years since I read “Boswell’s Life of Johnson,” or “Johnson’s Poets,” it may be some mitigation of the censure I so justly deserve.  Yet I may be suffered to suggest to your correspondent, who has so kindly corrected me, that my paper was more in the suppository style than he seems to have imagined; and that I did not assert that Boswell, Savage, and Johnson, met at the latter’s “house in Bolt Court, and discussed subjects of polite literature.”  The expression used is, “We can imagine,” &c. constituting a creation of the fancy rather than a positive portraiture.  Certain it is that Johnson’s dwelling was in the neighbourhood of Temple Bar at the time of the nocturnal perambulation alluded to; and that it was Savage (to whom he was so unaccountably attached, in spite of the “bastard’s” frailties) who enticed the doctor from his bed to a midnight ramble.  My primary mistake consists in transposing the date of the doctor’s residence in Bolt Court, and introducing Savage at the era of Boswell’s acquaintance with Johnson; whereas the wayward poet finished his miserable existence in a prison, at Bristol, 21 years prior to that event.  Here I may be allowed a remark or two on the animadversion which has been heaped on Johnson for that beautiful piece of biography, “The Life of Richard Savage.”  It has hitherto been somewhat of a mystery that the stern critic whose strictures so severely exposed the minutest derelictions of genius in all other instances, should have adopted “the melting mood” in detailing the life of such a man as Savage; for, much as we may admire the concentrated smiles and tears of his two poems, “The Bastard,” and “The Wanderer,” pitying the fortunes and miseries of the author, yet his ungovernable temper and depraved propensities, which led to his embruing his hands in blood, his ingratitude to his patrons and benefactors, (but chiefly to Pope,) and his degraded misemployment of talents which might have raised him to the capital of the proud column of intellect of that day,—­all conduce to petrify the tear of mingled mercy and compassion, which the misfortunes of such a being might otherwise demand.  Nevertheless, as was lately observed by a respectable journal, “there must have been something good about him, or Samuel Johnson would not have loved him.”

**H.

* * * * *

DREAMS.

(For the Mirror.)

  We see our joyous home,
    Where the sapphire waters fall;
  The porch, with its lone gloom,
    The bright vines on its wall.

  The flow’rs, the brooks, and trees,
    Again are made our own,
  The woodlands rife with bees,
    And the curfew’s pensive tone.

  Peace to the marble brow,
    And the ringlets tinged dark,
  The heart is sleeping now
    In a still and holy ark!

  Sleep hath clos’d the soft blue eye,
    And unbound the silken tress
  Their dreams are of the sky,
    And pass’d is watchfulness.