“I do wish to please him,” rejoined Goldsmith. “I remember a line in
Dryden:
“‘And every poet is the monarch’s friend,’
“it ought to be reversed.” “Nay,” said Johnson, “there are finer lines in Dryden on this subject:
“‘For colleges on bounteous kings depend,
And never rebel was to arts a friend.’”
General Paoli observed that “successful rebels might be.” “Happy rebellions,” interjected Martinelli. “We have no such phrase,” cried Goldsmith. “But have you not the thing?” asked Paoli. “Yes,” replied Goldsmith, “all our happy revolutions. They have hurt our constitution, and will hurt it, till we mend it by another HAPPY REVOLUTION.” This was a sturdy sally of Jacobitism that quite surprised Boswell, but must have been relished by Johnson.
General Paoli mentioned a passage in the play, which had been construed into a compliment to a lady of distinction, whose marriage with the Duke of Cumberland had excited the strong disapprobation of the king as a mesalliance. Boswell, to draw Goldsmith out, pretended to think the compliment unintentional. The poet smiled and hesitated. The general came to his relief. “Monsieur Goldsmith,” said he, “est comme la mer, qui jette des perles et beaucoup d’autres belles choses, sans s’en appercevoir” (Mr. Goldsmith is like the sea, which casts forth pearls and many other beautiful things without perceiving it).
“Très-bien dit, et très-elegamment” (very well said, and very elegantly), exclaimed Goldsmith; delighted with so beautiful a compliment from such a quarter.
Johnson spoke disparagingly of the learning of a Mr. Harris, of Salisbury, and doubted his being a good Grecian. “He is what is much better,” cried Goldsmith, with a prompt good-nature, “he is a worthy, humane man.” “Nay, sir,” rejoined the logical Johnson, “that is not to the purpose of our argument; that will prove that he can play upon the fiddle as well as Giardini, as that he is an eminent Grecian.” Goldsmith found he had got into a scrape, and seized upon Giardini to help him out of it. “The greatest musical performers,” said he, dexterously turning the conversation, “have but small emoluments; Giardini, I am told, does not get above seven hundred a year.” “That is indeed but little for a man to get,” observed Johnson, “who does best that which so many endeavor to do. There is nothing, I think, in which the power of art is shown so much as in playing on the fiddle. In all other things we can do something at first. Any man will forge a bar of iron, if you give him a hammer; not so well as a smith, but tolerably. A man will saw a piece of wood, and make a box, though a clumsy one; but give him a fiddle and fiddlestick, and he can do nothing.”
This, upon the whole, though reported by the one-sided Boswell, is a tolerable specimen of the conversations of Goldsmith and Johnson; the farmer heedless, often illogical, always on the kindhearted side of the question, and prone to redeem himself by lucky hits; the latter closely argumentative, studiously sententious, often profound, and sometimes laboriously prosaic.
They had an argument a few days later at Mr. Thrale’s table, on the subject of suicide. “Do you think, sir,” said Boswell, “that all who commit suicide are mad?” “Sir,” replied Johnson, “they are not often universally disordered in their intellects, but one passion presses so upon them that they yield to it, and commit suicide, as a passionate man will stab another. I have often thought,” added he, “that after a man has taken the resolution to kill himself, it is not courage in him to do anything, however desperate, because he has nothing to fear.” “I don’t see that,” observed Goldsmith. “Nay, but, my dear sir,” rejoined Johnson, “why should you not see what every one else does?” “It is,” replied Goldsmith, “for fear of something that he has resolved to kill himself; and will not that timid disposition restrain him?” “It does not signify,” pursued Johnson, “that the fear of something made him resolve; it is upon the state of his mind, after the resolution is taken, that I argue. Suppose a man, either from fear, or pride, or conscience, or whatever motive, has resolved to kill himself; when once the resolution is taken he has nothing to fear. He may then go and take the King of Prussia by the nose at the head of his army. He cannot fear the rack who is determined to kill himself.” Boswell reports no more of the discussion, though Goldsmith might have continued it with advantage; for the very timid disposition, which, through fear of something, was impelling the man to commit suicide, might restrain him from an act involving the punishment of the rack, more terrible to him than death itself.
