The prologue to Irene is written with elegance, and, in a peculiar style, shows the literary pride and lofty spirit of the author.  The epilogue, we are told, in a late publication, was written by sir William Yonge.  This is a new discovery, but by no means probable.  When the appendages to a dramatic performance are not assigned to a friend, or an unknown hand, or a person of fashion, they are always supposed to be written by the author of the play.  It is to be wished, however, that the epilogue, in question, could be transferred to any other writer.  It is the worst jeu d’esprit that ever fell from Johnson’s pen[cc].

An account of the various pieces contained in this edition, such as miscellaneous tracts, and philological dissertations, would lead beyond the intended limits of this essay.  It will suffice to say, that they are the productions of a man, who never wanted decorations of language, and always taught his reader to think.  The life of the late king of Prussia, as far as it extends, is a model of the biographical style.  The review of the Origin of Evil was, perhaps, written with asperity; but the angry epitaph which it provoked from Soame Jenyns, was an ill-timed resentment, unworthy of the genius of that amiable author.

The Rambler may be considered, as Johnson’s great work.  It was the basis of that high reputation, which went on increasing to the end of his days.  The circulation of those periodical essays was not, at first, equal to their merit.  They had not, like the Spectators, the art of charming by variety; and, indeed, how could it be expected?  The wits of queen Anne’s reign sent their contributions to the Spectator; and Johnson stood alone.  A stagecoach, says sir Richard Steele, must go forward on stated days, whether there are passengers or not.  So it was with the Rambler, every Tuesday and Saturday, for two years.  In this collection Johnson is the great moral teacher of his countrymen; his essays form a body of ethics; the observations on life and manners, are acute and instructive; and the papers, professedly critical, serve to promote the cause of literature.  It must, however, be acknowledged, that a settled gloom hangs over the author’s mind; and all the essays, except eight or ten, coming from the same fountain-head, no wonder that they have the raciness of the soil from which they sprang.  Of this uniformity Johnson was sensible.  He used to say, that if he had joined a friend or two, who would have been able to intermix papers of a sprightly turn, the collection would have been more miscellaneous, and, by consequence, more agreeable to the generality of readers.  This he used to illustrate by repeating two beautiful stanzas from his own ode to Cave, or Sylvanus Urban: 

  “Non ulla musis pagina gratior,
  Quam quae severis ludicra jungere
    Novit, fatigatamque nugis
      Utilibus recreare mentem.

  Texente nymphis serta Lycoride,
  Rosae ruborem sic viola adjuvat
    Iramista, sic Iris refulget
      Aethereis variata fucis.”