thing better, and for the realization of that tion and circumstances to higher ideas of what is really worth straining for in life, he will continue to fall far behind the genteel poor in these respects.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

To the Editor of the Literary Gazette.

gross

fed, and coarsely clad; conscious of his powers, and brooding over their niggardly re

The death of the unhappy, self-willed

SIR,-In the volume just issued of the ward, Johnson passed five more years of illnew edition of the " Encyclopedia Britan- requited mental toil. nica," appears a Memoir of Doctor Johnson, written by Mr. Macaulay, in such a palpable Richard Savage once more awakened his spirit of depreciation, and with such best powers. They had been companions caricature, that I am induced, as a labor of in misery; they had walked together the love, to trespass somewhat largely upon your dark, deserted streets,space, with the view of rescuing his memory "Misfortunes, like the owl, avoid the light, from what I consider a great injustice. The sons of care are always sons of night," If the world would behold a lofty intellect -hungry, houseless, and penniless; vowing, in a low estate; religious faith firm amidst in their pauper-patriotism, to" stand by their severe trials, and independence of character country!" Though Savage was a profligate, and integrity of principle that no temptation and Johnson the reverse, the brilliant wit, could compromise, no necessity overcome; engaging manners, and unmerited misfortunes self-respect proudly repelling scorn, and en- of Savage had made Johnson his friend. No durance too haughty to complain; a heart wonder, then, that he should remember him that never conceived an untruth, and a tongue with affection and regret. that never told one; deep love and devotion to God, and great benevolence to man ;-if the world would behold a picture so illustrious, let it turn to the honorable and honored life of Samuel Johnson.

With his once noble features seamed and scarred, and his herculean frame convulsed and shaken by an hereditary and a cruel disease; with a constitutional morbid melancholy that ever kept him trembling on the verge of insanity, and a perpetual dread of sinking at last into that most terrible of all human maladies; with a defective sight, an awkward address, and miserably poor; in those evil days when

“Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail." were the scholar's patrimony and the poet's reward, was Samuel Johnson, at two-andtwenty, cast upon this harsh world.

His "Life of Savage," though occasionally touching with a too tender hand vices that deserve unqualified condemnation, glossing over others, and magnifying into virtues small acts of impulsive benevolence, is on the whole a striking picture of the man in whom right and wrong, good and evil were so singularly combined.

In 1749 he published "The Vanity of Human Wishes." In sonorous and stately verse the satirist shows that nothing man can acquire here is worth his coveting; so fleeting is earthly happiness, so ephemeral is human fame! Yet he leaves him not in despair. His prophetic pen points heavenward, where "celestial wisdom," her peace here, and her reward hereafter, are only to be found. Sir Walter Scott declared that he never rose from the perusal of those two grand poems, "London" and "The Vanity of Human Wishes," without feeling his mind refreshed and invigorated.

As usher of a grammar school, humble dependent in the house of a country gentleman, schoolmaster of three scholars, and bookseller's hack, he passed the first seven years of his literary life. It was not until 1738 that he became favorably known to the public as an author. The May of that auspicious year for his future fame saw the publication of his "London." The success of this noble poem was instantaneous and com- million : plete. Pope warmly praised it, and gener-Cold approbation gave the lingering bays; ously did his best to serve the obscure au- For those who durst not censure, scarce could thor, but failed in the attempt. praise."

The representation of Irene at Drury Lane Theatre, under the management of his old pupil, David Garrick, soon followed. Its just sentiments, beautiful imagery, and vigorous language, did not atone for its want of dramatic interest and stage effect. It was written on too classical a model to please the

Still doomed to task his over-wrought brain to keep the bailiffs from his person and the wolf from his door; meanly lodged, poorly

It was played nine nights to frigid audiences, and then withdrawn. It is the only work of Johnson that ever brought him more

money than fame. It produced him three | "The Idler" appeared in 1758, and then hundred pounds. "Rasselas." A sacred duty (he had lost his mother at the age of ninety, and had to pay the expense of her funeral) impelled him to write the latter. Never did the poet's function assume a more sublime aspect, nor a holier purpose awake his inspiration. What a paradise of good spirits was his chamber, made desolate by the loss of her whom he most loved! What a heaven of ministering angels assisting, encouraging, and crowning his labors! Where was the imputed meanness of poverty at that august hour? With such celestial visitants it was an ennobling privilege to be poor! Non omnis moriar! Poverty had wrung from him "London," "The Vanity of Human Wishes," and "The Rambler," and another bright emanation was about to appear, inspired by a nobler motive, filial piety. Non omnis moriar! Beyond the gates of death are the portals of immortality.

