The Life of Samuel Johnson

Introduction

James Boswell met Samuel Johnson on 16 May 1763, while drinking tea in the back room of Thomas Davies’s bookshop in Covent Garden. Boswell had arrived in London during the previous winter, and in his journal he recorded his sentiments when the capital was laid out before his eyes:

When we came upon Highgate hill and had a view of London, I was all life and joy. I repeated Cato’s soliloquy on the immortality of the soul, and my soul bounded forth to a certain prospect of happy futurity. I sung all manner of songs, and began to make one about an amorous meeting with a pretty girl, the burthen of which was as follows:

She gave me this, I gave her that;

And tell me, had she not tit for tat?

I gave three huzzas, and we went briskly in.¹

‘Cato’s soliloquy’ is, of course, the famous speech from the coda to Joseph Addison’s immensely popular play in which, on the point of being defeated by Caesar’s forces and contemplating suicide, Cato the Younger is persuaded by the arguments advanced by Socrates in the Phaedo concerning the immortality of the soul:

It must be so – Plato, thou reasonest well –

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror

Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

’Tis the divinity that stirs within us:

’Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

And intimates eternity to man.²

It is typical of Boswell that his recollection of this high-minded and improving speech should be followed immediately by an intimation of a more earthly kind of future happiness, in his extemporized song about a sexual encounter with a ‘pretty girl’. The pages of his London journal oscillate between moments of pious, hopeful sobriety –

I went to Mayfair Chapel and heard prayers and an excellent sermon from the Book of Job on the comforts of piety. I was in a fine frame. And I thought that God really designed us to be happy. I shall certainly be a religious old man. I was much so in youth. I have now and then flashes of devotion, and it will one day burn with a steady flame.³

– and episodes of debauch, occasionally furtive –

I was really unhappy for want of women. I thought it hard to be in such a place without them. I picked up a girl in the Strand; went into a court with intention to enjoy her in armour [i.e. a condom]. But she had none. I toyed with her. She wondered at my size, and said if I ever took a girl’s maidenhead, I would make her squeak.⁴

– occasionally more uninhibited, as in his consummation of his liaison with the actress he refers to as ‘Louisa’:

A more voluptuous night I never enjoyed. Five times was I fairly lost in supreme rapture. Louisa was madly fond of me; she declared I was a prodigy, and asked me if this was not extraordinary for human nature. I said twice as much might be, but this was not, although in my own mind I was somewhat proud of my performance.⁵

However, beneath the varied surface of Boswell’s London life there lies a common denominator. Boswell’s piety and profligacy are both informed by the self-dramatizing, self-regarding quality of his character. In this respect Boswell’s journal is not a record of his actions, nor even a record of the impressions that his actions made upon himself. It is rather the transcript of his appreciation of actions undertaken with more than half an eye to their eventual reception and remembrance.⁶ Boswell’s London life was a dramatic performance, and metaphors of the theatre run insistently through his journal entries, perhaps most strikingly in this encounter with Louisa: ‘When I came to Louisa’s, I felt myself stout and well, and most courageously did I plunge into the fount of love, and had vast pleasure as I enjoyed her as an actress who had played many a fine lady’s part.’⁷ It would be hard to find a more concentrated example of Boswell’s performative idea of character, so perfectly parallel are its reflecting planes of performance and reception.

Into this strange worldof dissoluteness, fantasyand delusion walked Samuel Johnson. At the time, Boswell recorded Johnson’s arrival with these words:

I drank tea at Davies’s in Russell Street, and about seven came in the great Mr. Samuel Johnson, whom I haveso long wishedto see. Mr. Davies introduced me to him. As I knew his mortal antipathy at the Scotch, I cried to Davies, ‘Don’t tell where I come from.’ However, he said, ‘From Scotland.’ ‘Mr. Johnson,’ said I, ‘indeed I come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.’ ‘Sir,’ replied he, ‘that, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.’ Mr. Johnson is a man of a most dreadful appearance. He is a very big man, is troubled with sore eyes, the palsy, and the king’s evil. He is very slovenly in his dress and speaks with a most uncouth voice. Yet his great knowledge and strength of expression command vast respect and render him very excellent company. He has great humour and is a worthy man. But his dogmatical roughness of manners is disagreeable. I shall mark what I remember of his conversation.⁸

However, when it came to writing this up in The Life of Samuel Johnson, Boswell chose slightly different words, and a more elaborate treatment:

At last, on Monday the 16th of May, when I was sitting in Mr. Davies’s back-parlour, after having drunk tea with him and Mrs. Davies, Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop; and Mr. Davies having perceived him through the glass-door in the room in which we were sitting, advancing towards us, – he announced his aweful approach to me, somewhat in the manner of an actor in the part of Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on the appearance of his father’s ghost, ‘Look, my Lord, it comes.’ I found that I had a very perfect idea of Johnson’s figure, from the portrait of him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had published his Dictionary, in the attitude of sitting in his easy chair in deep meditation, which was the first picture his friend did for him, which Sir Joshua very kindly presented to me, and from which an engraving has been made for this work. Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respectfully introduced me to him. I was much agitated; and recollecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard much, I said to Davies, ‘Don’t tell where I come from.’ – ‘From Scotland,’ cried Davies roguishly. ‘Mr. Johnson, (said I) I do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.’ I am willing to flatter myself that I meant this as light pleasantry to sooth and conciliate him, and not as an humiliating abasement at the expence of my country. But however that might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky; for with that quickness of wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the expression ‘come from Scotland,’ which I used in the sense of being of that country, and, as if I had said that I had come away from it, or left it, retorted, ‘That, Sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.’ This stroke stunned me a good deal; and when we had sat down, I felt myself not a little embarrassed, and apprehensive of what might come next.⁹

Comparing the two versions, one notices at once the fuller and more ceremonious form the episode takes in the Life; next, perhaps, the softening of Boswell’s original sense of Johnson’s disagreeableness into the milder emotion of nonplussed embarrassment. But it is the characteristic Boswellian allusion to the theatre – ‘he announced his aweful approach to me, somewhat in the manner of an actor in the part of Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on the appearance of his father’s ghost, “Look, my Lord, it comes”’ – which is the pivotal element in the transformation of the original impression into the eventual work of literary art. The encounter between Hamlet and his father’s ghost is the event which determines the shape of, and gives direction to, young Hamlet’s life; at the same time, it is the occasion when old Hamlet lays an obligation on his son to do for him what death prevents him from doing for himself. Boswell’s reference to Hamlet was apt to his own case – in addition, of course, (and this is once again characteristically Boswellian) to being ludicrously self-flattering, casting Boswell as the glamorous protagonist in the momentous drama of his own life. But it was pertinent also to the case of Johnson. The task of memorializing Johnson gave shape and direction to Boswell’s life (and it was a task he performed with occasional Hamlet-like waverings and delays).¹⁰ Moreover, the friendship launched by that meeting in Davies’s back-parlour bestowed on Johnson a posthumous reach which would have eluded him had he been obliged to rely on his other biographers – that troop of the now all but unread, comprising Sir John Hawkins, Mrs Piozzi, Isaac Reed, George Steevens, Thomas Tyers, William Cooke, William Shaw, Joseph Towers, James Harrison, et al.¹¹ That meeting, then, was not only the beginning of Johnson and Boswell’s friendship. It was also the seed of Boswell’s Life of Johnson, and it is therefore appropriate that Boswell should have folded into his account of that primal scene a reference to the book which would result from it, when he mentioned the Reynolds portrait of Johnson ‘from which an engraving has been made for this work’.¹²

Boswell offers further implicit comment on the self-reflexive complexity of his book at the end of his account of his first visit to Johnson’s lodgings, when he congratulates himself on ‘having now so happily established an acquaintance of which I had been so long ambitious’:

My readers will, I trust, excuse me for being thus minutely circumstantial, when it is considered that the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson was to me a most valuable acquisition, and laid the foundation of whatever instruction and entertainment they may receive from my collections concerning the great subject of the work which they are now perusing.¹³

In this awkwardly articulated sentence, Boswell tries to express the relationship between a number of distinct entities: his appetite for literary detail; his friendship with Johnson; the production of literary instruction and entertainment; his ‘collections’ preparatory to the writing of the book; the Life of Johnson itself, which its readers are ‘now perusing’; and its ‘great subject’. It is tempting to take that last phrase as referring simply to Johnson himself: what could be more self-evident than that the great subject of the Life of Johnson is Samuel Johnson? But so to construe the final limb of Boswell’s ungainly sentence would be to short-change the Life of Johnson. It is about Boswell; it is about Johnson; it is about the friendship between Boswell and Johnson; and finally it is also about the process whereby those individuals and that friendship gave rise to the material ‘collections’ which made possible its own creation. Nothing less than all of this is the ‘great subject’ of Boswell’s book, and it is this complex amplitude which makes the Life of Johnson the richest example of life-writing in English. As Boswell himself put it in a letter of 21 April 1786 to Hugh Blair, ‘I will venture to promise that my Life of my revered Friend will be the richest piece of Biography that has ever appeared. The Bullion will be immense, whatever defects there may be in the workmanship.’¹⁴ That final note of diffidence is rather uncharacteristic for Boswell, inclined as he was to bounce and preen.¹⁵ It was also misplaced, as the workmanship – that is to say, Boswell’s deliberate and creative manipulation of the materials he had collected over many years – was, and remains, essential to the book’s triumph, as Bruce Redford has recently demonstrated.¹⁶ It was because of the workmanship that Vicesimus Knox would in 1791 recognize in Boswell’s Life of Johnson ‘a new Species of Biography’.¹⁷

‘Hyperion to a satyr’: so Hamlet expressed the profound discrepancy between Old Hamlet and Claudius.¹⁸ The difference between Boswell and Johnson was perhaps less absolute, but it was still pronounced. In 1763 Johnson was a literary figure of substance: a poet, the author of The Rambler, The Adventurer and The Idler, a novelist, and the heroic compiler of A Dictionary of the English Language. In 1755 he had received an honorary MA from Oxford, and in 1762 he had been given a pension of £300 per annum by George III. Boswell, by contrast, was unknown, and virtually unpublished.¹⁹ Johnson was both admired and censured as the spokesman for a severe and Christian morality in a mid-century society which was given, perhaps with a certain disabling self-consciousness, to seeing itself as gripped in moral crisis.²⁰ Boswell was fond of drink and women. Nevertheless, the friendship between this unlikely pair struck root and thrived.

It was not the first time that Johnson had been drawn to everything which he seemed himself not to be. In the early 1750s, before he knew Boswell, he had also formed an improbable friendship with Bennet Langton’s college acquaintance Topham Beauclerk:

Johnson, soon after this acquaintance [with Bennet Langton] began, passed a considerable time at Oxford. He at first thought it strange that Langton should associate so much with one who had the character of being loose, both in his principles and practice; but, by degrees, he himself was fascinated. Mr. Beauclerk’s being of the St. Alban’s family, and having, in some particulars, a resemblance to Charles the Second, contributed, in Johnson’s imagination, to throw a lustre upon his other qualities; and, in a short time, the moral, pious Johnson, and the gay, dissipated Beauclerk, were companions. ‘What a coalition! (said Garrick, when he heard of this;) I shall have my old friend to bail out of the Roundhouse.’ But I can bear testimony that it was a very agreeable association.²¹

This is not just a case of, in our well-worn phrase, opposites attracting. At the end of his life, sick, and provoked by Boswell to think about what might be the fate of one’s friendships in the afterlife, Johnson replied ‘with heat’: ‘How can a man know where his departed friends are, or whether they will be his friends in the other world? How many friendships have you known formed upon principles of virtue? Most friendships are formed by caprice or by chance, mere confederacies in vice or leagues in folly.’²² No doubt great allowance must be made for the extremity of the moment. Nevertheless, we are here far from any Montaignean extolling of ‘amitie’,²³ and Johnson’s awareness of the complexity and possible impurity of the motives to friendship is germane to any consideration of his association with Boswell.

An incident from early in the friendship between the two men sheds light on the curious quality of what held them together. Once again, as was so often the case, Boswell launched the exchange by being provoking:

I teized him [Johnson] with fanciful apprehensions of unhappiness. A moth having fluttered round the candle, and burnt itself, he laid hold of this little incident to admonish me; saying, with a sly look, and in a solemn but quiet tone, ‘That creature was its own tormentor, and I believe its name was BOSWELL.’²⁴

A tendency to self-torment was a characteristic the two men shared.²⁵ In his journal, Boswell admonished himself to remember that he was subject to melancholy and low spirits.²⁶ And writing to the Revd Ralph Churton in 1792 on the subject of Johnson’s view of the unhappiness of human life, Boswell linked the subject and the biographer: ‘his “morbid melancholy” may have made life appear to him more miserable than it generally is. But the truth, Sir, is as you have judiciously observed, that I myself have a large portion of melancholy in my constitution…’²⁷ It was surely for this reason that Boswell chose the persona of ‘The Hypochondriack’ – that is to say, one afflicted by ‘melancholy, hypochondria, spleen, or vapours’ – for the series of essays he contributed to the London Magazine in the late 1770s and early 1780s, and also why he would write of himself in the very first of those essays that ‘I have suffered much of the fretfulness, the gloom, and the despair that can torment a thinking being.’²⁸ As for Johnson, Richard Brocklesby’s analysis of his mental condition, sent in a letter to Boswell in December 1784, emphasizes how Johnson’s undoubted intellectual powers did as much to unsettle as to steady the precarious balance of his mind. Johnson ‘often expressed the feelings and uncertainties of his mind’ to Brocklesby, so this is no superficial or cursory opinion:

He had the most logical apprehensive, and book informed vigorous Mind, that I have ever known, but withal, his views of Nature and of the Universe and of all the various objects to contemplate which Philosophy invites an unfetterd, speculative mind, were narrow, partial and much confined. His Religion was the true $$ [superstition] of Plutarch, which narrowed the wonderful powers of his judgement and made his extraordinary talents of Mind continually at war with each other, so that in his later days his Philosophy seemed to draw his mind one way and his Religion byassed him to the contrary, and this may have occasioned that continual perplexity, and doubts, and fears, in which the greater portion of his life was passed…²⁹

William Bowles concurred: ‘It is very well known that in the latter part of Dr. Johnson’s life he became much dejected with gloomy apprehensions respecting his reception in a future world.’³⁰ The object of Johnson’s melancholy was futurity, but its cause may have been more earthly. The Revd William Adams ascribed it to the resumption of alcohol: ‘The History of his Melancholy about 20 years before his death, which was indeed dreadful to see, I am not enough acquainted with: but I always conjectured it to be owing to the sudden transition from water drinking, which was his Habit invariably for 15 years or more, to drinking Wine, in which by his own Account he indulged himself very liberally.’³¹ But, whatever the cause, and whatever the object, it was the case that Boswell and Johnson were both prey to melancholic self-torment.

In the company of the other, each may have been distracted from this tendency in himself by the display of the same quality in his friend. Hence, perhaps, Johnson’s enigmatic ‘sly look’ – the moth’s name might with equal propriety have been Johnson. To escape from the self by contemplating an image of the self may seem paradoxical. Nevertheless, it may be psychologically plausible, and furthermore it resonates with the complexities of Johnson’s attitude towards the self – Johnson who could on the one hand write essays enforcing the principle of ‘cognosce te ipsum’ (know thyself) as enshrining ‘all the speculation requisite of a moral agent’, but who also confessed to Reynolds that the ‘great business of his life… was to escape from himself ‘.³² Friendship satisfied both imperatives by providing distraction as well as indirect introspection. To be in the company of Boswell was like viewing the head of Medusa in a mirror: through reflection, the harmful could become useful. Friendship, alongside all its moral benefits and social pleasures, might also serve as one of those techniques for the ‘management of the mind’ which Johnson thought so necessary, and which he believed could be obtained by ‘experience and habitual exercise’.³³ In this respect, Boswell was the most useful of Johnson’s friends, the man who played the part of psychological lightning rod perhaps better, certainly for longer, than had either Richard Savage (his companion during his early days in London) or Beauclerk. But this utility did not necessarily make him Johnson’s dearest friend.³⁴ There is no mention of Boswell in Johnson’s will – an oversight which roused anger and disappointment in friends of Boswell such as William Johnson Temple and Mary Adey.³⁵ To Mrs Piozzi, Johnson asserted that it was Dr Taylor of Ashbourne who was ‘better acquainted with my heart than any man or woman now alive’.³⁶ It was to Bennet Langton – not to Boswell – that the dying Johnson tenderly quoted Tibullus’ line ‘Te teneam moriens deficiente manu’ (‘When I expire, let my trembling hand hold yours’): a gesture which is saturated with a sense of strong yet delicate friendship.³⁷ And it was Langton who informed Boswell of the strength of Johnson’s feeling for Topham Beauclerk: ‘His affection for Topham Beauclerk was so great, that when Beauclerk was labouring under that severe illness which at last occasioned his death, Johnson said (with a voice faultering with emotion,) “Sir, I would walk to the extent of the diameter of the earth to save Beauclerk.” ‘³⁸

The stubborn trace of instrumentality in Boswell and Johnson’s friendship – the uneasy feeling repeatedly awakened in the reader of the Life of Johnson that each man to some extent pursued his own goals by means of the other – is most vivid in those moments, of which the engineering of a meeting between Johnson and John Wilkes is the most celebrated,³⁹ when we see Boswell tampering with the life as lived in order to produce sensational material for the life as written. Johnson occasionally growled at this treatment:

He sometimes could not bear being teazed with questions. I was once present when a gentleman asked so many as, ‘What did you do, Sir?’ ‘What did you say, Sir?’ that he at last grew enraged, and said, ‘I will not be put to the question. Don’t you consider, Sir, that these are not the manners of a gentleman? I will not be baited with what, and why; what is this? what is that? why is a cow’s tail long? why is a fox’s tail bushy?’⁴⁰

But for the most part Johnson seems to have been complicitous in this unstated, but nevertheless palpable, process of literary production which was advantageous both to him and to Boswell.⁴¹ Later in life Johnson touched again on this subject: ‘To be contradicted, in order to force you to talk, is mighty unpleasing. You shine, indeed; but it is by being ground.’⁴² But the chance to shine often reconciled Johnson to the grinding.

