When next, after this adjuration, Dr. Burney took the Memorialist back
to Streatham, he found there, recently arrived from Scotland, Mr.
Boswell; whose sprightly Corsican tour, and heroic, almost Quixotic
pursuit of General Paoli, joined to the tour to the Hebrides with Dr.
Johnson, made him an object himself of considerable attention.
He spoke the Scotch accent strongly, though by no means so as to
affect, even slightly, his intelligibility to an English ear. He
had an odd mock solemnity of tone and manner, that he had acquired
imperceptibly from constantly thinking of and imitating Dr. Johnson;
whose own solemnity, nevertheless, far from mock, was the result of
pensive rumination. There was, also, something slouching in the gait
and dress of Mr. Boswell, that wore an air, ridiculously enough,
of purporting to personify the same model. His clothes were always
too large for him; his hair, or wig, was constantly in a state of
negligence; and he never for a moment sat still or upright upon
a chair. Every look and movement displayed either intentional or
involuntary imitation. Yet certainly it was not meant as caricature;
for his heart, almost even to idolatory, was in his reverence of Dr.
Johnson.
Dr. Burney was often surprised that this kind of farcical similitude
escaped the notice of the Doctor; but attributed his missing it
to a high superiority over any such suspicion, as much as to his
near-sightedness; for fully was Dr. Burney persuaded, that had any
detection of such imitation taken place, Dr. Johnson, who generally
treated Mr. Boswell as a school boy, whom, without the smallest
ceremony, he pardoned or rebuked, alternately, would so indignantly
have been provoked, as to have instantaneously inflicted upon him some
mark of his displeasure. And equally he was persuaded that Mr. Boswell,
however shocked and even inflamed in receiving it, would soon, from his
deep veneration, have thought it justly incurred; and, after a day or
two of pouting and sullenness, would have compromised the matter by one
of his customary simple apologies, of “Pray, Sir, forgive me!”
Dr. Johnson, though often irritated by the officious importunity of
Mr. Boswell, was really touched by his attachment. It was indeed
surprising, and even affecting, to remark the pleasure with which
this great man accepted personal kindness, even from the simplest of
mankind; and the grave formality with which he acknowledged it even
to the meanest. Possibly it was what he most prized, because what he
could least command; for personal partiality hangs upon lighter and
slighter qualities than those which earn solid approbation; but of
this, if he had least command, he had also least want: his towering
superiority of intellect elevating him above all competitors, and
regularly establishing him, wherever he appeared, as the first Being of
the society.
As Mr. Boswell was at Streatham only upon a morning visit, a collation
was ordered, to which all were assembled. Mr. Boswell was preparing to
take a seat that he seemed, by prescription, to consider as his own,
next to Dr. Johnson; but Mr. Seward, who was present, waived his hand
for Mr. Boswell to move further on, saying, with a smile, “Mr. Boswell,
that seat is Miss Burney’s.”
He stared, amazed: the asserted claimant was new and unknown to him,
and he appeared by no means pleased to resign his prior rights.
But, after looking round for a minute or two, with an important
air of demanding the meaning of this innovation, and receiving no
satisfaction, he reluctantly, almost resentfully, got another chair;
and placed it at the back of the shoulder of Dr. Johnson; while this
new and unheard of rival quietly seated herself as if not hearing what
was passing; for she shrunk from the explanation that she feared might
ensue, as she saw a smile stealing over every countenance, that of Dr.
Johnson himself not excepted, at the discomfiture and surprise of Mr.
Boswell.
Mr. Boswell, however, was so situated as not to remark it in the
Doctor; and of every one else, when in that presence, he was
unobservant, if not contemptuous. In truth, when he met with Dr.
Johnson, he commonly forbore even answering anything that was said,
or attending to any thing that went forward, lest he should miss the
smallest sound from that voice to which he paid such exclusive, though
merited homage. But the moment that voice burst forth, the attention
which it excited in Mr. Boswell amounted almost to pain. His eyes
goggled with eagerness; he leant his ear almost on the shoulder of the
Doctor; and his mouth dropt open to catch every syllable that might
be uttered: nay, he seemed not only to dread losing a word, but to be
anxious not to miss a breathing; as if hoping from it, latently, or
mystically, some information.
But when, in a few minutes, Dr. Johnson, whose eye did not follow him,
and who had concluded him to be at the other end of the table, said
something gaily and good-humouredly, by the appellation of Bozzy;
and discovered, by the sound of the reply, that Bozzy had planted
himself, as closely as he could, behind and between the elbows of the
new usurper and his own, the Doctor turned angrily round upon him,
and, clapping his hand rather loudly upon his knee, said, in a tone of
displeasure, “What do you do there, Sir?—Go to the table, Sir!”
Mr. Boswell instantly, and with an air of affright, obeyed: and there
was something so unusual in such humble submission to so imperious a
command, that another smile gleamed its way across every mouth, except
that of the Doctor and of Mr. Boswell; who now, very unwillingly, took
a distant seat.
But, ever restless when not at the side of Dr. Johnson, he presently
recollected something that he wished to exhibit, and, hastily rising,
was running away in its search; when the Doctor, calling after him,
authoritatively said: “What are you thinking of, Sir? Why do you get up
before the cloth is removed?—Come back to your place, Sir!”
Again, and with equal obsequiousness, Mr. Boswell did as he was bid;
when the Doctor, pursing his lips, not to betray rising risibility,
muttered half to himself: “Running about in the middle of meals!—One
would take you for a Brangton!—”
“A Brangton, Sir?” repeated Mr. Boswell, with earnestness; “What is a
Brangton, Sir?”
“Where have you lived, Sir,” cried the Doctor, laughing, “and what
company have you kept, not to know that?”
Mr. Boswell now, doubly curious, yet always apprehensive of falling
into some disgrace with Dr. Johnson, said, in a low tone, which he
knew the Doctor could not hear, to Mrs. Thrale: “Pray, Ma’am, what’s a
Brangton?—Do me the favour to tell me?—Is it some animal hereabouts?”
Mrs. Thrale only heartily laughed, but without answering: as she saw
one of her guests uneasily fearful of an explanation. But Mr. Seward
cried, “I’ll tell you, Boswell,—I’ll tell you!—if you will walk with
me into the paddock: only let us wait till the table is cleared; or I
shall be taken for a Brangton, too!”
They soon went off together; and Mr. Boswell, no doubt, was fully
informed of the road that had led to the usurpation by which he had
thus been annoyed. But the Brangton fabricator took care to mount to
her chamber ere they returned; and did not come down till Mr. Boswell
was gone.