'May 28, 1768.'
Soon afterwards, he supped at the Crown and Anchor tavern, in the
Strand, with a company whom I collected to meet him. They were Dr.
Percy, now Bishop of Dromore, Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of Salisbury, Mr.
Langton, Dr. Robertson the Historian, Dr. Hugh Blair, and Mr. Thomas
Davies, who wished much to be introduced to these eminent Scotch
literati; but on the present occasion he had very little opportunity
of hearing them talk, for with an excess of prudence, for which Johnson
afterwards found fault with them, they hardly opened their lips, and
that only to say something which they were certain would not expose them
to the sword of Goliath; such was their anxiety for their fame when in
the presence of Johnson. He was this evening in remarkable vigour of
mind, and eager to exert himself in conversation, which he did with
great readiness and fluency; but I am sorry to find that I have
preserved but a small part of what passed.
He was vehement against old Dr. Mounsey, of Chelsea College, as 'a
fellow who swore and talked bawdy.' 'I have been often in his company,
(said Dr. Percy,) and never heard him swear or talk bawdy.' Mr. Davies,
who sat next to Dr. Percy, having after this had some conversation
aside with him, made a discovery which, in his zeal to pay court to Dr.
Johnson, he eagerly proclaimed aloud from the foot of the table: 'O,
Sir, I have found out a very good reason why Dr. Percy never heard
Mounsey swear or talk bawdy; for he tells me, he never saw him but at
the Duke of Northumberland's table.' 'And so, Sir, (said Johnson loudly,
to Dr. Percy,) you would shield this man from the charge of swearing and
talking bawdy, because he did not do so at the Duke of Northumberland's
table. Sir, you might as well tell us that you had seen him hold up his
hand at the Old Bailey, and he neither swore nor talked bawdy; or that
you had seen him in the cart at Tyburn, and he neither swore nor talked
bawdy. And is it thus, Sir, that you presume to controvert what I have
related?' Dr. Johnson's animadversion was uttered in such a manner, that
Dr. Percy seemed to be displeased, and soon afterwards left the company,
of which Johnson did not at that time take any notice.
Swift having been mentioned, Johnson, as usual, treated him with little
respect as an authour. Some of us endeavoured to support the Dean of St.
Patrick's by various arguments. One in particular praised his Conduct of
the Allies. JOHNSON. 'Sir, his Conduct of the Allies is a performance of
very little ability.' 'Surely, Sir, (said Dr. Douglas,) you must allow
it has strong facts.' JOHNSON. 'Why yes, Sir; but what is that to the
merit of the composition? In the Sessions-paper of the Old Bailey, there
are strong facts. Housebreaking is a strong fact; robbery is a strong
fact; and murder is a MIGHTY strong fact; but is great praise due to the
historian of those strong facts? No, Sir. Swift has told what he had to
tell distinctly enough, but that is all. He had to count ten, and he has
counted it right.' Then recollecting that Mr. Davies, by acting as an
INFORMER, had been the occasion of his talking somewhat too harshly to
his friend Dr. Percy, for which, probably, when the first ebullition
was over, he felt some compunction, he took an opportunity to give him
a hit; so added, with a preparatory laugh, 'Why, Sir, Tom Davies might
have written The Conduct of the Allies.' Poor Tom being thus suddenly
dragged into ludicrous notice in presence of the Scottish Doctors,
to whom he was ambitious of appearing to advantage, was grievously
mortified. Nor did his punishment rest here; for upon subsequent
occasions, whenever he, 'statesman all over,' assumed a strutting
importance, I used to hail him--'the Authour of The Conduct of the
Allies.'
When I called upon Dr. Johnson next morning, I found him highly
satisfied with his colloquial prowess the preceding evening. 'Well,
(said he,) we had good talk.' BOSWELL. 'Yes, Sir; you tossed and gored
several persons.'
The late Alexander, Earl of Eglintoune, who loved wit more than wine,
and men of genius more than sycophants, had a great admiration of
Johnson; but from the remarkable elegance of his own manners, was,
perhaps, too delicately sensible of the roughness which sometimes
appeared in Johnson's behaviour. One evening about this time, when his
Lordship did me the honour to sup at my lodgings with Dr. Robertson and
several other men of literary distinction, he regretted that Johnson
had not been educated with more refinement, and lived more in polished
society. 'No, no, my Lord, (said Signor Baretti,) do with him what you
would, he would always have been a bear.' 'True, (answered the Earl,
with a smile,) but he would have been a DANCING bear.'
To obviate all the reflections which have gone round the world to
Johnson's prejudice, by applying to him the epithet of a BEAR, let me
impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of my friend Goldsmith,
who knew him well: 'Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner;
but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear but
his skin.'
1769: AETAT. 60.]--I came to London in the autumn, and having informed
him that I was going to be married in a few months, I wished to have as
much of his conversation as I could before engaging in a state of life
which would probably keep me more in Scotland, and prevent me seeing
him so often as when I was a single man; but I found he was at
Brighthelmstone with Mr. and Mrs. Thrale.
After his return to town, we met frequently, and I continued the
practice of making notes of his conversation, though not with so much
assiduity as I wish I had done. At this time, indeed, I had a sufficient
excuse for not being able to appropriate so much time to my Journal;
for General Paoli, after Corsica had been overpowered by the monarchy
of France, was now no longer at the head of his brave countrymen, but
having with difficulty escaped from his native island, had sought an
asylum in Great-Britain; and it was my duty, as well as my pleasure, to
attend much upon him. Such particulars of Johnson's conversation at this
period as I have committed to writing, I shall here introduce, without
any strict attention to methodical arrangement. Sometimes short notes of
different days shall be blended together, and sometimes a day may seem
important enough to be separately distinguished.
He said, he would not have Sunday kept with rigid severity and gloom,
but with a gravity and simplicity of behaviour.
I told him that David Hume had made a short collection of Scotticisms.
'I wonder, (said Johnson,) that HE should find them.'