It is to be regretted in all these reports by Boswell we have scarcely anything but the remarks of Johnson; it is only by accident that he now and then gives us the observations of others, when they are necessary to explain or set off those of his hero. “When in that presence,” says Miss Burney, “he was unobservant, if not contemptuous of every one else. In truth, when he met with Dr. Johnson, he commonly forbore even answering anything that was said, or attending to anything 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 on Mr. Boswell amounted almost to pain. His eyes goggled with eagerness; he leaned his ear almost on the shoulder of the doctor; and his mouth dropped 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.”
On one occasion the doctor detected Boswell, or Bozzy, as he called him, eavesdropping behind his chair, as he was conversing with Miss Burney at Mr. Thrale’s table. “What are you doing there, sir?” cried he, turning round angrily, and clapping his hand upon his knee. “Go to the table, sir.”
Boswell obeyed with an air of affright and submission, which raised a smile on every face. Scarce had he taken his seat, however, at a distance, than, impatient to get again at the side of Johnson, he rose and was running off in quest of something to show him, when the doctor roared after him authoritatively, “What are you thinking of, sir? Why do you get up before the cloth is removed? Come back to your place, sir” — and the obsequious spaniel did as he was commanded. “Running about in the middle of meals!” muttered the doctor, pursing his mouth at the same time to restrain his rising risibility.
Boswell got another rebuff from Johnson, which would have demolished any other man. He had been teasing him with many direct questions, such as What did you do, sir? What did you say, sir? until the great philologist became perfectly enraged. “I will not be put to the question!” roared he. “Don’t you consider, sir, that these are not the manners of a gentleman? I will not be baited with what and why; What is this? What is that? Why is a cow’s tail long? Why is a fox’s tail bushy?” “Why, sir,” replied pil-garlick, “you are so good that I venture to trouble you,” “Sir,” replied Johnson, “my being so good is no reason why you should be so ill.” “You have but two topics, sir,” exclaimed he on another occasion, “yourself and me, and I am sick of both.”
Boswell’s inveterate disposition to toad was a sore cause of mortification to his father, the old laird of Auchinleck (or Affleck). He had been annoyed by his extravagant devotion to Paoli, but then he was something of a military hero; but this tagging at the heels of Dr. Johnson, whom he considered a kind of pedagogue, set his Scotch blood in a ferment. “There’s nae hope for Jamie, mon,” said he to a friend; “Jamie is gaen clean gyte. What do you think, mon? He’s done wi’ Paoli; he’s off wi’ the land-louping scoundrel of a Corsican; and whose tail do you think he has pinn’d himself to now, mon? A dominie mon; an auld dominie: he keeped a schule, and cau’d it an acaadamy.”
We shall show in the next chapter that Jamie’s devotion to the dominie did not go unrewarded.
CHAPTER FORTY
CHANGES IN THE LITERARY CLUB — JOHNSON’S OBJECTION TO GARRICK — ELECTION OP BOSWELL
The Literary Club (as we have termed the club in Gerard Street, though it took that name some time
later) had now been in existence several years. Johnson was exceedingly chary at first of its exclusiveness, and opposed to its being augmented in number. Not long after its institution, Sir Joshua Reynolds was speaking of it to Garrick. “I like it much,” said little David, briskly; “I think I shall be of you.” “When Sir Joshua mentioned this to Dr. Johnson,” says Boswell, “he was much displeased with the actor’s conceit. ‘He’ll be of us?’ growled he. ‘How does he know we will permit him? The first duke in England has no right to hold such language.’”
When Sir John Hawkins spoke favorably of Garrick’s pretensions, “Sir,” replied Johnson, “he will disturb us by his buffoonery.” In the same spirit he declared to Mr. Thrale that if Garrick should apply for admission he would blackball him. “Who, sir?” exclaimed Thrale, with surprise; “Mr. Garrick — your friend, your companion — blackball him!” “Why, sir,” replied Johnson, “I love my little David dearly — better than all or any of his flatterers do; but surely one ought to sit in a society like ours,
“‘Unelbowed by a gamester, pimp, or player.’”
