Chapter IV (3)

Mrs. Hyde must let her brother teach (dancing), for
“Hurlothrumbo,” as the matter stands, will hardly be quitted while
it brings a house, and consequently more money, into the author’s
pocket, than his teaching would do of a long time.

The play was afterwards published with a dedication to Lady Delves, and an address to Lord Walpole. The former, while remarkable for its extravagant panegyrism, is interesting from its reference to many of the local female celebrities of the time. It is as follows:—

To the Right Honourable the Lady Delves.

Madam,—When I think of your goodness, it gives me encouragement
to put my play under your grand protection; and if you can
find anything in it worthy of your Praise, I am sure the
_super-naturals_ will like it. I do not flatter when I say your
taste is universal, great as an Empress, sweet and refined as Lady
_Malpas_, sublime as Lady _Mary Cowper_, learned and complete
as Lady _Conway_, distinguished and clear as Mrs. _Madan_, gay,
good, and innocent as Lady _Bland_. I have often thought you
were a compound of the world’s favourites—that all meet and
rejoice together in one: the taste of a _Montague_, _Wharton_, or
Meredith, Stanhope, Sneid, or Byrom; the integrity and hospitality
of _Leigh_ of _Lime_, the wit and fire of _Bunbury_, the sense of
an Egerton, fervent to serve as _Beresford_ or _Mildmay_, beloved
like _Gower_. If you was his rival, you’d weaken the strength of
that most powerful subject. I hope your eternal unisons in heaven
will always sing to keep up the harmony in your soul, that is
musical as Mrs. Leigh, and never ceases to delight; raises us in
raptures like _Amante Shosa_, _Lord Essex_, or the sun. If every
pore in every body in Cheshire was a mouth they would all cry out
aloud, _God save the Lady Delves!_ That illuminates the minds of
mortals, inspires with Musick and Poetry especially.

Your most humble servant, LORD FLAME.

The prologue was written by Mr. Amos Meredith, of Henbury, near Macclesfield, and, at the urgent request of its author, Byrom was induced to write the epilogue. Johnson’s subsequent career was marked by many whims and oddities, and even death was not permitted to terminate his eccentricity, his very grave being made to commemorate it for the amusement or pity of future generations. As we have previously stated, he is buried in a small plantation of firs near the road, and a short distance from the New Hall, in accordance with a request he had made to the owner in his life-time. His remains are covered by a plain brick tomb, now much dilapidated, on the uppermost slab of which is the following inscription:—

Under this stone
Rest the remains of Mr. SAMUEL JOHNSON,
Afterwards ennobled with the grander Title of
LORD FLAME,
Who, after being in his life distinct from other Men
By the Eccentricities of his Genius,
Chose to retain the same character after his Death,
and was, at his own Desire, buried here, May 5th,
A.D. MDCCLXXIII., Aged 82.
Stay thou whom Chance directs, or Ease persuades,
To seek the Quiet of these Sylvan shades,
Here undisturbed and hid from Vulgar Eyes,
A Wit, Musician, Poet, Player, lies
A Dancing Master too, in Grace he shone,
And all the arts of Opera were his own;
In Comedy well skill’d, he drew Lord Flame,
Acted the Part, and gain’d himself the Name;
Averse to Strife, how oft he’d gravely say
These peaceful Groves should shade his breathless clay;
That when he rose again, laid here alone,
No friend and he should quarrel for a Bone;
Thinking that were some old lame Gossip nigh,
She possibly might take his Leg or Thigh.

On the west side of his tomb a flat stone has been placed in later years, on which some rhyming moralist has sought to improve on his character, in a religious point of view, in a lengthy inscription which says more for the writer’s sense of piety than his regard for prosody:—

If chance hath brought thee here, or curious eyes,
To see the spot where this poor jester lies,
A thoughtless jester even in his death,
Uttering his jibes beyond his latest breath;
O stranger, pause a moment, pause and say:
“To-morrow should’st thou quit thy house of clay,
Where wilt thou be, my soul?—in paradise?
Or where the rich man lifted up his eyes?”
Immortal spirit would’st thou then be blest,
Waiting thy perfect bliss on Abraham’s breast;
Boast not of silly art, or wit, or fame,
Be thou ambitious of a Christian’s name;
Seek not thy body’s rest in peaceful grove,
Pray that thy soul may rest in Jesus’ love.
O speak not lightly of that dreadful day,
When all must rise in joy or in dismay;
When spirits pure in body glorified
With Christ in heavenly mansions shall abide,
While wicked souls shall hear the Judge’s doom—
“Go ye accursed into endless gloom,”
Look on that stone and this, and ponder well:
Then choose ’twixt life and death, ’twixt
Heaven and Hell.

Poor Johnson! His last whim has been gratified: his “breathless clay” reposes beneath the “sylvan shade” that in life he so much delighted in. The thrush and the blackbird sing their orisons and vespers there; the fresh and fragrant breeze sweeps by; and the nodding trees that rustle overhead cast a verdant gloom around, that is brightened only where the warm sunlight steals through the intricacy of leaves and dapples the sward with touches of golden light. May no rude or irreverent hand disturb his resting-place, or “old lame gossip” share his sepulchre.