Anecdotes of the late Samuel Johnson [16]
author published his poems in the year 1777: "Such a one's verses are come out," said I. "Yes," replied Johnson, "and this frost has struck them in again. Here are some lines I have written to ridicule them; but remember that I love the fellow dearly now, for all I laugh at him:--
"'Wheresoe'er I turn my view, All is strange, yet nothing new; Endless labour all along, Endless labour to be wrong; Phrase that Time has flung away; Uncouth words in disarray, Tricked in antique ruff and bonnet, Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.'"
When he parodied the verses of another eminent writer, it was done with more provocation, I believe, and with some merry malice. A serious translation of the same lines, which I think are from Euripides, may be found in Burney's "History of Music." Here are the burlesque ones:--
"Err shall they not, who resolute explore Time's gloomy backward with judicious eyes; And scanning right the practices of yore, Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise.
"They to the dome where smoke with curling play Announced the dinner to the regions round, Summoned the singer blithe, and harper gay, And aided wine with dulcet streaming sound.
"The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill, By quivering string, or modulated wind; Trumpet or lyre--to their harsh bosoms chill, Admission ne'er had sought, or could not find.
"Oh! send them to the sullen mansions dun, Her baleful eyes where Sorrow rolls around; Where gloom-enamoured Mischief loves to dwell, And Murder, all blood-boltered, schemes the wound.
"When cates luxuriant pile the spacious dish, And purple nectar glads the festive hour; The guest, without a want, without a wish, Can yield no room to Music's soothing power."
Some of the old legendary stories put in verse by modern writers provoked him to caricature them thus one day at Streatham; but they are already well known, I am sure.
"The tender infant, meek and mild, Fell down upon the stone; The nurse took up the squealing child, But still the child squealed on."
A famous ballad also, beginning 'Rio verde, Rio verde,' when I commended the translation of it, he said he could do it better himself--as thus:
"Glassy water, glassy water, Down whose current clear and strong, Chiefs confused in mutual slaughter, Moor and Christian roll along."
"But, sir," said I, "this is not ridiculous at all." "Why, no," replied he, "why should I always write ridiculously? Perhaps because I made these verses to imitate such a one," naming him:
"'Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life's evening grey; Strike thy bosom, sage! and tell What is bliss, and which the way?'
"Thus I spoke, and speaking sighed, Scarce repressed the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, 'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.'"
I could give another comical instance of caricatura imitation. Recollecting some day, when praising these verses of Lopez de Vega--
"Se acquien los leones vence, Vence una muger hermosa, O el de flaco averguence, O ella di ser mas furiosa,"
more than he thought they deserved, Mr. Johnson instantly observed "that they were founded on a trivial conceit, and that conceit ill-explained and ill-expressed besides. The lady, we all know, does not conquer in the same manner as the lion does. 'Tis a mere play of words," added he, "and you might as well say that
"'If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father.'"
And this humour is of the same sort with which he answered the friend who commended the following line:--
"Who rules o'er freemen should himself be free."
"To be sure," said Dr. Johnson--
"'Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat.'"
This
"'Wheresoe'er I turn my view, All is strange, yet nothing new; Endless labour all along, Endless labour to be wrong; Phrase that Time has flung away; Uncouth words in disarray, Tricked in antique ruff and bonnet, Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.'"
When he parodied the verses of another eminent writer, it was done with more provocation, I believe, and with some merry malice. A serious translation of the same lines, which I think are from Euripides, may be found in Burney's "History of Music." Here are the burlesque ones:--
"Err shall they not, who resolute explore Time's gloomy backward with judicious eyes; And scanning right the practices of yore, Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise.
"They to the dome where smoke with curling play Announced the dinner to the regions round, Summoned the singer blithe, and harper gay, And aided wine with dulcet streaming sound.
"The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill, By quivering string, or modulated wind; Trumpet or lyre--to their harsh bosoms chill, Admission ne'er had sought, or could not find.
"Oh! send them to the sullen mansions dun, Her baleful eyes where Sorrow rolls around; Where gloom-enamoured Mischief loves to dwell, And Murder, all blood-boltered, schemes the wound.
"When cates luxuriant pile the spacious dish, And purple nectar glads the festive hour; The guest, without a want, without a wish, Can yield no room to Music's soothing power."
Some of the old legendary stories put in verse by modern writers provoked him to caricature them thus one day at Streatham; but they are already well known, I am sure.
"The tender infant, meek and mild, Fell down upon the stone; The nurse took up the squealing child, But still the child squealed on."
A famous ballad also, beginning 'Rio verde, Rio verde,' when I commended the translation of it, he said he could do it better himself--as thus:
"Glassy water, glassy water, Down whose current clear and strong, Chiefs confused in mutual slaughter, Moor and Christian roll along."
"But, sir," said I, "this is not ridiculous at all." "Why, no," replied he, "why should I always write ridiculously? Perhaps because I made these verses to imitate such a one," naming him:
"'Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life's evening grey; Strike thy bosom, sage! and tell What is bliss, and which the way?'
"Thus I spoke, and speaking sighed, Scarce repressed the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, 'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.'"
I could give another comical instance of caricatura imitation. Recollecting some day, when praising these verses of Lopez de Vega--
"Se acquien los leones vence, Vence una muger hermosa, O el de flaco averguence, O ella di ser mas furiosa,"
more than he thought they deserved, Mr. Johnson instantly observed "that they were founded on a trivial conceit, and that conceit ill-explained and ill-expressed besides. The lady, we all know, does not conquer in the same manner as the lion does. 'Tis a mere play of words," added he, "and you might as well say that
"'If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father.'"
And this humour is of the same sort with which he answered the friend who commended the following line:--
"Who rules o'er freemen should himself be free."
"To be sure," said Dr. Johnson--
"'Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat.'"
This