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doings? This was indeed specially the problem which a Commentator and Editor had to solve a complete solution of it should have lain in him, his whole mind should have been filled and prepared with perfect insight into it; then, whether in the way of express Dissertation, of incidental Exposition and Indication, opportunities enough would have occurred of bringing out the same: what was dark in the figure of the Past had thereby been enlightened; Boswell had, not in show and word only, but in very fact, been made new again, readable to us who are divided from him, even as he was to those close at hand. Of all which very little has been attempted here; accomplished, we should say, next to nothing, or altogether nothing.

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the term, understand him, his sayings and his | noble in old Samuel, was vulgar, base; that for him too there was no reality but in the Stomach; and except Pudding, and the finer species of pudding which is named Praise, life had no pabulum? Why, for instance, when we know that Johnson loved his good Wife, and says expressly that their marriage was "a love-match on both sides,"-should two closed lips open to tell us only this: "Is it not pos sible that the obvious advantage of having a woman of experience to superintend an estab lishment of this kind (the Edial School) may have contributed to a match so disproportionate in point of age-ED.?" Or again, when in the Text, the honest cynic speaks freely of his former poverty, and it is known that he once lived on fourpence halfpenny a-day,—need a Commentator advance, and comment thus: Excuse, no doubt, is in readiness for such "When we find Dr. Johnson tell unpleasant omission; and, indeed, for innumerable other truths to, or of, other men, let us recollect that failings; as where, for example, the Editor he does not appear to have spared himself, on will punctually explain what is already sun- occasions in which he might be forgiven for clear; and then anon, not without frankness, doing so?" Why in short," continues the declare frequently enough that "the Editor exasperated Reader, "should Notes of this does not understand," that "the Editor cannot species stand affronting me, when there might guess," while, for most part, the Reader can- have been no Note at all?"-Gentle Reader, not help both guessing and seeing. Thus, if we answer, Be not wroth. What other could Johnson say, in one sentence, that "English an honest Commentator do, than give thee the names should not be used in Latin verses;" best he had? Such was the picture and and then, in the next sentence, speak blamingly theorem he had fashioned for himself of the of "Carteret being used as a dactyl," will the world and of man's doings therein: take it, generality of mortals detect any puzzle there? and draw wise inferences from it. If there Or again, where poor Boswell writes: "I did exist a Leader of Public Opinion, and always remember a remark made to me by a Champion of Orthodoxy in the Church of Turkish lady, educated in France: Ma foi, Jesus of Nazareth, who reckoned that man's monsieur, notre bonheur depend de la façon que no-glory consisted in not being poor; and that tre sang circule;'"-though the Turkish lady a Sage, and Prophet of his time, must needs here speaks English-French, where is the call blush because the world had paid him at that for a Note like this: "Mr. Boswell no doubt easy rate of fourpence halfpenny per diem,fancied these words had some meaning, or he was not the fact of such existence worth would hardly have quoted them; but what that knowing, worth considering? meaning is the Editor cannot guess?" The Of a much milder hue, yet to us practically Editor is clearly no witch at a riddle.-For of an all-defacing, and for the present enterthese and all kindred deficiencies, the excuse, prise quite ruinous character,-is another as we said, is at hand; but the fact of their grand fundamental failing; the last we shall existence is not the less certain and regretable. feel ourselves obliged to take the pain of Indeed, it, from a very early stage of the specifying here. It is that our Editor has business, becomes afflictively apparent, how fatally, and almost surprisingly, mistaken the much the Editor, so well furnished with all limits of an Editor's function; and so, instead external appliances and means, is from within of working on the margin with his Pen, to unfurnished with means for forming to him- elucidate as best might be, strikes boldly into self any just notion of Johnson, or of John- the body of the page with his Scissors, and son's Life; and therefore of speaking on that there clips at discretion! Four Books Mr. C. subject with much hope of edifying. Too had by him, wherefrom to gather light for the lightly is it from the first taken for granted fifth, which was Boswell's. What does he do that Hunger, the great basis of our life, is also but now, in the placidest manner,-slit the its apex and ultimate perfection; that as whole five into slips, and sew these together "Neediness and Greediness and Vain-glory" into a sextum quid, exactly at his own conare the chief qualities of most men, so no man, venience; giving Boswell the credit of the not even a Johnson, acts or can think of acting whole! By what art-magic, our readers ask, on any other principle. Whatsoever, there- has he united them? By the simplest of all: fore, cannot be referred to the two former cate- by Brackets. Never before was the full virtue gories, (Need and Greed,) is without scruple of the Bracket made manifest. You begin a Ianged under the latter. It is here properly sentence under Boswell's guidance, thinking that our Editor becomes burdensome; and, to to be carried happily through it by the same: the weaker sort, even a nuisance. "What but no; in the middle, perhaps after your semigood is it," will such cry, "when we had still colon, and some consequent "for,"-starts up some faint shadow of belief that man was bet one of these Bracket-ligatures, and stitches ter than a selfish Digesting-machine; what you in from half a page, to twenty or thirty good is it to poke in, at every turn, and ex- pages of a Hawkins, Tyers, Murphy, Piozzi; plain how this and that which we thought so that often one must make the old sad re

