Johnson one day of his weaknesses, the old man admitted that he had
them, too, but added, "I don't tell of them. A man should be careful
not to tell tales of himself to his own disadvantage." It would have
been well if Boswell could have remembered this excellent bit of advice;
but Johnson's advice, whether sought or unsought, was too frequently
disregarded.
One of his most intimate friends, Sir Joshua Reynolds, has testified to
his truthfulness, and even a casual reader of the Life will admit that
he was courageous. Tossed and gored by Johnson, as he frequently was, he
always came back; and, much as he respected the old man, he was never
overawed by him. He differed with him on the wisdom of taxing the
American Colonies, on the merits of the novels of Fielding, on the
poetry of Gray, and on many other subjects. To differ with Johnson
required courage and conversational ability of no common order. Indeed,
it may be doubted whether, next to Johnson himself, Boswell was not the
best talker in the circle--and Johnson's circle included the most
brilliant men of his time. He was sometimes very happy in his reference
to himself: as where, having brought Paoli and Johnson together, he
compares himself to an isthmus connecting two great continents. Indeed,
the great work is so famous as a biography of Johnson that few people
realize to what an extent and how subtly Boswell has made it his own
autobiography.
Johnson once said, "Sir, the biographical part of literature is what I
love best." I am inclined to think that it is so with most of us. It
would have been impossible for Boswell, the biographer _par
excellence_, not to have told in one way or another the story of his
own life. He told it in his account of the island of Corsica, and in his
letters to his life-long friend, Temple. These deserve to be better
known than they are. They are indeed just such letters as Samuel Pepys
might have written in cipher to his closest friend, whom he had already
provided with a key.
The first letter of this correspondence is dated Edinburgh, 29 July,
1758, when Boswell was eighteen years of age; and the last was on his
writing-desk in London when the shadow of death fell upon him,
thirty-seven years later.
The manner in which these letters came to be published is interesting.
An English clergyman touring in France, having occasion to make some
small purchases at a shop in Boulogne, observed that the paper in which
they were wrapped was a fragment of an English letter. Upon inspection a
date and some well-known names were observed, and further investigation
showed that the piece of paper was part of a correspondence carried on
nearly a century before between Boswell and a friend, the Reverend
William Johnson Temple. On making inquiry, it was ascertained that this
piece of paper had been taken from a large parcel recently purchased
from a hawker, who was in the habit of passing through Boulogne once or
twice a year, for the purpose of supplying the different shops with
paper. Beyond this no further information could be obtained. The whole
contents of the parcel were immediately secured.
At the death of the purchaser of these letters they passed into the
hands of a nephew, from whom they were obtained, and published in 1857,
after such editing and expurgating as was then fashionable. Who did the
work has never been discovered, nor does it matter, as the letters
fortunately passed into the collection of J. P. Morgan, and are now,
finally, being edited, together with such other letters as are
available, by Professor Tinker of Yale. Students of eighteenth-century
literature have good reason for believing that a volume of supreme
interest is in preparation for them; for such self-revealing letters,
such human documents as those of James Boswell, could have been written
only by their author, or by Samuel Pepys. As these letters are little
known, let me give a few excerpts from them as originally published. On
one of his journeys to London, Boswell writes:--
I have thought of making a good acquaintance in each town on the
road. No man has been more successful in making acquaintances
easily than I have been; I even bring people quickly on to a degree
of cordiality ... but I know not if I last sufficiently, though
surely, my dear Temple, there is always a warm place for you.
Further along on the road he writes again:--
I am in charming health and spirits. There is a handsome maid at
this inn, who interrupts me by coming sometimes into the room. I
have no confession to make, my priest; so be not curious.
On his way back to Edinburgh he goes somewhat out of his way to stop
again at this inn and have another look at the handsome
chambermaid,--her name was Matty,--and finds that she has disappeared,
as handsome chambermaids have a way of doing; but Boswell comforts
himself by reflecting that he can find mistresses wherever he goes. He
remembers also that he had promised Dr. Johnson to accept a chest of
books of the moralist's own selection, and to "read more and drink
less."
[Illustration: James Boswell.
