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Reality, as they stand written for us in Professor | far that your Machinery' is avowedly niecha Gottfried Sauerteig's Esthetische Springwürzel: nical and unbelieved,-what is it else, if we a Work, perhaps, as yet new to most English dare tell ourselves the truth, but a miserable, readers. The Professor and Doctor is not a meaningless Deception kept up by old use and man whom we can praise without reservation; wont alone? If the gods of an Iliad are to us neither shall we say that his Springwürzel (a sort no longer authentic Shapes of Terror, heartof magical pick-locks, as he affectedly names stirring, heart-appalling, but only vague-glitthem) are adequate to "start" every bolt that tering Shadows,-what must the dead Palocks up an æsthetic mystery; nevertheless, in gan gods of an Epigoniad be, the dead-living his crabbed, one-sided way, he sometimes hits Pagan-Christian gods of a Lusiad, the concretemasses of the truth. We endeavour to trans- abstract, evangelical-metaphysical gods of a late faithfully, and trust the reader will find it Paradise Lost? Superannuated lumber! Cast worth serious perusal : raiment, at best; in which some poor mime, strutting and swaggering, may or may not set forth new noble Human Feelings, (again a Reality,) and so secure, or not secure, our pardon of such hoydenish masking,-for which, in any case, he has a pardon to ask.

"The significance, even for poetic purposes," says Sauerteig, "that lies in REALITY, is too apt to escape us; is perhaps only now beginning to be discerned. When we named Rousseau's Confessions an elegiaco-didactic Poem, we meant more than an empty figure of speech; we meant an historical scientific fact.

"True enough, none but the earliest Epic Poems can claim this distinction of entire cre"Fiction, while the feigner of it knows that dibility, of Reality: after an Iliad, a Shaster, a he is feigning, partakes, more than we suspect, Koran, and other the like primitive performof the nature of lying; and has ever an, in some ances, the rest seem, by this rule of mine, to be degree, unsatisfactory character. All Mytho- altogether excluded from the list. Accordingly, logies were once Philosophies; were believed: what are all the rest from Virgil's Eneid downthe Epic Poems of old time, so long as they wards, in comparison ?—Frosty, artificial, hecontinued epic, and had any complete impres-terogeneous things; more of gumflowers than siveness, were Histories, and understood to be of roses; at best, of the two mixed incoherently narratives of facts. In so far as Homer em- together: to some of which, indeed, it were ployed his gods as mere ornamental fringes, hard to deny the title of Poems; yet to no one and had not himself, or at least did not expect of which can that title belong in any sense even his hearers to have, a belief that they were resembling the old high one it, in those old days, real agents in those antique doings; so far did conveyed,-when the epithet 'divine' or 'sahe fail to be genuine; so far was he a partially cred,' as applied to the uttered Word of man, hollow and false singer; and sang to please only was not a vain metaphor, a vain sound, but a a portion of man's mind, not the whole thereof. real name with meaning. Thus, too, the farther Imagination is, after all, but a poor matter we recede from those early days, when Poetry, when it must part company with Understand- as true Poetry is always, was still sacred or ing, and even front it hostilely in flat contra- divine, and inspired, (what ours, in great part, diction. Our mind is divided in twain: there only pretends to be,)-the more impossible is contest; wherein that which is weaker must becomes it to produce any, we say not true needs come to the worse. Now of all feelings, Poetry, but tolerable semblance of such; the states, principles, call it what you will, in man's hollower, in particular, grow all manner of mind, is not Belief the clearest, strongest; Epics; till at length, as in this generation, the against which all others contend in vain very name of Epic sets men a-yawning, the Belief is, indeed, the beginning and first con- announcement of a new Epic is received as a dition of all spiritual Force whatsoever: only public calamity. in so far as Imagination, were it but momentarily, is believed, can there be any use or meaning in it, any enjoyment of it. And what is momentary Belief? The enjoyment of a moWhereas a perennial Belief were enjoyment perennially, and with the whole united soul.

ment.

?