On the 30th of September we dined together at the Mitre. I attempted
to argue for the superior happiness of the savage life, upon the usual
fanciful topicks. JOHNSON. 'Sir, there can be nothing more false. The
savages have no bodily advantages beyond those of civilised men. They
have not better health; and as to care or mental uneasiness, they are
not above it, but below it, like bears. No, Sir; you are not to talk
such paradox: let me have no more on't. It cannot entertain, far less
can it instruct. Lord Monboddo, one of your Scotch Judges, talked a
great deal of such nonsense. I suffered HIM; but I will not suffer
YOU.'--BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, does not Rousseau talk such nonsense?'
JOHNSON. 'True, Sir, but Rousseau KNOWS he is talking nonsense, and
laughs at the world for staring at him.' BOSWELL. 'How so, Sir?'
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, a man who talks nonsense so well, must know that he
is talking nonsense. But I am AFRAID, (chuckling and laughing,) Monboddo
does NOT know that he is talking nonsense.' BOSWELL. 'Is it wrong then,
Sir, to affect singularity, in order to make people stare?' JOHNSON.
'Yes, if you do it by propagating errour: and, indeed, it is wrong in
any way. There is in human nature a general inclination to make people
stare; and every wise man has himself to cure of it, and does cure
himself. If you wish to make people stare by doing better than others,
why, make them stare till they stare their eyes out. But consider how
easy it is to make people stare by being absurd. I may do it by going
into a drawing-room without my shoes. You remember the gentleman in The
Spectator, who had a commission of lunacy taken out against him for his
extreme singularity, such as never wearing a wig, but a night-cap.
Now, Sir, abstractedly, the night-cap was best; but, relatively, the
advantage was overbalanced by his making the boys run after him.'
Talking of a London life, he said, 'The happiness of London is not to be
conceived but by those who have been in it. I will venture to say, there
is more learning and science within the circumference of ten miles from
where we now sit, than in all the rest of the kingdom.' BOSWELL. 'The
only disadvantage is the great distance at which people live from one
another.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir; but that is occasioned by the largeness of
it, which is the cause of all the other advantages.' BOSWELL. 'Sometimes
I have been in the humour of wishing to retire to a desart.' JOHNSON.
'Sir, you have desart enough in Scotland.'
Although I had promised myself a great deal of instructive conversation
with him on the conduct of the married state, of which I had then a near
prospect, he did not say much upon that topick. Mr. Seward heard him
once say, that 'a man has a very bad chance for happiness in that
state, unless he marries a woman of very strong and fixed principles of
religion.' He maintained to me, contrary to the common notion, that a
woman would not be the worse wife for being learned; in which, from all
that I have observed of Artemisias, I humbly differed from him.
When I censured a gentleman of my acquaintance for marrying a second
time, as it shewed a disregard of his first wife, he said, 'Not at all,
Sir. On the contrary, were he not to marry again, it might be concluded
that his first wife had given him a disgust to marriage; but by taking a
second wife he pays the highest compliment to the first, by shewing that
she made him so happy as a married man, that he wishes to be so a second
time.' So ingenious a turn did he give to this delicate question. And
yet, on another occasion, he owned that he once had almost asked a
promise of Mrs. Johnson that she would not marry again, but had checked
himself. Indeed, I cannot help thinking, that in his case the request
would have been unreasonable; for if Mrs. Johnson forgot, or thought it
no injury to the memory of her first love,--the husband of her youth and
the father of her children,--to make a second marriage, why should
she be precluded from a third, should she be so inclined? In Johnson's
persevering fond appropriation of his Tetty, even after her decease,
he seems totally to have overlooked the prior claim of the honest
Birmingham trader. I presume that her having been married before had, at
times, given him some uneasiness; for I remember his observing upon
the marriage of one of our common friends, 'He has done a very foolish
thing, Sir; he has married a widow, when he might have had a maid.'
We drank tea with Mrs. Williams. I had last year the pleasure of seeing
Mrs. Thrale at Dr. Johnson's one morning, and had conversation enough
with her to admire her talents, and to shew her that I was as Johnsonian
as herself. Dr. Johnson had probably been kind enough to speak well of
me, for this evening he delivered me a very polite card from Mr. Thrale
and her, inviting me to Streatham.
On the 6th of October I complied with this obliging invitation, and
found, at an elegant villa, six miles from town, every circumstance that
can make society pleasing. Johnson, though quite at home, was yet looked
up to with an awe, tempered by affection, and seemed to be equally the
care of his host and hostess. I rejoiced at seeing him so happy.
He played off his wit against Scotland with a good humoured pleasantry,
which gave me, though no bigot to national prejudices, an opportunity
for a little contest with him. I having said that England was obliged
to us for gardeners, almost all their good gardeners being Scotchmen.
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, that is because gardening is much more necessary
amongst you than with us, which makes so many of your people learn
it. It is ALL gardening with you. Things which grow wild here, must be
cultivated with great care in Scotland. Pray now (throwing himself back
in his chair, and laughing,) are you ever able to bring the SLOE to
perfection?'
I boasted that we had the honour of being the first to abolish the
unhospitable, troublesome, and ungracious custom of giving vails to
servants. JOHNSON. 'Sir, you abolished vails, because you were too poor
to be able to give them.'
Mrs. Thrale disputed with him on the merit of Prior. He attacked him
powerfully; said he wrote of love like a man who had never felt it:
his love verses were college verses; and he repeated the song 'Alexis
shunn'd his fellow swains,' &c., in so ludicrous a manner, as to make
us all wonder how any one could have been pleased with such fantastical
stuff. Mrs. Thrale stood to her gun with great courage, in defence of
amorous ditties, which Johnson despised, till he at last silenced her
by saying, 'My dear Lady, talk no more of this. Nonsense can be defended
but by nonsense.'
Mrs. Thrale then praised Garrick's talent for light gay poetry; and, as
a specimen, repeated his song in Florizel and Perdita, and dwelt with
peculiar pleasure on this line:
'I'd smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.'
JOHNSON. 'Nay, my dear Lady, this will never do. Poor David! Smile with
the simple;--What folly is that? And who would feed with the poor that
can help it? No, no; let me smile with the wise, and feed with the
rich.' I repeated this sally to Garrick, and wondered to find his
sensibility as a writer not a little irritated by it. To sooth him, I
observed, that Johnson spared none of us; and I quoted the passage in
Horace, in which he compares one who attacks his friends for the sake of
a laugh, to a pushing ox, that is marked by a bunch of hay put upon his
horns: 'foenum habet in cornu.' 'Ay, (said Garrick vehemently,) he has a
whole MOW of it.'
He would not allow much merit to Whitefield's oratory. 'His popularity,
Sir, (said be,) is chiefly owing to the peculiarity of his manner. He
would be followed by crowds were he to wear a night-cap in the pulpit,
or were he to preach from a tree.'
On the evening of October 10, I presented Dr. Johnson to General Paoli.
I had greatly wished that two men, for whom I had the highest esteem,
should meet. They met with a manly ease, mutually conscious of their
own abilities, and of the abilities of each other. The General spoke
Italian, and Dr. Johnson English, and understood one another very well,
with a little aid of interpretation from me, in which I compared myself
to an isthmus which joins two great continents. Upon Johnson's approach,
the General said, 'From what I have read of your works, Sir, and from
what Mr. Boswell has told me of you, I have long held you in great
veneration.' The General talked of languages being formed on the
particular notions and manners of a people, without knowing which, we
cannot know the language. We may know the direct signification of single
words; but by these no beauty of expression, no sally of genius, no wit
is conveyed to the mind. All this must be by allusion to other ideas.
'Sir, (said Johnson,) you talk of language, as if you had never done
any thing else but study it, instead of governing a nation.' The
General said, 'Questo e un troppo gran complimento;' this is too great
a compliment. Johnson answered, 'I should have thought so, Sir, if I
had not heard you talk.' The General asked him, what he thought of the
spirit of infidelity which was so prevalent. JOHNSON. 'Sir, this gloom
of infidelity, I hope, is only a transient cloud passing through the
hemisphere, which will soon be dissipated, and the sun break forth with
his usual splendour.' 'You think then, (said the General,) that they
will change their principles like their clothes.' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, if
they bestow no more thought on principles than on dress, it must be so.'
The General said, that 'a great part of the fashionable infidelity was
owing to a desire of shewing courage. Men who have no opportunities of
shewing it as to things in this life, take death and futurity as objects
on which to display it.' JOHNSON. 'That is mighty foolish affectation.
Fear is one of the passions of human nature, of which it is impossible
to divest it. You remember that the Emperour Charles V, when he read
upon the tomb-stone of a Spanish nobleman, "Here lies one who never knew
fear," wittily said, "Then he never snuffed a candle with his fingers."'
Dr. Johnson went home with me, and drank tea till late in the night. He
said, 'General Paoli had the loftiest port of any man he had ever seen.'
He denied that military men were always the best bred men. 'Perfect good
breeding,' he observed, 'consists in having no particular mark of any
profession, but a general elegance of manners; whereas, in a military
man, you can commonly distinguish the BRAND of a soldier, l'homme
d'epee.'
Dr. Johnson shunned to-night any discussion of the perplexed question
of fate and free will, which I attempted to agitate. 'Sir, (said he,) we
KNOW our will is free, and THERE'S an end on't.'
He honoured me with his company at dinner on the 16th of October, at my
lodgings in Old Bond-street, with Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Garrick, Dr.
Goldsmith, Mr. Murphy, Mr. Bickerstaff, and Mr. Thomas Davies. Garrick
played round him with a fond vivacity, taking hold of the breasts of his
coat, and, looking up in his face with a lively archness, complimented
him on the good health which he seemed then to enjoy; while the sage,
shaking his head, beheld him with a gentle complacency. One of the
company not being come at the appointed hour, I proposed, as usual upon
such occasions, to order dinner to be served; adding, 'Ought six people
to be kept waiting for one?' 'Why, yes, (answered Johnson, with a
delicate humanity,) if the one will suffer more by your sitting down,
than the six will do by waiting.' Goldsmith, to divert the tedious
minutes, strutted about, bragging of his dress, and I believe was
seriously vain of it, for his mind was wonderfully prone to such
impressions. 'Come, come, (said Garrick,) talk no more of that. You
are, perhaps, the worst--eh, eh!'--Goldsmith was eagerly attempting to
interrupt him, when Garrick went on, laughing ironically, 'Nay, you
will always LOOK like a gentleman; but I am talking of being well or ILL
DREST.' 'Well, let me tell you, (said Goldsmith,) when my tailor brought
home my bloom-coloured coat, he said, "Sir, I have a favour to beg of
you. When any body asks you who made your clothes, be pleased to mention
John Filby, at the Harrow, in Waterlane."' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, that was
because he knew the strange colour would attract crowds to gaze at it,
and thus they might hear of him, and see how well he could make a coat
even of so absurd a colour.'
After dinner our conversation first turned upon Pope. Johnson said, his
characters of men were admirably drawn, those of women not so well. He
repeated to us, in his forcible melodious manner, the concluding lines
of the Dunciad. While he was talking loudly in praise of those lines,
one of the company* ventured to say, 'Too fine for such a poem:--a poem
on what?' JOHNSON, (with a disdainful look,) 'Why, on DUNCES. It was
worth while being a dunce then. Ah, Sir, hadst THOU lived in those
days! It is not worth while 'being a dunce now, when there are no wits.'
Bickerstaff observed, as a peculiar circumstance, that Pope's fame was
higher when he was alive than it was then. Johnson said, his Pastorals
were poor things, though the versification was fine. He told us, with
high satisfaction, the anecdote of Pope's inquiring who was the authour
of his London, and saying, he will be soon deterre. He observed, that in
Dryden's poetry there were passages drawn from a profundity which Pope
could never reach. He repeated some fine lines on love, by the former,
(which I have now forgotten,) and gave great applause to the character
of Zimri. Goldsmith said, that Pope's character of Addison shewed a deep
knowledge of the human heart. Johnson said, that the description of the
temple, in The Mourning Bride, was the finest poetical passage he had
ever read; he recollected none in Shakspeare equal to it. 'But, (said
Garrick, all alarmed for the 'God of his idolatry,') we know not the
extent and variety of his powers. We are to suppose there are such
passages in his works. Shakspeare must not suffer from the badness of
our memories.' Johnson, diverted by this enthusiastick jealousy, went
on with greater ardour: 'No, Sir; Congreve has NATURE;' (smiling on the
tragick eagerness of Garrick;) but composing himself, he added, 'Sir,
this is not comparing Congreve on the whole, with Shakspeare on the
whole; but only maintaining that Congreve has one finer passage than any
that can be found in Shakspeare. Sir, a man may have no more than ten
guineas in the world, but he may have those ten guineas in one piece;
and so may have a finer piece than a man who has ten thousand pounds:
but then he has only one ten-guinea piece. What I mean is, that you
can shew me no passage where there is simply a description of material
objects, without any intermixture of moral notions, which produces such
an effect.' Mr. Murphy mentioned Shakspeare's description of the night
before the battle of Agincourt; but it was observed, it had MEN in it.
Mr. Davies suggested the speech of Juliet, in which she figures herself
awaking in the tomb of her ancestors. Some one mentioned the description
of Dover Cliff. JOHNSON. 'No, Sir; it should be all precipice,--all
vacuum. The crows impede your fall. The diminished appearance of the
boats, and other circumstances, are all very good descriptions; but do
not impress the mind at once with the horrible idea of immense height.
The impression is divided; you pass on by computation, from one stage
of the tremendous space to another. Had the girl in The Mourning Bride
said, she could not cast her shoe to the top of one of the pillars in
the temple, it would not have aided the idea, but weakened it.'
* Everyone guesses that 'one of the company' was Boswell.
--HILL.
Talking of a Barrister who had a bad utterance, some one, (to rouse
Johnson,) wickedly said, that he was unfortunate in not having been
taught oratory by Sheridan. JOHNSON. 'Nay, Sir, if he had been taught
by Sheridan, he would have cleared the room.' GARRICK. 'Sheridan has
too much vanity to be a good man.' We shall now see Johnson's mode of
DEFENDING a man; taking him into his own hands, and discriminating.
JOHNSON. 'No, Sir. There is, to be sure, in Sheridan, something to
reprehend, and every thing to laugh at; but, Sir, he is not a bad man.
No, Sir; were mankind to be divided into good and bad, he would stand
considerably within the ranks of good. And, Sir, it must be allowed
that Sheridan excels in plain declamation, though he can exhibit no
character.'
Mrs. Montagu, a lady distinguished for having written an Essay on
Shakspeare, being mentioned; REYNOLDS. 'I think that essay does her
honour.' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir: it does HER honour, but it would do nobody
else honour. I have, indeed, not read it all. But when I take up the end
of a web, and find it packthread, I do not expect, by looking further,
to find embroidery. Sir, I will venture to say, there is not one
sentence of true criticism in her book.' GARRICK. 'But, Sir, surely it
shews how much Voltaire has mistaken Shakspeare, which nobody else has
done.' JOHNSON. 'Sir, nobody else has thought it worth while. And
what merit is there in that? You may as well praise a schoolmaster
for whipping a boy who has construed ill. No, Sir, there is no real
criticism in it: none shewing the beauty of thought, as formed on the
workings of the human heart.'
The admirers of this Essay may be offended at the slighting manner in
which Johnson spoke of it; but let it be remembered, that he gave his
honest opinion unbiassed by any prejudice, or any proud jealousy of
a woman intruding herself into the chair of criticism; for Sir Joshua
Reynolds has told me, that when the Essay first came out, and it was not
known who had written it, Johnson wondered how Sir Joshua could like it.
At this time Sir Joshua himself had received no information concerning
the authour, except being assured by one of our most eminent literati,
that it was clear its authour did not know the Greek tragedies in the
original. One day at Sir Joshua's table, when it was related that Mrs.
Montagu, in an excess of compliment to the authour of a modern
tragedy, had exclaimed, 'I tremble for Shakspeare;' Johnson said,
'When Shakspeare has got ---- for his rival, and Mrs. Montagu for his
defender, he is in a poor state indeed.'
On Thursday, October 19, I passed the evening with him at his house. He
advised me to complete a Dictionary of words peculiar to Scotland,
of which I shewed him a specimen. 'Sir, (said he,) Ray has made a
collection of north-country words. By collecting those of your country,
you will do a useful thing towards the history of the language. He bade
me also go on with collections which I was making upon the antiquities
of Scotland. 'Make a large book; a folio.' BOSWELL. 'But of what use
will it be, Sir?' JOHNSON. 'Never mind the use; do it.'
I complained that he had not mentioned Garrick in his Preface to
Shakspeare; and asked him if he did not admire him. JOHNSON. 'Yes, as
"a poor player, who frets and struts his hour upon the stage;"--as
a shadow.' BOSWELL. 'But has he not brought Shakspeare into notice?'
JOHNSON. 'Sir, to allow that, would be to lampoon the age. Many
of Shakspeare's plays are the worse for being acted: Macbeth, for
instance.' BOSWELL. 'What, Sir, is nothing gained by decoration and
action? Indeed, I do wish that you had mentioned Garrick.' JOHNSON. 'My
dear Sir, had I mentioned him, I must have mentioned many more: Mrs.
Pritchard, Mrs. Cibber,--nay, and Mr. Cibber too; he too altered
Shakspeare.' BOSWELL. 'You have read his apology, Sir?' JOHNSON. 'Yes,
it is very entertaining. But as for Cibber himself, taking from his
conversation all that he ought not to have said, he was a poor creature.
I remember when he brought me one of his Odes to have my opinion of it;
I could not bear such nonsense, and would not let him read it to the
end; so little respect had I for THAT GREAT MAN! (laughing.) Yet I
remember Richardson wondering that I could treat him with familiarity.'
I mentioned to him that I had seen the execution of several convicts at
Tyburn, two days before, and that none of them seemed to be under
any concern. JOHNSON. 'Most of them, Sir, have never thought at all.'
BOSWELL. 'But is not the fear of death natural to man?' JOHNSON. 'So
much so, Sir, that the whole of life is but keeping away the thoughts of
it.' He then, in a low and earnest tone, talked of his meditating upon
the aweful hour of his own dissolution, and in what manner he should
conduct himself upon that occasion: 'I know not (said he,) whether
I should wish to have a friend by me, or have it all between GOD and
myself.'
Talking of our feeling for the distresses of others;--JOHNSON. 'Why,
Sir, there is much noise made about it, but it is greatly exaggerated.
No, Sir, we have a certain degree of feeling to prompt us to do good:
more than that, Providence does not intend. It would be misery to no
purpose.' BOSWELL. 'But suppose now, Sir, that one of your intimate
friends were apprehended for an offence for which he might be hanged.'
JOHNSON. 'I should do what I could to bail him, and give him any other
assistance; but if he were once fairly hanged, I should not suffer.'
BOSWELL. 'Would you eat your dinner that day, Sir?' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir;
and eat it as if he were eating it with me. Why, there's Baretti, who
is to be tried for his life to-morrow, friends have risen up for him on
every side; yet if he should be hanged, none of them will eat a slice of
plumb-pudding the less. Sir, that sympathetic feeling goes a very little
way in depressing the mind.'
I told him that I had dined lately at Foote's, who shewed me a letter
which he had received from Tom Davies, telling him that he had not been
able to sleep from the concern which he felt on account of 'This sad
affair of Baretti,' begging of him to try if he could suggest any thing
that might be of service; and, at the same time, recommending to him an
industrious young man who kept a pickle-shop. JOHNSON. 'Ay, Sir, here
you have a specimen of human sympathy; a friend hanged, and a cucumber
pickled. We know not whether Baretti or the pickle-man has kept Davies
from sleep; nor does he know himself. And as to his not sleeping, Sir;
Tom Davies is a very great man; Tom has been upon the stage, and knows
how to do those things. I have not been upon the stage, and cannot
do those things.' BOSWELL. 'I have often blamed myself, Sir, for not
feeling for others as sensibly as many say they do.' JOHNSON. 'Sir,
don't be duped by them any more. You will find these very feeling people
are not very ready to do you good. They PAY you by FEELING.'
BOSWELL. 'Foote has a great deal of humour?' JOHNSON. 'Yes, Sir.'
BOSWELL. 'He has a singular talent of exhibiting character.' JOHNSON.
'Sir, it is not a talent; it is a vice; it is what others abstain from.
It is not comedy, which exhibits the character of a species, as that
of a miser gathered from many misers: it is farce, which exhibits
individuals.' BOSWELL. 'Did not he think of exhibiting you, Sir?'
JOHNSON. 'Sir, fear restrained him; he knew I would have broken his
bones. I would have saved him the trouble of cutting off a leg; I would
not have left him a leg to cut off.' BOSWELL. 'Pray, Sir, is not
Foote an infidel?' JOHNSON. 'I do not know, Sir, that the fellow is
an infidel; but if he be an infidel, he is an infidel as a dog is
an infidel; that is to say, he has never thought upon the subject.'*
BOSWELL. 'I suppose, Sir, he has thought superficially, and seized the
first notions which occurred to his mind.' JOHNSON. 'Why then, Sir,
still he is like a dog, that snatches the piece next him. Did you never
observe that dogs have not the power of comparing? A dog will take a
small bit of meat as readily as a large, when both are before him.'
* When Mr. Foote was at Edinburgh, he thought fit to
entertain a numerous Scotch company, with a great deal of
coarse jocularity, at the expense of Dr. Johnson, imagining
it would be acceptable. I felt this as not civil to me; but
sat very patiently till he had exhausted his merriment on
that subject; and then observed, that surely Johnson must be
allowed to have some sterling wit, and that I had heard him
say a very good thing of Mr. Foote himself. 'Ah, my old
friend Sam (cried Foote,) no man says better things; do let
us have it.' Upon which I told the above story, which
produced a very loud laugh from the company. But I never
saw Foote so disconcerted.--BOSWELL.
BOSWELL. 'What do you think of Dr. Young's Night Thoughts, Sir?'
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, there are very fine things in them.' BOSWELL.
'Is there not less religion in the nation now, Sir, than there was
formerly?' JOHNSON. 'I don't know, Sir, that there is.' BOSWELL. 'For
instance, there used to be a chaplain in every great family, which we do
not find now.' JOHNSON. 'Neither do you find any of the state servants,
which great families used formerly to have. There is a change of modes
in the whole department of life.'
Next day, October 20, he appeared, for the only time I suppose in his
life, as a witness in a Court of Justice, being called to give evidence
to the character of Mr. Baretti, who having stabbed a man in the
street, was arraigned at the Old Bailey for murder. Never did such
a constellation of genius enlighten the aweful Sessions-House,
emphatically called JUSTICE HALL; Mr. Burke, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Beauclerk,
and Dr. Johnson: and undoubtedly their favourable testimony had due
weight with the Court and Jury. Johnson gave his evidence in a slow,
deliberate, and distinct manner, which was uncommonly impressive. It is
well known that Mr. Baretti was acquitted.
On the 26th of October, we dined together at the Mitre tavern. I found
fault with Foote for indulging his talent of ridicule at the expence of
his visitors, which I colloquially termed making fools of his company.