Inner Temple, London 1769.--
A present from my worthy friend Temple.
INSCRIPTION IN BOSWELL'S COPY OF MASON'S "ELFRIDA"]
Again he writes from Edinburgh:--
I have talked a great deal of my sweet little mistress; I am,
however, uneasy about her. Furnishing a house and maintaining her
with a maid will cost me a great deal of money, and it is too like
marriage, or too much a settled plan of licentiousness; but what
can I do? I have already taken the house, and the lady has agreed
to go in at Whitsuntide; I cannot in honour draw back.... Nor am I
tormented because my charmer has formerly loved others. Besides she
is ill-bred, quite a rompish girl. She debases my dignity: she has
no refinement, but she is very handsome and very lively. What is it
to me that she has formerly loved? So have I.
Temple's letters to Boswell have not been preserved, but he appears to
have warned him of the danger of his course, for Boswell comes back
with,--
I have a dear infidel, as you say; but don't think her unfaithful.
I could not love her if she was. There is a baseness in all deceit
which my soul is virtuous enough to abhor, and therefore I look
with horror on adultery. But my amiable mistress is no longer bound
to him who was her husband: he has used her shockingly ill; he has
deserted her, he lives with another. Is she not then free? She is,
it is clear, and no arguments can disguise it. She is now mine, and
were she to be unfaithful to me she ought to be pierced with a
Corsican poniard; but I believe she loves me sincerely. She has
done everything to please me; she is perfectly generous, and would
not hear of any present.
Boswell seemed to enjoy equally two very different things, namely, going
to church and getting drunk. On Easter Sunday he "attends the solemn
service at St. Paul's," and next day informs Mr. Temple that he had
"received the holy sacrament, and was exalted in piety." But in the same
letter he reports that he is enjoying "the metropolis to the full," and
that he has had "too much dissipation."
He resolves to do better when his book on Corsica appears, and he has
the reputation of a literary man to support. Meanwhile, he confesses:--
I last night unwarily exceeded my one bottle of old Hock; and
having once broke over the pale, I run wild, but I did not get
drunk. I was, however, intoxicated, and very ill next day. I ask
your forgiveness, and I shall be more cautious for the future. The
drunken manners of this country are very bad.
Boswell's affairs with chambermaids, grass widows, and women of the town
moved along simultaneously with efforts to land an heiress. He asks
Temple to help him in an affair with a Miss Blair. Temple did his best
and failed. He reported his failure and Boswell was deeply dejected for
five minutes; then he writes:
My dear friend, suppose what you please; suppose her affections
changed, as those of women too often are; suppose her offended at
my _Spanish stateliness_ [italics mine]; suppose her to have
resolved to be more reserved and coy in order to make me more in
love.
Then he felt that he must have a change of scene, and off he was to
London.
I got into the fly at Buckden [he says], and had a very good
journey. An agreeable young widow nursed me, and supported my lame
foot on her knee. Am I not fortunate in having something about me
that interests most people at first sight in my favour?
In a letter to Mrs. Thrale, Johnson once wrote: "It has become so much
the fashion to publish letters that in order to avoid it, I put as
little into mine as I can." Boswell was not afraid of publication. His
fear, as he said, was that letters, like sermons, would not continue to
attract public curiosity, so he spiced his highly. Did he do or say a
foolish thing, he at once sat down and told Temple all about it, usually
adding that in the near future he intended to amend. His comment on his
contemporaries is characteristic. "Hume," he says, "told me that he
would give me half-a-crown for every page of Johnson's Dictionary in
which he could not find an absurdity, if I would give him half-a-crown
for every page in which he could find one."
He announces Adam Smith's election to membership in the famous literary
club by saying: "Smith is now of our club--it has lost its select
merit." Of Gibbon he says: "I hear nothing of the publication of his
second volume. He is an ugly, affected, disgusting fellow, and poisons
our literary club to me."
As he grows older and considers how unsuccessful his life has been, how
he had failed at the bar both in Scotland and in London, he begins to
complain. He can get no clients; he fears that, even were he entrusted
with cases, he would fail utterly.
