and I maintained, ‘that no man should be invested with the character of a clergyman, unless he has a security for such an income as will enable him to appear respectable; that, therefore, a clergyman should not be allowed to have a curate, unless he gives him a hundred pounds a year; if he cannot do that, let him perform the duty himself.’ JOHNSON. ‘To be sure, Sir, it is wrong that any clergyman should be without a reasonable income; but as the church revenues were sadly diminished at the Reformation, the clergy who have livings cannot afford, in many instances, to give good salaries to curates, without leaving themselves too little; and, if no curate were to be permitted unless he had a hundred pounds a year, their number would be very small, which would be a disadvantage, as then there would not be such choice in the nursery for the church, curates being candidates for the higher ecclesiastical offices, according to their merit and good behaviour.’ He explained the system of the English Hierarchy exceedingly well. ‘It is not thought fit (said he) to trust a man with the care of a parish till he has given proof as a curate that he shall deserve such a trust.’ This is an excellent _theory_; and if the _practice_ were according to it, the Church of England would be admirable indeed. However, as I have heard Dr. Johnson observe as to the Universities, bad practice does not infer that the _constitution_ is bad[402].
We had with us at dinner several of Dr. Taylor’s neighbours, good civil gentlemen, who seemed to understand Dr. Johnson very well, and not to consider him in the light that a certain person did[403], who being struck, or rather stunned by his voice and manner, when he was afterwards asked what he thought of him, answered, ‘He’s a tremendous companion.’
Johnson told me, that ‘Taylor was a very sensible acute man, and had a strong mind[404]; that he had great activity in some respects, and yet such a sort of indolence, that if you should put a pebble upon his chimney-piece, you would find it there, in the same state, a year afterwards.’
And here is the proper place to give an account of Johnson’s humane and zealous interference in behalf of the Reverend Dr. William Dodd, formerly Prebendary of Brecon, and chaplain in ordinary to his Majesty[405]; celebrated as a very popular preacher[406], an encourager of charitable institutions, and authour of a variety of works, chiefly theological. Having unhappily contracted expensive habits of living, partly occasioned by licentiousness of manners, he in an evil hour, when pressed by want of money, and dreading an exposure of his circumstances, forged a bond of which he attempted to avail himself to support his credit, flattering himself with hopes that he might be able to repay its amount without being detected. The person, whose name he thus rashly and criminally presumed to falsify, was the Earl of Chesterfield[407], to whom he had been tutor, and who, he perhaps, in the warmth of his feelings, flattered himself would have generously paid the money in case of an alarm being taken, rather than suffer him to fall a victim to the dreadful consequences of violating the law against forgery, the most dangerous crime in a commercial country; but the unfortunate divine had the mortification to find that he was mistaken. His noble pupil appeared against him, and he was capitally convicted.
Johnson told me that Dr. Dodd was very little acquainted with him, having been but once in his company, many years previous to this period[408] (which was precisely the state of my own acquaintance with Dodd); but in his distress he bethought himself of Johnson’s persuasive power of writing, if haply it might avail to obtain for him the Royal Mercy. He did not apply to him, directly, but, extraordinary as it may seem, through the late Countess of Harrington, who wrote a letter to Johnson, asking him to employ his pen in favour of Dodd. Mr. Allen, the printer, who was Johnson’s landlord and next neighbour in Bolt-court, and for whom he had much kindness[409], was one of Dodd’s friends, of whom to the credit of humanity be it recorded, that he had many who did not desert him, even after his infringement of the law had reduced him to the state of a man under sentence of death. Mr. Allen told me that he carried Lady Harrington’s letter to Johnson, that Johnson read it walking up and down his chamber, and seemed much agitated, after which he said, ‘I will do what I can;’–and certainly he did make extraordinary exertions.
He this evening, as he had obligingly promised in one of his letters, put into my hands the whole series of his writings upon this melancholy occasion, and I shall present my readers with the abstract which I made from the collection; in doing which I studied to avoid copying what had appeared in print, and now make part of the edition of _Johnson’s Works_, published by the Booksellers of London, but taking care to mark Johnson’s variations in some of the pieces there exhibited.
Dr. Johnson wrote in the first place, Dr. Dodd’s _Speech to the Recorder of London_, at the Old-Bailey, when sentence of death was about to be pronounced upon him.
He wrote also _The Convict’s Address to his unhappy Brethren_, a sermon delivered by Dr. Dodd, in the chapel of Newgate[410].
According to Johnson’s manuscript it began thus after the text, _What shall I do to be saved?_[411]–
‘These were the words with which the keeper, to whose custody Paul and Silas were committed by their prosecutors, addressed his prisoners, when he saw them freed from their bonds by the perceptible agency of divine favour, and was, therefore, irresistibly convinced that they were not offenders against the laws, but martyrs to the truth.’
Dr. Johnson was so good as to mark for me with his own hand, on a copy of this sermon which is now in my possession, such passages as were added by Dr. Dodd. They are not many: whoever will take the trouble to look at the printed copy, and attend to what I mention, will be satisfied of this.
There is a short introduction by Dr. Dodd, and he also inserted this sentence, ‘You see with what confusion and dishonour I now stand before you;–no more in the pulpit of instruction, but on this humble seat with yourselves.’ The _notes_ are entirely Dodd’s own, and Johnson’s writing ends at the words, ‘the thief whom he pardoned on the cross[412].’ What follows was supplied by Dr. Dodd himself[413].
The other pieces mentioned by Johnson in the above-mentioned collection, are two letters, one to the Lord Chancellor Bathurst, (not Lord North, as is erroneously supposed,) and one to Lord Mansfield;–A Petition from Dr. Dodd to the King;–A Petition from Mrs. Dodd to the Queen;– Observations of some length inserted in the news-papers, on occasion of Earl Percy’s having presented to his Majesty a petition for mercy to Dodd, signed by twenty thousand people, but all in vain. He told me that he had also written a petition from the city of London; ‘but (said he, with a significant smile) they _mended_ it[414].’ The last of these articles which Johnson wrote is _Dr. Dodd’s last solemn Declaration_, which he left with the sheriff at the place of execution. Here also my friend marked the variations on a copy of that piece now in my possession. Dodd inserted, ‘I never knew or attended to the calls of frugality, or the needful minuteness of painful oeconomy;’ and in the next sentence he introduced the words which I distinguish by _Italicks_; ‘My life for some _few unhappy_ years past has been _dreadfully erroneous_.’ Johnson’s expression was _hypocritical_; but his remark on the margin is ‘With this he said he could not charge himself.’
Having thus authentically settled what part of the _Occasional Papers_, concerning Dr. Dodd’s miserable situation, came from the pen of Johnson, I shall proceed to present my readers with my record of the unpublished writings relating to that extraordinary and interesting matter.
I found a letter to Dr. Johnson from Dr. Dodd, May 23, 1777, in which _The Convict’s Address_ seems clearly to be meant:–
‘I am so penetrated, my ever dear Sir, with a sense of your extreme benevolence towards me, that I cannot find words equal to the sentiments of my heart.
* * * * *
‘You are too conversant in the world to need the slightest hint from me, of what infinite utility the Speech[415] on the aweful day has been to me. I experience, every hour, some good effect from it. I am sure that effects still more salutary and important must follow from _your kind and intended favour_. I will labour–GOD being my helper,–to do justice to it from the pulpit. I am sure, had I your sentiments constantly to deliver from thence, in all their mighty force and power, not a soul could be left unconvinced and unpersuaded.’
* * * * *
He added:–
‘May GOD ALMIGHTY bless and reward, with his choicest comforts, your philanthropick actions, and enable me at all times to express what I feel of the high and uncommon obligations which I owe to the _first man_ in our times.’
On Sunday, June 22, he writes, begging Dr. Johnson’s assistance in framing a supplicatory letter to his Majesty:–
‘If his Majesty could be moved of his royal clemency to spare me and my family the horrours and ignominy of a _publick death_, which the publick itself is solicitous to wave, and to grant me in some silent distant corner of the globe, to pass the remainder of my days in penitence and prayer, I would bless his clemency and be humbled.’
This letter was brought to Dr. Johnson when in church. He stooped down and read it, and wrote, when he went home, the following letter for Dr. Dodd to the King:–
‘SIR,
‘May it not offend your Majesty, that the most miserable of men applies himself to your clemency, as his last hope and his last refuge; that your mercy is most earnestly and humbly implored by a clergyman, whom your Laws and Judges have condemned to the horrour and ignominy of a publick execution.
‘I confess the crime, and own the enormity of its consequences, and the danger of its example. Nor have I the confidence to petition for impunity; but humbly hope, that publick security may be established, without the spectacle of a clergyman dragged through the streets, to a death of infamy, amidst the derision of the profligate and profane; and that justice may be satisfied with irrevocable exile, perpetual disgrace, and hopeless penury.
‘My life, Sir, has not been useless to mankind. I have benefited many. But my offences against GOD are numberless, and I have had little time for repentance. Preserve me, Sir, by your prerogative of mercy, from the necessity of appearing unprepared at that tribunal, before which Kings and Subjects must stand at last together. Permit me to hide my guilt in some obscure corner of a foreign country, where, if I can ever attain confidence to hope that my prayers will be heard, they shall be poured with all the fervour of gratitude for the life and happiness of your Majesty. I am, Sir,
‘Your Majesty’s, &c.’
Subjoined to it was written as follows:
‘To DR. DODD.
‘SIR,
‘I most seriously enjoin you not to let it be at all known that I have written this letter, and to return the copy to Mr. Allen in a cover to me. I hope I need not tell you, that I wish it success.–But do not indulge hope.–Tell nobody.’
It happened luckily that Mr. Allen was pitched on to assist in this melancholy office, for he was a great friend of Mr. Akerman, the keeper of Newgate. Dr. Johnson never went to see Dr. Dodd. He said to me, ‘it would have done _him_ more harm, than good to Dodd, who once expressed a desire to see him, but not earnestly.’
Dr. Johnson, on the 20th of June, wrote the following letter:
‘To THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES JENKINSON.
‘SIR,
‘Since the conviction and condemnation of Dr. Dodd, I have had, by the intervention of a friend, some intercourse with him, and I am sure I shall lose nothing in your opinion by tenderness and commiseration. Whatever be the crime, it is not easy to have any knowledge of the delinquent, without a wish that his life may be spared; at least when no life has been taken away by him. I will, therefore, take the liberty of suggesting some reasons for which I wish this unhappy being to escape the utmost rigour of his sentence.
‘He is, so far as I can recollect, the first clergyman of our church who has suffered publick execution for immorality; and I know not whether it would not be more for the interest of religion to bury such an offender in the obscurity of perpetual exile, than to expose him in a cart, and on the gallows, to all who for any reason are enemies to the clergy.
‘The supreme power has, in all ages, paid some attention to the voice of the people; and that voice does not least deserve to be heard, when it calls out for mercy. There is now a very general desire that Dodd’s life should be spared. More is not wished; and, perhaps, this is not too much to be granted.
‘If you, Sir, have any opportunity of enforcing these reasons, you may, perhaps, think them worthy of consideration: but whatever you determine, I most respectfully intreat that you will be pleased to pardon for this intrusion, Sir,
‘Your most obedient
‘And most humble servant,
‘SAM. JOHNSON.’
It has been confidently circulated, with invidious remarks, that to this letter no attention whatever was paid by Mr. Jenkinson (afterwards Earl of Liverpool[416]), and that he did not even deign to shew the common civility of owning the receipt of it. I could not but wonder at such conduct in the noble Lord, whose own character and just elevation in life, I thought, must have impressed him with all due regard for great abilities and attainments. As the story had been much talked of, and apparently from good authority, I could not but have animadverted upon it in this work, had it been as was alleged; but from my earnest love of truth, and having found reason to think that there might be a mistake, I presumed to write to his Lordship, requesting an explanation; and it is with the sincerest pleasure that I am enabled to assure the world, that there is no foundation for it, the fact being, that owing to some neglect, or accident, Johnson’s letter never came to Lord Hawkesbury’s hands. I should have thought it strange indeed, if that noble Lord had undervalued my illustrious friend; but instead of this being the case, his Lordship, in the very polite answer with which he was pleased immediately to honour me, thus expresses himself:–‘I have always respected the memory of Dr. Johnson, and admire his writings; and I frequently read many parts of them with pleasure and great improvement.’
All applications for the Royal Mercy having failed, Dr. Dodd prepared himself for death; and, with a warmth of gratitude, wrote to Dr. Johnson as follows:
‘June 25, _Midnight_.
‘Accept, thou _great_ and _good_ heart, my earnest and fervent thanks and prayers for all thy benevolent and kind efforts in my behalf.–Oh! Dr. Johnson! as I sought your knowledge at an early hour in life, would to heaven I had cultivated the love and acquaintance of so excellent a man!–I pray GOD most sincerely to bless you with the highest transports–the infelt satisfaction of _humane_ and benevolent exertions!–And admitted, as I trust I shall be, to the realms of bliss before you, I shall hail _your_ arrival there with transports, and rejoice to acknowledge that you was my Comforter, my Advocate and my _Friend_! GOD _be ever_ with _you_!’
Dr. Johnson lastly wrote to Dr. Dodd this solemn and soothing letter:
‘To THE REVEREND DR. DODD.
‘DEAR SIR,
‘That which is appointed to all men is now coming upon you. Outward circumstances, the eyes and the thoughts of men, are below the notice of an immortal being about to stand the trial for eternity, before the Supreme Judge of heaven and earth. Be comforted: your crime, morally or religiously considered, has no very deep dye of turpitude. It corrupted no man’s principles; it attacked no man’s life. It involved only a temporary and reparable injury. Of this, and of all other sins, you are earnestly to repent; and may GOD, who knoweth our frailty, and desireth not our death, accept your repentance, for the sake of his Son JESUS CHRIST our Lord.
‘In requital of those well-intended offices which you are pleased so emphatically to acknowledge, let me beg that you make in your devotions one petition for my eternal welfare. I am, dear Sir,
‘Your affectionate servant,
‘SAM. JOHNSON.’
‘June 26, 1777.’
Under the copy of this letter I found written, in Johnson’s own hand, ‘Next day, June 27, he was executed.’
To conclude this interesting episode with an useful application, let us now attend to the reflections of Johnson at the end of the _Occasional Papers_, concerning the unfortunate Dr. Dodd:
‘Such were the last thoughts of a man whom we have seen exulting in popularity, and sunk in shame. For his reputation, which no man can give to himself, those who conferred it are to answer. Of his publick ministry the means of judging were sufficiently attainable. He must be allowed to preach well, whose sermons strike his audience with forcible conviction. Of his life, those who thought it consistent with his doctrine, did not originally form false notions. He was at first what he endeavoured to make others; but the world broke down his resolution, and he in time ceased to exemplify his own instructions.
‘Let those who are tempted to his faults, tremble at his punishment; and those whom he impressed from the pulpit with religious sentiments, endeavour to confirm them, by considering the regret and self-abhorrence with which he reviewed in prison his deviations from rectitude.’
Johnson gave us this evening, in his happy discriminative manner, a portrait of the late Mr. Fitzherbert, of Derbyshire. ‘There was (said he) no sparkle, no brilliancy in Fitzherbert; but I never knew a man who was so generally acceptable[417]. He made every body quite easy, overpowered nobody by the superiority of his talents, made no man think worse of himself by being his rival, seemed always to listen, did not oblige you to hear much from him, and did not oppose what you said. Every body liked him; but he had no friend, as I understand the word, nobody with whom he exchanged intimate thoughts[418]. People were willing to think well of every thing about him. A gentleman was making an affected rant, as many people do, of great feelings about “his dear son,” who was at school near London; how anxious he was lest he might be ill, and what he would give to see him. “Can’t you (said Fitzherbert,) take a post-chaise and go to him.” This, to be sure, _finished_ the affected man, but there was not much in it[419]. However, this was circulated as wit for a whole winter, and I believe part of a summer too; a proof that he was no very witty man. He was an instance of the truth of the observation, that a man will please more upon the whole by negative qualities than by positive; by never offending, than by giving a great deal of delight. In the first place, men hate more steadily than they love; and if I have said something to hurt a man once, I shall not get the better of this, by saying many things to please him[420].’
Tuesday, September 16, Dr. Johnson having mentioned to me the extraordinary size and price of some cattle reared by Dr. Taylor, I rode out with our host, surveyed his farm, and was shown one cow which he had sold for a hundred and twenty guineas, and another for which he had been offered a hundred and thirty[421]. Taylor thus described to me his old schoolfellow and friend, Johnson: ‘He is a man of a very clear head, great power of words, and a very gay imagination; but there is no disputing with him. He will not hear you, and having a louder voice than you, must roar you down.’
In the afternoon I tried to get Dr. Johnson to like the Poems of Mr. Hamilton of Bangour[422], which I had brought with me: I had been much pleased with them at a very early age; the impression still remained on my mind; it was confirmed by the opinion of my friend the Honourable Andrew Erskine, himself both a good poet[423] and a good critick, who thought Hamilton as true a poet as ever wrote, and that his not having fame was unaccountable. Johnson, upon repeated occasions, while I was at Ashbourne, talked slightingly of Hamilton. He said there was no power of thinking in his verses, nothing that strikes one, nothing better than what you generally find in magazines; and that the highest praise they deserved was, that they were very well for a gentleman to hand about among his friends. He said the imitation of _Ne sit ancillae tibi amor_[424], &c. was too solemn; he read part of it at the beginning. He read the beautiful pathetick song, _Ah the poor shepherd’s mournful fate_, and did not seem to give attention to what I had been used to think tender elegant strains, but laughed at the rhyme, in Scotch pronunciation, _wishes and blushes_[425], reading _wushes_–and there he stopped. He owned that the epitaph on Lord Newhall was pretty well done. He read the _Inscription in a Summer-house_, and a little of the imitations of Horace’s _Epistles_; but said he found nothing to make him desire to read on. When I urged that there were some good poetical passages in the book. ‘Where (said he,) will you find so large a collection without some?’ I thought the description of Winter might obtain his approbation:
‘See[426] Winter, from the frozen north Drives his iron chariot forth!
His grisly hand in icy chains
Fair Tweeda’s silver flood constrains,’ &c.
He asked why an ‘_iron_ chariot’? and said ‘icy chains’ was an old image[427]. I was struck with the uncertainty of taste, and somewhat sorry that a poet whom I had long read with fondness, was not approved by Dr. Johnson. I comforted myself with thinking that the beauties were too delicate for his robust perceptions. Garrick maintained that he had not a taste for the finest productions of genius: but I was sensible, that when he took the trouble to analyse critically, he generally convinced us that he was right.
In the evening, the Reverend Mr. Seward[428], of Lichfield, who was passing through Ashbourne in his way home, drank tea with us. Johnson described him thus:–‘Sir, his ambition is to be a fine talker; so he goes to Buxton, and such places, where he may find companies to listen to him. And, Sir, he is valetudinarian, one of those who are always mending themselves. I do not know a more disagreeable character than a valetudinarian, who thinks he may do any thing that is for his ease, and indulges himself in the grossest freedoms: Sir, he brings himself to the state of a hog in a stye[429].’
Dr. Taylor’s nose happening to bleed, he said, it was because he had omitted to have himself blooded four days after a quarter of a year’s interval. Dr. Johnson, who was a great dabbler in physick[430], disapproved much of periodical bleeding[431]. ‘For (said he) you accustom yourself to an evacuation which Nature cannot perform of herself, and therefore she cannot help you, should you, from forgetfulness or any other cause, omit it; so you may be suddenly suffocated. You may accustom yourself to other periodical evacuations, because should you omit them, Nature can supply the omission; but Nature cannot open a vein to blood you.’–‘I do not like to take an emetick, (said Taylor,) for fear of breaking some small vessels.’–‘Poh! (said Johnson,) if you have so many things that will break, you had better break your neck at once, and there’s an end on’t. You will break no small vessels’ (blowing with high derision).
I mentioned to Dr. Johnson, that David Hume’s persisting in his infidelity, when he was dying, shocked me much. JOHNSON. ‘Why should it shock you, Sir? Hume owned he had never read the New Testament with attention. Here then was a man, who had been at no pains to inquire into the truth of religion, and had continually turned his mind the other way. It was not to be expected that the prospect of death would alter his way of thinking, unless GOD should send an angel to set him right.’ I said, I had reason to believe that the thought of annihilation gave Hume no pain. JOHNSON. ‘It was not so, Sir[432]. He had a vanity in being thought easy. It is more probable that he should assume an appearance of ease, than that so very improbable a thing should be, as a man not afraid of going (as, in spite of his delusive theory, he cannot be sure but he may go,) into an unknown state, and not being uneasy at leaving all he knew. And you are to consider, that upon his own principle of annihilation he had no motive to speak the truth.’ The horrour of death which I had always observed in Dr. Johnson, appeared strong to-night. I ventured to tell him, that I had been, for moments in my life, not afraid of death; therefore I could suppose another man in that state of mind for a considerable space of time. He said, ‘he never had a moment in which death was not terrible to him[433].’ He added, that it had been observed, that scarce any man[434] dies in publick, but with apparent resolution; from that desire of praise which never quits us. I said, Dr. Dodd seemed to be willing to die, and full of hopes of happiness. ‘Sir, (said he,) Dr. Dodd would have given both his hands and both his legs to have lived. The better a man is, the more afraid he is of death, having a clearer view of infinite purity.’ He owned, that our being in an unhappy uncertainty as to our salvation, was mysterious; and said, ‘Ah! we must wait till we are in another state of being, to have many things explained to us.’ Even the powerful mind of Johnson seemed foiled by futurity. But I thought, that the gloom of uncertainty in solemn religious speculation, being mingled with hope, was yet more consolatory than the emptiness of infidelity. A man can live in thick air, but perishes in an exhausted receiver.
Dr. Johnson was much pleased with a remark which I told him was made to me by General Paoli:–‘That it is impossible not to be afraid of death; and that those who at the time of dying are not afraid, are not thinking of death, but of applause, or something else, which keeps death out of their sight: so that all men are equally afraid of death when they see it; only some have a power of turning their sight away from it better than others[435].’
On Wednesday, September 17, Dr. Butter, physician at Derby, drank tea with us; and it was settled that Dr. Johnson and I should go on Friday and dine with him. Johnson said, ‘I’m glad of this.’ He seemed weary of the uniformity of life at Dr. Taylor’s.
Talking of biography, I said, in writing a life, a man’s peculiarities should be mentioned, because they mark his character. JOHNSON. ‘Sir, there is no doubt as to peculiarities: the question is, whether a man’s vices should be mentioned; for instance, whether it should be mentioned that Addison and Parnell drank too freely: for people will probably more easily indulge in drinking from knowing this; so that more ill may be done by the example, than good by telling the whole truth[436].’ Here was an instance of his varying from himself in talk; for when Lord Hailes and he sat one morning calmly conversing in my house at Edinburgh, I well remember that Dr. Johnson maintained, that ‘If a man is to write A _Panegyrick_, he may keep vices out of sight; but if he professes to write _A Life_, he must represent it really as it was:’ and when I objected to the danger of telling that Parnell drank to excess, he said, that ‘it would produce an instructive caution to avoid drinking, when it was seen, that even the learning and genius of Parnell could be debased by it.’ And in the Hebrides he maintained, as appears from my _Journal_[437], that a man’s intimate friend should mention his faults, if he writes his life[438].
