I went home with him, and we had a long quiet conversation.
BOSWELL. ‘Why, Sir, do people play this trick which I observe now, when I look at your grate, putting the shovel against it to make the fire burn?’ JOHNSON. ‘They play the trick, but it does not make the fire burn. THERE is a better; (setting the poker perpendicularly up at right angles with the grate.) In days of superstition they thought, as it made a cross with the bars, it would drive away the witch.’
BOSWELL. ‘By associating with you, Sir, I am always getting an accession of wisdom. But perhaps a man, after knowing his own character — the limited strength of his own mind, should not be desirous of having too much wisdom, considering, quid valeant humeri, how little he can carry.’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, be as wise as you can; let a man be aliis laetus, sapiens sibi:
“Though pleas’d to see the dolphins play,
I mind my compass and my way.”
You may be wise in your study in the morning, and gay in company at a tavern in the evening. Every man is to take care of his own wisdom and his own virtue, without minding too much what others think.’
He said, ‘Dodsley first mentioned to me the scheme of an English Dictionary; but I had long thought of it.’ BOSWELL. ‘You did not know what you were undertaking.’ JOHNSON. ‘Yes, Sir, I knew very well what I was undertaking, — and very well how to do it, — and have done it very well.’ BOSWELL. ‘An excellent climax! and it HAS availed you. In your Preface you say, “What would it avail me in this gloom of solitude?” You have been agreeably mistaken.’
In his Life of Milton he observes, ‘I cannot but remark a kind of respect, perhaps unconsciously, paid to this great man by his biographers: every house in which he resided is historically mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any place that he honoured by his presence.’ I had, before I read this observation, been desirous of shewing that respect to Johnson, by various inquiries. Finding him this evening in a very good humour, I prevailed on him to give me an exact list of his places of residence, since he entered the metropolis as an authour, which I subjoin in a note.*
* 1. Exeter-street, off Catherine-street, Strand. 2.
Greenwich. 3. Woodstock-street, near Hanover-square. 4.
Castle-street, Cavendish-square, No. 6. 5. Strand. 6.
Boswell-Court. 7. Strand, again. 8. Bow-street. 9.
Holborn. 10. Fetter-lane. 11. Holborn, again. 12.
Gough-square. 13. Staple Inn. 14. Gray’s Inn. 15. Inner
Temple-lane, No. 1. 16. Johnson’s-court, No. 7. 17.
Bolt-court. No. 8. — BOSWELL.
On Tuesday, October 12, I dined with him at Mr. Ramsay’s, with Lord Newhaven, and some other company, none of whom I recollect, but a beautiful Miss Graham, a relation of his Lordship’s, who asked Dr. Johnson to hob or nob with her. He was flattered by such pleasing attention, and politely told her, he never drank wine; but if she would drink a glass of water, he was much at her service. She accepted. ‘Oho, Sir! (said Lord Newhaven,) you are caught.’ JOHNSON. ‘Nay, I do not see HOW I am CAUGHT; but if I am caught, I don’t want to get free again. If I am caught, I hope to be kept.’ Then when the two glasses of water were brought, smiling placidly to the young lady, he said, ‘Madam, let us RECIPROCATE.’
Lord Newhaven and Johnson carried on an argument for some time, concerning the Middlesex election. Johnson said, ‘Parliament may be considered as bound by law as a man is bound where there is nobody to tie the knot. As it is clear that the House of Commons may expel and expel again and again, why not allow of the power to incapacitate for that parliament, rather than have a perpetual contest kept up between parliament and the people.’ Lord Newhaven took the opposite side; but respectfully said, ‘I speak with great deference to you, Dr. Johnson; I speak to be instructed.’ This had its full effect on my friend. He bowed his head almost as low as the table, to a complimenting nobleman; and called out, ‘My Lord, my Lord, I do not desire all this ceremony; let us tell our minds to one another quietly.’ After the debate was over, he said, ‘I have got lights on the subject to-day, which I had not before.’ This was a great deal from him, especially as he had written a pamphlet upon it.
