I was surprised at his talking without reserve in the publick post-coach of the state of his affairs; ‘I have (said he,) about the world I think above a thousand pounds, which I intend shall afford Frank an annuity of seventy pounds a year.’ Indeed his openness with people at a first interview was remarkable. He said once to Mr. Langton, ‘I think I am like Squire Richard in The Journey to London, “I’m never strange in a strange place.”’ He was truly SOCIAL. He strongly censured what is much too common in England among persons of condition, — maintaining an absolute silence, when unknown to each other; as for instance, when occasionally brought together in a room before the master or mistress of the house has appeared. ‘Sir, that is being so uncivilised as not to understand the common rights of humanity.’
At the inn where we stopped he was exceedingly dissatisfied with some roast mutton which we had for dinner. The ladies I saw wondered to see the great philosopher, whose wisdom and wit they had been admiring all the way, get into ill-humour from such a cause. He scolded the waiter, saying, ‘It is as bad as bad can be: it is ill-fed, ill-killed, ill-kept, and ill-drest.’
He bore the journey very well, and seemed to feel himself elevated as he approached Oxford, that magnificent and venerable seat of learning, Orthodoxy, and Toryism. Frank came in the heavy coach, in readiness to attend him; and we were received with the most polite hospitality at the house of his old friend Dr. Adams, Master of Pembroke College, who had given us a kind invitation. Before we were set down, I communicated to Johnson, my having engaged to return to London directly, for the reason I have mentioned, but that I would hasten back to him again. He was pleased that I had made this journey merely to keep him company. He was easy and placid with Dr. Adams, Mrs. and Miss Adams, and Mrs. Kennicot, widow of the learned Hebraean, who was here on a visit. He soon dispatched the inquiries which were made about his illness and recovery, by a short and distinct narrative; and then assuming a gay air, repeated from Swift, —
‘Nor think on our approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills.’
I fulfilled my intention by going to London, and returned to Oxford on Wednesday the 9th of June, when I was happy to find myself again in the same agreeable circle at Pembroke College, with the comfortable prospect of making some stay. Johnson welcomed my return with more than ordinary glee.
Next morning at breakfast, he pointed out a passage in Savage’s Wanderer, saying, ‘These are fine verses.’ ‘If (said he,) I had written with hostility of Warburton in my Shakspeare, I should have quoted this couplet: —
“Here Learning, blinded first and then beguil’d,
Looks dark as Ignorance, as Fancy wild.”
You see they’d have fitted him to a T,’ (smiling.) Dr. ADAMS. ‘But you did not write against Warburton.’ JOHNSON. No, Sir, I treated him with great respect both in my Preface and in my Notes.’
After dinner, when one of us talked of there being a great enmity between Whig and Tory; — Johnson. ‘Why not so much, I think, unless when they come into competition with each other. There is none when they are only common acquaintance, none when they are of different sexes. A Tory will marry into a Whig family, and a Whig into a Tory family, without any reluctance. But indeed, in a matter of much more concern than political tenets, and that is religion, men and women do not concern themselves much about difference of opinion; and ladies set no value on the moral character of men who pay their addresses to them; the greatest profligate will be as well received as the man of the greatest virtue, and this by a very good woman, by a woman who says her prayers three times a day.’ Our ladies endeavoured to defend their sex from this charge; but he roared them down! ‘No, no, a lady will take Jonathan Wild as readily as St. Austin, if he has threepence more; and, what is worse, her parents will give her to him. Women have a perpetual envy of our vices; they are less vicious than we, not from choice, but because we restrict them; they are the slaves of order and fashion; their virtue is of more consequence to us than our own, so far as concerns this world.’
Miss Adams mentioned a gentleman of licentious character, and said, ‘Suppose I had a mind to marry that gentleman, would my parents consent?’ JOHNSON. ‘Yes, they’d consent, and you’d go. You’d go though they did not consent.’ Miss ADAMS. ‘Perhaps their opposing might make me go.’ JOHNSON. ‘O, very well; you’d take one whom you think a bad man, to have the pleasure of vexing your parents. You put me in mind of Dr. Barrowby, the physician, who was very fond of swine’s flesh. One day, when he was eating it, he said, “I wish I was a Jew.” “Why so? (said somebody;) the Jews are not allowed to eat your favourite meat.” “Because, (said he,) I should then have the gust of eating it, with the pleasure of sinning.”’ Johnson then proceeded in his declamation.
