We do not wish hastily to attribute to Mr. Duppa, the editor of this little volume, any intention to defame Dr. Johnson; we know that different opinions are entertained on the subject to which we are adverting; and if he think it decent or proper to give this alternation of fatigue and repose, sickness and health, exhaustion and repletion to the world, we have little objection, but we have some dislike that it should be called a journey into North Wales, and converted into a sort of counterpart to the "Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland," so much and so justly admired for the vivacity of the descriptions and the philosophical views of society it presents.

We are the more ready to excuse Mr. Duppa, because he really appears to be sensible of the merits of Dr. Johnson, and so much so, that he anticipates the circulation of "more last words," from such high authority, without any intrinsic worth to recommend this literary codicil to public notice. He would have us except, however, the comparison of Hawkestone and Ilam, in which for the first time, he supposes the doctor to have shewn the interest he felt in the beauties of nature. Whether the editor seriously imagined, that from these few sentences preserved, he had discovered a new trait in the expressive mind of his author, or whether the bare pretence to this new feature is to apologize for the feeble portrait he has now unexpectedly produced, thirty years after the decease of the original, we do not pretend to determine; but of this we are assured that no other man who reads the account will be at all inclined to differ from his former opinion of Johnson, that acute and active as his sensibility was to moral beauty, to natural beauty as displayed in the magnificent scenery of this gay and resplendent globe, he was as obtuse and tardy in his feelings as it was possible for any one to be under the subsisting harmony between moral and natural objects.

Those who follow us in our extracts, and recollect the ardour and enthusiasm which were awakened by the same scenes in other travellers, will have no doubt of the incorrectness of the conclusion of Mr. Duppa; but the author himself has disposed of it in a line, "We then went to see a cascade," says the doctor, "I trudged unwillingly and was not sorry to find it dry." (p. 77.) The state of this cascade was that of the author; he was arid to such scenes, although he could overflow in the contemplation of the sublime operations of providence in the intellectual world.

But we are perhaps less pleased with the form than the substance of this work. With an ordinary type, and an economical margin, the whole might be reduced to the size of a sixpenny or shilling pamphlet, but from some mercenary interest, which at the expense of general information and convenience should not be indulged, with the help of a large print, numerous sections, a prolix itinerary, a useless index, and notes as copious as they are frivolous, it is extended to the proportion of a nine shilling book: or, in the vulgar and intelligible phrase, familiar to the trade, it is a catchpenny publication. We are not apprized to whom this disgraceful contrivance is to be ascribed, but whenever and wherever we discover the practice of it, it shall not escape our reprobation. There is no occasion on which we are more anxious that there should be value received than in the purchase of knowledge, and we think any expedients to mislead the public into an unfair application of their money in books, much more disreputable, than the vulgar frauds of hawkers and pedlars: from the one you expect only frippery and tinsel; but from the other philosophy and truth.

We have been told, but we know not with what accuracy, that the manuscript of the diary, which is now in the hands of the publisher, was obtained from a black servant of the doctor; but how it was originally procured, and in what situation it was preserved we have no particulars. We are of opinion that it ought to have devolved into other hands, and if it had been purloined or mislaid, to them it ought to have been restored. Under the obscurity, some light should be afforded to the public, and the reader will not be satisfied without it, for there will be those who suspect misconduct, and who will be the more anxious to indulge unfavourable inferences from the indignation they feel at the injury they suppose, the high character of this eminent writer to have sustained, by the present publication.

Many circumstances concur to shew that Dr. Johnson did not intend that these tattered shreds of the strong texture of his mind should be exposed in the market for sale. In the first place they are worth nothing, next the work, had remained with numerous orthographical errors, (which may be seen by the inspection of the original,) and without any correction for eleven years; thirdly, his delicacy as to personal infirmities, induced him to intermix the Greek language, and lastly, the journey was professedly undertaken,

not for any picturesque examination of the country, but that the family with whom Dr. Johnson was so intimately connected, might take possession of an estate that had devolved to them of the value of five hundred pounds per annum. This business occupied more time than the editor imagines, according to his preface. He says, that the journey commenced on the 5th of July, 1774, and the return, on the 25th of August. The Diary itself shews that on the 24th of September, the travellers were at Mr. Burke's at Beaconsfield, from whence they "went home."

But if the publication were not intended by the author in the present shape, it may be imagined, that when ex panded by subsequent reflection, the doctor designed to give it to the world. The best answer to this conjecture is, that he did not do so: that although he was at the time of the journey correcting the press for his Scottish tour, and in the habit of the sort of composition, he did not indulge that habit; and he employed himself in no publication in the sequel, the Lives of the Poets excepted, a most valuable addition to biography and criticism, whatever may be thought of the severity of the writer, as to some of the characters. If it be alleged that his growing infirmities prevented his fulfilling the purpose of delivering this Tour in Wales in a proper form to the press, the reply is that the laborious and ingenious work to which we have just referred, shews the continued vigour of his masculine understanding, and indeed its improved state, for he then abandoned that turgid style approaching to the bombastic and pompous, by which his early compositions, and especially his Ramblers, are deteriorated. His corporeal debility did not press severely upon him until the year 1783, nine years after inditing these irregular notes for which we are indebted to Mr. Duppa. A paralytic stroke at that period alarmed his friends, and asthma with dropsical symptoms following, his valuable life was terminated on the 13th of December, 1785, when he was unquestionably the most conspicuous literary genius of his country, and a distinguished ornament to moral science and philosophy in every other.

