prefixed the words “Geographia Metrica.” As we are referred, in the
first of the verses, to Templeman, for having furnished the
numerical computations that are the subject of them, his work has
been, accordingly, consulted, the title of which is, a new Survey of
the Globe; and which professes to give an accurate mensuration of
all the empires, kingdoms, and other divisions thereof, in the
square miles that they respectively contain. On comparison of the
several numbers in these verses, with those set down by Templeman,
it appears that nearly half of them are precisely the same; the rest
are not quite so exactly done. — For the convenience of the reader,
it has been thought right to subjoin each number, as it stands in
Templeman’s works, to that in Dr. Johnson’s verses which refers to
it.
In this first article that is versified, there is an accurate
conformity in Dr. Johnson’s number to Templeman’s; who sets down the
square miles of Palestine at 7,600.
The square miles of Egypt are, in Templeman, 140,700.
The whole Turkish empire, in Templeman, is computed at 960,057
square miles.
In the four following articles, the numbers in Templeman and in
Johnson’s verses are alike. — We find, accordingly, the Morea, in
Templeman, to be set down at 7,220 square miles. — Arabia, at
700,000. — Persia, at 800,000. — and Naples, at 22,000.
Sicily, in Templeman, is put down at 9,400.
The pope’s dominions, at 14,868.
Tuscany, at 6,640.
Genoa, in Templeman, as in Johnson likewise, is set down at 2,400.
Lucca, at 286.
The Russian empire, in the 29th plate of Templeman, is set down at
3,303,485 square miles.
Sardinia, in Templeman, as likewise in Johnson, 6,600.
The habitable world, in Templeman, is computed, in square miles, at
30,666,806 square miles.
Asia, at 10,257,487.
Africa, at 8,506,208.
Europe, at 2,749,349.
The British dominions, at 105,634.
England, as likewise in Johnson’s expression of the number, at
49,450.
Ireland, at 27,457.
In the three remaining instances, which make the whole that Dr.
Johnson appears to have rendered into Latin verse, we find the
numbers exactly agreeing with those of Templeman, who makes the
square miles of the United Provinces, 9540 — of the province of
Holland, 1800 — and of Wales, 7011.
TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN’S EPIGRAM ON MILTON.
Quos laudat vates, Graecus, Romanus, et Anglus,
Tres tria temporibus secla dedere suis.
Sublime ingenium Graecus; Romanus habebat
Carmen grande sonans; Anglus utrumque tulit.
Nil majus natura capit: clarare priores
Quae potuere duos tertius unus habet.
EPILOGUE TO THE CARMEN SAECULARE OF HORACE; PERFORMED AT FREEMASONS’ HALL.
Quae fausta Romae dixit Horatius,
Haec fausta vobis dicimus, Angliae
Opes, triumphos, et subacti
Imperium pelagi precantes.
Such strains as, mingled with the lyre,
Could Rome with future greatness fire,
Ye sons of England, deign to hear,
Nor think our wishes less sincere.
May ye the varied blessings share
Of plenteous peace and prosp’rous war;
And o’er the globe extend your reign,
Unbounded masters of the main!
TRANSLATION OF A WELSH EPITAPH (IN HERBERT’S TRAVELS) ON PRINCE MADOCK.
Inclytus hic haeres magni requiescit Oeni,
Confessas tantum mente, manuque, patrem;
Servilem tuti cultum contempsit agelli,
Et petiit terras, per freta longa, novas.