Miss Adams soon afterwards made an observation that I do not recollect, which pleased him much: he said with a good-humoured smile, ‘That there should be so much excellence united with so much DEPRAVITY, is strange.’
Indeed, this lady’s good qualities, merit, and accomplishments, and her constant attention to Dr. Johnson, were not lost upon him. She happened to tell him that a little coffeepot, in which she had made his coffee, was the only thing she could call her own. He turned to her with a complacent gallantry, ‘Don’t say so, my dear; I hope you don’t reckon my heart as nothing.’
On Friday, June 11, we talked at breakfast, of forms of prayer. JOHNSON. ‘I know of no good prayers but those in the Book of Common Prayer.’ DR. ADAMS. (in a very earnest manner:) ‘I wish, Sir, you would compose some family prayers.’ JOHNSON. ‘I will not compose prayers for you, Sir, because you can do it for yourself. But I have thought of getting together all the books of prayers which I could, selecting those which should appear to me the best, putting out some, inserting others, adding some prayers of my own, and prefixing a discourse on prayer.’ We all now gathered about him, and two or three of us at a time joined in pressing him to execute this plan. He seemed to be a little displeased at the manner of our importunity, and in great agitation called out, ‘Do not talk thus of what is so aweful. I know not what time GOD will allow me in this world. There are many things which I wish to do.’ Some of us persisted, and Dr. Adams said, ‘I never was more serious about any thing in my life.’ JOHNSON. ‘Let me alone, let me alone; I am overpowered.’ And then he put his hands before his face, and reclined for some time upon the table.
Dr. Johnson and I went in Dr. Adams’s coach to dine with Dr. Nowell, Principal of St. Mary Hall, at his beautiful villa at Iffley, on the banks of the Isis, about two miles from Oxford. While we were upon the road, I had the resolution to ask Johnson whether he thought that the roughness of his manner had been an advantage or not, and if he would not have done more good if he had been more gentle. I proceeded to answer myself thus: ‘Perhaps it has been of advantage, as it has given weight to what you said: you could not, perhaps, have talked with such authority without it.’ JOHNSON. ‘No, Sir; I have done more good as I am. Obscenity and Impiety have always been repressed in my company.’ BOSWELL. ‘True, Sir; and that is more than can be said of every Bishop. Greater liberties have been taken in the presence of a Bishop, though a very good man, from his being milder, and therefore not commanding such awe. Yet, Sir, many people who might have been benefited by your conversation, have been frightened away. A worthy friend of ours has told me, that he has often been afraid to talk to you.’ JOHNSON. ‘Sir, he need not have been afraid, if he had any thing rational to say. If he had not, it was better he did not talk.’
We talked of a certain clergyman of extraordinary character, who by exerting his talents in writing on temporary topicks, and displaying uncommon intrepidity, had raised himself to affluence. I maintained that we ought not to be indignant at his success; for merit of every sort was entitled to reward. JOHNSON. ‘Sir, I will not allow this man to have merit. No, Sir; what he has is rather the contrary; I will, indeed, allow him courage, and on this account we so far give him credit. We have more respect for a man who rob
s boldly on the highway, than for a fellow who jumps out of a ditch, and knocks you down behind your back. Courage is a quality so necessary for maintaining virtue, that it is always respected, even when it is associated with vice.’