"The Rambler" was his next publication. By the judicious few its eloquent and heartstirring lessons of virtue and wisdom, and its occasional flashes of wit and humor, were greatly admired. In simplicity, elegance, variety, and in that exquisite faculty of portrait-painting, so peculiar to Addison, it falls short of The Spectator." But in grandeur of expression, depth of thought, and sublimity (always excepting the "Vision of Mirza"), it far excels that celebrated work. In a letter from Elizabeth Carter to Miss Highmore, dated April 23, 1752, in our possession, that most learned and excellent lady says: "I extremely honor the just indignation you express at the cold reception which has been given by a stupid, trifling, ungrateful world to The Rambler.' You may conclude, by my calling names in this courageous manner, that I am as zealous in the cause of this excellent paper as yourself. But we may both comfort ourselves that an author who has employed the noblest powers of genius and learning, the strongest force of understanding, the most beautiful ornaments of eloquence in the service of virtue and religion, can never sink into oblivion, however he may be at present too little regarded." How gloriously, and to the very letter, has this noble prophecy been fulfilled!

Johnson had now all but reached the summit "where fame's proud temple shines afar." He had been honored by his sovereign with an unexpected interview, and had received from him a compliment as graceful as it was just. The University of Oxford presented him with a Doctor's degree. The Royal Academy conferred upon him a Professorship, and with the public he was the observed of all observers; not, as his caricaturists say, for the eccentricity of his personal appearance and manners, but for the splendor of his talents and the dignity of his character. He, too, was the leading luminary of a literary club, that reckoned among its members Burke, Wyndham, Langton, Reynolds, Sir William Jones, Gibbon, Beauclerk, Goldsmith, and Garrick; where the "talk" might have rivalled those "wars of wit" that have made the “ 'Mermaid," the "Falcon," and the "Devil" (0, that Apollo room where Ben Jonson presided!) the taverns for all time; where, as Shakerly Marmion said—

Johnson, thanks to the unpatronized exertion of his powers, had established a lasting reputation. His writings had given "ardor to virtue and confidence to truth." However highly public expectation had been raised by his long-promised Dictionary, it was more than realized when that marvel of research, learning, and industry was given to the world. He was by universal acclamation placed at the head of lexicographers and critics. Lord Chesterfield might have been honored with the dedication had he in the first instance condescended to lend a helping hand to a man of genius struggling hard with adversity. But this mock Mecænas neglected the golden opportunity, and was indignantly spurned when, puff in hand, at the eleventh hour, he stooped to propitiate and in intellectual gladiatorship have comthe poor poet. Disappointed and discon-pared with those "combats of the tongue certed, the supercilious peer returned to his that have immortalized Will's and Button's. vanities, his pimp, his parasite, and his Such an association of intellect, where player. worldly distinctions are unknown, where

"The boon Delphic God
Drinks sack and keeps his Bacchanalia,
And has his incense and his altars smoking,
And speaks in sparkling prophecies ;”

rank lays down its state, and genius forgets and wishes, he made several pleasant provinthe inequalities of fortune, is a degree of cial tours, and once he paid with them a visit human happiness not often attained. to Paris.

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Literature, that found Johnson poor, had kept him so. What owed he to the world that owed him so much? For "London," ten guineas; for "The Vanity of Human Wishes," fifteen; for the " Dictionary," had treasured up in his memory, his extenfifteen hundred guineas; for "Irene," three hundred pounds; for "Rasselas," one hundred pounds; some large (?) subscriptions "for his promised edition of Shakspeare; a few pounds for the "Life of Savage; " and for "The Rambler" as many shillings as the publisher could afford him out of not quite one thousand weekly twopences for two unthankful years; sums that had but barely provided for the day that was passing! In the year 1762, his invaluable contributions to literature were tardily rewarded with a pension of three hundred a year.

It was during this green and sunny interval of Johnson's drudging, dreary life, that he produced his crowning work, the "Lives of the Poets." The curious anecdotes that he

His long delayed edition of Shakspeare at length appeared, provoked, as it is goodnaturedly said, by the sarcastic question of Churchill

"He for subscribers baits his hook,

And takes their cash-but where's the book?" It certainly" added nothing to the fame of his abilities and learning." The preface, however, is ample and luminous. It says nearly all that can be said of Shakspeare. It is the rich mine whence succeeding editors have extracted their critical gold, and is one of the finest specimens of prose writing in any language.

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sive and multifarious reading, the biographical and analytical turn of his mind, his love of comparative criticism, and his profound knowledge of human character, well qualified him for the arduous task. He undertook it readily, and performed it con amore. His time was his own. He had no pecuniary or domestic anxieties. He was neither burried nor harassed. Easy writing," said Sheridan, "is deuced hard reading." Upon this work Johnson bestowed his best pains. He selected every word (and always the right one) with critical care, and elaborated every sentence into force and clearness. We have good evidence of this, for the printer's proof-sheets of the majority of the Lives, with many hundred corrections and additions in Johnson's autograph (precious relics!) are now before us. Among "flowers of all hues," it is difficult to select one of more grace and beauty than another. The ingenious and original analysis of Cowley, and the fine comparison between Dryden and Pope, are among the very choicest in the garland.

