DIALOGUE I.

PRAY, my good friend, let me aſk you what tempted you to ſmile in ſurveying the books on my table. I hope it implied no cenſure on my choice

By no means. To confeſs the truth, Madam, I only ſmiled (if I did ſmile) [2] becauſe their poſition hit my fancy as an emblem of juſtice.

Of juſtice!—how ſo?

It repreſented to my imagination the deciſive triumph of the once indigent and neglected, but truly great Moraliſt, over the high-born and faſhionable Wit, whoſe vain talents were, during his life, the idol of his country.

Have a care, my good friend—be⯑lieve me, that idolatry is not extinguiſh⯑ed. Remember, my brother is cloſe to you; and ſuch an enthuſiaſt, that if you [3] begin an attack upon his favourite, he will give no quarter to your's.

I would not offend the Colonel for the world: but I am ſure, he has too ſound a judgment, both in literature and morals, to conſider theſe writers on a level.—He may perhaps be partial to the memory of Lord Cheſterfield, from a perſonal acquaintance with that noble⯑man; and if ſo, I ſincerely aſk his par⯑don for having alluded to the public failings of his friend.

Your courteſy, my dear Sir, is ſo en⯑gaging, and I have in truth ſuch eſteem for your judgment, that I could wiſh to think with you on all points. I am [4] convinced, indeed, that we agree per⯑fectly in all eſſential articles, though our coats are ſo different in their colour— and you, who have the happy art of uniting zeal and moderation in matters of higheſt moment, will, I am ſure, be candid enough not to think me either a fool or a libertine for admiring my Lord Cheſterfield. As to my perſonal knowledge of him, I can only ſay, it was juſt ſufficient for me to perceive, in a few accidental converſations, that the world were perfectly right in pro⯑nouncing him the politeſt man of his time. But it is not on any familiarity that I can boaſt of with this accom⯑pliſhed perſonage; it is on a deliberate ſurvey of his life and character, and a long intimacy with his truly attic com⯑poſitions, that I have founded my in⯑creaſing [5] admiration of his talents and his merit.

I told you our enthuſiaſt would catch fire.

Nay, my dear temperate ſiſter, do not affect a prudiſh indifference towards an author you love. Severe as he ſometimes is, and very provokingly ſo, on your ſex, how often have you had the juſtice to join in my eſtimate of his excellence! How often have we la⯑mented together, and with equal indig⯑nation, that hypocritical or ſenſeleſs torrent of obloquy, which has been poured upon his aſhes!

Conſider, my dear Colonel, that the cenſure on your favourite, which you repreſent as unjuſt, has not proceeded only from a few individuals, who might be eager to inſult the memory of the eminent from the pride of ignorance, or the malice of envy. It may be re⯑garded as the outcry of an offended nation. A whole people can hardly be inclined to pronounce ſentence on any writer with malignity and ingrati⯑tude, eſpecially on the dead. But there are certain unexpected offences in the moral world, which burſt upon us with an aſpect of ſuch enormity, as ſeems to force from the lips of every unpre⯑judiced ſpectator, the moſt rapid and [7] abſolute condemnation. There are ſome violations, I will not ſay of religion and of virtue, but of common ſenſe and common decency, which an honeſt attention to the good of mankind for⯑bids us to tolerate or forgive. I am afraid the ſins of your favourite muſt be ranked in this unfortunate claſs. For my own part, I muſt confeſs I eſteem it ſo dangerous a thing to pour the oil of licentious admonition on the blazing fire of youth, that I wiſh his Letters had been deſtroyed. And ſurely you, Colonel, who never exert the pri⯑vilege often allowed to your profeſſion, of treating ſerious things with levity, you, I think, can never wiſh to recon⯑cile our minds to the horrid image of a father preaching adultery to his ſon.

Good heavens! my dear Sir, is it poſſible that a man of your candor and diſcernment can join in the barbarous inference that has been drawn from the letter you allude to? If we are to be condemned ſo cruelly, on a few idle or wanton words, that eſcape in ſome luck⯑leſs or unguarded moment, where is the mortal of ſufficient purity to ſup⯑port this rigorous inquiſition? not your great Moraliſt, believe me. If Cheſter⯑field muſt fall by ſuch a ſcrutiny, ſo in⯑deed muſt Johnſon. Moſt of thoſe who have heard the common anecdotes of this juſtly-celebrated writer, have heard his reply to a perſon, who once aſked him, what he reckoned the higheſt plea⯑ſures of human life? It is well known [9] that he named the two groſſeſt of our ſenſual enjoyments, and without cool⯑ing the hot idea by one of his ſix-footed circumlocutions. Shall I therefore call your great moraliſt a preacher of glut⯑tony and incontinence? Truth and juſ⯑tice forbid! yet ſurely I might do ſo as fairly as you arraign my favourite, in conſequence of a few ſportive words in a private letter.—But let us not play the inquiſitor with an auſterity that con⯑verts into a crime every caſual expreſ⯑ſion, and is pregnant itſelf with more evil than it profeſſes to correct. Let us judge of books, and of men, not from a few ſcattered failings in ſentiment, ſtyle, or conduct, but from the full and fair impreſſion which a complete and deli⯑berate ſurvey of their blended merits and defects may leave upon our mind. [10] If on this plain and ample ground, you are willing to enter into a friendly de⯑bate on the different portions of cen⯑ſure and of honour, that may be due both to Cheſterfield and to Johnſon, I ſhall by no means decline the conteſt, for, though I am moſt willing to allow that the latter will have much the more able advocate, I ſhall not deſpair of prov⯑ing that my favourite (as you juſtly call him) was in truth, "take him for all in all," as good a man, as ſound a moraliſt, and as eloquent a writer, as the renowned philoſopher whom you particularly ad⯑mire.

I never heard a more tempting chal⯑lenge, and I truſt the Archdeacon has too much ſpirit to refuſe it. As you are [11] two men whom we may ſafely lead in⯑to a warm debate without the ſlighteſt fear of its conſequence, I confeſs my⯑ſelf very deſirous of ſeeing you engage. Though oppoſite in your opinion, and zealous in your nature, I am perfectly ſure that your controverſy can produce no painful or unfriendly ſenſations in the mind of either; and to me it will afford both pleaſure and inſtruction—it will enable me to ſettle my own con⯑fuſed thoughts concerning two authors whom I am fond of reading, and who, to tell you the truth, both delight and diſguſt me to ſuch a degree, that I ſhall be particularly glad to hear the good and evil in both deliberately examined and candidly compared.

They are Beings, my dear lady, that will not admit of a compariſon.—Would you not be angry with me, if I com⯑pared my honeſt friend Lion, the noble maſtiff who guards your magnificent manſion, with the ſly and miſchievous Fox that has lately invaded your poul⯑try. Such a compariſon only can be made between the generous Inſtructor whoſe leſſons defend our virtue, and the pernicious Wit whoſe writings only tend to circumvent and deſtroy it.

I admire the ſpirit and ingenuity of your ſimile; but, like a ball thrown with too much force, it rebounds ſo unluckily as to hurt yourſelf: for I muſt inform [13] you, that your honeſt friend Lion was almoſt condemned, a few days ago, to a violent death — and he might indeed have ſuffered with juſtice, not only for arrogating to himſelf much more than his due, but for mangling moſt fero⯑ciouſly an excellent little ſpaniel, who dared to lap out of their common diſh, and whom he ought to have regarded as a fellow-ſervant, of equal value with himſelf in the ſight of his bountiful and indulgent maſter.—After telling you this anecdote, I will not be ſo cruel as to add, that I think you have pitched on a perfect emblem of your great philoſo⯑pher. Yet allow me to ſay, that he cer⯑tainly did not reſemble your old phi⯑loſophical acquaintance, the Demonax of Lucian (whoſe name has been im⯑properly applied to him) in the want [14] either of faculty or diſpoſition ‘to play the dog^*.’

I allow your raillery its full ſcope. I am ready to confeſs, there was a ſurly grandeur in the character of Johnſon. He was uſed to ſpurn the effuſions of vice and folly with a fervent and vir⯑tuous indignation, that was frequently miſtaken for brutal ferocity. An in⯑ceſſant zeal for moral excellence was his ruling paſſion; and he had an un⯑exampled [15] power of extracting morality from every incident of life, from every appearance in nature. No man ever ex⯑erted more intenſe or more conſtant thought, to ſearch into the eſſence of all goodneſs, on his own account, and to render his reſearches beneficial to man⯑kind: it is on this ground that he is generally regarded as a teacher of true wiſdom, inferior only to the ſacred wri⯑ters themſelves; and it is for the in⯑tereſt of human nature, that we ſhould guard the glory of ſuch a man from the petty cavils of detraction, or the un⯑intended injury of miſconception.— For my own part, I ſhould ſay, indeed, that I am more intimate with him as a moraliſt than as a critic. In the former light, I revere him as a ſecond Socrates, far ſuperior to the firſt: and ſurely you, [16] Colonel, who, for a modern ſoldier, are ſingularly diſpoſed to moral contempla⯑tion; you, the attentive father of well-educated children; you, I ſay, can hard⯑ly think of ſeriouſly comparing an au⯑thor of this character to one whoſe com⯑poſitions (if I may venture to uſe the vehement cenſure of my indignant cri⯑tic) exhibit only ‘the morals of a courtezan, and the manners of a dan⯑cing-maſter.’

I thank you, my dear diſputant, for blending politeneſs with your zeal. I perceive that your tender reſpect to fe⯑male ears, has led you to ſoften one expreſſion in the very bitter though con⯑ciſe invective you have quoted.

We are perfectly acquainted, you ſee, with the ſarcaſtic gall of your great Moraliſt. But let me obſerve, that the keeneſt ſarcaſms, in general, rather prove the virulence, or at leaſt the pride, of the accuſer, than the vices of the accuſed. Indeed, your idol himſelf, to do him juſtice, inſtructs us how to value them, when he ſays, in this very volume, ‘Ob⯑ſervation daily ſhews, that much ſtreſs is not to be laid on hyperbolical ac⯑cuſations and pointed ſentences, which even he that utters them deſires to be applauded rather than credited.’ But let me read to you the cloſe of this paragraph, it is admirable:— ‘Few characters can bear the micro⯑ſcopic ſcrutiny of wit quickened by [18] anger; and perhaps the beſt advice to authors would be, that they ſhould keep out of the way of one another.’ Here you find that your great Moraliſt, thought it hardly poſſible for an author to regard his brethren but with an evil eye; and juſtly, perhaps, we might ex⯑claim, on this occaſion,

Rarely indeed did he fail to magnify the defects of ſuch as were placed before him; though his own great qualities were blended with ſuch imperfections, that, if the latter were ſhewn to us through a glaſs, whoſe magnifying power was equal to his own, he would cer⯑tainly appear as the moſt enormous [19] monſter that ever roſe into philoſophical reputation with bitterneſs of language and brutality of manners. Indeed you may recollect, that in his life-time, his own virulence was often retorted upon him. He has been called, you know, "a reſpectable Hottentot," and the Caliban of literature. But alas! what is proved by ſarcaſms of this kind, on either ſide? Little more, I believe, than the lamentable prevalence of jealous and angry paſſions in the heated candi⯑dates for popular applauſe. For my own part, as I have, though I am no writer, a paſſionate regard for the real intereſt and glory of literature, I am grieved whenever I ſee authors of great genius condeſcend to hack and mangle one another, like ſervile gladiators, to gratify the rabble, inſtead of combating [20] in a common cauſe, like free and gene⯑rous citizens, againſt ignorance and envy, the peculiar enemies of their republic.

Here, my good friend, we perfectly agree—believe me, I lament, as ſincerely as you do, the jealous infirmity of ex⯑alted ſpirits, ſo very common among the profeſſors of every art, that many people conſider it as neceſſarily inherent in that fine texture of the human faculties which we denominate genius.—I am far from wiſhing to repreſent Johnſon as utterly exempt from a natural defect, which he had the rare magnanimity to own and the virtue to ſuppreſs; for what can redound more to the honour of any man, and eſpecially of a profeſſed phi⯑loſopher, than to have it juſtly ſaid of [21] him, that he aſſiduouſly regulated every improper movement of his heart by a powerful and majeſtic underſtanding?

Rigid truth and juſtice, I believe, could never ſay ſo of Johnſon; but, allowing you for a moment that they might, I can eaſily tell you what would be more honourable, or, I ſhould rather ſay, what would render a philoſopher a much more amiable being in my eſtimation; and it is ſimply this—to poſſeſs a heart ſo kindly faſhioned by nature, that its own native benevolence ſhould ſupply the place of your majeſtic regulator.

That is, you prefer a ready-made philoſopher to one who has had the merit [22] of making himſelf. In the quiet vale of private life, where no ſort of competi⯑tion awakens the turbulent affections of the mind, your undiſciplined philoſo⯑pher may be all-ſufficient. But in a continual conteſt for popular applauſe, where the faculties are ever on the ſtretch, and where the paſſions frequent⯑ly blaze in proportion to the activity of the intellectual powers; in ſuch a ſcene, and ſuch you know is the field of li⯑terature, we muſt not, I fear, expect the gentle voice of benevolence to be at⯑tended to as it ought. Authors, we know, are irritable to a proverb; and how ra⯑pidly they are hurried into wilful or blind injuſtice to each other, we ſee but too clearly from every period in the hiſtory of letters. But if ſuch are the infirmities to which their condition ex⯑poſes [23] them, ought we not to conceive a ſignal reſpect for that eminent writer, who conſtantly exerted his philoſophy, and forgive me if I add his religion, to preſerve him from theſe exceſſes? It is in this point of view, that the character of Johnſon appears to me particularly noble. Where can we find an author, who, in running ſo long a career in the ſame thorny field, has done ſo much for the honour of his profeſſion, and ſo little for the gratification of his private ſpleen? Inſulted and reviled as he was perpetually, when did he write a vindi⯑cation of himſelf, or a ſatire upon his enemies? It does him, I think, infinite credit, to reflect, that with powers par⯑ticularly formed to make him the firſt ſatiriſt that ever exiſted, he choſe to exert all the energy of his ſpirit in moral [24] compoſitions of a very different nature; in ſuch as might invigorate the under⯑ſtanding, without affording any food to the malignity of mankind. At the time when we may ſuppoſe his reſentment to have been moſt awakened, when his cha⯑racter was acrimoniouſly delineated un⯑der the title of Pompoſo, by a ſatiriſt of great celebrity, you may remember that he diſdained to take any kind of re⯑venge, and I do not indeed recollect, that he has mentioned the name of Churchill in any of his writings. His great mind was aware, that in ſome kinds of contention the very act of en⯑gaging is diſgrace. He perfectly under⯑ſtood an important truth, which few in⯑deed of his fraternity have had ſpirit enough to confide in, or temper ſufficient to attend to, I mean, a maxim which he [25] expreſſes moſt happily himſelf in cloſing one of his admirable Ramblers, and, if my memory deceives me not, it runs thus: ‘Whatever be the motive to in⯑ſult, it is always beſt to overlook it; for folly ſcarcely can deſerve reſent⯑ment, and malice is puniſhed by neg⯑lect.’

An excellent maxim, I grant you, in many caſes; and it reflects as much ho⯑nour on the preacher, as a good ſermon on humility would reflect on a certain prelate of our acquaintance, whoſe ge⯑neral demeanor might lead us to ſuppoſe, that he knew not even the name of that virtue. The forbearance of John⯑ſon, according to your own account of it, was the offspring, not of charity but [26] of pride. He did not throw, indeed, upon paper, any deliberate invective againſt his opponents; but we learn, from the diligent retailers of his con⯑verſation, that his common diſcourſe was a continued ſtream of ſarcaſms againſt all who did not blindly acquieſce in his dogmatical deciſions; ſo that the commendation due to his pacific con⯑duct, if rigidly examined, amounts only to this—he never drew out his heavy artillery againſt his enemies, becauſe he thought that he could demoliſh them with leſs trouble, and more ſecurity to himſelf, by the ſnap of a pocket piſtol.

Come, come, my dear champions, this is but an idle, and, I think, an [27] unfair ſort of ſkirmiſh. I muſt be the arbiter of your conteſts, not only as to the iſſue, but the mode of con⯑ducting it. Like the preſident at one of our ancient tournaments, I muſt ſee that the knights engage only in a ge⯑nerous and friendly conflict.—Let each be as zealous as he pleaſes to maintain the honour of his own idol, but with⯑out reviling that of his antagoniſt. I proſcribe, therefore, all bitter ſarcaſms, as poiſoned weapons, that ought to be baniſhed from our liſts. To drop my metaphor, which, I confeſs, I cannot very well ſupport, let me remind you, that I expect a full and candid compa⯑riſon of the two illuſtrious authors whom you reſpectively admire.

My dear Lady, the very idea of ſuch a compariſon, is enough to make our lately departed Moraliſt feel a ſpaſm of indignation in his grave.

If we might literally interpret one of the many poets whom your Moraliſt has vilified, and exclaim with Gray, ‘E'en in our aſhes live their wonted fires,’ then, indeed, I ſhould apprehend that the duſt of Johnſon might be diſturbed, by our comparing him to a writer whom he ſeems to have hated with theological bitterneſs, and whoſe reputation he at⯑tempted to ſtab with the ſhort, but en⯑venomed [29] dagger of a vindictive monk. But though I am far from thinking your favourite ſo virtuous and pure a cha⯑racter as you ſeem to do, I can readily believe that his ſoul is now happily purified from that leaven of ſour infir⯑mity, which debaſed, I muſt confeſs, in my eſtimation, his ſingular and ex⯑alted powers. I can believe, that if his aſhes were indeed inſulted by any indecent outrage (which Heaven forbid) his ſpirit now, like that of Pompey, deſcribed by Lucan,

Believe me, I am ſo far from being an enemy to his memory, that I think his writings and his life are both worthy [30] of being ſtudied. In both, we may find much to admire and emulate, with much to cenſure and avoid. With both, I would only wiſh to take ſuch liberty as he ſeems to allow, where he tells us, that, ‘if we owe regard to the me⯑mory of the dead, there is yet more reſpect to be paid to knowledge, to virtue, and to truth ^*.’