flection," where we are we know, whither we were far from common then, indeed, in such a are going no man knoweth!" It is truly said degree, were almost unexampled; not recognis also, "There is much between the cup and the able therefore by every one; nay, apt even (so lip;" but here the case is still sadder: for not strange had they grown) to be confounded with till after consideration can you ascertain, now the very vices they lay contiguous to, and had when the cup is at the lip, what liquor is it sprung out of. That he was a wine-bibber and you are imbibing; whether Boswell's French gross liver; gluttonously fond of whatever wine which you began with, or some Piozzi's would yield him a little solacement, were it ginger-beer, or Hawkins's entire, or perhaps only of a stomachic character, is undeniable some other great Brewer's penny-swipes or enough. That he was vain, heedless, a babeven alegar, which has been surreptitiously bler; had much of the sycophant, alternating substituted instead thereof. A situation almost with the braggadocio, curiously spiced too with original; not to be tried a second time! But, an all-pervading dash of the coxcomb; that he in fine, what ideas Mr. Croker entertains of a gloried much when the Tailor, by a court-suit, literary whole and the thing called Book, and had made a new man of him; that he appeared how the very Printer's Devils did not rise in at the Shakspeare Jubilee with a riband, immutiny against such a conglomeration as this, printed "ConSICA BOSWELL," round his hat, and refuse to print it, may remain a problem. and in short, if you will, lived no day of his But now happily our say is said. All faults, life without doing and saying more than one the Moralists tell us, are properly shortcomings; pretentious ineptitude: all this unhappily is crimes themselves are nothing other than a evident as the sun at noon. The very look of not doing enough; a fighting, but with defective Boswell seems to have signified so much. In vigour. How much more a mere insufficiency, that cocked nose, cocked partly in triumph and this after good efforts, in handicraft prac- over his weaker fellow-creatures, partly to tice! Mr. Croker says: "The worst that can snuff up the smell of coming pleasure, and happen is that all the present Editor has scent it from afar; in those bag-cheeks, hangcontributed may, if the reader so pleases, being like half-filled wine-skins, still able to conrejected as surplusage." It is our pleasant duty tain more; in that coarsely protruded shelf to take with hearty welcome what he has mouth, that fat dewlapped chin; in all this, given; and render thanks even for what he who sees not sensuality, pretension, boisterous meant to give. Next and finally, it is our pain- imbecility enough; much that could not have ful duty to declare, aloud if that be necessary, been ornamental in the temper of a great man's that his gift, as weighed against the hard overfed great man, (what the Scotch name money which the Booksellers demand for flunky,) though it had been more natural there. giving it you, is (in our judgment) very greatly The under part of Boswell's face is of a low, the lighter. No portion, accordingly, of our almost brutish character. small floating capital has been embarked in the business, or shall ever be; indeed, were we in the market for such a thing, there is simply no Edition of Boswell to which this last would seem preferable. And now enough, and more than enough!

We have next a word to say of James Boswell. Boswell has already been much commented upon; but rather in the way of censure and vituperation, than of true recognition. He was a man that brought himself much before the world; confessed that he eagerly coveted fame, or if that were not possible, notoriety; of which latter as he gained far more than seemed his due, the public were incited, not only by their natural love of scandal, but by a special ground of envy, to say whatever ill of him could be said. Out of the fifteen millions that then lived, and had bed and board, in the British Islands, this man has provided us a greater pleasure than any other individual, at whose cost we now enjoy ourselves; perhaps has done us a greater service than can be specially attributed to more than two or three: yet, ungrateful that we are, no written or spoken eulogy of James Boswell anywhere exists; his recompense in solid pudding (so far as copyright went) was not excessive; and as for the empty praise, it has altogether been denied him. Men are unwiser than children; they do not know the hand that feeds.

