Truth is a cow

Despite Boswell's London being scattered with great minds and thinkers, Boswell only ever reached the status of a great modern biographer, and cannot be considered as a great philosopher. More wit than intellectual, his all too human whims and flights of fancy show a likeable character, but only very rarely to glimpses of a deeper interest of philosophy emerge. All too often Boswell succumbs to the diversions of the metropolis. 

9 April 1763, for example, sees Boswell meet with Dr Blair, go to Holborn with Erskine, visit Arne's popular opera Artaxerxes, before heading to St Clement's Chop-house for supper. Boswell then jaunts off to Covent Garden for some entertainment and ends up drinking tea with an acquaintance. Not quite done, he then heads to 'the Park, and in armorial guise performed concubinage with a strong, plump, good-humoured girl called Nanny Baker'. Here it is then: the Hogarthian image of eighteenth-century Britain; haughty high culture mixed with low debauchery. A mess of claret and horse manure; Handel and back street harlots. It's a view of England the English continue enjoy; a messy compromise of a society, unplanned and organic.   

'A Scene from the Beggar's Opera' by Hogarth 1731

Similar diaries are doubtless being kept today. It's not a leap to imagine the young buck about town today mixing entertainment, drinking and sex into a busy weekend, while trying to smatter it (perhaps purge it) with trips to cultural and artistic fonts.

Yet, precisely because of his whimsical but intelligent character, Boswell acts as a great cultural sponge for the period. Intellectually, it is clear Boswell was influenced by David Hume; for a man he doesn't meet once in his London adventure, Hume seems ever present. He is read, his philosophy analysed and picked over; his character dissected. Indeed the Journal itself begins, where Hume begins, with the simple dictum: 'Know thyself'. In some senses, then, the convergence of the first 'modern' biography and Hume's 'modern' philosophy should be no surprise. Hume may have not been reading Boswell, but Boswell certainly was reading Hume.

Indeed so much was Boswell taken by the philosopher-historian that his friends 'forged a letter from David Hume to me containing some genteel compliments...' Perhaps his reading of Hume had gotten a bit much for his lively friends? Either way, 'suspecting no deceit [I] was vastly pleased.' On finding out the trickery Boswell fumed, yet still saw an opportunity to write a letter to Hume. Recounting the affair and his lose of temper he nevertheless saw 'the milk of human kindness, as Shakespeare tenderly expresses it, was not long destroyed in acrimony.' 

Hume - no great fan of Shakespeare - sent a less than encouraging response. [Angrily] 'How the devil came it into your heads, or rather your noddles (for if there had been a head among you, the thing had not happened; not are you to imagine that a parcel of volatile spirits enclosed in a skull, make a head) - I repeat it, how the devil came it into your noddles to publish in a book to all the world what you pretend I told you in private conversation.' 

Despite the initial setback the interest with Hume continued; even stylistically there is overlap. On 19 February 1763 there is a clear attempt to emulate Hume's prose:

'I must observe that we are not affected by the complaints of a genteel agreeable man against life. The agreeable ideas which he inspires serve as an antidote to gloom, and we cannot believe his murmurings to be serious. Everybody must feel this from experience. When we see a fine lady before us and hear her venting discontented exclamations, we are apt to imagine them words of course; or if we think her really distressed, we solace ourselves by thinking that distress is not so terrible and may be endured with a good deal of complacency, considering that a person may present us with so pleasing an appearance, who is distressed.'

Johnson, of course, was one of Hume's most outspoken critics. Boswell, despite pouring over Hume while ill with venereal disease, seems to have nodded along with the Doctor's assertions. Hume, and all other sceptics, we 'vain men; and finding mankind already in possession of truth, they could not gratify their vanity by supporting her; and so they have taken to error'. Predictably Johnson formed an amusing analogy. '...Truth is a cow which will yield such people no more milk, and so they are gone to milk the bull.' Johnson then, always good with a turn of phrase, may not have been aware of the influence Hume was having on his future biographer. 

Black Dogs and Boswell

Boswell's character is favourite subject for many writers, and he often serves as light relief in many dry texts on the eighteenth century. He does, after all, give us one of the first 'modern' biographies, not to mention plenty of essays, letters and diary entries. Boswell stands at the centre of his writing; his personal experiences, conversations, whims, conquests and failures; his sexual triumphs, tragedies and diseases. All are on display for anyone willing to have a read.

