That book interests me—fascinates me—and yet I wish I could join heartily3 in that chorus of praise which the kind-hearted old bully4 has enjoyed. It is difficult to follow his own advice and to "clear one's mind of cant5" upon the subject, for when you have been accustomed to look at him through the sympathetic glasses of Macaulay or of Boswell, it is hard to take them off, to rub one's eyes, and to have a good honest stare on one's own account at the man's actual words, deeds, and limitations. If you try it you are left with the oddest mixture of impressions. How could one express it save that this is John Bull taken to literature—the exaggerated John Bull of the caricaturists—with every quality, good or evil, at its highest? Here are the rough crust over a kindly6 heart, the explosive temper, the arrogance7, the insular8 narrowness, the want of sympathy and insight, the rudeness of perception, the positiveness, the overbearing bluster9, the strong deep-seated religious principle, and every other characteristic of the cruder, rougher John Bull who was the great grandfather of the present good-natured Johnnie.
If Boswell had not lived I wonder how much we should hear now of his huge friend? With Scotch10 persistence11 he has succeeded in inoculating12 the whole world with his hero worship. It was most natural that he should himself admire him. The relations between the two men were delightful13 and reflect all credit upon each. But they are not a safe basis from which any third person could argue. When they met, Boswell was in his twenty-third and Johnson in his fifty-fourth year. The one was a keen young Scot with a mind which was reverent14 and impressionable. The other was a figure from a past generation with his fame already made. From the moment of meeting the one was bound to exercise an absolute ascendency over the other which made unbiassed criticism far more difficult than it would be between ordinary father and son. Up to the end this was the unbroken relation between them.
It is all very well to pooh-pooh Boswell as Macaulay has done, but it is not by chance that a man writes the best biography in the language. He had some great and rare literary qualities. One was a clear and vivid style, more flexible and Saxon than that of his great model. Another was a remarkable15 discretion16 which hardly once permitted a fault of taste in this whole enormous book where he must have had to pick his steps with pitfalls17 on every side of him. They say that he was a fool and a coxcomb18 in private life. He is never so with a pen in his hand. Of all his numerous arguments with Johnson, where he ventured some little squeak19 of remonstrance20, before the roaring "No, sir!" came to silence him, there are few in which his views were not, as experience proved, the wiser. On the question of slavery he was in the wrong. But I could quote from memory at least a dozen cases, including such vital subjects as the American Revolution, the Hanoverian Dynasty, Religious Toleration, and so on, where Boswell's views were those which survived.
But where he excels as a biographer is in telling you just those little things that you want to know. How often you read the life of a man and are left without the remotest idea of his personality. It is not so here. The man lives again. There is a short description of Johnson's person—it is not in the Life, but in the Tour to the Hebrides, the very next book upon the shelf, which is typical of his vivid portraiture21. May I take it down, and read you a paragraph of it?—
"His person was large, robust22, I may say approaching to the gigantic, and grown unwieldy from corpulency. His countenance23 was naturally of the cast of an ancient statue, but somewhat disfigured by the scars of King's evil. He was now in his sixty-fourth year and was become a little dull of hearing. His sight had always been somewhat weak, yet so much does mind govern and even supply the deficiencies of organs that his perceptions were uncommonly24 quick and accurate. His head, and sometimes also his body, shook with a kind of motion like the effect of palsy. He appeared to be frequently disturbed by cramps25 or convulsive contractions26 of the nature of that distemper called St. Vitus' dance. He wore a full suit of plain brown clothes, with twisted hair buttons of the same colour, a large bushy greyish wig28, a plain shirt, black worsted stockings and silver buckles29. Upon this tour when journeying he wore boots and a very wide brown cloth great-coat with pockets which might almost have held the two volumes of his folio dictionary, and he carried in his hand a large English oak stick."
You must admit that if one cannot reconstruct the great Samuel after that it is not Mr. Boswell's fault—and it is but one of a dozen equally vivid glimpses which he gives us of his hero. It is just these pen-pictures of his of the big, uncouth30 man, with his grunts31 and his groans32, his Gargantuan33 appetite, his twenty cups of tea, and his tricks with the orange-peel and the lamp-posts, which fascinate the reader, and have given Johnson a far broader literary vogue34 than his writings could have done.
For, after all, which of those writings can be said to have any life to-day? Not "Rasselas," surely—that stilted35 romance. "The Lives of the Poets" are but a succession of prefaces, and the "Ramblers" of ephemeral essays. There is the monstrous36 drudgery37 of the Dictionary, a huge piece of spadework, a monument to industry, but inconceivable to genius. "London" has a few vigorous lines, and the "Journey to the Hebrides" some spirited pages. This, with a number of political and other pamphlets, was the main output of his lifetime. Surely it must be admitted that it is not enough to justify38 his predominant place in English literature, and that we must turn to his humble39, much-ridiculed biographer for the real explanation.
And then there was his talk. What was it which gave it such distinction? His clear-cut positiveness upon every subject. But this is a sign of a narrow finality—impossible to the man of sympathy and of imagination, who sees the other side of every question and understands what a little island the greatest human knowledge must be in the ocean of infinite possibilities which surround us. Look at the results. Did ever any single man, the very dullest of the race, stand convicted of so many incredible blunders? It recalls the remark of Bagehot, that if at any time the views of the most learned could be stamped upon the whole human race the result would be to propagate the most absurd errors. He was asked what became of swallows in the winter. Rolling and wheezing40, the oracle41 answered: "Swallows," said he, "certainly sleep all the winter. A number of them conglobulate together by flying round and round, and then all in a heap throw themselves under water and lie in the bed of a river." Boswell gravely dockets the information. However, if I remember right, even so sound a naturalist42 as White of Selborne had his doubts about the swallows. More wonderful are Johnson's misjudgments of his fellow-authors. There, if anywhere, one would have expected to find a sense of proportion. Yet his conclusions would seem monstrous to a modern taste. "Shakespeare," he said, "never wrote six consecutive43 good lines." He would only admit two good verses in Gray's exquisite44 "Elegy45 written in a Country Churchyard," where it would take a very acid critic to find two bad ones. "Tristram Shandy" would not live. "Hamlet" was gabble. Swift's "Gulliver's Travels" was poor stuff, and he never wrote anything good except "A Tale of a Tub." Voltaire was illiterate46. Rousseau was a scoundrel. Deists, like Hume, Priestley, or Gibbon, could not be honest men.
And his political opinions! They sound now like a caricature. I suppose even in those days they were reactionary47. "A poor man has no honour." "Charles the Second was a good King." "Governments should turn out of the Civil Service all who were on the other side." "Judges in India should be encouraged to trade." "No country is the richer on account of trade." (I wonder if Adam Smith was in the company when this proposition was laid down!) "A landed proprietor48 should turn out those tenants49 who did not vote as he wished." "It is not good for a labourer to have his wages raised." "When the balance of trade is against a country, the margin50 must be paid in current coin." Those were a few of his convictions.
And then his prejudices! Most of us have some unreasoning aversion. In our more generous moments we are not proud of it. But consider those of Johnson! When they were all eliminated there was not so very much left. He hated Whigs. He disliked Scotsmen. He detested51 Nonconformists (a young lady who joined them was "an odious52 wench"). He loathed53 Americans. So he walked his narrow line, belching54 fire and fury at everything to the right or the left of it. Macaulay's posthumous55 admiration56 is all very well, but had they met in life Macaulay would have contrived57 to unite under one hat nearly everything that Johnson abominated58.
It cannot be said that these prejudices were founded on any strong principle, or that they could not be altered where his own personal interests demanded it. This is one of the weak points of his record. In his dictionary he abused pensions and pensioners59 as a means by which the State imposed slavery upon hirelings. When he wrote the unfortunate definition a pension must have seemed a most improbable contingency60, but when George III., either through policy or charity, offered him one a little later, he made no hesitation61 in accepting it. One would have liked to feel that the violent expression of his convictions represented a real intensity62 of feeling, but the facts in this instance seem against it.
He was a great talker—but his talk was more properly a monologue63. It was a discursive64 essay, with perhaps a few marginal notes from his subdued65 audience. How could one talk on equal terms with a man who could not brook66 contradiction or even argument upon the most vital questions in life? Would Goldsmith defend his literary views, or Burke his Whiggism, or Gibbon his Deism? There was no common ground of philosophic67 toleration on which one could stand. If he could not argue he would be rude, or, as Goldsmith put it: "If his pistol missed fire, he would knock you down with the butt27 end." In the face of that "rhinoceros68 laugh" there was an end of gentle argument. Napoleon said that all the other kings would say "Ouf!" when they heard he was dead, and so I cannot help thinking that the older men of Johnson's circle must have given a sigh of relief when at last they could speak freely on that which was near their hearts, without the danger of a scene where "Why, no, sir!" was very likely to ripen69 into "Let us have no more on't!" Certainly one would like to get behind Boswell's account, and to hear a chat between such men as Burke and Reynolds, as to the difference in the freedom and atmosphere of the Club on an evening when the formidable Doctor was not there, as compared to one when he was.
No smallest estimate of his character is fair which does not make due allowance for the terrible experiences of his youth and early middle age. His spirit was as scarred as his face. He was fifty-three when the pension was given him, and up to then his existence had been spent in one constant struggle for the first necessities of life, for the daily meal and the nightly bed. He had seen his comrades of letters die of actual privation. From childhood he had known no happiness. The half blind gawky youth, with dirty linen70 and twitching71 limbs, had always, whether in the streets of Lichfield, the quadrangle of Pembroke, or the coffee-houses of London, been an object of mingled72 pity and amusement. With a proud and sensitive soul, every day of his life must have brought some bitter humiliation73. Such an experience must either break a man's spirit or embitter74 it, and here, no doubt, was the secret of that roughness, that carelessness for the sensibilities of others, which caused Boswell's father to christen him "Ursa Major." If his nature was in any way warped75, it must be admitted that terrific forces had gone to the rending76 of it. His good was innate77, his evil the result of a dreadful experience.
