I am now to record a curious incident in Dr. Johnson’s life, which fell
under my own observation; of which _pars magna fui_, and which I am
persuaded will, with the liberal-minded, be in no way to his discredit.
When I was a boy in the year 1745 I wore a white cockade and prayed for
King James, till one of my uncles gave me a shilling on condition that
I should pray for King George, which I accordingly did. This uncle was
General Cochran; and it was with natural gratification that I received
from another member of that family, Mr. Charles Cochran, a more valuable
present than a shilling, that is to say, an invitation to witness the
Great Fight at the Stadium and to bring with me a friend. “Pray,” said I,
“let us have Dr. Johnson.” Mr. Cochran, who is much more modest than our
other great theatre-manager, Mr. Garrick, feared that Dr. Johnson could
hardly be prevailed upon to condescend. “Come,” said I, “if you’ll let me
negotiate for you, I will be answerable that all shall go well.”
I had not forgotten Mrs. Thrale’s relation (which she afterwards printed
in her “Anecdotes”) that “Mr. Johnson was very conversant in the art
of attack and defence by boxing, which science he had learned from his
uncle Andrew, I believe; and I have heard him discourse upon the age
when people were received, and when rejected, in the schools once held
for that brutal amusement, much to the admiration of those who had no
expectation of his skill in such matters, from the sight of a figure
which precluded all possibility of personal prowess.” This lively lady
was, however, too ready to deviate from exact authenticity of narration;
and, further, I reflected that, whatever the propensities of his youth,
he who had now risen to be called by Dr. Smollett the Great Cham of
literature might well be affronted if asked to countenance a prize-fight.
Notwithstanding the high veneration which I entertained for him, I
was sensible that he was sometimes a little actuated by the spirit of
contradiction, and by means of that I hoped I should gain my point.
I therefore, while we were sitting quietly by ourselves at his house
in an evening, took occasion to open my plan thus:—“Mr. Cochran, sir,
sends his respectful compliments to you, and would be happy if you
would do him the honour to visit his entertainment at the Stadium on
Thursday next?” JOHNSON.—“Sir, I am obliged to Mr. Cochran. I will go——”
BOSWELL.—“Provided, sir, I suppose, that the entertainment is of a kind
agreeable to you?” JOHNSON.—“What do you mean, sir? What do you take me
for? Do you think I am so ignorant of the world as to imagine that I am
to prescribe to a gentleman what kind of entertainment he is to offer his
friends?” BOSWELL.—“But if it were a prize-fight?” JOHNSON.—“Well, sir,
and what then?” BOSWELL.—“It might bring queer company.” JOHNSON.—“My
dear friend, let us have no more of this. I am sorry to be angry with
you; but really it is treating me strangely to talk to me as if I could
not meet any company whatever occasionally.” Thus I secured him.
As it proved, however, whether by good luck or by the forethought of
the ingenious Mr. Cochran, Dr. Johnson could not have found himself in
better company than that gathered round him in Block H at the Stadium.
There were many members of the Literary Club, among them Mr. Beauclerk,
Mr. Burke, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Gibbon, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Mr. R.
B. Sheridan. A gentleman present, who had been dining at the Duke of
Montrose’s, where the bottle had been circulated pretty freely, was
rash enough to rally Dr. Johnson about his Uncle Andrew, suggesting
that his uncle’s nephew might now take the opportunity of exhibiting
his prowess in the ring. JOHNSON.—“Sir, to be facetious, it is not
necessary to be indecent. I am not for tapping any man’s claret, but
we see that _thou_ hast already tapped his Grace’s.” BURKE.—“It is
remarkable how little gore is ever shed in these contests. Here have we
been for half an hour watching—let me see, what are their names?—Eddie
Feathers and Gus Platts—and not even a bleeding nose between them.”
REYNOLDS.—“In a previous contest one boxer knocked the other’s teeth
out.” SHERIDAN.—“Yes, but they were false teeth.”
At this moment the talk was interrupted by the arrival of the Prince.
As His Highness passed Dr. Johnson, my revered friend made an obeisance
which was an even more studied act of homage than his famous bow to the
Archbishop of York; and he subsequently joined in singing “For he’s a
jolly good fellow” with the most loyal enthusiasm, repeating the word
“fe-ellow” over and over again, doubtless because it was the only one he
knew. (“Like a word in a catch,” Beauclerk whispered.) I am sorry that
I did not take note of an eloquent argument in which he proceeded to
maintain that the situation of Prince of Wales was the happiest of any
person’s in the kingdom, even beyond that of the Sovereign.
But there was still no sign of Beckett and Carpentier, the heroes of
the evening, and the company became a little weary of the preliminary
contests. A hush fell upon the assembly, and many glanced furtively
towards the alley down which the champions were to approach. GIBBON.—“We
are unhappy because we are kept waiting. ‘Man never is, but always to
be, blest.’” JOHNSON.—“And we are awaiting we know not what. To the
impatience of expectation is added the disquiet of the unknown.” GARRICK
(_playing round his old friend with a fond vivacity_).—“My dear sir,
men are naturally a little restless, when they have backed Beckett at
70 to 40.” REYNOLDS.—“But, see, the lights of the kinematographers” (we
were all abashed by the word in the presence of the Great Lexicographer)
“are brighter than ever. I observe all the contestants take care to
smile under them.” SHERIDAN.—“When they _do_ agree, their unanimity is
wonderful.” JOHNSON.—“Among the anfractuosities of the human mind, I know
not if it may not be one, that there is a morbid longing to attitudinize
in the ‘moving pictures.’”
But at length Beckett and Carpentier made their triumphal entry. Beckett
first, quietly smiling, with eyes cast down, Carpentier debonair and
lightly saluting the crowd with an elegant wave of the hand. After the
pair had stripped and Dr. Johnson had pointed out that “the tenuity,
the thin part” in Carpentier’s frame indicated greater lightness, if
Beckett’s girth promised more solid resistance, Mr. Angle invited the
company to preserve silence during the rounds and to abstain from
smoking. To add a last touch to the solemnity of the moment, Carpentier’s
supernumerary henchmen (some six or eight, over and above his trainer and
seconds) came and knelt by us, in single file, in the alley between Block
H and Block E, as though at worship.
What then happened, in the twinkling of an eye, all the world now knows,
and knows rather better than I knew myself at the moment, for I saw
Beckett lying on his face in the ring without clearly distinguishing
the decisive blow. While Carpentier was being carried round the ring
on the shoulders of his friends, being kissed first by his trainer
and then by ladies obligingly held up to the ring for the amiable
purpose, I confess that I watched Beckett, and was pleased to see he had
successfully resumed his quiet smile. As I carried my revered friend
home to Bolt Court in a taximetric cabriolet, I remarked to him that
Beckett’s defeat was a blow to our patriotic pride, whereupon he suddenly
uttered, in a strong, determined tone, an apophthegm at which many will
start:—“Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel!” “And yet,” said
Beauclerk, when I told him of this later, “he had not been kissed by
Carpentier.”