His reputation is as great for compiling, digesting, and ascertaining the English language, as if he had invented it. His Grammar in the beginning of the work was the best in our language, in the opinion of Goldsmith. During the printing of his Dictionary, the "Ramblers came out periodically; for he could do more than one thing at a time. He declared that he wrote them by way of relief from his application to his Dictionary, and for the reward. He has told this writer, that he had no expectation they would have met with so much success, and been so much read and admired. What was amusement to him, is instruction to others. Goldsmith declared, that a system of morals might be drawn from these Essays: this idea is taken up and executed by a publication in an alphabetical series of moral maxims.

The "Rambler" is a great task for one person to accomplish, single-handed. For he was assisted only in two Essays by Richardson, two by Mrs. Carter, and one by Miss Talbot. His "Idlers" had more hands. The "World," the "Connoisseur," (the "Gray's Inn Journal" an exception,) the "Mirror," the "Adventurer," the "Old Maid," all had helpmates. The toilet as well as the shelf and table have these volumes, lately republished with decorations. Shenstone, his fellow collegian, calls his style a learned one. There is indeed too much Latin in his English. He seems to have caught the infectious language of Sir Thomas Brown, whose works he read, in order to write his life. Though it cannot be said, as Campbell did of his own last work, that there is not a hard word in it, yet he does not rattle through hard words and stalk through polysyllables, to use an expression of Addison, as in his earlier productions. His style, as he says of Pope, became smoothed by the scythe, and levelled by the roller. It pleased him to be told by Dr. Robertson, that he had read his Dictionary twice over. If he had some enemies beyond and even on this side of the Tweed, he had more friends. Only he preferred England to Scotland. As it is cowardly to insult a dead lion, it is hoped, that as death extinguishes envy, it also does ill-will: "for British vengeance wars not with the dead."

He gave himself very much to companionable friends for the last years of his life (for he was delivered from the daily labour of the pen, and he wanted relaxation), and they were eager for the advantage and reputation of his conversation. Therefore he frequently left his own home (for his household gods were not

numerous or splendid enough for the reception of his great acquaintance), and visited them both in town and country. This was particularly the case with Mr. and Mrs. Thrale (ex uno disce omnes), who were the most obliging and obliged of all within his intimacy, and to whom he was introduced by his friend Murphy. He lived with them a great part of every year. He formed at Streatham a room for a library, and increased by his recommendation the number of books. Here he was to be found (himself a library) when a friend called upon him; and by him the friend was sure to be introduced to the dinner-table, which Mrs. Thrale knew how to spread with the utmost plenty and elegance; and which was often adorned with such guests, that to dine there was, epulis accumbere divum. Of Mrs. Thrale, if mentioned at all, less cannot be said, than that in one of the latest opinions of Johnson, "if she was not the wisest woman in the world, she was undoubtedly one of the wittiest." She took or caused such care to be taken of him, during an illness of continuance, that Goldsmith told her, "he owed his recovery to her attention." She taught him to lay up something of his income every year. Besides a natural vivacity in conversation, she had reading enough, and the gods had made her poetical. “The Three Warnings

(the subject she owned not to be original) are highly interesting and serious, and literally come home to every body's breast and bosom. The writer of this would not be sorry if this mention could follow the lady to Venice. At Streatham, where our Philologer was also guide, philosopher, and friend, he passed much time. His inclinations here were consulted, and his will was a law. With this family he made excursions into Wales and to Brighthelmstone. Change of air and of place were grateful to him, for he loved vicissitude. But he could not long endure the illiteracy and rusticity of the country, for woods and groves, and hill and dale, were not his scenes:

"Tower'd cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men."

But the greatest honour of his life was from a visit that he received from a Great Personage in the Library of the Queen's palace-only it was not from a King of his own making. Johnson on his return repeated the conversation, which was much to the honour of the great person, and was as well supported as Lewis the XIVth could have continued with Voltaire. He said,

he only wanted to be more known, to be more loved. They parted, much pleased with each other. If it is not an impertinent stroke of this pen, it were to be wished that one more person had conveyed an enquiry about him during his last illness. "Every body has left their names, or wanted to know how I do," says he, "but "In his younger days he had a great many

enemies, of whom he was not afraid.

"Ask you what provocation I have had?

The strong antipathy of good to bad."

