Complete Works of Samuel Johnson, page 823
‘At ten o’clock in the morning, he parted from Cawston, saying, “You should not detain Mr. Windham’s servant: — I thank you; bear my remembrance to your master.” Cawston says, that no man could appear more collected, more devout, or less terrified at the thoughts of the approaching minute.
‘This account, which is so much more agreeable than, and somewhat different from, yours, has given us the satisfaction of thinking that that great man died as he lived, full of resignation, strengthened in faith, and joyful in hope.’
A few days before his death, he had asked Sir John Hawkins, as one of his executors, where he should be buried; and on being answered, ‘Doubtless, in Westminster-Abbey,’ seemed to feel a satisfaction, very natural to a Poet; and indeed in my opinion very natural to every man of any imagination, who has no family sepulchre in which he can be laid with his fathers. Accordingly, upon Monday, December 20, his remains were deposited in that noble and renowned edifice; and over his grave was placed a large blue flag-stone, with this inscription: —
‘SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.
Obiit XIII die Decembris,
Anno Domini M. DCC. LXXXIV.
Aetatis suoe LXXV.’
His funeral was attended by a respectable number of his friends, particularly such of the members of the LITERARY CLUB as were then in town; and was also honoured with the presence of several of the Reverend Chapter of Westminster. Mr. Burke, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr. Windham, Mr. Langton, Sir Charles Bunbury, and Mr. Colman, bore his pall. His schoolfellow, Dr. Taylor, performed the mournful office of reading the burial service.
I trust, I shall not be accused of affectation, when I declare, that I find myself unable to express all that I felt upon the loss of such a ‘Guide, Philosopher, and Friend.’ I shall, therefore, not say one word of my own, but adopt those of an eminent friend, which he uttered with an abrupt felicity, superior to all studied compositions:— ‘He has made a chasm, which not only nothing can fill up, but which nothing has a tendency to fill up. Johnson is dead. Let us go to the next best: — there is nobody; no man can be said to put you in mind of Johnson.’
As Johnson had abundant homage paid to him during his life, so no writer in this nation ever had such an accumulation of literary honours after his death. A sermon upon that event was preached in St. Mary’s Church, Oxford, before the University, by the Reverend Mr. Agutter, of Magdalen College. The Lives, the Memoirs, the Essays, both in prose and verse, which have been published concerning him, would make many volumes. The numerous attacks too upon him, I consider as part of his consequence, upon the principle which he himself so well knew and asserted. Many who trembled at his presence, were forward in assault, when they no longer apprehended danger. When one of his little pragmatical foes was invidiously snarling at his fame, at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s table, the Reverend Dr. Parr exclaimed, with his usual bold animation, ‘Ay, now that the old lion is dead, every ass thinks he may kick at him.’
A monument for him, in Westminster Abbey, was resolved upon soon after his death, and was supported by a most respectable contribution; but the Dean and Chapter of St. Paul’s having come to a resolution of admitting monuments there, upon a liberal and magnificent plan, that Cathedral was afterwards fixed on, as the place in which a cenotaph should be erected to his memory: and in the cathedral of his native city of Lichfield, a smaller one is to be erected. To compose his epitaph, could not but excite the warmest competition of genius. If laudari à laudato viro be praise which is highly estimable, I should not forgive myself were I to omit the following sepulchral verses on the authour of THE ENGLISH DICTIONARY, written by the Right Honourable Henry Flood: —
‘No need of Latin or of Greek to grace
Our JOHNSON’S memory, or inscribe his grave;
His native language claims this mournful space,
To pay the Immortality he gave.’
The character of SAMUEL JOHNSON has, I trust, been so developed in the course of this work, that they who have honoured it with a perusal, may be considered as well acquainted with him. As, however, it may be expected that I should collect into one view the capital and distinguishing features of this extraordinary man, I shall endeavour to acquit myself of that part of my biographical undertaking, however difficult it may be to do that which many of my readers will do better for themselves.