"It is thus that I judge of the Supernatural in an Epic Poem; and would say, the instant it had ceased to be authentically supernatural, and become what you call Machinery;' sweep it out of sight (schaff'es mir vom Halse)! Of a truth, that same Machinery,' about which the critics make such hubbub, was well named Machinery for it is in very deed mechanical, nowise inspired or poetical. Neither for us is there the smallest æsthetic enjoyment in it; save only in this way: that we believe it to have been believed,—by the Singer or his Hearers; into whose case we now laboriously struggle to transport ourselves; and so, with stinted enough result, catch some reflex of the Reality, which for them was wholly real, and visible face to face. Whenever it has come so

"But what if the impossible being once for all quite discarded, the probable be well adhered to; how stands it with fiction then? Why, then, I would say, the evil is much mended, but nowise completely cured. We have then, in place of the wholly dead modern Epic, the partially living modern Novel; to which latter it is much easier to lend that above-mentioned, so essential momentary credence,' than to the former: indeed infinitely easier: for the former being flatly incredible, no mortal can for a moment credit it, for a moment enjoy it. Thus, here and there, a Tom Jones, a Meister, a Crusoe, will yield no little solacement to the minds of men: though still immeasurably less than a Reality would, were the significance thereof as impressively unfolded, were the genius that could so unfold it once given us by the kind Heavens. Neither say thou that proper Realities are wanting: for Man's Life, now as of old, is the genuine work of God; wherever there is a Man, a God also is revealed, and all that is Godlike a whole epitome of the Infinite, with its meanings, lies enfolded in the Life of every

:

Man. Only, alas, that the Seer to discern this | Truth, what we can call a Revelation; which same Godlike, and with fit utterance unfold it last does undoubtedly transcend all other pofor us, is wanting, and may long be wanting! etic efforts, nor can Herr Sauerteig be too "Nay, a question arises on us here, wherein loud in its praises. But, on the other hand, the whole German reading-world will eagerly whether such effort is still possible for man, Join: Whether man can any longer be so in- Herr Sauerteig and the bulk of the world are terested by the spoken Word, as he often was probably at issue,—and will probably continue in those primeval days, when, rapt away by its so till that same "Revelation" or new “Inveninscrutable power, he pronounced it, in such tion of Reality," of the sort he desiderates, dialect as he had, to be transcendental, (to shall itself make its appearance. transcend all measure,) to be sacred, prophetic, and the inspiration of a god? For myself, I, (ich meines Ortes,) by faith or by insight, do heartily understand that the answer to such question will be, Yea! For never, that I could in searching find out, has Man been, by Time which devours so much, deprivated of any faculty whatsoever that he in any era was possessed of. To my seeming, the babe born yesterday has all the organs of Body, Soul, and Spirit, and in exactly the same combination and entireness, that the oldest Pelasgic Greek, or Mesopotamian Patriarch, or Father Adam himself could boast of. Ten fingers, one heart with venous and arterial blood therein, still belong to man that is born of woman: when did he lose any of his spiritual Endowments either: above all, his highest spiritual Endowment, that of revealing Poetic Beauty, and of adequately receiving the same? Not the material, not the susceptibility is wanting; only the poet, or long series of Poets, to work on these. True, alas too true, the Poet is still utterly wanting, or all but utterly: nevertheless have we not centuries enough before us to produce him in? Him and much else!-I, for the present, will but predict that chiefly by working more and more on REALITY, and evolving more and more wisely its inexhaustible meanings; and, in brief, speaking forth in fit utterance whatsoever our whole soul believes, and ceasing to speak forth what thing soever our whole soul does not believe,will this high emprise be accomplished, or approximated to."