Boswell was a person whose mean or bad qualities lay open to the general eye; visible, palpable to the dullest. His good qualities again, belonged not to the Time he lived in;

Unfortunately, on the other hand, what great and genuine good lay in him was nowise so self-evident. That Boswell was a hunter after spiritual Notabilities, that he loved such, and longed, and even crept and crawled to be near them; that he first (in old Touchwood Auchinleck's phraseology)" took on with Paoli," and then being off with "the Corsican landlouper," took on with a schoolmaster, "ane that keeped a schule, and ca'd it an academe;" that he did all this, and could not help doing it, we account a very singular merit. The man, once for all, had an "open sense," an open loving heart, which so few have: where Excellence existed, he was compelled to acknowledge it; was drawn towards it, and (let the old sulphurbrand of a Laird say what he liked) could not but walk with it,-if not as superior, if not as equal, then as inferior and lackey, better so than not at all. If we reflect now that this love of Excellence had not only such an evil nature to triumph over; but also what an education and social position withstood it and weighed it down, its innate strength, victorious over all these things, may astonish us. Consider what an inward impulse there must have been, how many mountains of impediment hurled aside, before the Scottish Laird could, as humble servant, embrace the knees (the bosom was not permitted him) of the English Dominie! "Your Scottish Laird," says an English naturalist of these days, “may be defined as the hungriest and vainest of all bipeds yet known." Boswell too was a Tory; of quite peculiarly feudal, genealogical, pragmatical temper, had

pointed (after the abolition of " hereditary jurisdiction") by royal authority, was wont, in dull pompous tone, to preface many a deliverance from the bench, with these words: "I, the first king's Sheriff in Scotland."

been nurtured in an atmosphere of Heraldry; | in Temple-lane, and indeed throughout their at the feet of a very Gamaliel in that kind; whole intercourse afterwards, were there not within bare walls, adorned only with pedigrees, chancellors and prime ministers enough; amid serving-men in threadbare livery; all graceful gentlemen, the glass of fashion; honthings teaching him, from birth upwards, to our-giving noblemen; dinner giving rich men; remember, that a Laird was a Laird. Perhaps renowned fire-eaters, swordsmen, gownsmen; there was a special vanity in his very blood: Quacks and Realities of all hues,-any one old Auchinleck had, if not the gay, tail-spread- of whom bulked much larger in the world's ing, peacock vanity of his son, no little of the eye than Johnson ever did? To any one of slow-stalking, contentious, hissing vanity of whom, by half that submissiveness and assi the gander; a still more fatal species. Scottish duity, our Bozzy might have recommended Advocates will yet tell you how the ancient himself; and sat there, the envy of surroundman, having chanced to be the first sheriff ap-ing lickspittles; pocketing now solid emolu. ment, swallowing now well-cooked viands and wines of rich vintage; in each case, also, shone on by some glittering reflex of Renown or Notoriety, so as to be the observed of innumerable observers. To no one of whom, And now behold the worthy Bozzy, so pre- however, though otherwise a most diligent possessed and held back by nature and by art, solicitor and purveyor, did he so attach himfly nevertheless like iron to its magnet, whither self: such vulgar courtierships were his paid his better genius called! You may surround drudgery, or leisure-amusement; the worship the iron and the magnet with what enclosures of Johnson was his grand, ideal, voluntary and encumbrances you please,-with wood, business. Does not the frothy-hearted yet with rubbish, with brass: it matters not, the enthusiastic man, doffing his Advocate's-wig, two feel each other, they struggle restlessly regularly take post, and hurry up to London, towards each other, they will be together. The for the sake of his Sage chiefly; as to a Feast iron may be a Scottish squirelet, full of gulosity of Tabernacles, the Sabbath of his whole year! and "gigmanity;" the magnet an English ple- The plate-licker and wine-bibber dives into beian, and moving rag-and-dust mountain, Bolt Court, to sip muddy coffee with a cynical coarse, proud, irascible, imperious: neverthe-old man, and a sour-tempered blind old woman less, behold how they embrace, and insepara- (feeling the cups, whether they are full, with bly cleave to one another! It is one of the her finger;) and patiently endured contradicstrangest phenomena of the past century, that tions without end; too happy so he may but at a time when the old reverent feeling of Dis- be allowed to listen and live. Nay, it does cipleship (such as brought men from far not appear that vulgar vanity could ever have countries, with rich gifts, and prostrate soul, been much flattered by Boswell's relation to to the feet of the Prophets) had passed utterly Johnson. Mr. Croker says, Johnson was, to away from men's practical experience, and the last, little regarded by the great world; was no longer surmised to exist, (as it does,) from which, for a vulgar vanity, all honour, as perennial, indestructible, in man's inmost heart, from its fountain, descends. Bozzy, even James Boswell should have been the in- among Johnson's friends and special admirers, dividual, of all others, predestined to recall it, seems rather to have been laughed at than in such singular guise, to the wondering, and, envied his officious, whisking, consequential for a long while, laughing, and unrecognising ways, the daily reproofs and rebuffs he underworld. It has been commonly said, The man's went, could gain from the world no golden, vulgar vanity was all that attached him to but only leaden, opinions. His devout DisJohnson; he delighted to be seen near him, to cipleship seemed nothing more than a mean be thought connected with him. Now let it be Spanielship, in the general eye. His mighty