Very well, my dear, decent brother! After your paying ſo ſerious and juſt a compliment to the grave of his revered Moraliſt, I think the Archdeacon can⯑not in courteſy decline your challenge, or imagine that the honour of his client may be wounded by a candid diſcuſſion of his cauſe.

Before I ſpeak a word in reply to the Colonel, allow me to aſk your Ladyſhip one whimſical queſtion:—You know that we all love and revere you as a matronly model of female virtues. Conſcious of ſuch a character, ſhould you not bluſh with indignation at the thought of being compared to the cele⯑brated Ninon, or to any more accom⯑pliſhed courtezan, if any ſuch can be found in the annals of gallantry?

Your queſtion is, indeed, rather whim⯑ſical; and, if I wiſhed to evade it, per⯑haps I might juſtly ſay, in the lan⯑guage of our lawyers, it is not a caſe in point.—But, as I am eager to promote [32] the friendly debate to which my brother has invited you, I will be very frank in my anſwer, and tell you my genuine feelings on your fanciful ſuppoſition. If the odd compariſon you ſuggeſt was candidly made, and chiefly to ſhew what a different aſſemblage of virtues and failings may be found in different ſituations (for all mortals, you know, have ſome failings, and I am far from thinking thoſe of Ninon the only ble⯑miſhes that may be found in our ſex); if, I ſay, your odd compariſon was con⯑ducted with that extreme delicacy which it certainly requires, I believe —

Believe, indeed, my dear prude!— Come; if you are not confident enough to ſpeak the true language of your [33] heart, let me be its interpreter, and ſay, you are convinced that ſuch a com⯑pariſon would rather pleaſe than offend you.—There is a ſimple female ſecret, which every man, who has ſtudied the fair ſex with moderate aſſiduity and intelligence, muſt have diſcovered, and it is this:—The women who are moſt faithful in the practice of virtue, ſtill delight in being told that they are equal in lovelineſs to the famouſly elegant daughters of frailty; and I queſtion, if the cunning Ulyſſes himſelf could have flattered Penelope more agreeably, than by telling her ſhe was as graceful as Helen.

I am not ſurprized at this ſentiment from an idolater of Cheſterfield. But [34] I will anſwer your maxim by another, which approaches, I believe, much nearer to truth:—The men who fancy themſelves moſt deeply ſkilled in the ſcience of reading the female heart, are generally the greateſt ſtrangers to its moſt delicate ſenſations.

Your Ladyſhip is certainly right; a true knowledge of the fineſt work in the creation, is not comprehended in the groſs or vain ideas of a libertine.

I vehemently proteſt againſt your ap⯑plying that title to my client; as I have engaged to prove him as perfect in his morals as your celebrated Sage.

Be calm, then, my dear enthuſiaſt; for what I want to hear is, a full, candid, and ſimple ſtatement of the real merits and failings in the two celebrated per⯑ſons we are canvaſſing: I wiſh to have a fair, comparative eſtimate of both, according to your own plan of conſi⯑dering them; firſt, in their general character, as men or citizens; ſecondly, as moraliſts, or periodical lecturers on life and manners; finally, as writers, regarding only their ſtyle.

Pray do not repreſs the Colonel's en⯑thuſiaſm, becauſe he is one of the very few men who may grow warm in a bad cauſe, without catching any infection [36] from the depravity he defends: indeed, however paradoxical it may ſound, it is his own goodneſs that makes him the zealous advocate of vice; for the truth is, he has himſelf ſo generous and pure a heart, with ſuch a quick delight⯑ful perception of elegance and wit, that he gives the poſſeſſor of theſe enchant⯑ing qualities, unbounded credit for virtues which were foreign to his na⯑ture.

I aſk your pardon, my dear flattering encomiaſt. I muſt not allow you, in thus holding out an unmerited and dazzling crown to your antagoniſt, to trip up his heels without beginning to wreſtle. You miſtake me entirely, if [37] you ſuppoſe that I conſider my Lord Cheſterfield as a perfect character, ‘A faultleſs monſter, which the world ne'er ſaw;’ or as even poſſeſſed of that true great⯑neſs and purity which ſome of our Eng⯑liſh worthies have attained. I only ſay, that with ſplendid and moſt engaging talents, he had neither more nor worſe vices than your exalted Philoſopher, and that he is no leſs entitled to the kind remembrance of his country. This, I think, an impartial diſcuſſion of their lives and compoſitions may render as evident, as it is that they were both be⯑ings of the human ſpecies.

However ſtrong and ſincere you may be in this opinion, I doubt a little your being able to perſuade even our candid Archdeacon to agree with you; and, I believe, the good folks of the world, in general, who delight in that ſhort and eaſy mode of proving their great love for goodneſs, which they find in idolizing a name for imaginary perfec⯑tion; theſe good people would be ſhocked at your idea, and perhaps ex⯑claim againſt you, as a horrid profligate, endeavouring to confound all the prin⯑ciples of right and wrong: but, as we give you full credit for motives directly oppoſite to theſe, I beg we may purſue this amuſing diſquiſition. Some fami⯑liar words of Johnſon, that I have juſt [39] recollected, ſuggeſt to me a plan for purſuing it, in the faireſt and moſt ſatiſ⯑factory manner. You may remember, in the journal of his fellow-traveller, when he is diſpleaſed with Lord Hailes, ‘for publiſhing only ſuch memorials and letters as were unfavourable for the Stuart family, he ſays, If a man fairly warns you, I am to give all the ill, do you find the good, he may.’ —Do not you recollect this paſſage, my friend. I am ſure my bro⯑ther does; becauſe, though I cannot re⯑peat the whole ſentence regularly, I know it ends with thoſe remarkable words, ‘I would tell truth of the two Georges, or of that ſcoundrel King William:’ words, I believe, that have had no little ſhare in kindling the Co⯑lonel's animoſity againſt your Philoſo⯑pher. [40] —But let us adopt the preceding maxim, of one giving all the good, and another finding the ill. Let the Arch⯑deacon begin, by ſetting forth every thing that tends to exalt and throw a luſtre on his favourite Moraliſt; my brother may add the dark touches, but without any ſarcaſtic aggravation of the defects he may diſcover.—Then ex⯑change your office; let the Divine freely diſplay all the vices of Cheſter⯑field, and the Soldier appear, I will not ſay his defender, but his apo⯑logiſt.

Agreed!

Your Ladyſhip is undoubtedly very good, to aſſign me only that ſort of taſk [41] in which my duty and inclination may go hand in hand; for, according to your inſtructions, I have only to ſhew the genuine dignity of the genius and virtue I admire, and to point out the real de⯑formity of that diſſolute elegance, which has made, I think, too favourable an impreſſion on the fancy of my friend. Yet, honourable and pleaſing as I muſt own the office you have allotted me, I muſt alſo confeſs, what happens, I be⯑lieve, very frequently to men ſurprized by unexpected honours, that I feel my mind dazzled and bewildered by the ſplendor of my charge, and that I am diſtreſſed by no little fear of diſappoint⯑ing your expectation.—But let me re⯑flect how I may beſt ſhew my obedience to the ſpirit, though not the letter of your command. To enumerate all [42] particulars that do honour to Johnſon, is what I am ill-prepared to do, and what, indeed, could hardly be done in conver⯑ſation; for it would be to give an ex⯑tenſive review of a long, laborious life, continually ennobled by new acquiſitions of knowledge, or by new acts of good⯑neſs and magnanimity. I muſt content myſelf with only ſtating to you, as forcibly as I can, a few of the moſt ſtriking conſiderations, that have con⯑ſpired to impreſs me with peculiar ve⯑neration for this rare and exalted charac⯑ter. Let me remind you, then, that he was the ſon of a petty, provincial, neceſ⯑ſitous bookſeller; that, ſo far from hav⯑ing received any external advantages from nature, his figure was hideous, even in youth, to ſuch a degree, that Pope, you know, was afraid he could [43] hardly be admitted as a preceptor into a noble family, from the horrid convul⯑ſive diſtortions with which he was af⯑flicted.—Good Heaven! when I con⯑ſider from what humble and diſadvan⯑tageous obſcurity he ſtarted, and what pure eminence he attained, although penury, deformity, and diſeaſe were con⯑ſpiring to impede his advancement, I not only perceive the marvellous merits of the man, but feel a ſublime delight in contemplating the native powers of genius, and the genuine dignity of ſcience, ſupported only by virtue.

Forgive me, if I remark a little miſ⯑take in your eſtimate:—what you con⯑ſider as impediments in his way, were ſprings that puſhed him forward.—From [44] his own account of his feelings, he muſt have had ſuch a conſtitutional indo⯑lence, that I queſtion if any motive, leſs cogent than poverty, would have in⯑duced him to ſupport the burthen of literary labour—except perhaps his ſe⯑cond ſpur of perſonal deformity, which, ‘in a great Wit (to uſe the words of your old philoſophical acquaintance my Lord Bacon) is an advantage to riſing ^*.’ —But I aſk your pardon for interrupting you ſo ſoon, as I dare ſay you have many more obſervations to fa⯑vour us with, that may fall within the firſt diviſion of our ſubject, as my ſiſter has chalked it out for us, and illuſtrate the character of Johnſon as a man.

Recollect, my dear Colonel, the beau⯑tiful verſes that you repeated at break⯑faſt with ſo much enthuſiaſm, and with perfect ſympathy in the ſentiment they expreſs:

Thouſands have had the aid of thoſe ſprings which you conſider as inſtru⯑mental [46] to the elevation of Johnſon, but how few have riſen, I will not ſay to equal, but even to ſimilar diſtinction! Recollect, that from an obſcure, neceſ⯑ſitous, and unſightly being, he raiſed himſelf, not into pomp and opulence, for he had a noble contempt of both, but into that more enviable eminence of character, which enabled him to aſſo⯑ciate with the rich, the powerful, or the accompliſhed, and made him uni⯑verſally revered, as the great teacher of morality, to the moſt enlightened na⯑tion of the globe.—If we ſurvey him in the period of his early difficulties and diſtreſſes, in that ſtate, which has in⯑duced ſo many needy adventurers to act the part of a literary Therſites, and obtain a miſerable ſtipend by ludicrous ſcurrility or declamatory malevolence, [47] how different, how pure, and, I may ſay, how magnanimous was his employ⯑ment? When his firſt proſpect of ſup⯑porting himſelf as a poet was blaſted, by the failure of his Irene (a perform⯑ance, I own, that could not ſucceed, for his genius was confeſſedly not dramatic) his high ſpirit diſdained to debaſe itſelf either by flattery or detraction, the two ordinary reſources of an indigent, diſap⯑pointed author. He ſought a refuge from the miſeries of want, in working on that uſeful, that ſtupendous monu⯑ment of literary labour, his dictionary, or in producing thoſe periodical papers, which are juſtly regarded as maſter⯑pieces of moral admonition.—Inſtead of finding him betrayed by penury into vicious or diſhonourable occupation, we find him not only labouring moſt lau⯑dably [48] for the real good of mankind, but leading a life as pure as thoſe ſublime leſſons of morality which he beſtowed upon the world.—We find him, though under the preſſure of indigence, yet con⯑triving to exert that virtue of nobleſt luſtre, which moſt dignifies the opulent and the great; I allude to his charity, which was ſo perfect, ſo truly chriſtian, that he was ready to ſhare the little pit⯑tance he had with any brother in diſ⯑treſs, more neceſſitous than himſelf.— Recollect, I beſeech you, that mar⯑vellous effort of a great and a tender mind, the compoſition of his admirable Raſſelas, in a few days and nights, for the purpoſe of relieving a ſick and indi⯑gent mother.—Heavens! my dear Co⯑lonel, if ſuch an act of literary heroiſm had been diſplayed among your admired [49] Athenians, they would have raiſed a ſta⯑tue to the author, in ſome diſtinguiſh⯑ed part of their city, and have worſhip⯑ped him as an amiable demi-god, whom filial piety had exalted to the ſtars.

Well obſerved, my good friend! you will certainly make a convert of me, for tears ſtart into my eyes whenever I hear a great character celebrated for uncom⯑mon tenderneſs or generoſity to a pa⯑rent; and I am wonderfully diſpoſed to admit, that ſingle virtue as a ſufficient proof of perfection.

I have ever allowed, that there are ſeveral glorious points in the charac⯑ter of Johnſon: you have ſeized and diſ⯑played [50] them very forcibly.—I perfectly comprehend your pointed addreſs to me concerning our old friends the Athe⯑nians. You allude to my having ſaid, laſt night, that much as Johnſon had been celebrated for his intimate ac⯑quaintance with ancient literature, there is not a particle of true atticiſm, or of Roman urbanity, in all his compoſitions. I really think ſo—but of that when we come to ſpeak of his writings. At pre⯑ſent, I am to confine myſelf to his cha⯑racter as a man; and in that point of view, you muſt forgive me for ſaying, that however great his faculties and vir⯑tues may have been, they were evidently balanced by imperfections of equal mag⯑nitude and weight. As to your remark on the marvellous purity of your Mo⯑raliſt in domeſtic life, I will only make [51] this ſhort reply:—If I thought it decent or fair to purſue ſuch a ſcrutiny, I am convinced, by the report of his aſſo⯑ciates, that we ſhould find his early days as much diſgraced by actual licentiouſ⯑neſs, as thoſe of my noble client, whom you have called a libertine.—But woe to the man, who from wanton or male⯑volent curioſity, attempts to violate the ſacred receſſes of domeſtic privacy, for the miſchievous ſatisfaction of expoſing the ſecret or forgotten ſins of the illuſ⯑trious dead. Far be it from us, my friend, ‘To draw ſuch frailties from their dread abode.’

I will not therefore allow myſelf to ſpeak of any but his moſt open and ſelf-evident [52] imperfections. Theſe indeed were ſo great, that whenever I review his character in my mind, he is one mo⯑ment an object of my idolatry, and the next of my abhorrence. For, if I re⯑collect what you have ſo juſtly com⯑mended, his noble readineſs to relieve the diſtreſſed, I remember alſo, that he was an abſolute Cain, who could not bear to behold the accepted ſacrifice of a brother. Indeed he aſſaſſinated not a ſingle Abel, but continually levelled his murderous ſarcaſms againſt the li⯑terary life of all his numerous brethren, the whole tribe of our contemporary au⯑thors. I believe it would be impoſſible to name one of this tribe, to whom he ever gave a full and fair portion of praiſe untainted by envy; and if we re⯑view his poetical Biography, we ſhall find [53] his detractive malevolence moſt con⯑ſpicuous in the lives of thoſe who lived and wrote in his own time.

I will not attempt to extenuate the baſeneſs of ſuch envy, by calling it uni⯑verſal—on the contrary, I am perſuad⯑ed it is by no means ſo common as we imagine; and we may thus account for the frequent imputation of this hateful quality, where it has not really exiſted: —All human works muſt have ſome im⯑perfections, and in every art a profeſ⯑ſional judge will ſee and feel theſe with peculiar quickneſs and force. He may fairly deſcribe them according to his feelings; yet, his deſcription being much ſtronger than the impreſſion which the object has made on leſs qualified judges, [54] will to them, perhaps, appear as the ſug⯑geſtion of envy, though in truth it is no more than the natural reſult of in⯑telligent and keen perception.

Your reaſoning is ſo ingeniouſly good-natured, that, for the honour of litera⯑ture and the arts, I ſhall wiſh to find it generally true.—In the caſe of Johnſon, however, I am ſo far from being able to admit it, that I am convinced, if we can on any occaſions exculpate him from the charge of envious detraction, it muſt be on very oppoſite principles— not from the warmth and acuteneſs, but, to ſpeak in his own phraſe, the frigidity of his feelings. We know, indeed, that he was not faſhioned by education, by habit, or by the original texture of his [55] frame, to enjoy any nice diſcernment of real delicacy, in life, in manners, or in compoſition. In truth, it is hardly poſſible that ſuch diſcernment could exiſt in a man whoſe common behaviour was as coarſe as his paſſions were turbulent, and who ſhews us, in every point of view, that detractive malignity, and over-bearing arrogance, were his prevailing characteriſtics.

Surely I may retort upon you, with more juſtice, that it is not poſſible for theſe odious qualities to have prevailed in a character, whoſe name is held up to public veneration by ſuch a little hoſt of recording friends—in a man whoſe talents and virtues afford ſuch ample ground for panegyric, that his [56] death has almoſt converted the whole circle of his acquaintance into biogra⯑phers or memorialiſts.

Well might the ghoſt of Johnſon exclaim, with poor Jaffier in the tra⯑gedy, ‘Hide me from my friends!’ For it is indiſputably true, that his moral character has ſunk, in the good opinion of the world, in proportion as the memorials have appeared which were deſigned to do him honour. In⯑deed, it frequently happens, that an injudicious partizan does more miſchief to his idol, than the worſt of enemies. But, as the little flock of his biogra⯑phers, [57] though certainly not birds of the ſame feather, are all amuſing in their way, I am far from wiſhing to ſtrengthen my arguments in our debate by treating them with aſperity. I ſhall only ſay, therefore, what, if the lady who leads the band were preſent to hear me, ſhe would not, I truſt, conſi⯑der as any breach of that courteous reſpect, which is ſurely due both to her ſex, and to her talents:—I ſhall only ſay, that this little tribe of bio⯑graphers ſtrike my fancy as a group of buſy children, who having got a gilt ſhilling, are very eager to exhibit it as a guinea, each rubbing it with an air of confidence, to encreaſe its golden luſtre, but ſhewing, alas! at every rub, ſtill more of that baſer metal, which [58] they are all ſo ſolicitous to repreſent as gold.

Not ſo, my good friend.—Let us rather call them an honeſt, philoſophi⯑cal ſet of people, who, in analyſing a magnificent maſs of the richeſt metal, tell us truly the real weight of the pure ore, and fairly exhibit the little portion of natural droſs which their experiments diſcovered.—But to quit our metaphor, and ſpeak the plain language of truth and reaſon; Is not the inceſſant kindneſs, the laſting ve⯑neration, which Johnſon has received from his moſt intimate aſſociates, a full proof, in itſelf, that his excellencies as a man, and a companion, were infi⯑nitely ſuperior to his failings? What [59] more touching teſt of merit can we deſire for any character, than to find, that he was revered, even to idolatry, by his friends? Does not the high reputation of Socrates reſt ſolely on this foundation? He has been the idol of ſucceeding ages, becauſe he was juſtly idolized by thoſe faithful and accompliſhed recorders of his compa⯑nionable perfections, Xenophon and Plato.