The exclusion from the club was a sore mortification to Garrick, though he bore it without complaining. He could not help continually to ask questions about it — what was going on there — whether he was ever the subject of conversation. By degrees the rigor of the club relaxed: some of the members grew negligent. Beauclerc lost his right of membership by neglecting to attend. On his marriage, however, with Lady Diana Spencer, daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, and recently divorced from Viscount Bolingbroke, he had claimed and regained his seat in the club. The number of members had likewise been augmented. The proposition to increase it originated with Goldsmith. “It would give,” he thought, “an agreeable variety to their meetings; for there can be nothing new among us,” said he; “we have traveled over each other’s minds.” Johnson was piqued at the suggestion. “Sir,” said he, “you have not traveled over my mind, I promise you.” Sir Joshua, less confident in the exhaustless fecundity of his mind, felt and acknowledged the force of Goldsmith’s suggestion. Several new members, therefore, had been added; the first, to his great joy, was David Garrick. Goldsmith, who was now on cordial terms with him, had zealously promoted his election, and Johnson had given it his warm approbation. Another new member was Beauclerc’s friend, Lord Charlemont; and a still more important one was Mr., afterward Sir William Jones, the famous Orientalist, at that time a young lawyer of the Temple and a distinguished scholar.
To the great astonishment of the club, Johnson now proposed his devoted follower, Boswell, as a member. He did it in a note addressed to Goldsmith, who presided on the evening of the 23d of April. The nomination was seconded by Beauclerc. According to the rules of the club, the ballot would take place at the next meeting (on the 30th); there was an intervening week, therefore, in which to discuss the pretensions of the candidate. We may easily imagine the discussions that took place. Boswell had made himself absurd in such a variety of ways, that the very idea of his admission was exceedingly irksome to some of the members. “The honor of being elected into the Turk’s Head Club,” said the Bishop of St. Asaph, “is not inferior to that of being representative of Westminster and Surrey.” What had Boswell done to merit such an honor? What chance had he of gaining it? The answer was simple: he had been the persevering worshiper, if not sycophant of Johnson. The great lexicographer had a heart to be won by apparent affection; he stood forth authoritatively in support of his vassal. If asked to state the merits of the candidate, he summed them up in an indefinite but comprehensive word of his own coining; he was clubable. He moreover gave significant hints that if Boswell were kept out he should oppose the admission of any other candidate. No further opposition was made; in fact none of the members had been so fastidious and exclusive in regard to the club as Johnson himself; and if he were pleased, they were easily satisfied; besides, they knew that, with all his faults, Boswell was a cheerful companion, and possessed lively social qualities.
On Friday, when the ballot was to take place, Beauclerc gave a dinner, at his house in the Adelphi, where Boswell met several of the members who were favorable to his election. After dinner the latter adjourned to the club, leaving Boswell in company with Lady Di Beauclerc until the fate of his election should be known. He sat, he says, in a state of anxiety which even the charming conversation of Lady Di could not entirely dissipate. It was not long before tidings were brought of his election, and he was conducted to the place of meeting, where, besides the company he had met at dinner, Burke, Dr. Nugent, Garrick, Goldsmith, and Mr. William Jones were waiting to receive him. The club, notwithstanding all its learned dignity in the eyes of the world, could at times “unbend and play the fool” as well as less important bodies. Some of its jocose conversations have at times leaked out, and a society in which Goldsmith could venture to sing his song of “an old woman tossed in a blanket,” could not be so very staid in its gravity. We may suppose, therefore, the jokes that had been passing among the members while awaiting the arrival of Boswell. Beauclerc himself could not have repressed his disposition for a sarcastic pleasantry. At least we have a right to presume all this from the conduct of Dr. Johnson himself.
