SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Painted by Reynolds.
From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London.
I suppose we Americans might harbour a grudge against him on the score of his opinion of our forefathers. It is on record that he said of them, during their little controversy with King George III, that they were “a race of convicts.” (How exciting it would have been to hear him say a thing like that to the face of George Washington or Benjamin Franklin! He was quite capable of it.) But we can afford to laugh at such an obiter dictum now. And upon my honesty it offends me less at the present time than Lionel Lispingly Nutt’s condescending advice on poetry and politics, or Stutterworth Bummell’s patronizing half-praise. Let a man smite us fairly on one cheek, and we can manage to turn the other,—out of his reach. But if he deals superciliously with us as “poor relations,” we can hardly help looking for a convenient and not too dangerous flight of stairs for his speedy descent.
Johnson may be rightly claimed as a Tory-Democrat on the strength of his serious saying that “the interest of millions must ever prevail over that of thousands,” and the temper of his pungent letter to Lord Chesterfield. And when we consider also his side remark in defense of card-playing on the ground that it “generates kindness and consolidates society,” we may differ from him in our estimate of the game, but we cannot deny that in small things as well as in great he spoke as a liberal friend of humanity.
His literary taste was not infallible; in some instances, (for example his extreme laudation of Sir John Denham’s poem Cooper’s Hill, and his adverse criticism of Milton’s verse,) it was very bad. In general you may say that it was based upon theories and rules which are not really of universal application, though he conceived them to be so. But his style was much more the product of his own personality and genius. Ponderous it often was, but seldom clumsy. He had the art of saying what he meant in a deliberate, clear, forceful way. Words arrayed themselves at his command and moved forward in serried phalanx. He had the praiseworthy habit of completing his sentences and building his paragraphs firmly. It will not do us any good to belittle his merit as a writer, particularly in this age of slipper-shod and dressing-gowned English.
His diction was much more varied than people usually suppose. He could suit his manner to almost any kind of subject, except possibly the very lightest. He had a keen sense of the shading of synonyms and rarely picked the wrong word. Of antithesis and the balanced sentence he was over-fond; and this device, intended originally to give a sharpened emphasis, being used too often, lends an air of monotony to his writing. Yet it has its merits too, as may be seen in these extracts from the fiftieth number of The Rambler,—extracts which, by the way, have some relation to a controversy still raging:
“Every old man complains of the growing depravity of the world, of the petulance and insolence of the rising generation. He recounts the decency and regularity of former times, and celebrates the discipline and sobriety of the age in which his youth was passed; a happy age, which is now no more to be expected, since confusion has broken in upon the world and thrown down all the boundaries of civility and reverence.... It may, therefore, very reasonably be suspected that the old draw upon themselves the greatest part of those insults which they so much lament, and that age is rarely despised but when it is contemptible.... He that would pass the latter part of his life with honour and decency, must, when he is young, consider that he shall one day be old; and remember, when he is old, that he has once been young. In youth, he must lay up knowledge for his support, when his powers of action shall forsake him; and in age forbear to animadvert with rigour on faults which experience only can correct.”