Aſſuredly:—and as often as we review their affectionate accounts of him, par⯑ticularly the very ſweet and ſimple portrait exhibited by the firſt, we ſym⯑pathize in the tender enthuſiaſm of the friendly memorialiſt. But what would the world have thought of the great [60] Pagan Sage, if his fair and elegant friend Aſpaſia had left us a little book of philoſophical anecdotes, in which we might read, that the great philoſo⯑pher had rewarded her, for allowing him a noble apartment, and all the comforts of her magnificent houſe, by teazing, with argumentative and impe⯑rious petulance, her good, aged mo⯑ther? What would the world have thought of him, if Xenophon had given us the narrative of an excurſion, made to amuſe his inſtructive maſter, by ſhewing him the bleak mountains of Thrace, and had told us, that when he preſented him to his venerable old father, who dwelt in that country, the Sage, inſtead of entertaining his re⯑ſpectable hoſt with colloquial wiſdom, worried him ſo ferociouſly, that the [61] luckleſs diſciple muſt have wiſhed for a muzzle, to ſecure his parent from the mouth of the outrageous brute, whom he had ventured to lead from Athens to a diſtant province, for the ſake of ſhewing him as a conſummate philo⯑ſopher? Again, I may ſay, what would the world have thought of him, if the ſublime Plato himſelf had repreſented his admirable inſtructor as the moſt ſelfiſh and diſguſting glutton that ever appeared at a table? — Such are the points of view in which your favourite Moraliſt has been exhibited to us by his various biographical aſſociates. Your excellent memory, my good friend, will readily ſuggeſt the paſſages to which I have alluded. I am far from ſuſpect⯑ing all or any one of theſe writers of a treacherous intention to degrade their [62] hero;—yet, what enemies could have contributed more to his degradation as a man, in the eyes of every candid and impartial reader?—I will not ſay it has happened by their fault; let us call it rather a fatality, for the accom⯑pliſhment of literary juſtice — and it affords us an incentive to univerſal can⯑dour and benevolence, to contemplate the man, who had written the lives of many with a great portion of detractive malignity, deſtined to have memorials of himſelf ſo written, by a ſucceſſion of his friends, that his character muſt ſink in the public eſteem, exactly as faſt as their friendly records appear.

I cannot agree with you; for I can⯑not perceive, in my own mind, the effect [63] that you ſuppoſe univerſal. I cannot perceive that I ought to eſteem him the leſs as a man of virtue, becauſe I am told it was his cuſtom to eat in eager ſilence; though, I confeſs, it does not appear very conſiſtent with the delicacy of friendſhip, to commemorate a pecu⯑liarity ſo diſguſting.

Well, my good friend, we will not argue this point. In favour of your great Moraliſt, I conſent to ſtrike the name of gluttony from the catalogue of vices. But allow me to aſk you, if you could revere even the Pagan Socra⯑tes, as a philoſopher, on finding him deficient in thoſe primary conſtituents of a great moral character, juſtice and fortitude?

Moſt certainly not; and, let me add, that my veneration for Johnſon is partly founded on my idea of his having poſ⯑ſeſſed thoſe noble qualities in a ſuper⯑lative degree.

To me he appears defective in both. Indeed we violate the name of Juſtice, when we ſuppoſe her to have dwelt in the ſpirit of a man who inceſſantly de⯑tracted from all eminent characters, and who hardly allowed any mortals to differ from him in opinion, without re⯑preſenting them as worthleſs or inſigni⯑ficant; yet Johnſon, for ſome time, con⯑trived to ſupport a moral reputation as marvellouſly as Mithridates ſupported [65] his life. Your Philoſopher, after forti⯑fying his good name by many tumid ſentences of morality, ventured on ſuch envious gratifications as would have been immediate death to the credit of any other man; and the chemical king of Pontus, you know, as hiſtorians in⯑form us, after breakfaſting on antidotes ventured to dine ſafely on poiſon.

Take care, my lively friend, that you are not hurried yourſelf into the very injuſtice which you impute to my Phi⯑loſopher. I allow you, that his ſtrong and gloomy imagination very frequently diſcoloured his judgment. I lament the prejudices which led him to inſult the poetic genius of Gray, and the genuine philanthropic heroiſm of our political [66] ſaviour, King William. Yet many al⯑lowances ought to be made for the pre⯑judices of his early life, and that terrific ſtructure of his nerves, which gave ſo dark a tinge to his mind. As he coura⯑geouſly ſpoke his true ſentiments on all occaſions, it is ſurely evident, that he poſſeſſed the ſpirit of intentional juſtice, at leaſt, and of unqueſtionable fortitude. Where he was miſtaken, let us rather pity his errors, than emulate his acrimo⯑nious ſeverity.

With all my heart, when I have once convinced you how very far he was from being that accompliſhed, practical Mo⯑raliſt, which you ſeem to have ſuppoſed, and how inferior, at leaſt in my eſtima⯑tion, to that calumniated nobleman, [67] whom with a proud baſeneſs, peculiar to himſelf, he firſt complimented, and then inſulted, without any real provocation. —Such was the juſtice of your great Mo⯑raliſt; who has indeed as little claim to critical mercy as any man can have; for he was himſelf a black huſſar in the field of learning, who never gave quar⯑ter, or, I ſhould rather ſay, he diſplay⯑ed his powers with a cold, phlegmatic, inquiſitorial cruelty; and, as an eccle⯑ſiaſtical friend of ours ſaid the other day, with an extempore paraphraſe of the famous old verſe in Ovid,

Pray obſerve, my honeſt but too warm avenger of injuſtice, how your accuſation, by its own vehemence, de⯑feats at leaſt a part of itſelf. The force with which you deſcribe the barbarity of Johnſon, ſurely tends to clear him of your ſecond charge, the want of cou⯑rage.—Indeed no charge can have leſs foundation. I queſtion if there ever exiſted a man who diſplayed more in⯑variably, in the character of an author, a more abſolute exemption from cow⯑ardice.

So far from it, that you ſhall find, he repreſents himſelf as a moſt pitiful cow⯑ard, and that too on one of thoſe occa⯑ſions [69] in which every man is allowed to aſſume the language of heroiſm. Every lover, let him be as unlike a hero as he may, is privileged by nature to tell his miſtreſs, in a ſong, that he will baniſh her vexations, and protect her from all the world. But what ſays your brave author, in ſinging to his dulcinea? why truly this literary Caeſar of yours cries out, like a poor ſplenetic pretended Phi⯑loſopher as he was,

Now put the ſtanza into proſe, and his amorous entreaty is this— ‘I am too great a coward to bear pain, either [70] in mind or body: pray protect me, my good bolder girl, and hide me with your petticoats from the horrors of my exiſtence.’

Oh abominable!—Sir, this wicked brother of mine is laughing at us ſimple folks, for our ſerious attention to him. I am confident he does not give us his genuine ſentiments; for, three days ago, I heard him praiſe the eaſy natural tenderneſs of the very lines which he has now traveſtied ſo unfairly.

Well, if you will not take my pre⯑ſent remarks for ſound criticiſm, you muſt at leaſt allow that they equal in [71] truth and candour thoſe critical obſer⯑vations which the great Moraliſt has made on Prior, Hammond, &c.—But to be very ſincere with you; I perceive from this converſation, how very apt the mind is to take a ſtrong bias in every controverſial career; for ſince I began to compare Johnſon in my thoughts with one of my literary favourites, whoſe memory I think greatly injured, all the imperfections of the gloomy Moraliſt have been ſo multiplied and magnified, in my fancy, that he ſtrikes me in this moment, not as one, but an aſſem⯑blage of unamiable characters:—in reli⯑gion, a ſlave to ſuperſtitious horror; in politics, a ſervile bigot; in familiar ſo⯑ciety, an inſufferable tyrant. I give you my real opinion as it riſes in my mind. [72] How far that opinion is the reſult of deluſive prejudice, or of a fair though rigid eſtimate, you are certainly qua⯑lified to judge; becauſe I profeſs to have no knowledge of the character we are diſcuſſing, except what I have derived from his printed works, and ſuch me⯑morials of him as are generally known. If I am wrong, I entreat you to correct me, for I wiſh not to injure any being alive or dead; and, without retorting upon him the vile abuſe which he be⯑ſtowed on King William, I will copy his language ſo far as to ſay, I would tell truth of a ſplenetic ſavage.

You are certainly too ſevere, and for this reaſon;—the foibles of Johnſon ly⯑ing, [73] if I may uſe ſuch an expreſſion, in the ſuperficies of his character, diſguſt you to ſuch a degree, that you do not allow yourſelf to ſearch fairly into his deeper and more noble qualities.—But, as it happens in his language, when you have once digeſted his hard words, you feel yourſelf invigorated by the ſtrong reaſon they contain; ſo with regard to the man, if you are once reconciled to the roughneſs of his manners, you will clearly perceive his many Chriſtian vir⯑tues, for which indeed he might have obtained credit more readily, had they not been ſo rudely covered. Yet we cannot deny the merchant to be rich, who abounds in gold, becauſe he keeps it in a bag of the coarſeſt texture.

Your illuſtration is very ingenious, but not perfectly juſt. Though I agree with you as to the coarſeneſs of the purſe, I cannot allow your gold to be genuine.—To ſpeak more ſeriouſly on a ſerious ſubject; I am aware that John⯑ſon is held up to our veneration for the ſanctity and ſoundneſs of his religious character; but ſurely, my dear reverend friend, it is an injury to the divine doc⯑trine you profeſs, to conſider this man as the model of a Chriſtian. I can admit, with my whole heart, that he was a ſin⯑cere believer in Chriſtianity; but, to my apprehenſion, no real believer ever ſuc⯑ceeded worſe in ſeizing the true ſpirit of our indulgent and animating religion. His piety, great as it is called, was ſo far from being perfect, that it neither [75] taught him how to live nor how to die— it neither inſpired him with benevolent gentleneſs towards his fellow-creatures, nor with a chearful reliance on the be⯑neficence of his God.

Without an oſtentation of meekneſs towards men, it taught him real hu⯑mility towards his Maker. His piety appears to you debaſed by an exceſs of terror; but ſurely it argues not any weakneſs or depravity of ſpirit to tremble before the throne of the Almighty.—If, indeed, the gloomy caſt of his devotion could require any excuſe, is it not ſuf⯑ficiently excuſed by that morbid here⯑ditary melancholy, which preyed upon his mind, and rendered him, with all his rare faculties, not leſs an object of [76] pity than of admiration. This idea, in⯑ſtead of diminiſhing, increaſes my reſpect for his character—aſſuredly, it does him honour to reflect, that by long and pro⯑found meditation, he was himſelf the architect of his virtues, and that his im⯑perfections were woven into the texture of his frame. His marvellous merits were all his own, and his blemiſhes the work of nature.

At length, my good friend, we meet on ſuch ground, as I have not the leaſt inclination to diſpute with you.—Be⯑lieve me, I am as willing as you can be to conſider the failings of Johnſon as conſtitutional — all I contend for is this, that with ſo peccant a conſtitution, he may not be propoſed to us as a mo⯑del [77] either of morality or religion.—The ancient philoſophers, who maintain, you know, that virtue is not to be taught without the aſſiſtance of a proper na⯑tural diſpoſition, would have not only denied his actual poſſeſſion of con⯑ſummate virtue, but the poſſibility of his acquiring it; ſince, inſtead of look⯑ing on the face of nature with true filial tenderneſs and gratitude, his gloomy ſpirit made him regard her only as a malicious ſtep-mother, who exerted her ingenuity to embitter his exiſtence. An affectionate delight in the viſible crea⯑tion, appears to me as neceſſary to per⯑fect morals, as the ſpring is to the per⯑fection of the year. How utterly deſti⯑tute of that ſentiment your great Mo⯑raliſt muſt have been, we may clearly perceive by his indignation againſt an [78] humble and blameleſs woman, for pre⯑tending to be happy in ſuch a world.— Yet, dark as this ſtate of exiſtence ap⯑peared to him, he could not practiſe even the wiſe precept of his pagan friend Juvenal, and (to quote his own ſpirited verſe) ‘Count death kind nature's ſignal of re⯑treat.’ When I find him ſo inferior in real pu⯑rity and ſtrength of mind to the pagan moraliſts, I ſhould think myſelf abſurd indeed, if I revered him as a model of Chriſtian excellence, eſpecially when I recollect, that with all his profound re⯑verence to our bleſſed religion, he ſel⯑dom opened his lips without ſinning againſt the ſpirit and the letter of the [79] Goſpel, in calling a brother fool.—I am as ready as you are, my good friend, to aſcribe both the gloomineſs and the aſperity of his mind and manners to the vitiated organs of his very wonderful frame—indeed, the more I contemplate his character, the more I am convinced that the diſtemper which afflicted his body, if I may uſe a ſcriptural expreſ⯑ſion, entered into his ſoul. I am wil⯑ling, therefore, to conſider his defects rather as misfortunes than as crimes; al⯑though they appear to have operated againſt his happineſs with the double force of calamity and of guilt. For, with uncommon powers to ſupport ei⯑ther bodily or mental exerciſe—with all the advantages he derived from his ſuc⯑ceſsful labour, and the liberal kindneſs of his more intimate admirers—he ſeems [80] to have been, through every period of life, a very miſerable being; and no one, I believe, were it poſſible, would con⯑ſent to purchaſe his rare faculties, by ſubmitting to reſemble him in every particular.—But whatever the ſum of his imperfections may be, after that is ſubſtracted, there ſtill remains ſuch a portion of real merit, as will probably ſecure immortality to his name and writ⯑ings. Believe me, I am ſo far from be⯑ing an enemy to his fame, that I heartily wiſh the public would diſcover a more liberal diſpoſition to pay him ſepulchral honours. The ſubſcription for his mo⯑nument ſeems to languiſh, in a manner that reflects diſgrace on this opulent and poliſhed country. I wiſh, my good friend, that you and I knew how to quicken the munificence of the king⯑dom [81] on this occaſion.—The nation that wiſhes to be ennobled by the production of future great characters, ought to be ſplendid in her memorials to departed genius.—I am amazed, that the zealous admirers of Johnſon, have not been more eager to render him this tribute, ſince his title to ſuch a diſtinction is ad⯑mitted by thoſe who had no perſonal at⯑tachment to the man, and who even think him, as I do, a ſtrange compound of the moſt attractive and moſt diſguſt⯑ing qualities, that ever met in the for⯑mation of an author.—But I have ſaid full enough and perhaps too much of his failings. Soldier, as I am, I aſſure you, it is more pleaſant to me, on this occaſion, to defend than to attack. Let me turn therefore from your reſpected Moraliſt, and haſten to the vindication [82] of my injured favourite, the elegant, the witty, the accompliſhed Cheſter⯑field.

Not ſo faſt, my dear haſty advocate. I cannot ſuffer either of my two diſpu⯑tants to evade any of the points that they have undertaken to debate. Pray recollect, that you are ſtill to diſcuſs the merits of Johnſon as a writer.

Madam, the Colonel is a ſoldier of too much experience, to be very eager in attacking a fortreſs of any kind, that is ſecured by art and nature againſt every aſſailant. Let me be allowed to call the miſcellaneous eſſays of Johnſon, a heaven-defended city, whoſe palla⯑dium [83] is pure and perfect morality. As this can neither be overthrown nor pilfered by the boldneſs or ingenuity of any Diomed or Ulyſſes, the fabric, in which this eternal guardian is mag⯑nificently lodged, muſt be impregnable and immortal.

Alas, my good friend! how many of ſuch impregnable fortreſſes, in which not only morality, but religion herſelf, in all her purity, ſeemed to promiſe their preſervation, have mouldered into duſt? It is poſſible, I fear, that your favourite, ſerious Ramblers, like many admirable ſermons of paſt times, may, in a few centuries, be utterly for⯑gotten.

Surely not; for although it is certain thoſe excellent papers have all the ſe⯑rious purity of a ſermon, yet they have alſo very different attractions. To me, the Ramblers exhibit a mental paradiſe, in which fancy and reaſon alternately entertain me with a ſucceſſion of new delights, under the guidance and pa⯑tronage of virtue and religion. While I read them, I feel (to uſe the words of their incomparable author) ‘my heart rectified, my appetites coun⯑teracted, and my paſſions repreſſed.’

I moſt readily admit, that the Ram⯑blers, from the evident deſign of the writer, and from their intrinſic merit [85] in many points of view, have very ſtrong, and I ſincerely hope they may prove ſucceſsful claims to immortality. Yet, as leſſons on life and manners, there are many productions of the ſame claſs, whoſe influence on my heart and mind is not only more pleaſant, but more beneficial. To read the Rambler is, to my feelings, to walk through a ſtupendous Egyptian temple of black marble, furniſhed with ſome Coloſſal ſtatues of ebony, and with here and there a little groteſque image, very lamely copied from ordinary life. I perceive, at every ſtep, a ſtrength and grandeur of conception in the dark fancy of the melancholy architect. I perceive, alſo, that in the courſe of his gloomy labour he had ſhort fits of merriment, and that in thoſe ſportive [86] moments, he was ſingularly awkward and ungraceful. In the whole ſtructure, there is an air of awful majeſty, that always fixes my attention, and frequently enchants me; yet, at the end of my circuit through its various apartments, I feel rather depreſſed and amazed, than animated and improved. Such is the effect which his moſt conſiderable work produces upon me; and that many others have ſurveyed it with ſimilar feelings, we may conclude from what he tells us himſelf in the cloſe of the laſt paper. The book is in your hand; give me leave to read the ſentence:— ‘Scarcely any man is ſo ſteadily ſe⯑rious as not to complain, that the ſeverity of dictatorial inſtruction has been too ſeldom relieved, and that he is driven, by the ſternneſs of the [87] Rambler's philoſophy, to more chear⯑ful and airy companions.’

I admire the magnanimity of this confeſſion.

You are very generous, my good friend, in allowing that quality to a poor diſcontented author, who tells us, in a fit of honeſt ſpleen, that he thought himſelf too wiſe for his readers.

