he deftroyed his own peace by unnecessary fcruples. He tells us, that when he furveyed his past life, he difcovered nothing but a barren waste of time, with fome diforders of body, and difturbances of mind, very near to madness. His life, he fays, from his earliest years, was wafted in a morning bed; and his reigning fin was a general fluggifhnefs, to which he was always inclined, and, in part of his life, almoft compelled, by morbid melancholy, and weariness of mind. This was his conftitutional malady, derived, perhaps, from his father, who was, at times, overcast with a gloom that bordered on infanity. When to this it is added, that Johnfon, about the age of twenty, drew up a description of his infirmities, for Dr. Swinfen, at that time an eminent phyfician in Staffordshire; and received an anfwer to his letter, importing, that the fymptoms indicated a future privation of reason; who can wonder that he was troubled with melancholy and dejection of fpirit? An apprehenfion of the worst calamity that can befal human nature hung over him all the rest of his life, like the fword of the tyrant fufpended over his gueft. In his fixtieth year he had a mind to write the history of his VOL. I. melan

f

melancholy; but he defifted, not knowing whether it would not too much difturb him. In a Latin poem, however, to which he has prefixed as a title, ΓΝΩΘΙ ΣΕΑΥΤΟΝ, he has left a picture of himself, drawn with as much truth, and as firm a hand, as can be seen in the portraits of Hogarth or Sir Joshua Reynolds. The learned reader will find the original poem in this volume, p. 178; and it is hoped, that a tranflation, or rather imitation, of fo curious a piece will not be improper in this place.

KNOW YOURSELF.

(AFTER REVISING AND ENLARGING THE ENGLISH LEXICON, OR DICTIONARY.)

When Scaliger, whole years of labour past,
Beheld his Lexicon complete at last,

And weary of his tafk, with wond'ring eyes,
Saw from words pil'd on words a fabric rise,
He curs'd the induftry, inertly strong,
In creeping toil that could perfift so long,
And if, enrag'd he cried, Heav'n meant to shed
Its keeneft vengeance on the guilty head,
The drudgery of words the damn'd would know,
Doom'd to write Lexicons in endlefs woe *.

*See Scaliger's Epigram on this fubject, communicated without doubt by Dr. Johnfon, Gent. Mag. 1748. p. S.

Yes,

Yes, you had caufe, great Genius to repent; "You loft good days, that might be better spent ;" You well might grudge the hours of ling'ring pain, And view your learned labours with difdain.

Το you were given the large expanded mind, The flame of genius, and the tafte refin'd. 'Twas yours on eagle wings aloft to foar, And amidst rolling worlds the Great First Cause explore;

To fix the æras of recorded time,

And live in ev'ry age and ev'ry clime;

Record the Chiefs, who propt their Country's caufe;
Who founded Empires, and establish'd Laws;
To learn whate'er the Sage with virtue fraught,
Whate'er the Mufe of moral wifdom taught.
Thefe were your quarry; thefe to you were known,
And the world's ample volume was your own.

Yet warn'd by me, ye pigmy Wits, beware,
Nor with immortal Scaliger compare.
For me, though his example ftrike my view,
Oh! not for me his footfteps to purfue.
Whether firft Nature, unpropitious, cold,
This clay compounded in a ruder mould;
Or the flow current, loit'ring at my heart,
No gleam of wit or fancy can impart;
Whate'er the caufe, from me no numbers flow,
No vifions warm me, and no raptures glow.

A mind like Scaliger's, fuperior ftill,

No grief could conquer, no misfortune chill.
Though for the maze of words his native fkies
He feem'd to quit, 'twas but again to rife;

To mount once more to the bright fource of day,
And view the wonders of th' ætherial way.

The love of Fame his gen'rous bofom fir'd;
Each Science hail'd him, and each Mufe infpir'd.
For him the Sons of Learning trimm'd the bays,
And Nations harmonious in his praise.

grew

My task perform'd, and all my labours o'er,
For me what lot has Fortune now in ftore ?
The liftless will fucceeds, that worst disease,
The rack of indolence, the fluggish ease.
Care grows on care, and o'er my aching brain
Black Melancholy pours her morbid train.
No kind relief, no lenitive at hand,

I feek at midnight clubs, the focial Band;
But midnight clubs, where wit with noife confpires,
Where Comus revels, and where wine inspires,
Delight no more: I feek my lonely bed,
And call on Sleep to footh my languid head.
But Sleep from these fad lids flies far away;
I mourn all night, and dread the coming day.
Exhaufted, tir'd, I throw my eyes around,
To find fome vacant fpot on claffic ground;
And foon, vain hope! I form a grand defign;
Languor fucceeds, and all my pow'rs decline.

If Science open not her richest vein,
Without materials all our toil is vain.

A form to rugged stone when Phidias gives,
Beneath his touch a new creation lives.
Remove his marble, and his genius dies;
With Nature then no breathing statue vies.

Whate'er I plan, I feel my pow'rs confin'd
By Fortune's frown and penury of mind.
I boast no knowledge glean'd with toil and ftrife,
That bright reward of a well-acted life.

I view myself, while Reafon's feeble light
Shoots a pale glimmer through the gloom of night,
While paffions, error, phantoms of the brain,
And vain opinions, fill the dark domain;
A dreary void, where fears with grief combin'd
Waste all within, and defolate the mind.

What then remains? Muft I in flow decline
To mute inglorious eafe old age refign?
Or, bold Ambition kindling in my breast,
Attempt fome arduous task? Or, were it beft
Brooding o'er Lexicons to pafs the day,
And in that labour drudge my life away?

Such is the picture for which Dr. Johnson fat to himself. He gives the prominent features of his character; his laffitude, his mor