hough the night be raw,
We'll see it too, the first we ever saw.'

We say nothing of the Calmuck Tartars; they hold (see Bergmann's
'Streifereien') that their 'Dschangariade' is the finest of all epic
poems, past or coming; and, therefore, the Calmuck Lives of the Poets
will naturally be inimitable. But confining our view to the unhappy
literatures of Europe, ancient or modern, this is what we think of Dr.
Johnson's efforts as a biographer. Consequently, we cannot be taxed with
any insensibility to his merit. And as to the critical part of his
Lives, if no thoughtful reader can be expected to abide by his haughty
decisions, yet, on the other hand, every man reads his opinions with
pleasure, from the intellectual activity and the separate justice of the
thoughts which they display. But as to his libellous propensity, that
rests upon independent principles; for all his ability and all his logic
could not elevate his mind above the region of gossip.

Take his 'Life of Savage.' This was the original nest-egg, upon which,
as a basis, and perhaps as the occasional suggestion of such an
enterprise, all the rest--allow us a pompous word--supervened. It was
admirably written, because written _con amore_, and also because written
_con odio_; and under either impulse is it possible to imagine grosser
delusions? Johnson persuaded himself that Savage was a fine gentleman (a
_role_ not difficult to support in that age, when ceremony and a
gorgeous _costume_ were amongst the auxiliary distinctions of a
gentleman), and also that he was a man of genius. The first claim was
necessarily taken upon trust by the Doctor's readers; the other might
have been examined; but after a few painful efforts to read 'The
Wanderer' and other insipid trifles, succeeding generations have
resolved to take _that_ upon trust also; for in very truth Savage's
writings are of that order which 'do not let themselves be read.' Why,
then, had publishers bought them? Publishers in those days were mere
tradesmen, without access to liberal society. Even Richardson, though a
man of great genius, in his publisher's character was an obsequious,
nay, servile, admirer of the fine gentleman who wore a sword,
embroidered clothes, and Mechlin ruffles about his wrists; above all
things, he glorified and adored a Lovelace, with a fine person, who sang
gaily to show his carelessness of low people, never came abroad except
in a sedan-chair, and liberally distributed his cur