ABSTRACT

Into this great chef-d’oeuvre of Milton it was no doubt Johnson’s secret determination to send a telling shot at parting. He would lodge a little gage d’amitié, a farewell pledge of hatred, a trifling token (trifling, but such things are not estimated in money) of his eternal malice. Milton’s admirers might divide it among themselves; and, if it should happen to fester and rankle in their hearts, so much the better; they were heartily welcome to the poison: not a jot would he deduct for himself if a thousand times greater. O Sam! kill us not with munificence. But now, as I must close within a minute or so, what is that pretty souvenir of gracious detestation with which our friend took his leave? The Paradise Lost, said he, in effect, is a wonderful work; wonderful, grand beyond

all estimate; sublime to a fault. But-well, go on, we are all listening. But-I grieve to say it, wearisome. It creates a world of admiration (one world, take notice); but-oh, that I, senior offshoot from the house of Malagrowthers,1 should live to say it! —ten worlds of ennui; one world of astonishment; ten worlds of taedium vitae. Half and half might be tolerated-it is often tolerated by the bibulous and others; but one against ten? No, no!