Of his fellow-collegian, the celebrated Mr. George Whitefield, he said, ‘Whitefield never drew as much attention as a mountebank does; he did not draw attention by doing better than others, but by doing what was strange. Were Astley to preach a sermon standing upon his head on a horse’s back, he would collect a multitude to hear him; but no wise man would say he had made a better sermon for that. I never treated Whitefield’s ministry with contempt; I believe he did good. He had devoted himself to the lower classes of mankind, and among them he was of use. But when familiarity and noise claim the praise due to knowledge, art, and elegance, we must beat down such pretensions.’
What I have preserved of his conversation during the remainder of my stay in London at this time, is only what follows: I told him that when I objected to keeping company with a notorious infidel, a celebrated friend of ours said to me, ‘I do not think that men who live laxly in the world, as you and I do, can with propriety assume such an authority. Dr. Johnson may, who is uniformly exemplary in his conduct. But it is not very consistent to shun an infidel to-day, and get drunk to-morrow.’ JOHNSON. ‘Nay, Sir, this is sad reasoning. Because a man cannot be right in all things, is he to be right in nothing? Because a man sometimes gets drunk, is he therefore to steal? This doctrine would very soon bring a man to the gallows.’
He, I know not why, shewed upon all occasions an aversion to go to Ireland, where I proposed to him that we should make a tour. JOHNSON. ‘It is the last place where I should wish to travel.’ BOSWELL. ‘Should you not like to see Dublin, Sir?’ JOHNSON. ‘No, Sir! Dublin is only a worse capital.’ BOSWELL. ‘Is not the Giant’s-Causeway worth seeing?’ JOHNSON. ‘Worth seeing? yes; but not worth going to see.’
Yet he had a kindness for the Irish nation, and thus generously expressed himself to a gentleman from that country, on the subject of an UNION which artful Politicians have often had in view— ‘Do not make an union with us, Sir. We should unite with you, only to rob you. We should have robbed the Scotch, if they had had any thing of which we could have robbed them.’
Of an acquaintance of ours, whose manners and every thing about him, though expensive, were coarse, he said, ‘Sir, you see in him vulgar prosperity.’
A foreign minister of no very high talents, who had been in his company for a considerable time quite overlooked, happened luckily to mention that he had read some of his Rambler in Italian, and admired it much. This pleased him greatly; he observed that the title had been translated, Il Genio errante, though I have been told it was rendered more ludicrously, Il Vagabondo; and finding that this minister gave such a proof of his taste, he was all attention to him, and on the first remark which he made, however simple, exclaimed, ‘The Ambassadour says well — His Excellency observes— ‘ And then he expanded and enriched the little that had been said, in so strong a manner, that it appeared something of consequence. This was exceedingly entertaining to the company who were present, and many a time afterwards it furnished a pleasant topick of merriment: ‘The Ambassadour says well,’ became a laughable term of applause, when no mighty matter had been expressed.
I left London on Monday, October 15, and accompanied Colonel Stuart to Chester, where his regiment was to lye for some time.
1780: AETAT. 71.] — In 1780, the world was kept in impatience for the completion of his Lives of the Poets, upon which he was employed so far as his indolence allowed him to labour.
His friend Dr. Lawrence having now suffered the greatest affliction to which a man is liable, and which Johnson himself had felt in the most severe manner; Johnson wrote to him in an admirable strain of sympathy and pious consolation.
‘TO DR. LAWRENCE.
‘DEAR SIR, — At a time when all your friends ought to shew their kindness, and with a character which ought to make all that know you your friends, you may won
der that you have yet heard nothing from me.
‘I have been hindered by a vexatious and incessant cough, for which within these ten days I have been bled once, fasted four or five times, taken physick five times, and opiates, I think, six. This day it seems to remit.