It is ſurely true, that the ſerious air, and let me ſay the ſublime beauties of that production, were the chief obſta⯑cles to its immediate ſucceſs. Its merit was of too elevated a nature to be in⯑ſtantly [88] underſtood by the frivolous mul⯑titude:—but it has at length been fairly appreciated by time; and the great moraliſt is now univerſally read, not only for the dignity of his ſentiments, but for the force and luſtre of his lan⯑guage. For my own part, I exult in the growing influence of his genius; I am happy in ſeeing it tend to the full diſcharge of that glorious office, for which every great mind ſhould think itſelf faſhioned by Heaven; I mean, the office of diffuſing the light of know⯑ledge and of virtue over millions of ſpirits inferior to itſelf.

I will not be ſo ungrateful as to ſay, that I catch not any ſuch rays from Johnſon; but if I am frequently en⯑lightened [89] by his burſts of ſplendid ſen⯑timent, I am ſtill more frequently dar⯑kened and depreſſed by his thick vollies of ſpleen. In all his writings, and in the Rambler particularly, he ſeems to me to bear a great reſemblance to his own Suſpirius, the Screech-owl, whom he repreſents, you know, ‘as ſettled in an opinion, that the whole buſineſs of life is to complain, and whoſe every ſyllable was loaded with miſ⯑fortune.’ — He would, indeed, be the moſt meritorious of all moraliſts, if the merit of a preceptor conſiſted in trying to teach mankind that their exiſtence is miſery. I own myſelf de⯑voted to more enlivening philoſophy; for I could never find that wiſdom and virtue are acquired by catching the contagion of conſtitutional melancholy, [90] or that the heart is made better, in pro⯑portion as the imagination is terrified.

Yet a man of your thoughtful turn, my dear Colonel, muſt ſurely allow, that in alluring men to pay a ſerious attention to their duty, a writer takes the firſt and moſt neceſſary ſtep towards making them better. It is not the gloom of melancholy, but the ſolem⯑nity of religion, that gives ſuch a ſerious air to the compoſitions of John⯑ſon; and, inſtead of blaming the phi⯑loſopher, I think you ought rather to applaud the Chriſtian.

I have already ſaid, that your Moraliſt appears to me to have miſtaken the true [91] ſpirit of Chriſtianity in his manners, and I think ſo no leſs in the tenor of his works, which, without mentioning thoſe that are envious and unjuſt, have a general tendency to inſpire a dreary gloomineſs of ſpirit. A ſoldier perhaps, my dear reverend friend, may have formed very erroneous notions of ſacred things, which he cannot have ſtudied ſufficiently: but to my apprehenſion, the true ſpirit of our religion is more chearful than gloomy; for in what does Chriſtianity ſurpaſs all the religions of the earth? not in its auſterity, not in its terror, but in its benignity, in its com⯑fort. It is chearful, becauſe it excites us to the moſt attentive diſcharge of thoſe tender and ſocial duties which cannot be duly diſcharged without gen⯑tleneſs and joy. Other religions may [92] animate the frame, by flattering ſome particular paſſion; as the Alcoran, for inſtance, undoubtedly flatters the two paſſions of deſire and ambition. But Chriſtianity, in my idea of it, accompliſh⯑es this end by the very oppoſite means: it melts down all the paſſions, and ex⯑tracts from them the vivifying eſſence of univerſal charity.—Forgive me for thus throwing out the rough concep⯑tions of a laical enthuſiaſt, on ſo intereſt⯑ing a topic. I am ſure you will forgive me, becauſe I know we think alike, both on the importance and the benig⯑nity of our religion.

And let me remind you, my excellent friend, that our ideas agree alſo with thoſe of the great Author, whom you are [93] too haſtily condemning. You ſeem to have utterly forgot, that the Rambler contains not only as ſublime, but as chearful a picture of Chriſtianity as the human faculties can exhibit; pray re⯑collect the dream, in which a lovely figure exclaims— ‘My name is Reli⯑gion; I am the offspring of Truth and Love, and the parent of Benevo⯑lence, Hope, and Joy ^*.’

I perfectly recollect the allegory you mean, for I happened to read it [94] aloud, the other day, to my ſiſter; and I remember, on our finiſhing the paper, we both regretted that Religion, when ſhe ſettled herſelf in the mind of John⯑ſon, ſeemed to have excluded theſe her three children from her houſehold. To religious joy he appears to have been almoſt a ſtranger; he was not favoured with very long or very frequent viſits from religious hope; and that religious benevolence, which we frequently ad⯑mire, as the immediate director of his pen, was continually overpowered and ſtruck dumb by the ſtronger voices of his more conſtant companions, pride, envy, and ſpleen. I allow you, that few authors have written with a more reli⯑gious caſt of mind than your Moraliſt; yet ſurely he diſguſts his reader, not by being too much, but too little of a [95] Chriſtian. Religion has ſometimes an effect ſimilar to what is imputed to wine; inſtead of giving new diſpoſitions to the mind, it ſtrengthens and calls forth the humour it happens to meet, whether good or bad: thus the natural ferocity of Johnſon is ſeen to mount in a religious blaze, when, in his ramble among the ſacred ruins of Scotland, his imagina⯑tion delights itſelf in conceiving that a ruinous ſteeple may fall, to cruſh the poſterity of the Scottiſh Reformer. Surely, ſaid a friend of ours, when he firſt ſaw that anecdote of Johnſon, this man wanted only the lot of being born in Spain, when the inquiſition was eſ⯑tabliſhed, to have been diſtinguiſhed as the moſt black-minded and bloody ſupporter of that barbarous tribunal.

Enough, my dear diſputants, on this point. Pray allow me to give a new turn to your debate; for I foreſee, that if you grow warm on this branch of your argument, one of you will make him a ſaint, and the other a fiend; though it is very evident to our cool apprehenſion, that he was neither, but, as moſt of you lordly creatures might be found, perhaps, in ſuch mental diſ⯑ſection, a very ſtrange compound of both.

Very well, my dear Lady. So you think the ſons of Eve, like the male heirs, who ſeize the whole eſtate in our modern families, have taken from their [97] ſiſters all the ample inheritance of im⯑perfection. Give me your hand, my poor ſiſter! for if any ſon of Eve can be truly ſaid to have done ſo, I am the man.

So you are, my friend, as far as the Lady is concerned: and let me add, that you reſemble the modern heir in another particular; you have ſo contriv⯑ed to get rid of this ſame ample inhe⯑ritance, that we cannot even gueſs the amount of it.

I thank you doubly, my good friend, for anſwering one compliment for me, and at the ſame time favouring me with another.—But come, we are idly [98] rambling from our ſubject. You have ſtill to conſider Johnſon both as a Poet and a Critic.

In the firſt character he may be ſoon diſpatched. We have only to ſay, what I think unqueſtionable, that he was in⯑ferior to the whole body of Engliſh poets whom he has ſo ferociouſly anato⯑mized.

I aſk your pardon. There is nothing finer in our language than his imitation of Juvenal, and his various prologues, particularly the very fine prologue that delineates the progreſs of the drama.

Surely there is ſome degree of courteſy in allowing his name to ſtand on the liſt of poets, for having written the moſt frigid and unintereſting tragedy that can be ſelected from all the languages of the earth; and a forcible imitation of a declamatory Satiriſt. He thought him⯑ſelf indeed a great poet; and tried to bully the public into the ſame opinion, by the cloſe of the arrogant prologue to his Irene:

This would have been bold language for any writer to have uſed, in ſpeaking of his moſt fortunate production; but what is it, when applied to a perform⯑ance [100] which, inſtead of being inſpired by his boaſted patrons, Reaſon, Nature, and Truth, appeared to be rather the work of falſe, unfeeling art, and of pompous ab⯑ſurdity?—His critical bitterneſs may be partly aſcribed to his great dramatic diſappointment. Having utterly failed in his prime ambition to diſtinguiſh himſelf, and make his fortune as a poet, he conceived an eternal hatred to the whole tribe of poets; and, unluckily for that tribe, his powers of defaming poe⯑tical merit were as ſtrong as his power to equal it was feeble. And hence, as I lately heard, a cenſurer of his criti⯑ciſm altered a title-page to his Lives of the Poets, and called them, ‘The Lives of the triumphant Angels, written by Lucifer the fallen.’ In⯑deed, [101] he ſeems to have dipt his pen, not only in gall, but ‘In ever-burning ſulphur unconſum'd.’

In all his compoſitions, and even in his recorded converſation, when he is moſt virulent and ferocious, there is ſtill ſuch vigour of intellect in what he ſays, that, I muſt own, he hardly ever ap⯑pears ‘Leſs than Arch-angel ruin'd.’

I am glad you allow him ſome dignity as a writer, however diabolical.—But, my good friend, are you not aware of the extreme inconſiſtency in your de⯑ſcription? You repreſent him as a moſt ſtriking example both of feebleneſs and [102] vigour. In one point you muſt be miſtaken; for it is impoſſible that the ſame being can be both a giant and a dwarf.

Pardon me!—that impoſſibility was realized in Johnſon. He was a giant in ſome faculties, and a dwarf in others.

Yet ſurely not a dwarf in that fa⯑culty, which is ſaid to conſtitute a poet—I mean, imagination.—One of his friends has told us, you know, and I think very truly, ‘His mind was ſo full of imagery, that he might have been perpetually a poet.’

We find he made the experiment, and could never be ſo completely.— His lateſt biographer, indeed, ſeems aware of his poetical and his critical failure, and appears to apologize for both, by ſuppoſing, that he is ‘to be numbered among thoſe poets, in whom the powers of underſtanding, more than thoſe of the imagination, are ſeen to exiſt.’ —But ſuch a ſuppoſi⯑tion affords us no very favourable or juſt eſtimate of the talents that really belonged to this wonderful being; for even the enemies of Johnſon muſt al⯑low, that a very vigorous, and a very quick imagination, was one of his moſt ſtriking characteriſtics. The truth, I believe, is, however paradoxical it may ſound, that a writer may poſſeſs the [104] faculty of imagination in a high de⯑gree, and yet prove himſelf a miſerable poet. Let any one try to read the Irene of Johnſon, and he will be per⯑fectly convinced of this truth. There are fine images, elevated ſentiments, and ſplendid language; yet the per⯑formance produces only languor and diſguſt, becauſe the author was utterly deſtitute of that ſenſibility, which alone can enable a writer to awaken intereſt and pathos. A poet, who has not the ſmalleſt degree of dominion over the paſſions, is as poor and impotent a being, as a king without ſubjects.

Such an author may fail in the drama, and yet excel in other branches of poetry.

I do not believe there is an inſtance of any great poet upon record, who was unable, on every occaſion, to aſ⯑ſume the eaſy air of nature, and to ſpeak the language of the heart. Such inability, I think, attended Johnſon, both in verſe and proſe. Yet, with all that deficiency, I feel he had faculties which juſtly make him an object of ad⯑miration. He had a depth, an expan⯑ſion, a majeſty of intellect;—he had an imagination that could preſent ei⯑ther grand or groteſque images to the mind, with infinite clearneſs and force; —he could lead or bewilder the judg⯑ment by ſtrength of argument, or by logical ſubtlety, he could amuſe the fancy by ſuch pageants as ſhe is fond of [106] ſurveying:—but I queſtion, if any poet or eſſyiſt ever exiſted, with leſs power of exciting either tears or laughter. With a total inability to catch or ſup⯑port the proper tone of any aſſumed character, he appears to me, among writers, very like what a deformed giant would be in a company of players; who might, indeed, appear on the ſtage in the parts of Hamlet or Benedick, but would certainly not charm you with any dramatic illuſion, while you diſcovered, under his theatrical diſguiſe, the high-ſhouldered Goliah. An effect of this defective kind (to uſe the quibble of Polonius) ſtrikes me perpetually in Raſſelas. I hardly ever hear a ſentence uttered by the Princeſs, or the Lady Pekuah, but I ſee the enormous Johnſon in petticoats.

Had Raſſelas been the production of a Frenchman, his country would have called it a noble poem.—And ſurely, diſtinguiſhed as it is by livelineſs of deſcription, by dignity of ſentiment, by elevation and purity of language, we ought to eſteem it as the work of a poetical imagination.

I have already declared my opinion, that the imagination of Johnſon was of the higheſt claſs. It was, indeed, a diamond; but, like the rarity that I lately read an account of in that excel⯑lent phyſician and philoſopher, Dr. Lewis, it was a black diamond, and malevolent melancholy was the foulneſs [108] of the jewel, to uſe the expreſſion of the naturaliſt, on which its black hue depended ^*. You may tell me, that we ought to treat this melancholy with tenderneſs, becauſe it was an hereditary misfortune; in that point of view, every perſon of common humanity muſt be inclined to pardon and to pity its effects. But let not the quality, which was an infirmity in the man, be eſteemed as a perfection in his works. His Raſſelas, like the greater part of his other compoſition, leaves a heavy and uncomfortable gloom upon the mind. You will tell me, perhaps, that the author wiſhed to produce a very ſerious effect, and that it conſtitutes a part of [109] his ſuperlative moral merit, to have converted that idle or miſchievous thing, called a romance, into a ſalutary book. —It may be ſo.—I can, indeed, con⯑ceive, that the old proverb concerning meat and poiſon, may be as true con⯑cerning books, our intellectual food, as it certainly is in regard to our ordi⯑nary diet. There may be minds to whom the pompous and dark fictions of your Moraliſt are both ſalutary and pleaſant. To me, they are neither; for, inſtead of quickening my virtues, they only communicate their own gloomineſs to my ſpirits.—His imagi⯑nation appears to me to reſemble the Chineſe bird, celebrated in that literary curioſity, ‘The Praiſe of Monkden, by his poetical majeſty of China.’ The bird is called Yuen. Its melancholy [110] cry, for it has no ſong, is ſaid to awaken the whirlwind; and it flies only in the darkneſs of a tempeſtuous night.

Severely as you have treated John⯑ſon, both as a poet and a noveliſt, there is yet one character in which you muſt allow him to ſtand ſuperior to every antagoniſt. He was not, indeed, the greateſt poet, or the moſt intereſting noveliſt, that ever wrote; but, as a critic, he has no equal. His Lives of the Poets, though not free from little defects, and inclining, perhaps, to an exceſs of ſeverity in a few articles, yet contain a maſs of criticiſm, ſuperior, perhaps, to all the united critical la⯑bours of the ancient and modern world. Different objections may be made to [111] different parts; but all voices conſpire in celebrating the whole, as the rich production of the moſt profound and acute underſtanding, that was ever em⯑ployed in the illuſtration of any ſingle art.

If barbarity can entitle a judge to preſide over his brethren, you are un⯑doubtedly right in conſidering Johnſon as the prince of critics. His criticiſm has, to my apprehenſion, all the excel⯑lencies, and all the failings, of his other compoſition. It has all the powers that the head can give; it has none of the charms that the heart only can ſupply. If you examine his deciſions on all our poets, you will find, that he in⯑geniouſly mingles as much malignity [112] with his juſtice, as the nature of his of⯑fice would allow him to exert.

This ſurely is a miſtake. You are angry with him for his ſarcaſtic ſeverity to a few of your favourites, and there⯑fore too haſtily accuſe him of malevo⯑lence and injuſtice towards the whole fraternity of poets—but, if his cenſure is now and then acrimonious, his praiſe in general is candid, generous, and mag⯑nificent.—The Lives, taken altogether, ſtrike me as the moſt radiant crown of glory, that poetic genius ever received from critical admiration.

I believe I can point out to you ſome very dark flaws in the brilliants [113] you admire. But firſt anſwer me one queſtion; Shall you not think the male⯑volence, and I might add the abſurdity, of the critic ſufficiently proved, if, in his characters of many poets, I ſhew you paſſages where the cenſure is not only too vehement, but infinitely more appli⯑cable to his own writings, than to the poet whom he is cenſuring.

This, I confeſs, would abate my re⯑verence for his judgment. But I am perſuaded, you would not find it poſſible to collect ſuch evidence as you de⯑ſcribe.

As it happens, I have it ready to produce; for, being curious to convince [114] myſelf how far his malignity to our poets extended, I amuſed myſelf, the other day, in ſelecting ſuch paſſages as appeared to confirm my idea. Here they are—let me read them to you in order; and I think you will agree with me, that they exhibit rather a ſtrong reſemblance of Johnſon himſelf, than a fair delineation of the unfavourable features in our great Engliſh bards.—I begin with a paſſage from his charac⯑ter of Shakeſpeare.

[116]Well, my good friend, is not all this a thouſand times more applicable to Johnſon himſelf, than to Shakeſpeare?

I muſt confeſs, it appears ſo; but in the Lives of the Poets, you can hardly have found any words ſo treacherouſly fitted to your purpoſe, or contrive to make them recoil ſo cruelly on their author.

You ſhall hear:—and, that I may not tire you, I will omit many of the ſen⯑tences in my liſt.—But what ſay you to the following?

‘The compoſitions are ſuch as might have been written for pen⯑nance by a hermit, or for hire by a [117] philoſophical rhymer, who had only heard of another ſex ^*.’ —This in⯑deed is partly true of Cowley's amorous poetry, yet it ſtrikes me as more exactly deſcriptive of Johnſon's various attempts to delineate female characters.

The malignity of your Critic towards Milton, fell rather on the man than the poet—and for this, you know, he has been very juſtly chaſtiſed. There is a ſanctity in the poetical character of Mil⯑ton, which ſecured it againſt any groſs violation, from a perſon who piqued himſelf on his piety; yet in his account of this religious bard, your Moraliſt has contrived to inſert a few malevolent remarks, infinitely more applicable to himſelf as an author, than to the ſub⯑lime [118] and tender poet whom he deteſted. —Let me read you my evidence.

How egregiouſly falſe are theſe words, as ſaid of the poet! how completely true when applied to Johnſon himſelf! —The milder half of Milton's merit, this great critic had no feelings to per⯑ceive. He could juſtly eſtimate the vi⯑gour of his imagination, but he could not diſcover the tenderneſs of his heart, which is exquiſitely diſplayed in the cha⯑racter [119] of Eve.—How perfectly has our divine poet caught the true tone of fe⯑male nature, in thoſe ſimple, beautiful, and pathetic lines, with which our love⯑ly parent cloſes a ſpeech in the 9th book!

