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.
Complete Works of Samuel Johnson Page 918