Inevitably then, unlike more distant figures of the age, this raw exposure to another man's mind can be uncomfortable and distasteful. Indeed Boswell frequently comes across as superficial, unable to take criticism and moody. It is a point he is well aware of: 'when we know exactly all a man's views and how he comes to speak and act so and so, we lose any respect for him, though we may love and admire him; at least we lose that kind of distant respect which is very agreeable for us to feel and him to receive.'

Hume by Louis Carrogis, paints the man in
a light hearted and accessible way.

A careful and sympathetic reading of his journal allows us to better understand his less attractive features. Boswell is especially conscious of his frequent swings from states of euphoric optimism to brooding melancholy. 'In the space of a few hours I was a dull and miserable, a clever and a happy mortal, and all without the intervention of any external cause'. 


Boswell's happy conjectures frequently erupt onto the pages. One example should suffice, when one afternoon he 'was very high-spirited and full of ambition.' He longed to be of consequence, and goes about forming plans to return to Scotland to become an advocate. 'By this means I would make money which would enable me to jaunt about wherever I pleased in the vacations. I would have an opportunity of being of much real use, of being of service to my friends by having weight in the country, and would make my father exceedingly happy.'  He prattles on 'that I might have the wit and humour of Sir David Dalrymple, the jollity of Duncan Forbes, the whim of Baron Dalrymple, the show of Baron Maule...' 


Yet like many great thinkers from the period Boswell complains of melancholy moods. Adam Smith suffered these while at Oxford; David Hume seems to have had a severe mental breakdown at a young age; Samuel Johnson lived his life prone to frequently bouts of depression. The causes of each individual case are impossible to pin down. Yet Montesquieu blamed what seemed a peculiarly English phenomenon on the weather; Dr Cheyne blamed the eighteenth-century diet. Boswell would have also been aware of Aristotle's connection between melancholy moods and genius.


Like Hume, Boswell had 'a very severe illness' as a young adult, becoming 'very melancholy' in the process. He imagined he would never shake the state and 'gave myself up as devoted to misery.' He notes that: 'I entertained a most gloomy and odd way of thinking. I was much hurt at being good for nothing in life...Many a struggle was in my mind between melancholy and mirth.' 


Throughout the Journal then, Boswell shifts between this affable foppish front and his moody and emotional self. The solution, once again, is one Boswell shares with David Hume. Action and socialising are the best cures: 

"I and many more speculative men have been thrown into deep and serious thought about matters very little more serious. Yet the mind will take its own way, do what we will. So that we may be rendered uneasy by such cloudy reveries when we have no intention to be in such a humour. The best relief in such a case is mirth and gentle amusement."

Hume, incidentally, noted: 

"Very refined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do not, and cannot, establish it for a rule that they ought not to have any influence; which implies a manifest contradiction. [But] I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends, and after three or four hours’ amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold and strained and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any further."

Boswell wrote a series of essays, almost as self-therapy, called The Hypochondriack which were designed to turn his low moods into action and chase away the black dog of depression in the process. During one essay he noted, which the writer will second, 'while writing this paper, I have by some gracious influence been insensibly relieved from the distress under which I laboured when I began it.'

'A man's a man, for a' that'

When writing it is best to ground your thoughts on the basis of greater thinkers. This is more than a matter of taste or intellectual snobbery: too many people write too much about very little. This was true in the eighteenth-century and is certainly true now. Writing in itself is not Good; it can be vacuous, serve no real purpose and act as mere filler. Next time you fail to get through the Sunday Times, try not to feel too bad. It's mostly padding.

There is also a danger when writing of repetition. Philosophically, it you will fail to say anything that hasn't already been said; historically you might prove useful - later - but this is usually unintentional. The current spat of books about the Internet - 'The Net Delusion'; 'Alone Together'; 'Is the Internet changing the Way you think?' - highlight the writers delusion that in innovation they can reveal some new Truth. This blog, then, anchors itself to Boswell's mind. Boswell himself grounded much of his thoughts on those of others. And so on, and so forth. 

This does not imply receiving knowledge, and accepting it on face value. Engage, criticise and add to writing. But don't think you can leap into the dark and Reveal anything new. History has shown mankind moves best at an amble; gradually building on past experience and pre-existing ideas. Attempting to sprint to the Finish through Reason and Perfect Systems has almost always ended in a shambles.

Occasionally, however, a figure appears from history whose mind seems to have emerged from the wilderness; a divinely inspired communicator or naturally gifted artist. Robert Burns, whose anniversary is celebrated on January 25, is one such example. His poems - 'A Winter Night' for example - stand in marked contrast to many of the pastoral idylls seen in Constable or Gainsborough. With Burns, it seems, we have it from the wind beaten farmers mouth. And it's not pleasant; a 'winter war' scarring and lashing down onto the landscape.

