it special circumstances, and having no
connection with any particular play. Boswell describes it as
"unrivalled for just and manly criticism on the whole range of the
English stage, as well as for poetic excellence," and records that it
was during the season often called for by the audience. Johnson's
prologue to his friend Goldsmith's comedy of "The Good-natured Man"
was certainly open to the charge brought against it of undue
solemnity. The first lines--

Press'd with the load of life the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of human kind--

when enunciated in the sepulchral tones of Bensley, the tragedian,
were judged to have a depressing effect upon the audience--a
conclusion which seems reasonable and probable enough, although
Boswell suggested that "the dark ground might make Goldsmith's humour
shine the more." Goldsmith himself was chiefly disturbed at the line
describing him as "our little bard," which he thought likely to
diminish his dignity, by calling attention to the lowness of his
stature. "Little bard" was therefore altered to "anxious bard."
Johnson also supplied a prologue to Kelly's posthumous comedy of "A
Word to the Wise" (represented in 1770, for the benefit of the
author's widow and children), although he spoke contemptuously of the
departed dramatist as "a dead staymaker," and confessed that he hated
to give away literary performances, or even to sell them too cheaply.
"The next generation," he said, "shall not accuse me of beating down
the price of literature; one hates, besides, to give what one is
accustomed to sell. Would not you, now"--and here he turned to his
brewer friend, Mr. Thrale--"rather give away money than porter?" To
his own tragedy of "Irene," Johnson supplied a spirited prologue,
which "awed" the house, as Boswell believed. In the concluding lines
he deprecated all effort to win applause by other than legitimate
means:

Be this at least his praise, be this his pride:
To force applause no modern arts are tried;
Should partial catcalls all his hopes confound,
He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound;
Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit,
He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit;
No snares to captivate the judgment spreads,
Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.
Unmoved, though witlings sneer and rivals rail,
Studious to please, yet not ashamed to fail.
He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain;
With