The Works of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. in Nine Volumes, Volume 03. Samuel Johnson

emperor, who, enforcing his orders for the death of Sebastian, vents his impatience in this abrupt threat:

        —No more replies,

        But see thou dost it: Or—

      To which Dorax answers, Choak in that threat: I can say Or as loud.

      A thousand instances of such impropriety might be produced, were not one scene in Aureng-Zebe sufficient to exemplify it. Indamora, a captive queen, having Aureng-Zebe for her lover, employs Arimant, to whose charge she had been entrusted, and whom she had made sensible of her charms, to carry her message to his rival.

      ARIMANT, with a letter in his hand: INDAMORA.

        Arim. And I the messenger to him from you?

        Your empire you to tyranny pursue:

        You lay commands both cruel and unjust,

        To serve my rival, and betray my trust.

        Ind. You first betray'd your trust in loving me:

        And should not I my own advantage see?

        Serving my love, you may my friendship gain;

        You know the rest of your pretences vain.

        You must, my Arimant, you must be kind:

        'Tis in your nature, and your noble mind.

      Arim. I'll to the king, and straight my trust resign.

        Ind. His trust you may, but you shall never mine.

        Heaven made you love me for no other end,

        But to become my confidant and friend:

        As such, I keep no secret from your sight,

        And therefore make you judge how ill I write:

        Read it, and tell me freely then your mind,

        If 'tis indited, as I meant it, kind.

        Arim. I ask not heaven my freedom to restore—[Reading.

        But only for your sake—I'll read no more.

        And yet I must—

        Less for my own, than for your sorrow sad—[Reading.

        Another line like this, would make me mad—

        Heav'n! she goes on—yet more—and yet more kind!

                                                        [—As reading.

        Each sentence is a dagger to my mind.

        See me this night—[Reading.

        Thank fortune who did such a friend provide;

        For faithful Arimant shall be your guide.

        Not only to be made an instrument,

        But pre-engaged without my own consent!

        Ind. Unknown to engage you still augments my score,

        And gives you scope of meriting the more.

        Arim. The best of men

        Some int'rest in their actions must confess;

        None merit, but in hope they may possess:

        The fatal paper rather let me tear,

        Than, like Bellerophon, my own sentence hear.

        Ind. You may; but 'twill not be your best advice:

        'Twill only give me pains of writing twice.

        You know you must obey me, soon or late:

        Why should you vainly struggle with your fate?

        Arim. I thank thee, heav'n! thou hast been wondrous kind!

        Why am I thus to slavery design'd,

        And yet am cheated with a free-born mind!

        Or make thy orders with my reason suit,

        Or let me live by sense, a glorious brute—[She frowns.

        You frown, and I obey with speed, before

        That dreadful sentence comes, See me no more.

      In this scene, every circumstance concurs to turn tragedy to farce. The wild absurdity of the expedient; the contemptible subjection of the lover; the folly of obliging him to read the letter, only because it ought to have been concealed from him; the frequent interruptions of amorous impatience; the faint expostulations of a voluntary slave; the imperious haughtiness of a tyrant without power; the deep reflection of the yielding rebel upon fate and free-will; and his wise wish to lose his reason as soon as he finds himself about to do what he cannot persuade his reason to approve, are sufficient to awaken the most torpid risibility.

      There is scarce a tragedy of the last century which has not debased its most important incidents, and polluted its most serious interlocutions, with buffoonery and meanness; but though, perhaps, it cannot be pretended that the present age has added much to the force and efficacy of the drama, it has at least been able to escape many faults, which either ignorance had overlooked, or indulgence had licensed. The later tragedies, indeed, have faults of another kind, perhaps more destructive to delight, though less open to censure. That perpetual tumour of phrase with which every thought is now expressed by every personage, the paucity of adventures which regularity admits, and the unvaried equality of flowing dialogue, has taken away from our present writers almost all that dominion over the passions which was the boast of their predecessors. Yet they may at least claim this commendation, that they avoid gross faults, and that if they cannot often move terrour or pity, they are always careful not to provoke laughter.

      No. 126. SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1751

      —Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta. VET. AUCT.

      Sands form the mountain, moments make the year. YOUNG.

      TO THE RAMBLER.

      SIR,

      Among other topicks of conversation which your papers supply, I was lately engaged in a discussion of the character given by Tranquilla of her lover Venustulus, whom, notwithstanding the severity of his mistress, the greater number seemed inclined to acquit of unmanly or culpable timidity.

      One of the company remarked that prudence ought to be distinguished from fear; and that if Venustulus was afraid of nocturnal adventures, no man who considered how much every avenue of the town was infested with robbers could think him blameable; for why should life be hazarded without prospect of honour or advantage? Another was of opinion, that a brave man might be afraid of crossing the river in the calmest weather, and declared, that, for his part, while there were coaches and a bridge, he would never be seen tottering in a wooden case, out of which he might be thrown by any irregular agitation, or which might be overset by accident, or negligence, or by the force of a sudden gust, or the rush of a larger vessel. It was his custom, he said, to keep the security of daylight, and dry ground; for it was a maxim with him, that no wise man ever perished by water, or was lost in the dark.

      The next was humbly of opinion, that if Tranquilla had seen, like him, the cattle run roaring about the meadows in the hot months, she would not have thought meanly of her lover for not venturing his safety among them. His neighbour then told us, that for his part he was not ashamed to confess, that he could not see a rat, though it was dead, without palpitation; that he had been driven six times out of his lodgings either by rats or mice; and that he always had a bed in the closet for his servant, whom he called up whenever the enemy was in motion. Another wondered that any man should think himself disgraced by a precipitate retreat from a dog; for there was always a possibility that a