His figure was large and well formed, and his countenance of the cast of an ancient statue; yet his appearance was rendered strange and somewhat uncouth, by convulsive cramps, by the scars of that distemper which it was once imagined the royal touch could cure, and by a slovenly mode of dress. He had the use only of one eye; yet so much does mind govern and even supply the deficiency of organs, that his visual perceptions, as far as they extended, were uncommonly quick and accurate. So morbid was his temperament, that he never knew the natural joy of a free and vigorous use of his limbs: when he walked, it was like the struggling gait of one in fetters; when he rode, he had no command or direction of his horse, but was carried as if in a balloon. That with his constitution and habits of life he should have lived seventy-five years, is a proof that an inherent vivida vis is a powerful preservative of the human frame.
Man is, in general, made up of contradictory qualities; and these will ever shew themselves in strange succession, where a consistency in appearance at least, if not in reality, has not been attained by long habits of philosophical discipline. In proportion to the native vigour of the mind, the contradictory qualities will be the more prominent, and more difficult to be adjusted; and, therefore, we are not to wonder, that Johnson exhibited an eminent example of this remark which I have made upon human nature. At different times, he seemed a different man, in some respects; not, however, in any great or essential article, upon which he had fully employed his mind, and settled certain principles of duty, but only in his manners, and in the display of argument and fancy in his talk. He was prone to superstition, but not to credulity. Though his imagination might incline him to a belief of the marvellous and the mysterious, his vigorous reason examined the evidence with jealousy. He was a sincere and zealous Christian, of high Church-of-England and monarchical principles, which he would not tamely suffer to be questioned; and had, perhaps, at an early period, narrowed his mind somewhat too much, both as to religion and politicks. His being impressed with the danger of extreme latitude in either, though he was of a very independent spirit, occasioned his appearing somewhat unfavourable to the prevalence of that noble freedom of sentiment which is the best possession of man. Nor can it be denied, that he had many prejudices; which, however, frequently suggested many of his pointed sayings, that rather shew a playfulness of fancy than any settled malignity. He was steady and inflexible in maintaining the obligations of religion and morality; both from a regard for the order of society, and from a veneration for the GREAT SOURCE of all order; correct, nay stern in his taste; hard to please, and easily offended; impetuous and irritable in his temper, but of a most humane and benevolent heart, which shewed itself not only in a most liberal charity, as far as his circumstances would allow, but in a thousand instances of active benevolence. He was afflicted with a bodily disease, which made him often restless and fretful; and with a constitutional melancholy, the clouds of which darkened the brightness of his fancy, and gave a gloomy cast to his whole course of thinking: we, therefore, ought not to wonder at his sallies of impatience and passion at any time; especially when provoked by obtrusive ignorance, or presuming petulance; and allowance must be made for his uttering hasty and satirical sallies even against his best friends. And, surely, when it is considered, that, ‘amidst sickness and sorrow,’he exerted his faculties in so many works for the benefit of mankind, and particularly that he atchieved the great and admirable DICTIONARY of our language, we must be astonished at his resolution. The solemn text, ‘of him to whom much is given, much will be required,’ seems to have been ever present to his mind, in a rigorous sense, and to have made him dissatisfied with his labours and acts of goodness, however comparatively great; so that the unavoidable consciousness of his superiority was, in that respect, a cause of disquiet. He suffered so much from this, and from the gloom which perpetually haunted him, and made solitude frightful, that it may be said of him, ‘If in this life only he had hope, he was of all men most miserable.’ He loved praise, when it was brought to him; but was too proud to seek for it. He was somewhat susceptible of flattery. As he was general and unconfined in his studies, he cannot be considered as master of any one particular science; but he had accumulated a vast and various collection of learning and knowledge, which was so arranged in his mind, as to be ever in readiness to be brought forth. But his superiority over other learned men consisted chiefly in what may be called the art of thinking, the art of using his mind; a certain continual power of seizing the useful substance of all that he knew, and exhibiting it in a clear and forcible manner; so that knowledge, which we often see to be no better than lumber in men of dull understanding, was, in him, true, evident, and actual wisdom. His moral precepts are practical; for they are drawn from an intimate acquaintance with human nature. His maxims carry conviction; for they are founded on the basis of common sense, and a very attentive and minute survey of real life. His mind was so full of imagery, that he might have been perpetually a poet; yet it is remarkable, that, however rich his prose is in this respect, his poetical pieces, in general, have not much of that splendour, but are rather distinguished by strong sentiment and acute observation, conveyed in harmonious and energetick verse, particularly in heroick couplets. Though usually grave, and even aweful, in his deportment, he possessed uncommon and peculiar powers of wit and humour; he frequently indulged himself in colloquial pleasantry; and the heartiest merriment was often enjoyed in his company; with this great advantage, that as it was entirely free from any poisonous tincture of vice or impiety, it was salutary to those who shared in it. He had accustomed himself to such accuracy in his common conversation, that he at all times expressed his thoughts with great force, and an elegant choice of language, the effect of which was aided by his having a loud voice, and a slow deliberate utterance. 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; though when he was in company with a single friend, he would discuss a subject with genuine fairness: but he was too conscientious to make errour permanent and pernicious, by deliberately writing it; and, in all his numerous works, he earnestly inculcated what appeared to him to be the truth; his piety being constant, and the ruling principle of all his conduct.
Such was SAMUEL JOHNSON, a man whose talents, acquirements, and virtues, were so extraordinary, that the more his character is considered, the more he will be regarded by the present age, and by posterity, with admiration and reverence.
APPENDICES
APPENDIX A.
(Page 115, note 4.)
There are at least three accounts of this altercation and three versions of the lines. Two of these versions nearly agree. The earliest is found in a letter by Richard Burke, senior, dated Jan. 6, 1773 (Burke Corres. i. 403); the second in The Annual Register for 1776, p. 223; and the third in Miss Reynolds’s Recollections (Croker’s Boswell, 8vo. p. 833). R. Burke places the scene in Reynolds’s house. Whether he himself was present is not clear. ‘The dean,’ he says, ‘asserted that after forty-five a man did not improve. “I differ with you, Sir,” answered Johnson; “a man may improve, and you yourself have great room for improvement.” The dean was confounded, and for the instant silent. Recovering, he said, “On recollection I see no cause to alter my opinion, except I was to call it improvement for a man to grow (which I allow he may) positive, rude, and insolent, and save arguments by brutality.”’ Neither the Annual Register nor Miss Reynolds reports the Dean’s speech. But she says that ‘soon after the ladies withdrew, Dr. Johnson followed them, and sitting down by the lady of the house [that is by herself, if they were at Sir Joshua’s] he said, “I am very sorry for having spoken so rudely to the Dean.” “You very well may, Sir.” “Yes,” he said, “it was highly improper to speak in that style to a minister of the gospel, and I am the more hurt on reflecting with what mild dignity he received it.”’ If Johnson really spoke of the Dean’s mild dignity, it is clear that Richard Burke’s account is wrong. But it was written just after the scene, and Boswell says there was ‘a pretty smart altercation.’ Miss Reynolds continues:— ‘When the Dean came up into the drawing-room, Dr. Johnson immediately rose from his seat, and made him sit on the sofa by him, and with such a beseeching look for pardon and with such fond gestures — literally smoothing down his arms and his knees,’ &c. The Annual Register says that Barnard the next day sent the verses addressed to ‘Sir Joshua Reynolds & Co.’ On the next page I give Richard Burke’s version of the lines, and show the various readings.
MISS REYNOLD’S RICHARD BURKE’S VERSION. Annual Register
VERSION
I lately thought no man alive
Could e’er improve past forty-five,
And ventured to assert it;
The observation was not new,
But seem’d to me so just and true,
That none could controvert it.
