Learning from a source sufficiently credible that the young Scotchman
James Boswell, son and heir to the Laird of Auchinleck, designs some
future biography of myself, I have favoured him with a measure of my
company and conversation naturally denied to most men of his age. His
attainments, without being considerable, are varied, and though the
man’s garrulity can command neither respect nor admiration, yet there
is about him a charm of rude health, high spirits, and good temper,
which to undervalue or overlook would be at once unreasonable and
unfair. His veneration for the writer, if irksome, is genuine; if at
times offensive, is consistent. He has not as yet broke to me his
intention, but the ambition was imparted to others of high repute. Them
it is not necessary that I should here distinguish by their several
appellations, but one and all inform me that Mr. Boswell, by constant
practice and unceasing attention to my utterances in company, has so
far schooled his memory to retrace and record with a startling accuracy
much of the varied disquisition which is said to fall from me in
conversation, together with those aphorisms, similes, apothegms, new
lights, illuminations, corruscations, and repartees likewise reported
as occurring in the substance of my discourse. Whether such a piece
as must result from his assiduity is desirable, or can be fashioned
with art sufficient to justify its existence, I shall not presume
to determine. Fame, by which is understood the survival of human
achievement, must be won by a man’s own labour; and it is surely vain
to imagine that the attention of successive generations can be arrested
by the idle elaboration of a daily life from an unknown pen, no matter
how minute the record or illustrious the object of it. Be that as it
may, with a purpose to prove whether, indeed, it be possible by system
and attention to commit a man’s trivial actions and utterances to
paper, I shall adventure some brief data or memoranda carried out after
the fashion that is reported to be followed by Mr. Boswell against
myself. And it is fitting that my own embryo historian should be the
subject of such an experiment.
_Monday._--At Thrale’s. After dinner, to which repast Boswell was not
invited, he arrived, and, finding a large company present, thrust
himself into the talk without ingenuity and without decorum. Perceiving
him to be intoxicated, I endeavoured to silence his alcoholic
exuberance with as little occasion for offence to those present as the
circumstance allowed. BOSWELL: “And pray, sir, have you dined to your
satisfaction?” JOHNSON: “Sir! Thus to interrogate a guest before his
host and hostess is to write yourself down a mighty ill-bred fellow,
and reveal to the company a plentiful lack of good manners and just
taste.” MRS. THRALE: “The man has abandoned his manners for another
cargo.” JOHNSON: “Too true, madam.” MR. GOLDSMITH: “He has sacrificed
his wit to Bacchus, sir.” JOHNSON: “Ay, sir; and no divinity within
the compass of the classics ever received offering more paltry.” There
was laughter at this, and, under cover of it, I essayed to remove Mr.
Boswell from a circle that in reality loved him, and was sad before
the spectacle of his present lapse; but the man stood, temporarily
stripped of reason, naked of proper sense, and unashamed. He turned
upon me in a very frenzy of vinous anger. BOSWELL: “You are pleased,
sir, to--to--make me the target of your el--elephantine pleasantries;
but know, sir, that James Boswell of Auchinleck demands an answer
to--to----” Here he attempted to draw his sword, and was immediately
deprived of that weapon by those present. JOHNSON: “Get thee to bed,
Bozzy, and----” But the sweep and force of the utterance I had designed
were interrupted, for the man leapt towards me like an opera-dancer.
His offensive intention failed of its effect, happily for him, and, at
the very commencement of the onset, he fell over Mrs. Thrale’s negro,
who was about to hand me coffee and cakes. Ethiopian, Scotchman, cream,
sugar, and sweetmeats of a dozen sorts encountered the ground in the
very extremity of chaotic confusion. Whereupon Thrale sent men for a
coach, and Boswell was presently conveyed from amongst us. JOHNSON:
“Now who shall dare affirm that my notorious antipathy to the Scotch
rests on a mere airy basis of humour, without sufficient incentive and
provocation seldom long absent from my elbow?” None of the company took
it upon themselves to traverse my utterance or question the justice of
my conclusion.
_Tuesday._--Mr. Boswell waited upon me about noon. He was of pallid
aspect, and had suffered some temporary discoloration to the cuticle in
the region of his right eye. He chose to enlighten me as to the cause,
and explained that the men who conveyed him home on the previous night
were responsible. BOSWELL: “Chairmen and coachmen always ask too much.”
JOHNSON: “No, sir, they never ask _me_ too much.” BOSWELL: “But the
exception proves the rule. If it is a question of weights and measures,
you----” JOHNSON (_taking him up sharply_): “Stay, sir! To what a
pitiable extremity must that wretch be reduced who thrusts personality
upon his argument. Know this, sir: all dead weight is heavier than
that which lives, and folly dead drunk must ever cause a chairman
more labour than wisdom sober.” He made haste to assure me that he
had intended no impertinent allusion, and he proceeded to deplore his
conduct on the preceding evening with such humility and regret that my
choler subsided. JOHNSON: “Alas, sir, if regret could but banish the
consequences of folly! But religion testifies and experience proves
that no ill deed escapes from due exaction of penalty.” BOSWELL: “I
visit Mrs. Thrale’s anon to express the utmost sorrow for my conduct.”
JOHNSON: “Do so, sir.” BOSWELL: “And yet, dear sir, if you consider,
there appears nothing very singular in the course which I pursued. What
gentleman of quality can say he has never been the worse for good wine?
And who is there would wish so to declare even if he could?” JOHNSON:
“This is not regret for an offence, but rather a rebellious attempt
to palliate it.” BOSWELL: “Then I will never drink wine again if you
so advise me.” JOHNSON: “Sir, this is the puerile irresponsibility
of a babbling infant. Yet, if years be the standard by which we
estimate your age, you are no longer a child. At least, I am not your
schoolmaster.” BOSWELL: “I would you had been, sir, then I should have
been a wiser man.” JOHNSON: “I know not that; but you might have been a
sorer boy.” BOSWELL: “Nay, sir, chide no more. I am heartily sorry for
my misdeeds, and my punishment is severe enough, for it chiefly lies
in the thought that I have given you pain.” JOHNSON: “Only the pain,
sir, of seeing my own species reduced below the level of those lower
orders of beasts whose control was given to humanity at creation.” He
proceeded to whine about the profound depression of his spirits and the
particular depths of misery in which he always discovered himself to
be plunged after consciousness of having played the fool in a public
place. JOHNSON: “Repetition will blunt the edge of most emotions. If
folly publicly displayed occasions you such uneasiness, you should be
accustomed by this time to the mental condition you describe. But I
will scold no more. Come, sir, let us take a walk down Fleet Street.”
BOSWELL: “It rains, sir.” JOHNSON: “What then, sir? Does too much wine
make a man afraid of water?” We walked out to the tavern known as “The
Cheshire Cheese,” and it afforded me some entertainment to observe,
despite his recent utterances, that Mr. Boswell’s first mandate to the
drawer was a pint of red wine. We ate of veal and prunes, and during
the progress of our repast he invited me to express an opinion on a
certain individual who enjoyed high office as the result of interest
rather than merit. JOHNSON: “Sir, I entertain no opinion of him.”
BOSWELL: “Is that to say, sir, that you hold a bad opinion of him?”
JOHNSON: “No, sir, it is not. Had I held him in bad opinion I should
have so expressed myself. To entertain no opinion of a man is to deny
the mind all consideration of him.” He left me soon afterwards, but had
evidently forgotten his penitential visit to Mrs. Thrale. I, however,
restored the matter to his memory, and he thanked me with effusion, and
went his way.
_Wednesday._--Mr. Boswell called and drank tea with Mrs. Williams and
me. The propinquity of my cat evidently occasioned him some discomfort,
and I reproved him. JOHNSON: “How vain is it in you, sir, to let a
poor dumb beast affect your ease and interfere with your comfort!”
BOSWELL: “But it is _not_ dumb, sir; it mews and shows in a dozen ways
that it desires my friendship.” JOHNSON: “Why, then, deny it such a
simple boon? If the cat is worthy of the intimacy of Samuel Johnson,
surely James Boswell need not scorn its society.” Mrs. WILLIAMS: “I’ll
wager you know many bigger rascals, Mr. Boswell.” JOHNSON: “Nay,
madam, we are not concerned with morals, but breeding. This cat is a
gentleman. After a friendship extending over a considerable portion
of his life, and no small fraction of my own, I find that the epithet
of ‘gentleman’ may be bestowed upon him without offence to truth. He
can hold his peace, and he never bores me with ill-timed reflections
on human or feline affairs.” Boswell, though the condition is rare
with him, was moody, a state into which the presence of my harmless
tabby hath aforetime thrown him. He either failed to appreciate my
humorous treatment of the beast and sly allusion to himself, or, of
set purpose, overlooked both. Such conduct in my presence is unlike
him; for, though apt to hold his place in most conversation, and ready
enough with comment and quotation (of a sort usually obvious enough,
scarce to escape the charge of superfluity), yet he willingly suffers
occultation in my presence, and rarely exhibits to my observation any
mood other than one of obsequious reverence and studious attention.