It is a paradox of play that, in any game, the opponents are also collaborators, and a further paradox that they collaborate precisely by opposing one another – their conflict engenders the game they create together. The moments of disagreement, of opposition and of conflict, between Boswell and Johnson which we encounter in the Life sometimes have this gaming quality to them: they are the grinding which produces brilliance. Boswell repeatedly draws his reader’s attention to issues or topics on which he disagreed with Johnson: topics such as the respective merits of Henry Fielding and Samuel Richardson, the current crisis in Corsica, the significance of Sir John Dalrymple’s discovery that the Whig martyrs Algernon Sidney and Lord William Russell had been secret pensioners of Louis XIV, the war with the American colonies, and the institution of slavery, which Johnson consistently attacked, and Boswell shamefully defended:

I beg leave to enter my most solemn protest against his [Johnson’s] 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… 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.⁴³

When he does this, Boswell is in part preening himself before the reader and displaying the fact that he is not merely Johnson’s creature – this is the function of these passages in the life as written.⁴⁴ But in the life as lived, these episodes served the different function of drawing Johnson out. In the transition from experience to literature, they migrate from utility to ostentation.

To draw Johnson out was also, one suspects, at least at times the purpose of another kind of difference between the two men, namely their occasional bouts of coolness or sullenness.⁴⁵ The Life records a number of interruptions in their friendship: for instance, in 1764 and 1765 (when Boswell records that Johnson ‘did not favour me with a single letter for more than two years’), in 1767 (‘I received no letter from Johnson this year’), in 1770 (‘a total cessation of all correspondence between Dr. Johnson and me’), in 1778, and in 1784.⁴⁶ Doubtless some of these apparent estrangements were innocent; but surely not all. In 1779 Boswell reveals that ‘I did not write to Johnson, as usual, upon my return to my family, but tried how he would be affected by my silence.’⁴⁷ In 1780 Johnson began a letter by chiding Boswell for having ‘taken one of your fits of taciturnity, and [having] resolved not to write till you are written to; it is but a peevish humour, but you shall have your way.’⁴⁸ And plainly Johnson suspected another of these experiments of silence in the winter of 1784, when he wrote to Boswell (who acknowledges that he had been ‘with much regret long silent’) and commented on the absence of the letters which had provided comfort in the midst of his ailments: ‘In this uncomfortable state your letters used to relieve; what is the reason that I have them no longer? Are you sick, or are you sullen?’⁴⁹

To sickness and sullenness might be added calculation, and Boswell’s willingness to work upon Johnson by employing what seem close to the arts of coquetry. All this was part of the greater artfulness which produced the Life, but it was a risky strategy. In a character as labile as that of Boswell, it was (as we have seen) hard always to keep the feigned clearly separated from the felt, and the felt could easily have led to rupture, as it nearly did in 1778, in consequence of a dinner party at which Boswell had not been able to control Johnson’s environment:

there were several people there by no means of the Johnsonian school; so that less attention was paid to him than usual, which put him out of humour; and upon some imaginary offence from me, he attacked me with such rudeness, that I was vexed and angry, because it gave those persons an opportunity of enlarging upon his supposed ferocity, and ill treatment of his best friends. I was so much hurt, and had my pride so much roused, that I kept away from him for a week; and, perhaps, might have kept away much longer, nay, gone to Scotland without seeing him again, had not we fortunately met and been reconciled. To such unhappy chances are human friendships liable.⁵⁰

And also human books, for this tiff might have not only ended Boswell’s friendship with Johnson, but also aborted the Life of Johnson. So the reader of the Life might shudder at this passage, which reveals the slenderness of the thread by which the ‘work which they are now perusing’ (to return to that Boswellian phrase) once hung.⁵¹

If, for Boswell, resistance could be an instrument for literary production, for Johnson it was a trait much more deeply etched into his character, and which even assumed an ethical significance. Many of the most vivid phrases and images of the Life reflect the centrality of the practice and principle of opposition in Johnson’s personality. Johnson’s appetite for opposition could take the form of a simple combativeness directed towards others, as when Boswell summed up an evening’s conversation in the words ‘Yes, Sir; you tossed and gored several persons.’⁵² This is the Johnson who loved above all else to prevail:

This [an explanation of how medicated baths might bestow curative benefits] appeared to me very satisfactory. Johnson did not answer it; but talking for victory, and determined to be master of the field, he had recourse to the device which Goldsmith imputed to him in the witty words of one of Cibber’s comedies: ‘There is no arguing with Johnson; for when his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.’⁵³

This is the Johnson who was animated by the ‘spirit of contradiction’ and a ‘love of argumentative contest’, who might at any moment be overtaken by the ‘humour of opposition’.⁵⁴ Sometimes the motive for this was ostentation, as Johnson confessed to Boswell: ‘When I was a boy, I used always to choose the wrong side of a debate, because most ingenious things, that is to say, most new things, could be said upon it.’⁵⁵ It was a failing he did not entirely outgrow, as Boswell noted in 1776: ‘The truth, however, is, that he loved to display his ingenuity in argument; and therefore would sometimes in conversation maintain opinions which he was sensible were wrong, but in supporting which, his reasoning and wit would be most conspicuous.’⁵⁶ Boswell thought this characteristic so central to Johnson’s personality that he allowed it to stand at the climactic point of the summary assessment which closes the book:

In him were united a most logical head with a most fertile imagination, which gave him an extraordinary advantage in arguing: for he could reason close or wide, as he saw best for the moment. Exulting in his intellectual strength and dexterity, he could, when he pleased, be the greatest sophist that ever contended in the lists of declamation; and, from a spirit of contradiction and a delight in shewing his powers, he would often maintain the wrong side with equal warmth and ingenuity; so that, when there was an audience, his real opinions could seldom be gathered from his talk…⁵⁷

Yet it was also a principle not exclusively aggressive, since it existed in Johnson in close conjunction with other, milder, emotions. As David Garrick’s description of Johnson’s way of wit suggests – ‘Johnson gives you a forcible hug, and shakes laughter out of you, whether you will or no’ – there was a roughness even in his affection, a thread of violence woven through his gambolling.⁵⁸

But contradiction or ‘dexterity in retort’ for Johnson was much more than a foible of character.⁵⁹ His great dictum that ‘Human experience, which is constantly contradicting theory, is the great test of truth’ installs the fact and experience of contradiction as the virtuous centre of any search for the true. Towards the end of his life, he cited this understanding of the value and purpose of contradiction as almost the summation of his philosophy: ‘In short, Sir, I have got no further than this: Every man has a right to utter what he thinks truth, and every other man has a right to knock him down for it. Martyrdom is the test.’⁶⁰ Not all Johnson’s friends, even the closest of them, shared this understanding of the utility of contradiction, but Johnson was adamant in defence of it, as he showed in a revealing exchange with Langton:

He however charged Mr. Langton with what he thought want of judgement upon an interesting occasion. ‘When I was ill, (said he) I desired he would tell me sincerely in what he thought my life was faulty. Sir, he brought me a sheet of paper, on which he had written down several texts of Scripture, recommending christian charity. And when I questioned him what occasion I had given for such an animadversion, all that he could say amounted to this, – that I sometimes contradicted people in conversation. Now what harm does it do to any man to be contradicted?’ BOSWELL. ‘I suppose he meant the manner of doing it; roughly, – and harshly.’ JOHNSON. ‘And who is the worse for that?’ BOSWELL. ‘It hurts people of weak nerves.’ JOHNSON. ‘I know no such weak-nerved people.’⁶¹

Johnson well knew how a veneer of courtesy can conceal indifference or even malice. That knowledge guided his pen when he composed the famous letter reproving the Earl of Chesterfield for his failures as a patron, and it is the source of that letter’s peculiar power as a piece of writing: a mordant unmasking of unmeaning civility which nevertheless employs many of the literary tropes of courtliness, such as indirection and classical allusion – tropes discredited and disdained in the very act of being set to work.⁶²

This Johnsonian suspicion of courtesy must have strengthened his belief in the virtue of frank opposition. Nevertheless, it was a policy which took its toll on the practitioner, as well as on the recipient. Johnson’s unstinted admiration for Burke, notwithstanding the gulf between their politics, seems in part to have been based on how Burke roused Johnson:

And once, when Johnson was ill, and unable to exert himself as much as usual without fatigue, Mr. Burke having been mentioned, he said, ‘That fellow calls forth all my powers. Were I to see Burke now, it would kill me.’ So much was he accustomed to consider conversation as a contest, and such was his notion of Burke as an opponent.⁶³

But the cost of combativeness was, for Johnson, nothing in comparison to the reassurance it supplied, as he revealed in his response to the controversy caused by his political pamphlet Taxation No Tyranny (1775): ‘His Taxation no Tyranny being mentioned, he said, “I think I have not been attacked hard enough for it. Attack is the re-action; I never think I have hit hard, unless it rebounds.” ‘⁶⁴ The need for a rebound, for the ‘collision of mind with mind’, was a matter not just of confirming the vigour of the initial impulse from Johnson.⁶⁵ For it was also through such emphatic encounters that the self came to know and to enjoy both itself and the external world – this for Johnson was the ‘medicine of correction’.⁶⁶ This is the key to understanding what for Johnson was at stake in his defiant misreading of Berkeley’s philosophy:

After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time together of Bishop Berkeley’s ingenious sophistry to prove the non-existence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it, ‘I refute it thus.’⁶⁷

There could be nothing more disingenuous, however, than Johnson’s acquiescence in what he must have been aware was Boswell’s travesty of the propositional content of Berkeley’s philosophy, and nothing more sophistical than his assertion that kicking a stone constituted a refutation of that philosophy.⁶⁸ (Berkeley never contended that our perceptions of solidity were false, simply that it was not clear how one could move beyond such perceptions reliably to infer the presence of material substance.)⁶⁹ So it was natural for Johnson to prefer chastisement over encouragement as a motive to improvement, be it educational or spiritual.