Meanwhile, quitting these airy regions, let any one bethink him how impressive the smallest historical fact may become, as contrasted with the grandest fictitious event; what an incalculable force lies for us in this consideration: The Thing which I here hold imaged in my mind did actually occur; was, in very truth, an element in the system of the All, whereof I too form part; had therefore, and has, through all time, an authentic being; is not a dream, but a reality! We ourselves can remember reading in Lord Clarendon, with feelings perhaps somehow accidentally opened to it, certainly with a depth of impression strange to us then and now,-that insignificant looking passage, where Charles, after the battle of Worcester, glides down, with Squire Careless, from the Royal Oak, at night-fall, being hungry: how, "making a shift to get over hedges and ditches, after walking at least eight or nine miles, which were the more grievous to the King by the weight of his boots, (for he could not put them off, when he cut off his hair, for want of shoes,) before morning they came to a poor cottage, the owner whereof being a Roman Catholic was known to Careless." How this poor drudge, being knocked up from his snoring, “carried them into a little barn full of hay, which was a better lodg ing than he had for himself;" and by and by, not without difficulty, brought his Majesty "a piece of bread and a great pot of butter-milk," saying candidly that "he himself lived by his daily labour, and that what he had brought him was the fare he and his wife had:" on which nourishing diet his Majesty, “staying upon the haymow," feeds thankfully for two days; and then departs, under new guidance, having first changed clothes down to the very shirt and "old pair of shoes," with his landlord; and so as worthy Bunyan has it, "goes on his way, and sees him no more."* Singu lar enough if we will think of it! This then was a genuine flesh-and-blood Rustic of the year 1651: he did actually swallow bread and butter-milk (not having ale and bacon,) and do field labour; with these hob-nailed "shoes" has sprawled through mud-roads in winter, and, jocund or not, driven his team a-field in summer; he made bargains; had chafferings and higglings, now a sore heart, now a glad one; was born; was a son, was a father;toiled in many ways, being forced to it, till the strength was all worn out of him: and thenlay down "to rest his galled back," and sleep there till the long-distant morning!-How comes it, that he alone of all the British rustics who tilled and lived along with him, on whom the blessed sun on that same “fifth

These notable, and not unfounded, though partial and deep-seeing rather than wide-seeing observations on the great import of REALITY, considered even as a poetic material, we have inserted the more willingly, because a transient feeling to the same purpose may often have suggested itself to many readers; and, on the whole, it is good that every reader and every writer understand, with all intensity of conviction, what quite infinite worth lies in Truth how all-pervading, omnipotent, in man's mind, is the thing we name Belief. For the rest, Herr Sauerteig, though one-sided, on this matter of Reality, seems heartily persuaded, and is not perhaps so ignorant as he looks. It cannot be unknown to him, for example, what noise is made about "Invention ;" what a supreme rank this faculty is reckoned to hold in the poetic endowment. Great truly is Invention; nevertheless, that is but a poor exercise of it with which Belief is not concerned. "An Irishman with whisky in his head," as poor Byron said, will invent you, in this kind, till there is enough and to spare. Nay, perhaps, if we consider well, the highest exercise of Invention has, in very deed, nothing to do with Fiction; but is an invention of new,

*History of the Rebellion, iii. 625.

for himself what it is that gives such pitiful incidents their memorableness; his aim likewise is, above all things, to be memorable. Half the effect, we already perceive, depends on the object, on its being real, on its being really seen. The other half will depend on the observer; and the question now is: How are real objects to be so seen; on what quality of observing, or of style in describing, does this so intense pictorial power depend? Often a slight circumstance contributes curiously to the result: some little, and perhaps to appearance accidental, feature is presented; a light-gleam, which instantaneously excites the mind, and urges it to complete the picture, and evolve the meaning, thereof for itself. By critics, such light-gleams and their almost magical influence have fre quently been noted: but the power to produce such, to select such features as will produce them, is generally treated as a knack, or trick of the trade, a secret for being "graphic;" whereas these magical feats are, in truth, rather inspirations; and the gift of performing them, which acts unconsciously, without forethought, and as if by nature alone, is properly a genius for description.

One grand, invaluable secret there is, however, which includes all the rest, and, what is comfortable, lies clearly in every man's power: To have an open, loving heart, and what follows from the possession of such! Truly has it been said, emphatically in these days ought it to be repeated: A loving heart is the beginning of all Knowledge. This it is that opens the whole mind, quickens every faculty of the intellect to do its fit work, that of knowing; and therefrom, by sure consequence, of vividly uttering forth. Other secret for being "graphic" is there none, worth having: but this is an all-sufficient one. See, for example, what a small Boswell can do! Hereby, indeed, is the whole man made a living mirror, wherein the wonders of this everwonderful Universe are, in their true light, (which is ever a magical, miraculous one,) represented, and reflected back on us. It has been said, "the heart sees farther than the head:" but, indeed, without the seeing heart there is no true seeing for the head so much as possible; all is mere oversight, hallucination, and vain superficial phantasmagoria, which can permanently profit no one.