He had this evening, partly, I suppose, from the spirit of contradiction to his Whig friend, a violent argument with Dr. Taylor, as to the inclinations of the people of England at this time towards the Royal Family of Stuart. He grew so outrageous as to say, ‘that, if England were fairly polled, the present King would be sent away to-night, and his adherents hanged to-morrow.’ Taylor, who was as violent a Whig as Johnson was a Tory, was roused by this to a pitch of bellowing. He denied, loudly, what Johnson said; and maintained, that there was an abhorrence against the Stuart family, though he admitted that the people were not much attached to the present King[439]. JOHNSON. ‘Sir, the state of the country is this: the people knowing it to be agreed on all hands that this King has not the hereditary right to the crown, and there being no hope that he who has it can be restored, have grown cold and indifferent upon the subject of loyalty, and have no warm attachment to any King. They would not, therefore, risk any thing to restore the exiled family. They would not give twenty shillings a piece to bring it about. But, if a mere vote could do it, there would be twenty to one; at least, there would be a very great majority of voices for it. For, Sir, you are to consider, that all those who think a King has a right to his crown, as a man has to his estate, which is the just opinion, would be for restoring the King who certainly has the hereditary right, could he be trusted with it; in which there would be no danger now, when laws and every thing else are so much advanced: and every King will govern by the laws. And you must also consider, Sir, that there is nothing on the other side to oppose to this; for it is not alleged by any one that the present family has any inherent right[440]: so that the Whigs could not have a contest between two rights.’
Dr. Taylor admitted, that if the question as to hereditary right were to be tried by a poll of the people of England, to be sure the abstract doctrine would be given in favour of the family of Stuart; but he said, the conduct of that family, which occasioned their expulsion, was so fresh in the minds of the people, that they would not vote for a restoration. Dr. Johnson, I think, was contented with the admission as to the hereditary right, leaving the original point in dispute, _viz_. what the people upon the whole would do, taking in right and affection; for he said, people were afraid of a change, even though they think it right. Dr. Taylor said something of the slight foundation of the hereditary right, of the house of Stuart. ‘Sir, (said Johnson,) the house of Stuart succeeded to the full right of both the houses of York and Lancaster, whose common source had the undisputed right. A right to a throne is like a right to any thing else. Possession is sufficient, where no better right can be shown. This was the case with the Royal Family of England, as it is now with the King of France: for as to the first beginning of the right, we are in the dark[441].’
Thursday, September 18. Last night Dr. Johnson had proposed that the crystal lustre, or chandelier, in Dr. Taylor’s large room, should be lighted up some time or other. Taylor said, it should be lighted up next night. ‘That will do very well, (said I,) for it is Dr. Johnson’s birth-day[442].’ When we were in the Isle of Sky, Johnson had desired me not to mention his birth-day. He did not seem pleased at this time that I mentioned it, and said (somewhat sternly) ‘he would _not_ have the lustre lighted the next day.’
Some ladies, who had been present yesterday when I mentioned his birth-day, came to dinner to-day, and plagued him unintentionally, by wishing him joy. I know not why he disliked having his birth-day mentioned, unless it were that it reminded him of his approaching nearer to death, of which he had a constant dread[443].
I mentioned to him a friend of mine who was formerly gloomy from low spirits, and much distressed by the fear of death, but was now uniformly placid, and contemplated his dissolution without any perturbation. ‘Sir, (said Johnson,) this is only a disordered imagination taking a different turn.’
We talked of a collection being made of all the English Poets who had published a volume of poems. Johnson told me ‘that a Mr. Coxeter[444], whom he knew, had gone the greatest length towards this; having collected, I think, about five hundred volumes of poets whose works were little known; but that upon his death Tom Osborne[445] bought them, and they were dispersed, which he thought a pity, as it was curious to see any series complete; and in every volume of poems something good may be found.’
He observed, that a gentleman of eminence in literature had got into a bad style of poetry of late[446]. ‘He puts (said he) a very common thing in a strange dress till he does not know it himself, and thinks other people do not know it.’ BOSWELL. ‘That is owing to his being so much versant in old English poetry[447].’ JOHNSON. ‘What is the purpose, Sir? If I say a man is drunk, and you tell me it is owing to his taking much drink, the matter is not mended. No, Sir, —- has taken to an odd mode. For example; he’d write thus:
“Hermit hoar, in solemn cell,
Wearing out life’s evening gray[448].”
_Gray evening_ is common enough; but _evening gray_ he’d think fine[449].–Stay;–we’ll make out the stanza:
“Hermit hoar, in solemn cell,
Wearing out life’s evening gray;
Smite thy bosom, sage, and tell,
What is bliss? and which the way?”‘
BOSWELL. ‘But why smite his bosom, Sir?’ JOHNSON. ‘Why to shew he was in earnest,’ (smiling).–He at an after period added the following stanza:
‘Thus I spoke; and speaking sigh’d;
–Scarce repress’d the starting tear;– When the smiling sage reply’d–
–Come, my lad, and drink some beer[450].’
I cannot help thinking the first stanza very good solemn poetry, as also the three first lines of the second. Its last line is an excellent burlesque surprise on gloomy sentimental enquirers. And, perhaps, the advice is as good as can be given to a low-spirited dissatisfied being:–‘Don’t trouble your head with sickly thinking: take a cup, and be merry.’
Friday, September 19, after breakfast Dr. Johnson and I set out in Dr. Taylor’s chaise to go to Derby. The day was fine, and we resolved to go by Keddlestone, the seat of Lord Scarsdale, that I might see his Lordship’s fine house. I was struck with the magnificence of the building; and the extensive park, with the finest verdure, covered with deer, and cattle, and sheep, delighted me. The number of old oaks, of an immense size, filled me with a sort of respectful admiration: for one of them sixty pounds was offered. The excellent smooth gravel roads; the large piece of water formed by his Lordship from some small brooks, with a handsome barge upon it; the venerable Gothick church, now the family chapel, just by the house; in short, the grand group of objects agitated and distended my mind in a most agreeable manner. ‘One should think (said I) that the proprietor of all this _must_ be happy.’–‘Nay, Sir, (said Johnson,) all this excludes but one evil–poverty[451].’
Our names were sent up, and a well-drest elderly housekeeper, a most distinct articulator, shewed us the house; which I need not describe, as there is an account of it published in _Adam’s Works in Architecture_. Dr. Johnson thought better of it to-day than when he saw it before[452]; for he had lately attacked it violently, saying, ‘It would do excellently for a town-hall. The large room with the pillars (said he) would do for the Judges to sit in at the assizes; the circular room for a jury-chamber; and the room above for prisoners.’ Still he thought the large room ill lighted, and of no use but for dancing in; and the bed-chambers but indifferent rooms; and that the immense sum which it cost was injudiciously laid out. Dr. Taylor had put him in mind of his _appearing_ pleased with the house. ‘But (said he) that was when Lord Scarsdale was present. Politeness obliges us to appear pleased with a man’s works when he is present. No man will be so ill bred as to question you. You may therefore pay compliments without saying what is not true. I should say to Lord Scarsdale of his large room, “My Lord, this is the most _costly_ room that I ever saw;” which is true.’
Dr. Manningham, physician in London, who was visiting at Lord Scarsdale’s, accompanyed us through many of the rooms, and soon afterwards my Lord himself, to whom Dr. Johnson was known, appeared, and did the honours of the house. We talked of Mr. Langton. Johnson, with a warm vehemence of affectionate regard, exclaimed, ‘The earth does not bear a worthier man than Bennet Langton.’ We saw a good many fine pictures, which I think are described in one of _Young’s Tours_[453]. There is a printed catalogue of them which the housekeeper put into my hand; I should like to view them at leisure. I was much struck with Daniel interpreting Nebuchadnezzar’s dream by Rembrandt. We were shown a pretty large library. In his Lordship’s dressing-room lay Johnson’s small _Dictionary_: he shewed it to me, with some eagerness, saying, ‘Look ‘ye! _Quae terra nostri non plena laboris_[454].’ He observed, also, Goldsmith’s _Animated Nature_; and said, ‘Here’s our friend! The poor Doctor would have been happy to hear of this.’
In our way, Johnson strongly expressed his love of driving fast in a post-chaise[455]. ‘If (said he) I had no duties, and no reference to futurity, I would spend my life in driving briskly in a post-chaise with a pretty woman; but she should be one who could understand me, and would add something to the conversation.’ I observed, that we were this day to stop just where the Highland army did in 1745[456]. JOHNSON. ‘It was a noble attempt.’ BOSWELL. ‘I wish we could have an authentick history of it.’ JOHNSON. ‘If you were not an idle dog you might write it, by collecting from every body what they can tell, and putting down your authorities.’ BOSWELL. ‘But I could not have the advantage of it in my life-time.’ JOHNSON. ‘You might have the satisfaction of its fame, by printing it in Holland; and as to profit, consider how long it was before writing came to be considered in a pecuniary view. Baretti says, he is the first man that ever received copy-money in Italy[457].’ I said that I would endeavour to do what Dr. Johnson suggested; and I thought that I might write so as to venture to publish my _History of the Civil War in Great-Britain in 1745 and 1746_ without being obliged to go to a foreign press[458].
When we arrived at Derby, Dr. Butter accompanied us to see the manufactory of china there. I admired the ingenuity and delicate art with which a man fashioned clay into a cup, a saucer, or a tea-pot, while a boy turned round a wheel to give the mass rotundity. I thought this as excellent in its species of power, as making good verses in _its_ species. Yet I had no respect for this potter. Neither, indeed, has a man of any extent of thinking for a mere verse-maker, in whose numbers, however perfect, there is no poetry, no mind. The china was beautiful, but Dr. Johnson justly observed it was too dear; for that he could have vessels of silver, of the same size, as cheap as what were here made of porcelain[459].
I felt a pleasure in walking about Derby such as I always have in walking about any town to which I am not accustomed. There is an immediate sensation of novelty; and one speculates on the way in which life is passed in it, which, although there is a sameness every where upon the whole, is yet minutely diversified. The minute diversities in every thing are wonderful. Talking of shaving the other night at Dr. Taylor’s, Dr. Johnson said, ‘Sir, of a thousand shavers, two do not shave so much alike as not to be distinguished.’ I thought this not possible, till he specified so many of the varieties in shaving;–holding the razor more or less perpendicular;–drawing long or short strokes;–beginning at the upper part of the face, or the under;–at the right side or the left side. Indeed, when one considers what variety of sounds can be uttered by the windpipe, in the compass of a very small aperture, we may be convinced how many degrees of difference there may be in the application of a razor.
We dined with Dr. Butter, whose lady is daughter of my cousin Sir John Douglas, whose grandson is now presumptive heir of the noble family of Queensberry. Johnson and he had a good deal of medical conversation. Johnson said, he had somewhere or other given an account of Dr. Nichols’s[460] discourse _De Anima Medica_. He told us ‘that whatever a man’s distemper was, Dr. Nichols would not attend him as a physician, if his mind was not at ease; for he believed that no medicines would have any influence. He once attended a man in trade, upon whom he found none of the medicines he prescribed had any effect: he asked the man’s wife privately whether his affairs were not in a bad way? She said no. He continued his attendance some time, still without success. At length the man’s wife told him, she had discovered that her husband’s affairs _were_ in a bad way. When Goldsmith was dying, Dr. Turton said to him, “Your pulse is in greater disorder than it should be, from the degree of fever which you have: is your mind at ease?” Goldsmith answered it was not.’
After dinner, Mrs. Butter went with me to see the silk-mill which Mr. John Lombe had[461] had a patent for, having brought away the contrivance from Italy. I am not very conversant with mechanicks; but the simplicity of this machine, and its multiplied operations, struck me with an agreeable surprize. I had learnt from Dr. Johnson, during this interview, not to think with a dejected indifference of the works of art, and the pleasures of life, because life is uncertain and short; but to consider such indifference as a failure of reason, a morbidness of mind; for happiness should be cultivated as much as we can, and the objects which are instrumental to it should be steadily considered as of importance[462], with a reference not only to ourselves, but to multitudes in successive ages. Though it is proper to value small parts, as
‘Sands make the mountain, moments make the year[463];’
yet we must contemplate, collectively, to have a just estimation of objects. One moment’s being uneasy or not, seems of no consequence; yet this may be thought of the next, and the next, and so on, till there is a large portion of misery. In the same way one must think of happiness, of learning, of friendship. We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over. We must not divide objects of our attention into minute parts, and think separately of each part. It is by contemplating a large mass of human existence, that a man, while he sets a just value on his own life, does not think of his death as annihilating all that is great and pleasing in the world, as if actually _contained in his mind_, according to Berkeley’s reverie[464]. If his imagination be not sickly and feeble, it ‘wings its distant way[465]’ far beyond himself, and views the world in unceasing activity of every sort. It must be acknowledged, however, that Pope’s plaintive reflection, that all things would be as gay as ever, on the day of his death, is natural and common[466]. We are apt to transfer to all around us our own gloom, without considering that at any given point of time there is, perhaps, as much youth and gaiety in the world as at another. Before I came into this life, in which I have had so many pleasant scenes, have not thousands and ten thousands of deaths and funerals happened, and have not families been in grief for their nearest relations? But have those dismal circumstances at all affected _me_? Why then should the gloomy scenes which I experience, or which I know, affect others? Let us guard against imagining that there is an end of felicity upon earth, when we ourselves grow old, or are unhappy.