With all his gravity he possessed a deep fund of quiet humor, and felt a kind of whimsical responsibility to protect the club from the absurd propensities of the very questionable associate he had thus inflicted on them. Rising, therefore, as Boswell entered, he advanced with a very doctorial air, placed himself behind a chair, on which he leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and then delivered, ex cathedra, a mock solemn charge, pointing out the conduct expected from him as a good member of the club; what he was to do, and especially what he was to avoid; including in the latter, no doubt, all those petty, prying, questioning, gossiping, babbling habits which had so often grieved the spirit of the lexicographer. It is to be regretted that Boswell has never thought proper to note down the particulars of this charge, which, from the well known characters and positions of the parties, might have furnished a parallel to the noted charge of Launcelot Gobbo to his dog.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DINNER AT THE DILLYS’ — CONVERSATIONS ON NATURAL HISTORY — INTERMEDDLING OF BOSWELL — DISPUTE ABOUT TOLERATION — JOHNSON’S REBUFF TO GOLDSMITH — HIS APOLOGY — MAN-WORSHIP — DOCTORS MAJOR AND MINOR — A FAREWELL VISIT
A few days after the seriocomic scene of the elevation of Boswell into the Literary Club, we find that indefatigable Biographer giving particulars of a dinner at the Dillys’, booksellers, in the Poultry, at which he met Goldsmith and Johnson, with several other literary characters. His anecdotes of the conversation, of course, go to glorify Dr. Johnson; for, as he observes in his biography, “His conversation alone, or what led to it, or was interwoven with it, is the business of this work.” Still on the present, as on other occasions, he gives unintentional and perhaps unavoidable gleams of Goldsmith’s good sense, which show that the latter only wanted a less prejudiced and more impartial reporter to put down the charge of colloquial incapacity so unjustly fixed upon him. The conversation turned upon the natural history of birds, a beautiful subject, on which the poet, from his recent studies, his habits of observation, and his natural tastes, must have talked with instruction and feeling; yet, though we have much of what Johnson said, we have only a casual remark or two of Goldsmith. One was on the migration of swallows, which he pronounced partial; “the stronger ones,” said he, “migrate, the others do not.”
Johnson denied to the brute creation the faculty of reason. “Birds,” said he, “build by instinct; they never improve; they build their first nest as well as any one they ever build.” “Yet we see,” observed Goldsmith, “if you take away a bird’s nest with the eggs in it, she will make a slighter nest and lay again.” “Sir,” replied Johnson, “that is because at first she has full time, and makes her nest deliberately. In the case you mention, she is pressed to lay, and must, therefore, make her nest quickly, and consequently it will be slight.” “The nidification
of birds,” rejoined Goldsmith, “is what is least known in natural history, though one of the most curious things in it.” While conversation was going on in this placid, agreeable and instructive manner, the eternal meddler and busybody Boswell, must intrude, to put it in a brawl. The Dillys were dissenters; two of their guests were dissenting clergymen; another, Mr. Toplady, was a clergyman of the established church. Johnson, himself, was a zealous, uncompromising churchman. None but a marplot like Boswell would have thought, on such an occasion, and in such company, to broach the subject of religious toleration; but, as has been well observed, “it was his perverse inclination to introduce subjects that he hoped would produce difference and debate.” In the present instance he gamed his point. An animated dispute immediately arose in which, according to Boswell’s report, Johnson monopolized the greater part of the conversation; not always treating the dissenting clergymen with the greatest courtesy, and even once wounding the feelings of the mild and amiable Bennet Langton by his harshness.
Goldsmith mingled a little in the dispute and with some advantage, but was cut short by flat contradictions when most in the right. He sat for a time silent but impatient under such overbearing dogmatism, though Boswell, with his usual misinterpretation, attributes his “restless agitation” to a wish to get in and shine. “Finding himself excluded,” continued Boswell, “he had taken his hat to go away, but remained for a time with it in his hand, like a gamester, who, at the end of a long night, lingers for a little while to see if he can have a favorable opportunity to finish with success.” Once he was beginning to speak when he was overpowered by the loud voice of Johnson, who was at the opposite end of the table, and did not perceive his attempt; whereupon he threw down, as it were, his hat and his argument, and, darting an angry glance at Johnson, exclaimed in a bitter tone, “Take it.”
Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated) Page 408
