Anecdotes of the late Samuel Johnson [38]
Boswell. The letters written in his journey, I used to tell him, were better than the printed book; and he was not displeased at my having taken the pains to copy them all over. Here is the Latin ode:--
"Permeo terras, ubi nuda rupes Saxeas miscet nebulis ruinas, Torva ubi rident steriles coloni Rura labores.
"Pervagor gentes, hominum ferorum Vita ubi nullo decorata cultu, Squallet informis, tigurique fumis Faeda latescit.
"Inter erroris salebrosa longi, Inter ignotae strepitus loquelae, Quot modis mecum, quid agat requiro Thralia dulcis?
"Seu viri curas pia nupta mulcet, Seu fovet mater sobolem benigna, Sive cum libris novitate pascit Sedula mentem:
"Sit memor nostri, fideique merces, Stet fides constans, meritoque blandum Thraliae discant resonare nomen Littora Skiae."
On another occasion I can boast verses from Dr. Johnson. As I went into his room the morning of my birthday once, and said to him, "Nobody sends me any verses now, because I am five-and-thirty years old, and Stella was fed with them till forty-six, I remember." My being just recovered from illness and confinement will account for the manner in which he burst out, suddenly, for so he did without the least previous hesitation whatsoever, and without having entertained the smallest intention towards it half a minute before:
"Oft in danger, yet alive, We are come to thirty-five; Long may better years arrive, Better years than thirty-five. Could philosophers contrive Life to stop at thirty-five, Time his hours should never drive O'er the bounds of thirty-five. High to soar, and deep to dive, Nature gives at thirty-five. Ladies, stock and tend your hive, Trifle not at thirty-five: For howe'er we boast and strive, Life declines from thirty-five. He that ever hopes to thrive Must begin by thirty-five; And all who wisely wish to wive Must look on Thrale at thirty-five."
"And now," said he, as I was writing them down, "you may see what it is to come for poetry to a dictionary-maker; you may observe that the rhymes run in alphabetical order exactly." And so they do.
Mr. Johnson did indeed possess an almost Tuscan power of improvisation. When he called to my daughter, who was consulting with a friend about a new gown and dressed hat she thought of wearing to an assembly, thus suddenly, while she hoped he was not listening to their conversation--
"Wear the gown and wear the hat, Snatch thy pleasures while they last; Hadst thou nine lives like a cat, Soon those nine lives would be past."
It is impossible to deny to such little sallies the power of the Florentines, who do not permit their verses to be ever written down, though they often deserve it, because, as they express it, Cosi se perde-rebbe la poca gloria.
As for translations, we used to make him sometimes run off with one or two in a good humour. He was praising this song of Metastasio:--
"Deh, se piacermi vuoi, Lascia i sospetti tuoi, Non mi turbar conquesto Molesto dubitar: Chi ciecamente crede, Impegna a serbar fede: Chi sempre inganno aspetta, Alletta ad ingannar."
"Should you like it in English," said he, "thus?"
"Would you hope to gain my heart, Bid your teasing doubts depart; He who blindly trusts, will find Faith from every generous mind: He who still expects deceit, Only teaches how to cheat."
Mr. Baretti coaxed him likewise one day at Streatham out of a translation of Emirena's speech to the false courtier Aquileius, and it is probably printed before now, as I think two or three people took copies; but perhaps it has slipped their memories.
"Ah! tu in corte invecchiasti, e giurerei Che fra i pochi non sei tenace ancora Dell' antica onesta:
"Permeo terras, ubi nuda rupes Saxeas miscet nebulis ruinas, Torva ubi rident steriles coloni Rura labores.
"Pervagor gentes, hominum ferorum Vita ubi nullo decorata cultu, Squallet informis, tigurique fumis Faeda latescit.
"Inter erroris salebrosa longi, Inter ignotae strepitus loquelae, Quot modis mecum, quid agat requiro Thralia dulcis?
"Seu viri curas pia nupta mulcet, Seu fovet mater sobolem benigna, Sive cum libris novitate pascit Sedula mentem:
"Sit memor nostri, fideique merces, Stet fides constans, meritoque blandum Thraliae discant resonare nomen Littora Skiae."
On another occasion I can boast verses from Dr. Johnson. As I went into his room the morning of my birthday once, and said to him, "Nobody sends me any verses now, because I am five-and-thirty years old, and Stella was fed with them till forty-six, I remember." My being just recovered from illness and confinement will account for the manner in which he burst out, suddenly, for so he did without the least previous hesitation whatsoever, and without having entertained the smallest intention towards it half a minute before:
"Oft in danger, yet alive, We are come to thirty-five; Long may better years arrive, Better years than thirty-five. Could philosophers contrive Life to stop at thirty-five, Time his hours should never drive O'er the bounds of thirty-five. High to soar, and deep to dive, Nature gives at thirty-five. Ladies, stock and tend your hive, Trifle not at thirty-five: For howe'er we boast and strive, Life declines from thirty-five. He that ever hopes to thrive Must begin by thirty-five; And all who wisely wish to wive Must look on Thrale at thirty-five."
"And now," said he, as I was writing them down, "you may see what it is to come for poetry to a dictionary-maker; you may observe that the rhymes run in alphabetical order exactly." And so they do.
Mr. Johnson did indeed possess an almost Tuscan power of improvisation. When he called to my daughter, who was consulting with a friend about a new gown and dressed hat she thought of wearing to an assembly, thus suddenly, while she hoped he was not listening to their conversation--
"Wear the gown and wear the hat, Snatch thy pleasures while they last; Hadst thou nine lives like a cat, Soon those nine lives would be past."
It is impossible to deny to such little sallies the power of the Florentines, who do not permit their verses to be ever written down, though they often deserve it, because, as they express it, Cosi se perde-rebbe la poca gloria.
As for translations, we used to make him sometimes run off with one or two in a good humour. He was praising this song of Metastasio:--
"Deh, se piacermi vuoi, Lascia i sospetti tuoi, Non mi turbar conquesto Molesto dubitar: Chi ciecamente crede, Impegna a serbar fede: Chi sempre inganno aspetta, Alletta ad ingannar."
"Should you like it in English," said he, "thus?"
"Would you hope to gain my heart, Bid your teasing doubts depart; He who blindly trusts, will find Faith from every generous mind: He who still expects deceit, Only teaches how to cheat."
Mr. Baretti coaxed him likewise one day at Streatham out of a translation of Emirena's speech to the false courtier Aquileius, and it is probably printed before now, as I think two or three people took copies; but perhaps it has slipped their memories.
"Ah! tu in corte invecchiasti, e giurerei Che fra i pochi non sei tenace ancora Dell' antica onesta: