mode of biography which gives not only a history of Johnson’s visible progress through the world, and of his publications, but a view of his mind in his letters and conversations, is the most perfect that can be conceived, and will be more of a life than any work that has yet appeared.
He had been preparing for the task for more than twenty years; he had, in season and out, been taking notes of Johnson’s conversations, and Johnson himself had supplied him with much of the material. Thus in poverty, interrupted by periods of dissipation, amid the sneers of many, he continued his work. While it was in progress his wife died, and he, poor fellow, justly upbraided himself for his neglect of her.
Meanwhile, a “new horn” was presented to him. He had, or thought he had, a chance of being elected to Parliament, or at least of securing a place under government; but in all this he was destined to be disappointed. It would be difficult to imagine conditions more unfavorable to sustained effort than those under which Boswell labored. He was desperately hard up. Always subject to fits of the blues, which amounted almost to melancholia, he many a time thought of giving up the task from which he hoped to derive fame and profit. He considered selling his rights in the publication for a thousand pounds. But it would go to his heart, he said, to accept such a sum; and again, “I am in such bad spirits that I have fear concerning it—I may get no profit, nay, may lose—the public may be disappointed and think I have done it poorly—I may make enemies, and even have quarrels.” Then the depression would pass and he could write: “It will be, without exception, the most entertaining book you ever read.” When his friends heard that the Life would make two large volumes quarto, and that the price was two guineas, they shook their heads and Boswell’s fears began again.
At last, on May 16, 1791, the book appeared, with the imprint of Charles Dilly, in the Poultry; and so successful was it that by August twelve hundred copies had been disposed of, and the entire edition was exhausted before the end of the year. The writer confesses to such a passion for this book that of this edition he owns at present four copies in various states, the one he prizes most having an inscription in Boswell’s hand: “To James Boswell, Esquire, Junior, from his affectionate father, the Authour.” Of other editions—but why display one’s weakness?
“Should there,” in Boswell’s phrase, “be any cold-blooded and morose mortals who really dislike it,” I am sorry for them. To me it has for thirty years been a never-ending source of profit—and pleasure, which is as important. It is a book to ramble in—and with. I have never, I think, read it through from cover to cover, as the saying is, but some day I will; meanwhile let me make a confession. There are parts of it which are deadly dull; the judicious reader will skip these without hint from me. I have, indeed, always had a certain sympathy with George Henry Lewes, who for years threatened to publish an abridgment of it. It could be done: indeed, the work could be either expanded or contracted at will; but every good Boswellian will wish to do this for himself; tampering with a classic is somewhat like tampering with a will—it is good form not to.