Upon my dismissal of the cat to that private or nocturnal phase of
his career which he conceals from his master, yet which is not of
such an esoteric nature but that the flight of human imagination may
create a phantasmagorial image of it, Boswell recovered a little of
his customary high spirit. He pressed me as usual to accompany him on
a journey to the islands of the Hebrides, and expatiated, not without
elegance, on their savage situation and the ferocity and nobility of
Nature as there exhibited. BOSWELL: “You must see me kilted on the
mountain-tops, sir.” JOHNSON: “If that is your primary inducement
to the enterprise, I would as willingly remain in town.” Truly, the
spectacle of this man, so exuberant, so hyperbolic, so volatile,
while a mild stimulant, viewed on level ground and clothed after the
modes prescribed by a high civilisation, must have become at once
intoxicating, bewildering, and perhaps disgusting, if displayed, as
he suggested, within the barbarous circumference of a Highlander’s
petticoat upon some conspicuous elevation in the Isles of Skye or Mull.
He talked of various matters, uttered no word whose original wisdom or
exceptional folly rendered it worthy of commemoration, and then took
his leave.
_Thursday._--I saw nothing of Mr. Boswell, and was none the worse.
_Friday._--He carried me to Drury Lane Theatre, where Mr. Garrick
was playing to an audience of the scantiest possible dimensions. The
piece, a wretched one, accounted for this, and we witnessed it upon
the final evening of its representation. Langton and Beauclerk joined
us in the pit, and Boswell loudly animadverted on Garrick’s lack of
perspicuity in lending his genius to such a poor poet. I pointed out
that, so far as Garrick was concerned, the piece was very well, in
that he had the lion’s share of heroic passages, and, indeed, all
that there was worthy an actor’s attention. JOHNSON: “His ability
lends a meretricious significance to a creation which, if examined
in the closet, would be found poverty-stricken as to ideas, futile
and faulty in construction, and remote from art or nature as truth is
remote from falsehood.” Forgetting that we were in a public place,
I made this assertion with greater sonority of intonation than the
occasion demanded; and some person in the gallery flung half an orange,
which was unquestionably designed for myself, but struck Mr. Boswell.
BOSWELL: “Zounds! this passes belief, that a clown should dare--I will
go up this instant and chastise the rascal!” JOHNSON: “Nay, sir, he
was in the right. He has paid, as we have, for his entertainment; and
be it noted that the fellow expended his money in order to obtain a
view and enjoy a hearing of Mr. Garrick, not you.” BOSWELL: “He meant
to hit you, sir; that is what enrages me.” JOHNSON: “Ay, and had the
correctness of his aim equalled the ardour of his indignation, I----”
BEAUCLERK (_interrupting me_): “Nay, sir; let me pray silence. The
players are bending sour looks upon us.” JOHNSON: “They have reason
on their side. Silence! Silence!” We then turned our attention to the
drama, followed tragic circumstances of death and disaster with all
proper sobriety of demeanour, and upon the completion of the act,
went within the precincts of the stage to see Mr. Garrick. I observed
without difficulty that he suffered from a mighty ill-humour; and,
indeed, his first remark, addressed to myself, left us in no doubt
as to his irascibility. GARRICK: “You are to know, Dr. Johnson, that
people come to my theatre to see _me_.” JOHNSON (_smiling_): “Nay,
Davy, not always.” This allusion to the extremely slender proportions
of his audience was not taken in that spirit best calculated to lessen
the force of the jest. To state the player’s exact reply appears
unnecessary; let it suffice when I assert that Mr. Garrick was rude.
But a worse concatenation of events followed. Mr. Boswell came upon us
at this moment, from some interchange with one of the ladies of the
stage; and with ill-timed pleasantry, very characteristic of his bad
judgment in matters of taste, jested openly upon the poor audience,
and wondered what might be its financial equivalent. To say that Mr.
Garrick surprised Mr. Boswell by the vigour and fire of his retort
would be to state too mildly the case. The tragedian, assuming a look
of extreme ferocity, bade Mr. Boswell henceforth mind his own business,
and never again dare to present his person behind the scenes before
he was bidden. BOSWELL: “This is unmannerly, sir; I did but jest.”
JOHNSON: “Nay, sir; a quip levelled at the private concerns of an
individual, a jest which depends for its point on another’s ill-fortune
in the affairs of his business or profession, is not of that humour
which a gentleman should at any time permit himself. Enough of this.