And he had some great qualities. Memory was the chief of them. He had read omnivorously79, and all that he had read he remembered, not merely in the vague, general way in which we remember what we read, but with every particular of place and date. If it were poetry, he could quote it by the page, Latin or English. Such a memory has its enormous advantage, but it carries with it its corresponding defect. With the mind so crammed80 with other people's goods, how can you have room for any fresh manufactures of your own? A great memory is, I think, often fatal to originality81, in spite of Scott and some other exceptions. The slate82 must be clear before you put your own writing upon it. When did Johnson ever discover an original thought, when did he ever reach forward into the future, or throw any fresh light upon those enigmas83 with which mankind is faced? Overloaded84 with the past, he had space for nothing else. Modern developments of every sort cast no first herald85 rays upon his mind. He journeyed in France a few years before the greatest cataclysm86 that the world has ever known, and his mind, arrested by much that was trivial, never once responded to the storm-signals which must surely have been visible around him. We read that an amiable87 Monsieur Sansterre showed him over his brewery88 and supplied him with statistics as to his output of beer. It was the same foul-mouthed Sansterre who struck up the drums to drown Louis' voice at the scaffold. The association shows how near the unconscious sage89 was to the edge of that precipice90 and how little his learning availed him in discerning it.
He would have been a great lawyer or divine. Nothing, one would think, could have kept him from Canterbury or from the Woolsack. In either case his memory, his learning, his dignity, and his inherent sense of piety91 and justice, would have sent him straight to the top. His brain, working within its own limitations, was remarkable. There is no more wonderful proof of this than his opinions on questions of Scotch law, as given to Boswell and as used by the latter before the Scotch judges. That an outsider with no special training should at short notice write such weighty opinions, crammed with argument and reason, is, I think, as remarkable a tour de force as literature can show.
Above all, he really was a very kind-hearted man, and that must count for much. His was a large charity, and it came from a small purse. The rooms of his house became a sort of harbour of refuge in which several strange battered92 hulks found their last moorings. There were the blind Mr. Levett, and the acidulous93 Mrs. Williams, and the colourless Mrs. De Moulins, all old and ailing—a trying group amid which to spend one's days. His guinea was always ready for the poor acquaintance, and no poet was so humble that he might not preface his book with a dedication94 whose ponderous95 and sonorous96 sentences bore the hall-mark of their maker97. It is the rough, kindly man, the man who bore the poor street-walker home upon his shoulders, who makes one forget, or at least forgive, the dogmatic pedantic98 Doctor of the Club.
There is always to me something of interest in the view which a great man takes of old age and death. It is the practical test of how far the philosophy of his life has been a sound one. Hume saw death afar, and met it with unostentatious calm. Johnson's mind flinched99 from that dread78 opponent. His letters and his talk during his latter years are one long cry of fear. It was not cowardice100, for physically101 he was one of the most stout-hearted men that ever lived. There were no limits to his courage. It was spiritual diffidence, coupled with an actual belief in the possibilities of the other world, which a more humane102 and liberal theology has done something to soften103. How strange to see him cling so desperately104 to that crazy body, with its gout, its asthma105, its St. Vitus' dance, and its six gallons of dropsy! What could be the attraction of an existence where eight hours of every day were spent groaning106 in a chair, and sixteen wheezing in a bed? "I would give one of these legs," said he, "for another year of life." None the less, when the hour did at last strike, no man could have borne himself with more simple dignity and courage. Say what you will of him, and resent him how you may, you can never open those four grey volumes without getting some mental stimulus107, some desire for wider reading, some insight into human learning or character, which should leave you a better and a wiser man.
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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arrogance
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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inoculating
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的现在分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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discretion
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pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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coxcomb
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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portraiture
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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uncommonly
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cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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contractions
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butt
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wig
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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groans
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gargantuan
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Vogue
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stilted
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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oracle
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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elegy
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illiterate
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reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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proprietor
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tenants
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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belching
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| n. 喷出，打嗝 动词belch的现在分词形式 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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contingency
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hesitation
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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discursive
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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68
rhinoceros
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| n.犀牛 | |
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69
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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70
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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71
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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72
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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75
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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76
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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77
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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78
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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omnivorously
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| adv.随手地 | |
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80
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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81
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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82
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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83
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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84
overloaded
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| a.超载的，超负荷的 | |
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85
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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87
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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88
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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89
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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90
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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92
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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acidulous
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| adj.微酸的；苛薄的 | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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96
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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99
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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101
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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102
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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103
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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104
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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105
asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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106
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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107
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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