The Criticism
DR. JOHNSON AND HIS CIRCLE by John Bailey
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. JOHNSON AS A NATIONAL INSTITUTION
CHAPTER II. THE GENIUS OF BOSWELL
CHAPTER III. THE LIVES OF BOSWELL AND JOHNSON
CHAPTER IV. JOHNSON’S CHARACTER AND CHARACTERISTICS
CHAPTER V. JOHNSON’S WORKS
CHAPTER VI. THE FRIENDS OF JOHNSON
CHAPTER I. JOHNSON AS A NATIONAL INSTITUTION
The name of Samuel Johnson is, of course, not the greatest in English prose, but even to-day, when he has been dead more than a century and a quarter, it is still the most familiar. We live in an age of newspapers. Where all can read, the newspaper press, taken as a whole, will be a fairly accurate reflection of what is in the mind of a people. Nothing will be mentioned frequently in newspapers which is not of some interest to a large number of readers; and whatever is frequently mentioned there cannot fail to become widely known. Tried by this test, Johnson’s name must be admitted to be very widely known and of almost universal interest. No man of letters — perhaps scarcely even Shakespeare himself — is so often quoted in the columns of the daily press. His is a name that may be safely introduced into any written or spoken discussion, without fear of the stare of unrecognizing ignorance; and the only danger to which those who quote him expose themselves is that of the yawn of over-familiarity. Even in his own lifetime his reputation extended far beyond the limited circle of literature or scholarship. Actresses delighted in his conversation; soldiers were proud to entertain him in their barracks; innkeepers boasted of his having slept in their inns. His celebrity was such that he himself once said there was hardly a day in which the newspapers did not mention his name; and a year after his death Boswell could venture to write publicly of him that his “character, religious, moral, political and literary, nay his figure and manner, are, I believe, more generally known than those of almost any man.” But what was, in his own day, partly a respect paid to the maker of the famous Dictionary and partly a curiosity about “the great Oddity,” as the Edensor innkeeper called him, has in the course of the nineteenth century become a great deal more.
He is still for us the great scholar and the strongly marked individuality, but he has gradually attained a kind of apotheosis, a kind of semi-legendary position, almost rivalling that of the great John Bull himself, as the embodiment of the essential features of the English character. We never think of the typical Englishman being like Shakespeare or Milton. In the first place, we know very little about Shakespeare, and not very much about Milton; and so we are thrown back on their works, and our mental picture of them takes on a dim and shadowy grandeur, very unlike what we see when we look within into our familiar and commonplace selves. Nor do Englishmen often plume themselves on their aesthetic or imaginative gifts. The achievements of Wren, or Purcell, or Keats may arouse in them admiration and pride, but never a sense of kinship. When they recognize themselves in the national literature, it is not Hamlet, or Lear, or Clarissa, or Ravenswood that holds up the mirror; but Falstaff, or The Bastard, or Tom Jones, or Jeanie Deans, or perhaps Gabriel Oak: plain people, all of them, whatever their differences, with a certain quiet and downright quality which Englishmen are apt to think the peculiar birthright of the people of this island. It is that quality which was the central thing in the mind of Johnson, and it is to his possession of it, and to our unique knowledge of it through Boswell, that more than anything else he owes this position of the typical Englishman among our men of letters. We can all imagine that under other conditions, and with an added store of brains and character, we might each have been Doctor Johnson. Before we could fancy ourselves Shelley or Keats the self that we know would have to be not developed but destroyed. But in Johnson we see our own magnified and glorified selves.
