CHAPTER II.
The conversation took place in the Crown and Anchor tavern in the Strand, where the party had just dined. Dr. Johnson had been quite as good company as usual. There was a general feeling that he had rarely insulted Boswell so frequently in the course of a single evening—but then, Boswell had rarely so laid himself open to insult as he had upon this evening—and when he had finished with the Scotchman, he turned his attention to Garrick, the opportunity being afforded him by Oliver Goldsmith, who had been unguarded enough to say a word or two regarding that which he termed “the art of acting.”
“Dr. Goldsmith, I am ashamed of you, sir,” cried the great dictator. “Who gave you the authority to add to the number of the arts 'the art of acting'? We shall hear of the art of dancing next, and every tumbler who kicks up the sawdust will have the right to call himself an artist. Madame Violante, who gave Peggy Woffington her first lesson on the tight rope, will rank with Miss Kauffman, the painter—nay, every poodle that dances on its hind leg's in public will be an artist.”
It was in vain that Goldsmith endeavoured to show that the admission of acting to the list of arts scarcely entailed such consequences as Johnson asserted would be inevitable, if that admission were once made; it was in vain that Garrick asked if the fact that painting was included among the arts, caused sign painters to claim for themselves the standing of artists; and, if not, why there was any reason to suppose that the tumblers to whom Johnson had alluded would advance their claims to be on a level with the highest interpreters of the emotions of humanity. Dr. Johnson roared down every suggestion that was offered to him most courteously by his friends.
Then, in the exuberance of his spirits, he insulted Boswell and told Burke he did not know what he was talking about. In short, he was thoroughly Johnsonian, and considered himself the best of company, and eminently capable of pronouncing an opinion as to what were the elements of a clubable man.
He had succeeded in driving one of his best friends out of the room, and in reducing the others of the party to silence—all except Boswell, who, as usual, tried to-start him upon a discussion of some subtle point of theology. Boswell seemed invariably to have adopted this course after he had been thoroughly insulted, and to have been, as a rule, very successful in its practice: it usually led to his attaining to the distinction of another rebuke for him to gloat over.
He now thought that the exact moment had come for him to find out what Dr. Johnson thought on the subject of the immortality of the soul.
“Pray, sir,” said he, shifting his chair so as to get between Reynolds' ear-trumpet and his oracle—his jealousy of Sir Joshua's ear-trumpet was as great as his jealousy of Goldsmith. “Pray, sir, is there any evidence among the ancient Egyptians that they believed that the soul of man was imperishable?”
“Sir,” said Johnson, after a huge roll or two, “there is evidence that the ancient Egyptians were in the habit of introducing a memento mori at a feast, lest the partakers of the banquet should become too merry.”
“Well, sir?” said Boswell eagerly, as Johnson made a pause.