But, when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder (heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before th' Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.

The tithes, his parish freely paid, he took;
But never sued, or cursed with bell or book.
With patience bearing wrong, but offering none;
Since every man is free to lose his own.

The country churls, according to their kind
(Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind),
The less he sought his offerings, pinch'd the more,
And praised a priest contented to be poor.

Yet of his little he had some to spare,
To feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare;
For mortified he was to that degree,

A poorer than himself he would not see.

"True priests," he said, "and preachers of the word,
Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord;
Nothing was theirs; but all the public store;
Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor.
Who, should they steal, for want of his relief,
He judged himself accomplice with the thief."

Wide was his parish; not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house;
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succour the distress'd:
Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.

All this, the good old man perform'd alone,
Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none.
Nor durst he trust another with his care;
Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair,
To chaffer for preferment with his gold,
Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold;

But duly watch'd his flock, by night and day;
And from the prowling wolf redeem'd the prey:
And hungry sent the wily fox away.

The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd:
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.

His preaching much, but more his practice wrought
(A living sermon of the truths he taught;)
For this by rules severe his life he squared;
That all might see the doctrine which they heard:
For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest.
(The gold of heaven, who bear the God impress'd :)
For, when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.

The prelate for his holy life he prized;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised.
His Saviour came not with a gaudy show:
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,

These marks of church and churchmen he design'd,
And living taught, and dying left behind.
The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn:

In purple he was crucified, not born.

They who contend for place and high degree,
Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.

Not but he knew the signs of earthly power
Might well become Saint Peter's successor;
The holy father holds a double reign,

The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain. Such was the saint; who shone with every grace,

Reflecting, Moses like, his Maker's face.

God saw his image lively was express'd;

And his own work, as in creation bless'd.

The tempter saw him too with envious eye; And, as on Job, demanded leave to try.

He took the time when Richard was deposed,
And high and low with happy Harry closed.

This prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood:
Near though he was, yet not the next in blood.
Had Richard unconstrain'd resign'd the throne,
A king can give no more than is his own:
The title stood entail'd, had Richard had a son.

Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside,
Where all submitted, none the battle tried.
The senseless plea of right by providence
Was, by a flattering priest, invented since;
And lasts no longer than the present sway;
But justifies the next who comes in play.

The people's right remains; let those who dare Dispute their power, when they the judges are.

He join'd not in their choice, because he knew Worse might, and often did, from change ensue : Much to himself he thought; but little spoke; And, undeprived, his benefice forsook.

Now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretch'd: And like a primitive apostle preach'd.

Still cheerful; ever constant to his call;

By many follow'd; loved by most, admired by all,
With what he begg'd, his brethren he relieved,
And gave the charities himself received.
Gave, while he taught; and edified the more,
Because he shew'd, by proof, 'twas easy to be poor.

He went not with the crowd to see a shrine;
But fed us by the way with food divine.

In deference to his virtues, I forbear
To shew you what the rest in orders were:
This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright,

He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light.

353.-DR. JOHNSON'S DINNER TALK.

BOSWELL.

[MR. MACAULAY, in his Review of Boswell's Life of Johnson,' says, 'Homer is not more decidedly the first of heroic poets, Shakspere is not more decidedly the first of dramatists, Demosthenes is not more decidedly the first of orators, than Boswell is the first of biographers. * * * * Many of the greatest men that ever lived have written biography. Boswell was one of the smallest men that ever lived, and he has beaten them all." Undoubtedly Boswell was a vain man, a bore, a ridiculous man-without moral dignity, without any logical or poetical capacity—but he was not "one of the smallest men that ever lived.” That he accurately reported what he heard and saw of the eminent persons to whose society he was admitted, there can be no doubt. But the very interest of the record shows that he could discriminate. He did not put down all that he heard the conversation of six hours occupies only six pages;-he knew what was good in the talk of Johnson, and Goldsmith, and Reynolds, and Burke; and, what is better, he felt what was characteristic of the men; and these things make the charm of the book. This was talent, and an uncommon talent; and Jemmy Boswell, to whom we all owe so many hours of delight, must not be despised. Boswell was the son of Alexander Boswell, a Lord of Session; he was born in 1740; died 1795.]

On Tuesday, April 13, he and Dr. Goldsmith and I dined at General Oglethorpe's. Goldsmith expatiated on the commòn topic, that the race of our people was degenerated, and that this was owing to luxury. -JOHNSON. Sir, in the first place, I doubt the fact. I believe that there are as many tall men in England now as ever there were. But, secondly, supposing the stature of our people to be diminished, that is not owing to luxury; for, sir, consider to how very small a proportion of our people luxury can reach. Our soldiery, surely, are not luxurious, who live on sixpence a day; and the same remark will apply to almost all the other classes. Luxury, so far as it reaches the poor, will do good to the race of people; it will strengthen and multiply them. Sir, no nation was ever hurt by luxury; for, as I said before, it can reach but to a very few. I admit that the great increase of commerce and manufactures hurts the military spirit of a people; because it produces a competition for something else than martial honours—a competition for riches. It also hurts the bodies of the people; for you

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will observe, there is no man who works at any particular trade but you may know him from his appearance to do so. One part or other of his body being more used than the rest, he is in some degree deformed; but, sir, that is not luxury. A tailor sits cross-legged, but that is not luxury."-GOLDSMITH. "Come, you 're just going to the same place by another road."-JOHNSON. Nay, sir, I say that is not luxury. Let us take a walk from Charing Cross to Whitechapel, through, I suppose, the greatest series of shops in the world; what is there in any of these shops (if you except gin-shops) that can do any human being any harm?"-GOLDSMITH. Well, sir, I'll accept your challenge. The very next shop to Northumberland House is a pickleshop."JOHNSON. Well, sir; do we not know that a maid can, in one afternoon, make pickles sufficient to serve a whole family for a year? Nay, that five pickle-shops can serve all the kingdom? Besides, sir, there is no harm done to anybody by the making of pickles, or the eating of pickles."

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We drank tea with the ladies; and Goldsmith sung Tony Lumpkin's song in his comedy,' She Stoops to Conquer,' and a very pretty one, to an Irish tune, which he had designed for Miss Hardcastle; but as Mrs. Bulkeley, who played the part, could not sing, it was left out. He afterwards wrote it down for me, by which means it was preserved, and now appears amongst his poems. Dr. Johnson, in his way home, stopped at my lodgings in Piccadilly, and sat with me, drinking tea a second time, till a late hour.

I told him that Mrs. Macauley said, she wondered how he could reconcile his political principles with his moral: his notions of inequality and subordination with wishing well to the happiness of all mankind, who might live so agreeably had they all their portions of land, and none to domineer over another.—JOHNSON. Why, sir, I reconcile my principles very well, because mankind are happier in a state of inequality and subordination. Were they to be in this pretty state of equality, they would soon degenerate into brutes; they would become Monboddo's nation; their tails would grow. Sir, all would be losers, were all to work for all: they would have no intellectual improvement. All intellectual improvement arises from leisure; all leisure arises from one working for another."

On Thursday, April 15, I dined with him and Dr. Goldsmith at