Here, too, may we not pause for an instant, and make a practical reflection? Considering the multitude of mortals that handle the Pen in these days, and can mostly spell, and write without daring violations of grammar, the question naturally arises: How is it, then, that no Work proceeds from them, bearing any stamp of authenticity and permanence; of worth for more than one day? Ship-loads of Fashionable Novels, Sentimental Rhymes, Tragedies, Farces, Diaries of Travel, Tales by flood and field, are swallowed monthly into the bottomless Pool; still does the Press toil: in

day of September" was shining, should have chanced to rise on us; that this poor pair of clouted Shoes, out of a million million hides that have been tanned, and cut, and worn, should still subsist, and hang visibly together? We see him but for a moment; for one moment, the blanket of the Night is rent asunder, so that we behold and see, and then closes over him-for ever.

So too, in some Boswell's Life of Johnson, how indelible, and magically bright, does many a little Reality dwell in our remembrance! There is no need that the personages on the scene be a King and Clown; that the scene be the Forest of the Royal Oak, "on the borders of Staffordshire:" need only that the scene lie on this old firm Earth of ours, where we also have so surprisingly arrived; that the personages be men, and seen with the eyes of a man. Foolish enough, how some slight, perhaps mean and even ugly incident-if real, and well presented-will fix itself in a susceptive memory, and lie ennobled there; silvered over with the pale cast of thought, with the pathos which belongs only to the Dead. For the Past is all holy to us; the Dead are all holy, even they that were base and wicked while alive. Their baseness and wickedness was not They, was but the heavy unmanageable Environment that lay round them, with which they fought unprevailing: they (the ethereal God-given Force that dwelt in them, and was their Self) have now shuffled off that heavy Environment, and are free and pure: their life-long Battle, go how it might, is all ended, with many wounds or with fewer; they have been recalled from it, and the once harsh-jarring battle-field has become a silent awe-inspiring Golgotha, and Gottesacker-Field of God!--Boswell relates this in itself smallest and poorest of occurrences: "As we walked along the Strand to-night, arm in arm, a woman of the town accosted us in the usual enticing manner. No, no, my girl,' said Johnson; it won't do.' He, however, did not treat her with harshness, and we talked of the wretched life of such women." Strange power of Reality! Not even this poorest of occurrences, but now, after seventy years are come and gone, has a meaning for us. Do but consider that it is true; that it did in very deed occur! That unhappy Outcast, with all her sins and woes, her lawless desires, too complex mischances, her wailings and her riotings, has departed utterly: alas! her siren finery has got all besmutched; ground, generations since, into dust and smoke, of her degraded body, and whole miserable earthly existence, all is away: she is no longer here, but far from us, in the bosom of Eternity, whence we too came, whither we too are bound! Johnson said, "No, no, my girl; it won't do ;" and then "we talked ;"-and herewith the wretched one, seen but for the twinkling of an eye, passes on into the utter Dark-numerable Paper-makers, Compositors, Printness. No high Calista, that ever issued from ers' Devils, Bookbinders, and Hawkers grown Story-teller's brain, will impress us more hoarse with loud proclaiming, rest not from deeply than this meanest of the mean; and their labour; and still, in torrents, rushes on for a good reason: That she issued from the the great array of Publications, unpausing, to Maker of Men. their final home; and still Oblivion, like the Grave, cries: Give! Give! How is it that of

It is well worth the Artist's while to examine

all these countless multitudes, no one can attain to the smallest mark of excellence, or produce ought that shall endure longer than "snowflake on the river," or the foam of penny-beer? We answer: Because they are foam; because there is no Reality in them. These Three Thousand men, women, and children, that make up the army of British Authors, do not, if we will well consider it, see any thing whatever; consequently have nothing that they can record and utter, only more or fewer things that they can plausibly pretend to record. The Universe, of Man and Nature, is still quite shut up from them; the open secret" still utterly a secret; because no sympathy with Man or Nature, no love and free simplicity of heart has yet unfolded the same. Nothing but a pitiful Image of their own pitiful Self, with its vanities, and grudgings, and ravenous hunger of a kinds, hangs for ever painted in the retina these unfortunate persons: so that the starry ALL, with whatsoever it embraces, does but appear as some expanded magiclantern shadow of that same Image,-and naturally looks pitiful enough.

