It was also the seed of Boswell’s Life of Johnson, and it is therefore appropriate that Boswell should have folded into his account of that primal scene a reference to the book which would result from it, when he mentioned the Reynolds portrait of Johnson ‘from which an engraving has been made for this work’.12

Boswell offers further implicit comment on the self-reflexive complexity of his book at the end of his account of his first visit to Johnson’s lodgings, when he congratulates himself on ‘having now so happily established an acquaintance of which I had been so long ambitious’:

My readers will, I trust, excuse me for being thus minutely circumstantial, when it is considered that the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson was to me a most valuable acquisition, and laid the foundation of whatever instruction and entertainment they may receive from my collections concerning the great subject of the work which they are now perusing.13

In this awkwardly articulated sentence, Boswell tries to express the relationship between a number of distinct entities: his appetite for literary detail; his friendship with Johnson; the production of literary instruction and entertainment; his ‘collections’ preparatory to the writing of the book; the Life of Johnson itself, which its readers are ‘now perusing’; and its ‘great subject’. It is tempting to take that last phrase as referring simply to Johnson himself: what could be more self-evident than that the great subject of the Life of Johnson is Samuel Johnson? But so to construe the final limb of Boswell’s ungainly sentence would be to short-change the Life of Johnson. It is about Boswell; it is about Johnson; it is about the friendship between Boswell and Johnson; and finally it is also about the process whereby those individuals and that friendship gave rise to the material ‘collections’ which made possible its own creation. Nothing less than all of this is the ‘great subject’ of Boswell’s book, and it is this complex amplitude which makes the Life of Johnson the richest example of life-writing in English. As Boswell himself put it in a letter of 21 April 1786 to Hugh Blair, ‘I will venture to promise that my Life of my revered Friend will be the richest piece of Biography that has ever appeared. The Bullion will be immense, whatever defects there may be in the workmanship.’14 That final note of diffidence is rather uncharacteristic for Boswell, inclined as he was to bounce and preen.15 It was also misplaced, as the workmanship – that is to say, Boswell’s deliberate and creative manipulation of the materials he had collected over many years – was, and remains, essential to the book’s triumph, as Bruce Redford has recently demonstrated.16 It was because of the workmanship that Vicesimus Knox would in 1791 recognize in Boswell’s Life of Johnson ‘a new Species of Biography’.17

‘Hyperion to a satyr’: so Hamlet expressed the profound discrepancy between Old Hamlet and Claudius.18 The difference between Boswell and Johnson was perhaps less absolute, but it was still pronounced. In 1763 Johnson was a literary figure of substance: a poet, the author of The Rambler, The Adventurer and The Idler, a novelist, and the heroic compiler of A Dictionary of the English Language. In 1755 he had received an honorary MA from Oxford, and in 1762 he had been given a pension of £300 per annum by George III. Boswell, by contrast, was unknown, and virtually unpublished.19 Johnson was both admired and censured as the spokesman for a severe and Christian morality in a mid-century society which was given, perhaps with a certain disabling self-consciousness, to seeing itself as gripped in moral crisis.20 Boswell was fond of drink and women. Nevertheless, the friendship between this unlikely pair struck root and thrived.

It was not the first time that Johnson had been drawn to everything which he seemed himself not to be. In the early 1750s, before he knew Boswell, he had also formed an improbable friendship with Bennet Langton’s college acquaintance Topham Beauclerk:

Johnson, soon after this acquaintance [with Bennet Langton] began, passed a considerable time at Oxford. He at first thought it strange that Langton should associate so much with one who had the character of being loose, both in his principles and practice; but, by degrees, he himself was fascinated. Mr. Beauclerk’s being of the St. Alban’s family, and having, in some particulars, a resemblance to Charles the Second, contributed, in Johnson’s imagination, to throw a lustre upon his other qualities; and, in a short time, the moral, pious Johnson, and the gay, dissipated Beauclerk, were companions. ‘What a coalition! (said Garrick, when he heard of this;) I shall have my old friend to bail out of the Roundhouse.’ But I can bear testimony that it was a very agreeable association.21

This is not just a case of, in our well-worn phrase, opposites attracting. At the end of his life, sick, and provoked by Boswell to think about what might be the fate of one’s friendships in the afterlife, Johnson replied ‘with heat’: ‘How can a man know where his departed friends are, or whether they will be his friends in the other world? How many friendships have you known formed upon principles of virtue? Most friendships are formed by caprice or by chance, mere confederacies in vice or leagues in folly.’22 No doubt great allowance must be made for the extremity of the moment. Nevertheless, we are here far from any Montaignean extolling of ‘amitie’,23 and Johnson’s awareness of the complexity and possible impurity of the motives to friendship is germane to any consideration of his association with Boswell.

An incident from early in the friendship between the two men sheds light on the curious quality of what held them together. Once again, as was so often the case, Boswell launched the exchange by being provoking:

I teized him [Johnson] with fanciful apprehensions of unhappiness. A moth having fluttered round the candle, and burnt itself, he laid hold of this little incident to admonish me; saying, with a sly look, and in a solemn but quiet tone, ‘That creature was its own tormentor, and I believe its name was BOSWELL.’24

A tendency to self-torment was a characteristic the two men shared.25 In his journal, Boswell admonished himself to remember that he was subject to melancholy and low spirits.26 And writing to the Revd Ralph Churton in 1792 on the subject of Johnson’s view of the unhappiness of human life, Boswell linked the subject and the biographer: ‘his “morbid melancholy” may have made life appear to him more miserable than it generally is. But the truth, Sir, is as you have judiciously observed, that I myself have a large portion of melancholy in my constitution…’27 It was surely for this reason that Boswell chose the persona of ‘The Hypochondriack’ – that is to say, one afflicted by ‘melancholy, hypochondria, spleen, or vapours’ – for the series of essays he contributed to the London Magazine in the late 1770s and early 1780s, and also why he would write of himself in the very first of those essays that ‘I have suffered much of the fretfulness, the gloom, and the despair that can torment a thinking being.’28 As for Johnson, Richard Brocklesby’s analysis of his mental condition, sent in a letter to Boswell in December 1784, emphasizes how Johnson’s undoubted intellectual powers did as much to unsettle as to steady the precarious balance of his mind. Johnson ‘often expressed the feelings and uncertainties of his mind’ to Brocklesby, so this is no superficial or cursory opinion:

He had the most logical apprehensive, and book informed vigorous Mind, that I have ever known, but withal, his views of Nature and of the Universe and of all the various objects to contemplate which Philosophy invites an unfetterd, speculative mind, were narrow, partial and much confined. His Religion was the true $$ [superstition] of Plutarch, which narrowed the wonderful powers of his judgement and made his extraordinary talents of Mind continually at war with each other, so that in his later days his Philosophy seemed to draw his mind one way and his Religion byassed him to the contrary, and this may have occasioned that continual perplexity, and doubts, and fears, in which the greater portion of his life was passed…29

William Bowles concurred: ‘It is very well known that in the latter part of Dr. Johnson’s life he became much dejected with gloomy apprehensions respecting his reception in a future world.’30 The object of Johnson’s melancholy was futurity, but its cause may have been more earthly. The Revd William Adams ascribed it to the resumption of alcohol: ‘The History of his Melancholy about 20 years before his death, which was indeed dreadful to see, I am not enough acquainted with: but I always conjectured it to be owing to the sudden transition from water drinking, which was his Habit invariably for 15 years or more, to drinking Wine, in which by his own Account he indulged himself very liberally.’31 But, whatever the cause, and whatever the object, it was the case that Boswell and Johnson were both prey to melancholic self-torment.

In the company of the other, each may have been distracted from this tendency in himself by the display of the same quality in his friend. Hence, perhaps, Johnson’s enigmatic ‘sly look’ – the moth’s name might with equal propriety have been Johnson. To escape from the self by contemplating an image of the self may seem paradoxical. Nevertheless, it may be psychologically plausible, and furthermore it resonates with the complexities of Johnson’s attitude towards the self – Johnson who could on the one hand write essays enforcing the principle of ‘cognosce te ipsum’ (know thyself) as enshrining ‘all the speculation requisite of a moral agent’, but who also confessed to Reynolds that the ‘great business of his life… was to escape from himself ‘.32 Friendship satisfied both imperatives by providing distraction as well as indirect introspection. To be in the company of Boswell was like viewing the head of Medusa in a mirror: through reflection, the harmful could become useful. Friendship, alongside all its moral benefits and social pleasures, might also serve as one of those techniques for the ‘management of the mind’ which Johnson thought so necessary, and which he believed could be obtained by ‘experience and habitual exercise’.33 In this respect, Boswell was the most useful of Johnson’s friends, the man who played the part of psychological lightning rod perhaps better, certainly for longer, than had either Richard Savage (his companion during his early days in London) or Beauclerk.