It has sometimes been asserted to be the
function of the man of letters to say what others can feel or think but only he can express. Whatever may be thought of such a definition of literature, it is certain that Johnson discharged this particular function with almost unique success. And he continues to do so still, especially in certain fields. Whenever we feel strongly the point of view of common sense we almost expect to be able to find some trenchant phrase of Johnson’s with which to express it. If it cannot be found it is often invented. A few years ago, a lover of Johnson walking along a London street passed by the side of a cabmen’s shelter. Two cabmen were getting their dinner ready, and the Johnsonian was amused and pleased to hear one say to the other: “After all, as Doctor Johnson says, a man may travel all over the world without seeing anything better than his dinner.” The saying was new to him and probably apocryphal, though the sentiment is one which can well be imagined as coming from the great man’s mouth. But whether apocryphal or authentic, the remark well illustrates both the extent and the particular nature of Johnson’s fame. You would not find a cabman ascribing to Milton or Pope a shrewd saying that he had heard and liked. Is there any man but Johnson in all our literary history whom he would be likely to call in on such an occasion? That is the measure of Johnson’s universality of appeal. And the secret of it lies, to use his own phrase, not used of himself of course, in the “bottom of sense,” which is the primary quality in all he wrote and said, and is not altogether absent from his ingrained prejudices, or even from the perversities of opinion which his love of argument and opposition so constantly led him to adopt. Whether right or wrong there is always something broadly and fundamentally human about him which appeals to all and especially to the plain man. Every one feels at home at once with a man who replies to doubts about the freedom of the will with the plain man’s answer: “Sir, we know our will’s free, and there’s an end on’t,” and if he adds to it an argument which the plain man would not have thought of, it is still one which the plain man and everyone else can understand. “You are surer that you can lift up your finger or not as you please, than you are of any conclusion from a deduction of reasoning.” Moreover we all think we are more honest than our neighbours and are at once drawn to the man who was less of a humbug than any man who ever lived. “Clear your mind of cant” is perhaps the central text of Johnson, on which he enlarged a hundred times. “When a butcher tells you his heart bleeds for his country, he has in fact no uneasy feeling.” No one who has ever attended an election meeting fails to welcome that saying, or the answer to Boswell’s fears that if he were in Parliament he would be unhappy if things went wrong, “That’s cant, sir. . . . Public affairs vex no man.” “Have they not vexed yourself a little, sir? Have you not been vexed at all by the turbulence of this reign and by that absurd vote of the House of Commons, ‘That the influence of the Crown has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished’?” “Sir, I have never slept an hour less, nor eat an ounce less meat. I would have knocked the factious dogs on the head, to be sure; but I was not vexed.”
Here we all know where we are. This is what we wish we could have said ourselves, and can fancy ourselves saying under more favourable circumstances; and we like the man who says it for us. Certainly no man, not even Swift, ever put the plain man’s view with such exactness, felicity, and force as Johnson does a thousand times in the pages of Boswell. And not only in the pages of Boswell. One of the objects of this introductory chapter is to try to give a preliminary answer to the very natural question which confronts every one who thinks about Johnson, how it has come about that a man whose works are so little read to-day should still be so great a name in English life. How is it that in this HOME UNIVERSITY LIBRARY he is the second author to have a volume to himself, only Shakespeare preceding him? The primary answer is, of course, that we know him, as we know no other man whose face we never saw, whose voice we never heard. Boswell boasted that he had “Johnsonized the land,” and that he had shown Johnson in his book as no man had ever been shown in a book before; and the boast is after a hundred years seen to be a literal statement of fact. But after all Boswell did not make Johnson’s reputation. On the contrary, it was Johnson’s name that sold Boswell’s book. No man owes so much to his biographer as Johnson to Boswell, but that must not make us forget that Johnson was the most famous man of letters in England before he ever saw Boswell. Boswell’s earnest desire to make his acquaintance and to sit humbly at his feet was only an extreme instance of an attitude of respect and admiration, often even of reverence, commonly felt towards him among the more intelligent and serious portion of the community. He had not then attained to the position of something like Dictatorship which he filled in the world of English letters at the time he wrote the Lives of the Poets, but, except the Shakespeare and the Lives, all the work that gave him that position was already done. In this case, as in others, fame increased in old age without any corresponding increase in achievement, and it was the easy years at Streatham, not the laborious years at Gough Square, that saw him honoured and courted by bishops and judges, peers and commoners, by the greatest of English statesmen and the greatest of English painters. But his kingship was in him from the first. He had been anax andron even among his schoolfellows. His bigness, in more ways than one, made them call him “the great boy,” and the father of one of them was astute enough even then to perceive that he would be more than that: “you call him the great boy, but take my word for it, he will one day prove a great man.” The boys looked upon him so much as a superior being to themselves that three of them, of whom one was his friend Hector, whom he often saw in later life, “used to come in the morning as his humble attendants and carry him to school. One in the middle stooped while he sat upon his back, and one on each side supported him, and thus he was borne triumphant.” Such a tribute by boys to intellectual superiority was less rare in those days than it has become since: but it would not be easy to find a parallel to it at any time. What began at school continued through life. Even when he was poorest and most obscure, there was something about him that secured respect. It is too little to say that no one ever imagined he could with impunity behave disrespectfully to Johnson. No one ever dared to do so. As he flung the well-meant boots from his door at Oxford, so throughout life he knew how to make all men afraid to insult, slight, or patronize him.