Mr. Garrick is right and you are wrong.” MR. BOSWELL (_permitting his
anger to assert a regrettable supremacy over him_): “Damn it! I am
always wrong.” JOHNSON: “Then, sir, mend your obstinate persistency in
error, and strive to be sometimes right; and know also that an oath has
an ill sound always, and never more so than when uttered in the company
of those whose position or piety----” Here the business of the stage
demanded our sudden silence and departure. We were, in fact, hustled
from our place with an abruptness which cut the thread of my discourse.
What thereupon became of Mr. Boswell I know not. For myself, I returned
no more to the auditorium, but left the theatre and returned home
alone. Upon ulterior consideration I perceived that I had erred, and
took an early occasion of acquainting both Garrick and Boswell with the
fact; and I added to the information those expressions of regret proper
to it.
[Illustration: “MR. GARRICK SURPRISED MR. BOSWELL”]
_Friday._--We took dinner at the house of a worthy silk-mercer. The
company was in no sense literary or intellectual. Talk indeed we had,
but conversation if reduced to a monologue perforce perishes. Boswell
broke a lance or two with me for the benefit of those present; but
there was no man there of a calibre to awaken my interest, no opposing
material of a surface rough enough to rub a spark from me. We returned
in a chaise, and Boswell appeared so elated that I asked him the
reason of his high spirits. BOSWELL: “Well, sir, I have rarely enjoyed
conversation so much.” JOHNSON: “Words were uttered, even to weariness,
but I heard no conversation.” BOSWELL: “Why, sir, they hung on your
every utterance.” JOHNSON: “Ay, as they would hang on the actions of a
contortionist, of a rope-dancer, or the voice of an Italian singer.”
BOSWELL: “True, there was nothing to call out _your_ powers.” JOHNSON:
“No, sir.” BOSWELL: “Yet I felt myself talking a great deal and
confuting the city people with ease.” JOHNSON: “If it was within your
power to confute them, there can have existed but little need for me
to speak.” BOSWELL: “But I am glad you did not oftener take the other
side, and so turn my victory into defeat.”
He came with me to my dwelling, and we sat late, for he was about to
return to Scotland, and there seemed no probability of another meeting
between us for extended periods of time. As the moment of our parting
approached Mr. Boswell relapsed into silence and sighs. JOHNSON:
“Nay, sir, have done with these futile expressions of an artificial
emotion. We have enjoyed each the society of the other, and now the
tide of human affairs renders a parting of greater or less duration
necessary between us. Heed your business; recollect the advantages
of your education, the exactions consequent on your position, and
the duty you owe to your God, your father, and your king. Write as
the occasion serves, but let me have no more unmanly outbursts of
imaginary low-spirits or simulated misery. You are as yet young, and
the world lies before you; seek, therefore, to be contented; remember
your friends and be grateful for small mercies. These precepts duly
followed will rob evil of half its sting, will fortify your soul
against the world, and enable you, with a mind conscious of right, to
look your fellows in the face and fear no man. Now farewell.” He made a
reply, which combined expressions of regard and an incoherent assembly
of ill-assorted adjectives. He then pressed my hand fervently, and went
upon his way.
Whether I shall see the man again is known alone to the Mysterious
Contriver of human meetings and partings. There is much good in him;
he hath fair measure of scholarship, and a heart not readily turned to
ill. Small indeed he must be confessed, but against his limitation of
mind and narrowness of horizon may be set a busy, bustling, inquiring
spirit, not apt to be offended, and not readily rushing into enmity. He
has, despite his frivolous affectation of gloom, the cheerfulness of
a caged lark, and may, indeed, be likened to that sprightly songster
at many points. There is a riotous joy of life in him, as in the bird,
which, exhibited even in a prisoned fowl at all seasons, becomes
irritating, but which, displayed in a human creature, must cause first
amazement, then annoyance, and finally contempt. That he will have
the energy and industry to complete and publish such a life of me as
my friends have declared he designs is difficult to believe; while as
for my own hasty annotations of a week in the society of Mr. Boswell,
they may well terminate upon this page. And as the subsequent perusal
of such a trifle would give neither pleasure nor edification to my
fellows, this idle fragment shall now be relegated to the recesses of
my waste-paper basket or the inflammatory embraces of my hearth.
EDITOR’S NOTE.--Dr. Johnson doubtless selected the waste-paper
basket; hence our ability to publish this unknown fragment from his
Titan pen.