ing out of vulgar vanity could well be absent from the mind of James Boswell, in this his intercourse with Johnson, or in any considerable transaction of his life. At the same time ask yourself: Whether such vanity, and nothing else, actuated him therein; whether this was the true essence and moving principle of the phenomenon, or not rather its outward vesture, and the accidental environment (and defacement) in which it came to light? The man was, by nature and habit, vain; a sycophantcoxcomb, be it granted: but had there been nothing more than vanity in him, was Samuel Johnson the man of men to whom he must attach himself? At the date when Johnson was a poor rusty-coated "scholar," dwelling

at once granted that no consideration spring-"constellation," or sun, round whom he, as satellite, observantly gyrated, was, for the mass of men, but a huge ill-snuffed tallow-light, and he a weak night-moth, circling foolishly, dangerously about it, not knowing what he wanted. If he enjoyed Highland dinners and toasts, as henchman to a new sort of chieftain, Henry Erskine, in the domestic "Outer-House," could hand him a shilling "for the sight of his Bear." Doubtless the man was laughed at, and often heard himself laughed at for his Johnsonism. To be envied, is the grand and sole aim of vulgar vanity; to be filled with good things is that of sensuality: for Johnson perhaps no man living envied poor Bozzy; and of good things (except himself paid for them) there was no vestige in that acquaintanceship. Had nothing other or better than vanity and sen suality been there, Johnson and Boswell had never come together, or had soon and finally separated again.

In fact, the so copious terrestrial Dross that

Q"What do you mean by respectable ?'-A. He always kept a gig."— (Thurtell's Trial.)-Thus," it has been said, "does society naturally divide itself into four classes: Noblemen, Gentlemen, Gigmen, and Men."

want of a Homer) by the first open soul that might offer,-looked such even through the organs of a Boswell. We do the man's intel lectual endowment great wrong, if we measure it by its mere logical outcome; though here, too, there is not wanting a light ingenuity, a figurativeness, and fanciful sport, with glimpses of insight far deeper than the common. But Boswell's grand intellectual talent was (as such ever is) an u¿conscious one, of far higher reach and significance than Logic; and showed itself in the whole, not in parts. Here again we have that old saying verified, "The heart sees farther than the head."

welters chaotically, as the outer sphere of this | sung; of a Thinker, not of a Fighter; and (for man's character, does but render for us more remarkable, more touching, the celestial spark of goodness, of light, and Reverence for Wisdom, which dwelt in the interior, and could struggle through such encumbrances, and in some degree illuminate and beautify them. There is much lying yet undeveloped in the love of Boswell for Johnson. A cheering proof, in a time which else utterly wanted and still wants such, that living Wisdom is quite infinitely precious to man, is the symbol of the Godlike to him, which even weak eyes may discern; that Loyalty, Discipleship, all that was ever meant by Hero-worship, lives perennially in the human bosom, and waits, even in these dead days, only for occasions to unfold it, and inspire all men with it, and again make the world alive! James Boswell we can regard as a practical witness (or real mar yr) to this high, everlasting truth. A wonderful martyr, if you will; and in a time which made such martyrdom doubly wonderful: yet the time and its martyr perhaps suited each other. For a decrepit, death-sick Era, when CANT had first decisively opened her poison-breathing lips to proclaim that God-worship and Mammon-worship were one and the same, that Life was a Lie, and the Earth Beelzebub's, which the Supreme Quack should inherit; and so all things were fallen into the yellow leaf, and fast hastening to noisome corruption: for such an Era, perhaps no better Prophet than a particoloured Zany-Prophet, concealing (from himself and others) his prophetic significance in such unexpected vestures,-was deserved, or would have been in place. A precious medieine lay hidden in floods of coarsest, most composite treacle: the world swallowed the treacle, for it suited the world's palate; and now, after half a century, may the medicine also begin to show itself! James Boswell belonged, in his corruptible part, to the lowest classes of mankind; a foolish, inflated creature, swimming in an element of self-conceit: but in his corruptible there dwelt an incorruptible, all the more impressive and indubitable for the trange lodging it had taken.