I am afraid [he says], that, were I to be tried, I should be found
so deficient in the forms, the quirks and the quiddities, which
early habit acquires, that I should expose myself. Yet the delusion
of Westminster Hall, of brilliant reputation and splendid fortune
as a barrister, still weighs upon my imagination. I must be seen in
the Courts, and must hope for some happy openings in causes of
importance. The Chancellor, as you observe, has not done as I
expected; but why did I expect it? I am going to put him to the
test. Could I be satisfied with being Baron of Auchinleck, with a
good income for a gentleman in Scotland, I might, no doubt, be
independent. What can be done to deaden the ambition which has ever
raged in my veins like a fever?
But the highest spirits will sometimes flag. Boswell, the friendly,
obliging, generous roué, was getting old. He begins to speak of the
past.
Do you remember when you and I sat up all night at Cambridge, and
read Gray with a noble enthusiasm; when we first used to read
Mason's "Elfrida," and when we talked of that elegant knot of
worthies, Gray, Mason and Walpole?
"Elfrida" calls itself on the title-page, "A Dramatic Poem written on
the model of the Ancient Greek Tragedy." I happen to own and value
highly the very copy of this once famous poem, which Boswell and Temple
read together; on the fly leaf, under Boswell's signature, is a
characteristic note in his bold, clear hand: "A present from my worthy
friend Temple."
[Illustration: TITLE OF MASON'S "ELFRIDA." First Edition]
He becomes more than ever before the butt of his acquaintance. He tells
his old friend of a trick which has been played on him--only one of
many. He was staying at a great house crowded with guests.
I and two other gentlemen were laid in one room. On Thursday
morning my wig was missing; a strict search was made, all in vain.
I was obliged to go all day in my nightcap, and absent myself from
a party of ladies and gentlemen who went and dined with an Earl on
the banks of the lake, a piece of amusement which I was glad to
shun, as well as a dance which they had at night. But I was in a
ludicrous situation. I suspect a wanton trick, which some people
think witty; but I thought it very ill-timed to one in my
situation.
When his father dies and he comes into his estates, he is deeply in
debt; he hates Scotland, he longs to be in London, to enjoy the Club, to
see Johnson, to whom he writes of his difficulties, asking his advice.
Johnson gives him just such advice as might be expected.
To come hither with such expectations at the expense of borrowed
money, which I find you know not where to borrow, can hardly be
considered prudent. I am sorry to find, what your solicitations
seem to imply, that you have already gone the length of your
credit. This is to set the quiet of your whole life at hazard. If
you anticipate your inheritance, you can at last inherit nothing;
all that you receive must pay for the past. You must get a place,
or pine in penury, with the empty name of a great estate. Poverty,
my dear friend, is so great an evil, that I cannot but earnestly
enjoin you to avoid it. Live on what you have; live, if you can, on
less; do not borrow either for vanity or pleasure; the vanity will
end in shame, and the pleasure in regret; stay therefore at home
till you have saved money for your journey hither.
His wife dies and Johnson dies. One by one the props are pulled from
under him; he drinks, constantly gets drunk; is, in this condition,
knocked down in the streets and robbed, and thinks with horror of
giving up his soul, intoxicated, to his Maker. "Oh, Temple, Temple!" he
writes, "is this realizing any of the towering hopes which have so often
been the subject of our conversation and letters?" At last he begins a
letter which he is never to finish. "I would fain write you in my own
hand but really cannot." These were the last words poor Boswell ever
wrote.
* * * * *
But Boswell's life is chiefly interesting where it impinges upon that of
his great friend. A few months after the famous meeting in Davies's
book-shop, he started for the Continent, with the idea, following the
fashion of the time, of studying law at Utrecht, Johnson accompanying
him on his way as far as Harwich.
After a short time at the University, during which he could have learned
nothing, we find him wandering about Europe in search of
celebrities,--big game,--the hunting of which was to be the chief
interest of his life. He succeeded in bagging Voltaire and
Rousseau,--there was none bigger,--and after a short stay in Rome he
turned North, sailing from Leghorn to Corsica, where he met Paoli, the
patriot, and finally returned home, escorting Thérèse Levasseur,
Rousseau's mistress, as far as London. Hume at this time speaks of him
as "a friend of mine, very good-humored, very agreeable and very mad."
