite progeny of the teeming press; and I shall but slightly touch on that great marketable articleNovels. In this line, it is true that one writer has nearly spoilt the trade-still "scribimus docti indoctique," men, women, and children are all natural geniuses in this way; and, what is more * Hor.-Holds you by force, and reads you quite to death. "You + Their works are intended for acting, and not, it is to be presumed, for reading. Melodrames, farces, and modern comedies were, in the way of reading, very like the treat, which Dangle accuses Mrs. Dangle of having had an opportunity of enjoying, have all the advantages of it :-mightn't you, last winter, have had the reading of the new pantomime a fortnight previous to its performance?"-The Critic. |