‘The loss, dear Sir, which you have lately suffered, I felt many years ago, and know therefore how much has been taken from you, and how little help can be had from consolation. He that outlives a wife whom he has long loved, sees himself disjoined from the only mind that has the same hopes, and fears, and interest; from the only companion with whom he has shared much good or evil; and with whom he could set his mind at liberty, to retrace the past or anticipate the future. The continuity of being is lacerated; the settled course of sentiment and action is stopped; and life stands suspended and motionless, till it is driven by external causes into a new channel. But the time of suspense is dreadful.
‘Our first recourse in this distressed solitude, is, perhaps for want of habitual piety, to a gloomy acquiescence in necessity. Of two mortal beings, one must lose the other; but surely there is a higher and better comfort to be drawn from the consideration of that Providence which watches over all, and a belief that the living and the dead are equally in the hands of God, who will reunite those whom he has separated; or who sees that it is best not to reunite. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate, and most humble servant,
‘January 20, 1780.’
‘SAM. JOHNSON.’
On the 2nd of May I wrote to him, and requested that we might have another meeting somewhere in the North of England, in the autumn of this year.
From Mr. Langton I received soon after this time a letter, of which I extract a passage, relative both to Mr. Beauclerk and Dr. Johnson.
‘The melancholy information you have received concerning Mr. Beauclerk’s death is true. Had his talents been directed in any sufficient degree as they ought, I have always been strongly of opinion that they were calculated to make an illustrious figure; and that opinion, as it had been in part formed upon Dr. Johnson’s judgment, receives more and more confirmation by hearing what, since his death, Dr. Johnson has said concerning them; a few evenings ago, he was at Mr. Vesey’s, where Lord Althorpe, who was one of a numerous company there, addressed Dr. Johnson on the subject of Mr. Beauclerk’s death, saying, “Our CLUB has had a great loss since we met last.” He replied, “A loss, that perhaps the whole nation could not repair!” The Doctor then went on to speak of his endowments, and particularly extolled the wonderful ease with which he uttered what was highly excellent. He said, that “no man ever was so free when he was going to say a good thing, from a LOOK that expressed that it was coming; or, when he had said it, from a look that expressed that it had come.” At Mr. Thrale’s, some days before when we were talking on the same subject, he said, referring to the same idea of his wonderful facility, “That Beauclerk’s talents were those which he had felt himself more disposed to envy, than those of any whom he had known.”
‘On the evening I have spoken of above, at Mr. Vesey’s, you would have been much gratified, as it exhibited an instance of the high importance in which Dr. Johnson’s character is held, I think even beyond any I ever before was witness to. The company consisted chiefly of ladies, among whom were the Duchess Dowager of Portland, the Duchess of Beaufort, whom I suppose from her rank I must name before her mother Mrs. Boscawen, and her elder sister Mrs. Lewson, who was likewise there; Lady Lucan, Lady Clermont, and others of note both for their station and understandings. Among the gentlemen were Lord Althorpe, whom I have before named, Lord Macartney, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Lord Lucan, Mr. Wraxal, whose book you have probably seen, The Tour to the Northern Parts of Europe; a very agreeable ingenious man; Dr. Warren, Mr. Pepys, the Master in Chancery, whom I believe you know, and Dr. Barnard, the Provost of Eton. As soon as Dr. Johnson was come in and had taken a chair, the company began to collect round him, till they became not less than four, if not five, deep; those behind standing, and listening over the heads of those that were sitting near him. The conversation for some time was chiefly between Dr. Johnson and the Provost of Eton, while the others contributed occasionally their remarks.’
On his birth-day, Johnson has this note: ‘I am now beginning the seventy-second year of my life, with more strength of body, and greater vigour of mind, than I think is common at that age.’ But still he complains of sleepless nights and idle days, and forgetfulness, or neglect of resolutions. He thus pathetically expresses himself,— ‘Surely I shall not spend my whole life with my own total disapprobation.’
