Strictures on Dr. Johnson—His biographer, Boswell—False definitions and
erroneous ethics—Superstition—Supernatural appearances—Theological
argument of the author in favour of his peculiar faith—Original poetry
by Miss T * * *—The author purchases Lady Mayo’s demesne, County
Wicklow—Terrific and cultivated scenery contrasted—Description of the
Golden Belt of Ireland and the beauties of the above-mentioned
county—Lord Rossmore—His character—Supernatural incident of a most
extraordinary nature, vouched by living witnesses, and attendant on
the sudden death of his Lordship.
It is not pleasant to differ essentially from the general opinions of
the world, and nothing but a firm belief that we are right can bear us
up in so doing. I feel my own fallibility poignantly, when I venture to
remark upon the celebrated personage yclept “the great moralist of
England.”
To criticise the labours of that giant of literature I am unequal: to
detract from his ethics is not my object. But it surely savours not of
treason to avow that parts of his Lexicon I condemn, and much of his
philosophy I dissent from.
It is fortunate for the sake of truth that Boswell became Johnson’s
biographer; for, as the idolaters of China devoutly attach a full
proportion of bad qualities to the object of their adoration, so in like
manner has “Bozzy” shown no want of candour as to the Doctor’s failings;
and if he had reflected on the unkind constructions of this wicked
world, his eulogiums would probably have been rendered less fulsome, and
his biography yet more correct.—It could not be more entertaining.
The English language had been advancing gradually in its own jog-trot
way from the days of Bayley to those of Johnson: it travelled over a
plain smooth surface and on a gentle ascent. Every body formerly
appeared to understand each other tolerably well: words were then very
intelligible, and women, in general, found no difficulty in pronouncing
them. But the great lexicographer soon convinced the British people (the
Irish are out of the question) that they had been reading, writing, and
spouting in a starved, contracted tongue, and that the magnificent
_dapimibominus’s_ of the Grecian language were ready in polysyllables to
relieve that wretched poverty under which ours had so long languished.
This noble revolution in letters has made a progress so rapid, that I
found in one essay of a Magazine, a few months ago, no fewer than twenty
words which required me to make as many references to our great Lexicon.
Nobody can deny the miraculous labour which that work must have
required: yet now, when enthusiasm has somewhat abated, and no danger
exists of being clapper-clawed by the Doctor himself, some ungrateful
English grammarians have presumed to assert that, under the gaberdine of
so great an authority, any body is lawfully entitled to coin any
_English_ word he chooses out of any foreign language he thinks proper;
and that we may thus tune up our vocabulary to the key of a _lingua
franca_, an assemblage of all tongues, sounds, and idioms, dead or
living. It has also been asserted, since his decease, that the Doctor’s
logic is frequently false both in premises and conclusion, his ethics
erroneous, his philosophy often unintelligible, and his diction
generally bombastic. However, there are so many able and idle gentlemen
of law, physic, and divinity, amply educated, with pens stuck behind
their ears ready for action, who are much better skilled in the art and
practice of criticism than I am, that I shall content myself with
commenting on one solitary word out of forty thousand, which word not
only bears strongly on my own tenets and faith, but also affects one of
the most extraordinary occurrences of my life.
This comprehensive and important word, (which has upon occasion
puzzled me more than any other in the English language,) is
“_superstition_:”—whereof one of the definitions given by the Doctor,
in his Lexicon, appears to be rather inconsiderate, namely,—“religion
without morality.”—Now, I freely and fully admit that I am
_superstitious_, yet I think it is rather severe and somewhat singular
in the Doctor to admit my religion and extinguish my morality, which I
always considered as marching hand in hand—or, in truth, I thought the
latter should go foremost.
When Dr. Johnson began to learn his own ideas of morality does not
appear (certainly not from his friend Savage):—I suppose not until he
got an honorary degree from the pedants of Oxford. Collegiate degrees in
general, however, work no great reformation, I am inclined to believe,
in morality; at least I am certain that when I became a Doctor of Laws I
did not feel my morals in the least improved by my diploma. I wish the
candid Boswell had mentioned the precise epocha of the Doctor’s
reformation (for he admits him to have been a _little_ wild in his
youth); and then we might have judged under what state of mind he gave
the strange definition of “_religion_ without _morality_.”
For myself, I consider _faith_, grounded on the phenomena of _Nature_,
not the faith of sectarianism or fanaticism, as the true source and
foundation of morality;—and morality as the true source and foundation
of religion.
No human demonstration can cope with that presented by the face of
Nature. What proof so infallible as that the sun produces light and heat
and vegetation?[23]—that the tides ebb and flow—that the thunder
rolls—that the lightning flashes—that the planets shine?[24] Who can
gaze on the vast orb of day without feeling that it is the visible
demonstration of a superior Being, convincing our reason and our senses,
and even the scanty reason of illiterate savages?
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Footnote 23:
The following lines are by Miss M. Tylden, the young poetess whom I
have before mentioned, and shall again allude to more fully. In my
humble opinion, there are not fourteen consecutive lines in the
English language superior in true sublimity both of thought and
language:
The sun is in the empire of his light,
Throned in the mighty solitude of heaven:
He seems the visible Omnipotent
Dwelling in glory:—his high sanctuary
Do the eyes worship, and, thereon as if
Impiety to gaze, the senses reel,
Drunk with the spirit of his deep refulgence.
Circle of glory!—Diadem of heaven!
Cast in the mould of bright eternity,
And bodying forth the attributes of Him
Who made thee of this visible world supreme;
And thou becamest a wonder and a praise,—
A worship—yea, a _pure idolatry_!
The image of the glories of our God.
I look upon the _personification_ of _God_ to be the excess of
blasphemy.
Footnote 24:
The reader may deem it curious to compare the two following
stanzas—the first graced with the great name of Mr. Addison; the
second the performance of my accomplished young friend, and extracted
from her common-place book, without any opportunity given for
revision.—She is ignorant that I have published a line of hers.