Dr. Johnson told us at tea, that when some of Dr. Dodd’s pious friends were trying to console him by saying that he was going to leave ‘a wretched world,’ he had honesty enough not to join in the cant[467]:–‘No, no (said he,) it has been a very agreeable world to me.’ Johnson added, ‘I respect Dodd for thus speaking the truth; for, to be sure, he had for several years enjoyed a life of great voluptuousness[468].’
He told us, that Dodd’s city friends stood by him so, that a thousand pounds were ready to be given to the gaoler, if he would let him escape. He added, that he knew a friend of Dodd’s, who walked about Newgate for some time on the evening before the day of his execution, with five hundred pounds in his pocket, ready to be paid to any of the turnkeys who could get him out: but it was too late; for he was watched with much circumspection[469]. He said, Dodd’s friends had an image of him made of wax, which was to have been left in his place; and he believed it was carried into the prison.
Johnson disapproved of Dr. Dodd’s leaving the world persuaded that _The Convict’s Address to his unhappy Brethren_ was of his own writing[470]. ‘But, Sir, (said I,) you contributed to the deception; for when Mr. Seward expressed a doubt to you that it was not Dodd’s own, because it had a great deal more force of mind in it than any thing known to be his, you answered,–“Why should you think so? Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”‘ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, as Dodd got it from me to pass as his own, while that could do him any good, there was an _implied promise_ that I should not own it. To own it, therefore, would have been telling a lie, with the addition of breach of promise, which was worse than simply telling a lie to make it be believed it was Dodd’s. Besides, Sir, I did not _directly_ tell a lie: I left the matter uncertain. Perhaps I thought that Seward would not believe it the less to be mine for what I said; but I would not put it in his power to say I had owned it.’
He praised Blair’s sermons: ‘Yet,’ said he, (willing to let us see he was aware that fashionable fame, however deserved, is not always the most lasting,) ‘perhaps, they may not be re-printed after seven years; at least not after Blair’s death[471].’
He said, ‘Goldsmith was a plant that flowered late[472]. There appeared nothing remarkable about him when he was young; though when he had got high in fame, one of his friends[473] began to recollect something of his being distinguished at College. Goldsmith in the same manner recollected more of that friend’s early years, as he grew a greater man.’
I mentioned that Lord Monboddo told me, he awaked every morning at four, and then for his health got up and walked in his room naked, with the window open, which he called taking _an air bath_[474]; after which he went to bed again, and slept two hours more. Johnson, who was always ready to beat down any thing that seemed to be exhibited with disproportionate importance, thus observed: ‘I suppose, Sir, there is no more in it than this, he awakes at four, and cannot sleep till he chills himself, and makes the warmth of the bed a grateful sensation.’
I talked of the difficulty of rising in the morning. Dr. Johnson told me, ‘that the learned Mrs. Carter, at that period when she was eager in study, did not awake as early as she wished, and she therefore had a contrivance, that, at a certain hour, her chamber-light should burn a string to which a heavy weight was suspended, which then fell with a strong sudden noise: this roused her from sleep, and then she had no difficulty in getting up.’ But I said _that_ was my difficulty; and wished there could be some medicine invented which would make one rise without pain, which I never did, unless after lying in bed a very long time. Perhaps there may be something in the stores of Nature which could do this. I have thought of a pulley to raise me gradually; but that would give me pain, as it would counteract my internal inclination. I would have something that can dissipate the _vis inertiae_, and give elasticity to the muscles. As I imagine that the human body may be put, by the operation of other substances, into any state in which it has ever been; and as I have experienced a state in which rising from bed was not disagreeable, but easy, nay, sometimes agreeable; I suppose that this state may be produced, if we knew by what. We can heat the body, we can cool it; we can give it tension or relaxation; and surely it is possible to bring it into a state in which rising from bed will not be a pain.
Johnson observed, that ‘a man should take a sufficient quantity of sleep, which Dr. Mead says is between seven and nine hours.’ I told him, that Dr. Cullen said to me, that a man should not take more sleep than he can take at once. JOHNSON. ‘This rule, Sir, cannot hold in all cases; for many people have their sleep broken by sickness; and surely, Cullen would not have a man to get up, after having slept but an hour. Such a regimen would soon end in a _long sleep_[475].’ Dr. Taylor remarked, I think very justly, that ‘a man who does not feel an inclination to sleep at the ordinary time, instead of being stronger than other people, must not be well; for a man in health has all the natural inclinations to eat, drink, and sleep, in a strong degree.’
Johnson advised me to-night not to _refine_ in the education of my children. ‘Life (said he) will not bear refinement: you must do as other people do[476].’
As we drove back to Ashbourne, Dr. Johnson recommended to me, as he had often done, to drink water only: ‘For (said he) you are then sure not to get drunk; whereas if you drink wine you are never sure.’ I said, drinking wine was a pleasure which I was unwilling to give up. ‘Why, Sir, (said he,) there is no doubt that not to drink wine is a great deduction from life; but it may be necessary.’ He however owned, that in his opinion a free use of wine did not shorten life[477]; and said, he would not give less for the life of a certain Scotch Lord[478] (whom he named) celebrated for hard drinking, than for that of a sober man. ‘But stay, (said he, with his usual intelligence, and accuracy of enquiry,) does it take much wine to make him drunk?’ I answered, ‘a great deal either of wine or strong punch.’–‘Then (said he) that is the worse.’ I presume to illustrate my friend’s observation thus: ‘A fortress which soon surrenders has its walls less shattered than when a long and obstinate resistance is made.’
I ventured to mention a person who was as violent a Scotsman as he was an Englishman; and literally had the same contempt for an Englishman compared with a Scotsman, that he had for a Scotsman compared with an Englishman; and that he would say of Dr. Johnson, ‘Damned rascal! to talk as he does, of the Scotch.’ This seemed, for a moment, ‘to give him pause[479].’ It, perhaps, presented his extreme prejudice against the Scotch in a point of view somewhat new to him, by the effect of _contrast_.
By the time when we returned to Ashbourne, Dr. Taylor was gone to bed. Johnson and I sat up a long time by ourselves.
He was much diverted with an article which I shewed him in the _Critical Review_ of this year, giving an account of a curious publication, entitled, _A Spiritual Diary and Soliloquies_, by John Rutty, M.D. Dr. Rutty was one of the people called Quakers, a physician of some eminence in Dublin, and authour of several works[480]. This Diary, which was kept from 1753 to 1775, the year in which he died, and was now published in two volumes octavo, exhibited, in the simplicity of his heart, a minute and honest register of the state of his mind; which, though frequently laughable enough, was not more so than the history of many men would be, if recorded with equal fairness.
The following specimens were extracted by the Reviewers:–
‘Tenth month, 1753.
23. Indulgence in bed an hour too long. Twelfth month, 17. An hypochondriack obnubilation from wind and indigestion.
Ninth month, 28. An over-dose of whisky. 29. A dull, cross, cholerick day.
First month, 1757–22. A little swinish at dinner and repast. 31. Dogged on provocation.
Second month, 5. Very dogged or snappish. 14. Snappish on fasting.
26. Cursed snappishness to those under me, on a bodily indisposition.
Third month, 11. On a provocation, exercised a dumb resentment for two days, instead of scolding.
22. Scolded too vehemently.
23. Dogged again.
Fourth month, 29. Mechanically and sinfully dogged.’
Johnson laughed heartily at this good Quietist’s self-condemning minutes; particularly at his mentioning, with such a serious regret, occasional instances of ‘_swinishness_ in eating, and _doggedness of temper_[481].’ He thought the observations of the Critical Reviewers upon the importance of a man to himself so ingenious and so well expressed, that I shall here introduce them.
After observing, that ‘There are few writers who have gained any reputation by recording their own actions,’ they say:–
‘We may reduce the egotists to four classes. In the _first_ we have Julius Caesar: he relates his own transactions; but he relates them with peculiar grace and dignity, and his narrative is supported by the greatness of his character and atchievements. In the _second_ class we have Marcus Antoninus: this writer has given us a series of reflections on his own life; but his sentiments are so noble, his morality so sublime, that his meditations are universally admired. In the _third_ class we have some others of tolerable credit, who have given importance to their own private history by an intermixture of literary anecdotes, and the occurrences of their own times: the celebrated _Huetius_ has published an entertaining volume upon this plan, “_De rebus ad eum pertinentibus_[482].” In the _fourth_ class we have the journalists, temporal and spiritual: Elias Ashmole, William Lilly, George Whitefield, John Wesley, and a thousand other old women and fanatick writers of memoirs and meditations.’
I mentioned to him that Dr. Hugh Blair, in his lectures on Rhetorick and Belles Lettres, which I heard him deliver at Edinburgh, had animadverted on the Johnsonian style as too pompous; and attempted to imitate it, by giving a sentence of Addison in _The Spectator_, No. 411, in the manner of Johnson. When treating of the utility of the pleasures of imagination in preserving us from vice, it is observed of those ‘who know not how to be idle and innocent,’ that ‘their very first step out of business is into vice or folly;’ which Dr. Blair supposed would have been expressed in _The Rambler_ thus: ‘Their very first step out of the regions of business is into the perturbation of vice, or the vacuity of folly[483].’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, these are not the words I should have used. No, Sir; the imitators of my style have not hit it. Miss Aikin has done it the best; for she has imitated the sentiment as well as the diction[484].’ I intend, before this work is concluded[485], to exhibit specimens of imitation of my friend’s style in various modes; some caricaturing or mimicking it, and some formed upon it, whether intentionally or with a degree of similarity to it, of which, perhaps, the writers were not conscious.
In Baretti’s Review, which he published in Italy, under the title of _Frusta Letteraria_[486], it is observed, that Dr. Robertson the historian had formed his style upon that of _Il celebre Samuele Johnson_. My friend himself was of that opinion; for he once said to me, in a pleasant humour, ‘Sir, if Robertson’s style be faulty, he owes it to me; that is, having too many words, and those too big ones[487].’
I read to him a letter which Lord Monboddo had written to me, containing some critical remarks upon the style of his _Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland_. His Lordship praised the very fine passage upon landing at Icolmkill[488]; but his own style being exceedingly dry and hard, he disapproved of the richness of Johnson’s language, and of his frequent use of metaphorical expressions. JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, this criticism would be just, if in my style, superfluous words, or words too big for the thoughts, could be pointed out[489]; but this I do not believe can be done. For instance; in the passage which Lord Monboddo admires, ‘We were now treading that illustrious region[490],’ the word _illustrious_, contributes nothing to the mere narration; for the fact might be told without it: but it is not, therefore, superfluous; for it wakes the mind to peculiar attention, where something of more than usual importance is to be presented. “Illustrious!”–for what? and then the sentence proceeds to expand the circumstances connected with Iona. And, Sir, as to metaphorical expression, that is a great excellence in style, when it is used with propriety, for it gives you two ideas for one;–conveys the meaning more luminously, and generally with a perception of delight.’
He told me, that he had been asked to undertake the new edition of the _Biographia Britannica_, but had declined it; which he afterwards said to me he regretted[491]. In this regret many will join, because it would have procured us more of Johnson’s most delightful species of writing; and although my friend Dr. Kippis has hitherto discharged the task judiciously, distinctly, and with more impartiality than might have been expected from a Separatist, it were to have been wished that the superintendence of this literary Temple of Fame had been assigned to ‘a friend to the constitution in Church and State.’ We should not then have had it too much crowded with obscure dissenting teachers, doubtless men of merit and worth, but not quite to be numbered amongst ‘the most eminent persons who have flourished in Great-Britain and Ireland[492].’