Thus does poor Bozzy stand out to us as an ill-assorted, glaring mixture of the highest and the lowest. What, indeed, is man's life generally but a kind of beast-godhood; the god in us triumphing more and more over the beast; striving more and more to subdue it under his feet? Did not the Ancients, in their wise, perennially significant way, figure Nature itself, their sacred All, or PAN, as a portentous commingling of these two discords; as musical, humane, oracular in its upper part, yet ending below in the cloven hairy feet of a goat? The union of melodious, celestial Freewill and Reason, with foul Irrationality and Lust; in which, nevertheless, dwelt a mysterious unspeakable Fear and half-mad pic Awe; as for mortals there well might! And is not man a microcosm, or epitomized mirror of that same Universe; or, rather, is not that Universe even Himself, the reflex of his own fearful and wonderful being, "the waste fantasy of his own dream?" No wonder that man, that each man, and James Boswell like the others, should resemble it! The peculiarity in his case was the unusual defect of amalgamation and subordination: the highest lay side by side with the lowest; not morally combined with it and spiritually transfiguring it; but tumbling in half-mechanical juxtaposition with it, and from time to time, as the mad alternation chanced, irradiating it, or eclipsed by it.

The world, as we said, has been but unjust to him; discerning only the outer terrestrial and often sordid mass; without eye, as it generally is, for his inner divine secret; and thus figuring him nowise as a god Pan, but simply of the bestial species, like the cattle on a thousand hills. Nay, sometimes a strange enough hypothesis has been started of him; as if it were in virtue even of these same bad qualities that he did his good work; as if it were the very fact of his being among the worst men in this world that had enabled him to write one of the best books therein! Falser hypothesis, we may venture to say, never rose in human soul. Bad is by its nature negative, and can do nothing; whatsoever enables us to do any thing is by its very nature good. Alas, that there should be teachers in Israel, or even learners, to whom this world-ancient fact is still problematical, or even deniable! Bos well wrote a good Book because he had a heart and an eye to discern Wisdom, and an utterance to render it forth; because of his free insight, his lively talent, above all, of his Love

Consider, too, with what force, diligence, and aci, he has rendered back, all this which, in Johnson's neighbourhood, his "open sense" had so eagerly and freely taken in. That loose-flowing, careless-looking Work of his is as a picture by one of Nature's own Artists; the best possible resemblance of a Reality; like the very image thereof in a clear mirror. Which indeed it was: let but the mirror be clear, this is the great point; the picture must and will be genuine. How the babbling Bozzy, inspired only by love, and the recognition and vision which love can lend, epitomizes nightly the words of Wisdom, the deeds and aspects of Wisdom, and so, by little and little, unconsciously works together for us a whole Johnsoniad; a more free, perfect, sunlit, and spirit-speaking likeness, than for many centuries had been drawn by man of man! Scarcely since the days of Homer has the feat been equalled: indeed, in many senses, this also is a kind of Heroic Poem. The fit Odyssey of our unheroic age was to be written, not

and childlike Open-mindedness. His sneaking | enlightenment of the thinking power) can be sycophancies, his greediness and forwardness, found in twenty other works of that time, which whatever was bestial and earthy in him, are make but a quite secondary impression on us. so many blemishes in his Book, which still The other works of that time, however, fall disturb us in its clearness: wholly hindrances, under one of two classes: Either they are pronot helps. Towards Johnson, however, his fessedly Didactic; and, in that way, mere Abfeeling was not Sycophancy, which is the low-stractions, Philosophic Diagrams, incapable est, but Reverence, which is the highest of of interesting us much otherwise than as human feelings. None but a reverent man Euclid's Elements may do: Or else, with all (which so unspeakably few are) could have their vivacity, and pictorial richness of colour, found his way from Boswell's environment to they are Fictions and not Realities. Deep, truly, Johnson's: if such worship for real God-made as Herr Sauerteig urges, is the force of this superiors showed itself also as worship for consideration: The thing here stated is a fact; apparent Tailor-made superiors, even as hol- these figures, that local habitation, are not low, interested mouth-worship for such, the shadow but substance. In virtue of such adcase, in this composite human nature of ours, vantages, see how a very Boswell may become was not miraculous, the more was the pity! Poetical! But for ourselves, let every one of us cling to this last article of Faith, and know it as the beginning of all knowledge worth the name: That neither James Boswell's good Book, nor any other good thing, in any time or in any place, was, is, or can be performed by any man in virtue of his badness, but always and solely in spite thereof.