It was a strand of character which could also take less sombre forms. A melancholy Johnson, wandering through Paris in the company of the brewer Henry Thrale and his vivacious wife, and suddenly mindful of the absence of his own, dead, wife (who would he thought have taken pleasure in the magnificence of the city and its palaces), resolved his own indifference before splendour, not into any stoicism, but rather into a consequence of his emotional isolation: ‘Having now nobody to please, I am little pleased.’⁷⁰ Energetic interaction was for Johnson a mode of being, not just in the sense of being a settled disposition of character, but more deeply because it allowed him to discover the contents and trace the boundaries of his own mind. Take this fragment of conversation between Boswell and Johnson on the subject of respect:

JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, we know very little about the Romans. But, surely, it is much easier to respect a man who has always had respect, than to respect a man who we know was last year no better than ourselves, and will be no better next year. In republicks there is not a respect for authority, but a fear of power.’ BOSWELL. ‘At present, Sir, I think riches seem to gain most respect.’ JOHNSON. ‘No, Sir, riches do not gain hearty respect; they only procure external attention.’⁷¹

The distinction between respect and attention is a fine insight. It is forged by the heat of contradiction (‘No, Sir…’), and draws other fine distinctions in its wake, for when Boswell introduces the subject of ‘riches’ to the conversation, Johnson’s imagination moves from politics to money and his language is suddenly impregnated with fiscal figures (‘gain’, ‘procure’) – figures which, in their own suggested gradations of worth, capture and express something of the difference between genuine respect and mere attention which Johnson wishes here to convey. The practice of desyn-onymization – the careful separating out of the different shades of meaning between words which custom has confused – was plainly as central to Johnson as it would later be to Coleridge.⁷² This is why the the Dictionary is the pivotal work in Johnson’s canon, and why also Boswell’s praise of Johnson’s writings, as furnishing ‘bark and steel for the mind’, is deserved.⁷³ Combativeness contributed powerfully to these achievements.

But, inaddition to these external collisions, for Johnson the cardinal principle of conflict also possessed a more intimate aspect, expressing itself asan internal war ofcontraries. This was a’conflict ofopposite principles’of which, asBoswellrecords, Johnsonhad’Muchexperience’.⁷⁴ Boswell’s famousimage for Johnson’s mind presents it to us as the site of unremitting struggle:

His mind resembled the vast amphitheatre, the Colisæum at Rome. In the centre stood his judgement, which, like a mighty gladiator, combated those apprehensions that, like the wild beasts of the Arena, were all around in cells, ready to be let out upon him. After a conflict, he drove them back into their dens; but not killing them, they were still assailing him.⁷⁵

Many of Johnson’s conflicts were with people or things or ideas for which he seems secretly to have nursed an affinity, even a craving. For instance, in the Life Boswell frequently discusses Johnson’s relationship with alcohol. The friend of Johnson’s youth the Birmingham surgeon Edmond Hector, ‘who lived with him in his younger days in the utmost intimacy and social freedom’, told Boswell that Johnson ‘loved to exhilarate himself with wine’.⁷⁶ On his arrival in London in 1737, however, Johnson ‘abstained entirely from fermented liquors: a practice to which he rigidly conformed for many years together, at different periods of his life’.⁷⁷ Meeting his old acquaintance Oliver Edwards in 1778, Johnson spoke frankly about his fitful use of alcohol: ‘I now drink no wine, Sir. Early in life I drank wine: for many years I drank none. I then for some years drank a great deal.’⁷⁸ By March 1781, however, Johnson was drinking once more, as Boswell discovered when he went to dinner at the Thrales:

He [Thrale] told me I might now have the pleasure to see Dr. Johnson drink wine again, for he had lately returned to it. When I mentioned this to Johnson, he said, ‘I drink it now sometimes, but not socially.’ The first evening that I was with him at Thrale’s, I observed he poured a quantity of it into a large glass, and swallowed it greedily. Every thing about his character and manners was forcible and violent; there never was any moderation; many a day did he fast, many a year did he refrain from wine; but when he did eat, it was voraciously; when he did drink wine, it was copiously. He could practise abstinence, but not temperance.⁷⁹

The inability to be moderate meant that Johnson might reel from extremity to extremity – in this case, from abstinence to bingeing – and part of the justification for the episodes of surrender (Johnson said that he drank ‘to get rid of myself, to send myself away’) was that they made possible another act of resistance.⁸⁰ That Johnson had a strong appetite for alcohol seems clear: ‘I have drunk three bottles of port without being the worse for it. University College has witnessed this.’⁸¹ That he took a secret pleasure in the effects of alcohol, while fearing that weakening of conscious rational control which intoxication brings in its wake,⁸² and fearing also to let those effects be publicly visible, is also suggested by his intermittent habits of solitary drinking.⁸³ But the most striking feature of Johnson’s attitude towards alcohol is the way it reveals a structural feature of his personality which was also an element in his moral philosophy, namely the need from time to time abruptly and utterly to deny that to which you feel drawn.

We can see this in Johnson’s mental life, as well as in his physical existence. One of the great structuring antagonisms in the Life is that which exists between Johnson and the man whom, in 1762, Boswell had hailed as ‘the greatest Writer in Britain’, David Hume.⁸⁴ Johnson was outspoken in his disdain for Hume’s sceptical philosophy: ‘Hume, and other sceptical innovators, are vain men, and will gratify themselves at any expence. Truth will not afford sufficient food to their vanity; so they have betaken themselves to errour. Truth, Sir, is a cow which will yield such people no more milk, and so they are gone to milk the bull.’⁸⁵ However, in the same conversation Johnson discloses that Hume is the image of his own earlier self, for ‘Every thing which Hume has advanced against Christianity had passed through my mind long before he wrote.’⁸⁶ Johnson’s vehement rejection of Hume is thus to some extent the child of their proximity: ‘He would not allow Mr. David Hume any credit for his political principles, though similar to his own; saying of him, “Sir, he was a Tory by chance.” ‘⁸⁷ So the areas of vigorous dissent – for instance, Johnson’s denial that beauty can be resolved into utility, which is an implicit reproof of Hume’s argument in An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals (1751)⁸⁸ – need to be placed alongside areas of substantial (although unacknowledged by Johnson) agreement between the two men: on, for instance, the harmlessness of luxury,⁸⁹ or the tendency to exaggerate the merit of antiquity at the expense of modernity,⁹⁰ or why it was that more importance was rightly attached to female chastity than to male.⁹¹

The vigour of Johnson’s repudiation of Hume springs from his uneasy consciousness of partial closeness. It is a doubleness of relation which is wonderfully distilled into the central episode of this strand of the Life of Johnson, namely Johnson’s response to Boswell’s appalled but fascinated account of Hume’s persisting in rejecting the consolations of Christianity on his deathbed:

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. 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.’⁹²

The complicating but submerged circumstance which enriches this moment beyond being merely a denial of Hume’s deathbed composure is the fact that in discrediting Hume’s unshaken irreligion Johnson employs a version of Hume’s own argument against miracles (namely, that it is always much more likely that men will lie in their own interest than that anything which falls outside the customary course of nature should occur).⁹³ In reproving Hume, Johnson also echoed him. It is a moment which captures the passionate ambivalence underlying Johnson’s declarations of attachment or rejection, which typically emerged from a background of powerfully divided sentiments.⁹⁴

The internal tension in Johnson’s opinions and character is nowhere more clear than in his politics. In recent years the subject of Johnson’s political beliefs has become freshly controversial, with Jonathan Clark and Howard Erskine-Hill arguing for a strong and enduring Jacobite commitment against those who see more nuance and equivocation in Johnson’s politics.⁹⁵ There is no doubt that Johnson was raised in a milieu which was strongly Tory, even Jacobite.⁹⁶ His father, Michael Johnson, was as Boswell tells us ‘a zealous high-churchman and royalist, and retained his attachment to the unfortunate house of Stuart, though he reconciled himself, by casuistical arguments of expediency and necessity, to take the oaths imposed by the prevailing power’.⁹⁷ Staffordshire, the county where Johnson grew up, was a stronghold of Tory sentiment, and in 1712, when only three years old, Johnson, ‘the infant Hercules of toryism’, had heard that darling of the High Church faction Henry Sacheverell preach in Lichfield Cathedral when at the wildest height of his popularity.⁹⁸ In his youth Johnson would inveigh against George II as ‘unrelenting and barbarous’ with such vehemence that bystanders would be startled.⁹⁹ Throughout his life he missed no opportunity to deride with ‘rough contempt’ that watchword of Whiggism, liberty,¹⁰⁰ and to exalt whenever possible the contrasting virtue of subordination, which he believed ‘tends greatly to human happiness’.¹⁰¹ He consorted with and gave succour to confessed Jacobites such as William Drummond.¹⁰² And Boswell, in a comment which has encouraged in some quarters feverish speculation about whether or not Johnson could have been ‘out’ in the ‘45, ponders the significance of the gap in Johnson’s publications in the years 1745 and 1746:

It is somewhat curious, that his literary career appears to have been almost totally suspended in the years 1745 and 1746, those years which were marked by a civil war in Great-Britain, when a rash attempt was made to restore the House of Stuart to the throne. That he had a tenderness for that unfortunate House, is well known; and some may fancifully imagine, that a sympathetick anxiety impeded the exertion of his intellectual powers: but I am inclined to think, that he was, during this time, sketching the outlines of his great philological work.¹⁰³

Boswell’s calming supposition, that Johnson in fact spent the months of the ‘45 planning the Dictionary, is surely salutary. For there is much evidence to complicate the simple picture of Johnson’s political opinions which I have just sketched. In the first place, it is clear that Johnson’s political ideas were not static throughout his life, but moved steadily away from the emphatic Toryism of his youth. London: A Poem, published in 1738, was, like Marmor Norfolciense (1739), impregnated with anti-Walpolean sentiment; but later in life Johnson would praise Walpole as a ‘fixed star’, comparing him to his benefit with the elder Pitt.¹⁰⁴ Despite his tenderness for the Stuarts, Johnson seems never to have entertained very cordial feelings towards the Nonjurors, seeing them as hypocrites, denying to them the power of reasoning, and himself refraining from ever entering a Nonjuring meeting-house.¹⁰⁵ Johnson’s comment on the unexpectedness of his pension – ‘Here, Sir, was a man avowedly no friend to Government at the time, who got a pension without asking for it’ – hints at the migration of his political sentiments towards reconciliation with the fact of the Hanoverian dynasty.¹⁰⁶ Like many others of his generation, Johnson seems eventually to have subscribed to the sane doctrine that a claim to the throne, questionable at its first assertion, might nevertheless improve over time as a result of successful, settled, tenure:

Talking of the family of Stuart, he said, ‘It should seem that the family at present on the throne has now established as good a right as the former family, by the long consent of the people; and that to disturb this right might be considered as culpable. At the same time I own, that it is a very difficult question, when considered with respect to the house of Stuart. To oblige people to take oaths as to the disputed right, is wrong. I know not whether I could take them: but I do not blame those who do.’ So conscientious and so delicate was he upon this subject, which has occasioned so much clamour against him.¹⁰⁷

In the same vein, when Johnson fancifully supposed the existence of a club ‘to drink confusion to King George the Third, and a happy restoration to Charles the Third’, he was in no doubt that this club ‘would be very bad with respect to the State’.¹⁰⁸

There is a similar weighing of contrary benefits and evils evident in Johnson’s conversation in 1783 with General Oglethorpe about the Glorious Revolution. Oglethorpe maintained that government ‘is now carried on by corrupt influence, instead of the inherent right in the King’, to which Johnson replied, ‘Sir, the want of inherent right in the King occasions all this disturbance. What we did at the Revolution was necessary: but it broke our constitution.’¹⁰⁹ But inherent right may not be the only kind of right, particularly in the mind of one who was able to balance political necessity and consequent destructiveness. Johnson was of course and famously a great friend to subordination, but he was too wise to believe that even that virtue could be carried to an extreme without harm, as he revealed in a celebrated exchange with Sir Adam Fergusson:

Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig. Why all this childish jealousy of the power of the crown? The crown has not power enough. When I say that all governments are alike, I consider that in no government power can be abused long. Mankind will not bear it. If a sovereign oppresses his people to a great degree, they will rise and cut off his head. There is a remedy in human nature against tyranny, that will keep us safe under every form of government.¹¹⁰

When he acknowledged the existence of a remedy for oppression in human nature, Johnson took a large step towards the Whig position on resistance, as adumbrated in that classic text of Whig political theory Locke’s Second Treatise of Government: ‘But if… they [the people] are perswaded in their Consciences, that their Laws, and with them their Estates, Liberties, and Lives are in danger, and perhaps their Religion too, how they will be hindered from resisting illegal force, used against them, I cannot tell.’¹¹¹

All the evidence, then, reveals that towards the end of his life Johnson’s political sentiments were more complicated and reflective than his reputation for adhering to a monochrome Toryism would suggest. Johnson’s friend William Maxwell saw in him a more subtle political animal than many of his recent critics have been prepared to concede:

In politicks he was deemed a Tory, but certainly was not so in the obnoxious or party sense of the term; for while he asserted the legal and salutary prerogatives of the crown, he no less respected the constitutional liberties of the people. Whiggism, at the time of the Revolution, he said, was accompanied with certain principles; but latterly, as a mere party distinction under Walpole and the Pelhams, was no better than the politicks of stock-jobbers, and the religion of infidels.¹¹²

Is this another instance of the simple and familiar story of the strong passions of youth being supplanted by the more tepid judgements of old age? In part, perhaps. His views on the abolition of the fast of 30 January commemorating the execution of Charles I show an understanding on Johnson’s part of how political emotions necessarily wane, and of how in consequence politics can never be conducted sub specie aeternitatis: ‘Why, Sir, I could have wished that it had been a temporary act, perhaps, to have expired with the century. I am against abolishing it; because that would be declaring it was wrong to establish it; but I should have no objection to make an act, continuing it for another century, and then letting it expire.’¹¹³ The misfortunes of the House of Stuart had, for Johnson, no permanent claim on the attention, sympathy and – most important – loyalty, of the nation.

Boswell supposed that Johnson was inclined to display more Jacobitism than he really felt, and he connected that to Johnson’s disposition towards combativeness:

There was here, most certainly, an affectation of more Jacobitism than he really had; and indeed an intention of admitting, for the moment, in a much greater extent than it really existed, the charge of disaffection imputed to him by the world, merely for the purpose of shewing how dexterously he could repel an attack, even though he were placed in the most disadvantageous position; for I have heard him declare, that if holding up his right hand would have secured victory at Culloden to Prince Charles’s army, he was not sure he would have held it up; so little confidence had he in the right claimed by the house of Stuart, and so fearful was he of the consequences of another revolution on the throne of Great-Britain; and Mr. Topham Beauclerk assured me, he had heard him say this before he had his pension. At another time he said to Mr. Langton, ‘Nothing has ever offered, that has made it worth my while to consider the question fully.’ He, however, also said to the same gentleman, talking of King James the Second, ‘It was become impossible for him to reign any longer in this country.’ He no doubt had an early attachment to the House of Stuart; but his zeal had cooled as his reason strengthened. Indeed I heard him once say, that ‘after the death of a violent Whig, with whom he used to contend with great eagerness, he felt his Toryism much abated.’¹¹⁴

Even Johnson’s juvenile Toryism has in it a trace of contrariness, since it is capable of being construed as a sturdy rejection on Johnson’s part of the political attitudes common amongst the young: ‘all boys love liberty, till experience convinces them they are not so fit to govern themselves as they imagined.’¹¹⁵ So in this respect the movement in Johnson’s political opinions traced the common course, only in reverse. In later life, Johnson could be moved to the strident Jacobitism and anti-Hanoverianism of his youth only by egregious Whiggery – as happened, for instance, on 17 September 1777, over dinner with his friend Dr John Taylor of Ashbourne.¹¹⁶ Provoked by Taylor and moved by ‘the spirit of contradiction’, Johnson rewound the years and vigorously re-entered the vivid Jacobitism of his earlier days.¹¹⁷ But one suspects that, for Johnson, the political substance of the conversation was only a pretext which allowed him once again to reap the emotional and intellectual benefits which, for him, flowed from intellectual collision.