Meanwhile his father, Lord Auchinleck, who had borne with admirable
patience such stories as had reached him of his son's wild ways,
insisted that it was time for him to settle down; but Boswell was too
full of his adventures in the island of Corsica and his meeting with
Paoli, to begin drudgery at the law. His accounts of his travels made
him a welcome guest at London dinner-parties, and he had finally decided
to write a book of his experiences.
At last the father, by a threat to cut off supplies, secured his son's
return; but his desire to publish a book had not abated, and while he
finally was admitted to the Scotch bar, we find him corresponding with
his friend Mr. Dilly, the publisher, in regard to the book upon which he
was busily employed. From an unpublished letter, which I was fortunate
enough to secure quite recently from a book-seller in New York, Gabriel
Wells, we may follow Boswell in his negotiations.
EDINBURGH, _6 August, 1767_.
SIR
I have received your letter agreeing to pay me One Hundred Guineas
for the Copy-Right of my Account of Corsica, &c., the money to be
due three months after the publication of the work in London, and
also agreeing that the first Edition shall be printed in Scotland,
under my direction, and a map of Corsica be engraved for the work
at your Expence.
In return to which, I do hereby agree that you shall have the sole
Property of the said work. Our Bargain therefore is now concluded
and I heartily wish that it may be of advantage to you.
I am Sir
Your most humble Servant
JAMES BOSWELL.
TO MR. DILLY, Bookseller, London.
[Illustration: COPY OF JAMES BOSWELL'S AGREEMENT WITH MR. DILLY,
RECITING THE TERMS AGREED ON FOR THE PUBLICATION OF "CORSICA"]
Through the kindness of my fellow collector and generous friend, Judge
Patterson of Philadelphia, I own an interesting fragment of a brief in
Boswell's hand, written at about this period. It appears therefrom that
Boswell had been retained to secure the return of a stocking-frame of
the value of a few shillings, which had been forcibly carried off. The
outcome of the litigation is not known, but the paper bears the
interesting indorsement, "This was the first Paper drawn by me as an
Advocate. James Boswell."
[Illustration: MS. INDORSEMENT BY BOSWELL ON THE FIRST PAPER DRAWN BY
HIM AS AN ADVOCATE]
But I am allowing my collector's passion to carry me too far afield. The
preface of Boswell's "Account of Corsica" closes with an interesting bit
of self-revelation. He says, characteristically,--
For my part I should be proud to be known as an author; I have an
ardent ambition for literary fame; for of all possessions I should
imagine literary fame to be the most valuable. A man who has been
able to furnish a book which has been approved by the world has
established himself as a respectable character in distant society,
without any danger of having that character lessened by the
observation of his weaknesses. To preserve a uniform dignity among
those who see us every day is hardly possible; and to aim at it
must put us under the fetters of a perpetual restraint. The author
of an approved book may allow his natural disposition an easy play,
and yet indulge the pride of superior genius, when he considers
that by those who know him only as an author he never ceases to be
respected. Such an author in his hours of gloom and discontent may
have the consolation to think that his writings are at that very
time giving pleasure to numbers, and such an author may cherish the
hope of being remembered after death, which has been a great object
of the noblest minds in all ages.
A brief contemporary criticism sums up the merits of "Corsica" in a
paragraph. "There is a deal about the Island and its dimensions that one
doesn't care a straw about, but that part which relates to Paoli is
amusing and interesting. The author has a rage for knowing anybody that
was ever talked of."
Boswell thought that he was the first, but he proved to be the second
Englishman (the first was an Englishwoman) who had ever set foot upon
the island. He visited Paoli, and his accounts of his reception by the
great patriot and his conversation with the people are amusing in the
extreme. To his great satisfaction it was generally believed that he was
on a public mission.
The more I disclaimed any such thing, the more they persevered in
affirming it; and I was considered as a very close young man. I
therefore just allowed them to make a minister of me, till time
should undeceive them.... The Ambasciadore Inglese--as the good
peasants and soldiers used to call me--became a great favorite
among them. I got a Corsican dress made, in which I walked about
with an air of true satisfaction.