But it is time that we should gratify the curiosity of our readers as to the work itself; and that they may not be disappointed from lofty expectations of whatever proceeds from the pen of Johnson, we will premise, that the tour is not calculated to display the magnificent scenery he visited, but the operations of a great and powerful mind in

its meanest attire-in its night-gown and slippers, if we may so express ourselves,-when it was consulting only its own ease and indulgence, without an observing eye, or a listening ear, like the editor's, to expose its eccentricities and aberrations.

Until we come to the description of Dovedale, in the 18th page, we have nothing but remarks in the shortest form of an itinerary journal, including names of places and persons, with distances and accommodations. He then

proceeds.

"At Dovedale, with Mr. Langley and Mr. Flint. It is a place that deserves a visit; but did not answer my expectation. The river is small; the rocks are grand. Reynard's Hall is a cave very high in the rock; it goes backward several yards, perhaps eight. To the left is a small opening, through which I crept, and found another cavern, perhaps four yards square; at the back was a breach yet smaller, which I could not easily have entered, and, wanting light, did not inspect.

"I was in a cave yet higher, called Reynard's Kitchen. There is a rock called the Church, in which I saw no resemblance that could justify the name.*

"Dovedale is about two miles long. We walked towards the head of the Dove, which is said to rise about five miles above two caves called the Dog-holes, at the foot of Dovedale.

"In one place, where the rocks approached, I proposed to build an arch from rock to rock over the stream, with a summer-house upon it.

"The water murmured pleasantly among the stones.

"I thought that the heat and exercise mended my hearing. I bore the fatigue of the walk, which was very laborious, without inconvenience.

"There were with us Gilpin and Parker. Having heard of this place before, I had formed some imperfect idea, to which it did not answer. Brown says he was disappointed. I certainly expected a large river where I found only a clear quick brook. I believe I had imaged a valley enclosed by rocks, and terminated by a broad expanse of water.

"He that has seen Dovedale has no need to visit the Highlands." (p. 18-21.)

Those who have visited the magnificent edifice of Lord Scarsdale, at Kedleston, would not thank us for transcrib ing the account of it here given, shewing only, that in architecture the author was no proficient; nor would they be obliged by our extracting his remarks on the machinery

"This rock is supposed rudely to resemble a tower; hence, it has been called the Church."

of a silk-mill, the process of salt-making, the preparation of papier maché, or on the splendid works at Boulton's,* which would expose further his utter ignorance of all that relates to practical mechanics and chemistry. His genius had taken a different direction, and it was a mark of his wisdom, if he selected for it the course on which he could outrun all his competitors. Victory was the constant object of his pursuit, even in the friendly contests of domestic intercourse and familiar conversation, and he rarely failed to acquire it, either by dexterity or strength.

At Pool's Hole, near Buxton, our traveller was unwilling to encounter the difficulties it presented, and, therefore, taking an imperfect view, he gives an inadequate description of it; but as the editor relies much upon the comparison of the beauties of Hawkestone and Ilam for the reception of his publication, and the novelty he assumes to have discovered in the mind of his author, we will supply the whole passage.

"We saw Hawkestone, the seat of Sir Rowland Hill, and were conducted by Miss Hill over a large tract of rocks and woods; a region abounding with striking scenes and terrific grandeur. We were always on the brink of a precipice, or at the foot of a lofty rock; but the steeps were seldom naked: in many places, oaks of uncommon magnitude shot up from the crannies of stone; and where there were no trees, there were underwoods and bushes.

"Round the rocks is a narrow path, cut upon the stone, which is very frequently hewn into steps; but art has proceeded no further than to make the succession of wonders safely accessible. The whole circuit is somewhat laborious: it is terminated by a grotto cut in the rock to a great extent, wi, many windings, and supported by pillars, not hewn into regularity, but such as imitate the spots of nature, by asperities and protuberances.

"The place is without any dampness, and would afford an habitation not uncomfortable. There were from space to space seats cut out in the rock. Though it wants water, it excels Dovedale by the extent of its prospects, the awfulness of its shades, the horrors of its precipices, the verdure of its hollows, and the loftiness of its rocks. The ideas which it forces upon the mind are, the sublime, the dreadful, and the vast. Above is inaccessible altitude; below is horrible profundity. But it excels the garden of Ilam only in

extent.

"Ilam has grandeur, tempered with softness; the walker congratulates his own arrival at the place, and is grieved to think he

Of this last he only says: "We then went to Boulton's, who led us through the shops. I could not distinctly see his enginery. Twelve dozen of buttons for three shillings. Spoons struck at once."