Mr. Henderson, with whom I had sauntered in the venerable walks of Merton College, and found him a very learned and pious man, supped with us. Dr. Johnson surprised him not a little, by acknowledging with a look of horrour, that he was much oppressed by the fear of death. The amiable Dr. Adams suggested that GOD was infinitely good. JOHNSON. ‘That he is infinitely good, as far as the perfection of his nature will allow, I certainly believe; but it is necessary for good upon the whole, that individuals should be punished. As to an INDIVIDUAL, therefore, he is not infinitely good; and as I cannot be SURE that I have fulfilled the conditions on which salvation is granted, I am afraid I may be one of those who shall be damned.’ (looking dismally). DR. ADAMS. ‘What do you mean by damned?’ JOHNSON. (passionately and loudly,) ‘Sent to Hell, Sir, and punished everlastingly!’ DR. ADAMS. ‘I don’t believe that doctrine.’ JOHNSON. ‘Hold, Sir, do you believe that some will be punished at all?’ DR. ADAMS. ‘Being excluded from Heaven will be a punishment; yet there may be no great positive suffering.’ JOHNSON. Well, Sir; but, if you admit any degree of punishment, there is an end of your argument for infinite goodness simply considered; for, infinite goodness would inflict no punishment whatever. There is not infinite goodness physically considered; morally there is.’ BOSWELL. ‘But may not a man attain to such a degree of hope as not to be uneasy from the fear of death?’ JOHNSON. ‘A man may have such a degree of hope as to keep him quiet. You see I am not quiet, from the vehemence with which I talk; but I do not despair.’ MRS. ADAMS. ‘You seem, Sir, to forget the merits of our Redeemer.’ JOHNSON. ‘Madam, I do not forget the merits of my Redeemer; but my Redeemer has said that he will set some on his right hand and some on his left.’ He was in gloomy agitation, and said, ‘I’ll have no more on’t.’ If what has now been stated should be urged by the enemies of Christianity, as if its influence on the mind were not benignant, let it be remembered, that Johnson’s temperament was melancholy, of which such direful apprehensions of futurity are often a common effect. We shall presently see that when he approached nearer to his aweful change, his mind became tranquil, and he exhibited as much fortitude as becomes a thinking man in that situation.
From the subject of death we passed to discourse of life, whether it was upon the whole more happy or miserable. Johnson was decidedly for the balance of misery: in confirmation of which I maintained, that no man would choose to lead over again the life which he had experienced. Johnson acceded to that opinion in the strongest terms.
On Sunday, June 13, our philosopher was calm at breakfast. There was something exceedingly pleasing in our leading a College life, without restraint, and with superiour elegance, in consequence of our living in the Master’s house, and having the company of ladies. Mrs. Kennicot related, in his presence, a lively saying of Dr. Johnson to Miss Hannah More, who had expressed a wonder that the poet who had written Paradise Lost should write such poor Sonnets:— ‘Milton, Madam, was a genius that could cut a Colossus from a rock; but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones.’
On Monday, June 14, and Tuesday, 15, Dr. Johnson and I dined, on one of them, I forget which, with Mr. Mickle, translator of the Lusiad, at Wheatley, a very pretty country place a few miles from Oxford; and on the other with Dr. Wetherell, Master of University College. From Dr. Wetherell’s he went to visit Mr. Sackville Parker, the bookseller; and when he returned to us, gave the following account of his visit, saying, ‘I have been to see my old friend, Sack Parker; I find he has married his maid; he has done right. She had lived with him many years in great confidence, and they had mingled minds; I do not think he could have found any wife that would have made him so happy. The woman was very attentive and civil to me; she pressed me to fix a day for dining with them, and to say what I liked, and she would be sure to get it for me. Poor Sack! He is very ill, indeed. We parted as never to meet again. It has quite broke me down.’ This pathetic narrative was strangely diversified with the grave and earnest defence of a man’s having married his maid. I could not but feel it as in some degree ludicrous.
In the morning of Tuesday, June 15, while we sat at Dr. Adams’s, we talked of a printed letter from the Reverend Herbert Croft, to a young gentleman who had been his pupil, in which he advised him to read to the end of whatever books he should begin to read. JOHNSON. ‘This is surely a strange advice; you may as well resolve that whatever men you happen to get acquainted with, you are to keep to them for life. A book may be good for nothing; or there may be only one thing in it worth knowing; are we to read it all through? These Voyages, (pointing to the three large volumes of Voyages to the South Sea, which were just come out) WHO will read them through? A man had better work his way before the mast, than read them through; they will be eaten by rats and mice, before they are read through. There can be little entertainment in such books; one set of Savages is like another.’ BOSWELL. ‘I do not think the people of Otaheite can be reckoned Savages.’ JOHNSON. ‘Don’t cant in defence of Savages.’ BOSWELL. ‘They have the art of navigation.’ JOHNSON. ‘A dog or a cat can swim.’ BOSWELL. ‘They carve very ingeniously.’ JOHNSON. ‘A cat can scratch, and a child with a nail can scratch.’ I perceived this was none of the mollia tempora fandi; so desisted.