But these, after all, were qualities that would only affect the few who came into personal contact with him. What was it that affected the larger world and gave him the fame and authority of his later years? Broadly speaking of course it was what he had written, the work he had done, his poems, his Rambler and Idler, his Rasselas, his Shakespeare, above all that colossal and triumphant piece of single-handed labour, the Dictionary of the English Language. But there was more than that. Another man might have written books quite as valuable, and attained to nothing like Johnson’s position. A thousand people to-day read what Gray was writing in those years for one who reads what Johnson wrote, and they are quite right. Yet Gray in his lifetime had little fame and no authority except among his friends. Pope, again, had of course immense celebrity, more no doubt than Johnson ever had among men of letters; but he never became, as Johnson did, something almost like a national institution. What was it that gave Johnson what great poets never attained? It could not yet be his reputation as a great talker, which was only beginning to spread. We think of him as the greatest talker the world has ever seen: but that is chiefly due to Boswell, of course, and we are speaking at present of the years before the memorable meeting in the back parlour of Mr. Davies’s shop in Russell Street, Covent Garden. Besides, good talk, except in Boswell’s pages, is like good acting, a vain thing to those who only know it by hearsay. We are therefore thrown back on Johnson’s public work for an explanation of the position he held. What was it in his work, with so little of Pope’s amazing wit and brilliancy, with so little of Gray’s fine imaginative quality and distinction, prose too, in the main, and not poetry, with none of the prestige of poetry, that gave him what neither Pope no
r Gray ever received, what it is scarcely too much to call, the homage of a nation?
The answer is that, especially in England, it is not brilliance or distinction of mind that win the respect of a nation. George III had many faults, but all through his reign he was an admirable representative of the general feelings of his people. And he never did a more representative act than when he gave Johnson a pension, or when he received him in the library of Buckingham House. No doubt many, though not all, of Johnson’s political and ecclesiastical prejudices were very congenial to the king, but plenty of people shared George Ill’s views without gaining from him an ounce of respect. What he and the nation dimly felt about Johnson was a quality belonging less to the author than to the man. The English, as we were saying just now, think of themselves as a plain people, more honest and direct in word and deed than the rest of the world. George III never affected to be anything but a plain man, was very honest according to his lights, and never for an instant failed to have the courage of his convictions. Such a king and such a people would inevitably be attracted to a man of Johnson’s fearless sincerity and invincible common sense. The ideal of the nation is still the same. Johnson once praised the third Duke of Devonshire for his “dogged veracity.” We have lately seen one of that duke’s descendants and successors, a man of no obvious or shining talents, attain to a position of almost unique authority among his fellow countrymen mainly by his signal possession of this hereditary gift of veracity, honesty and good sense. So it was with Johnson himself. Behind all his learning lay something which no learned language could conceal. “On s’attend à voir un auteur et on trouve un homme.” Authors then, as now, were often thought to be fantastical, namby-pamby persons, living in dreams, sharing none of the plain man’s interests, eager and querulous about trifles and unrealities, indifferent and incapable in the broad world of life. Nobody could feel that about Johnson.
Complete Works of Samuel Johnson Page 614