On Saturday, September 30, after breakfast, when Taylor was gone out to his farm, Dr. Johnson and I had a serious conversation by ourselves on melancholy and madness; which he was, I always thought, erroneously inclined to confound together[493]. Melancholy, like ‘great wit,’ may be ‘near allied to madness[494];’ but there is, in my opinion, a distinct separation between them. When he talked of madness, he was to be understood as speaking of those who were in any great degree disturbed, or as it is commonly expressed, ‘troubled in mind.’ Some of the ancient philosophers held, that all deviations from right reason were madness; and whoever wishes to see the opinions both of ancients and moderns upon this subject, collected and illustrated with a variety of curious facts, may read Dr. Arnold’s very entertaining work[495].
Johnson said, ‘A madman loves to be with people whom he fears; not as a dog fears the lash; but of whom he stands in awe.’ I was struck with the justice of this observation. To be with those of whom a person, whose mind is wavering and dejected, stands in awe, represses and composes an uneasy tumult of spirits, and consoles him with the contemplation of something steady, and at least comparatively great.
He added, ‘Madmen are all sensual in the lower stages of the distemper. They are eager for gratifications to sooth their minds, and divert their attention from the misery which they suffer: but when they grow very ill, pleasure is too weak for them, and they seek for pain[496]. Employment, Sir, and hardships, prevent melancholy. I suppose in all our army in America there was not one man who went mad[497].’
We entered seriously upon a question of much importance to me, which Johnson was pleased to consider with friendly attention. I had long complained to him that I felt myself discontented in Scotland, as too narrow a sphere, and that I wished to make my chief residence in London, the great scene of ambition, instruction, and amusement: a scene, which was to me, comparatively speaking, a heaven upon earth[498]. JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, I never knew any one who had such a _gust_ for London as you have: and I cannot blame you for your wish to live there: yet, Sir, were I in your father’s place, I should not consent to your settling there; for I have the old feudal notions, and I should be afraid that Auchinleck would be deserted, as you would soon find it more desirable to have a country-seat in a better climate. I own, however, that to consider it as a _duty_ to reside on a family estate is a prejudice; for we must consider, that working-people get employment equally, and the produce of land is sold equally, whether a great family resides at home or not; and if the rents of an estate be carried to London, they return again in the circulation of commerce; nay, Sir, we must perhaps allow, that carrying the rents to a distance is a good, because it contributes to that circulation. We must, however, allow, that a well-regulated great family may improve a neighbourhood in civility and elegance, and give an example of good order, virtue, and piety; and so its residence at home may be of much advantage. But if a great family be disorderly and vicious, its residence at home is very pernicious to a neighbourhood. There is not now the same inducement to live in the country as formerly; the pleasures of social life are much better enjoyed in town; and there is no longer in the country that power and influence in proprietors of land which they had in old times, and which made the country so agreeable to them. The Laird of Auchinleck now is not near so great a man as the Laird of Auchinleck was a hundred years ago[499].
I told him, that one of my ancestors never went from home without being attended by thirty men on horseback. Johnson’s shrewdness and spirit of enquiry were exerted upon every occasion. ‘Pray (said he,) how did your ancestor support his thirty men and thirty horses, when he went at a distance from home, in an age when there was hardly any money in circulation?’ I suggested the same difficulty to a friend, who mentioned Douglas’s going to the Holy Land with a numerous train of followers. Douglas could, no doubt, maintain followers enough while living upon his own lands, the produce of which supplied them with food; but he could not carry that food to the Holy Land; and as there was no commerce by which he could be supplied with money, how could he maintain them in foreign countries?
I suggested a doubt, that if I were to reside in London, the exquisite zest with which I relished it in occasional visits might go off, and I might grow tired of it. JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford[500].’
To obviate his apprehension, that by settling in London I might desert the seat of my ancestors, I assured him, that I had old feudal principles to a degree of enthusiasm; and that I felt all the _dulcedo_ of the _natale solum_[501]. I reminded him, that the Laird of Auchinleck had an elegant house, in front of which he could ride ten miles forward upon his own territories, upon which he had upwards of six hundred people attached to him; that the family seat was rich in natural romantick beauties of rock, wood, and water; and that in my ‘morn of life[502],’ I had appropriated the finest descriptions in the ancient Classicks to certain scenes there, which were thus associated in my mind. That when all this was considered, I should certainly pass a part of the year at home, and enjoy it the more from variety, and from bringing with me a share of the intellectual stores of the metropolis. He listened to all this, and kindly ‘hoped it might be as I now supposed.’
He said, ‘A country gentleman should bring his lady to visit London as soon as he can, that they may have agreeable topicks for conversation when they are by themselves.’
As I meditated trying my fortune in Westminster Hall, our conversation turned upon the profession of the law in England. JOHNSON. ‘You must not indulge too sanguine hopes, should you be called to our bar. I was told, by a very sensible lawyer, that there are a great many chances against any man’s success in the profession of the law; the candidates are so numerous, and those who get large practice so few. He said, it was by no means true that a man of good parts and application is sure of having business, though he, indeed, allowed that if such a man could but appear in a few causes, his merit would be known, and he would get forward; but that the great risk was, that a man might pass half a life-time in the Courts, and never have an opportunity of shewing his abilities[503].’
We talked of employment being absolutely necessary to preserve the mind from wearying and growing fretful, especially in those who have a tendency to melancholy; and I mentioned to him a saying which somebody had related of an American savage, who, when an European was expatiating on all the advantages of money, put this question: ‘Will it purchase _occupation_?’ JOHNSON. ‘Depend upon it, Sir, this saying is too refined for a savage. And, Sir, money _will_ purchase occupation; it will purchase all the conveniences of life; it will purchase variety of company; it will purchase all sorts of entertainment.’
I talked to him of Forster’s _Voyage to the South Seas_, which pleased me; but I found he did not like it. ‘Sir, (said he,) there is a great affectation of fine writing in it.’ BOSWELL. ‘But he carries you along with him.’ JOHNSON, ‘No, Sir; he does not carry _me_ along with him: he leaves me behind him: or rather, indeed, he sets me before him; for he makes me turn over many leaves at a time.’
On Sunday, September 12[504], we went to the church of Ashbourne, which is one of the largest and most luminous that I have seen in any town of the same size. I felt great satisfaction in considering that I was supported in my fondness for solemn publick worship by the general concurrence and munificence of mankind.
Johnson and Taylor were so different from each other, that I wondered at their preserving an intimacy[505]. Their having been at school and college together, might, in some degree, account for this[506]; but Sir Joshua Reynolds has furnished me with a stronger reason; for Johnson mentioned to him, that he had been told by Taylor he was to be his heir. I shall not take upon me to animadvert upon this; but certain it is, that Johnson paid great attention to Taylor. He now, however, said to me, ‘Sir, I love him; but I do not love him more; my regard for him does not increase. As it is said in the Apocrypha, “his talk is of bullocks[507]:” I do not suppose he is very fond of my company.[508] His habits are by no means sufficiently clerical: this he knows that I see; and no man likes to live under the eye of perpetual disapprobation.’
I have no doubt that a good many sermons were composed for Taylor by Johnson. At this time I found, upon his table, a part of one which he had newly begun to write: and _Concio pro Tayloro_ appears in one of his diaries. When to these circumstances we add the internal evidence from the power of thinking and style, in the collection which the Reverend Mr. Hayes has published, with the _significant_ title of Sermons _left for publication_ by the Reverend John Taylor, LL.D., our conviction will be complete[509].
I, however, would not have it thought, that Dr. Taylor, though he could not write like Johnson, (as, indeed, who could?) did not sometimes compose sermons as good as those which we generally have from very respectable divines. He showed me one with notes on the margin in Johnson’s hand-writing; and I was present when he read another to Johnson, that he might have his opinion of it, and Johnson said it was ‘very well.’ These, we may be sure, were not Johnson’s; for he was above little arts, or tricks of deception.
Johnson was by no means of opinion, that every man of a learned profession should consider it as incumbent upon him, or as necessary to his credit, to appear as an authour. When in the ardour of ambition for literary fame, I regretted to him one day that an eminent Judge had nothing of it, and therefore would leave no perpetual monument of himself to posterity[510]. ‘Alas, Sir, (said Johnson) what a mass of confusion should we have, if every Bishop, and every Judge, every Lawyer, Physician, and Divine, were to write books.’
I mentioned to Johnson a respectable person of a very strong mind, who had little of that tenderness which is common to human nature; as an instance of which, when I suggested to him that he should invite his son, who had been settled ten years in foreign parts[511], to come home and pay him a visit, his answer was, ‘No, no, let him mind his business.’ JOHNSON. ‘I do not agree with him, Sir, in this. Getting money is not all a man’s business: to cultivate kindness is a valuable part of the business of life.’
In the evening, Johnson, being in very good spirits, entertained us with several characteristical portraits. I regret that any of them escaped my retention and diligence. I found, from experience, that to collect my friend’s conversation so as to exhibit it with any degree of its original flavour, it was necessary to write it down without delay. To record his sayings, after some distance of time, was like preserving or pickling long-kept and faded fruits, or other vegetables, which, when in that state, have little or nothing of their taste when fresh.
I shall present my readers with a series of what I gathered this evening from the Johnsonian garden.
‘My friend, the late Earl of Corke, had a great desire to maintain the literary character of his family[512]: he was a genteel man, but did not keep up the dignity of his rank. He was so generally civil, that nobody thanked him for it.’
‘Did we not hear so much said of Jack Wilkes, we should think more highly of his conversation. Jack has great variety of talk, Jack is a scholar, and Jack has the manners of a gentleman[513]. But after hearing his name sounded from pole to pole, as the phoenix of convivial felicity, we are disappointed in his company. He has always been _at me_: but I would do Jack a kindness, rather than not. The contest is now over[514].’
‘Garrick’s gaiety of conversation has delicacy and elegance: Foote makes you laugh more; but Foote has the air of a buffoon paid for entertaining the company. He, indeed, well deserves his hire[515].’
‘Colley Cibber once consulted me as to one of his birth-day Odes,[516] a long time before it was wanted. I objected very freely to several passages. Cibber lost patience, and would not read his Ode to an end. When we had done with criticism, we walked over to Richardson’s, the authour of _Clarissa_, and I wondered to find Richardson displeased that I “did not treat Gibber with more _respect_.” Now, Sir, to talk of _respect for a player_!’ (smiling disdainfully). BOSWELL. ‘There, Sir, you are always heretical: you never will allow merit to a player[517].’ JOHNSON. ‘Merit, Sir! what merit? Do you respect a rope-dancer, or a ballad-singer?’ BOSWELL. ‘No, Sir: but we respect a great player, as a man who can conceive lofty sentiments, and can express them gracefully.’ JOHNSON. ‘What, Sir, a fellow who claps a hump on his back, and a lump on his leg, and cries “_I am Richard the Third_[518]”? Nay, Sir, a ballad-singer is a higher man, for he does two things; he repeats and he sings: there is both recitation and musick in his performance: the player only recites.’ BOSWELL. ‘My dear Sir! you may turn anything into ridicule. I allow, that a player of farce is not entitled to respect; he does a little thing: but he who can represent exalted characters, and touch the noblest passions, has very respectable powers; and mankind have agreed in admiring great talents for the stage. We must consider, too, that a great player does what very few are capable to do: his art is a very rare faculty. _Who_ can repeat Hamlet’s soliloquy, “To be, or not to be,” as Garrick does it?’ JOHNSON. ‘Any body may. Jemmy, there (a boy about eight years old, who was in the room), will do it as well in a week[519].’ BOSWELL. ‘No, no, Sir: and as a proof of the merit of great acting, and of the value which mankind set upon it, Garrick has got a hundred thousand pounds.’ JOHNSON. ‘Is getting a hundred thousand pounds a proof of excellence? That has been done by a scoundrel commissary[520].’