To feel a strong and strengthening flow of opinion may be to feel both stronger and simpler than, in reality, you are. Johnson’s defiant and energetic simplicity of manner was the product of habit and will, as he explained to Reynolds:

Sir Joshua Reynolds once asked him by what means he had attained his extraordinary accuracy and flow of language. He told him, that he had early laid it down as a fixed rule to do his best on every occasion, and in every company; to impart whatever he knew in the most forcible language he could put it in; and that by constant practice, and never suffering any careless expressions to escape him, or attempting to deliver his thoughts without arranging them in the clearest manner, it became habitual to him.¹¹⁸

This relentless disciplining of the self in the direction of care, forcefulness and premeditation suggests a congenital deficit of those qualities. Boswell tells us that Johnson’s mind was naturally ‘gloomy and impetuous’, and given to melancholic anxiety: ‘To Johnson, whose supreme enjoyment was the exercise of his reason, the disturbance or obscuration of that faculty was the evil most to be dreaded. Insanity, therefore, was the object of his most dismal apprehension; and he fancied himself seized by it, or approaching to it, at the very time when he was giving proofs of a more than ordinary soundness and vigour of judgement.’¹¹⁹ But if the exercise of soundness and vigour of judgement is displayed as the deliberate remedy for an underlying ailment, then nothing is more likely than that it should follow so closely upon, and even appear to coincide with, ‘dismal appre-hension’.¹²⁰

Johnson’s religious faith also lends itself to being construed not as the straightforward fruit of a fundamental conviction, but rather as the antagonist that Johnson employed against an underlying scepticism. That he was not originally of a religious disposition was something which Johnson frankly confessed to Boswell:

‘I fell into an inattention to religion, or an indifference about it, in my ninth year. The church at Lichfield, in which we had a seat, wanted reparation, so I was to go and find a seat in other churches; and having bad eyes, and being awkward about this, I used to go and read in the fields on Sunday. This habit continued till my fourteenth year; and still I find a great reluctance to go to church. I then became a sort of lax talker against religion, for I did not much think against it; and this lasted till I went to Oxford, where it would not be suffered. When at Oxford, I took up Law’s Serious Call to a Holy Life, expecting to find it a dull book (as such books generally are), and perhaps to laugh at it. But I found Law quite an overmatch for me; and this was the first occasion of my thinking in earnest of religion, after I became capable of rational inquiry.’ From this time forward religion was the predominant object of his thoughts; though, with the just sentiments of a conscientious Christian, he lamented that his practice of its duties fell far short of what it ought to be.¹²¹

Not steady faith and a confidence in salvation, but a troubled meditation on the likelihood of being ‘Sent to Hell, Sir, and punished everlastingly’ – this is the keynote of Johnson’s religion.¹²² It is therefore revealing that Johnson’s first expression of liking for Boswell follows immediately upon Boswell’s confession of religious doubts:

I acknowledged, that though educated very strictly in the principles of religion, I had for some time been misled into a certain degree of infidelity; but that I was come now to a better way of thinking, and was fully satisfied of the truth of the Christian revelation, though I was not clear as to every point considered to be orthodox. Being at all times a curious examiner of the human mind, and pleased with an undisguised display of what had passed in it, he called to me with warmth, ‘Give me your hand; I have taken a liking to you.’¹²³

What Johnson warms to in Boswell is the shadow of his own religious misgivings and imperfections. This strenuous conforming of his mind and conduct to an ideal of belief explains why Johnson was so irritated by even dispassionate speculation on subjects such as the doctrine of the Trinity or predestination and theodicy, and perhaps also why he would occasionally speak affectionately about Roman Catholicism. On some subjects, freedom of inquiry entailed unwelcome psychological risks.¹²⁴ The relentless disciplining of the mind to an external standard both allowed Johnson to control his psychological turbulence and at the same time brought him up hard against something outside himself which both checked and confirmed him. This perhaps also explains Johnson’s lifelong affinity for the law. He was always prone to giving energetic expression to cases which were not, in the fullest sense, his own.¹²⁵

The pages of the Life of Samuel Johnson contain vivid impressions of two extraordinary characters, of their friendship, of the material world through which they moved, and of the imaginative world they created together. However, the Life of Johnson is in itself, as an artefact and as a literary project, just as fascinating as what it describes and preserves. In respect both of how it was put together and of the general ideas about biography by which it is informed, the book is as extraordinary as its subject.

The Life of Johnson is, self-evidently, a very large book. It is however also, and much less self-evidently, a work of furious compression. The volume of the Boswell papers discovered by Colonel Ralph H. Isham in Malahide Castle¹²⁶ indicates how large and difficult to control was the mass of material which Boswell had over years accumulated in connection with the project of writing Johnson’s life. Exactly when Boswell began collecting this material is not quite clear.¹²⁷ In March 1785 he wrote to Herbert Croft soliciting information about Johnson, and at the same time informing him that ‘for upwards of twenty Years, I with his knowledge Collected materials for writing his life, which will be a large work, and require a Considerable time to make it ready for publication.’¹²⁸ ‘Upwards of twenty years’ from 1785 would place the decision to compose the Life very close to the first meeting of Boswell and Johnson in 1763, and it is very difficult to find evidence to corroborate this, unless a letter to Wilkes from Venice in 1765, expressing the hope that ‘could my feeble mind preserve but a faint impression of Johnson, it would be a glory to myself and a benefit to mankind’, might be thought to do so.¹²⁹ Nevertheless, at the very beginning of the Life Boswell asserts that ‘I had the scheme of writing his [Johnson’s] life constantly in view,’ and he furthermore claims that Johnson ‘was well apprised of this circumstance, and from time to time obligingly satisfied my inquiries, by communicating to me the incidents of his early years’.¹³⁰ Here again corroboration is thin on the ground. In particular the implicit claim that Johnson was aware of Boswell’s biographical plan from the outset, and approved of it, is hard to reconcile with the entry in Boswell’s journal for 31 March 1772, which reads, ‘I have a constant plan to write the life of Mr. Johnson. I have not told him of it yet, nor do I know if I should tell him.’¹³¹

Boswell may have taken the decision to write the Life of Johnson soon after meeting his subject, but the earliest evidence from within the Life itself that Johnson was aware of Boswell’s design comes from March 1772, in a fragment which derives from the same journal entry just quoted:

I said, that if it was not troublesome and presuming too much, I would request him to tell me all the little circumstances of his life; what schools he attended, when he came to Oxford, when he came to London, &c. &c. He did not disapprove of my curiosity as to these particulars; but said, ‘They’ll come out by degrees as we talk together.’¹³²

In the following year, while Boswell and Johnson were on their Scottish tour, we find another important landmark in the composition of the Life:

That Sunday evening [22 August] that we sat by ourselves at Aberdeen, I asked him several particulars of his life from his early years, which he readily told me, and I marked down before him. This day I proceeded in my inquiries, also marking before him. I have them on separate leaves of paper. I shall lay up authentic materials for The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., and if I survive him, I shall be the one who shall most faithfully do honour to his memory. I have now a vast treasure of his conversation at different times since the year 1762 [1763] when I first obtained his acquaintance; and by assiduous inquiry I can make up for not knowing him sooner.¹³³

And Boswell added this amplifying note: ‘It is no small satisfaction to me to reflect that Dr. Johnson read this, and, after being apprised of my intention, communicated to me, at subsequent periods, many particulars of his life, which probably could not otherwise have been preserved.’¹³⁴

Alongside this, however, should be set Mrs Piozzi’s record of a conversation which she claims took place on 18 July 1773 (a bare month before Johnson arrived in Edinburgh to begin his tour of the Highlands), in which the subject of Johnson’s future biography was raised by Johnson himself:

‘And who will be my biographer (said he), do you think?’ Goldsmith, no doubt, replied I, and he will do it the best among us. ‘The dog would write it best to be sure, replied he; but his particular malice towards me, and general disregard for truth, would make the book useless to all, and injurious to my character.’ Oh! as to that, said I, we should all fasten upon him, and force him to do you justice; but the worst is, the Doctor does not know your life; nor can I tell indeed who does, except Dr. Taylor of Ashbourne. ‘Why Taylor, said he, is better acquainted with my heart than any man or woman now alive; and the history of my Oxford exploits lies all between him and Adams; but Dr. James knows my very early days better than he. After my coming to London to drive the world about a little, you must all go to Jack Hawkesworth for anecdotes: I lived in great familiarity with him (though I think there was not much affection) from the year 1753 till the time Mr. Thrale and you took me up. I intend, however, to disappoint the rogues, and either make you write the life, with Taylor’s intelligence; or, which is better, do it myself, after outliving you all. I am now (added he), keeping a diary, in hopes of using it for that purpose some time.’¹³⁵

It may be that this autobiographical intention was suspended or discarded after Boswell had shown his hand to Johnson in Scotland a month or so later. It is nevertheless striking that the name of Boswell does not arise.

The first public announcement of the Life is easier to pin down. At the end of his Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides (1785), Boswell included an ‘Advertisement’ for the Life, said to be ‘Preparing for the Press, in one Volume Quarto’. Its first paragraph confirms some details of the chronology of the project, and indicates the miscellaneous format of the eventual book:

Mr. Boswell has been collecting materials for this work for more than twenty years, during which he was honoured with the intimate friendship of Dr. Johnson; to whose memory he is ambitious to erect a literary monument, worthy of so great an authour, and so excellent a man. Dr. Johnson was well informed of his design, and obligingly communicated to him several curious particulars. With these will be interwoven the most authentick accounts that can be obtained from those who knew him best; many sketches of his conversation on a multiplicity of subjects, with various persons, some of them the most eminent of the age; a great number of letters from him at different periods, and several original pieces dictated by him to Mr. Boswell, distinguished by that peculiar energy, which marked every emanation of his mind.¹³⁶

As it was calculated to do, this announcement raised public expectations. In January 1792 James Abercrombie mentioned to Boswell how he had been ‘most anxiously expecting’ the Life of Johnson ever since ‘your promise of it at the end of your Tour to the Hebrides, printed in 1785’.¹³⁷

It is one thing to raise public expectation; quite another to satisfy it. Having decided to write a life of Johnson, how did Boswell collect his materials? Occasional obiter dicta within the book itself give us clues – for instance this explanation of the indifferent quality of Boswell’s account of Johnson in the early period of their friendship:

Let me here apologize for the imperfect manner in which I am obliged to exhibit Johnson’s conversation at this period. In the early part of my acquaintance with him, I was so wrapt in admiration of his extraordinary colloquial talents, and so little accustomed to his peculiar mode of expression, that I found it extremely difficult to recollect and record his conversation with its genuine vigour and vivacity. In progress of time, when my mind was, as it were, strongly impregnated with the Johnsonian æther, I could, with much more facility and exactness, carry in my memory and commit to paper the exuberant variety of his wisdom and wit.¹³⁸

Boswell’s attentiveness to Johnson occasionally exposed him to comment, as we can see from Dr Burney’s description of his manner: ‘His eyes goggled with eagerness; he leant his ear almost on the shoulder of the Doctor; and his mouth dropt open to catch every syllable that might be uttered: nay, he seemed not only to dread losing a word, but to be anxious not to miss a breathing; as if hoping from it, latently, or mystically, some information.’¹³⁹ Burney’s amused puzzlement was however not the only response Boswell’s conduct provoked. Others such as Mrs Piozzi saw it not as eccentricity, but as an affront to society: ‘There is something so ill-bred, and so inclining to treachery in this conduct, that were it commonly adopted, all confidence would soon be exiled from society, and a conversation assembly-room would become tremendous as a court of justice.’¹⁴⁰

Boswell’s journals contain many examples of notes taken down at or close to the time which subsequently were written up in the text of the Life, and we have already considered one example of this process when we compared the journal account of the first meeting between Boswell and Johnson with the account as printed in the Life. But the original and worked-up accounts of a less momentous occasion, chosen literally at random, will serve to demonstrate how Boswell’s notes were transformed into the narrative of the Life. Here is the journal entry for 9 April 1773:

This morning being Good Friday, I went in good frame to Mr. Johnson’s. Frank [Francis Barber, Johnson’s black servant] said there was nobody with him but Dr. Levett. I never knew till now that Levett had that title, or rather took it. We had good tea and good cakes, I think cross-buns. I then accompanied Mr. Johnson to St. Clement’s Church in the Strand. He was solemn and devout. I went home with him after. We did not dine on this venerable fast. He read to himself the Greek New Testament. I looked at several books, particularly Laud’s Life by —.¹⁴¹

And here is the corresponding passage in the Life:

On the 9th of April, being Good Friday, I breakfasted with him on tea and cross-buns; Doctor Levet, as Frank called him, making the tea. He carried me with him to the church of St. Clement Danes, where he had his seat; and his behaviour was, as I had imaged to myself, solemnly devout. I never shall forget the tremulous earnestness with which he pronounced the awful petition in the Litany: ‘In the hour of death, and at the day of judgement, good Lord deliver us.’

We went to church both in the morning and evening. In the interval between the two services we did not dine; but he read in the Greek New Testament, and I turned over several of his books.¹⁴²

Comparison reveals a general tendency towards polish and integration, and confirms one’s impression of Boswell as a voluptuary of writing. The staccato syntax of the journal entry is worked up into more elaborate sentences. The more refined technique of implication (the Life’s quietly pooh-poohing ‘Doctor Levet, as Frank called him’) supplants mere statement (the journal’s more openly disbelieving ‘I never knew till now that Levett had that title, or rather took it’). That syntactical and strategic impasto is accompanied by an enrichment of point of view. In the finished account the perspective of the observer is incorporated into the overall effect, as we see when the journal’s simple assertion that ‘He was solemn and devout’ undergoes enhancement into the Life’s ‘his behaviour was, as I had imaged to myself, solemnly devout’ – a revision which overlays the raw perception of Johnson’s religious devotion with the film of that parallel devotion which was Boswell’s persistent and imaginative contemplation of Johnson himself. Most striking of all, however, is the introduction into the Life of a vibrant detail not present in the journal: ‘I never shall forget the tremulous earnestness with which he pronounced the awful petition in the Litany: “In the hour of death, and at the day of judgement, good Lord deliver us.”’ Is this a real memory of Johnson’s behaviour on that day in 1773, which somehow failed to be recorded in the journal? Is it an accurate memory of Johnson’s behaviour on another occasion, which Boswell has inserted into the account in the Life of the events of 9 April 1773 in order to heighten it? Or is it rather a glimpse of an ideal Johnson, the Johnson whom Boswell elsewhere paints as gripped by fears of damnation, which was forged by that process of repeated tacking between memory and imagination to which Boswell refers when he found that Johnson’s actual demeanour in St Clement Danes – at least as he recollected it when he came to write it up for the Life – matched how he had ‘imaged’ it to himself in advance of the event?¹⁴³ In this, is it like that other, less obtrusive, detail in the account in the Life for which the journal gives no warrant, namely the assertion that it was Levet who made the tea that Good Friday, and whose pretensions to the title of ‘Doctor’ were thus quietly placed by his performance of that menial task? In both Levet’s tea-making and Johnson’s ‘tremulous earnestness’ are we confronted with Boswell remembering as factual something which his imagination dictated to him, after the event, as possessing a truth deeper than that of circumstance?¹⁴⁴

So the text of the Life, even when it may seem guileless, is far from any simple transcription of what happened to occur. For one thing, as we have already seen, Boswell was active in creating the reality he subsequently described. In this he may have picked up tips from an older friend of Johnson’s, Miss Williams, whom Boswell found ‘agreeable in conversation; for she had a variety of literature, and expressed herself well; but her peculiar value was the intimacy in which she had long lived with Johnson, by which she was well acquainted with his habits, and knew how to lead him on to talk’.¹⁴⁵ It was a task for which, given Johnson’s dislike of being exhibited, it was ‘often necessary to employ some address’.¹⁴⁶ The account of their conversation on 28 March 1772 shows very clearly the variety of forms which this address could assume. Address was certainly called for, since the subject of their talk was one upon which Johnson was notoriously inflammable, namely what happens to us after death:

I again visited him at night. Finding him in a very good humour, I ventured to lead him to the subject of our situation in a future state, having much curiosity to know his notions on that point. Johnson. ‘Why, Sir, the happiness of an unembodied spirit will consist in a consciousness of the favour of God, in the contemplation of truth, and in the possession of felicitating ideas.’ BOSWELL. ‘But, Sir, is there any harm in our forming to ourselves conjectures as to the particulars of our happiness, though the scripture has said but very little on the subject? “We know not what we shall be.”’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, there is no harm. What philosophy suggests to us on this topick is probable: what scripture tells us is certain. Dr. Henry More has carried it as far as philosophy can. You may buy both his theological and philosophical works in two volumes folio, for about eight shillings.’ BOSWELL. ‘One of the most pleasing thoughts is, that we shall see our friends again.’ JOHNSON. ‘Yes, Sir; but you must consider, that when we are become purely rational, many of our friendships will be cut off. Many friendships are formed by a community of sensual pleasures: all these will be cut off. We form many friendships with bad men, because they have agreeable qualities, and they can be useful to us; but, after death, they can no longer be of use to us. We form many friendships by mistake, imagining people to be different from what they really are. After death, we shall see every one in a true light. Then, Sir, they talk of our meeting our relations: but then all relationship is dissolved; and we shall have no regard for one person more than another, but for their real value. However, we shall either have the satisfaction of meeting our friends, or be satisfied without meeting them.’ BOSWELL. ‘Yet, Sir, we see in scripture, that Dives still retained an anxious concern about his brethren.’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, we must either suppose that passage to be metaphorical, or hold with many divines, and all the Purgatorians, that departed souls do not all at once arrive at the utmost perfection of which they are capable.’ BOSWELL. ‘I think, Sir, that is a very rational supposition.’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, yes, Sir; but we do not know it is a true one. There is no harm in believing it: but you must not compel others to make it an article of faith; for it is not revealed.’ BOSWELL. ‘Do you think, Sir, it is wrong in a man who holds the doctrine of purgatory, to pray for the souls of his deceased friends?’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, no, Sir.’ BOSWELL. ‘I have been told, that in the Liturgy of the Episcopal Church of Scotland, there was a form of prayer for the dead.’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, it is not in the liturgy which Laud framed for the Episcopal Church of Scotland: if there is a liturgy older than that, I should be glad to see it.’ BOSWELL. ‘As to our employment in a future state, the sacred writings say little. The Revelation, however, of St. John gives us many ideas, and particularly mentions musick.’ JOHNSON. ‘Why, Sir, ideas must be given you by means of something which you know: and as to musick, there are some philosophers and divines who have maintained that we shall not be spiritualized to such a degree, but that something of matter, very much refined, will remain. In that case, musick may make a part of our future felicity.’¹⁴⁷

An obvious aspect of Boswell’s address in this exchange is the variety of conversational roles he has in his repertoire, and his adroitness in assuming them: the hesitant querier (‘But, Sir, is there any harm…’); the supportive reinforcer (‘One of the most pleasing thoughts is…’); the troubled doubter (‘Yet, Sir, we see in scripture…’); the robust endorser (I think, Sir, that is a very rational supposition’); the anxious seeker after comfort (‘Do you think, Sir, it is wrong…’); finally, the helpful supplier of apposite information (I have been told…’). The adroitness is partly a question of Boswell’s sensitivity to Johnson’s replies: any trace of testiness immediately prompts the adoption of a submissive role, whereas complaisance or relaxed expatiation on Johnson’s part is the signal for Boswell to move away from the postures of deference, to begin a new incursion, and open up a new line of exploration of the great man’s mind. Conversation conducted on this basis is partly like dancing, partly like fencing. In the ‘Advertisement’ to the first edition, Boswell refers to the ‘labour and anxious attention with which I have collected and arranged the materials of which these volumes are composed’.¹⁴⁸ He might have said ‘collected, arranged and half-created…’

