Speaking of Pope's edition of Shakespeare, Dr Johnson observes, 'That on this undertaking, to which Pope was induced by a reward of two hundred and seventeen pounds, twelve shillings, he seems never to have reflected afterwards without vexation[158].' The Doctor ought never to reflect 'without vexation' on his own edition of Shakespeare. He published his proposals in 1756, but the work itself did not appear till 1768, and then, though the world was warmly prejudiced in his favour, and tho' he had plundered every thing which he thought valuable, from all his predecessors, yet his performance was received with general disregard. His preface was the particular butt of censure; his deficiencies were detected 'with all the insolence of victory;' and the public were, for once, inclined to say of him, what he says of Mr Theobald, viz. that he was 'a man of heavy diligence, with very slender powers[159].'
Indeed the Doctor persecutes the name of Theobald with the most rancorous spirit of revenge. In his proposals for printing Shakespeare, he tells us, 'that Mr Theobald, if fame be just to his memory, considered his learning only as an instrument of gain, and made no farther enquiry after his authour's meaning, when once he had notes sufficient to embellish his page with the expected decorations.' If Theobald was poor, he was certainly prudent in considering his learning as an instrument of gain. In this point, he has been exactly copied by no less a personage than Dr Johnson himself. But the Doctor has not ventured to say that Theobald was a venal prostituted dabbler in politics; that he insulted his King, till he received a pension; and that when he had received his pension, he insulted his country. No. 'The old books, the cold pedantry, and sluggish pertinacity of Theobald,' never excited the serious contempt or indignation of mankind. Dr Johnson asserts, 'That when Theobald published Shakespeare in opposition to Pope, the best notes were supplied by Warburton[160].' This is an assertion without a proof, and merits no regard; for his veracity keeps pace with his candour.
The admirers of Pope will be sensible of the good nature and honesty of Dr Johnson, from the following unqualified assertion: 'The great object of his (Pope's) ridicule is poverty; the crimes with which he reproaches his antagonists are their debts, their habitation in the mint, and their want of a dinner. He seems to be of an opinion, not very uncommon in the world, that to want money is to want every thing[161].' The crimes with which Pope reproaches the Duncenian heroes are slander and forgery[162], most of them were not only bad writers, but bad men; and it is only in the latter point of view, that the poet considered them as fair objects of ridicule. Had Pope been capable of insulting honest indigence, his reputation and his glory must have been for ever blasted. The humanity of Englishmen would have rejected, with horror, such impious wit. The last part of this malicious paragraph is, after a few pages, contradicted by Dr Johnson himself. Had Pope been of opinion, that to want money is to want every thing, he would not have assisted Dodsley 'with a hundred pounds that he might open a shop—of the subscription of forty pounds a-year that he raised for Savage, TWENTY were paid by himself. He was accused of loving money, but his love was eagerness to gain, not solicitude to keep it. In the duties of friendship, he was zealous and constant. It does not appear that he lost a single friend by coldness, or by injury; those who loved him once, continued their kindness[163].' This cannot be the picture of a man who insulted innocent misery.
The Doctor is perpetually giving us strokes of his own character. Thus, of Mr Thomson we are informed, 'that he was "more fat than bard beseems," of a dull countenance, and a gross, unanimated, uninviting appearance.' This is the Rambler's portrait, but when applied to the author of the Seasons, it is not true, for Mr Murdoch assures us, 'that his worst appearance was, when you saw him walking alone, in a thoughtful mood; but let a friend accost him, and enter into conversation, he would instantly brighten into a most amiable aspect, his features no longer the same, and his eye darting a peculiar animated fire. His looks always announced, and half expressed what he was about to say[164].'
The Doctor fills up several pages with blotted variations from Pope's manuscript translation of the Iliad. He exults in this precious production, and foresees that the wisest of his readers will wish for more. Having perused a few lines of it only, I cannot pretend to rate the value of this commodity: But a plain reader will be apt to suspect that the Doctor has on this, as on former occasions, adopted the prudent proverb, multum scribere, multum solvere. If Lexiphanes overflows with Greek, he may, by comparing Pope with Homer, afford much entertainment.
'Wives and husbands are, indeed, incessantly complaining of each other[165].'—Not unless both are fools, nor always then. For the credit of its author, I suppress the sequel of this unhappy period.
Dr Johnson observes, that Mr Addison, 'by a serious display of the beauties of Chevy Chace, exposed himself to the ridicule of Wagstaff.—In Chevy Chace there is not much of either bombast or affectation, but there is chill and lifeless imbecility. The story cannot possibly be told in a manner that shall make less impression on the mind[166].' This is a most scandalous criticism; no man who ever heard the ballad, will hear it with patience. The Doctor's pious intention seems to have been to lessen the reputation of Addison. Let him who falsifies without shame, be chastised without mercy[167].
Though Dr Johnson long acted as Reviewer of books for the Gentleman's Magazine, and though he often exercised his pen in that capacity with the most grovelling insolence, yet he cannot speak with patience of his rivals in that branch of trade. 'We have now,' says he, 'among other disturbers of human quiet, a numerous body of Reviewers and Remarkers[168].' He is angry with Lord Lyttleton, for having once condescended to correspond with the Critical Reviewers. He observes, that the Critical Reviewers, 'can satisfy their hunger only by devouring their brethren. I am far from imagining that they are naturally more ravenous or blood-thirsty, than those on whom they fall with so much violence and fury; but they are hungry, and hunger must be satisfied; and these Savages, when their bellies are full, will fawn on those whom they now bite[169].' They have lately[170] celebrated the Doctor's great candour, of which this passage is the best evidence that 'will easily be found.'
I finish this essay by reciting the circumstance which gave it birth.
In 1778, Mr William Shaw published an Analysis of the Gaelic language. He quoted specimens of Gaelic poetry, and harangued on its beauties, with the aukward elocution of one who did not understand them. A few months ago, he printed a pamphlet. He traduced decent characters. He denied the existence of Gaelic poetry, and his name was echoed in the newspapers as a miracle of candour. Is there in the annals of Grubæan impudence any parallel to this? Is there any nation in the world except one, perpetually deluded by a succession of impostors? Are these the blessed fruits of that freedom which patriots perish to defend? If there be no pillory, no whipping post for such accumulated guilt, we may truly say with Shakespeare, that 'Liberty plucks Justice by the nose.' This incomparable bookbuilder, who writes a dictionary before he can write grammar, had previously boasted what a harvest he would reap from English credulity. He was not deceived. The bait was caught; and the voice of truth was for some time drowned in the clamours of the rabble. Mr Shaw wants only money. He thinks only how to get it, and with a courage that is respectable, avowed his intentions. But better things might have been expected from the moral and majestic author of the Rambler. He must have seen the Analysis of the Gaelic language, for Shaw mentions him as the patron of that work. He must have seen the specimens of Celtic poetry there inserted. That he is likewise the patron of this poor scribble, no man, I suppose, will offer to deny. From this single circumstance, Dr Johnson stands convicted of an illiberal intention to deceive. Candour can hardly hesitate to sum up his character in the vulgar but expressive pollysyllable.