This was most fallacious reasoning. I was sure, for once, that I had the best side of the argument. I boldly maintained the just distinction between a tragedian and a mere theatrical droll; between those who rouse our terrour and pity, and those who only make us laugh. ‘If (said I) Betterton and Foote were to walk into this room, you would respect Betterton much more than Foote.’ JOHNSON. ‘If Betterton were to walk into this room with Foote, Foote would soon drive him out of it. Foote, Sir, _quatenus_ Foote, has powers superiour to them all[521].’
On Monday, September 22, when at breakfast, I unguardedly said to Dr. Johnson, ‘I wish I saw you and Mrs. Macaulay[522] together.’ He grew very angry; and, after a pause, while a cloud gathered on his brow, he burst out, ‘No, Sir; you would not see us quarrel, to make you sport. Don’t you know that it is very uncivil to _pit_[523] two people against one another?’ Then, checking himself, and wishing to be more gentle, he added, ‘I do not say you should be hanged or drowned for this; but it _is_ very uncivil.’ Dr. Taylor thought him in the wrong, and spoke to him privately of it; but I afterwards acknowledged to Johnson that I was to blame, for I candidly owned, that I meant to express a desire to see a contest between Mrs. Macaulay and him; but then I knew how the contest would end; so that I was to see him triumph. JOHNSON. ‘Sir, you cannot be sure how a contest will end; and no man has a right to engage two people in a dispute by which their passions may be inflamed, and they may part with bitter resentment against each other. I would sooner keep company with a man from whom I must guard my pockets, than with a man who contrives to bring me into a dispute with somebody that he may hear it. This is the great fault of —-[524], (naming one of our friends) endeavouring to introduce a subject upon which he knows two people in the company differ.’ BOSWELL. ‘But he told me, Sir, he does it for instruction.’ JOHNSON. ‘Whatever the motive be, Sir, the man who does so, does very wrong. He has no more right to instruct himself at such risk, than he has to make two people fight a duel, that he may learn how to defend himself.’
He found great fault with a gentleman of our acquaintance for keeping a bad table[525]. ‘Sir, (said he,) when a man is invited to dinner, he is disappointed if he does not get something good. I advised Mrs. Thrale, who has no card-parties at her house, to give sweet-meats, and such good things, in an evening, as are not commonly given, and she would find company enough come to her; for every body loves to have things which please the palate put in their way, without trouble or preparation[526].’ Such was his attention to the _minutiae_ of life and manners.
He thus characterised the Duke of Devonshire[527], grandfather of the present representative of that very respectable family: ‘He was not a man of superiour abilities, but he was a man strictly faithful to his word. If, for instance, he had promised you an acorn, and none had grown that year in his woods, he would not have contented himself with that excuse; he would have sent to Denmark for it. So unconditional was he in keeping his word; so high as to the point of honour.’ This was a liberal testimony from the Tory Johnson to the virtue of a great Whig nobleman.
Mr. Burke’s _Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, on the affairs of America_, being mentioned, Johnson censured the composition much[528], and he ridiculed the definition of a free government, _viz_. ‘For any practical purpose, it is what the people think so[529].’–‘I will let the King of France govern me on those conditions, (said he,) for it is to be governed just as I please.’ And when Dr. Taylor talked of a girl being sent to a parish workhouse, and asked how much she could be obliged to work, ‘Why, (said Johnson,) as much as is reasonable: and what is that? as much as _she thinks_ reasonable.’
Dr. Johnson obligingly proposed to carry me to see Islam, a romantick scene, now belonging to a family of the name of Port, but formerly the seat of the Congreves[530]. I suppose it is well described in some of the Tours. Johnson described it distinctly and vividly, at which I could not but express to him my wonder; because, though my eyes, as he observed, were better than his, I could not by any means equal him in representing visible objects. I said, the difference between us in this respect was as that between a man who has a bad instrument, but plays well on it, and a man who has a good instrument, on which he can play very imperfectly[531].
I recollect a very fine amphitheatre, surrounded with hills covered with woods, and walks neatly formed along the side of a rocky steep, on the quarter next the house, with recesses under projections of rock, overshadowed with trees; in one of which recesses, we were told, Congreve wrote his _Old Bachelor_[532]. We viewed a remarkable natural curiosity at Islam; two rivers bursting near each other from the rock, not from immediate springs, but after having run for many miles under ground. Plott, in his _History of Staffordshire_[533], gives an account of this curiosity; but Johnson would not believe it, though we had the attestation of the gardener, who said, he had put in corks, where the river _Manyfold_ sinks into the ground, and had catched them in a net, placed before one of the openings where the water bursts out. Indeed, such subterraneous courses of water are found in various parts of our globe[534].
Talking of Dr. Johnson’s unwillingness to believe extraordinary things[535], I ventured to say, ‘Sir, you come near Hume’s argument against miracles, “That it is more probable witnesses should lie, or be mistaken, than that they should happen[536].”‘ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, Hume, taking the proposition simply, is right. But the Christian revelation is not proved by the miracles alone, but as connected with prophecies, and with the doctrines in confirmation of which the miracles were wrought.’
He repeated his observation, that the differences among Christians are really of no consequence[537]. ‘For instance, (said he,) if a Protestant objects to a Papist, “You worship images;” the Papist can answer, “I do not insist on _your_ doing it; you may be a very good Papist without it: I do it only as a help to my devotion.”‘ I said, the great article of Christianity is the revelation of immortality. Johnson admitted it was.
In the evening, a gentleman-farmer, who was on a visit at Dr. Taylor’s, attempted to dispute with Johnson in favour of Mungo Campbell, who shot Alexander, Earl of Eglintoune[538] upon his having fallen, when retreating from his Lordship, who he believed was about to seize his gun, as he had threatened to do. He said, he should have done just as Campbell did. JOHNSON. ‘Whoever would do as Campbell did, deserves to be hanged; not that I could, as a juryman, have found him legally guilty of murder; but I am glad they found means to convict him.’ The gentleman-farmer said, ‘A poor man has as much honour as a rich man; and Campbell had _that_ to defend.’ Johnson exclaimed, ‘A poor man has no honour.’ The English yeoman, not dismayed, proceeded: ‘Lord Eglintoune was a damned fool to run on upon Campbell, after being warned that Campbell would shoot him if he did.’ Johnson, who could not bear any thing like swearing[539], angrily replied, ‘He was _not_ a _damned_ fool: he only thought too well of Campbell. He did not believe Campbell would be such a _damned_ scoundrel, as to do so _damned_ a thing.’ His emphasis on _damned_, accompanied with frowning looks, reproved his opponent’s want of decorum in _his_ presence.
Talking of the danger of being mortified by rejection, when making approaches to the acquaintance of the great, I observed: ‘I am, however, generally for trying, “Nothing venture, nothing have.”‘[540] JOHNSON. ‘Very true, Sir; but I have always been more afraid of failing, than hopeful of success.’ And, indeed, though he had all just respect for rank, no man ever less courted the favour of the great.
During this interview at Ashbourne, Johnson seemed to be more uniformly social, cheerful, and alert, than I had almost ever seen him. He was prompt on great occasions and on small. Taylor, who praised every thing of his own to excess; in short, ‘whose geese were all swans,’ as the proverb says, expatiated on the excellence of his bull-dog, which, he told us, was ‘perfectly well shaped.’ Johnson, after examining the animal attentively, thus repressed the vain-glory of our host:–‘No, Sir, he is _not_ well shaped; for there is not the quick transition from the thickness of the fore-part, to the _tenuity_–the thin part– behind,–which a bull-dog ought to have.’ This _tenuity_ was the only _hard word_ that I heard him use during this interview, and it will be observed, he instantly put another expression in its place. Taylor said, a small bull-dog was as good as a large one. JOHNSON, ‘No, Sir; for, in proportion to his size, he has strength: and your argument would prove, that a good bull-dog may be as small as a mouse.’ It was amazing how he entered with perspicuity and keenness upon every thing that occurred in conversation. Most men, whom I know, would no more think of discussing a question about a bull-dog, than of attacking a bull.
I cannot allow any fragment whatever that floats in my memory concerning the great subject of this work to be lost. Though a small particular may appear trifling to some, it will be relished by others; while every little spark adds something to the general blaze: and to please the true, candid, warm admirers of Johnson, and in any degree increase the splendour of his reputation, I bid defiance to the shafts of ridicule, or even of malignity. Showers of them have been discharged at my _Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides_; yet it still sails unhurt along the stream of time, and, as an attendant upon Johnson,
‘Pursues the triumph, and partakes the gale[541].’
One morning after breakfast, when the sun shone bright, we walked out together, and ‘pored[542]’ for some time with placid indolence upon an artificial water-fall, which Dr. Taylor had made by building a strong dyke of stone across the river behind the garden[543]. It was now somewhat obstructed by branches of trees and other rubbish, which had come down the river, and settled close to it. Johnson, partly from a desire to see it play more freely, and partly from that inclination to activity which will animate, at times, the most inert and sluggish mortal, took a long pole which was lying on a bank, and pushed down several parcels of this wreck with painful assiduity, while I stood quietly by, wondering to behold the sage thus curiously employed, and smiling with an humorous satisfaction each time when he carried his point. He worked till he was quite out of breath; and having found a large dead cat so heavy that he could not move it after several efforts, ‘Come,’ said he, (throwing down the pole,) ‘_you_ shall take it now;’ which I accordingly did, and being a fresh man, soon made the cat tumble over the cascade. This may be laughed at as too trifling to record; but it is a small characteristick trait in the Flemish picture which I give of my friend, and in which, therefore, I mark the most minute particulars. And let it be remembered, that _AEsop at play_ is one of the instructive apologues of antiquity.
I mentioned an old gentleman of our acquaintance whose memory was beginning to fail. JOHNSON. ‘There must be a diseased mind, where there is a failure of memory at seventy. A man’s head, Sir, must be morbid, if he fails so soon.'[544] My friend, being now himself sixty-eight, might think thus: but I imagine, that _threescore and ten_, the Psalmist’s period of sound human life in later ages, may have a failure, though there be no disease in the constitution.
Talking of Rochester’s Poems, he said, he had given them to Mr. Steevens to castrate for the edition of the poets, to which he was to write Prefaces. Dr. Taylor (the only time I ever heard him say any thing witty)[545] observed, that ‘if Rochester had been castrated himself, his exceptionable poems would not have been written.'[546] I asked if Burnet had not given a good Life of Rochester. JOHNSON. ‘We have a good _Death_: there is not much _Life_[547].’
I asked whether Prior’s Poems were to be printed entire: Johnson said they were. I mentioned Lord Hailes’s censure of Prior, in his Preface to a collection of _Sacred Poems_, by various hands, published by him at Edinburgh a great many years ago, where he mentions, ‘those impure tales which will be the eternal opprobrium of their ingenious authour.’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, Lord Hailes has forgot. There is nothing in Prior that will excite to lewdness. If Lord Hailes thinks there is, he must be more combustible than other people[548].’
I instanced the tale of _Paulo Purganti and his Wife_. JOHNSON. ‘Sir, there is nothing there, but that his wife wanted to be kissed when poor Paulo was out of pocket. No, Sir, Prior is a lady’s book. No lady is ashamed to have it standing in her library.’
The hypochondriack disorder being mentioned, Dr. Johnson did not think it so common as I supposed. ‘Dr. Taylor (said he) is the same one day as another. Burke and Reynolds are the same; Beauclerk, except when in pain, is the same. I am not so myself; but this I do not mention commonly[549].’
I complained of a wretched changefulness, so that I could not preserve, for any long continuance, the same views of any thing. It was most comfortable to me to experience, in Dr. Johnson’s company, a relief from this uneasiness. His steady vigorous mind held firm before me those objects which my own feeble and tremulous imagination frequently presented, in such a wavering state, that my reason could not judge well of them.
Dr. Johnson advised me to-day, to have as many books about me as I could; that I might read upon any subject upon which I had a desire for instruction at the time. ‘What you read _then_ (said he) you will remember; but if you have not a book immediately ready, and the subject moulds in your mind, it is a chance if you again have a desire to study it.’ He added, ‘If a man never has an eager desire for instruction, he should prescribe a task for himself. But it is better when a man reads from immediate inclination[550].’
He repeated a good many lines of Horace’s _Odes_, while we were in the chaise. I remember particularly the Ode _Eheu fugaces_[551].