Upon his mentioning that when he came to College he wrote his first exercise twice over; but never did so afterwards; MISS ADAMS. ‘I suppose, Sir, you could not make them better?’ JOHNSON. ‘Yes, Madam, to be sure, I could make them better. Thought is better than no thought.’ MISS ADAMS. ‘Do you think, Sir, you could make your Ramblers better?’ JOHNSON. ‘Certainly I could.’ BOSWELL. ‘I’ll lay a bet, Sir, you cannot.’ JOHNSON. ‘But I will, Sir, if I choose. I shall make the best of them you shall pick out, better.’ BOSWELL. ‘But you may add to them. I will not allow of that.’ JOHNSON. ‘Nay, Sir, there are three ways of making them better; — putting out, — adding, — or correcting.’
During our visit at Oxford, the following conversation passed between him and me on the subject of my trying my fortune at the English bar: Having asked whether a very extensive acquaintance in London, which was very valuable, and of great advantage to a man at large, might not be prejudicial to a lawyer, by preventing him from giving sufficient attention to his business; — JOHNSON. ‘Sir, you will attend to business, as business lays hold of you. When not actually employed, you may see your friends as much as you do now. You may dine at a Club every day, and sup with one of the members every night; and you may be as much at publick places as one who has seen them all would wish to be. But you must take care to attend constantly in Westminster-Hall; both to mind your business, as it is almost all learnt there, (for nobody reads now;) and to shew that you want to have business. And you must not be too often seen at publick places, that competitors may not have it to say, “He is always at the Playhouse or at Ranelagh, and never to be found at his chambers.” And, Sir, there must be a kind of solemnity in the manner of a professional man. I have nothing particular to say to you on the subject. All this I should say to any one; I should have said it to Lord Thurlow twenty years ago.’
On Wednesday, June 19, Dr. Johnson and I returned to London; he was not well to-day, and said very little, employing himself chiefly in reading Euripides. He expressed some displeasure at me, for not observing sufficiently the various objects upon the road. ‘If I had your eyes, Sir, (said he,) I should count the passengers.’ It was wonderful how accurate his observation of visual objects was, notwithstanding his imperfect eyesight, owing to a habit of attention. That he was much satisfied with the respect paid to him at Dr. Adams’s is thus attested by himself: ‘I returned last night from Oxford, after a fortnight’s abode with Dr. Adams, who treated me as well as I could expect or wish; and he that contents a sick man, a man whom it is impossible to please, has surely done his part well.’
/> After his return to London from this excursion, I saw him frequently, but have few memorandums: I shall therefore here insert some particulars which I collected at various times.
It having been mentioned to Dr. Johnson that a gentleman who had a son whom he imagined to have an extreme degree of timidity, resolved to send him to a publick school, that he might acquire confidence;— ‘Sir, (said Johnson,) this is a preposterous expedient for removing his infirmity; such a disposition should be cultivated in the shade. Placing him at a publick school is forcing an owl upon day.’
Speaking of a gentleman whose house was much frequented by low company; ‘Rags, Sir, (said he,) will always make their appearance where they have a right to do it.’
Of the same gentleman’s mode of living, he said, ‘Sir, the servants, instead of doing what they are bid, stand round the table in idle clusters, gaping upon the guests; and seem as unfit to attend a company, as to steer a man of war.’
A dull country magistrate gave Johnson a long tedious account of his exercising his criminal jurisdiction, the result of which was his having sentenced four convicts to transportation. Johnson, in an agony of impatience to get rid of such a companion, exclaimed, ‘I heartily wish, Sir, that I were a fifth.’
Johnson was present when a tragedy was read, in which there occurred this line: —
‘Who rules o’er freemen should himself be free.’
Complete Works of Samuel Johnson Page 957