This is to forget, however, that Burns was born into one of the most literate societies in the world. He was thus exposed to the classics, not to mention Pope, Milton and Locke. The phenomenal success he achieved in a very short space of time should consequently hint at more than a simple farmer communicating with the Deity. Indeed he was acutely self-aware; a sharp mind that correctly judged writing in Scots would feed an intellectual appetite tired of a diet of flowery English prose. Like Benjamin Franklin or Rousseau then, Burns was an excellent at manipulating his 'Heav'n-taught ploughman' image to produce an impact in the Metropolis. 

Nasmyth's portrait of Burns - deliberately left unfinished and slightly rough around the edges.

In a revealing note, writing in third person, Burns was able to consider: 'As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a ploughtail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished, rustic way of life' 

When it suited Boswell too, he could slip on different masks. ‘I have discovered that we may be in some degree whatever character we choose.’ In an interesting book on the subject, Dror Wahrman has teased out the fluid and mutable nature of Georgian identities. Clothing, for example, said a great deal about a person. This went beyond a simple display of wealth, also implying certain strong social and moral values. Boswell is thus able to march into a sword maker on the Strand, and on the basis of his appearance and demeanour - not, surely, his accent - he is able to leave with a sword on the promise of payment later.

Boswell in On the Profession of a Player formally introduces us to the idea of ‘double feeling'. Quick to validate his argument with some received wisdom he is eager to point out the root: 'Mr David Hume'. Hume, notes Boswell, was clear about the point of fluid character, men being, in general 'nothing but a bundle of perceptions'. 

Clothing, then, more than anything else seemed to define the plethora of pastel colours and powdered whigs prancing around London at the time. Burns, it seems, had realised this point before most, and saw a value in defining a deeper sense of self based on intelligence rather than dress sense:

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; 

A Man's a Man for a' that: 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that; 

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that

Please refrain from analysing in the Cathedral

I recently visited St Paul's and attended the Epiphany Procession. The Cathedral is generally regarded as one of the high points of European Baroque. Yet unlike many buildings of its scale, there is no grand approach; it emerges all at once out of a cluster of tightly packed city houses. Despite its mighty and looming exterior, the inner architectural harmony of the Cathedral serves to relax the pilgrim. The design, by Wren, was heavily influenced by the light forms of continental architecture; at the time the dome was considered slightly too Papish.


What, for me, was initially an excursion for an enquiring mind, turned into something more spiritual. I am not, mind, in any way religious. Yet the music and architecture piety can produce do serve to lighten the soul and give a feeling of renewal and calm. I could, of course, try to analyse these thoughts and probably come to some sort of pseudo-scientific conclusion: harmonious music and space; the effects of singing; the general mood of the congregation. Yet this would be to sully the sense that 'church' made me feel better. 

St Paul's Cathedral by Cannaletto painted in 1754.

Indeed, after far to much learning about eighteenth-century philosophy, I am increasingly seeing the merits in reacting against analysis, numbers and pure reason. Our society is surely reaching a saturation point, culturally and spiritually, with its obsession with figures, graphs and numerical proof. There are scientific formulas for Happiness, Weight Loss and a Good Christmas; Powerpoint presentations, plans and diagrams on 'How to be Good' or 'How to feel Better'. We have somehow managed to pinpoint the Worst Day of the year. Advertising companies use statistics to convince us that our eyelashes can have '4 times more Impact'.


Obviously these should not all taken with the same seriousness as, say, the mathematics behind a medical vaccine. But what about political numbers used to prove an argument? What about the omnipotent question of the Budget Deficit? The danger is that analysis goes beyond being a mere prop for decision making, and becomes in itself the irrefutable answer to a problem. Understandable then, was the reaction of Thomas Carlyle to many of the high ideals of analysis and reason in the eighteenth century. One of the greatest intellectual feats of the century, Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, was for Carlyle the beginning of 'the dismal science' of economics. 


Yet the view of the time of Boswell as one of 'Reason' is slightly misguided, and has, like 'Enlightenment', been applied after the fact. It might as well, as many historians have pointed out, been called an age of 'Passion'. Certainly in Boswell we find an impassioned lover, moody writer and angry young man. He is prone to fluctuating emotions, and his 'whims' stand in marked contrast with a rigorous accounting process for his expenditure. 'The pleasure of gratifying a whim is very great. It is known only by those who are whimsical.' Indeed, in an interesting city with no immediate regulated pattern of work, the point is well made; going 'walk about' in London (without a map or direction) is always an interesting experience. 