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, when you go to see Foote, you do not go to see a
saint: you go to see a man who will be entertained at your house, and
then bring you on a publick stage; who will entertain you at his house,
for the very purpose of bringing you on a publick stage. Sir, he does
not make fools of his company; they whom he exposes are fools already:
he only brings them into action.'
We went home to his house to tea. Mrs. Williams made it with sufficient
dexterity, notwithstanding her blindness, though her manner of
satisfying herself that the cups were full enough appeared to me a
little aukward; for I fancied she put her finger down a certain way,
till she felt the tea touch it.* In my first elation at being allowed
the privilege of attending Dr. Johnson at his late visits to this lady,
which was like being e secretioribus consiliis, I willingly drank cup
after cup, as if it had been the Heliconian spring. But as the charm of
novelty went off, I grew more fastidious; and besides, I discovered that
she was of a peevish temper.
* Boswell afterwards learned that she felt the rising tea on
the outside of the cup.--ED.
There was a pretty large circle this evening. Dr. Johnson was in very
good humour, lively, and ready to talk upon all subjects. Mr. Fergusson,
the self-taught philosopher, told him of a new-invented machine which
went without horses: a man who sat in it turned a handle, which worked a
spring that drove it forward. 'Then, Sir, (said Johnson,) what is
gained is, the man has his choice whether he will move himself alone, or
himself and the machine too.' Dominicetti being mentioned, he would not
allow him any merit. 'There is nothing in all this boasted system. No,
Sir; medicated baths can be no better than warm water: their only effect
can be that of tepid moisture.' One of the company took the other
side, maintaining that medicines of various sorts, and some too of most
powerful effect, are introduced into the human frame by the medium
of the pores; and, therefore, when warm water is impregnated with
salutiferous substances, it may produce great effects as a bath. This
appeared to me very satisfactory. Johnson did not answer it; but talking
for victory, and determined to be master of the field, he had recourse
to the device which Goldsmith imputed to him in the witty words of one
of Cibber's comedies: 'There is no arguing with Johnson; for when his
pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.' He
turned to the gentleman, 'well, Sir, go to Dominicetti, and get thyself
fumigated; but be sure that the steam be directed to thy HEAD, for THAT
is the PECCANT PART.' This produced a triumphant roar of laughter from
the motley assembly of philosophers, printers, and dependents, male and
female.
I know not how so whimsical a thought came into my mind, but I asked,
'If, Sir, you were shut up in a castle, and a newborn child with you,
what would you do?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I should not much like my
company.' BOSWELL. 'But would you take the trouble of rearing it?' He
seemed, as may well be supposed, unwilling to pursue the subject: but
upon my persevering in my question, replied, 'Why yes, Sir, I would; but
I must have all conveniencies. If I had no garden, I would make a shed
on the roof, and take it there for fresh air. I should feed it, and wash
it much, and with warm water to please it, not with cold water to give
it pain.' BOSWELL. 'But, Sir, does not heat relax?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, you
are not to imagine the water is to be very hot. I would not CODDLE the
child. No, Sir, the hardy method of treating children does no good.
I'll take you five children from London, who shall cuff five Highland
children. Sir, a man bred in London will carry a burthen, or run, or
wrestle, as well as a man brought up in the hardiest manner in the
country.' BOSWELL. 'Good living, I suppose, makes the Londoners strong.'
JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, I don't know that it does. Our Chairmen from
Ireland, who are as strong men as any, have been brought up upon
potatoes. Quantity makes up for quality.' BOSWELL. 'Would you teach this
child that I have furnished you with, any thing?' JOHNSON. 'No, I should
not be apt to teach it.' BOSWELL. 'Would not you have a pleasure
in teaching it?' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, I should NOT have a pleasure in
teaching it.' BOSWELL. 'Have you not a pleasure in teaching men?--THERE
I have you. You have the same pleasure in teaching men, that I should
have in teaching children.' JOHNSON. 'Why, something about that.'
I had hired a Bohemian as my servant while I remained in London, and
being much pleased with him, I asked Dr. Johnson whether his being
a Roman Catholick should prevent my taking him with me to Scotland.
JOHNSON. 'Why no, Sir, if HE has no objection, you can have none.'
BOSWELL. 'So, Sir, you are no great enemy to the Roman Catholick
religion.' JOHNSON. 'No more, Sir, than to the Presbyterian religion.'
BOSWELL. 'You are joking.' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir, I really think so. Nay,
Sir, of the two, I prefer the Popish.' BOSWELL. 'How so, Sir?' JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, the Presbyterians have no church, no apostolical ordination.'
BOSWELL. 'And do you think that absolutely essential, Sir?' JOHNSON.
'Why, Sir, as it was an apostolical institution, I think it is dangerous
to be without it. And, Sir, the Presbyterians have no public worship:
they have no form of prayer in which they know they are to join. They go
to hear a man pray, and are to judge whether they will join with him.'
I proceeded: 'What do you think, Sir, of Purgatory, as believed by the
Roman Catholicks?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, it is a very harmless doctrine.
They are of opinion that the generality of mankind are neither so
obstinately wicked as to deserve everlasting punishment, nor so good
as to merit being admitted into the society of blessed spirits; and
therefore that God is graciously pleased to allow of a middle state,
where they may be purified by certain degrees of suffering. You see,
Sir, there is nothing unreasonable in this.' BOSWELL. 'But then,
Sir, their masses for the dead?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, if it be once
established that there are souls in purgatory, it is as proper to pray
for THEM, as for our brethren of mankind who are yet in this life.'
BOSWELL. 'The idolatry of the Mass?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, there is no idolatry
in the Mass. They believe god to be there, and they adore him.' BOSWELL.
'The worship of Saints?' JOHNSON. 'Sir, they do not worship saints; they
invoke them; they only ask their prayers. I am talking all this time
of the DOCTRINES of the Church of Rome. I grant you that in PRACTICE,
Purgatory is made a lucrative imposition, and that the people do become
idolatrous as they recommend themselves to the tutelary protection of
particular saints. I think their giving the sacrament only in one
kind is criminal, because it is contrary to the express institution of
CHRIST, and I wonder how the Council of Trent admitted it.' BOSWELL.
