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LIFE AND TIMES OF JOHNSON.

JOHN

OHNSON did not abandon all other literary pursuits while he was prosecuting his great philological task. At first he continued his occasional issues of pieces of moderate extent, and afterward for more than two years he devoted himself, with wonderful steadiness and with a rare fecundity of mental resource, to the production of a work upon whose merits his reputation is chiefly built. In the Magazine for May (1748) appeared his life of Roscommon, the same that now, improved and somewhat enlarged, makes one of the "Lives of the English Poets." The same year Dodsley brought out his "Preceptor," a compilation of choice pieces, designed for the instruction of young persons. To this work Johnson wrote the preface, in which each piece is noticed, and its excellences pointed out. In this volume also appeared an original allegory, from the pen of the future moralist, which, had he written nothing else, would have entitled him to the lasting gratitude of his race. That piece was the "Vision of Theodore, the Hermit of Teneriffe." It is exceedingly doubtful whether any other human production embodies in the same space so much deep and yet practical Christian philosophy as does this brief allegory. It is, in fact, a practical system of the moral and religious philosophy of life, clothed in the beautiful language of the imagination, and expressed in a style at once forcible and felicitous. Johnson himself esteemed it the best thing he ever wrote; and yet it was begun and finished in a single night.

To this year, also, belongs his second and best poetical production, "The Vanity of Human Wishes," an imitation of the tenth Satire of Juvenal-though it was not published till after the beginning of the next. Like "London," it seems to have cost its author no great amount of labor, as it is stated, on good authority, that he composed seventy lines in one day, and that without putting one of them on paper till all were completed. The poem was issued by Dodsley, and the author received fifteen guineas for it, reserving to himself, as in all similar cases, the right of printing one edition. This new effusion of his muse was well received by Johnson's literary friends, and the verdict of posterity has assigned to it a high place among moral and didactic poems.

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The remarks of Boswell upon this production, quite unlike most of his criticisms, are singularly just and appreciative. "It has," he remarks, "less of common life, but more of a philosophic dignity, than his London.' More readers, therefore, will be delighted with the pointed spirit of London' than with the profound reflection of the Vanity of Human Wishes.' It is, in the opinion of the best judges, as high an effort of ethic poetry as any language can show. The instances and variety of disappointment are chosen so judiciously, and painted so strongly, that, the moment they are read, they bring conviction to every thinking mind. That of the warrior, Charles of Sweden, is as highly-finished a picture as can possibly be conceived. That of the scholar [his own experience no doubt] must have depressed the too sanguine expectation of many an ambitious student. But were all the other excellences of this poem annihilated, it must ever have our grateful reverence for its noble conclusion, in which we are consoled with the assurance that happiness may be attained if we apply our hearts to piety."

The last four years of Johnson's history constitute a part of the most important and fruitful period of his whole life. During this period we have to contemplate him steadily and vigorously employed in scaling the rugged steep that lay between the low condition that he had so long held, and the elevated level which he subsequently attained. In this ascent he exhibited at once, and in harmonious cooperation, the distinct characteristics of genius and application, so happily illustrated by a kindred spirit in the allegory of the " Hill of Science." No slave at the oar ever bent himself more lustily to toil than did he, and the steadiness of his devotion to labor was such that had he been wholly without genius he could not have more fully availed himself of the aid of plodding application; and yet the evidences of transcendent genius were never more clearly and forcibly given than by the results of some of his efforts during this period of fruitful industry. The accumulation of that period purchased, with an ample price, the reputation, and the grosser, but not less essential rewards of labor, that sustained him during his later life.

Twelve years had now passed since Johnson first came to London, a forlorn adventurer, without friends, or fortune,

or reputation, and even without the mental culture and development necessary to insure success in the calling to which he had devoted himself. The interval had been passed in toil, obscurity, and want; by which his heart had been trained to endure, and his hands to act, while his genius had risen with the occasion, and his powers acquired facility by their unremitted exercise. The results were now manifesting themselves. He began gradually to emerge from his obscurity, and to rise to a more conspicuous position in society. The great world had not only heard his name, but had received assurances of his powers. He was now rapidly advancing to the position of the first of living authors, and had also the proud satisfaction of knowing that his acquisitions were all made by his own energies, and that he owed very little to friends or patrons. He was still, however, in the midst of the conflict, and much yet remained to be done before he could remit his painful and protracted labor to enjoy its full recompense. His recently-published works had won for him an invaluable reputation in the learned circles of London, and also raised him above the distressing poverty that had hitherto rested upon him with the weight of a millstone; and the published "Plan" of his Dictionary had excited public expectation, and fixed upon him the interested gaze of all who were capable of appreciating the value of such a production. Another portion of this period of Herculean labor is therefore to be traversed by his biographer, but one greatly relieved from the painful depression of former times.

More than once in the preceding pages reference has been made to an original tragedy undertaken by Johnson while residing near Lichfield, just before his first coming to London. The period of the growth of that production, unlike most of the works of its author, was somewhat protracted, reaching over a space of nearly three years; and the writer's estimate of its value seems to have been in some degree regulated by the labor it cost him. But an author's partialities are not always coincident with the judgment of the public, and Johnson's estimate of Irene was seconded by but few of his friends who had seen it, or heard it read. For twelve years it had been upon his hands, an unsuccessful suitor for an introduction to the VOL. II, No. 4.-Y

public on the metropolitan stage. At length this long night of disappointment gave place to hope's dawning.