It is vain for these persons to allege that they are naturally without gift, naturally stupid and sightless, and so can attain to no knowledge of any thing; therefore, in writing of any thing, must needs write falsehoods of it, there being in it no truth for them. Not so, good Friends. The stupidest of you has a certain faculty; were it but that of articulate speech, (say, in the Scottish, the Irish, the Cockney dialect, or even in "Governess-English,") and of physically discerning what lies under your nose. The stupidest of you would perhaps grudge to be compared in faculty with James Boswell; yet see what he has produced! You do not use your faculty honestly; your heart is shut up; full of greediness, malice, discontent; so your intellectual sense cannot be open. It is vain also to urge that James Boswell had opportunities; saw great men and great things, such as you can never hope to look on. What make ye of Parson White in Selborne? He had not only no great men to look on, but not even men; merely sparrows and cock-chafers: yet has he left us a Biography of these; which, under its title Natural History of Selborne, still remains valuable to us; which has copied a little sentence or two faithfully from the inspired volume of Nature, and so is itself not without inspiration. Go ye and do likewise. Sweep away utterly all frothiness and falsehood from your heart; struggle unweariedly to acquire, what is possible for every god-created Man, a free, open, humble soul: speak not at all, in any wise, till you have somewhat to speak; care not for the reward of your speaking, but simply and with undivided mind for the truth of your speaking: then be placed in what section of Space and of Time soever, do but open your eyes, and they shall actually see, and bring you real¦ knowledge, wo drous, worthy of belief; and in

stead of one Boswell and one White, the world will rejoice in a thousand,-stationed on their thousand several watch-towers, to instruct us by indubitable documents, of whatsoever in our so stupendous world comes to light and is! O, had the Editor of this Magazine but a magic rod to turn all that not inconsiderable Intellect, which now deluges us with artificial fictitious soap-lather, and mere Lying, into the faithful study of Reality,-what knowledge of great, everlasting Nature, and of Man's ways and doings therein, would not every year bring us in! Can we but change one single soaplatherer and mountebank Juggler, into a true Thinker and Doer, that even tries honestly to think and do-great will be our reward.

But to return; or rather from this point to begin our journey! If now, what with Herr Sauerteig's Springwürzel, what with so much lucubration of our own, it have become apparent how deep, immeasurable is the "worth that lies in Reality," and farther, how exclusive the interest which man takes in the Histories of Man, may it not seem lamentable, that so few genuinely good Biographies have yet been accumulated in Literature; that in the whole world, one cannot find, going strictly to work, above some dozen, or baker's dozen, and those chiefly of very ancient date? Lamentable; yet, after what we have just seen, accountable. Another question might be asked: How comes it that in England we have simply one good Biography, this Boswell's Johnson: and of good, indifferent, or even bad attempts at Biography, fewer than any civilized people? Consider the French and Germans, with their Moreris, Bayles, Jördenses, Jüchers, their innumerable Mémoires, and Schilderungen, and Biographies Universelles; not to speak of Rousseaus, Goethes, Schubarts, Jung-Stillings: and then contrast with these our poor Birches, and Kippises and Pecks,-the whole breed of whom, moreover, is now extinct!

With this question, as the answer might lead us far, and come out unflattering to patriotic sentiment, we shall not intermeddle; but turn rather, with greater pleasure, to the fact, that one excellent Biography is actually English;-and even now lies, in Five new Volumes, at our hand, soliciting a new consideration from us; such as, age after age (the Perennial showing ever new phases as our position alters,) it may long be profitable to bestow on it-to which task we here, in this age, gladly address ourselves.

First, however, Let the foolish April-fool day pass by; and our Reader, during these twenty-nine days of uncertain weather that will follow, keep pondering, according to convenience, the purport of BIOGRAPHY in gene ral: then, with the blessed dew of May-day, and in unlimited convenience of space, shall all that we have written on Johnson, and Bos well's Johnson, and Croker's Boswell's Johnson, br faithfully laid before him.

BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON.*

[FRASER'S MAGAZINE, 1832.]

