This is one side of his genius; but another, and profounder, appears in
the eloquent simplicity of such a passage as the following, against our
fears of lessening ourselves in the eyes of others:

The most useful medicines are often unpleasing to the taste. Those who
are oppressed by their own reputation will, perhaps, not be comforted by
hearing that their cares are unnecessary. But the truth is that no man
is much regarded by the rest of the world. He that considers how little
he dwells upon the condition of others, will learn how little the
attention of others is attracted to himself. While we see multitudes
passing before us, of whom, perhaps, not one appears to deserve our
notice, or excite our sympathy, we should remember that we likewise are
lost in the same throng; that the eye which happens to glance upon us is
turned in a moment on him that follows us, and that the utmost which we
can reasonably hope or fear is, to fill a vacant hour with prattle, and
be forgotten.

When we approach Johnson's poetry, the revolution of taste becomes a more
acute consideration. It seems very nearly impossible to compare or
contrast eighteenth-century poetry and that of the twentieth without
wilfully tipping the scales in one direction or the other, judgment in
this area being so much influenced by preference. But let us begin with
titles. For a start, let us take, from a recent Pulitzer Prize-winner:
"The Day's No Rounder Than Its Angles Are", and "Don't Look Now But
Mary Is Everybody"; from another distinguished current volume, these:
"The Trance", "Lost", "Meeting"; from another, "After This, Sea", "Lineman
Calling", "Meaning Motion"; and from a fourth, "Terror", "Picnic
Remembered", "Eidolon", and "Monologue at Midnight". Here are individual
assertions, suggestive of individual ways of looking at things; here
are headings that signalize particular events in the authors'