On another occasion:--
When I rode out I was mounted on Paoli's own horse, with rich
furniture of crimson velvet, with broad gold lace, and had my guard
marching along with me. I allowed myself to indulge a momentary
pride in this parade, as I was curious to experience what should
really be the pleasure of state and distinction with which mankind
are so strangely intoxicated.
The success of this publication led Boswell into some absurd
extravagances which he thought were necessary to support his position as
a distinguished English author. Praise for his work he skillfully
extracted from most of his friends, but Johnson proved obdurate. He had
expressed a qualified approval of the book when it appeared; but when
Boswell in a letter sought more than this, the old Doctor charged him to
empty his head of "Corsica," which he said he thought had filled it
rather too long.
Boswell wrote at least two of what we should to-day call press notices
of himself. One is reminded of the story of the man in a hired
dress-suit at a charity ball rushing about inquiring the whereabouts of
the man who puts your name in the paper. To such an one Boswell
presented this brief account of himself on the occasion of the famous
Shakespeare Jubilee.
One of the most remarkable masks upon this occasion was James
Boswell, Esq., in the dress of an armed Corsican Chief. He entered
the amphitheatre about twelve o'clock. He wore a short
dark-coloured coat of coarse cloth, scarlet waistcoat and breeches,
and black spatter-dashes; his cap or bonnet was of black cloth; on
the front of it was embroidered in gold letters, "Viva la Liberta,"
and on one side of it was a handsome blue feather and cockade, so
that it had an elegant as well as a warlike appearance. On the
breast of his coat was sewed a Moor's head, the crest of Corsica,
surrounded with branches of laurel. He had also a cartridge-pouch
into which was stuck a stiletto, and on his left side a pistol was
hung upon the belt of his cartridge-pouch. He had a fusee slung
across his shoulder, wore no powder in his hair, but had it plaited
at full length with a knot of blue ribbon at the end of it. He had,
by way of staff, a very curious vine all of one piece, with a bird
finely carved upon it emblematical of the sweet bard of Avon. He
wore no mask, saying that it was not proper for a gallant Corsican.
So soon as he came into the room he drew universal attention. The
novelty of the Corsican dress, its becoming appearance, and the
character of that brave nation concurred to distinguish the armed
Corsican Chief.
May we not suppose that several bottles of "Old Hock" contributed to his
enjoyment of this occasion? Here is the other one:--
Boswell, the author, is a most excellent man: he is of an ancient
family in the West of Scotland, upon which he values himself not a
little. At his nativity there appeared omens of his future
greatness. His parts are bright, and his education has been good.
He has travelled in post-chaises miles without number. He is fond
of seeing much of the world. He eats of every good dish, especially
apple pie. He drinks Old Hock. He has a very fine temper. He is
somewhat of a humorist and a little tinctured with pride. He has a
good manly countenance, and he owns himself to be amorous. He has
infinite vivacity, yet is observed at times to have a melancholy
cast. He is rather fat than lean, rather short than tall, rather
young than old. His shoes are neatly made, and he never wears
spectacles.
The success of "Corsica" was not very great, but it sufficed to turn
Boswell's head completely. He spent as much time in London as he could
contrive to, and led there the life of a dissipated man of fashion. He
quarreled with his father, and after a series of escapades with women of
the town and love-affairs with heiresses, he finally married his cousin,
Margaret Montgomerie, a girl without a fortune. Much to Boswell's
disgust, his father, on the very same day, married for the second time,
and married his cousin.
For a time after marriage he seemed to take his profession seriously,
but he deceived neither his father nor his clients. The old man said
that Jamie was simply taking a toot on a new horn. Meanwhile Boswell
never allowed his interest in Johnson to cool for a moment. When he was
in London,--and he went there on one excuse or another as often as his
means permitted,--he was much with Johnson; and when he was at home, he
was constantly worrying Johnson for some evidence of his affection for
him. Finally Johnson writes, "My regard for you is greater almost than I
have words to express" (this from the maker of a dictionary); "but I do
not chuse to be always repeating it; write it down in the first leaf of
your pocketbook, and never doubt of it again."