Samuel Johnson (1709–1784) who was certainly not the greatest
writer of his age, perhaps not even a great writer at all,
but who was nevertheless the dictator of English letters,
still looms across the centuries of a magnificent literature
as its most striking and original figure. Here, moreover, is
a huge, fat, awkward man, of vulgar manners and appearance,
who monopolizes conversation, abuses everybody, clubs down
opposition--“Madam” (speaking to his cultivated hostess
at table), “talk no more nonsense”; “Sir” (turning to a
distinguished guest), “I perceive you are a vile Whig.” While
talking he makes curious animal sounds, “sometimes giving a
half whistle, sometimes clucking like a hen”; and when he has
concluded a violent dispute and laid his opponents low by
dogmatism or ridicule, he leans back to “blow out his breath
like a whale” and gulp down numberless cups of hot tea. Yet this
curious dictator of an elegant age was a veritable lion, much
sought after by society; and around him in his own poor house
gathered the foremost artists, scholars, actors, and literary
men of London--all honoring the man, loving him, and listening
to his dogmatism as the Greeks listened to the voice of their
oracle.--WILLIAM J. LONG, “English Literature.”
(833)