'In his (Shakespeare's) tragic scenes there is _always something wanting_'----NO[93]----'In his comic scenes he is seldom very successful, when he engages his characters in _reciprocations_ of smartness, and contests of sarcasms; their ideas are _commonly gross_, and their pleasantry _licentious_.' This accusation is cruel and unjust, as all the world knows already. But a great part of that preface is an incoherent jumble of reproach and panegyrick[94]. If any thing can be yet more faulty than what we have just now seen, it is what follows: 'Whenever he (Shakespeare) solicits his invention, or strains his faculties[95], the offspring of his _throes_ is _tumour_ (i. e. _puffy_ grandeur[96]), _meanness_, _tediousness_, and _obscurity_. His declamations or set speeches are _commonly cold and weak_.' The _set speeches_ (as the Doctor elegantly terms them) of Petruchio, of Jacques, of Wolsey, and of Hamlet, are _perhaps_ neither cold nor weak. The conclusion of this period is worthy of such a beginning; he mentions certain attempts from which Shakespeare 'seldom escapes without the pity or resentment of his reader.' The Doctor himself is an object of pity. Shakespeare has been in his grave near two centuries--His life was innocent--His writings are immortal. To feel resentment against so great a man because his works are not every where equal, is an idea highly becoming the generosity of Dr Johnson. What 'truth, moral or political,' is promoted by telling us, that, when Thomson came to London, _his first want was a pair of shoes_; that Pope 'wore a kind of fur doublet, under a shirt of very coarse warm linen, with fine sleeves[97];' and a long string of such tiresome and disgusting trifles, which make his narrative seem ridiculous. Had Dr Johnson been Pope's apothecary, we would certainly have heard of the frequency of his pulse, the colour of his water, and the quantity of his stools. 'Though Pope seemed angry when a dram was offered him, he did not forbear to drink it[98].' And who the Devil cares whether he did or not? The Doctor needed hardly to have told us, that 'his petty peculiarities were communicated by a female domestic;' for no gentleman would have confessed that they came within the reach of his observation. The _truly illustrious_ author of the RAMBLER, has exerted his venemous eloquence, _through several pages_, in order to convince us, that 'never were penury of knowledge and _vulgarity_ of sentiment so happily disguised,' as in Pope's Essay on Man. For this purpose, the Doctor celebrates the character of Crousaz, whose intentions 'were _always_ right, his opinions were solid, and his religion pure[99].' In opposition to such authorities, let us hear the great and immortal citizen of Geneva.