Whisky, Kilts, and the Loch Ness Monster

by William W. Starr

  It’s sad for Boswell—and Lord Auchinleck, I suppose—that he quarreled so with his father, for he was surely a man in need of a father in his life. His volatile personality, his shifting moods all craved the stability given by an older, wiser man. When his father failed him he set out to find someone who would fill the void; ultimately that man would be Johnson, and Johnson was only in Boswell’s life for relatively brief periods. Sadly Boswell must have wavered constantly between his admiration of his idol and his awe of his father.

  When he and Johnson arrived at Auchinleck for their visit, Boswell did, of course, invoke his father’s low opinion of Johnson to give readers a reminder of why he anticipated trouble: “As he had not much leisure to be informed of Dr. Johnson’s great merits by reading his works, he had a partial and favourable notion of him, founded on his supposed political tenets, which were so discordant to his own that, instead of speaking of him with that respect to which he was entitled, he used to call him ‘a Jacobite fellow.’” Boswell knew he could be in for trouble, and he cautioned Johnson not to speak of topics certain to start a fight: Whigs, Presbyterians, and Sir John Pringle, physician to the king, Boswell’s friend and a man for whom Johnson had a dislike. In other words be sure not to mention anything about anything to do with Boswell’s father, who was both a Whig and a Presbyterian. Chatting about the weather might be nice.

  On this first evening all went smoothly. It was rainy, and Boswell’s father showed off his fine library; there were no disagreements recorded. On Wednesday it rained all day, giving Johnson an opportunity to talk about the weather. Actually, however, some neighbors arrived to talk with Johnson about his trip. When asked how he liked the Highlands Johnson was curt: “How, sir, can you ask me what obliges me to speak unfavourably of a country where I have been hospitably entertained? Who can like the Highlands? I like the inhabitants very well.” After that rebuke the conversation understandably dried up.

  On Thursday the weather improved and the two travelers spent time outside, prompting Boswell to talk with pride about the beauty of the landscaping and the gentility of his ancestors. He and Johnson walked the grounds, strolling to the west to the ruins of the former family seat, the “Old Place,” built in 1612 to replace the castle that originally stood there. In a burst of enthusiasm he even proposed erecting a monument to Johnson on the grounds. The landscape was covered with trees planted by Lord Auchinleck and hedges, too, one possibly apocryphal story being that they were planted to grow thickly together and thereby block the view of nearby tenants.

  Johnson admired the house, not only from inside but also the view of it from the green well-kept grounds. It had been built between 1755 and 1760 by Boswell’s father, who is believed to have been largely responsible for its design, and it was the third house to be built on an estate granted to Boswell’s forebears in the fourteenth century. The four wings that flank the house were put up in 1773 and 1774; Lord Auchinleck had tried to interest his son in their creation, but Boswell apparently had no hand in them.

  On this day, after they returned from their walk outside, the local parish minister, the Rev. Dun, dined with the company. There was the potential for a heated discussion since the minister was Presbyterian, but Boswell did not record any tense conversations throughout the evening. On Friday they were invited to dine at the home of Mr. Dun, which provided another opportunity for Boswell and Johnson to get outside. The Presbyterian minister and Johnson predictably did not hit it off and after the reverend began attacking the Church of England, Johnson blasted him: “Sir, you know no more of our church than a Hottentot.” End of conversation once again. The good reverend seems likely to have complained about the publication of his name in the first edition of Boswell’s book because it disappeared in the second.

  Saturday’s weather was stormy, but it was nothing compared to what was about to happen inside—the collision between the two men that Boswell had feared. It all began innocently enough when Boswell’s father showed his medal collection to Johnson; a coin with a depiction of Oliver Cromwell brought up the topics of Charles I and Toryism and set off Johnson. The two men “became exceedingly warm and violent.” And then—as we brace for the fireworks, and to the dismay of Boswellians and Johnsonians everywhere ever since, Boswell wrote this:

  I was very much distressed by being present at such an altercation between two men, both of whom I reverenced; yet I durst not interfere. It would certainly be very unbecoming in me to exhibit my honoured father and my respected friend as intellectual gladiators, for the entertainment of the public; and therefore I suppress what would, I dare say, make an interesting scene in this dramatic sketch—this account of the transit of Johnson over the Caledonian Hemisphere.

  How could Boswell have done this? Having given us Johnson fondling a “Highland wench,” now all of a sudden, at the closing moment of the journey, he cannot find the words to describe the inevitable confrontation with his father? What got into Boswell? What demon of propriety grasped him after so long a time of impropriety? Boswell could spare nothing of himself, little of Johnson, but almost everything for his father, with whom he suffered a tempestuous and only occasionally respectful relationship? Well, he did it. Biographer Frank Brady calls this moment “the great unwritten scene in Boswell’s journal.” It would have made an extraordinary climax to his account of the tour, this confrontation between his spiritual and physical fathers, who embodied as well some of the deepest traits and most strongly held prejudices of the Englishman and Scot. But almost as if he had a second thought and was unable to resist, Boswell took up his pen once more to give us a teaser on their conversation. It is a little anticlimactic, perhaps, but still worth quoting in full:

  Yet I think I may without impropriety, mention one circumstance, as an instance of my father’s address. Dr. Johnson challenged him, as he did us all at Talisker, to point out any theological works of merit written by Presbyterian ministers in Scotland. My father, whose studies did not much lie much in that way, owned to me afterwards that he was somewhat at a loss how to answer, but that luckily he recollected having read in catalogues the title of Durham on the Galatians; upon which he boldly said, “Pray, sir, have you read Mr. Durham’s excellent commentary on the Galatians?”

  “No, sir,” said Dr. Johnson.

  My father then had him before the wind, and went on, “How came you, then, to speak with such contempt of the writings of our church? You may buy it at any time for half a crown or three shillings.”

  By this lucky thought my father kept him at bay, and for some time enjoyed his triumph; but his antagonist soon made a retort: “Sir, it must be better recommended before I give half the money for it.”

  In the course of their altercation, Whiggism and Presbyterianism, Toryism and Episcopacy, were terribly buffeted. My worthy hereditary friend, Sir John Pringle, never having been mentioned, happily escaped without a bruise.

  My father’s opinion of Dr. Johnson may be conjectured from the name he afterwards gave him, which was “Ursa Major.” But it is not true, as has been reported, that it was in consequence of my saying that he was a constellation of genius and literature. It was a sly abrupt expression to one of his brethren on the bench of the Court of Session, in which Dr. Johnson was then standing, but it was not said in his hearing.

  (Ronald Black writes that Boswell told his father that Johnson was a “constellation of virtues,” to which his father replied that yes, Johnson was Ursa Major and “you are Ursa Minor.”)

  The next morning was Sunday, and Boswell and his father went to church; Johnson, to no one’s surprise, stayed home, not wishing to engage in Presbyterian worship. Nothing untoward occurred, and on Monday morning the travelers departed. Boswell’s father was civil and wished them well. The weather was decent as they headed back to Edinburgh. Johnson had been expected to leave the capital soon for his return journey to London, but, as we have seen, he stayed in Edinburgh for nearly two additional weeks. In his Journey Johnson had little to say about his exper
ience at Auchinleck beyond a few notes about the scenery and a pleasant reference to Boswell’s father: “He has built a house of hewn stone, very stately, and durable, and has advanced the value of his lands with great tenderness to his tenants.” Of Cromwell, Presbyterianism, Whiggery and the like, nothing.

  The weather was unremarkable when I finally pulled into Auchinleck. The rain was coming down lightly, and the winds were brisk and chilly. There was a sign at the village limits that read “Auchinleck: Home of James Boswell”; some graffiti had been scribbled on it. The village was unpretentious and looked a bit decayed. The main street ran past a building that had the sign “Boswell Arms,” with the r missing. I’m not sure what the building might have been—it looked empty now. Boswell’s name also appeared on the Masons’ building, and there was a small housing development called Boswell Park.

  It was nice to see Bozzy remembered, I suppose, but nothing I saw suggested anything but passing, offhand memories. I had an early afternoon appointment with the housekeeper at the Auchinleck estate who was going to show me around, but I had no idea how to get there. Remembering my experiences in Airdrie, I determined to be careful in selecting someone to ask for directions. Choice wasn’t really a problem, however, since I didn’t see anyone outside on the streets. It was raining, and there simply was no one there. I parked the car at a convenience store and went inside. An elderly couple looked like a good prospect, and I asked if they knew where the Boswell estate was. No, they didn’t. Then I asked about Auchinleck estate, and they brightened. “Aye, go doune the road t’ the gate and keep goin.’” Seemed easy enough, so I got back in the car, drove off, and stayed straight for about four or five miles. I saw lots of gates, but nothing that looked like Auchinleck.

  I turned around and drove back into town and stopped at the Railway Hotel, a solid-looking institution that appeared to have received an attractive renovation recently. It was there nearly 120 years ago when the scholar G. B. Hill visited the village and stayed in what he called “a curious old house, which boasted of two sitting-rooms and one bed-room.” The hotel was larger now, though there were still two sitting rooms. A young man in his twenties with an armful of tattoos behind the hotel front desk looked up pleasantly when I walked in. “Very easy to get there from here,” he replied to my request for directions. “I’m sure you’ll like it. A big fan of Boswell are you?” I said yes, and we chatted a moment about how people in Auchinleck react to him these days. “There’s a group of men who were organized and keep things up a bit, you know. At least they used to. And we get some people coming in to look the place over. Not too many, but sometimes we have a group of five or six.” I mentioned my book project, and he laughed: “Never heard of an American writing about old Boswell! Have a good time with it.” I recalled the scholar Hill likewise encountered a bright and sprightly employee, a landlady, during his stay at the hotel. I left with a very cheery feeling.

  The rain had stopped, and a few minutes later I arrived at a point where the paved two-lane road ended and a single-lane road picked up, flanked by closely planted trees and rhododendrons. There was a small open metal gate with a sign on one side announcing “Auchinleck House,” although no house was in sight. I kept driving and made several turns past some attractive older homes until I came to a narrower, rather muddy road that led to Boswell’s home. There was no sign identifying it as such, but I could recognize it from photographs, and so I parked the car and stepped out. Maureen, the housekeeper, hadn’t yet arrived, so I had a few minutes alone to walk around the grounds of the building. It was clear this had been a fine country home when Boswell and his father lived in it; it was still beautiful, symmetrical and surprisingly kept up, thanks to the Landmark Trust of Scotland. Frederick Pottle, the father of Boswellian studies, described it as “an exquisite piece of Neo-classicism in the Adams style.”

  Above the main entrance was (and is) a motto Lord Auchinleck chose. It reads (in Latin), “What you seek is here in this remote place, if you can only keep a balanced disposition.” Seriously. That’s what it says. It’s not exactly inspiring these days, and it certainly didn’t fit Boswell’s personality, no matter how hard he tried. Lord Auchinleck lived to the ripe age of seventy-five, growing increasingly cranky and garrulous and never repenting his falling-out with his son; their disputes continued up to his last days. Boswell was forty-one when he inherited the estate at his father’s death in 1782; he and Margaret and their children arrived to take possession of Auchinleck on September 18, 1782, a day that was also Johnson’s birthday. Both men believed it a good omen. Boswell kept the estate until his own passing in 1795, and it then descended through the family for nearly another hundred years.

