An account of the various pieces contained in this edition, such as
miscellaneous tracts, and philological dissertations, would lead beyond
the intended limits of this essay. It will suffice to say, that they are
the productions of a man, who never wanted decorations of language, and
always taught his reader to think. The life of the late king of Prussia,
as far as it extends, is a model of the biographical style. The review
of the Origin of Evil was, perhaps, written with asperity; but the angry
epitaph which it provoked from Soame Jenyns, was an ill-timed
resentment, unworthy of the genius of that amiable author.

The Rambler may be considered, as Johnson's great work. It was the basis
of that high reputation, which went on increasing to the end of his
days. The circulation of those periodical essays was not, at first,
equal to their merit. They had not, like the Spectators, the art of
charming by variety; and, indeed, how could it be expected? The wits of
queen Anne's reign sent their contributions to the Spectator; and
Johnson stood alone. A stagecoach, says sir Richard Steele, must go
forward on stated days, whether there are passengers or not. So it was
with the Rambler, every Tuesday and Saturday, for two years. In this
collection Johnson is the great moral teacher of his countrymen; his
essays form a body of ethics; the observations on life and manners, are
acute and instructive; and the papers, professedly critical, serve to
promote the cause of literature. It must, however, be acknowledged, that
a settled gloom hangs over the author's mind; and all the essays, except
eight or ten, coming from the same fountain-head, no wonder that they
have the raciness of the soil from which they sprang. Of this uniformity
Johnson was sensible. He used to say, that if he had joined a friend or
two, who would have been able to intermix papers of a sprightly turn,
the collection would have been more miscellaneous, and, by consequence,
more agreeable to the generality of readers. This he used to illustrate
by repeating two beautiful stanzas from his own ode to Cave, or Sylvanus
Urban:

"Non ulla musis pagina gratior,
Quam quae severis ludicra jungere
Novit, fatigatamque nugis
Utilibus recreare mentem.

Texente nymphis serta Lycoride,
Rosae ruborem sic viola adjuvat
Iramista, sic Iris refulget
Aethereis variata fucis."

It is remarkable, that the pomp of diction, which has been objected to
Johns