more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear but his skin.’
1769: AETAT. 60.—In 1769, so far as I can discover, the publick was favoured with nothing of Johnson’s composition, either for himself or any of his friends[200]. His Meditations[201] too strongly prove that he suffered much both in body and mind; yet was he perpetually striving against evil, and nobly endeavouring to advance his intellectual and devotional improvement. Every generous and grateful heart must feel for the distresses of so eminent a benefactor to mankind; and now that his unhappiness is certainly known, must respect that dignity of character which prevented him from complaining.
His Majesty having the preceding year instituted the Royal Academy of Arts in London, Johnson had now the honour of being appointed Professor in Ancient Literature[202]. In the course of the year he wrote some letters to Mrs. Thrale, passed some part of the summer at Oxford and at Lichfield, and when at Oxford wrote the following letter:
‘To THE REVEREND MR. THOMAS WARTON.
‘DEAR SIR,
‘Many years ago, when I used to read in the library of your College, I promised to recompence the College for that permission, by adding to their books a Baskerville’s Virgil. I have now sent it, and desire you to reposit it on the shelves in my name[203].
‘If you will be pleased to let me know when you have an hour of leisure, I will drink tea with you. I am engaged for the afternoon, to-morrow and on Friday: all my mornings are my own[204].
‘I am, &c.,
‘SAM. JOHNSON.’
‘May 31, 1769.’
I came to London in the autumn, and having informed him that I was going to be married in a few months, I wished to have as much of his conversation as I could before engaging in a state of life which would probably keep me more in Scotland, and prevent me seeing him so often as when I was a single man; but I found he was at Brighthelmstone with Mr. and Mrs. Thrale. I was very sorry that I had not his company with me at the Jubilee, in honour of Shakspeare, at Stratford-upon-Avon, the great poet’s native town[205]. Johnson’s connection both with Shakspeare and Garrick founded a double claim to his presence; and it would have been highly gratifying to Mr. Garrick. Upon this occasion I particularly lamented that he had not that warmth of friendship for his brilliant pupil, which we may suppose would have had a benignant effect on both[206]. When almost every man of eminence in the literary world was happy to partake in this festival of genius, the absence of Johnson could not but be wondered at and regretted. The only trace of him there, was in the whimsical advertisement of a haberdasher, who sold Shakspearian ribbands of various dyes; and, by way of illustrating their appropriation to the bard, introduced a line from the celebrated Prologue[207] at the opening of Drury-lane theatre:
‘Each change of many-colour’d life he drew.’
From Brighthelmstone Dr. Johnson wrote me the following letter, which they who may think that I ought to have suppressed, must have less ardent feelings than I have always avowed[208].
‘To JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.
‘DEAR SIR,
‘Why do you charge me with unkindness? I have omitted nothing that could do you good, or give you pleasure, unless it be that I have forborne to tell you my opinion of your Account of Corsica. I believe my opinion, if you think well of my judgement, might have given you pleasure; but when it is considered how much vanity is excited by praise, I am not sure that it would have done you good. Your History is like other histories, but your Journal is in a very high degree curious and delightful. There is between the History and the Journal that difference which there will always be found between notions borrowed from without, and notions generated within. Your History was copied from books; your Journal rose out of your own experience and observation. You express images which operated strongly upon yourself, and you have impressed them with great force upon your readers. I know not whether I could name any narrative by which curiosity is better excited, or better gratified.
‘I am glad that you are going to be married; and as I wish you well in things of less importance, wish you well with proportionate ardour in this crisis of your life. What I can contribute to your happiness, I should be very unwilling to with-hold; for I have always loved and valued you, and shall love you and value you still more, as you become more regular and useful: effects which a happy marriage will hardly fail to produce.
‘I do not find that I am likely to come back very soon from this place. I shall, perhaps, stay a fortnight longer; and a fortnight is a long time to a lover absent from his mistress. Would a fortnight ever have an end?
‘I am, dear Sir,
‘Your most affectionate humble servant,
‘SAM. JOHNSON.’
‘Brighthelmstone,
Sept. 9, 1769.’
After his return to town, we met frequently, and I continued the practice of making notes of his conversation, though not with so much assiduity as I wish I had done. At this time, indeed, I had a sufficient excuse for not being able to appropriate so much time to my Journal; for General Paoli[209], after Corsica had been overpowered by the monarchy of France, was now no longer at the head of his brave countrymen, but having with difficulty escaped from his native island, had sought an asylum in Great Britain; and it was my duty, as well as my pleasure, to attend much upon him[210]. Such particulars of Johnson’s conversation at this period as I have committed to writing, I shall here introduce, without any strict attention to methodical arrangement. Sometimes short notes of different days shall be blended together, and sometimes a day may seem important enough to be separately distinguished.
He said, he would not have Sunday kept with rigid severity and gloom, but with a gravity and simplicity of behaviour[211].
I told him that David Hume had made a short collection of
Scotticisms[212]. ‘I wonder, (said Johnson,) that he should find them.’
He would not admit the importance of the question concerning the legality of general warrants[213]. ‘Such a power’ (he observed,) ‘must be vested in every government, to answer particular cases of necessity; and there can be no just complaint but when it is abused, for which those who administer government must be answerable. It is a matter of such indifference, a matter about which the people care so very little, that were a man to be sent over Britain to offer them an exemption from it at a halfpenny a piece, very few would purchase it.’ This was a specimen of that laxity of talking, which I have heard him fairly acknowledge[214]; for, surely, while the power of granting general warrants was supposed to be legal, and the apprehension of them hung over our heads, we did not possess that security of freedom, congenial to our happy constitution, and which, by the intrepid exertions of Mr. Wilkes, has been happily established.
He said, ‘The duration of Parliament, whether for seven years or the life of the King, appears to me so immaterial, that I would not give half a crown to turn the scale one way or the other[215]. The habeas corpus is the single advantage which our government has over that of other countries.’
On the 30th of September we dined together at the Mitre. I attempted to argue for the superior happiness of the savage life, upon the usual fanciful topicks. JOHNSON. ‘Sir, there can be nothing more false. The savages have no bodily advantages beyond those of civilised men. They have not better health; and as to care or mental uneasiness, they are not above it, but below it, like bears. No, Sir; you are not to talk such paradox[216]: let me have no more on’t. It cannot entertain, far less can it instruct. Lord Monboddo[217], one of your Scotch Judges, talked a great deal of such nonsense. I suffered him; but I will not suffer you.’ BOSWELL. ‘But, Sir, does not Rousseau talk such nonsense?’ JOHNSON. ‘True, Sir, but Rousseau knows he is talking nonsense, and laughs at the world for staring at him.’ BOSWELL. ‘How so, Sir?’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, a man who talks nonsense so well, must know that he is talking nonsense.