Esop's Fly, sitting on the axle of the cha- | these. Let us admit, too, that he has been very riot, has been much laughed at for exclaiming: diligent; seems to have made inquiries perseWhat a dust I do raise! Yet which of us, in veringly far and near; as well as drawn freely his way, has not sometimes been guilty of the from his own ample stores; and so tells us to like? Nay, so foolish are men, they often, stand-appearance quite accurately, much that he has ing at ease and as spectators on the highway, not found lying on the highways, but has had to will volunteer to exclaim of the Fly (not being seek and dig for. Numerous persons, chiefly tempted to it, as he was) exactly to the same pur- of quality, rise to view in these Notes; when port: What a dust thou dost raise! Smallest of and also where they came into this world, remortals, when mounted aloft by circumstances, ceived office or promotion, died, and were come to seem great; smallest of phenomena buried (only what they did, except digest, reconnected with them are treated as important, maining often too mysterious,)-is faithfully and must be sedulously scanned, and com- enough set down. Whereby all that their vamented upon with loud emphasis. rious and doubtless widely-scattered Tombstones could have taught us, is here presented, at once, in a bound Book. Thus is an indubitable conquest, though a small one, gained over our great enemy, the all-destroyer Time; and as such shall have welcome.

That Mr. Croker should undertake to edit Boswell's Life of Johnson, was a praiseworthy but no miraculous procedure: neither could the accomplishment of such undertaking be, in an epoch like ours, anywise regarded as an event in Universal History; the right or the wrong accomplishment thereof was, in very truth, one of the most insignificant of things. However, it sat in a great environment, on the axle of a high, fast-rolling, parliamentary chariot; and all the world has exclaimed over it, and the author of it: What a dust thou dost raise! List to the Reviews, and "Organs of Public Opinion," from the National Omnibus upwards; criticisms, vituperative and laudatory, stream from their thousand throats of brass and leather; here chanting lo paans; there grating harsh thunder, or vehement shrewmouse squeaklets; till the general ear is filled, and nigh deafened. Boswell's Book had a noiseless birth, compared with this Edition of Boswell's Book. On the other hand, consider with what degree of tumult Paradise Lost and the Iliad were ushered in!

To swell such clamor, or prolong it beyond the time, seems nowise our vocation here. At most, perhaps we are bound to inform simple readers, with all possible brevity, what manner of performance and Edition this is; especially, whether, in our poor judgment, it is worth laying out three pounds sterling upon, yea or not. The whole business belongs distinctly to the lower ranks of the trivial class.

Let us admit, then, with great readiness, that as Johnson once said, and the Editor repeats, "all works which describe manners, require notes in sixty or seventy years, or less;" that, accordingly, a new Edition of Boswell was desirable; and that Mr. Croker has given one. For this task he had various qualifications: his own voluntary resolution to do it; his high place in society unlocking all manner of ar chives to him; not less, perhaps, a certain anecdotico-biographic turn of mind, natural or acquired; we mean, a love for the minuter events of History, and talent for investigating

The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. including a Tour to the Hebrides. By James Boswell, Esq.-A new Edition, with numerous Additions and Notes. By John Wilson Croker, LL.D., F. R. S. 5 vols. London, 1831.

Nay, let us say that the spirit of Diligence, exhibited in this department, seems to attend the Editor honestly throughout: he keeps everywhere a watchful outlook on his Text; reconciling the distant with the present, or at least indicating and regretting their irreconcilability; elucidating, smoothing down; in all ways, exercising, according to ability, a strict editorial superintendence. Any little Latin or even Greek phrase is rendered into English, in general with perfect accuracy; citations are verified, or else corrected. On all hands, moreover, there is a certain spirit of Decency maintained and insisted on : if not good morals, yet good manners, are rigidly inculcated; if not Religion, and a devout Christian heart, yet Orthodoxy, and a cleanly, Shovelhatted look,-which, as compared with flat Nothing, is something very considerable. Grant too, as no contemptible triumph of this latter spirit, that though the Editor is known as a decided Politician and Party-man, he has carefully subdued all temptations to transgress in that way: except by quite involuntary indications, and rather as it were the pervading temper of the whole, you could not discover on which side of the Political Warfare he is enlisted and fights. This, as we said, is a great triumph of the Decency-principle: for this, and for these other graces and performances, let the Editor have all praise.

Herewith, however, must the praise unfortunately terminate. Diligence, Fidelity, De. cency, are good and indispensable; yet, without Faculty, without Light, they will not do the work. Along with that Tombstone information, perhaps even without much of it, we could have liked to gain some answer, in one way or other, to this wide question: What and how was English Life in Johnson's time; wherein has ours grown to differ therefrom? In other words: What things have we to forget, what to fancy and remember, before we, from such distance, can put ourselves in Johnson's place; and so, in the full sense of

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