JOHNSON’S BOSWELL
LEARNING from a source sufficiently credible that the young Scotchman James Boswell, son and heir to the Laird of Auchinleck, designs some future biography of myself, I have favoured him with a measure of my company and conversation naturally denied to most men of his age. His attainments, without being considerable, are varied, and though the man’s garrulity can command neither respect nor admiration, yet there is about him a charm of rude health, high spirits, and good temper, which to undervalue or overlook would be at once unreasonable and unfair. His veneration for the writer, if irksome, is genuine; if at times offensive, is consistent. He has not as yet broke to me his intention, but the ambition was imparted to others of high repute. Them it is not necessary that I should here distinguish by their several appellations, but one and all inform me that Mr. Boswell, by constant practice and unceasing attention to my utterances in company, has so far schooled his memory to retrace and record with a startling accuracy much of the varied disquisition which is said to fall from me in conversation, together with those aphorisms, similes, apothegms, new lights, illuminations, corruscations, and repartees likewise reported as occurring in the substance of my discourse. Whether such a piece as must result from his assiduity is desirable, or can be fashioned with art sufficient to justify its existence, I shall not presume to determine. Fame, by which is understood the survival of human achievement, must be won by a man’s own labour; and it is surely vain to imagine that the attention of successive generations can be arrested by the idle elaboration of a daily life from an unknown pen, no matter how minute the record or illustrious the object of it. Be that as it may, with a purpose to prove whether, indeed, it be possible by system and attention to commit a man’s trivial actions and utterances to paper, I shall adventure some brief data or memoranda carried out after the fashion that is reported to be followed by Mr. Boswell against myself. And it is fitting that my own embryo historian should be the subject of such an experiment.
Monday.—At Thrale’s. After dinner, to which repast Boswell was not invited, he arrived, and, finding a large company present, thrust himself into the talk without ingenuity and without decorum. Perceiving him to be intoxicated, I endeavoured to silence his alcoholic exuberance with as little occasion for offence to those present as the circumstance allowed. Boswell: “And pray, sir, have you dined to your satisfaction?” Johnson: “Sir! Thus to interrogate a guest before his host and hostess is to write yourself down a mighty ill-bred fellow, and reveal to the company a plentiful lack of good manners and just taste.” Mrs. Thrale: “The man has abandoned his manners for another cargo.” Johnson: “Too true, madam.” Mr. Goldsmith: “He has sacrificed his wit to Bacchus, sir.” Johnson: “Ay, sir; and no divinity within the compass of the classics ever received offering more paltry.” There was laughter at this, and, under cover of it, I essayed to remove Mr. Boswell from a circle that in reality loved him, and was sad before the spectacle of his present lapse; but the man stood, temporarily stripped of reason, naked of proper sense, and unashamed. He turned upon me in a very frenzy of vinous anger. Boswell: “You are pleased, sir, to—to—make me the target of your el—elephantine pleasantries; but know, sir, that James Boswell of Auchinleck demands an answer to—to——” Here he attempted to draw his sword, and was immediately deprived of that weapon by those present. Johnson: “Get thee to bed, Bozzy, and——” But the sweep and force of the utterance I had designed were interrupted, for the man leapt towards me like an opera-dancer. His offensive intention failed of its effect, happily for him, and, at the very commencement of the onset, he fell over Mrs. Thrale’s negro, who was about to hand me coffee and cakes. Ethiopian, Scotchman, cream, sugar, and sweetmeats of a dozen sorts encountered the ground in the very extremity of chaotic confusion. Whereupon Thrale sent men for a coach, and Boswell was presently conveyed from amongst us. Johnson: “Now who shall dare affirm that my notorious antipathy to the Scotch rests on a mere airy basis of humour, without sufficient incentive and provocation seldom long absent from my elbow?” None of the company took it upon themselves to traverse my utterance or question the justice of my conclusion.
