This blog has complained before about the vogue for mixing fact and fiction so as to blur the distinction between them. On this as on so much else, Johnson has something to contribute.

Talking of an acquaintance of ours, whose narratives, which abounded in curious and interesting topicks, were unhappily found to be very fabulous; I mentioned Lord Mansfield’s having said to me, “Suppose we believe one half of what he tells?” JOHNSON. “Ay; but we don’t know which half to believe. By his lying we lose all reverence for him, but also all comfort in his conversation.” BOSWELL. “May we not take it as amusing fiction?” JOHNSON. “Sir, the misfortune is, that you will insensibly believe as much of it as you incline to believe.”

 

In 1776, Boswell inveigled Johnson, a Church and King man all his life, a Whig-hater, into meeting someone worse even than a Whig, the famous radical, John Wilkes. (The way Boswell entraps his lion and gets him into the ring makes very good reading: in the Everyman edition of the Life it’s Vol II 46-56. ) Wilkes had done almost everything possible to offend a Tory like Johnson, finagling a parliamentary career, joining the Hellfire Club, speaking up for the American colonists, even writing a pornographic parody of Pope’s Essay on Man. Six years earlier, he had been imprisoned for ‘sedition and impiety’, charges which depended to some extent on that pornographic poem. When by virtue of imprisonment he was prevented from taking his seat as the member for Middlesex, there was a popular agitation: liberty was imperilled cried Wilkes’ supporters.

Johnson was stirred by this case to write a pamphlet (‘The False Alarm‘) in the course of which he says of Wilkes:

The character of the man I have no purpose to delineate. Lampoon itself would disdain to speak ill of him, of whom no man speaks well.

But six years on, these opposites meet over dinner and get on well.

What do the great Tory and the famous radical find in common? Wilkes, renowned for his charm, helps Johnson to the good things on the table (“Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this orange; – or the lemon, perhaps, may have more zest.”) They discuss and compare the actors Foote and Garrick. Wilkes makes two jokes about Scotland, one involving a quotation from Shakespeare, the other from Milton, with a little wry self-deprecation thrown in. Then they move on to discuss the correct translation of a line in Horace’s Art of Poetry.

What they have in common is literature. Time and again in the Life literature serves to bring people together, to allow them to form estimates of one another, to learn from one another and to make communication both precise and pleasurable. It’s the integument that binds together writer, scholar, clergyman, soldier, actor, painter, politician, landed gentleman and those few women like Anna Seward and Mary Knowles who gained a seat at the table

I am struck by the way in which literary conversation was a means of promoting and preserving a value which Johnson held high – civility. For us, that tends to translate as ‘manners’ and those are often thought superficial. But for Johnson, a breach of civility could and did have serious moral consequences. This is clear from an episode in the following year, in which Boswell plans another meeting of opposites, but bungles and blurts it out.

. . . at breakfast, I unguardedly said to Dr Johnson, “I wish I saw you and Mrs Macaulay together.” He grew very angry; and after a pause, while a cloud gathered on his brow, he burst out, “No, Sir; you would not see us quarrel, to make you sport. Don’t you know it is very uncivil to pit two people against one another? . . . No man has a right to engage two people in a dispute by which their passions may be enflamed, and they may part with bitter resentment against each other.”

Catharine Macaulay was another like Wilkes, A Whig too liberal for the orthodox Whigs, author of a multi-volume History of England and a brilliant conversationalist. Who knows what might have happened? At any rate, this time Boswell finds himself in the moral soup. Johnson is like everyone chockful of contradictions. His imperiousness and bullying are notorious. But so is his ‘kindness’, not only acts of benevolence but a social quality which regulates and checks hostile emotions. There’s the famous reply when Boswell asks him why, when he complains how little he gets out of social meetings, he continues to attend them: “Kindness must be kept up.” A man so intensely aware of the danger and darkness in human life will reach for its alleviations – civility, which promotes kindness, and which flourishes when readers discuss literature.

 

In an otherwise useful and sensible piece about the novelist Elizabeth Taylor, Benjamin Schwarz writes:

But, of course, the English novel was born and perfected as a means to explore women’s interiority and bourgeois domesticity.

As in, for example, Robinson Crusoe.

 

Werl, as the new Doctor Who says, it all started some weeks ago when the partner brought home A.C. Grayling’s Towards the Light This is too well-known to need describing to my learned readership, but (if you came in late) it is a Whiggish account of those struggles for liberty which culminate in the UN’s 1948 Declaration of Human Rights. Grayling begins with the Reformation and the scientific revolution of the 17th century, goes on through the Encylopaedists, the American Revolution and 1789, describes the movements to achieve personal liberty for slaves, workers and women and ends with a polemic directed against those in Western governments who wish to protect us against terror by removing civil liberties.

People of a certain age and background may well ask what point there is in telling such a familiar story.
Younger people, however have not usually been encouraged to learn this particular narrative, and if they have been exposed to the humanities and social sciences, have encountered instead the various anti-Enlightenment stories that now constitute an orthodoxy in universities. They have heard, for example, that no possible historical narrative is superior to any other, that what is called Enlightenment is only another species of repression and that the central Western values of liberty, autonomy and equality before the law are nothing but masks of Power. They have learnt that reason itself is part of a repressive apparatus.
In other words they can make no meaningful distinction between their lives and those of (say) Afghani women under the Taliban. Oops.
That orthodoxy – never quite the only game in town – is fading today: what will replace it is unclear. Meanwhile, for all its shortcomings, Grayling’s book is a very useful one for the young – and we have some of those around the place.
Werl anyway: I began to think about reason and science and all that, and the ways in which Grayling’s book might be improved, and re-read Locke’s Second Treatise for the first time in decades, then dug out Leslie Stephen’s account of Shaftesbury and . . . I fell into the Age (always so-called) of Reason. That it might not have been – was any age? – but it was the age of lucid, graceful and flexible prose. Oh and of Johnson.
Forgetting briefly that I was supposed to be checking out the Whig story I picked up the century’s most famous Tory and was lost. It’s many years since I had occasion to read Johnson and for a week or so there I was struck dumb with admiration. It’s a wonderful feeling. I read straight through The Lives of the Poets, dutifully earmarking blogworthy bits until . . .
I picked up Boswell’s Life of Johnson to check something. But I’m up to A.D. 1762 Aetat. 53 and even Johnson can’t live forever.

 

Simon Caterson in Saturday’s Age has discovered to his evident surprise that the Booker Prize judges tend to come from England. Worse still, they have “a background that more often than not includes the prestigious British universities and are typically senior prominent academics, reviewers, editors or authors.”

But - and you can hear him trying to unsmack his gob – “there is a tendency for the prize not to go to to people like them.”

Lie down in a darkened room, Simon, and lay off the Foucault. That stuff rots the brain.

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