Mr. Macbean, whom I have mentioned more than once, as one of Johnson’s humble friends, a deserving but unfortunate man, being now oppressed by age and poverty, Johnson solicited the Lord Chancellor Thurlow, to have him admitted into the Charterhouse. I take the liberty to insert his Lordship’s answer, as I am eager to embrace every occasion of augmenting the respectable notion which should ever be entertained of my illustrious friend: —
‘TO DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.
‘London, October 24, 1780.
‘SIR,
‘I have this moment received your letter, dated the 19th, and returned from Bath.
‘In the beginning of the summer I placed one in the Chartreux, without the sanction of a recommendation so distinct and so authoritative as yours of Macbean; and I am afraid, that according to the establishment of the House, the opportunity of making the charity so good amends will not soon recur. But whenever a vacancy shall happen, if you’ll favour me with notice of it, I will try to recommend him to the place, even though it should not be my turn to nominate. I am, Sir, with great regard, your most faithful and obedient servant,
‘THURLOW.’
Being disappointed in my hopes of meeting Johnson this year, so that I could hear none of his admirable sayings, I shall compensate for this want by inserting a collection of them, for which I am indebted to my worthy friend Mr. Langton, whose kind communications have been separately interwoven in many parts of this work. Very few articles of this collection were committed to writing by himself, he not having that habit; which he regrets, and which those who know the numerous opportunities he had of gathering the rich fruits of Johnsonian wit and wisdom, must ever regret. I however found, in conversations with him, that a good store of Johnsoniana was treasured in his mind; and I compared it to Herculaneum, or some old Roman field, which when dug, fully rewards the labour employed. The authenticity of every article is unquestionable. For the expression, I, who wrote them down in his presence, am partly answerable.
‘There is nothing more likely to betray a man into absurdity than CONDESCENSION; when he seems to suppose his understanding too powerful for his company.’
‘Having asked Mr. Langton if his father and mother had sat for their pictures, which he thought it right for each generation of a family to do, and being told they had opposed it, he said, “Sir, among the anfractuosities of the human mind, I know not if it may not be one, that there is a superstitious reluctance to sit for a picture.”’
‘John Gilbert Cooper related, that soon after the publication of his Dictionary, Garrick being asked by Johnson what people said of it, told him, that among other animadversions, it was objected that he cited authorities which were beneath the dignity of such a work, and mentioned Richardson. “Nay, (said Johnson,) I have done worse than that: I have cited THEE, David.”’
‘When in good humour he would talk of his own writings with a wonderful frankness and candour, and would even criticise them with the closest severity. One day, having read over one of his Ramblers, Mr. Langton asked him, how he liked that paper; he shook his head, and answered, “too wordy.” At another time, when one was reading his tragedy of Irene to a company at a house in the country, he left the room; and somebody having asked him the reason of this, he replied, “Sir, I thought it had been better.”’
‘He related, that he had once in a dream a contest of wit with some other person, and that he was very much mortified by imagi
ning that his opponent had the better of him. “Now, (said he,) one may mark here the effect of sleep in weakening the power of reflection; for had not my judgement failed me, I should have seen, that the wit of this supposed antagonist, by whose superiority I felt myself depressed, was as much furnished by me, as that which I thought I had been uttering in my own character.”’
‘Of Sir Joshua Reynolds, he said, “Sir, I know no man who has passed through life with more observation than Reynolds.”’
‘He repeated to Mr. Langton, with great energy, in the Greek, our SAVIOUR’S gracious expression concerning the forgiveness of Mary Magdalen, ‘[Greek text omitted]. “Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.” He said, “the manner of this dismission is exceedingly affecting.”’
‘Talking of the Farce of High Life below Stairs, he said, “Here is a Farce, which is really very diverting when you see it acted; and yet one may read it, and not know that one has been reading any thing at all.”’
Complete Works of Samuel Johnson Page 947