Yet the Life does not comprise simply Boswell’s recollections of Johnson. It also digests within itself the collected impressions and anecdotes of a number of Johnson’s other friends, usually placed not so much with an eye to strict chronology (despite what Edmond Malone says in the ‘Advertisement’ to the third edition about Boswell endeavouring ‘uniformly to observe’ chronological order),¹⁴⁹ but rather to fill in those areas where Boswell’s own material was, for whatever reason, thin. So, in the section of the Life dealing with September 1783, when Boswell was in Scotland and consequently apart from Johnson, Boswell inserted ‘a few particulars concerning him [Johnson], with which I have been favoured by one of his friends’ – in fact William Bowles, with whom Johnson had stayed the previous month.¹⁵⁰ In a similar way, when Boswell failed to meet Johnson at all in 1780, he chose that moment in the narrative of the Life to insert an ample collection of Johnsonian sayings supplied by Bennet Langton; and when the same lack of contact had occurred in 1770, ‘without any coldness on either side, but merely from procrastination, continued from day to day’ as Boswell explains, he inserted at that point in the narrative of the Life the Johnsonian Collectanea of Dr Maxwell.¹⁵¹ The incorporation of this related but also foreign material not only amplifies and reinforces the Life:¹⁵² it contributes strongly to the distinctive experience of reading it provides.

We have commented on the elaboration of Boswell’s narrative. However, the narrative is far from polished, if by that metaphor for literary style we wish to imply a kind of writing completely purged of unevenness. The Life proclaims and seeks out unevenness, whether it be the inclusion of un-Boswellian material, or the different kind of unevenness which resulted from Boswell’s less than perfect commitment to the biographer’s task:

For some time after this day I did not see him very often, and of the conversation which I did enjoy, I am sorry to find I have preserved but little. I was at this time engaged in a variety of other matters, which required exertion and assiduity, and necessarily occupied almost all my time.¹⁵³

A pleasing unevenness, too, arises from the incorporation of different kinds of literary material into the Life: letters, opinions, conversations, dramatizations of the more important encounters.¹⁵⁴ The Life has in part the character of a florilegium of Johnsoniana, which both brings about a transfer of life to writing and yet also refrains from any pretence that this transfer is or can be anything more than partial.¹⁵⁵ As with any anthology, its virtue is inseparable from – indeed, is precisely a product of – its selectivity.

The eschewal of mechanical regularity in the Life is thus a consequence of deliberate choice on Boswell’s part, and is an expression of the work’s implicit biographical theory. At the very outset, Boswell reminded his reader of Johnson’s own interest in the genre of biography:

Had Dr. Johnson written his own life, in conformity with the opinion which he has given, that every man’s life may be best written by himself; had he employed in the preservation of his own history, that clearness of narration and elegance of language in which he has embalmed so many eminent persons, the world would probably have had the most perfect example of biography that was ever exhibited. But although he at different times, in a desultory manner, committed to writing many particulars of the progress of his mind and fortunes, he never had persevering diligence enough to form them into a regular composition. Of these memorials a few have been preserved; but the greater part was consigned by him to the flames, a few days before his death.¹⁵⁶

The ‘opinion’ of Johnson’s to which Boswell refers is to be found in Idler 84 (1759), in which Johnson elevates autobiography (although he does not call it that) above biography, on grounds of its probably superior veracity.¹⁵⁷ The preference is advanced explicitly in terms of comparison between the two forms of life-writing:

Those relations are… commonly of most value in which the writer tells his own story. He that recounts the life of another, commonly dwells most upon conspicuous events, lessens the familiarity of his tale to increase its dignity, shews his favourite at a distance decorated and magnified like the ancient actors in their tragick dress, and endeavours to hide the man that he may produce a hero.¹⁵⁸

Boswell’s practice in the Life can be read as an implicit reproof of this Johnsonian suspicion of biography, since he welcomes the quotidian into his narrative and displays his subject in the most intimate circumstances. For Boswell, the route to appreciating Johnson’s heroism lies directly through his common humanity: it is not to be found by detouring round it. For this reason, it is difficult to accept at face value the praise Boswell bestows on the hypothetical autobiography which Johnson did not get round to writing: ‘had he employed in the preservation of his own history, that clearness of narration and elegance of language in which he has embalmed so many eminent persons, the world would probably have had the most perfect example of biography that was ever exhibited.’ Difficult because the crafted discontinuities and asperities of Boswell’s narrative aim at vivacity of impact more than they do at clarity and elegance; and, most importantly, difficult because Boswell’s object is not to embalm, but spectrally to revive.¹⁵⁹ So there is a trace of triumphant ressentiment when Boswell notes the abortion of this hypothetical Johnsonian autobiography. His own work, albeit produced on a different plan, at least exists.

What was that plan? Boswell confessed that he had been influenced by William Mason’s Memoirs of Thomas Gray, which had been published in 1775.¹⁶⁰ It was a model which, at least as Boswell understood it, prescribed the intermittent self-effacement of the biographer:

Wherever narrative is necessary to explain, connect, and supply, I furnish it to the best of my abilities; but in the chronological series of Johnson’s life, which I trace as distinctly as I can, year by year, I produce, wherever it is in my power, his own minutes, letters or conversation, being convinced that this mode is more lively, and will make my readers better acquainted with him, than even most of those were who actually knew him, but could know him only partially…

Indeed I cannot conceive a more perfect mode of writing any man’s life, than not only relating all the most important events of it in their order, but interweaving what he privately wrote, and said, and thought; by which mankind are enabled as it were to see him live, and to ‘live o’er each scene’ with him, as he actually advanced through the several stages of his life.¹⁶¹

It is the unmediated (although framed, arranged, and set) incorporation of particularity which is the cornerstone of Boswell’s practice in the Life. ‘Minute particulars are frequently characteristick’: this is Boswell’s creed.¹⁶² It is a principle which receives a surprisingly modern echo. Roland Barthes said (with what seriousness, however, it is impossible to judge) that ‘were I a writer, and dead, how I would like my life to be reduced, by the attentions of a friendly, carefree biographer, to a few details, a few tastes, a few inflections; let’s say, “biographemes”.’¹⁶³ The massive inclus-iveness of the Life is plainly at odds with the feline Barthes’s decadent, astringent preference for ‘a few details, a few tastes, a few inflections’; but otherwise, in its prizing of the grit of a life, Barthes’s playful formulation is not at complete variance with Boswell. There are so many tantalizing, unconstrued details in the Life of Johnson. Which reader would not want to know more about Elizabeth Blaney, who died of unrequited love for Johnson’s father?¹⁶⁴ Who is not intrigued to be told of Johnson’s perpetual fondness ‘for chymical experiments’?¹⁶⁵ When Johnson refers in passing to ‘all my Lincolnshire friends’, who does not wish to know who they were, and when Johnson met them?¹⁶⁶ Who has not wondered to what purpose Johnson put the dried orange peel he sedulously collected at meetings of the Club?¹⁶⁷ Would we not wish to know more about the Mr Ballow from whom Johnson learned law?¹⁶⁸ Is there not almost endless resonance in the conjunctions of posture and occupation in some of Boswell’s recollections of Johnson? ‘He was for a considerable time occupied in reading Memoires de Fontenelle, leaning and swinging upon the low gate into the court, without his hat.’¹⁶⁹ The collocation of that book, that state of undress, that pose and movement: the mind could dwell upon it almost without end. And in which reader does not Boswell’s late revelation of Johnson’s youthful recourse to prostitutes start reflections about the hidden life of Johnson?¹⁷⁰ And, finally, there are all those unwritten Johnsonian works which are, as it were, embryonically preserved in the narrative of the Life: the edition of Bacon, the edition of the Biographia Britannica, the ‘Tory History of his country’, the life of Cromwell, the family history of the Boswells, the translation of de Thou and the life of Spenser which Johnson toyed with when virtually on his deathbed, all the projects contained in the catalogue of literary schemes which Johnson gave to Bennet Langton, and most of all perhaps the ‘two quarto volumes, containing a full, fair, and most particular account of his own life’, which Boswell supposes were consumed in the bonfire of Johnson’s personal papers in December 1784.¹⁷¹ These frequent alleyways leading from the written life to the life as lived, the existence of which we can register but which we cannot follow to their end and fully explore, keep the Life of Johnson supple and living, make it the receptacle of our keen, imaginative involvement, and prevent it from ever declining into something as unmoving (in all senses) as an embalming of Johnson.

Boswell places an instance of misplaced literary confidence close to the opening of his narrative, when he records Johnson’s amused recollection of the vanity of the nevertheless human wishes of an early teacher: ‘His next instructor in English was a master, whom, when he spoke of him to me, he familiarly called Tom Brown, who, said he, “published a spelling-book, and dedicated it to the Universe; but, I fear, no copy of it can now be had.”¹⁷² By keeping his aspirations closer to the soil, Boswell ensured a very different fate for his own book.

St Catherine’s College, Oxford, 2007