David Garrick, the early associate and fellow-adventurer of Johnson, and also his steady companion and faithful friend, had early taken to the stage, where his success as an actor had been highly flattering. He had steadily gone forward in his profession, till now, by common consent, he stood at its head. This unusual success had been achieved by the joint influence of his unequaled abilities as an actor, and the comparative excellence of his moral character, united to no small share of shrewdness as a man of business. His recompense was both early and abundant. Two years before he had become joint lessee, and the principal manager of the Theater Royal of Drury Lane. Two years of successful management had sufficed to make him the sole dictator of the London stage. The set time for the production of Irene seemed now to have arrived, and Garrick, with characteristic generosity, undertook to bring it out. But this was a more difficult undertaking than might at first be apprehended. Irene, with all its excellences, and notwithstanding its elaborate finish, was found to be not well adapted to the stage. The preparations of the closet are often unsuited to the circumstances of a public exhibition, and the author whose imagination does not realize the state of things for which his production is designed cannot expect to succeed as a dramatic writer. That Johnson, who at the time of writing his tragedy had never witnessed a theatrical performance, and with whom the imagination was at no time the predominating faculty, should have failed in these things, can surprise no one. It was found necessary to make very considerable changes to adapt the piece to the stage, to which however Johnson, with whom Irene was a great favorite, strenuously objected. the manager knew his business-and, being convinced that what the writer esteemed real excellences, because of their literary and didactic properties, were incompatible with theatrical effect-he insisted on the required changes. He especially objected to the staid rigidity of the enamored Sultan, at the catastrophe of the plot, as unsuitable to the occasion, and desired that there should be a greater exhibition of passion. To this Johnson objected

But

vociferously: "The fellow," said he, "wants me to make Mahomet run mad, that he may have an opportunity of tossing his head and kicking his heels." So strong was Johnson's repugnance to the proposed emendations, that it was not until induced to do so by the entreaties of a mutual friend that he assented that they should be made.

For these rea

own heart-felt sentiments.
sons it is not calculated to awaken strong
emotions in the minds of the spectators;
for why should they be moved when the
actors themselves are not? The play of
the passions is also prevented by the many
and apt philosophical suggestions of the
speakers; for reflection and emotion are
not often consentaneous-and Johnson's
characters are all philosophers. Garrick,
whose judgment in such matters is worthy
of much respect, declared that Johnson
had neither the power to produce the im-
pressions of tragedy, nor the sensibility to
perceive them. It is probable that he
discovered this himself, for few men
have been better acquainted with their
own powers and susceptibilities; and there-
fore he never made a second attempt to
write for the stage.

Considered however apart from its dramatic character, as a poem to be read in the closet, or to a private circle, Irene has many excellences. Its language is pure, dignified, and simple; its imagery is

The conduct of Garrick in this whole affair was most generous. The best performers were selected for the several parts; all the usual arts for raising public expectation were employed, and every advantage of dress and decoration made available. But all these combined did not avail. The success of Irene on the stage was only partial, and for this partial success it was probably quite as largely indebted to the circumstances of its production as to its own intrinsic merits. It was acted for nine successive nights to considerably large and highly respectable audiences, who received this new production with a good degree of favor. On the first night, when, according to the orig-pleasing but not gorgeous; its sentiments inal plan of the play, to which Garrick had made no objection, the bow-string was put around the neck of the Grecian princess, by which she was to be strangled on the stage, the spectators raised the cry of murder, and the fair victim was carried off alive. The play was afterward so altered that this part should take place behind the scene; for an English audience would not tolerate a form of execution so unfashionable among them, though in other forms equally revolting spectacles were witnessed without complaint. The profits to Johnson from these performances amounted to about two hundred pounds; and the copyright, which was immediately bought by Dodsley, brought another hundred pounds,-making altogether a greater sum than Johnson had been accustomed to have in hand at one time.

The merits of Irene have been very differently estimated. Its dramatic character is not of the highest order. It lacks the vivacity, the keenness, and especially the dramatic illusion by which apparent reality is given to the scene and its actions. The speakers are mere speakers, impassive and unimpassioned; and though they declare themselves to be bursting with emotion, they seem rather to be acting their assumed parts than expressing their

are noble and its philosophy profound. It may be read with both pleasure and profit by all who are delighted with elevated moral sentiments expressed in affluent and nervous language; and who choose to view things in their truthful reality rather than in the deceptive imagery of fancy or passion. But such are not the characters that make up the assemblage of the playhouse. Men go to the theater to be amused rather than to be profited, and require that their passions shall be aroused rather than their understanding enlightened or their consciences rectified. For this cause, as a judicious critic has remarked, "Irene may be added to some other plays in our language, which have lost their place in the theater but continue to please in the closet."

The production of Irene was neither a successful hit nor yet a failure. Johnson. no doubt, was disappointed; but as it brought him a considerable sum of money, and was commended by the judicious few whose good opinion he especially prized, he might patiently forego the popular applause; at least it was wise in him to bow uncomplainingly to the decree of the public judgment, and submit to his fate without irritation or despondency.

In pursuing the personal history of Johnson, long intervals must sometimes

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