How unfeeling muſt be the critic, who could repreſent the author of ſuch verſes, as utterly deficient in ſuavity and ſoftneſs!

His hatred and injuſtice to Milton, which aroſe from his political ſenti⯑ments, has, you know, been confeſſed and lamented by his friends.—As a coun⯑terpoiſe [120] to this defect, let me remind you of the noble juſtice which he has done to Dryden.—His account of this extraordinary poet, to whom Pope has ſo juſtly and ſo pathetically applied the epithet unhappy, is executed, as the painters ſay, con amore, and ſtrikes me as the maſter-piece of our critical bio⯑grapher.

It is eaſy to account for this pre-emi⯑nence; for in his whole liſt of poets, there is no individual to whom the bio⯑grapher bore ſo great a reſemblance, in the general caſt of his mind, in his po⯑litical, and, I believe, in his religious no⯑tions.—From ſome of Dryden's failings, indeed, the critic was happily free, and to ſome of his talents he has no preten⯑ſion; [121] but that they reſembled each other not a little in their mental features, you will clearly diſcover, by obſerving how exactly the following paſſages, from his forcible and juſt character of Dryden, are deſcriptive of himſelf.

Theſe paſſages are indeed applicable to Johnſon, and ſo doubtleſs are many ſentences of praiſe, that we might diſ⯑cover in his Biography: one honour⯑able metaphor, at leaſt, let us apply to him, out of the life from which you are quoting, and alluding to the cloſe of his admirable eulogy on Dryden: "Let us ſay of him, that he found the Eng⯑liſh language a confuſed heap of looſe ſtones, and that he left them raiſed by his ſingle labour into a noble edifice, which amazes us by its magnificence, and delights us by its utility."

I thank you, my good friend, for throwing in a little juſt commendation to temper the Colonel's ſeverity.—He ſeems, I think, to be engaged in a cruel kind of a proceſs; it is like the forcing a poor ſoldier to ſtand before the mouth of his own great gun, and reluctantly blow himſelf to pieces.

By no means. If an engineer, in le⯑velling a cannon againſt thoſe whom he ought to have ſpared, manages it ſo ill as to hurt only himſelf by its recoil, the fault is doubly his own; and, how⯑ever maimed he may be, he cannot be much entitled to compaſſion.—Now I think Johnſon exactly in this predica⯑ment; [124] and, when you hear the following extracts, I truſt you will agree with me. For brevity's ſake, I will confine myſelf to the lives of Prior, Hammond, Col⯑lins, and Gray, omitting ſeveral ſen⯑tences in my collection.

To make you an immediate convert, my dear Lady, to the juſtice of my pro⯑cedure, I ſhall begin with the character of your beloved Henry and Emma— ‘A dull and tedious dialogue, which excites neither eſteem for the man nor tenderneſs for the woman.’ —Every heart murmurs at the injuſtice of theſe words, thus pointed againſt Prior:—but obſerve with what propriety we might write them, dropping only two particles, on the title-page of Irene, and call that Tragical Homily, ‘dull and te⯑dious dialogue, which excites neither [125] eſteem for man nor tenderneſs for wo⯑man.’

But hear the fuller eſtimate of Prior's talents.

There's a curious portrait for you! If we knew not the painter, might we not ſuppoſe that it was rather drawn for the ſtiff and pompous Johnſon himſelf, than for the eaſy, elegant, and ſportive Prior?

[127]As to Hammond, Johnſon ſeems to have criticiſed him with the utmoſt ran⯑cour, becauſe he had been juſtly praiſed by Cheſterfield; whom the ſplenetic ſa⯑vage ſeizes this opportunity to calum⯑niate, by repreſenting him as commend⯑ing the Elegies of his departed friend, without having read them;—a charge not only abſurd in itſelf, but inconſiſtent with the idea which this rancorous critic entertained of the noble editor's vanity; ſince the Earl is elegantly and juſtly complimented, in the very poems which he is ſuppoſed to have praiſed without knowing their contents.—I ſhall hope to convince you, in the courſe of our conference, that Cheſterfield was as good a judge of nature, in poetry, as John⯑ſon; and that he had the talent of repre⯑ſenting it more faithfully, as an eſſayiſt, [128] than your great Moraliſt himſelf.—But let me now read the cenſure on Ham⯑mond.

‘Theſe Elegies have neither paſ⯑ſion, nature, nor manners.’ —Again, ‘Hammond has few ſentiments drawn from nature, and few images from modern life. He produces nothing but frigid pedantry ^*.’

Do you not admire this charge of pedantry, againſt a poet remarkable for the eaſy elegance of his language, from another, who talks himſelf of Arthritic Tyranny, in an ode to the Spring?

But to ſhew you the difference be⯑tween Hammond and Johnſon, as poets, [129] let me read you theſe two ſhort extracts from each.

Every man who has loved, muſt per⯑ceive, that in theſe verſes, though I have injured them by placing them to⯑gether, the paſſion of love is expreſ⯑ſed with delicacy, ſpirit, and truth. Now hear how Johnſon cloſes one of thoſe curious compoſitions that he calls Odes.

To ſay Preſs the cluſters, is an odd mode of calling for wine.—But I quote the paſſage, to ſhew the tenderneſs of the poet to his Stella. Put the ſenti⯑ment into plain proſe, and it runs thus; —Come! let us get half drunk, my dear Stella, and I ſhall then think you beautiful and myſelf happy.

This is playing the barbarous cri⯑tical tyrant, indeed! You out-Herod Herod!—But pray proceed to your ex⯑tract from the Life of Collins, which I do not perfectly recollect. I only re⯑member, that the critic mentions his perſonal intimacy with the poet; and I ſhould therefore imagine, he muſt ſpeak of his intereſting compoſitions with an affectionate enthuſiaſm, ſufficient to de⯑feat your hoſtile purpoſe of turning the heavy fire of his critical battery againſt himſelf.

Oh! your great Critic had too elevat⯑ed and too ſtately a mind, to be touched by the partialities of friendſhip! Hear [132] how he cloſes a character of the poet, written when we might ſuppoſe his ten⯑derneſs to be quickened by the recent death of his friend.— ‘This idea which he had formed of excellence, led him to oriental fictions and allegorical imagery; and perhaps, while he was intent upon deſcription, he did not ſufficiently cultivate ſentiment. His poems are the productions of a mind not deficient in fire, nor unfurniſhed with knowledge either of books or life, but ſomewhat obſtructed in its progreſs, by deviation in queſt of miſtaken beauties ^*.’ —No one, I be⯑lieve, can think the Critic ſpoke too kind⯑ly of Collins in this early character; — yet, as if his judgment had been warp⯑ed [133] by affection, in the ſubſequent life, which was not written, you know, till an interval of many years had allowed time enough for his extreme tenderneſs to evaporate, he added the following cenſure on the language of his poetical friend.— ‘His diction was often harſh, unſkilfully laboured, and injudiciouſly ſelected. He affected the obſolete, when it was not worthy of revival; and he puts his words out of the com⯑mon order, ſeeming to think, with ſome later candidates for fame, that not to write proſe, is certainly to write poetry. His lines commonly are of ſlow motion, clogged and impeded with cluſters of conſonants. As men are often eſteemed, who cannot be loved; ſo the poetry of Collins may [134] ſometimes extort praiſe, when it gives little pleaſure^*.’

Now, to my apprehenſion, every ſyl⯑lable, in both theſe Extracts, is infinitely more ſuited to Johnſon, than to his in⯑jured friend; the greater part of whoſe poetry, as Langhorne has juſtly ſaid of his ode on the death of Colonel Roſs, is replete with harmony, ſpirit, and pathos. —But I haſten to the laſt article on my liſt—the inſulted Gray. You are both of you ſo well acquainted with the Critic's extreme iniquity towards this enchant⯑ing bard, that I will only read a ſingle ſhort paſſage from thoſe I have ſelected.

Tell me, I beſeech you, to whoſe writings may we moſt properly apply this exaggerated deſcription? to thoſe of Gray, or of Johnſon? To me it ap⯑pears to hit the tumid Rambler himſelf, ſo forcibly, that if any man were to at⯑tempt a ſmall, but ſtrong caricatura of Johnſon as an author, I queſtion if he could produce one with ſo ſtriking a reſemblance as this very paragraph ex⯑hibits.

[136]And now, my good friend, ingenu⯑ouſly ſay, have I not convinced you, that Johnſon, in paſſing ſentence on our great poets, inſtead of fairly repreſent⯑ing their petty failings, has frequently delineated his own heavier defects, and aſcribed them to ſpirits of a higher claſs, to whom they could not belong?

You have (I muſt own) convinced me, that he was frequently unjuſt; but I am ſtill inclined to impute that in⯑juſtice, rather to the keenneſs and ſtrength, than to the malignity of his mind. I am perſuaded he always ſpoke as he felt; but he felt blemiſhes too forcibly, from the rigid integrity of his acute underſtanding. Whenever he blames, I believe you may diſcover [137] ſome little foundation for his cenſure; but he builds, perhaps, too large a ſtructure on too trifling a baſis. I cannot better explain to you my idea on this point, than by applying to him a lively couplet of Dr. Young:

Very well! — if you acknowledge him to be in the wrong, I will allow you to eſtimate, as you pleaſe, the moral rectitude of his perceptions. My own idea of him, as a critic, is this:—His ill-nature, or, if you wiſh for a ſofter expreſſion, his ſpleen, had, I think, a microſcopic eye, which, whenever it happened to glance on a [138] freckle in the face of any luckleſs muſe, immediately made it a cancer.

If, as a critic, he was too ſevere, his ſeverity may ſtill produce a very uſeful effect on the trifling vagrants of Parnaſſus, by exciting them to think with more energy. And, let me add, he has one critical merit, which deſerves the higheſt commendation; I mean, the merit of having reſcued the dramatic muſe from thoſe oppreſſive and three⯑fold fetters, The Unities.

The demolition of a perplexing poe⯑tical ſuperſtition, which had been ſancti⯑fied by the reverence of ages, was the work of a noble underſtanding, very worthily employed, and a work that [139] ought to endear his name to every lover of the ſtage.

I heartily join with you in this ap⯑plauſe, though, in general, I have little veneration for your Philoſopher in his critical capacity. It is Sir Henry Wotton, I think, who has called cri⯑tics the bruſhers of noblemen's clothes; and, if his metaphor is juſt, we may ſay that Johnſon, like a heavy-handed valet, has executed this office with ſuch vehemence, as fretted to pieces the fine raiment of his maſters.

Indeed, you are too ſevere!—But how great ſoever you may repreſent the miſ⯑takes of Johnſon, in points that belong [140] ſolely to taſte and ſentiment (on which, perhaps, we could hardly find any two minds in perfect uniſon) the great and ſolid portion of his merit muſt ſtill remain entire. He ſtrikes me like a venerable oak, which, though it may diſcover a few blighted leaves, and a little dead wood, perhaps, in the extre⯑mity of its branches, has a noble, ſound trunk, of the moſt valuable tex⯑ture. The world, ſurely, owes no little reſpect to a writer, who not only la⯑boured for many years, with great ſin⯑cerity and fervour, to improve their morals, but exerted his rare faculties for that purpoſe with ſuch conſtant rectitude of mind, with ſuch uncom⯑mon chaſtity of thought and expreſſion, that I queſtion if his numerous works contain a ſingle word or alluſion, which [141] the moſt modeſt female would bluſh to read in the preſence of a parent or a lover.

Then you muſt think our fair preſi⯑dent here a very ſqueamiſh lady, my good friend; for ſhe told us, you know, that ſhe was often diſguſted both by Cheſterfield and Johnſon.

You are a very treacherous antago⯑niſt, in attempting to injure me ſo bar⯑barouſly in the opinion of our judge. —But the equity of Lady Caroline is not to be corrupted or miſled. She will clearly perceive that you draw a very unwarrantable inference from what I advanced. Indelicacy is not the only [142] offence in a writer by which a lady can be diſguſted. As far as Lord Cheſter⯑field is concerned, I can, indeed, be⯑lieve that this offence was alluded to; for your dainty refiner of our manners abounds, I think, in ſuch indelicate images, as are moſt likely to diſguſt a mind ſo pure as that in queſtion. But whenever Lady Caroline was diſguſted by Johnſon, it was, I am convinced, by a defect very different from inde⯑licacy, yet a defect of which ſhe is equally qualified to judge—I mean, his critical injuſtice.

She is not ſufficiently honeſt, or, I ſhould rather ſay, ſhe is too delicate herſelf to confeſs, and demonſtrate to you, the contrary; but I will, on this [143] occaſion, be her interpreter. — There is, undoubtedly, a great degree of ſuch purity as you have juſtly praiſed in the writings of Johnſon; yet, immaculate as you think him, I can ſhew you a ſentence in his biography, which is, perhaps, both the moſt cruel and the moſt indecent ſentence that ever fell from the pen of a ſerious writer; and I am perſuaded this very paſſage was in my ſiſter's thoughts, when ſhe made uſe of the word diſguſted.

You have awakened my curioſity. Pray indulge me with an explanation of what you allude to, for I cannot even gueſs at the paſſage.

Here it is, in the volume that lies open before us.—It relates to the un⯑fortunate lady ſo pathetically lamented by Pope—you remember her hiſtory; I will only read the biographer's obſer⯑vation upon it.

What ſay you, my good friend, to the cloſe of this paragraph?—I doubt if the pen of Aretine himſelf ever de⯑lineated the rage of incontinence with groſſer or more diſguſting energy. — There is a ſavage barbarity, to my feelings, in this paſſage, that I want words to expreſs. It brings to my fancy the image of a cannibal, who, in finding the corſe of an unhappy, ſelf-ſlaughtered girl, inſtead of breathing over it a natural ſigh of compaſſion, tears the hapleſs body to pieces, with a ferocious, ſarcaſtic inſult on the poor unfortunate being, who, in a fit of diſtraction, had made herſelf his prey. Your great Moraliſt is the more in⯑excuſable [146] in this caſe, becauſe the un⯑fortunate Lady, inſtead of being ſo out⯑rageouſly eager to gratify her deſires, appears, I think, to have been a tender penitent, not immured in a convent by the tyranny of a relation, but a volun⯑tary recluſe, who wiſhed perhaps, but found herſelf unable, to atone for paſt frailties by a long perſeverance in ſoli⯑tude and prayer.

The late accounts that we have all read of this unfortunate Lady, are very far from agreeing with your deſcrip⯑tion.

I know it; but I put no truſt in the petty tales, which are ſo confidently re⯑corded [147] by the chroniclers of every idle hearſay. I cannot, indeed, perfectly vouch for the truth of my deſcription, but I can ſhew you it has the colouring of pro⯑bability. You may recollect, Pope himſelf tells us, in a note to his pa⯑thetic elegy, that the Lady was the ſame perſon to whom the Duke of Bucking⯑ham had addreſſed a copy of verſes on her deſign of retiring into a monaſtery. I will endeavour to repeat to you a few lines of the Duke's poetry, and, luckily for his Grace's poetical credit, and my recollection, the lines I am trying to re⯑member are the beſt in the poem.— O! I have juſt recovered enough for my argument.—The Duke deſcribes a tender, enchanting miſtreſs on the point of tearing herſelf from the arms of her [148] happy lover, in a ſudden guſt of devo⯑tion, and proceeds thus;

Such are the grounds on which I re⯑preſented this hapleſs fair as a diſtracted penitent, inſtead of an outrageous wan⯑ton; and if you conſider the force of the paſſionate verſes I have quoted, you will ſurely allow, that my conjecture is more ſpecious, at leaſt, than the im⯑probable ſtory, that ſhe was in love with Pope. At all events, the Biographer [149] has treated her barbarouſly.—I have heard, that he was intreated to cancel the paſſage, while the proof ſheets were before him, on account of its indecency and its injuſtice; but that he perſiſted in his ſavage reſolve to ſtigmatize the un⯑fortunate Lady, that he might not loſe an opportunity of ſhewing how truly he abhorred the crime of ſuicide; to the verge of which, his own melancholy, I believe, had often conducted him.

I thank you heartily for this anecdote. I never heard any thing in my life, I never read any thing of this nervous this ſublime author, that impreſſed me with ſo forcible ſo grand an idea of his magnanimous morality! I now ſee Johnſon in all his glory, determined to [150] exert his rare faculties for the real good of his fellow-creatures, with a noble a divine indifference to their applauſe and their abuſe!

What! can you burſt into a rapturous panegyric on his brutality?

Brutality! my good friend? Let us give a juſter name to qualities that do honour to mankind. I grant you every thing you can wiſh, as to the ſevere and groſs appearance of the paſſage you con⯑demn. I will allow you, it is a ſentence at which the cheek of a truly virtuous woman may turn crimſon, not only from wounded modeſty, but from an honeſt womanly indignation, in beholding ſo [151] hideous a caricatura of female tender⯑neſs. But all theſe tremendous objec⯑tions againſt it, tend only to encreaſe my reverence for the writer; and why? becauſe I clearly perceive all the ge⯑nerous ideas that led him to write and to perſevere in maintaining the paſſage. —Let us only examine the thoughts that muſt have paſſed in his mind on that occaſion. He muſt have thought in this manner: "I have written a ſen⯑tence, that is ſaid to violate the ela⯑borate purity of my moral compoſi⯑tions, a ſentence over which envy and malevolence will exult, and at which decency herſelf may be diſ⯑guſted;—but I know by what inſidious ſteps the demon of melancholy may lead a poor idle girl, whoſe affections perhaps are wiſely thwarted, to the [152] precipice of ſuicide. — If her piety will not ſave her, yet her pride may be rendered the inſtrument of her preſervation.—I may reſemble the an⯑cient legiſlators, who, to ſtop the con⯑tagious paſſion for this crime among the women of their city, expoſed the naked body of the ſelf-murder⯑ed female. The ſentence objected to, may check ſome unhappy woman on the verge of ſuicide, by ſhewing her how groſs an interpretation the crime ſhe meditates may receive.—Let the delicacy of millions be offended, if I can ſave but the life of one:—What are cenſure and applauſe to a writer, when put in the ſcale againſt ſuch a poſſibility?—my heart tells me, they are duſt in the balance."