Tuesday.—Mr. Boswell waited upon me about noon. He was of pallid aspect, and had suffered some temporary discoloration to the cuticle in the region of his right eye. He chose to enlighten me as to the cause, and explained that the men who conveyed him home on the previous night were responsible. Boswell: “Chairmen and coachmen always ask too much.” Johnson: “No, sir, they never ask me too much.” Boswell: “But the exception proves the rule. If it is a question of weights and measures, you——” Johnson (taking him up sharply): “Stay, sir! To what a pitiable extremity must that wretch be reduced who thrusts personality upon his argument. Know this, sir: all dead weight is heavier than that which lives, and folly dead drunk must ever cause a chairman more labour than wisdom sober.” He made haste to assure me that he had intended no impertinent allusion, and he proceeded to deplore his conduct on the preceding evening with such humility and regret that my choler subsided. Johnson: “Alas, sir, if regret could but banish the consequences of folly! But religion testifies and experience proves that no ill deed escapes from due exaction of penalty.” Boswell: “I visit Mrs. Thrale’s anon to express the utmost sorrow for my conduct.” Johnson: “Do so, sir.” Boswell: “And yet, dear sir, if you consider, there appears nothing very singular in the course which I pursued. What gentleman of quality can say he has never been the worse for good wine? And who is there would wish so to declare even if he could?” Johnson: “This is not regret for an offence, but rather a rebellious attempt to palliate it.” Boswell: “Then I will never drink wine again if you so advise me.” Johnson: “Sir, this is the puerile irresponsibility of a babbling infant. Yet, if years be the standard by which we estimate your age, you are no longer a child. At least, I am not your schoolmaster.” Boswell: “I would you had been, sir, then I should have been a wiser man.” Johnson: “I know not that; but you might have been a sorer boy.” Boswell: “Nay, sir, chide no more. I am heartily sorry for my misdeeds, and my punishment is severe enough, for it chiefly lies in the thought that I have given you pain.” Johnson: “Only the pain, sir, of seeing my own species reduced below the level of those lower orders of beasts whose control was given to humanity at creation.” He proceeded to whine about the profound depression of his spirits and the particular depths of misery in which he always discovered himself to be plunged after consciousness of having played the fool in a public place. Johnson: “Repetition will blunt the edge of most emotions. If folly publicly displayed occasions you such uneasiness, you should be accustomed by this time to the mental condition you describe. But I will scold no more. Come, sir, let us take a walk down Fleet Street.” Boswell: “It rains, sir.” Johnson: “What then, sir? Does too much wine make a man afraid of water?” We walked out to the tavern known as “The Cheshire Cheese,” and it afforded me some entertainment to observe, despite his recent utterances, that Mr. Boswell’s first mandate to the drawer was a pint of red wine. We ate of veal and prunes, and during the progress of our repast he invited me to express an opinion on a certain individual who enjoyed high office as the result of interest rather than merit. Johnson: “Sir, I entertain no opinion of him.” Boswell: “Is that to say, sir, that you hold a bad opinion of him?” Johnson: “No, sir, it is not. Had I held him in bad opinion I should have so expressed myself. To entertain no opinion of a man is to deny the mind all consideration of him.” He left me soon afterwards, but had evidently forgotten his penitential visit to Mrs. Thrale. I, however, restored the matter to his memory, and he thanked me with effusion, and went his way.
Wednesday.—Mr. Boswell called and drank tea with Mrs. Williams and me. The propinquity of my cat evidently occasioned him some discomfort, and I reproved him. Johnson: “How vain is it in you, sir, to let a poor dumb beast affect your ease and interfere with your comfort!” Boswell: “But it is not dumb, sir; it mews and shows in a dozen ways that it desires my friendship.” Johnson: “Why, then, deny it such a simple boon? If the cat is worthy of the intimacy of Samuel Johnson, surely James Boswell need not scorn its society.” Mrs. Williams: “I’ll wager you know many bigger rascals, Mr. Boswell.” Johnson: “Nay, madam, we are not concerned with morals, but breeding. This cat is a gentleman. After a friendship extending over a considerable portion of his life, and no small fraction of my own, I find that the epithet of ‘gentleman’ may be bestowed upon him without offence to truth. He can hold his peace, and he never bores me with ill-timed reflections on human or feline affairs.” Boswell, though the condition is rare with him, was moody, a state into which the presence of my harmless tabby hath aforetime thrown him. He either failed to appreciate my humorous treatment of the beast and sly allusion to himself, or, of set purpose, overlooked both. Such conduct in my presence is unlike him; for, though apt to hold his place in most conversation, and ready enough with comment and quotation (of a sort usually obvious enough, scarce to escape the charge of superfluity), yet he willingly suffers occultation in my presence, and rarely exhibits to my observation any mood other than one of obsequious reverence and studious attention. Upon my dismissal of the cat to that private or nocturnal phase of his career which he conceals from his master, yet which is not of such an esoteric nature but that the flight of human imagination may create a phantasmagorial image of it, Boswell recovered a little of his customary high spirit. He pressed me as usual to accompany him on a journey to the islands of the Hebrides, and expatiated, not without elegance, on their savage situation and the ferocity and nobility of Nature as there exhibited. Boswell: “You must see me kilted on the mountain-tops, sir.” Johnson: “If that is your primary inducement to the enterprise, I would as willingly remain in town.” Truly, the spectacle of this man, so exuberant, so hyperbolic, so volatile, while a mild stimulant, viewed on level ground and clothed after the modes prescribed by a high civilisation, must have become at once intoxicating, bewildering, and perhaps disgusting, if displayed, as he suggested, within the barbarous circumference of a Highlander’s petticoat upon some conspicuous elevation in the Isles of Skye or Mull. He talked of various matters, uttered no word whose original wisdom or exceptional folly rendered it worthy of commemoration, and then took his leave.
Thursday.—I saw nothing of Mr. Boswell, and was none the worse.