Critics insist much on the Poet that he should communicate an "Infinitude" to his delineation; that by intensity of conception, by that gift of "transcendental Thought," which is fitly named genius, and inspiration, he should inform the Finite with a certain Infinitude of significance; or as they sometimes say, ennoble the Actual into Idealness. They are As for the Book itself, questionless the uni- right in their precept; they mean rightly. But versal favour entertained for it is well merited. in cases like this of the Johnsoniad, (such is In worth as a Book we have rated it beyond the dark grandeur of that "Time-element," any other product of the eighteenth century: wherein man's soul here below lives impriall Johnson's own Writings, laborious and in soned,) the Poet's task is, as it were, done to their kind genuine above most, stand on a his hand: Time itself, which is the outer veil quite inferior level to it; already, indeed, they of Eternity, invests, of its own accord, with an are becoming obsolete for this generation; and authentic, felt “infinitude,” whatsoever it has for some future generation, may be valuable once embraced in its mysterious folds. Conchiefly as Prolegomena and expository Scholia sider all that lies in that one word, Pest! to this Johnsoniad of Boswell. Which of us What a pathetic, sacred, in every sense poetic, but remembers, as one of the sunny spots in meaning is implied in it; a meaning growing his existence, the day when he opened these ever the clearer, the farther we recede in Time, airy volumes, fascinating him by a true natural--the more of that same Past we have to look magic! It was as if the curtains of the Past through!-On which ground indeed must were drawn aside, and we looked mysteriously Sauerteig have built, and not without plausiinto a kindred country, where dwelt our bility, in that strange thesis of his: “that HisFathers; inexpressibly dear to us, but which tory after all is the true Poetry; that Reality had seemed for ever hidden from our eyes. if rightly interpreted is grander than Fiction; For the dead Night had engulfed it; all was nay, that even in the right interpretation of gone, vanished as if it had not been. Never- Reality and History does genuine Poetry contheless, wondrously given back to us, there sist." once more it lay; all bright, lucid, blooming; a little island of Creation amid the circumambient Void. There it still lies; like a thing stationary, imperishable, over which changeful Time were now accumulating itself in vain, and could not, any longer, harm it, or

hide it.

If we examine by what charm it is that men are still held to this Life of Johnson, now when so much else has been forgotten, the main part of the answer will perhaps be found in that speculation "on the import of Reality," communicated to the world, last Month, in this Magazine. The Johnsoniad of Boswell turns on objects that in very deed existed; it is all true. So far other in melodiousness of tone, it vies with the Odyssey or surpasses it, in this one point: to us these read pages, as those chanted hexameters were to the first Greek heroes, are in the fullest, deepest sense, wholly credible. All the wit and wisdom, ang embalmed in Boswell's Book, plenteous as these are, could not have saved it. Far more scientific instruction (mere excitement and

Thus for Eoswell's Life of Johnson has Time done, is Time still doing, what no ornament of Art or Artifice could have done for it. Rough Samuel and sleek wheedling James were, and are not. Their Life and whole personal Environment has melted into air. The Mitre Tavern still stands in Fleet Street: but where now is its scot-and-lot paying, beef-and-ale loving, cocked-hatted, potbellied Landlord; its rosy-faced, assiduous Landlady, with all her shining brass-pans, waxed tables, well-filled larder-shelves; her cooks, and bootjacks, and errand-boys, and watery-mouthed hangers-on? Gone! Gone! The becking waiter, that with wreathed smiles, wont to spread for Samuel and Bozzy their "supper of the gods," has long since pocketed his last sixpence; and vanished, sixpences and all, like a ghost at cock crowing. The Bottles they drank out of are all broken, the Chairs they sat on all rotted and burnt; the very Knives and Forks they ate with have rusted to the heart, and become brown oxide of iron, and mingled with the indiscriminate clay. All, all, has vanished; in

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