Furthermore, Boswell's love for women and socialising is the stuff of legend. Even at church, 'In the midst of divine service I was laying plans for having women...I have a warm heart and a vivacious fancy. I am therefore given to love, and also to piety and gratitude to God, and to the most brilliant and showy method of public worship.' On another occasion, his piety is clouded out: ‘I was on honour much disposed to be a Christian. Yet I was rather cold in my devotion. The Duchess of Grafton attracted my eyes rather too much.’ 


Alas, no such talent at this week's service.  

'No Scots! No Scots! Out with them!'

Alex Salmond recently appeared on Desert Island Discs. As ever, he was a capable and interesting speaker. Yet, as a professional politician of the first order, his nationalist views were never far from the surface of his conversation. Even in his choice of music we had to endure 500 miles by The Proclaimers and Caledonia by Dougie McLean. Does any sober human actually enjoy 500 miles? It's become nothing more than the musical wet fart left at the end of otherwise enjoyable sessions on the town.

Yet, crap as 500 miles undoubtedly is, this is not quite the equivalent of Ed Milliband asking Kirsty Young to play The Internationale. Nor is it the equivalent of David Cameron requesting Pomp and Circumstance by Elgar. The reasons for this come from the curious nature of Scottish nationalism and identity.    

From the outset, I should say I am no ardent nationalist. Nor am I about the retrospectively turn James Boswell into one. Yet, as Alistair Campbell notes in his journal, awareness of a Scottish identity is intensified on English soil. Where better, then, to examine it?

Many of the reactions in England to the very idea of Scottish nationalism and identity are often mystifying to me. They sway between gentle ridicule, lack of understanding and shock. Such a failure to empathise with the idea of nationalism surely comes from the lack of any coherent English/British identity, post-Empire. This is the crux of Jeremy Paxman’s The English, and a point well made. ‘English’ nationalism has, unfortunately, too often been hijacked by football louts and racists. National sentiment north of Hadrian's Wall, then, is often assumed to be similar; an intellectually violent and disruptive idea, one with no place in multicultural Britain. 

Not supporting the English football team is one thing. Yet this is not to say I am not willing to live peacefully alongside you; work in your cities, integrate myself with your culture, and sleep with your women. Indeed like the Scottish personality, the nationalist ‘tint’ is rarely showy or obvious; it is often deeply introspective and engrained. It does not require flags, kilts or malt whisky. Although the former never hurts.

Mr Salmond then, is not of a radical creed. He is, in fact, one of the most entertaining and sensible political speakers in the country. Independence for Scotland - whether you agree with it or not - is not about raising saltires and singing Caledonia as Salmond points out. It is a legitimate economic argument and comes from deep cultural roots, difficult, perhaps, for an outsider to easily place their finger on. 

Boswell too, was hardly a nationalist. Indeed, he holds a status as one of the archetypal Scots who abandoned Scotia and 'took the high road to London' in the eighteenth-century. Along with Allan Ramsay the painter, the Adams brothers, and the 3rd earl of Bute, he was part of a host of influential Scots who sought their fortune in the capital. Indeed, long before the 'Scottish Raj' of 1997 - 2010 was coined by Mr Paxman, the Scots had become very influential - and resented - in government in the 1760s under George III. 

The young George III by Allan Ramsay

Boswell's contacts in London, at least initially, are mainly Scots who are acutely aware of their identity. A friend's wife then, is described as good humoured, yet 'that sort of character which is often met with in England: very lively without much wit.' Much more obvious nationalism bubbles forth from Boswell at the theatre, where he prepares to watch the comic opera Love in a Village. As two Highland officers walk in and prepare to take their seats, the English mob in the upper gallery roars out. 'No Scots! No Scots! Out with them!' Hissed at, the officers are pelted with apples. Boswell's 'Scotch blood boiled with indignation'. Jumping to the benches he cries 'Damn you, you rascals!' Then, talking to the officers, he finds out they have come from Havana. 'And this is the thanks that we get - to be hissed when we come home. If it was French, what could they do worse.' 

In this moment then, despite his search for polish, wisdom and women in London, Boswell 'hated the English'. Outwardly he is the very image of the refined gentleman, able to carouse and cavort with the most respected in London society. Yet, inwardly, he has a strong sense of identity, which on this occasion, suddenly made him wish 'from my soul that the Union was broke and that we might give them another battle of Bannockburn.' 