  I walked to each of the four tall wing structures topped by baroque pavilions that Lord Auchinleck had tried unsuccessfully to interest his son in, examined them, and snapped pictures of the house from the four viewpoints. I had read earlier there were no traces of the “old castle” ruins remaining, so I didn’t try to locate them. When Boswell was living there were actually three structures that made up Auchinleck. One was the ruins of the thirteenth- or fourteenth-century keep, known as the “old castle.” The second was a Renaissance mansion, erected about 1530 by a Boswell ancestor, which stood in large fragments by Boswell’s era and was not spotted by me at all, and the third was the current house, the one I was viewing. The ground was soggy, and several deep ravines made walking a little treacherous. I had stopped to snap some pictures when two walkers surprised me; they lived nearby and were curious about my business. I told them I was waiting for Maureen and they slipped off into the countryside with their walking sticks, oblivious to the bog.

  Just about two minutes later Maureen and her husband, William, drove up, apologizing for their tardiness. Maureen was a treasure trove of information about the house and its history, and it was immediately evident that she did more than look after the structure; she cared for it and about it in a very personal way. The ground-floor rooms are used by the Landmark Trust, which acquired the house in 1999 and spent some ten million dollars restoring it. Now visitors can rent it at most times of the year (it’s about two thousand dollars for four or five nights). We walked up the staircase in the middle of the house—the only staircase, by the way—to the first floor. The furnishings were simple and period-appropriate, and there were just enough of them to make it comfortable for visitors without trying fully to re-create Boswell’s age. I walked into the library where Lord Auchinleck and Johnson had argued; we don’t know exactly how it looked that evening in 1773, so the trust’s restoration evokes the style of an eighteenth-century library in general terms.

  There is nothing original to Boswell in the house that is also connected to Auchinleck, not surprising given how the family did their best to get rid of most things that belonged to him. What remains suggests the atmosphere of the eighteenth century. There are, however, several deep display cabinets that hold a variety of items from the Boswell Museum, all of which used to be kept in the chapel in Auchinleck village. There was one original painting on the walls (the rest were copies), and there was a lovely wood cabinet Maureen pointed out proudly to me that Boswell had kept in his London apartment. Of course I touched it, then rubbed it slightly, just to establish my own link to Boswell. Maureen nodded approvingly, I should add.

  I had been told by the Landmark Trust that I would have only a thirty-minute tour and see just part of the house, but Maureen would hear of no such thing. We spent nearly three hours together, going through every room in the house including those in the attic, where I saw the original stone walls and wood beams. Maureen’s enthusiasm for Boswell matched my own, and we were both happy that the house had been saved, but we regretted that care for it came so late. The views out the windows were wonderful, and Maureen said that on exceptionally clear days she could see from the upper rooms all the way to the Isle of Arran across the Firth of Clyde—a long way away. We sat and talked with her husband for what seemed a short time, but as the rain began
to fall again I realized I had taken up nearly all afternoon with her. I apologized, and as we walked back to our cars I shook her hand and slipped some pound notes in it, then sped off before she could object. I wasn’t sure a tip was appropriate, but she had been very generous with her time and her knowledge, and it seemed the very least I could do.

  As I took to the road again I thought back to Boswell’s time as laird of Auchinleck, those thirteen years from the time he inherited the estate until his death. Initially Boswell wrote of his expectation of settling down there: “The occupations of the estate, even in speculation content me.” It didn’t last, though; Bozzy needed the city life of London to stoke his inner fires. His wife—getting sicker and weaker from consumption—and the children spent much more time at Auchinleck than did Boswell in the 1780s. He kept a “Book of Company at Auchinleck” in which he recorded the names of his visitors and what they drank, partly to know how best to manage his cellar and perhaps partly to keep a control on his own drinking. In one entry in 1794, for instance, he observed the depletion of claret and ordered more even as he acknowledged that doing so would not be good for him after his excessive indulging in London. The situation was, pardon the pun, vintage Boswell. Before I left the house Maureen found a gorgeous recent facsimile copy of the “Book of Company,” and I, of course, made certain that I took it with me.