So he reaſoned, ſo he acted; and we [153] ought to revere the heroical benevo⯑lence and dignity of his deciſion.

Nobly argued, my good friend! —I read in the countenance of the Lady, that in this article you have made con⯑verts of us both.—But I am aſtoniſhed to find, by the progreſs of the ſun, how our morning has ſlipt away—it grieves me to break up the conference, but I have ſome neceſſary letters to diſpatch by the poſt of to-day.

What! are you really going, bro⯑ther? and do you mean to abandon the defence of your favourite Cheſter⯑field?

Madam, the Colonel is aware, that on many occaſions, and I believe in the preſent, a maſterly retreat may be more honourable than a victory.

Well, then, let me make one requeſt to you both—that we may not ſay a ſyl⯑lable more, either on Cheſterfield or Johnſon, till we are quietly ſettled again in this room to-morrow.

I am much obliged to you for the idea; for in truth I ſhould appear a mi⯑ſerable advocate for the accompliſhed Earl, whoſe memory I am to vindicate, if I had not a little time allowed me, to bring his cruelly mangled character to your compaſſionate contemplation.— This, I truſt, I ſhall be able to do to⯑morrow.

DIALOGUE II.

WELL! my dear advocate for the noble delinquent, whom we are bringing to the bar, I may preſume you are fully prepared to anſwer the heavy charges againſt him, ſince you ſeem to have got a collection of memorandums, as copious as a lawyer's brief.

Pray do not diſcountenance, by your cruel raillery, a poor unpractiſed plead⯑er, whoſe apparatus is only in propor⯑tion [158] to his want of talents and expe⯑rience.

I am glad to find that you enter with ſo much modeſty on an office ſo daring as the defence of licentiouſneſs; for the good Archdeacon and I have been in ſome fear, leſt your quick imagination ſhould inflame itſelf into a dangerous partiality to a character that your judg⯑ment cannot eſteem.—He juſtly ob⯑ſerves, that too warm an apology for vice, may imperceptibly injure an honeſt mind, by diminiſhing its due reverence for virtue; and he has juſt pointed out to me an excellent paragraph, in his favourite Rambler, which tells us how culpable they are, who have ‘uſed the light imparted from heaven, only to [159] embelliſh folly, and ſhed luſtre upon crimes.’

You are good creatures, to be ſo kindly ſolicitous, for the preſervation of that little rectitude of mind, which has fallen to my lot! But I truſt your generous apprehenſion will ſubſide, when you recollect the nature of the points that I have undertaken to main⯑tain.—I have by no means engaged to exalt my Lord Cheſterfield into a model of moral excellence; but I ventured to ſay yeſterday, what I am now ſtill more inclined, and I flatter myſelf more able to ſupport—that, with ſplendid and en⯑gaing talents, he had neither more nor worſe vices than your pompous Philo⯑ſopher; and that he is equally entitled [160] to the kind remembrance of his coun⯑try. This, I think, is an innocent and juſt aſſertion, that, to every unpreju⯑diced mind, may be rendered as evident as it is, that to govern an unquiet king⯑dom, as a temporary viceroy, with dig⯑nity, and to be uncommonly clear in that great office, requires as much abi⯑lity, and as much virtue, as are requiſite to write a tumid moral eſſay, or to com⯑pile an elaborate treaſury of words.

I might reply to your ſarcaſtic mode of entering on this compariſon, by an alluſion to the compliment paid to Titian, by the Emperor Charles the Vth: I might tell you, that the King can make many Lord Lieutenants, but not a ſingle Johnſon.

I believe the creative influence of regal power could much ſooner make a Johnſon than a Cheſterfield. The com⯑mand of a prince can, indeed, produce elaborate language, and ambitious mo⯑rality; but genuine wit, and ſportive urbanity, are ſo far from being creatible (if I may create a word) by the will of a monarch, that they very rarely con⯑deſcend to appear in his preſence. Per⯑haps they never appeared at court to ſo much advantage, as in the character of Cheſterfield. I queſtion if they were ever united to more political integrity; and how happily they may ſometimes accompliſh the irkſome buſineſs of gra⯑ver argument, we have a pleaſant in⯑ſtance, in the anecdote of the noble [162] Lord's prevailing on the king to fill up a commiſſion with a name, which he had rejected with deteſtation. It was in 1747, when the Earl was Secretary of State. "I had rather have the Devil," ſaid the angry ſovereign, when preſſed to confirm the appointment in queſtion: "With all my heart," ſaid the lively ſecretary, who was waiting ready to fill up the inſtrument for the royal ſignature; "I only beg leave to remind your majeſty, that the com⯑miſſion is indited to our right truſty and right well-beloved couſin." The king, you know, laughed, and complied with the wiſhes of his miniſter.

Your ſtory is a good example of plea⯑ſantry well-timed. I will not ſay (what [163] I know many people think) that a few lucky ſtrokes of confident vivacity in⯑duced the world to deem much higher of his Lordſhip's wit than it really deſerved; but, giving him full credit, as a true proprietor of this graceful feather, I muſt not allow you to conſi⯑der it as equivalent to the more ſolid treaſures of Johnſon's moral wiſdom and virtue.

Nor can I permit you, my dear and reſpected opponent, to aſſume as in⯑conteſtible an opinion, which ſome honeſt people, indeed, have aſſumed too haſtily—that Johnſon was a com⯑pound of every thing that is morally good, and Cheſterfield of every thing that is morally evil.—If I can ſhew [164] you, that the accompliſhed Earl had in truth as much wiſdom and virtue as the arrogant Philoſopher, with his own rich inheritance of native wit into the bargain, you muſt certainly allow him to be the more admirable character of the two. That he was, indeed, nei⯑ther leſs wiſe nor leſs virtuous than Johnſon, is ſufficiently evident to me, from a little ſurvey that I have taken of what I may call the morning and the evening in the lives of each.—Let me ſet the two men before you, for an in⯑ſtant, in thoſe ſtriking periods of their exiſtence. At the age of thirty, a ſeaſon when the firſt whirlwind of the paſſions has ſubſided, and the mind of man begins to aſſume a ſettled temperature, how do we find Johnſon employed? Why truly, in writing a rebellious [165] pamphlet, which his very biographer repreſents as mean in its execution, and deteſtable in its deſign.—Now let me direct your eyes to Cheſterfield, at the ſame age.—What was the noble Lord doing at thirty? In this year of his life, I find him giving an early example of that generous integrity, which he maintained through every ſtage of his political career—and politely rejecting the advice of thoſe, who recommended it to him to increaſe the profits of a poſt that he had juſt accepted, by ſelling the ſubordinate places in his diſpoſal. You may tell me, perhaps, that ſuch an early compariſon of the two men, in a point of political purity, conſider⯑ing the difference of their birth and ſtation, is neither candid nor juſt. Let us look then at the two veterans, when [166] each was turned of ſeventy, when both were preparing to quit the ſtage of life, the Philoſopher weary of having in⯑ſtructed the world, and the Wit of having enlivened it. At ſuch a ſeaſon, if the Philoſopher had indeed been a man of ſound wiſdom and virtue, we might expect to find him calmly and chearfully looking forward to an im⯑mortal reward for the benefits which his labour had beſtowed upon mankind; and if the gayer life of the Wit had in truth been a mere tiſſue of vice and folly, we might expect alſo to behold him, at this important ſeaſon, ſinking under the dread of a tremendous re⯑tribution. Now, are theſe the reſpec⯑tive conditions in which we may actually contemplate theſe two oppoſite, but il⯑luſtrious old men? No! it is juſt the [167] reverſe. We ſee the imperious Philo⯑ſopher looking back with remorſe, looking forward with conſternation, and ſtrangely converting a juſtice of peace into a confeſſor, to tell him more ſecret tranſgreſſions than he was willing to hear. —Now take a view of the ſuperannuated Wit, ſo unjuſtly ſuſpected of a ſettled depravity in heart and ſpirit. We find him, and I beg you will obſerve the contraſt, ſoothing the ills of departing life, and particularly that moſt depreſſive affliction, his long and incurable deaf⯑neſs, by pouring out all his manly and natural feelings, in letters of the moſt tender friendſhip to a venerable pre⯑late—a prelate, who was long his boſom-friend; whom he had raiſed, in a ge⯑nerous manner, that did himſelf ſin⯑gular honour, to epiſcopal dignity; and [168] who, to his own credit, and to that of his noble patron, was diſtinguiſhed by the glorious appellation of the Good Biſhop.—It was thus that Johnſon and Cheſterfield firſt appeared on our cla⯑morous theatre of the world, and it was thus they quitted it. They are now gone to their great audit, before the Judge of every heart, who alone, perhaps, can truly decide, which was indeed the man of moſt wiſdom and virtue. As far as their own books, and the printed accounts of both, can enable my limited faculties to form a juſt eſtimate of the two characters, I declare, and I entreat you not to con⯑demn me too haſtily for my declaration, that were I acting under Heaven as a judge, to decide the merits of the two, [169] I ſhould rather give the palm of virtue to Cheſterfield than to Johnſon.

Our good friend, I perceive, is amazed and ſhocked by the ſingularity and confidence of your opinion!—and even I, who know you better, muſt con⯑feſs myſelf a little ſurprized at your car⯑rying your partiality ſo far!—I thought you would have contented yourſelf with an as wiſe and as good, a kind of hand-in-hand compariſon, as Shakeſpeare ſays: but your beſtowing the palm of Goodneſs on a character univerſally condemned for immorality, is a ſtroke of whimſical enthuſiaſm that I did not expect!—Let me remind you, however, that we are departing from the plan we propoſed to ourſelves in this amicable [170] debate. Pray recollect, that the Arch⯑deacon is firſt to ſtate all the flagrant and numerous defects in your too en⯑gaging favourite; and then you are to conclude, not with his apology, I find, but his panegyric.

As the Colonel diſcovers ſo much zeal in the cauſe, I beg that we may allow him to conduct the defence he has undertaken, in any mode that he chuſes. You and I, my dear Lady, are at a time of life to be amuſed, in⯑ſtead of corrupted, by the magic of deluſive eloquence, however ſubtle it may be; and for my own part, I am highly entertained in obſerving, with what acute ingenuity a very upright and religious mind, when under the [171] influence of affectionate prejudice, can decorate a favourite, though faulty cha⯑racter. Our honeſt enthuſiaſt has un⯑doubtedly deceived himſelf, and he has, I am perſuaded, ſufficient talents to communicate that deception to others, during the moment when he is ſpeak⯑ing. Yet, were he ſpeaking to the world at large on this topic, I ſhould be under no apprehenſion of his re⯑verſing the juſt decree of the public on the two characters in queſtion; and for this ſhort and ſimple reaſon—The public, however dazzled by my orato⯑rical friend, would ſoon recollect the infallible teſt it poſſeſſes to decide the real merits of both; and wiſely ſay to itſelf, By their works we may know them.—The Philoſopher, how⯑ever tainted by perſonal defects, has [172] bequeathed to us an invaluable legacy of the ſublimeſt moral inſtruction; and the Wit, however decorated by perſonal dignities, has left us little more than an elegant manual of profligate advice, ſo improperly addreſſed by a parent to his child, that it has juſtly excited a ge⯑neral murmur of abhorrence.

Surely, my good friend, you are ſpeak⯑ing only to try my temper. You cannot, I am confident, you cannot have ſeri⯑ouſly adopted the cruel abſurdity of the world, concerning the letters you allude to. O that I poſſeſſed indeed that divine talent of eloquence which your laughingly aſcribe to me, and for which I am ſo little faſhioned by nature or education! Were I really maſter of [173] that enchanting power, I hardly know a ſubject on which I ſhould more delight to employ it, than in doing juſtice to a man who deſerved ſo highly of this nation, and whoſe character has been ſo baſely degraded.—We talk of the fre⯑quent cruelty and injuſtice of Athens, to the virtue that defended her walls, and to the talents that immortalized her glory; but I queſtion if ever any meritorious Athenian ever experienced ſuch poſthu⯑mous ingratitude (if I may uſe ſuch an expreſſion) from his capricious fellow⯑citizens, as Cheſterfield has received from us. Let me remind you, that he was juſtly eſteemed, for half a century, as one of the moſt accompliſhed charac⯑ters in this kingdom. He ſerved his country as an ambaſſador in Holland; and made the pureſt characters of that [174] republic his friends. He ſerved his country as a governor of Ireland, at a period of great difficulty and danger; and his virtues appeared to expand with his power. He ſerved his country as a miniſter at home; and nobly quitted his place, the moment he found it incon⯑ſiſtent with his integrity and honour. He reſigned, not to indulge himſelf in factious turbulence, but in literary re⯑tirement. Study and converſation were, indeed, among his favourite amuſe⯑ments, at every ſeaſon of life; for the native caſt of his character was rather gentle than vehement; and he oppoſed his enemies rather with gaiety than ran⯑cour. In the courſe of a buſy and ſplendid life, he found time to write a few periodical leſſons on life and man⯑ners, in which he equalled the firſt au⯑thors [175] in that branch of literature; and, having ſufficiently proved his taſte, by his own admirable productions, he was univerſally regarded as the moſt accompliſhed patron of letters. His manners, and his wit, were ſo engaging, that he was long eſteemed the chief or⯑nament and delight of ſociety, and the eminent characters of every country in Europe appeared ambitious of his ac⯑quaintance and regard. His latter days were embittered with many bodily infir⯑mities, which he ſupported, however, with a chearful and religious philoſophy, in conſidering this life as a fugitive dream, that he did not wiſh to renew, and in thinking of his Creator, as he tells his boſom friend, the good Biſhop of Waterford, with more hope than fear.— So lived and ſo died the Earl of Cheſter⯑field, [176] reſpected by the world, and ido⯑lized by his friends.—But a Lady, who had great reaſon to think well of the noble Lord, ſeized the opportunity of his deceaſe, to publiſh a collection of letters written for a very private and very particular purpoſe. She knew that they had been dictated by the parental tenderneſs of a good heart; and ſhe did not foreſee, that the public could inge⯑niouſly miſinterpret them, ſo far as to call them the ſuggeſtions of an evil ſpirit; but, as there is a conſtant eager⯑neſs in mankind to ſeize, even the ſlight⯑eſt opportunity of degrading an exalt⯑ed name, as ſoon as theſe letters were publiſhed, an outcry was raiſed againſt them, by many hypocritical pretenders to goodneſs, and by many truly good people, who wanted either faculties or [177] patience to form a fair eſtimate of their author. Malevolent ridicule ſcattered her gibes on the father, ſo ſolicitouſly ſtriv⯑ing to improve the awkward perſon of his child; and miſtaken piety repreſented him as a prodigy of wickedneſs, labour⯑ing to infuſe all his own follies and vices into his offspring, and to eſtabliſh a corrupt ſyſtem of education, that would annihilate all the virtue of our country. But, after all, what is this maſter-piece of profligacy, when examin⯑ed by truth and candour? It is a ſingu⯑lar, and, in many points, the moſt ad⯑mirable monument of paternal tender⯑neſs and anxiety, that the literature of any nation can exhibit; it is a work, that, inſtead of corrupting our ſons, may ra⯑ther ſtimulate their parents to a quicker ſenſe of their duty, by ſhewing us, that [178] a man, in all the tumultuous buſtle of buſy, of gay, and of ſplendid life, could find time to labour with inceſſant atten⯑tion in trying to counteract the peculiar perſonal imperfections of a dear, though awkward ſon.—O Cheſterfield! I have read thee with the eyes of a father, anxious not only for the temporal but the eternal intereſt of his children; and my heart tells me, that in the ſight of our great all-ſeeing Parent, the work for which thou art vilified on earth muſt have more of merit than of ſin.

Though every thing may be hoped from the mercy of the Supreme Judge, I cannot ſee how the common juſtice of mankind can abſolve a parent, who even inſtigates his ſon to indulge himſelf in [179] crimes that are eminently pernicious to the peace and happineſs of the world.

Is it candid, is it juſt, or, I ſhould ra⯑ther ſay, is it not the height of iniquitous cruelty, to give ſo dark an interpreta⯑tion to idle raillery, in a familiar letter, which, like the jeſts of private converſa⯑tion, ſhould be conſidered only as the idle pleaſantry of the moment?—To defend licentiouſneſs, by ſaying, it was recom⯑mended only in a country whoſe cuſ⯑toms appeared to give it a ſanction, is an argument, which, though it may ex⯑tenuate the offence, is far from being, according to my ideas, the beſt vindica⯑cation that we may urge for the noble Lord.—All the immoral advice of Cheſ⯑terfield, may be compared to a drug, [180] which, though it is rank poiſon if ſwal⯑lowed indiſcriminately by the multi⯑tude, may operate as an innocent and uſeful medicine to a particular patient.— The diſeaſe of young Stanhope, to pur⯑ſue the metaphor, was awkwardneſs in the extreme, and gallantry was the preſcrip⯑tion of Cheſterfield. By giving his ſon credit, in theſe private letters, for more influence over the fair than he was formed to attain, the father might mean no more, than to lead him fre⯑quently into ſuch female ſociety as had the beſt chance of rendering him leſs an object of ridicule. Immorality of this kind, we hear every day in the ſportive ſallies of converſation between parents and children, where no real act of licentiouſ⯑neſs is intended, and where no cenſure falls on the jeſting preacher of very ſimi⯑lar [181] doctrine.—It is particularly cruel, to give the darkeſt interpretation to the licentious levity of theſe motley letters, when the ſame correſpondence affords us many ſerious paſſages of the pureſt morality.—There is a double injuſtice in the common cenſure on theſe ad⯑mirable letters:—they are condemned as a general ſyſtem, when they were ex⯑preſsly deſigned to correct the particular blemiſhes of an individual—they are condemned for not ſpeaking more of morality and religion, when the author informs us, he had intentionally left thoſe points to a worthy delegate. Yet that he touched upon them ſometimes, and did it with all the affecting energy of a father truly anxious for the moral ex⯑cellence of his ſon, I hope to convince [182] you, by reading the few following ex⯑tracts.

