Boswells Life of Johnson | Page 3

allied that each borrows charm and
emphasis from the other. Let the devoted reader of Boswell ask himself
what glamor would fade from the church of St. Clement Danes, from
the Mitre, from Fleet Street, the Oxford coach, and Lichfield, if the
burly figure were withdrawn from them; or what charm and
illumination, of the man himself would have been lost apart from these
settings. It is the unseen hand of the artist Boswell that has wrought
them inseparably into this reciprocal effect.
The single scenes and pictures which Boswell has given us will all of
them bear close scrutiny for their precision, their economy of means,
their lifelikeness, their artistic effect. None was wrought more
beautifully, nor more ardently, than that of Johnson's interview with the
King. First we see the plain massive figure of the scholar amid the
elegant comfort of Buckingham House. He is intent on his book before
the fire. Then the approach of the King, lighted on his way by Mr.
Barnard with candles caught from a table; their entrance by a private
door, with Johnson's unconscious absorption, his sudden surprise, his
starting up, his dignity, the King's ease with him, their conversation, in
which the King courteously draws from Johnson knowledge of that in
which Johnson is expert, Johnson's manly bearing and voice
throughout--all is set forth with the unadorned vividness and permanent
effect which seem artless enough, but which are characteristic of only
the greatest art.
Boswell's Life of Johnson is further a masterpiece of art in that it exerts
the vigorous energy of a masterpiece, an abundance of what, for want
of a better word, we call personality. It is Boswell's confessed endeavor
to add this quality to the others, because he perceived that it was an
essential quality of Johnson himself, and he more than once laments his
inability to transmit the full force and vitality of his original. Besides
artistic perception and skill it required in him admiration and
enthusiasm to seize this characteristic and impart it to his work. His
admiration he confesses unashamed: 'I said I worshipped him . . . I
cannot help worshipping him, he is so much superior to other men.' He

studied his subject intensely. 'During all the course of my long intimacy
with him, my respectful attention never abated.' Upon such intensity
and such ardor and enthusiasm depend the energy and animation of his
portrait.
But it exhibits other personal qualities than these, which, if less often
remarked, are at any rate unconsciously enjoyed. Boswell had great
social charm. His friends are agreed upon his liveliness and good nature.
Johnson called him 'clubbable,' 'the best traveling companion in the
world,' 'one Scotchman who is cheerful,' 'a man whom everybody
likes,' 'a man who I believe never left a house without leaving a wish
for his return.' His vivacity, his love of fun, his passion for good
company and friendship, his sympathy, his amiability, which made him
acceptable everywhere, have mingled throughout with his own
handiwork, and cause it to radiate a kind of genial warmth. This
geniality it may be which has attracted so many readers to the book.
They find themselves in good company, in a comfortable, pleasant
place, agreeably stimulated with wit and fun, and cheered with
friendliness. They are loth to leave it, and would ever enter it again.
This rare charm the book owes in large measure to its creator.
The alliance of author with subject in Boswell's Johnson is one of the
happiest and most sympathetic the world has known. So close is it that
one cannot easily discern what great qualities the work owes to each.
While it surely derives more of its excellence than is commonly
remarked from the art of Boswell, its greatness after all is ultimately
that of its subject. The noble qualities of Johnson have been well
discerned by Carlyle, and his obvious peculiarities and prejudices
somewhat magnified and distorted in Macaulay's brilliant refractions.
One quality only shall I dwell upon, though that may be the sum of all
the rest. Johnson had a supreme capacity for human relationship. In
him this capacity amounted to genius.
In all respects he was of great stature. His contemporaries called him a
colossus, the literary Goliath, the Giant, the great Cham of literature, a
tremendous companion. His frame was majestic; he strode when he
walked, and his physical strength and courage were heroic. His mode of

speaking was 'very impressive,' his utterance 'deliberate and strong.' His
conversation was compared to 'an antique statue, where every vein and
muscle is distinct and bold.' From boyhood throughout his life his
companions naturally deferred to him, and he dominated them without
effort. But what overcame the harshness of this autocracy, and made it
reasonable, was the largeness of a nature that