Friday.—He carried me to Drury Lane Theatre, where Mr. Garrick was playing to an audience of the scantiest possible dimensions. The piece, a wretched one, accounted for this, and we witnessed it upon the final evening of its representation. Langton and Beauclerk joined us in the pit, and Boswell loudly animadverted on Garrick’s lack of perspicuity in lending his genius to such a poor poet. I pointed out that, so far as Garrick was concerned, the piece was very well, in that he had the lion’s share of heroic passages, and, indeed, all that there was worthy an actor’s attention. Johnson: “His ability lends a meretricious significance to a creation which, if examined in the closet, would be found poverty-stricken as to ideas, futile and faulty in construction, and remote from art or nature as truth is remote from falsehood.” Forgetting that we were in a public place, I made this assertion with greater sonority of intonation than the occasion demanded; and some person in the gallery flung half an orange, which was unquestionably designed for myself, but struck Mr. Boswell. Boswell: “Zounds! this passes belief, that a clown should dare—I will go up this instant and chastise the rascal!” Johnson: “Nay, sir, he was in the right. He has paid, as we have, for his entertainment; and be it noted that the fellow expended his money in order to obtain a view and enjoy a hearing of Mr. Garrick, not you.” Boswell: “He meant to hit you, sir; that is what enrages me.” Johnson: “Ay, and had the correctness of his aim equalled the ardour of his indignation, I——” Beauclerk (interrupting me): “Nay, sir; let me pray silence. The players are bending sour looks upon us.” Johnson: “They have reason on their side. Silence! Silence!” We then turned our attention to the drama, followed tragic circumstances of death and disaster with all proper sobriety of demeanour, and upon the completion of the act, went within the precincts of the stage to see Mr. Garrick. I observed without difficulty that he suffered from a mighty ill-humour; and, indeed, his first remark, addressed to myself, left us in no doubt as to his irascibility. Garrick: “You are to know, Dr. Johnson, that people come to my theatre to see me.” Johnson (smiling): “Nay, Davy, not always.” This allusion to the extremely slender proportions of his audience was not taken in that spirit best calculated to lessen the force of the jest. To state the player’s exact reply appears unnecessary; let it suffice when I assert that Mr. Garrick was rude. But a worse concatenation of events followed. Mr. Boswell came upon us at this moment, from some interchange with one of the ladies of the stage; and with ill-timed pleasantry, very characteristic of his bad judgment in matters of taste, jested openly upon the poor audience, and wondered what might be its financial equivalent. To say that Mr. Garrick surprised Mr. Boswell by the vigour and fire of his retort would be to state too mildly the case. The tragedian, assuming a look of extreme ferocity, bade Mr. Boswell henceforth mind his own business, and never again dare to present his person behind the scenes before he was bidden. Boswell: “This is unmannerly, sir; I did but jest.” Johnson: “Nay, sir; a quip levelled at the private concerns of an individual, a jest which depends for its point on another’s ill-fortune in the affairs of his business or profession, is not of that humour which a gentleman should at any time permit himself. Enough of this. Mr. Garrick is right and you are wrong.” Mr. Boswell (permitting his anger to assert a regrettable supremacy over him): “Damn it! I am always wrong.” Johnson: “Then, sir, mend your obstinate persistency in error, and strive to be sometimes right; and know also that an oath has an ill sound always, and never more so than when uttered in the company of those whose position or piety——” Here the business of the stage demanded our sudden silence and departure. We were, in fact, hustled from our place with an abruptness which cut the thread of my discourse. What thereupon became of Mr. Boswell I know not. For myself, I returned no more to the auditorium, but left the theatre and returned home alone. Upon ulterior consideration I perceived that I had erred, and took an early occasion of acquainting both Garrick and Boswell with the fact; and I added to the information those expressions of regret proper to it.
“MR. GARRICK SURPRISED MR. BOSWELL”
Friday.—We took dinner at the house of a worthy silk-mercer. The company was in no sense literary or intellectual. Talk indeed we had, but conversation if reduced to a monologue perforce perishes. Boswell broke a lance or two with me for the benefit of those present; but there was no man there of a calibre to awaken my interest, no opposing material of a surface rough enough to rub a spark from me. We returned in a chaise, and Boswell appeared so elated that I asked him the reason of his high spirits. Boswell: “Well, sir, I have rarely enjoyed conversation so much.” Johnson: “Words were uttered, even to weariness, but I heard no conversation.” Boswell: “Why, sir, they hung on your every utterance.” Johnson: “Ay, as they would hang on the actions of a contortionist, of a rope-dancer, or the voice of an Italian singer.” Boswell: “True, there was nothing to call out your powers.” Johnson: “No, sir.” Boswell: “Yet I felt myself talking a great deal and confuting the city people with ease.” Johnson: “If it was within your power to confute them, there can have existed but little need for me to speak.” Boswell: “But I am glad you did not oftener take the other side, and so turn my victory into defeat.”