CHARLES JOHNSON

WAS originally intended for the law, but that regulating the Drama was the only one he practisedHe was however entered of the Middle Temple, and as the reputation of a WIT in his day was conferred by a Coffee-House, so he never by a day's absence from Button's forfeited his pretensions.

WILKS, by some means or other, he made his friend, and thus secured an easy reception to his productions-he accordingly availed himself of this advantage, and in thirty years produced nineteen Plays, Tragedies and Comedies.-Of the first I know nothing; the latter are neither at the top nor the bottom of the list-One DRAMA alone comes within the present selection, and that has long been upon the shelf.

JOHNSON was little formed to struggle with active life-he loved the tavern comforts, and accordingly became the master of one in Bow-street, which at the demise of his wife he quitted for competence and

retirement.-Poor Johnson had none of Cæsar's dangerous marks about him-he was

"Sleekheaded, fat, and slept in peace o' nights."

POPE, as was his wont, for something or for nothing, dishonoured himself by abusing him-but the man was beloved by those of better nature, and the satire is forgotten.

COUNTRY LASSES.

THIS Comedy is busy, sprightly, and of course entertaining; its incidents however are borrowed palpably from MIDDLETON and FLETCHER.

There are two plots; one stolen from Aphra Behn, who had herself plundered "A Mad World my Masters;" the other was from "The Custom of the Country:" but it deserves infinitely more notice than the strange stuff by which Bickerstaff keeps possession of the stage; for it has character, incident, and in truth dialogue, extremely smart and whimsical.

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by a CHILD.

MAKE me to speak a prologue! Is he wild?
A prologue? Lord! are prologues for a child?
Such heathen words! so hard to bring 'em pat in!
The drama-Athens-God knows how much Latin!
Then if I should mistake a word, you know,
There's Mr. Wilks within would snub one so-
But I must do't.

Plays, like ambassadors, in form are shewn,
When first they've public audience of the town;
The prologue ceremoniously harangues,

And moves your pity for the author's pangs;
Acquaints you that he stands behind the scenes,
And trembles for the fondling of his brains.
Or with-Nay, if the poet peeps, I vow
He puts me clearly out-Or with a bow,

(I mean a curtsey) [Curtseying] beg the ladies' pity;
Or else in thread-bare jests affront the city;
Or gravely tell you what you knew before,
How Ben and Shakspere wrote in days of yore:
Then damn the critics first, that envious train,
Who, right or wrong, resolve to damn again.'
Our author seeks, like bards of-of-Oh! Greece,
To make his play and prologue of a piece;

He leads you to the rural scenes to prove
The country bargain still is love for love.
Oh, Covent-Garden! nursery of ills!

Fam'd for consumption both of wit-and pills:
Who would not quit thy walks, and vice in fashion,
The doubts and fears of mercenary passion,
For safe complying nymphs, unknowing sinners,
A feast of unbought love in cleanly pinners!
Hold-what comes next? [Looking on a paper.] I'l
never say't, in short-

We've bigger actresses are fitter for't

Lord, how you laugh! as 'twere some naughty joke.
Sure there's no wickedness in what I spoke.

How should I say such things, who never knew
What kissing meant, before I play'd Miss Prue?

B