He said, the dispute as to the comparative excellence of Homer or Virgil[552] was inaccurate. ‘We must consider (said he) whether Homer was not the greatest poet, though Virgil may have produced the finest poem. Virgil was indebted to Homer for the whole invention of the structure of an epick poem, and for many of his beauties.’
He told me that Bacon was a favourite authour with him[553]; but he had never read his works till he was compiling the _English Dictionary_, in which, he said, I might see Bacon very often quoted. Mr. Seward recollects his having mentioned, that a Dictionary of the English Language might be compiled from Bacon’s writings alone[554], and that he had once an intention of giving an edition of Bacon, at least of his English works, and writing the Life of that great man. Had he executed this intention, there can be no doubt that he would have done it in a most masterly manner. Mallet’s _Life of Bacon_ has no inconsiderable merit as an acute and elegant dissertation relative to its subject; but Mallet’s mind was not comprehensive enough to embrace the vast extent of Lord Verulam’s genius and research. Dr. Warburton therefore observed, with witty justness, ‘that Mallet, in his _Life of Bacon_, had forgotten that he was a philosopher; and if he should write the Life of the Duke of Marlborough, which he had undertaken to do, he would probably forget that he was a general[555].’
Wishing to be satisfied what degree of truth there was in a story which a friend of Johnson’s and mine had told me to his disadvantage, I mentioned it to him in direct terms; and it was to this effect: that a gentleman[556] who had lived in great intimacy with him, shewn him much kindness, and even relieved him from a spunging-house, having afterwards fallen into bad circumstances, was one day, when Johnson was at dinner with him, seized for debt, and carried to prison; that Johnson sat still undisturbed, and went on eating and drinking; upon which the gentleman’s sister, who was present, could not suppress her indignation: ‘What, Sir, (said she,) are you so unfeeling, as not even to offer to go to my brother in his distress; you who have been so much obliged to him?’ And that Johnson answered, ‘Madam, I owe him no obligation; what he did for me he would have done for a dog.’
Johnson assured me, that the story was absolutely false: but like a man conscious of being in the right, and desirous of completely vindicating himself from such a charge, he did not arrogantly rest on a mere denial, and on his general character, but proceeded thus:–‘Sir, I was very intimate with that gentleman, and was once relieved by him from an arrest; but I never was present when he was arrested, never knew that he was arrested, and I believe he never was in difficulties after the time when he relieved me. I loved him much; yet, in talking of his general character, I may have said, though I do not remember that I ever did say so, that as his generosity proceeded from no principle, but was a part of his profusion, he would do for a dog what he would do for a friend: but I never applied this remark to any particular instance, and certainly not to his kindness to me. If a profuse man, who does not value his money, and gives a large sum to a whore, gives half as much, or an equally large sum to relieve a friend, it cannot be esteemed as virtue. This was all that I could say of that gentleman; and, if said at all, it must have been said after his death. Sir, I would have gone to the world’s end to relieve him. The remark about the dog, if made by me, was such a sally as might escape one when painting a man highly.’
On Tuesday, September 23, Johnson was remarkably cordial to me. It being necessary for me to return to Scotland soon, I had fixed on the next day for my setting out, and I felt a tender concern at the thought of parting with him. He had, at this time, frankly communicated to me many particulars, which are inserted in this work in their proper places; and once, when I happened to mention that the expence of my jaunt would come to much more than I had computed, he said, ‘Why, Sir, if the expence were to be an inconvenience, you would have reason to regret it: but, if you have had the money to spend, I know not that you could have purchased as much pleasure with it in any other way.’
During this interview at Ashbourne, Johnson and I frequently talked with wonderful pleasure of mere trifles which had occurred in our tour to the Hebrides; for it had left a most agreeable and lasting impression upon his mind.
He found fault with me for using the phrase to _make_ money. ‘Don’t you see (said he) the impropriety of it? To _make_ money is to _coin_ it: you should say _get_ money.’ The phrase, however, is, I think, pretty current[557]. But Johnson was at all times jealous of infractions upon the genuine English language, and prompt to repress colloquial barbarisms; such as, _pledging myself_, for _undertaking_; _line_, for _department_, or _branch_, as, the _civil line_, the _banking line_. He was particularly indignant against the almost universal use of the word _idea_ in the sense of _notion_ or _opinion_, when it is clear that _idea_ can only signify something of which an image can be formed in the mind[558]. We may have an _idea_ or _image_ of a mountain, a tree, a building; but we cannot surely have an _idea_ or _image_ of an _argument_ or _proposition_. Yet we hear the sages of the law ‘delivering their _ideas_ upon the question under consideration;’ and the first speakers in parliament ‘entirely coinciding in the _idea_ which has been ably stated by an honourable member;’–or ‘reprobating an _idea_ unconstitutional, and fraught with the most dangerous consequences to a great and free country.’ Johnson called this ‘modern cant[559].’
I perceived that he pronounced the word _heard_, as if spelt with a double _e, heerd_, instead of sounding it _herd_, as is most usually done. He said, his reason was, that if it was pronounced _herd_, there would be a single exception from the English pronunciation of the syllable _ear_, and he thought it better not to have that exception.
He praised Grainger’s _Ode on Solitude_, in Dodsley’s _Collection_, and repeated, with great energy, the exordium:–
‘O Solitude, romantick maid,
Whether by nodding towers you tread; Or haunt the desart’s trackless gloom,
Or hover o’er the yawning tomb;
Or climb the Andes’ clifted side,
Or by the Nile’s coy source abide;
Or, starting from your half-year’s sleep, From Hecla view the thawing deep;
Or, at the purple dawn of day,
Tadnor’s marble waste survey[560]’;
observing, ‘This, Sir, is very noble.’
In the evening our gentleman-farmer, and two others, entertained themselves and the company with a great number of tunes on the fiddle. Johnson desired to have ‘Let ambition fire thy mind[561],’ played over again, and appeared to give a patient attention to it; though he owned to me that he was very insensible to the power of musick[562]. I told him, that it affected me to such a degree, as often to agitate my nerves painfully, producing in my mind alternate sensations of pathetick dejection, so that I was ready to shed tears; and of daring resolution, so that I was inclined to rush into the thickest part of the battle. ‘Sir, (said he,) I should never hear it, if it made me such a fool.’
Much of the effect of musick, I am satisfied, is owing to the association of ideas. That air, which instantly and irresistibly excites in the Swiss, when in a foreign land, the _maladie du pais_, has, I am told, no intrinsick power of sound. And I know from my own experience, that Scotch reels, though brisk, make me melancholy, because I used to hear them in my early years, at a time when Mr. Pitt called for soldiers ‘from the mountains of the north,’ and numbers of brave Highlanders were going abroad, never to return[563]. Whereas the airs in _The Beggar’s Opera_, many of which are very soft, never fail to render me gay, because they are associated with the warm sensations and high spirits of London. This evening, while some of the tunes of ordinary composition were played with no great skill, my frame was agitated, and I was conscious of a generous attachment to Dr. Johnson, as my preceptor and friend, mixed with an affectionate regret that he was an old man, whom I should probably lose in a short time. I thought I could defend him at the point of my sword. My reverence and affection for him were in full glow. I said to him, ‘My dear Sir, we must meet every year, if you don’t quarrel with me.’ JOHNSON. ‘Nay, Sir, you are more likely to quarrel with me, than I with you. My regard for you is greater almost than I have words to express; but I do not choose to be always repeating it; write it down in the first leaf of your pocket-book, and never doubt of it again.’
I talked to him of misery being ‘the doom of man’ in this life, as displayed in his _Vanity of Human Wishes_[564]’. Yet I observed that things were done upon the supposition of happiness; grand houses were built, fine gardens were made, splendid places of publick amusement were contrived, and crowded with company. JOHNSON. ‘Alas, Sir, these are all only struggles for happiness. When I first entered Ranelagh[565], it gave an expansion and gay sensation to my mind, such as I never experienced any where else. But, as Xerxes wept when he viewed his immense army, and considered that not one of that great multitude would be alive a hundred years afterwards, so it went to my heart to consider that there was not one in all that brilliant circle, that was not afraid to go home and think; but that the thoughts of each individual there, would be distressing when alone.’ This reflection was experimentally just. The feeling of languor[566], which succeeds the animation of gaiety, is itself a very severe pain; and when the mind is then vacant, a thousand disappointments and vexations rush in and excruciate. Will not many even of my fairest readers allow this to be true?
I suggested, that being in love, and flattered with hopes of success; or having some favourite scheme in view for the next day, might prevent that wretchedness of which we had been talking. JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, it may sometimes be so as you suppose; but my conclusion is in general but too true.’
While Johnson and I stood in calm conference by ourselves in Dr. Taylor’s garden, at a pretty late hour in a serene autumn night, looking up to the heavens, I directed the discourse to the subject of a future state. My friend was in a placid and most benignant frame. ‘Sir, (said he,) I do not imagine that all things will be made clear to us immediately after death, but that the ways of Providence will be explained to us very gradually.’ I ventured to ask him whether, although the words of some texts of Scripture seemed strong in support of the dreadful doctrine of an eternity of punishment, we might not hope that the denunciation was figurative, and would not literally be executed. JOHNSON. ‘Sir, you are to consider the intention of punishment in a future state. We have no reason to be sure that we shall then be no longer liable to offend against GOD. We do not know that even the angels are quite in a state of security; nay we know that some of them have fallen. It may, therefore, perhaps be necessary, in order to preserve both men and angels in a state of rectitude, that they should have continually before them the punishment of those who have deviated from it; but we may hope that by some other means a fall from rectitude may be prevented. Some of the texts of Scripture upon this subject are, as you observe, indeed strong; but they may admit of a mitigated interpretation.’ He talked to me upon this awful and delicate question in a gentle tone, and as if afraid to be decisive[567].
After supper I accompanied him to his apartment, and at my request he dictated to me an argument in favour of the negro who was then claiming his liberty, in an action in the Court of Session in Scotland[568]. He had always been very zealous against slavery in every form, in which I, with all deference, thought that he discovered ‘a zeal without knowledge[569].’ Upon one occasion, when in company with some very grave men at Oxford, his toast was, ‘Here’s to the next insurrection of the negroes in the West Indies[570].’ His violent prejudice against our West Indian and American settlers appeared whenever there was an opportunity[571]. Towards the conclusion of his _Taxation no Tyranny_, he says, ‘how is it that we hear the loudest _yelps_ for liberty among the drivers of negroes[572]?’ and in his conversation with Mr. Wilkes, he asked, ‘Where did Beckford and Trecothick learn English[573]?’ That Trecothick could both speak and write good English is well known. I myself was favoured with his correspondence concerning the brave Corsicans. And that Beckford could speak it with a spirit of honest resolution even to his Majesty, as his ‘faithful Lord-Mayor of London,’ is commemorated by the noble monument erected to him in Guildhall[574].’
The argument dictated by Dr. Johnson was as follows:–
‘It must be agreed that in most ages many countries have had part of their inhabitants in a state of slavery[575]; yet it may be doubted whether slavery can ever be supposed the natural condition of man. It is impossible not to conceive that men in their original state were equal[576]; and very difficult to imagine how one would be subjected to another but by violent compulsion. An individual may, indeed, forfeit his liberty by a crime; but he cannot by that crime forfeit the liberty of his children[577]. What is true of a criminal seems true likewise of a captive. A man may accept life from a conquering enemy on condition of perpetual servitude; but it is very doubtful whether he can entail that servitude on his descendants; for no man can stipulate without commission for another. The condition which he himself accepts, his son or grandson perhaps would have rejected. If we should admit, what perhaps may with more reason be denied, that there are certain relations between man and man which may make slavery necessary and just, yet it can never be proved that he who is now suing for his freedom ever stood in any of those relations. He is certainly subject by no law, but that of violence, to his present master; who pretends no claim to his obedience, but that he bought him from a merchant of slaves, whose right to sell him never was examined. It is said that, according to the constitutions of Jamaica, he was legally enslaved; these constitutions are merely positive; and apparently injurious to the rights of mankind, because whoever is exposed to sale is condemned to slavery without appeal; by whatever fraud or violence he might have been originally brought into the merchant’s power. In our own time Princes have been sold, by wretches to whose care they were entrusted, that they might have an European education; but when once they were brought to a market in the plantations, little would avail either their dignity or their wrongs. The laws of Jamaica afford a Negro no redress. His colour is considered as a sufficient testimony against him. It is to be lamented that moral right should ever give way to political convenience. But if temptations of interest are sometimes too strong for human virtue, let us at least retain a virtue where there is no temptation to quit it. In the present case there is apparent right on one side, and no convenience on the other. Inhabitants of this island can neither gain riches nor power by taking away the liberty of any part of the human species. The sum of the argument is this:–No man is by nature the property of another: The defendant is, therefore, by nature free: The rights of nature must be some way forfeited before they can be justly taken away: That the defendant has by any act forfeited the rights of nature we require to be proved; and if no proof of such forfeiture can be given, we doubt not but the justice of the court will declare him free.’