'Confession?' JOHNSON. 'Why, I don't know but that is a good thing. The
scripture says, "Confess your faults one to another," and the priests
confess as well as the laity. Then it must be considered that their
absolution is only upon repentance, and often upon penance also. You
think your sins may be forgiven without penance, upon repentance alone.'
When we were alone, I introduced the subject of death, and endeavoured
to maintain that the fear of it might be got over. I told him that David
Hume said to me, he was no more uneasy to think he should NOT BE after
this life, than that he HAD NOT BEEN before he began to exist. JOHNSON.
Sir, if he really thinks so, his perceptions are disturbed; he is mad:
if he does not think so, he lies. He may tell you, he holds his finger
in the flame of a candle, without feeling pain; would you believe him?
When he dies, he at least gives up all he has.' BOSWELL. 'Foote, Sir,
told me, that when he was very ill he was not afraid to die.' JOHNSON.
'It is not true, Sir. Hold a pistol to Foote's breast, or to Hume's
breast, and threaten to kill them, and you'll see how they behave.'
BOSWELL. 'But may we not fortify our minds for the approach of death?'
Here I am sensible I was in the wrong, to bring before his view what he
ever looked upon with horrour; for although when in a celestial frame,
in his Vanity of Human Wishes he has supposed death to be 'kind Nature's
signal for retreat,' from this state of being to 'a happier seat,'
his thoughts upon this aweful change were in general full of dismal
apprehensions. His mind resembled the vast amphitheatre, the Colisaeum
at Rome. In the centre stood his judgement, which, like a mighty
gladiator, combated those apprehensions that, like the wild beasts of
the Arena, were all around in cells, ready to be let out upon him. After
a conflict, he drives them back into their dens; but not killing them,
they were still assailing him. To my question, whether we might not
fortify our minds for the approach of death, he answered, in a passion,
'No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives.
The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.' He
added, (with an earnest look,) 'A man knows it must be so, and submits.
It will do him no good to whine.'
I attempted to continue the conversation. He was so provoked, that he
said, 'Give us no more of this;' and was thrown into such a state
of agitation, that he expressed himself in a way that alarmed and
distressed me; shewed an impatience that I should leave him, and when I
was going away, called to me sternly, 'Don't let us meet tomorrow.'
I went home exceedingly uneasy. All the harsh observations which I had
ever heard made upon his character, crowded into my mind; and I seemed
to myself like the man who had put his head into the lion's mouth a
great many times with perfect safety, but at last had it bit off.
Next morning I sent him a note, stating, that I might have been in the
wrong, but it was not intentionally; he was therefore, I could not help
thinking, too severe upon me. That notwithstanding our agreement not to
meet that day, I would call on him in my way to the city, and stay five
minutes by my watch. 'You are, (said I,) in my mind, since last night,
surrounded with cloud and storm. Let me have a glimpse of sunshine, and
go about my affairs in serenity and chearfulness.'
Upon entering his study, I was glad that he was not alone, which would
have made our meeting more awkward. There were with him, Mr. Steevens
and Mr. Tyers, both of whom I now saw for the first time. My note
had, on his own reflection, softened him, for he received me very
complacently; so that I unexpectedly found myself at ease, and joined in
the conversation.
I whispered him, 'Well, Sir, you are now in good humour. JOHNSON. 'Yes,
Sir.' I was going to leave him, and had got as far as the staircase.
He stopped me, and smiling, said, 'Get you gone IN;' a curious mode of
inviting me to stay, which I accordingly did for some time longer.
This little incidental quarrel and reconciliation, which, perhaps, I
may be thought to have detailed too minutely, must be esteemed as one of
many proofs which his friends had, that though he might be charged with
bad humour at times, he was always a good-natured man; and I have
heard Sir Joshua Reynolds, a nice and delicate observer of manners,
particularly remark, that when upon any occasion Johnson had been
rough to any person in company, he took the first opportunity of
reconciliation, by drinking to him, or addressing his discourse to him;
but if he found his dignified indirect overtures sullenly neglected, he
was quite indifferent, and considered himself as having done all that he
ought to do, and the other as now in the wrong.
I went to him early on the morning of the tenth of November. 'Now (said
he,) that you are going to marry, do not expect more from life, than
life will afford. You may often find yourself out of humour, and you may
often think your wife not studious enough to please you; and yet you
may have reason to consider yourself as upon the whole very happily
married.'
1770: AETAT. 61.]--During this year there was a total cessation of
all correspondence between Dr. Johnson and me, without any coldness on
either side, but merely from procrastination, continued from day to day;
and as I was not in London, I had no opportunity of enjoying his company
and recording his conversation. To supply this blank, I shall present
my readers with some Collectanea, obligingly furnished to me by the Rev.
Dr. Maxwell, of Falkland, in Ireland, sometime assistant preacher at the
Temple, and for many years the social friend of Johnson, who spoke of
him with a very kind regard.
'His general mode of life, during my acquaintance, seemed to be pretty
uniform. About twelve o'clock I commonly visited him, and frequently
found him in bed, or declaiming over his tea, which he drank very
plentifully. He generally had a levee of morning visitors, chiefly
men of letters; Hawkesworth, Goldsmith, Murphy, Langton, Steevens,
Beaucherk, &c. &c., and sometimes learned ladies, particularly I
remember a French lady of wit and fashion doing him the honour of a
visit. He seemed to me to be considered as a kind of publick oracle,
whom every body thought they had a right to visit and consult; and
doubtless they were well rewarded. I never could discover how he found
time for his compositions. He declaimed all the morning, then went to
dinner at a tavern, where he commonly staid late, and then drank his tea
at some friend's house, over which he loitered a great while, but seldom
took supper. I fancy he must have read and wrote chiefly in the night,
for I can scarcely recollect that he ever refused going with me to
a tavern, and he often went to Ranelagh, which he deemed a place of
innocent recreation.
