with Pope's to the tragedy of Cato. The playhouse being now under
Garrick's direction, Johnson thought the opportunity fair to think of
his tragedy of Irene, which was his whole stock on his first arrival in
town, in the year 1737. That play was, accordingly, put into rehearsal
in January, 1749. As a precursor to prepare the way, and to awaken the
public attention, The Vanity of human Wishes, a poem in imitation of the
tenth satire of Juvenal, by the author of London, was published in the
same month. In the Gentleman's Magazine, for February, 1749, we find
that the tragedy of Irene was acted at Drury lane, on Monday, February
the 6th, and, from that time, without interruption, to Monday, February
the 20th, being in all thirteen nights. Since that time, it has not been
exhibited on any stage. Irene may be added to some other plays in our
language, which have lost their place in the theatre, but continue to
please in the closet. During the representation of this piece, Johnson
attended every night behind the scenes. Conceiving that his character,
as an author, required some ornament for his person, he chose, upon that
occasion, to decorate himself with a handsome waistcoat, and a gold-laced
hat. The late Mr. Topham Beauclerc, who had a great deal of that
humour, which pleases the more for seeming undesigned, used to give a
pleasant description of this green-room finery, as related by the author
himself; "But," said Johnson, with great gravity, "I soon laid aside my
gold-laced hat, lest it should make me proud." The amount of the three
benefit nights for the tragedy of Irene, it is to be feared, was not
very considerable, as the profit, that stimulating motive, never invited
the author to another dramatic attempt. Some years afterwards, when the
present writer was intimate with Garrick, and knew Johnson to be in
distress, he asked the manager, why he did not produce another tragedy
for his Lichfield friend? Garrick's answer was remarkable: "When Johnson
writes tragedy, 'declamation roars, and passion sleeps:' when
Shakespeare wrote, he dipped his pen in his own heart."

There may, perhaps, be a degree of sameness in this regular way of
tracing an author from one work to another, and the reader may feel the
effect of a tedious monotony; but, in the life of Johnson, there are no
other landmarks. He was now forty years old, and had mixed but little
with the world. He followed no profession, transacted no business, and
was a st