Pray obſerve, with what honeſt and ſerious warmth this ſuppoſed advocate for vice, exhorts his young diſciple to the moſt ſcrupulous integrity.

Can the moſt rigid moraliſt, that ever exiſted, ſurpaſs the rectitude and the [184] fervency of theſe admonitions—not de⯑livered, indeed, with the bloated affecta⯑tion of pompous and pointed ſentences, but breathing the tenderneſs and the warmth of a pure parental ſpirit.

The Ladies, in their laudable zeal for the honour of their ſex, are angry with Cheſterfield, for repreſenting them as unable to keep a ſecret; but they forget the great object he had in view: it was to form a miniſter for foreign courts; and his caution therefore, on this article, was only guarding his ſon againſt thoſe inſinuating enemies, to which an Am⯑baſſador is particularly expoſed.

The noble Author is accuſed of pre⯑ferring manners to morals. I intreat you to hear how juſtly he maintains, in the following paſſage, the pre-eminence of the latter.

Again, in the cloſe of the ſame letter, ‘Be convinced, that good-breeding is, to all worldly qualifications, what cha⯑rity is to all Chriſtian virtues.’

Can any preceptor, my good friend, [187] exhibit ſounder ſentiments than theſe, either as to exterior accompliſhment or internal perfection?

Like a ſkilful advocate, you have ſhewn us the fair ſide of your client; but had his book been entirely of this complexion, its purity had never been impeached. I believe, we might oppoſe to your quotations innumerable paſſages of an oppoſite tendency. But as, I muſt confeſs, I have not looked into this ma⯑nual of politeneſs for ſeveral years, I ſhall not attempt to enforce my general charge againſt it, eſpecially as you have anſwered that charge by a palliating argument, which, though it would hard⯑ly ſupport any ſevere ſcrutiny, is, I am perſuaded, ſo ſufficiently concluſive to [188] your partial good-nature, that I ſhould deſpair of converting you.

You ſeem perfectly aware of my bro⯑ther's foible, which is, a generous pro⯑penſity to think every writer virtuous, who diſplays the particular talents that afford him the higheſt pleaſure. You might have found him, the other day, as warmly engaged in defending the moral character of Sterne.

Pardon me! I only ſaid, that if Sterne was in truth the ſorry character which many auſtere people affect to call him, I ſuppoſed he was prompted to write by his good genius, that, in the regiſter of the recording angel, the merits of the [189] author might counterbalance all the ſins of the man.

Yet, you know, that many human in⯑quiſitors have rather claſſed his writings in the catalogue of his tranſgreſſions.

Yes! and I am perfectly aware that your ſplenetic Moraliſt was one of thoſe inquiſitors. But I can never ſubſcribe to the ſevere ſentence of a judge, when every fibre in my head and heart aſſure me of his iniquity.—There are glaring defects in the compoſitions of Sterne, but the general effect of them is meri⯑torious in the higheſt degree. All the elaborate, all the oſtentatiouſly moral volumes of Johnſon can never impreſs [190] on my mind ſuch fervent ſentiments of reverential gratitude to Heaven, or of good-will to earth, as I receive from a few pages of the incomparable Sterne. —Perhaps no author ever poſſeſſed, in ſo high a degree, the ineſtimable talent of putting the untuned ſpirit into har⯑mony with itſelf, and with all around it. If I take him up in a reſtleſs or gloomy fit, he not only chaces from my mind every veſtige of ſpleen, but leaves in its place a diſpoſition to chearful piety and active benevolence.

You have utterly forgot, my dear rambling enthuſiaſt, the noble Lord, whoſe real or imaginary perfections you were to ſtate to us; though I fancy, from the appearance of the paper in your [191] hand, you have many more remarks to communicate for the illuſtration of his character.

Thanks, ſweet remembrancer! Let me look at my references for a moment, and I will proceed in due order. We propoſed to compare Cheſterfield and Johnſon in three different lights; firſt, as men or citizens; ſecondly, as periodi⯑cal lecturers on life and manners; and laſtly, as writers, in point of ſtyle.— Since I find the Archdeacon is too candid in his own ſentiments, or too indulgent to my opinion of the party I am defend⯑ing, to dwell with great vehemence on the charge againſt my client, I ſhall conclude my deſultory pleading, by a few brief obſervations, arranged under [192] the three heads I have mentioned, re⯑queſting my worthy friend to correct me where I am groſsly miſtaken; and I ſhall then entreat your Ladyſhip to favour us with your frank and genuine ſentiments on the two characters in queſtion.

I ſhall begin with pointing out to you a very ſtriking difference between Cheſterfield and Johnſon, in an article which I conſider as a great teſt of an amiable heart, I mean, Friendſhip. From the letters of the noble Lord to the Biſhop of Waterford and Mr. Day⯑rolles, it is evident, that he took the moſt lively intereſt in all the concerns of thoſe two valuable men.—Indebted as they both were to his patronage, and inferior to him in talents, he never ſpeaks to them in a tone of ſu⯑periority, [193] but upon every occaſion as a ſincere and ſympathetic friend. Pray obſerve, from the following paſſage in this correſpondence, how the ſuppoſed advocate for univerſal licentiouſneſs in youth, ſpeaks to thoſe he loved on the education of their children.

But my eſteem for Cheſterfield, in this point of view, is principally founded on his character of his boſom friend, my Lord Scarborough, one of the moſt beautiful and pathetic portraits of an amiable but unhappy mind, that was ever delineated by truth and tenderneſs; ſo very beautiful, that I think no one can read the compoſition, ſhort as it is, without ſaying of its author, This man had indeed a heart for friendſhip, and the talent of deſcribing thoſe he loved in the genuine language of na⯑ture.

Now turn to Johnſon.—In all his elaborate volumes, you diſcover no [195] veſtiges of his having enjoyed the in⯑eſtimable bleſſing of true cordial friend⯑ſhip; no marks of that fond and amiable gratitude, which has induced ſo many great authors to delineate and immor⯑talize the perſons who contributed to their happineſs or their glory. — It has been obſerved, that he never pre⯑fixed a dedication to any one of his va⯑rious works; a circumſtance that ar⯑gues, to my apprehenſion, not ſo much an independent, as a proud, unfeeling, and ſurly ſpirit. For though dedications have too often conſiſted of baſe flattery to opulence and grandeur; they have frequently appeared as pleaſing and graceful offerings to friendſhip, and ſometimes as a proper tribute to parti⯑cular ſtations. It is, I think, with equal malevolence and injuſtice, that Johnſon [196] accuſes Addiſon of ſervile abſurdity, in dedicating his Opera of Roſamond to the Dutcheſs of Marlborough, as the poet had exhibited, in a prophetic ſcene of his drama, the very manſion, of which the juſt liberality of the kingdom had made this Lady the miſtreſs. His inſcribing the Opera to her, was ſurely an act of blameleſs and becoming ci⯑vility. This, indeed, is not the only inſtance of Johnſon's malignity to Ad⯑diſon, an author whoſe life, whoſe writ⯑ings, and whoſe death, exhibit ſuch abundance of the pureſt merit, that I can hardly think the man a true and perfect lover of genius or virtue, who ſpeaks of him in groſs terms of ſarcaſtic contempt.

But to return to the article that I was ſpeaking of.—Had Johnſon poſſeſſed [197] a heart for friendſhip, he muſt have en⯑joyed all the reciprocal delights and ad⯑vantages of that bleſſing, in his long connexion with Garrick.—They had ſet out hand in hand, to make their way together through the chances of a world to which they were equally ſtrangers, and had jointly borrowed five pounds, in a moment of mutual diſtreſs, on the credit of the future Comedian. Such a circumſtance was almoſt ſuffi⯑cient in itſelf to have made them ſin⯑cere friends for ever, had their ſouls been of the true friendly temper; as there ſeem to be few bonds of union more laſting among men, than that of having paſſed through early hardſhips together. In my own profeſſion, I have ſeen the force of this cement among our ſoldiers very wonderfully exempli⯑fied. [198] But there were other conſide⯑rations that might have made Johnſon a cordial friend to Garrick. Their talents were of ſo different a nature, that no rivalſhip could exiſt between them; and accordingly we find Garrick, who was apt, indeed, to be alarmed at every ſhadow of a rival in his profeſſion, was ever ready to beſtow the moſt hearty applauſe on the real merits of his old aſſociate. Patient under his dogmatical aſperity, and indulgent to his humour, he almoſt revered and obeyed him as a parent; yet the ſple⯑netic ſavage, unſoftened by this filial homage, had the barbarity to mortify this boſom-friend of his early and in⯑digent days, by excluding him from a little club, to which he ſued for admiſſion. This ſingle anecdote of [199] Johnſon is ſufficient, in my opinion, to mark him for a brute.

You are running again, my good friend, into an exceſs of ſeverity. You forget that Garrick had his failings as well as Johnſon, perhaps greater fail⯑ings, without an equal counterpoiſe of perfection. By talents of a claſs far in⯑ferior to thoſe of the Philoſopher, he had riſen to the intoxicating joys of opulent ſplendor, and is ſaid, you know, to have inſulted, by an oſtenta⯑tious diſplay of his magnificence, his leſs fortunate old friend; who, like many other laborious men of letters, had been a drudge for years, without raiſing a competence for the decline of life. For my own part, I never think of theſe two [200] extraordinary men, without lamenting in my heart, that they ſo little exerted the great powers which they both poſ⯑ſeſſed, of contributing to the happineſs and to the glory of each other. You know, my friend, that although I am in ſome points, as Lady Caroline calls me, an idolater of Johnſon, I am far from adopting his gloomy ideas of human life. On the contrary, I think our earth, which is often a pleaſant habitation as it is, would be for ſome years a delightful reſidence indeed, if every man ſeized the opportunity of doing the noble things within his faculties to accompliſh, with⯑out indulging any malevolent or narrow⯑minded ideas.—For inſtance, had Gar⯑rick poſſeſſed a great ſoul, how happily might he have reſcued his old friend from debaſing himſelf in the eyes of [201] many, by the acceptance of that penſion to which he had haſtily annexed, in his dictionary, ſo odious a definition! How well might Garrick have ſpared, from his ample revenue, an annuity of equal value! and how much would it have added to his reputation and delight, if he had employed a part of that wealth, which he derived from the partial libe⯑rality of the public, in ſecuring inde⯑pendence, not only to the friend of his youth, but to a mighty genius, who, from the peculiar infelicities that belong to authorſhip, could hardly earn more than his daily bread by ſuch exertions of intellect as do honour to his country!

Had Garrick poſſeſſed the princely ſpi⯑rit to confer ſuch a benefit (which at times, [202] I believe, he really did) your ſplenetic Philoſopher had too much pride to ac⯑cept it;—though I perfectly agree with you, in thinking it more pleaſant and more honourable to receive the bleſſing of independence from the bounty of a friend than from the penſion of a ſove⯑reign, however gracious, to whoſe family and title the heart of the penſioner was known to have been a rebel.

You amaze me, my dear diſputants, by agreeing in a point where I differ ſo widely from you both, that I cannot re⯑frain from an immediate declaration of my diſſent.

Surely, to have accepted ſo large a gratuity from a ſubject, however exalted, muſt have been utterly inconſiſtent with [203] the dignity of Johnſon. In receiving a penſion from a ſovereign, who has fre⯑quently ſhewn a diſpoſition to correct the injuſtice of fortune towards literary genius, he had the ſanction of cuſtom and of propriety in his favour.

As this is a point that depends chiefly on delicacy of feeling, you are probably in the right; though, I confeſs, I cannot agree with you.—But allow me to reſume my argument. It is clear that Johnſon did not love Garrick, though he had many reaſons to do ſo; and it is equally clear, that the incurable envy of your moral Philoſopher was the cauſe. I want no additional proof that he was utterly unfit for true laſting friendſhip. The friends of an envious man can have [204] no ſecurity for the continuance of his regard, but their own inſignificance. If they happen, by any ſucceſsful talents, to improve their title to his affection, they will inevitably loſe it.—An attempt to maintain a friendſhip with an envious character, will probably produce a diſ⯑appointment very ſimilar to what was lately felt by a naturaliſt of my acquain⯑tance, who, intending to preſerve a fa⯑vourite rarity in a bottle of pure ſpirits, found it put by miſtake into a veſſel of aqua fortis, which annihilated the trea⯑ſure that it was expected to preſerve.

The force and aptitude of your ſimile is a full vindication of my Philoſopher; for, while I agree with you, that envy is, in truth, a corroſive of power ſufficient [205] to annihilate friendſhip, I muſt obſerve, that the long intimacy which Johnſon enjoyed with many reſpectable and cele⯑brated names, is a proof that if he was not perfectly exempt from this defect, its exiſtence only added to the triumphs of his virtue.

I cannot agree with you in your con⯑cluſion; for I find no public traces of his having praiſed the names you allude to, in the language of perfect affection; and ſurely thoſe who have exhibited his character to the world, rather ſpeak of him as a prodigy they admired, than as a friend they loved. He was, in truth, ſo great a prodigy, both in his facul⯑ties and his failings, that I hardly think it poſſible for any man to have con⯑tracted [206] an intimacy with him much ſu⯑perior to the kind of friendſhip that ſubſiſts between a ſhow-man and the lion that he exhibits. Indeed it has been obſerved, that the favourite and moſt adroit leader of the monſter, who ventured to ſport with him moſt fami⯑liarly, could not always withdraw him⯑ſelf from his paw without ſevere lace⯑ration.

The preference that your fancy gives to Cheſterfield againſt Johnſon, ſeems founded on your idea of your favourite's companionable attractions: yet ſurely, if the merits of the men might be fairly eſtimated by their powers of amuſing a companion, the Earl could not triumph on this ground; for I apprehend his [207] converſation, if compared to that of Johnſon, was like the ſoothing murmur of a rill, compared to the majeſtic roar of a torrent.—As to mirth, no witty re⯑partee of the noble Lord, could more happily excite ſurprize and laughter, than the lively ſallies of Johnſon, both in proſe and verſe.

But your imagination is ſo much haunted by ideas of his ferocity, that you neither do juſtice to his wit, nor to the acknowledged tenderneſs of his heart,— which was ſo ſingularly humane, that I believe no author of his eminence ever afforded ſo much literary aſſiſtance to thoſe who implored it. Perſons who have been diſtinguiſhed by the public diſplay of any talent, are apt, in general, to entertain an important ſuſpicious dread of debaſing their dignity, by con⯑deſcending [208] to employ themſelves in any petty work for a benevolent purpoſe.— From this frequent and ridiculous foible the great humanity of Johnſon com⯑pletely exempted him. Whenever ſoli⯑cited by diſtreſs, he was ready, you know, to contribute either a prologue or a petition.

Do not ſuppoſe me ſo blind, or ſo unjuſt, as not to perceive and revere his ſignal readineſs to aſſiſt the wretched. He had, certainly, ſincere and active compaſſion for great calamities; but this is a caſt of mind very different from that which leads a man to perfect ami⯑ty with the proſperous and the eminent. A poet, who is more kind than ſevere to [209] the character of your Philoſopher, very truly and happily tells us,

This diſpoſition is indeed diſcerni⯑ble in every portrait of Johnſon; and ſurely nothing can be more incompati⯑ble with the true ſpirit of friendſhip. I conceive, therefore, that he entertained, for the perſons who were moſt beloved by him, ſuch a ſort of regard as we may ſuppoſe the Man-mountain to have be⯑ſtowed on thoſe half-flattered and half-frightened Lilliputians, whom he deign⯑ed to elevate in the palm of his hand; and for whom he ſometimes condeſcend⯑ed [210] to ſoften the portentous ſound of his voice.

But let me haſten to my ſecond arti⯑cle, and compare your Philoſopher with Cheſterfield, as a periodical moraliſt.

As our religion informs us, that it is very difficult for a rich man to find the way to heaven; ſo may we conceive, that it is hardly leſs difficult for a man of quality, buſineſs, and faſhion, to ren⯑der himſelf equal to our accompliſhed authors. He who was nurſed by vanity, and tutored by pomp, deſerves, I think, no little praiſe, if he has delivered mo⯑ral lectures not inferior to thoſe of a philoſopher, who had adverſity to teach, and poverty to inſpire him. In nam⯑ing poverty, I cannot help reminding you of your Philoſopher's very ſingular opinion, in regarding it as the only effi⯑cacious [211] inſpirer; an opinion which induces me to believe, that, had he been born in the rank of Cheſterfield, he would have proved, if not the moſt ſenſual, at leaſt the moſt indolent of our modern voluptuaries. But, in the midſt of many temptations to be idle and voluptuous, we find my noble favourite exerting his natural and acquired ta⯑lents to improve the morals of his countrymen; and I will venture to affirm, that the moral papers contained in his miſcellaneous works, are full as well, if not better, calculated to anſwer their purpoſe, than thoſe pompous diſ⯑ſertations of your Philoſopher, where the two authors afford the faireſt ground for a compariſon, in the ſimilarity of their ſubject. As a ſtrong caſe in point, I beg you to compare, at your leiſure, the ad⯑mirable [212] paper in Cheſterfield, on the luxury of the table (which forms the ſixteenth number of a periodical work, intitled Common Senſe) with the paper on gluttony in your favourite Rambler.—If you compare alſo the in⯑troductory number in each of theſe pub⯑lications, you will clearly perceive, I think, that the talents of Cheſterfield were more ſuited, than thoſe of John⯑ſon, to the production of attractive and uſeful little lectures on life and manners. If you want farther proofs of this aſſer⯑tion, you may find them, I am perſuad⯑ed, in the papers that he contributed to The World, particularly thoſe on drink⯑ing, and civility, which live in the memory of every reader.—As Moraliſts, they ſeem to bear the ſame relation to each other that exiſts between the ele⯑gant, [213] the penetrating Horace, and the forcible declamatory Juvenal. The en⯑gaging eaſe of Cheſterfield's ſtyle, and the ſportive graces of his wit, were pecu⯑liarly adapted to render him excellent as the eſſayiſt of a day. When they are compared together in this light, John⯑ſon is to Cheſterfield what the Piony is to the Roſe—of a grander form, of more forcible and richer colouring, yet not ſo pleaſant; to be ſurveyed with diſtant admiration, but not eagerly received in⯑to the boſom.