'He frequently gave all the silver in his pocket to the poor, who
watched him, between his house and the tavern where he dined. He walked
the streets at all hours, and said he was never robbed, for the rogues
knew he had little money, nor had the appearance of having much.
'Though the most accessible and communicative man alive; yet when he
suspected he was invited to be exhibited, he constantly spurned the
invitation.
'Two young women from Staffordshire visited him when I was present, to
consult him on the subject of Methodism, to which they were inclined.
"Come, (said he,) you pretty fools, dine with Maxwell and me at the
Mitre, and we will talk over that subject;" which they did, and after
dinner he took one of them upon his knee, and fondled her for half an
hour together.
'Johnson was much attached to London: he observed, that a man stored his
mind better there, than any where else; and that in remote situations a
man's body might be feasted, but his mind was starved, and his faculties
apt to degenerate, from want of exercise and competition. No place, (he
said,) cured a man's vanity or arrogance so well as London; for as no
man was either great or good per se, but as compared with others not so
good or great, he was sure to find in the metropolis many his equals,
and some his superiours. He observed, that a man in London was in less
danger of falling in love indiscreetly, than any where else; for there
the difficulty of deciding between the conflicting pretensions of a vast
variety of objects, kept him safe. He told me, that he had frequently
been offered country preferment, if he would consent to take orders; but
he could not leave the improved society of the capital, or consent to
exchange the exhilarating joys and splendid decorations of publick life,
for the obscurity, insipidity, and uniformity of remote situations.
'Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, he said, was the only book that ever
took him out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to rise.
'When exasperated by contradiction, he was apt to treat his opponents
with too much acrimony: as, "Sir, you don't see your way through that
question:"--"Sir, you talk the language of ignorance." On my observing
to him that a certain gentleman had remained silent the whole evening,
in the midst of a very brilliant and learned society, "Sir, (said he,)
the conversation overflowed, and drowned him."
'He observed, that the established clergy in general did not preach
plain enough; and that polished periods and glittering sentences flew
over the heads of the common people, without any impression upon
their hearts. Something might be necessary, he observed, to excite the
affections of the common people, who were sunk in languor and lethargy,
and therefore he supposed that the new concomitants of methodism might
probably produce so desirable an effect. The mind, like the body, he
observed, delighted in change and novelty, and even in religion itself,
courted new appearances and modifications. Whatever might be thought of
some methodist teachers, he said, he could scarcely doubt the sincerity
of that man, who travelled nine hundred miles in a month, and preached
twelve times a week; for no adequate reward, merely temporal, could be
given for such indefatigable labour.
'In a Latin conversation with the Pere Boscovitch, at the house of Mrs.
Cholmondeley, I heard him maintain the superiority of Sir Isaac Newton
over all foreign philosophers, with a dignity and eloquence that
surprized that learned foreigner. It being observed to him, that a rage
for every thing English prevailed much in France after Lord Chatham's
glorious war, he said, he did not wonder at it, for that we had drubbed
those fellows into a proper reverence for us, and that their national
petulance required periodical chastisement.
'Speaking of a dull tiresome fellow, whom he chanced to meet, he said,
"That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and that is a wrong
one."
'Much enquiry having been made concerning a gentleman, who had quitted
a company where Johnson was, and no information being obtained; at last
Johnson observed, that "he did not care to speak ill of any man behind
his back, but he believed the gentleman was an ATTORNEY."
'A gentleman who had been very unhappy in marriage, married immediately
after his wife died: Johnson said, it was the triumph of hope over
experience.
'He observed, that a man of sense and education should meet a suitable
companion in a wife. It was a miserable thing when the conversation
could only be such as, whether the mutton should be boiled or roasted,
and probably a dispute about that.
'He did not approve of late marriages, observing that more was lost in
point of time, than compensated for by any possible advantages. Even ill
assorted marriages were preferable to cheerless celibacy.
'He said, foppery was never cured; it was the bad stamina of the mind,
which, like those of the body, were never rectified: once a coxcomb, and
always a coxcomb.
'Being told that Gilbert Cowper called him the Caliban of literature;
"Well, (said he,) I must dub him the Punchinello."
'He said few people had intellectual resources sufficient to forego the
pleasures of wine. They could not otherwise contrive how to fill the
interval between dinner and supper.
'One evening at Mrs. Montagu's, where a splendid company was assembled,
consisting of the most eminent literary characters, I thought he seemed
highly pleased with the respect and attention that were shewn him,
and asked him on our return home if he was not highly gratified by his
visit:
"No, Sir, (said he,) not highly gratified; yet I do not recollect to
have passed many evenings with fewer objections."
'Though of no high extraction himself, he had much respect for birth and
family, especially among ladies. He said, "adventitious accomplishments
may be possessed by all ranks; but one may easily distinguish the born
gentlewoman."
'Speaking of Burke, he said, "It was commonly observed, he spoke too
often in parliament; but nobody could say he did not speak well, though
too frequently and too familiarly."
'We dined tete a tete at the Mitre, as I was preparing to return to
Ireland, after an absence of many years. I regretted much leaving
London, where I had formed many agreeable connexions: "Sir, (said he,)
I don't wonder at it; no man, fond of letters, leaves London without
regret. But remember, Sir, you have seen and enjoyed a great deal;--you
have seen life in its highest decorations, and the world has nothing new
to exhibit. No man is so well qualifyed to leave publick life as he
who has long tried it and known it well. We are always hankering after
untried situations and imagining greater felicity from them than
they can afford. No, Sir, knowledge and virtue may be acquired in all
countries, and your local consequence will make you some amends for the
intellectual gratifications you relinquish."
'He then took a most affecting leave of me; said, he knew, it was a
point of DUTY that called me away. "We shall all be sorry to lose you,"
said he: "laudo tamen."'