the rest in 1780 and 1781, as the "Lives of English Poets." This work
has generally been regarded as Johnson's masterpiece. It nowhere,
indeed, displays so much of the creative, the inventive, the poetical,
as his "Rasselas," and many of his smaller tales and fictions. Its
judgments, too, have been often and justly controverted. The book is,
undoubtedly, a storehouse of his prejudices, as well as of his wisdom.
Its treatment of Milton, the man, for instance, is insufferably
insolent, although ample justice is done to Milton, the poet of the
"Paradise Lost." Some poetasters he has overpraised, and some true but
minor poets he has thrust down too far in the scale. But the work, as
a whole, is full of inextinguishable life, and has passages verging on
the eloquence and power of genius. A piece of stern, sober, yet broad
and animated composition, rather careless in dates, and rather cursory
in many of its criticisms, it displays unequalled force of thought,
and pointed vigour of style, and when taken in connexion with the age
of the author (seventy), is altogether marvellous. Truly there were
"giants in those days," and this was a Briareus.

For the details of his later life, his conversations, growing
weakness, little journeys, unconquerable love of literature, &c., we
must refer our readers to Boswell's teeming narrative. In 1783, he had
a stroke of palsy, which deprived him for a time of speech. That
returned to him, however, but a complication of complaints, including
asthma, sciatica, and dropsy, began gradually to undermine his
powerful frame. He continued to the last to cherish the prospect of a
tour to Italy, but never accomplished his purpose. Death had all along
been his great object of dread, and its fast approaches were regarded
with unmitigated terror. "Cut deeper," he cried to the physicians who
were operating on his limbs; "cut deeper; I don't care for pain, but I
fear death." He fixed all his dying hope upon the Cross, and