Churchill, the puissant satirist, challenged Johnson to combat : Satire the weapon. Johnson never took up the gauntlet or replied, for he thought it unbecoming him to defend himself against an author who might be resolved to have the last word. He was content to let his enemies feed upon him as long as they could. This writer has heard Churchill declare, that "he thought the poems of London,' and 'The Vanity of Human Wishes,' full of admirable verses, and that all his compositions were diamonds of the first water." But he wanted a subject for his pen and for raillery, and so introduced Pomposo into his descriptions. "For, with other wise folks, he sat up with the ghost." Our author, who had too implicit a confidence in human testimony, followed the newspaper invitation to Cock-lane, in order to detect the imposter, or, if it proved a being of an higher order, and appeared in a questionable shape, to talk with it. Posterity must be permitted to smile at the credulity of that period. Johnson had otherwise a vulnerable side; for he was one of the few Nonjurors that were left, and it was supposed he would never bow the knee to the Baal of Whiggism. This reign, which disdained proscription, began with granting pensions (without requiring their pens) to learned men.

Johnson was unconditionally offered one; but such a turn was given to it by the last mentioned satirical poet, that it might have made him angry or odious, or both. Says Churchill, amongst other passages very entertaining to a neutral reader,

"He damns the pension that he takes,

And loves the Stuart he forsakes."

Not so fast, great satirist for he had now no friends at Rome. In the sport of conversation, he would sometimes take the wrong side of a question, to try his hearers, or for his own exertions.

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But this may do mischief sometimes. "For," without aiming at ludicrous quotation, "he could dispute on both sides, and confute." Among those he could trust himself with, he would enter into imaginary combat with the whigs, and has now and then shook the principles of a sturdy revolutionist. All ingenious men can find arguments for and against every thing: and if their hearts are not good, they may do mischief with their heads. On all occasions he pressed his antagonist with so strong a front of argument, that he generally prevented his retreat. Every body," said an eminent detector of imposters, "must be cautious how they enter the lists with Dr. Johnson." He wrote many political tracts since his pension. Perhaps he would not have written at all, unless impelled by gratitude. But he wrote his genuine thoughts, and imagined himself contending on the right side. A great parliamentary character seems to resolve all his American notions into the vain expectation of rocking a man in the cradle of a child. Johnson recounted the number of his opponents with indifference. He wrote for that government which had been generous to him. He was too proud to call upon Lord Bute, or leave his name at his house, though he was told it would be agreeable to his Lordship, for he said he had performed the greater difficulty, for he had taken the pension.

The last popular work, to him an easy and a pleasing one, was the writing the lives of our poets, now reprinted in four octavo volumes. He finished this business so much to the satisfaction of the booksellers that they presented him a gratuity of one hundred pounds, having paid him three hundred pounds as his price. The Knaptons made Tindal a large present on the success of his translation of Rapin's history. But an unwritten space must be found for what Johnson did respecting Shakspeare. For the writer and reader observe a disorder of time in this page. He took so many years, to publish his edition, that his subscribers grew displeased and clamorous for their books, which he might have prevented. For he was able to do a great deal in a little time. Though for collation he was not fit. He could not pore long on a text. It was Columbus at the oar. It was on most literary points difficult to get himself into a willingness to work. He was idle, or unwell, or loth to act upon compulsion. But at last he tried to awake his faculties, and, like the lethargic porter of the castle of Indolence, "to rouse himself as much, as rouse himself he can." He confessed that the publication of his

Shakspeare answered to him in every respect. He had a very large subscription.

Dr. Campbell, then alive in Queen-square, who had a volume in his hand, pronounced that the preface and notes were worth the whole subscription money. You would think the text not approved or adjusted by the past or present editions, and requiring to be settled by the future. It is hoped that the next editors will have read all the books that Shakspeare read: a promise our Johnson gave, but was not able to perform.

The reader is apprized, that this memoir is only a sketch of life, manner, and writings—

"In every work regard the writer's end;

For none can compass more than they intend."

Like

It looks forwards and backwards almost at the same time. the nightingale in Strada, "it hits imperfect accents here and there." Hawkesworth, one of the Johnsonian school, upon being asked, whether Johnson was a happy man, by a gentleman who had been just introduced to him, and wanted to know every thing about him, confessed, that he looked upon him as a most miserable being. The moment of enquiry was probably about the time he lost his wife, and sent for Hawkesworth, in the most earnest manner, to come and give him consolation and his company."And skreen me from the ills of life!" is the conclusion of his sombrous poem on November. In happier moments (for who is not subject to every skyey influence, and the evil of the hour?) he would argue, and prove it in a sort of dissertation, that there was, generally and individually, more of natural and moral good, than of the contrary. He asserted, that no man could pronounce he did not feel more pleasure than misery. Every body would not answer in the affirmative; for an ounce of pain outweighs a pound of pleasure. There are people who wish they had never been born to whom life is a disease-and whose apprehensions of dying pains and of futurity embitter every thing. The reader must not think it impertinent to remark, that Johnson did not choose to pass his whole life in celibacy. Perhaps the raising up a posterity may be a debt and duty all men owe to those who have lived before them. Johnson had a daughter, who died before its mother, if this pen is not mistaken. When these were gone, he lost his hold on life, for he never married again. He has expressed a surprize that Sir Isaac Newton continued totally