‘No, Sir,’ says Johnson, ‘’tis not so;
’Tis That’s your mistake, and I can show
An instance, if you doubt it;
You who perhaps are You, Sir, who are near forty-eight,
still May much improve, ’tis not too late;
I wish you’d set about it.’
Encouraged thus to mend my faults,
I turn’d his counsel in my thoughts,
could Which way I should apply it:
Genius I knew was Learning and wit seem’d past my reach,
what none can For who can learn where none will teach? when
And wit — I could not buy it.
Then come, my friends, and try your skill,
may You can improve me, if you will; inform
(My books are at a distance).
With you I’ll live and learn; and then
Instead of books I shall read men,
So lend me your assistance. To
Dear Knight of Plympton1301, teach me how
unclouded To suffer with unruffled brow,
as And smile serene like thine,
and The jest uncouth or truth severe,
Like thee to turn To such apply my deafest ear, To such
And calmly drink my wine. I’ll turn
Thou say’st, not only skill is gain’d,
attained But genius too may be obtain’d, attained
invitation By studious imitation;
Thy temper mild, thy genius fine,
study I’ll copy till I make them mine, thee
meditation By constant application.
Thy art of pleasing teach me, Garrick,
reverest (sic) Thou who reversest odes Pindarick1302,
A second time read o’er;
Oh! could we read thee backwards too,
Past Last thirty years thou shouldst review,
And charm us thirty more.
If I have thoughts and can’t express ‘em,
Gibbon shall teach me how to dress ‘em
In terms select and terse;
Jones teach me modesty — and Greek;
Smith how to think; Burke how to speak, Burk
And Beauclerk to converse.
Let Johnson teach me how to place
In fairest light each borrowed grace,
From him I’ll learn to write;
free and easy Copy his clear and easy style, clear
And from the roughness of his file, familiar
like Grow as himself — polite.’ like
Horace Walpole, on Dec. 27, 1775, speaks of these verses as if they were fresh. ‘They are an answer,’ he writes, ‘to a gross brutality of Dr. Johnson, to which a properer answer would have been to fling a glass of wine in his face. I have no patience with an unfortunate monster trusting to his helpless deformity for indemnity for any impertinence that his arrogance suggests, and who thinks that what he has read is an excuse for everything he says.’ Horace Walpole’s Letters, vi. 302. It is strange that Walpole should be so utterly ignorant of Johnson’s courage and bodily strength. The date of Walpole’s letter makes me suspect that Richard Burke dated his Jan. 6, 1775 (he should have written 1776), and that the blunder of a copyist has changed 1775 into 1773.
APPENDIX B.
(Page 238.)
Had Boswell continued the quotation from Priestley’s Illustrations of Philosophical Necessity he would have shown that though Priestley could not hate the rioters, he could very easily prosecute them. He says: —
‘If as a Necessarian I cease to blame men for their vices in the ultimate sense of the word, though, in the common and proper sense of it, I continue to do as much as other persons (for how necessarily soever they act, they are influenced by a base and mischievous disposition of mind, against which I must guard myself and others in proportion as I love myself and others),’ &c. Priestley’s Works, iii. 508.
Of his interview with Johnson, Priestley, in his Appeal to the Public, part ii, published in 1792 (Works, xix. 502), thus writes, answering ‘the impudent falsehood that when I was at Oxford Dr. Johnson left a company on my being introduced to it’: —
‘In fact we never were at Oxford at the same time, and the only interview I ever had with him was at Mr. Paradise’s, where we dined together at his own request. He was particularly civil to me, and promised to call upon me the next time he should go through Birmingham. He behaved with the same civility to Dr. Price, when they supped together at Dr. Adams’s at Oxford. Several circumstances show that Dr. Johnson had not so much of bigotry at the decline of life as had distinguished him before, on which account it is well known to all our common acquaintance, that I declined all their pressing solicitations to be introduced to him.’
