1824,] 
took certain courtiers under her espe- 
cial protection; and it was craftily 
insinuated by one* of them, “ that the 
friends and relations of the king’s first 
wife (Anne duchess of York), as Ro- 
chester, Clarendon, Dartmouth, and 
others, were in greatest favour, and in 
possession of the best places ; while her 
friends, though she was queen consort, 
were but slenderly provided for; and 
her friends being reckoned to be Lord 
Sunderland, the Lord Chancellor, and, 
the Lord Churchill, they began to 
play their private batteries against 
each other.” 
DR: JOHNSON. 
The following anecdote of Dr. John- 
son, was related to me on the authority 
of Miss W—, of the South House, 
who was intimate with both Johnson 
and Mrs. Thrale. On a certain occa- 
sion, at. Mrs. Thrale’s, at Streatham, 
some new piece in verse, on Scotch 
scenery, was to be rehearsed and criti- 
cised. The whole literary coterie 
were assembled,—Jobnson at their 
head; but, unfortunately, he was in 
one of his irritable and intractable fits, 
and had slept none the preceding 
night. The reader had proceeded toa 
florid description of the river which 
flowed near the birth-place of Smollet, 
on which the poet thus sings— 
Not ’cause thou gav’st to Roderic Random 
birth,— 
Thy streams shall flow when partial Smol- 
let’s dead, 
The bard forgotten, and his works unread. 
. At the conclusion of this line, Johnson 
rose from his chair with a growl, re- 
peating aloud, and in rhime— 
This man had better been asleep in bed. 
The farther reading of the verses was 
instantly postponed to another oppor- 
tunity. 
This is an evidence, among many, of 
the extreme awe and respect in which 
Johnson was held, shall we say, after 
he had obtained his pension ; and of the 
extreme indulgence he experienced 
among his literary friends, or rather 
subjects, 
FRANCE. 
By restricting the liberty of the press, 
all the journals become official: accor- 
dingly all attacks on England, and 
other countries, must be considered to 
proceed from the government alone. 
The strects of Paris, with some few, 
* Lord Sunderland. 
Stephensiana, No. XXX. i 
45 
exceptions, are narrow, dirty, and. 
dangerous. 'The Seine is but little 
better than a dirty ditch. The gardens. 
and parks are in an unnatural, and’ 
therefore. a bad, taste. No small 
birds, for want of hedges. 
The summer and winter riding- 
schools of the Prince de Condé far 
exceed any conception of equestrian’ 
magnificence. 
England is a beautiful miniature. 
France is a full-length portrait. In 
the former, the mountains, the hills 
and dales, the vale and the champaigne 
country, exhibit small but beautiful 
features. In the latter, they are ex- 
tended into vastness and grandeur.—~ 
In England, a beautiful prospect is in- 
tercepted by a fence or a grove. In 
France, there is no hedge to hinder 
the view; and the trees which adorn 
the road are so thinly and so regularly 
scattered, that you can see the whole 
sylvan scenery between their boles. 
LORD HOLLAND. ' 
The following verses on this noble- 
man are said to have been written by 
Mr. Gray; Dr. Glynn dictated them to 
Cole at Milton in 1777. 
On secing the Seat of a Decayed Nobleman 
in Kent. 
Old, and abandon’d by its venal friend, 
Here Holland’ form’d the pious reso- 
lution, 
To smuggle some few years, and strive to 
mend 
A broken character and constitution. 
On this congenial spot he fix’d his choice, 
Earl Goodwin trembled for his neigh- 
bouring sand ; . 
Here sea-gulls scream, and cormorants 
rejoice, 
And mariners, tho’ shipwreck’d, dread 
to land. 
Here reign’d the blustering north and 
blighting east,— 
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing; 
Yet Nature cannot furnish out the feast, 
Art he invokes, new honours still to 
bring. 
Now mould’ring fanes and battlements 
arise, 
Arches and turrets nodding to their fall, 
Unpeopled palaces delude his eyes, 
And mimic desolation covers all. 
Ah! said the sighing peer, had Bute been 
true, 
Or Calcraft’s, Shelburne’s, 
friendship vain; 
Far other scenes than these had crown’d 
our view, 
And realiz’d the beauties which we feign. 
Purg’d 
Rigby’s, 
