rotesting, that Shakespeare had in the same
line of excellence nothing as good. "All which is strictly _true_," said
he; "but that is no reason for supposing Congreve is to stand in
competition with Shakespeare: these fellows know not how to blame, nor
how to commend." I forced him one day, in a similar humour, to prefer
Young's description of "Night" to the so much admired ones of Dryden and
Shakespeare, as more forcible and more general. Every reader is not
either a lover or a tyrant, but every reader is interested when he hears
that

"Creation sleeps; 'tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause;
An awful pause--prophetic of its end."

"This," said he, "is true; but remember that, taking the compositions of
Young in general, they are but like bright stepping-stones over a miry
road. Young froths and foams, and bubbles sometimes very vigorously; but
we must not compare the noise made by your tea-kettle here with the
roaring of the ocean."

Somebody was praising Corneille one day in opposition to Shakespeare.
"Corneille is to Shakespeare," replied Mr. Johnson, "as a clipped hedge
is to a forest." When we talked of Steele's Essays, "They are too thin,"
says our critic, "for an Englishman's taste: mere superficial
observations on life and manners, without erudition enough to make them
keep, like the light French wines, which turn sour with standing awhile
for want of _body_, as we call it."

Of a much-admired poem, when extolled as beautiful, he replied, "That it
had indeed the beauty of a bubble. The colours are gay," said he, "but
the substance slight." Of James Harris's Dedication to his "Hermes," I
have heard him observe that, though but fourteen lines long, there were
six grammatical faults in it. A friend was praising the style of Dr.
Swift; Mr. Johnson did not find himself in the humour to agree with him:
the critic was driven from one of his performances to the other. At
length, "You _must_ allow me," said the gentleman, "that there are
_strong facts_ in the account of 'The Four Last Years of Queen Anne.'"
"Yes, surely, sir," replies Johnson, "and so there are in the Ordinary of
Newgate's account." This was like the story which Mr. Murphy tells, and
Johnson always acknowledged: how Mr. Rose of Hammersmith, contending for
the preference of Scotch writers over the English, after having set up
his authors like ninepins, while the Doctor kept bowling them down again;