The death of Thrale threw Johnson back again on his solitude and resources. The wealthy, weak-minded widow began to look coldly upon him, and when he gently remonA still brighter day was now dawning upon strated, she was petulant and perverse. His him. In 1765 began that celebrated friend- rusty suit of sober brown, black worsted or ship between the Thrales and Johnson which cotton stockings, unbuttoned vest, ungartered continued uninterrupted for a period of about hose, unbuckled shoes, and uncombed Gorgon sixteen years. This friendship opened to him wig (which she was in continual fear he would an entirely new scene, that sweetest of social set fire to when he lighted himself to bed), sudamenities, an elegant, a hospitable, and happy denly became intolerable in her altered view of home. A liberal table, a handsome equipage, the philosopher. She had fallen in love with a well-selected library, pure air, and the one Piozzi, her daughter's Italian music maschoicest society, were now at his command. ter. This is the delicate dame whose olfac On both sides the advantages were reciprocal. tory nerves sickened at the savory aroma of The household at Streatham acquired a liter- roast goose (how feelingly did Johnson reary celebrity by the presence of Johnson, buke her fine ladyship's affectation!) beand entertained a succession of illustrious cause, forsooth, it scented the whole house! guests, drawn thither by the charms of his and could yet endure the breath of a foreign conversation, such as it had never seen before, fiddler, puffing into her too willing ear and such as England is not likely soon to see his amorous palaver! "It shakes the sides again. In the company of his kind friends, of splenetic disdain" to see the Fanfaron whose chief study was to anticipate his warts supplanting the Philosopher. A chapter read

"I should have died for shame,

To see my king before his subjects stand,
And at the bar hold up his royal hand.”

The travelling dress of Johnson during this journey was a large, loose horseman's coat, with huge buttons; high top boots, with long straps; quickset-hedge bushy wig, that comb and brush had seldom disturbed, but now carefully dressed and curled; a lowcrowned hat, with its broad sides turned up, and a club worthy of Caliban!

For writing this book he was abundantly abused by a clique of malignant dunces,— Sons of a day! just buoyant on the flood, Then number'd with the puppies in the mud." Among the enlightened many who greatly admired it was Lord Mansfield.

As a pamphleteer Johnson ranks comparatively low. His affluent and capacious mind stooped with an awkward grace to vulgar politics. In its foul waters he inconsiderately took a plunge; but

"He bears no tokens of the sabler streams,
And mounts far off among the swans of
Thames."

He did not, like Burke,

"To party give up what was meant for mankind."

Johnson's journey to the Western Islands" of Scotland, in the autumn of 1773, with Boswell, produced his celebrated book upon that subject. He described accurately and vividly what he saw. Naked craggy rocks, watery wastes, black moors, boiling torrents pouring down the steep sides of lofty hills, bogs, mists, wild scenery, and a people as wild! He beheld beauty and refinement, partook of elegant hospitality, joined in pleasant talk, and was welcomed with national dances, music, and songs, amidst mountain solitudes, beating billows, and the howling storm. He explored venerable abbeys that time had gently touched with a sublimer beauty; stood reflective and sad before sacred His sermons-cold, moral manuals, as the ruins charred and blackened by the fiery common cant of Puritanism would call them torch of the destroyer; visited the lonely-may be read with instruction. He never cemeteries of the ancient Scottish kings; and hurled anathemas, he never blurted jests at mourned over the desecrated monuments of the Romish Church. His own religion saints and warriors, marble altars ignominiously thrown down, and chapels converted into cowhouses! He slept in a fine bed beneath which purled a miry puddle. He entered a cottage where a witch's-like cauldron hung over a blazing peat fire, the thick smoke from which wreathed through a hole in the roof, and saw a Highland ogress, black as Lungs in The Alchemist making ether, stirring up the boiling broth! He counted but few chimneys, and still fewer trees. He described not, as fertile, a patch of land where an ear of corn never ripened and a blade of grass never grew; he mistook not illiberal sectarianism and shallow pedantry for religion and learning; nor (even "in the dark!") an air profusely impregnated with physical abominations for the fragrance of orange groves. He approved not, for civility's sake, the murder of an archbishop, nor the sale of a king; nor did he palliate a bribe blackened by the smoke of treason.

whispered its warning against intolerance, and his heart taught him Christian charity. His translations and smaller poems are lively and elegant, and his prologues excellent. That celebrated one, spoken by Garrick at the opening of Drury-lane Theatre, 1747, is, after Pope's sublime one to Cato, the finest in our language.

"Haud imitatores servum pecus!" Johnson has a host of imitators, but none of them have caught even the manner, much less reached the matter of the master. Dinarbas, a so-called continuation of Rasselas (!!), is, perhaps, the most respectable failure. It has the nodosities of the oak without its strength, the contortions of the sibyl without her inspiration.

We may not penetrate the secret chamber, and exhibit Johnson in the solemn duty of adoration and prayer. His piety was deep and fervent; his love to God passionate and profound. His were the devout, humble