Know thy City

'The liberty and the whim that reigns there occasions a variety of perfect and curious characters. Then the immense crowd and hurry and bustle of business and diversion, the great number of public places of entertainment, the noble churches and the superb buildings of different kinds, agitate, amuse, and elevate the mind. Besides, the satisfaction of pursuing whatever plan is most agreeable, without being known, or looked at, is very great.’ 

As an outsider in the metropolis, the sheer scale, complexity and liveliness of London is still something of fascination. I come from a town of less than 3,000 people; I live next to a forest, and, on some days, see more deer than human beings. I recognise almost everyone I pass in the street at home; anonymity is not an option. The predominant industry revolves around farming. 


Feelings of excitement at London are heightened as a result. Especially when one considers the history of the place; a great palimpsest documented back to the Roman invasion in 54 AD. The streets I walk along and places I visit - the Strand, Fleet Street, Somerset House - have been trodden by figures like Boswell and Johnson. This is appealing for an historical mind: London has thousands of fascinating little stories to tell. The city knows lots of little things. 

Hogarth is famous for his ability to capture the gritty hustle and bustle of
eighteenth-century London. Whores, drunks and thieves are all included. 

Forests and nature, conversely, have an ageless quality and simplicity about them. One can take in the forest, rather than every individual tree. The forest knows one big thing. This too is appealing, and any balanced personality is attracted to both ideas. The tendency of religion, however, seems to lean towards expanses of nature.  Cities, conversely, tend to produce commercial and historical thinking; unlike cyclical and gradual nature, change and progress is obvious. 


Full of expectations in London, as the 'son setting out from home for the wide world and the idea of being my own master' is an appealing prospect. 'The noise, the crowd, the glare of shops and signs' in London 'agreeably confused' Boswell. It is a feeling of dizziness at the incredible concentration of human activity. A Scotsman from the country is surely to stand in awe of it. 


'My companion could not understand my feelings. He considered London just as a place where he was to receive orders from the East India Company.' Indeed, many seem to consider London as little else: a place to work and make money. This is to deny the city any soul or past. Indeed, Boswell later notes that ‘a person of small fortune who has only the common views of life and would just be as well as anybody else, cannot like London.' Simply put, approaching the place with a common sense view which fails to look beyond the immediate logistical problems of life, will result in a failure to appreciate London. Yet, as Boswell goes on, 'a person of imagination and feeling, such as the 'Spectator' finely describes, can have the most lively enjoyment from the sight of external objects without regard to property at all.' 

   

Blogswell

I seem to remember scoffing at the very idea several years ago. Surely this is just a form of literary self-psychiatry, for public display? A haven for the bored and opinionated?  Who would want to be exposed to my fluctuating opinions and thoughts? Employers - apparently - who like the idea of bright technology savvy youths, in touch with 'community' and 'innovation' on the net, rather than just porn. 

I have kept a diary, on-and-off, for a few years now and have always considered it a good way to spend ten minutes. It's a useful reminder of what I've actually done; something which keeps my writing sharp and brain active, and a potential source of later amusement. 'It would be a very good exercise, and would yield me infinite satisfaction when the ideas were faded from my remembrance.' There also seems to be a connection between writing a diary and gaining perspective on events. Often, however, it becomes less about zeitgeist and Events, and more about petty meetings, vacuous theories and silly romances.

Boswell by Willison: The owl could mean wisdom. Or 

that he enjoyed 'night-time activities', like 

boozing and chasing women. 

Blogs, which are public, have less in common with the above. Written with publication or a reader in mind, they share similarities with Boswell's London Journal, which was meant for Samuel Johnson's consumption. A balance needs struck between personal opinions and emotions - which can become tiring, preachy and self-important  - and news worthy issues - too many of which can lack intimacy. All the time anything public should be entertaining first and fore most. Boswell's London Journal is generally seen to get this balance right; a happy medium between the impersonal statesman-like Pepys and the introspective and emotionally volatile Rousseau. Ideally it's what all blogs should aim for. 

This comes warts and all, and Boswell displays many human fallibilities. Indeed, so do most good diarists. Think of the political diaries of the philandering Alan Clarke or the depression prone Alistair Campbell. When it comes to diaries, or personal accounts generally, we just don't seem to connect with a Porcelain white literary tale of innocence. Boswell, then, sometimes can't be bothered writing entries at all, catching up by writing days at a time. Entries are often almost non-existent:  'We had a very good day of it and got at night to Doncaster', suffices for November 17th 1762. No mention of the Seven Years' War; no sense of a wider picture; no evocative scenes of North England in the mid-eighteenth-century. I cannot begin to compete with Boswell; expect days, maybe weeks of silence. But then it's human, and perhaps appealing because of it.