Himself
Boswell knew better. A true Scotsman and a true artist, he could play the fool on occasion, and he could profit by his folly. In his dedication to the first and greatest President the Royal Academy has had he anticipates a good many of Macaulay’s objections to his character and deportment, and proves conclusively that if he chose to seem ridiculous he did so not unwittingly but with a complete apprehension of the effect he designed and the means he adopted. In the Tour, says he, from his ‘eagerness to display the wonderful fertility and readiness of Johnson’s wit,’ he ‘freely showed to the world its dexterity, even when I was myself the object of it.’ He was under the impression that he would be ‘liberally understood,’ as ‘knowing very well what I was about.’ But, he adds, ‘it seems I judged too well of the world’; and he points his moral with a story of ‘the great Dr. Clarke,’ who, ‘unbending himself with a few friends in the most playful and frolicsome manner,’ saw Beau Nash in the distance, and was instantly sobered. ‘My boys,’ quoth he, ‘let us be grave—here comes a fool.’ Macaulay was not exactly Beau Nash, nor was Boswell ‘the great Dr. Clarke’; but, as Macaulay, working on Wolcot’s lines, was presently to show, Boswell did right to describe the world as ‘a great fool,’ and to regret in respect of his own silliness that in the Tour he had been ‘arrogant enough to suppose that the tenour of the rest of the book would sufficiently guard against such a strange imputation.’ In the same way he showed himself fully alive to the enduring merits of his achievement. ‘I will venture to say,’ he writes, ‘that he (Johnson) will be seen in this work more completely than any man who has ever lived.’ He had his own idea of biography; he had demonstrated its value triumphantly in the Tour which, though organically complete, is plainly not a record of travel but a biographical essay. In the Tour, that is, he had approved himself an original master of selection, composition, and design; of the art of working a large number of essential details into a uniform and living whole; and of that most difficult and telling of accomplishments, the reproduction of talk. In the Life he repeated the proof on a larger scale and with a finer mastery of construction and effect; and in what his best editor describes as ‘the task of correcting, amending, and adding to his darling work’ he spent his few remaining years. That he drifted into greatness, produced his two masterpieces unconsciously, and developed a genius for biography as one develops a disease, is ‘a ridiculous conception,’ as Mr. Napier rightly says. In proof of it we have Boswell’s own words, and we have the books themselves. Such testimony is not to be overborne by any number of paradoxes, however ingenious, nor by any superflux of rhetoric, however plausible and persuasive. That Boswell was a gossip, a busybody, and something of a sot, and that many did and still do call him fool, is certain; but that is no reason why he should not have been an artist, and none why he should be credited with the fame of having devoted the best part of his life to the production of a couple of masterpieces—as M. Jourdain talked prose—without knowing what he was doing. Turner chose to go a-masquerading as ‘Puggy Booth’; but as yet nobody has put forward the assertion that Turner was unconscious of the romance and splendour of his Ulysses and Polyphemus, or that he painted his Rain, Speed, and Steam in absolute ignorance of the impression it would produce and the idea it should convey. Goldsmith reminded Miss Reynolds of ‘a low mechanic, particularly... a journey-man tailor’; but that he was unconsciously the most elegant and natural writer of his age is a position which has not yet been advanced. And surely it is high time that Boswell should take that place in art which is his by right of conquest, and that Macaulay’s paradox—which is only the opinion brilliantly put of an ignorant and unthinking world—(‘Il avait mieux que personne l’esprit de tout le monde’)—should go the way of all its kind.