I record Dr. Johnson’s argument fairly upon this particular case; where, perhaps, he was in the right. But I beg leave to enter my most solemn protest against his general doctrine with respect to the _Slave Trade_. For I will resolutely say–that his unfavourable notion of it was owing to prejudice, and imperfect or false information. The wild and dangerous attempt which has for some time been persisted in to obtain an act of our Legislature, to abolish so very important and necessary a branch of commercial interest[578], must have been crushed at once, had not the insignificance of the zealots who vainly took the lead in it, made the vast body of Planters, Merchants, and others, whose immense properties are involved in that trade, reasonably enough suppose that there could be no danger. The encouragement which the attempt has received excites my wonder and indignation: and though some men of superiour abilities have supported it; whether from a love of temporary popularity, when prosperous; or a love of general mischief, when desperate, my opinion is unshaken. To abolish a _status_, which in all ages GOD has sanctioned, and man has continued, would not only be _robbery_ to an innumerable class of our fellow-subjects; but it would be extreme cruelty to the African Savages, a portion of whom it saves from massacre, or intolerable bondage in their own country, and introduces into a much happier state of life; especially now when their passage to the West-Indies and their treatment there is humanely regulated. To abolish that trade would be to
‘–shut the gates of mercy on mankind[579]’.
Whatever may have passed elsewhere concerning it, the HOUSE OF LORDS is wise and independent:
_Intaminatis fulget honoribus;
Nec sumit aut ponit secures
Arbitrio popularis aurae_[580].
I have read, conversed, and thought much upon the subject, and would recommend to all who are capable of conviction, an excellent Tract by my learned and ingenious friend John Ranby, Esq., entitled _Doubts on the Abolition of the Slave Trade_. To Mr. Ranby’s _Doubts_ I will apply Lord Chancellor Hardwicke’s expression in praise of a Scotch Law Book, called _Dirletons Doubts_; HIS _Doubts_, (said his Lordship,) are better than most people’s _Certainties_[581].
When I said now to Johnson, that I was afraid I kept him too late up. ‘No, Sir, (said he,) I don’t care though I sit all night with you[582].’ This was an animated speech from a man in his sixty-ninth year.
Had I been as attentive not to displease him as I ought to have been, I know not but this vigil might have been fulfilled; but I unluckily entered upon the controversy concerning the right of Great-Britain to tax America, and attempted to argue in favour of our fellow-subjects on the other side of the Atlantick[583]. I insisted that America might be very well governed, and made to yield sufficient revenue by the means of _influence_[584], as exemplified in Ireland, while the people might be pleased with the imagination of their participating of the British constitution, by having a body of representatives, without whose consent money could not be exacted from them. Johnson could not bear my thus opposing his avowed opinion, which he had exerted himself with an extreme degree of heat to enforce; and the violent agitation into which he was thrown, while answering, or rather reprimanding me, alarmed me so, that I heartily repented of my having unthinkingly introduced the subject. I myself, however, grew warm, and the change was great, from the calm state of philosophical discussion in which we had a little before been pleasingly employed.
I talked of the corruption of the British Parliament, in which I alleged that any question, however unreasonable or unjust, might be carried by a venal majority; and I spoke with high admiration of the Roman Senate, as if composed of men sincerely desirous to resolve what they should think best for their country[585]. My friend would allow no such character to the Roman Senate; and he maintained that the British Parliament was not corrupt, and that there was no occasion to corrupt its members; asserting, that there was hardly ever any question of great importance before Parliament, any question in which a man might not very well vote either upon one side or the other. He said there had been none in his time except that respecting America.
We were fatigued by the contest, which was produced by my want of caution; and he was not then in the humour to slide into easy and cheerful talk. It therefore so happened, that we were after an hour or two very willing to separate and go to bed[586].
On Wednesday, September 24, I went into Dr. Johnson’s room before he got up, and finding that the storm of the preceding night was quite laid, I sat down upon his bed-side, and he talked with as much readiness and good-humour as ever. He recommended to me to plant a considerable part of a large moorish farm which I had purchased[587], and he made several calculations of the expence and profit: for he delighted in exercising his mind on the science of numbers[588]. He pressed upon me the importance of planting at the first in a very sufficient manner, quoting the saying ‘_In bello non licet bis errare_:’ and adding, ‘this is equally true in planting.’
I spoke with gratitude of Dr. Taylor’s hospitality; and, as evidence that it was not on account of his good table alone that Johnson visited him often, I mentioned a little anecdote which had escaped my friend’s recollection, and at hearing which repeated, he smiled. One evening, when I was sitting with him, Frank delivered this message: ‘Sir, Dr. Taylor sends his compliments to you, and begs you will dine with him to-morrow. He has got a hare.’–‘My compliments (said Johnson) and I’ll dine with him–hare or rabbit.’
After breakfast I departed, and pursued my journey northwards[589]. I took my post-chaise from the Green Man, a very good inn at Ashbourne, the mistress of which, a mighty civil gentlewoman, courtseying very low, presented me with an engraving of the sign of her house; to which she had subjoined, in her own hand-writing, an address in such singular simplicity of style, that I have preserved it pasted upon one of the boards of my original Journal at this time, and shall here insert it for the amusement of my readers:–
‘_M. KILLINGLEY’s duty waits upon_ Mr. Boswell, _is exceedingly obliged to him for this favour; whenever he comes this way, hopes for a continuance of the same. Would_ Mr. Boswell _name the house to his extensive acquaintance, it would be a singular favour conferr’d on one who has it not in her power to make any other return but her most grateful thanks, and sincerest prayers for his happiness in time, and in a blessed eternity.
‘Tuesday morn_.’
From this meeting at Ashbourne I derived a considerable accession to my Johnsonian store. I communicated my original Journal to Sir William Forbes, in whom I have always placed deserved confidence; and what he wrote to me concerning it is so much to my credit as the biographer of Johnson, that my readers will, I hope, grant me their indulgence for here inserting it[590]: ‘It is not once or twice going over it (says Sir William,) that will satisfy me; for I find in it a high degree of instruction as well as entertainment; and I derive more benefit from Dr. Johnson’s admirable discussions than I should be able to draw from his personal conversation; for, I suppose there is not a man in the world to whom he discloses his sentiments so freely as to yourself.’
I cannot omit a curious circumstance which occurred at Edensor-inn, close by Chatsworth, to survey the magnificence of which I had gone a considerable way out of my road to Scotland. The inn was then kept by a very jolly landlord, whose name, I think, was Malton. He happened to mention that ‘the celebrated Dr. Johnson had been in his house.’ I inquired _who_ this Dr. Johnson was, that I might hear mine host’s notion of him. ‘Sir, (said he,) Johnson, the great writer; _Oddity_, as they call him. He’s the greatest writer in England; he writes for the ministry; he has a correspondence abroad, and lets them know what’s going on[591].’
My friend, who had a thorough dependance upon the authenticity of my relation without any _embellishment_[592], as _falsehood_ or _fiction_ is too gently called, laughed a good deal at this representation of himself.
‘MR. BOSWELL TO DR. JOHNSON.
‘Edinburgh, Sept. 29, 1777.
‘MY DEAR SIR,
‘By the first post I inform you of my safe arrival at my own house, and that I had the comfort of finding my wife and children all in good health.
‘When I look back upon our late interview, it appears to me to have answered expectation better than almost any scheme of happiness that I ever put in execution. My Journal is stored with wisdom and wit[593]; and my memory is filled with the recollection of lively and affectionate feelings, which now, I think, yield me more satisfaction than at the time when they were first excited. I have experienced this upon other occasions. I shall be obliged to you if you will explain it to me; for it seems wonderful that pleasure should be more vivid at a distance than when near. I wish you may find yourself in a humour to do me this favour; but I flatter myself with no strong hope of it; for I have observed, that unless upon very serious occasions, your letters to me are not answers to those which I write[594].’
[I then expressed much uneasiness that I had mentioned to him the name of the gentleman[595] who had told me the story so much to his disadvantage, the truth of which he had completely refuted; for that my having done so might be interpreted as a breach of confidence, and offend one whose society I valued:–therefore earnestly requesting that no notice might be taken of it to anybody, till I should be in London, and have an opportunity to talk it over with the gentleman.]
‘To JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.
‘DEAR SIR,
‘You will wonder, or you have wondered, why no letter has come from me. What you wrote at your return, had in it such a strain of cowardly caution as gave me no pleasure. I could not well do what you wished; I had no need to vex you with a refusal. I have seen Mr. —-[596], and as to him have set all right, without any inconvenience, so far as I know, to you. Mrs. Thrale had forgot the story. You may now be at ease.
‘And at ease I certainly wish you, for the kindness that you showed in coming so long a journey to see me. It was pity to keep you so long in pain, but, upon reviewing the matter, I do not see what I could have done better than as I did.
‘I hope you found at your return my dear enemy[597] and all her little people quite well, and had no reason to repent of your journey. I think on it with great gratitude.
‘I was not well when you left me at the Doctor’s, and I grew worse; yet I staid on, and at Lichfield was very ill. Travelling, however, did not make me worse; and when I came to London, I complied with a summons to go to Brighthelmston, where I saw Beauclerk, and staid three days.
‘Our CLUB has recommenced last Friday, but I was not there. Langton has another wench[598]. Mrs. Thrale is in hopes of a young brewer[599]. They got by their trade last year a very large sum[600], and their expenses are proportionate.
‘Mrs. Williams’s health is very bad. And I have had for some time a very difficult and laborious respiration; but I am better by purges, abstinence, and other methods. I am yet, however, much behind hand in my health and rest.
‘Dr. Blair’s Sermons are now universally commended; but let him think that I had the honour of first finding and first praising his excellencies. I did not stay to add my voice to that of the publick[601].
‘My dear friend, let me thank you once more for your visit; you did me great honour, and I hope met with nothing that displeased you. I staid long at Ashbourne, not much pleased, yet aukward at departing. I then went to Lichfield, where I found my friend at Stow-hill[602] very dangerously diseased. Such is life. Let us try to pass it well, whatever it be, for there is surely something beyond it.
‘Well, now I hope all is well, write as soon as you can to, dear Sir, ‘Your affectionate servant,
‘SAM. JOHNSON.’
‘London, Nov. 25, 1777.’
‘To DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.
‘Edinburgh, Nov. 29, 1777.
‘My DEAR SIR,
‘This day’s post has at length relieved me from much uneasiness, by bringing me a letter from you. I was, indeed, doubly uneasy;–on my own account and yours. I was very anxious to be secured against any bad consequences from my imprudence in mentioning the gentleman’s name who had told me a story to your disadvantage; and as I could hardly suppose it possible, that you would delay so long to make me easy, unless you were ill, I was not a little apprehensive about you. You must not be offended when I venture to tell you that you appear to me to have been too rigid upon this occasion. The “_cowardly caution which gave you no pleasure_,” was suggested to me by a friend here, to whom I mentioned the strange story and the detection of its falsity, as an instance how one may be deceived by what is apparently very good authority. But, as I am still persuaded, that as I might have obtained the truth, without mentioning the gentleman’s name, it was wrong in me to do it, I cannot see that you are just in blaming my caution. But if you were ever so just in your disapprobation, might you not have dealt more tenderly with