I will not be ſo barbarous to your flowery metaphor, as to ſay, that I pre⯑ſume you mean only the Canker-roſe.

Very well, my good friend!—this is a fair and very gentle touch of retaliation for all the ſeverity with which your ad⯑mired Philoſopher has been treated. I confeſs, I have expected you to retaliate with much greater warmth on the weak ſide of your antagoniſt—I mean, the ir⯑religion of his favourite.

To ſpeak honeſtly, I could not in my conſcience attack my adverſary on that ground; for I perfectly recollect that Lord Cheſterfield repeatedly inculcates, not only the moſt decent reſpect to re⯑ligion herſelf, but to all her miniſters. I am afraid, indeed, that his religious ſentiments were not ſuch as I, who am [215] by no means one of his profeſt admirers, moſt ſincerely wiſh them to have been; yet, as this is a buſineſs between his own heart and Heaven, I do not conceive that any man has a right to ſuppoſe him an infidel, and then to cenſure him on the ſuppoſition.—This would be con⯑trary to the fundamental principles of Engliſh liberty and juſtice, not to ſpeak of it as a violation of Chriſtian cha⯑rity.

I reverence you, my worthy friend, for this candour, and wiſh it were uni⯑verſal.—Cheſterfield is condemned as ir⯑religious; yet, ſo far from finding any traces of this offence in his writings, I find, that in one of his French letters he expreſsly condemns the irreligion of [216] Voltaire, partial as he was to that en⯑chanting writer, from a perſonal ac⯑quaintance.—Cheſterfield is alſo con⯑demned as a Frenchified fop; yet no man has written more forcibly againſt our copying the follies of France. In⯑deed, no man ſeems to have better un⯑derſtood or more highly valued the li⯑berties of his country; and with what ſpirit he could ſupport the manly frank⯑neſs and undaunted truth of the Engliſh character, in ſpeaking to a Frenchman, we have a ſtriking example in his let⯑ter to the Abbé de la Ville, the French miniſter at the Hague, on ſeveral par⯑ticulars relating to the battle of Fonte⯑noy. He has indeed been cruelly de⯑preciated. Your Philoſopher, you know, very mercifully conſidered him as a rot⯑ten poſt, to uſe his own gentle phraſe; [217] but if there were ſome unſound parts (and who is perfect?) in the character of the noble Lord, there was, I apprehend, a ſtill larger portion of touchwood in the Philoſopher himſelf.—I have never ſeen the letter in which he renounced the patronage, that he appeared to have contemplated with no little ſatisfaction, but, from all the accounts that I have met with of that incident, I think we may rather blame the ſplenetic pride of Johnſon, than the inſolence or mean⯑neſs of Cheſterfield.—In the ſarcaſms which they levelled at each other, the latter ſurely approaches neareſt to the truth: the Critic was unqueſtionably more like a ſavage than the Wit was like a dancing-maſter.—Cheſterfield had his foibles and his vices. He was, in his early life, a ſlave to the tyrannous vice [218] of gaming; but how ingenuouſly and pa⯑rentally does he confeſs and lament it in his letters!—and, give me leave to add, that he once derived no little honour from a ſignal victory over this deſpotic paſſion. I allude to his conduct as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.—You know that he baniſhed gaming entirely from the caſtle of Dublin; and ſurely the man is entitled to credit for ſome nobleneſs of mind, who enters on the exerciſe of ſo⯑vereign power by the ſacrifice of his own darling defect.—Believe me, I am not blind to his private failings, and I heartily wiſh, for his own happineſs, that they had never exiſted; but I ſtill aſſert, that he had public merit ſufficient to balance all his imperfections. Let hy⯑pocriſy and malevolence, or, if you pleaſe, let virtue herſelf deride him to the ut⯑termoſt, [219] as a vain and licentious puppet of quality—I ſhall never ceaſe to think, that he has many genuine claims to that laſting glory which he had the ſpirit to love and to purſue: nor is he leſs entitled to the grateful remembrance of our country, than the arrogant and ſplenetic dogmatiſt, who has vilified the heroiſm of our Kings, and the genius of our Bards; a writer of verſes, not from the impulſe of nature, but the ſuggeſtions of intereſt or ſpleen; a critic, not from an enthuſiaſtic delight in poetry, but an envious hatred to poets.

That is a point which Time will ſettle with his uſual unfailing juſtice.—Though mankind are not always happy enough to diſtinguiſh their real friends from [220] their foes, yet their judgment is gene⯑rally juſt, when the candidate for their applauſe has nothing to truſt to but the poſthumous influence of his works. —Whatever charity may hope concern⯑ing the ſuppoſed irreligion of Cheſter⯑field, his immorality has too glaring an appearance to admit any doubt of its exiſtence; and the man who is vain and profligate enough to boaſt of his vices, is, I muſt confeſs, in my opinion, very far from deſerving ſuch an advocate as your favourite has found. Indeed the more rigid friends of virtue and religion may almoſt bluſh with indignation, in ſeeing two characters ſo very different compa⯑red to each other.—Johnſon, the refuge and the friend of every being in diſtreſs, compared to the oſtentatious man of quality, who affected to be the patron of [221] talents, which he wanted erudition to eſtimate, and liberality to reward—John⯑ſon, the eternal Moraliſt, who made every ſocial amuſement a ſtep in the ac⯑quiſition of knowledge, or in the im⯑provement of the heart, compared to the licentious Wit, whoſe only ambition was to dazzle and amuſe—Johnſon, to haſten at once to that aweful ſcene where the compariſon is not only moſt obvious but moſt important—Johnſon cloſing a life of virtue and religion with faith in his Redeemer, and with humi⯑lity ſufficient to tremble with aweful doubts of his own exemplary merit, compared to Cheſterfield, finiſhing a frivolous and diſſolute exiſtence with the affected ſeverity of a pagan Phi⯑loſopher.

If either party could have reaſon to bluſh indignantly at the compariſon, I maintain it muſt be Cheſterfield— Cheſterfield, the enchanting companion, whoſe converſation was a model of the moſt enlivening politeneſs, compared to the ſurly dogmatiſt, whoſe habitual diſcourſe was a compound of arrogance and ſpleen — Cheſterfield, the accom⯑pliſhed, the diligent ambaſſador, who never loſt a morning hour, compared to the lazy Moraliſt, who tells us, he waſted half his life in reſolving to riſe early, and in breaking that reſolve — Cheſterfield, the friendly editor, the juſt and delicate panegyriſt of one ele⯑gant and tender poet, compared to the invidious biographer, who has ſcattered [223] his inexhauſtible gall over the whole choir of Britiſh bards—Cheſterfield, the patriotic ſenator, pleading with elegance and energy for the freedom of the ſtage, compared to the ſervile author, induced by his political bigotry to write againſt the liberty of the preſs — Cheſterfield, the beneficent viceroy, who governed Ireland in ſuch a manner as to merit and receive the praiſe and benedictions of that lively people, compared to the moody traveller who viſited Scotland to inſult its nakedneſs, and to pour his ſuperſtitious execrations on the innocent deſcendants of its too zealous reformer — Cheſterfield, in ſhort, to finiſh with that important ſcene in which all men, however different in character and con⯑dition, muſt inevitably afford room for the moſt ſtriking compariſon—Cheſter⯑field, [224] I ſay, the real Sage, ready and willing to die, employing his lateſt breath in kind attention to his friend, compared to your pretended Philoſo⯑pher, who ſhuddered at the approaches of no early death, with an exceſs of pu⯑ſillanimous horror, which has expoſed him to a more apt compariſon with the cowardly, effeminate Mecaenas.

A ſevere parallel, indeed! methodi⯑cally drawn, and delivered with an oratorical vehemence that I never ſaw you aſſume before.—But, as I have ex⯑alted myſelf into a judicial office, let me imitate, my dear Colonel, the grand court of juſtice among your favourite Athenians (as thoſe ſapient judges al⯑ways ſate, I think, in the dark, you [225] may allow me to be a little like them) and let me forbid all the deluſive inſi⯑nuations of impaſſioned eloquence.—I have ſtill to requeſt from you both, a few remarks on the ſtyle of your re⯑ſpective favourites.—The Archdeacon, I believe, eſteems Johnſon the very Sampſon of language, as we lately heard him called by one of his more affected admirers.

Indeed, Madam, I think our lan⯑guage has infinite obligations to him; and the Colonel, who is a lover of ſpirit in every ſhape, can hardly prefer the looſe and feeble phraſeology of Cheſterfield, or of Addiſon, to the compact vigour of our energetic Phi⯑lologiſt.

Though you may probably think me ſeverely prejudiced againſt your fa⯑vourite in ſome points, I truſt you will not think ſo in the article of diction: for I allow that we find frequent paſſa⯑ges in Johnſon, where the amazing vigour of his expreſſion is equalled by its beauty. I recollect, in his character of Dryden, a ſentence that ſhews us the wonderful powers of his language. He there deſcribes a tendency to talk nonſenſe, in ſuch terms as render it an object of great ſublimity. Do you re⯑member the words? I think they run thus: ‘He delighted to tread upon the brink of meaning, where light and darkneſs begin to mingle; to approach the precipice of abſurdity, [227] and hover over the abyſs of unideal vacancy.’ —But there is an excel⯑lence which Johnſon has very juſtly re⯑marked in Dryden's language, and which he greatly wanted himſelf. The excellence I mean, he deſcribes in a paragraph that I have tranſcribed in my memorandums, under the article we are ſpeaking of. Here it is:

[228]If the excellence of language may be eſtimated by this ſtandard, that of Johnſon is aſſuredly very defective; for nothing is more eaſy than to exe⯑cute a caricatura of his ſtyle. In reading him, we are frequently tempted to exclaim, as La Bruyere does on certain ſermons, O! what a rich figure is the antitheſis! it produces a whole Rambler. With a great command of words, he certainly wanted the noble and graceful ſimplicity which we ad⯑mire in the capital writers of every country, from Homer, Plato, and De⯑moſthenes, down to that Addiſon, whom the partizans of your Philoſopher call a weak writer when compared to John⯑ſon; as there were once people in Rome, who preferred the eloquence of Seneca to that of Cicero.

[229]The language of Cheſterfield ſtrikes me like a damſel in a faſhionable morning dreſs of the moſt ſimple and captivating elegance. That of John⯑ſon, is like a matron who has arrayed herſelf for ſome grand ceremonial, and heightened the auſtere dignity of her form, by all the rich ſtiffneſs of a flowery brocade.

If I were to compare the ſtyle of your Philoſopher with that of Addi⯑ſon, I ſhould ſay, that Johnſon has the ſpirit, the grandeur, and the monotony of the kettle-drum; Addiſon, the rich variety of that ſacred inſtrument, which can equally delight us with airy ſweet⯑neſs and awful ſolemnity. But as I am no connoiſſeur in the muſic of lan⯑guage, perhaps my idea is not ſo juſt [230] as the opinion of ſome good-natured critics upon ſtyle, who, while they are rattling a ſalt-box themſelves, have the kindneſs to tell their auditors, there is no ſtrength or body in the tones of an organ.

Let me return to the diction of Cheſ⯑terfield.—The beſt panegyric I can de⯑viſe for it will be, to read you the fol⯑lowing paragraph, addreſſed to him by your Philologiſt.

‘I may hope, my Lord, that ſince you, whoſe authority in our language is ſo generally acknowledged, have commiſſioned me to declare my own opinion, I ſhall be conſidered as ex⯑erciſing a kind of vicarious juriſdic⯑tion; and that the power which might have been denied to my own claim, [231] will be readily allowed me as the de⯑legate of your Lordſhip ^*.’ —You will readily allow, my good friend, that the man muſt have been no weak maſ⯑ter in the ſcience of words, who could extort ſuch a compliment from an au⯑thor uncommonly ſparing of literary courteſy to all living merit.—But I will not launch out into new cenſures on your idol. Indeed, as he has ſo fre⯑quently excited my ſpleen by his ſeve⯑rity towards various favourites of mine, both in politics and poetry, I may poſ⯑ſibly harbour prejudices againſt him, almoſt as violent and cruel as his own— you, I think, have as ſtrong a bias in his favour, from your benevolent pre⯑ſumption, that his real goodneſs was as [232] great as his oſtentatious diſplay of mo⯑rality. But my ſiſter is a ſort of neutral power, who may fairly ſettle the dif⯑ference between us; and I am ſure you will join with me in requeſting her to give us, I will not ſay her judgment, for the word would alarm and terrify her diffidence, but her genuine feelings to⯑wards the two characters in queſtion.

I join indeed moſt heartily in your re⯑queſt; and beg leave, at the ſame time, to remind Lady Caroline, that ſhe is the true perfect judge, not only of moral but of literary merit, according to an honeſt and candid ſentiment of the mighty Critic himſelf; who ſays, you know, in ſpeaking with liberal praiſe of Gray's Elegy, ‘By the common ſenſe [233] of readers, uncorrupted with literary prejudices, after all the refinements of ſubtilty, and the dogmatiſm of learning, muſt be finally decided all claim to poetical honours ^*.’

You are very good, to encourage me by ſuch a quotation; but I really have not confidence enough to deliver any thing like a formal opinion upon cha⯑racters of ſuch eminence, even to you with whom I am ſo familiar. I do not mean, however, to ſhrink entirely from your requeſt, which would, I think, be very unfair, after the entertainment that I have received from you both— and to pretend, that I have formed to myſelf no notions concerning two au⯑thors [234] whom you know I read very fre⯑quently, would be a fooliſh ſort of pru⯑dery indeed: I ſhall tell you therefore, very frankly, how I have felt myſelf affected by your reſpective favourites. —To ſpeak of them as men, I never felt in my life the ſlighteſt wiſh to have been perſonally acquainted with either; though in reading many authors, and Addiſon in particular, I have felt ſuch a deſire.—Johnſon, I think, ſaid to ſome young Lady, ‘Miſs, I am a tame mon⯑ſter, you may ſtroke me.’ If he ſaid ſo, for I do not recollect where I met with the anecdote, I apprehend his ex⯑preſſion was not perfectly true.—He certainly was not more than half-ta⯑med.—I do not believe that I could have been induced to give the fearleſs pat of friendly familiarity to either of theſe very oppoſite creatures. I am per⯑ſuaded, [235] that my hand would have ſhrunk from Johnſon, as from a hedge-hog; and from Cheſterfield, if not as an adder too venomous to be touched, yet cer⯑tainly as an eel too ſlippery to be held. For, notwithſtanding my brother's pa⯑negyric on the friendly qualities of his idol, I cannot think that either he or the Philoſopher had a heart truly formed for that tender connection. They ſeem to me to have poſſeſſed an equal degree of ſelfiſhneſs, though it ſhewed itſelf under very different ſhapes—one was continually trying to bully, and the other to inveigle the world into an ex⯑cluſive admiration of his particular ta⯑lents. The men accuſe our ſex of be⯑ing actuated by a ſpirit of rivalſhip and mutual injuſtice to each other. Yet ſurely this is not only as viſible among [236] themſelves, but more productive of gene⯑ral diſadvantage. What the Archdeacon obſerved of Johnſon and Garrick, leads me to make a ſimilar obſervation on Johnſon and Cheſterfield. Had theſe two men, of rare and different talents, inſtead of kindling into a contemptuous animoſity, contracted a ſolid friendſhip, on the noble plan of honouring, of en⯑joying the perfections and correcting the deficiencies of each other, how in⯑finitely might ſuch conduct have con⯑tributed to the pleaſure, improvement, happineſs, and laſting glory of both! But the defects in each were too ſtrong to let him derive all poſſible delight and advantage from the faculties of the other. Great as they both were in their ſeparate lines, I cannot think that either was truly entitled to the epithet of ami⯑able [237] or good; for I am equally offended by truth that is delivered with brutality, and by politeneſs that is utterly inſincere: I own myſelf as much an enemy to the ſplenetic malevolence of Johnſon, as to the licentious vanity of Cheſterfield. Could they have blended their better qualities; could the gaiety of the Wit have cured the ſpleen of the Philoſopher; and, could the ſtrong intellect of John⯑ſon have annihilated the libertiniſm of Cheſterfield, each might have been, what I think neither was, a truly accompliſhed and happy man: and each might have been rendered, by ſuch a proceſs, a more perfect and delightful writer; for, as it is, though we admire the wonderful underſtanding and energy of mind diſ⯑played by Johnſon, though we are charm⯑ed by the wit, elegance, and knowledge [238] of the world, that we find in Cheſter⯑field, yet it is certain that each fails us in the very point where, from his par⯑ticular purſuits, we might naturally ſup⯑poſe it moſt ſafe to take him as a guide. The literary judgments of Johnſon, and the worldly admonitions of Cheſter⯑field, appear to me equally unſound. The firſt are, ſurely, not conſiſtent with truth and juſtice;—and for the latter, I am afraid no apologiſt can perfectly reconcile them to honeſty and virtue. Yet there is ſuch a maſs of real, though different excellence, united to the groſs failings of thoſe two authors, that, as a parent anxious to collect every thing that may render me uſeful to my child⯑ren, I read them both with equal eager⯑neſs; and I find much innocent inſtruc⯑tion in Cheſterfield, that a mother's heart [239] is inclined to adopt. Let rigid Moral⯑iſts tell me, if they pleaſe, that all his parental merit is of the womaniſh kind; and that he is, at beſt, ‘Fine by defect, and delicately weak.’

As to Johnſon, I have indeed many jarring ideas of his excellencies and de⯑fects; yet, I believe, I may give you my notion of his character, comprized in a line, by which Pope has deſcribed the whole ſpecies. I ſhall conclude, there⯑fore, by telling you, that he was, to my apprehenſion, ‘A Being darkly wiſe, and rudely great.’

Admirably applied!—You have ex⯑preſſed, in a ſingle verſe, what I labour⯑ed [240] to ſay ineffectually, in a great deal of proſe.—So adieu, for this morning.

Stay, Colonel!—do not leave us ſo haſtily.

I muſt be gone;—but I will not ſhut the door without remarking, that if Cheſterfield had known our Lady, he would have thought better of women than he did; and if Johnſon had poſ⯑ſeſſed your true chriſtian virtues, my dear Doctor, he would have been a much happier being than he was.—So farewell.