Working with six other men of letters, Johnson began compiling his ‘Dictionary of the English Language,’ the first preparations for this huge undertaking beginning in 1747.
While Johnson wrote pamphlets, tried to write a stage play, wrote essays and lyrical poems and was a fairly constant contributor to ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine,’ run by Edward Cave, he also undertook the enormous task of writing his ‘Dictionary of the English Language.’ He had six lexicographers to help him in this work, and the first preparations for it took place in 1747 when he announced his intention to do it, and produced his plan for it. Boswell thinks he might well have been at work on it during 1745 and 1746 when he found he couldn’t unearth much work that Johnson had done in those two years. But he certainly wasn’t still hanging around with Richard Savage, as that relationship only lasted two years from 1737 to 1739. In 1745, Richard Savage had been dead two years. He was imprisoned in Bristol for debt and died there on August 1st 1743. Although I have read, and might have said before on an earlier blog, that Savage spent quite a lot of time at the gaoler’s house instead of in a cell. So his mesmeric charm was still in operation to the end of his life. But the job of a professional conman is to fascinate people, isn’t it? I’ve just discovered that Savage’s grave is in the centre of Bristol in a place called Castle Park, yet to lay eyes on it though. Johnson wrote his biography of Savage the following year, 1744.
Boswell tells us that Johnson had six lexicographers to help him with the dictionary, he writes that, ‘While the Dictionary was going forward, Johnson lived part of the time in Holborn, part in Gough-square, Fleet-street; had he had an upper room fitted up like a counting-house for the purpose, in which he gave to the copyists their several task.’
Still no sign of Tetty then?
Boswell continues, ‘the necessary expence of preparing a work of such magnitude for the press, must have been a considerable deduction from the price stipulated to be paid for the copyright. I understand that nothing was allowed by the booksellers on that account; and I remember his telling me, that a large portion of it having, by mistake, been written upon both sides of the paper, so as to be inconvenient for the compositor, [the person who arranges type for printing], it cost him twenty pounds to have it transcribed upon one side only.’ I bet he swore about that! I tried to research how much money that £20.00 would represent now, and the nearest I could find was £2,804.00. Blimey. I’ll bet Savage would’ve turned over in his grave, as the horrible saying goes, if he’d known about such a sum of money going somewhere other than into his own hands.
Boswell thought that now Johnson had a big piece of work to get on with, that it would help him not to fall into the ‘melancholy which was ever lurking about him, ready to trouble his quiet.’ But even so ‘his enlarged and lively mind could not be satisfied without more diversity of employment, and the pleasure of animated relaxation.’ One thing Johnson did was to form a literary club in Paternoster Row where he was able to have good discussions with his writer friends and others he knew and loved. Since he was always afraid of being alone and thought that company helped him control his weird twitches and so on, that seems like a wise decision to have made. But more than that, in the summer of 1747 Johnson went to the then resort of Tunbridge Wells and hung out with other literary people, and guess what? Boswell writes that he thought he went there ‘…probably also for Mrs. Johnson’s health.’ At last. I had visions of her wandering about her wretched house drinking cordials rather a lot and wearing flouncy bad-taste dresses.
‘In January, 1749, he [Johnson] published ‘The Vanity of Human Wishes,’ being the Tenth Satire of Juvenal imitated.’ He, I believe, composed it [this poem] the proceeding year. Mrs. Johnson, for the sake of country air, had lodgings at Hampstead, to which he resorted occasionally, and there the great part, if not the whole, of this Imitation was written. The fervid rapidity with which it was produced, is scarcely credible. I have heard him say that he composed seventy lines of it in one day, without putting one of them on paper until they were finished. I remember when I once regretted to him that he had not given us more of Juvenal’s Satires, he said, he probably should give more, for he had them all in his head; by which I understood, that he had the originals and correspondent allusions floating in his mind, which he could when he pleased, embody and render permanent without much labour. Some of them, however, he observed where too gross for imitation.’ [I don’t quite understand the use of the word imitation in this context, actually I think I do, the poems are based on known ancient satires, Greek, Hebrew, Latin…]. For this last poem, Johnson got fifteen guineas, and considering how much that would be worth now, and how little time it appears that he took to write the poem in, he wasn’t doing too badly at that stage. He was famous by that time and would’ve expected decent money.
I can’t remember if I have mentioned before the fact that Johnson had a sneering attitude towards actors, or players as they called them. When he first arrived in London, he came with Garrick, who was his former pupil and friend, and who quickly became famous in the theatre world while Johnson struggled with poverty and lack of recognition. Johnson had written a tragedy called ‘Irene’ early on in his writing career, but he couldn’t get any theatre to stage it. By 1749 Garrick was manager of Drury-lane Theatre and very kindly said he would put the play on but he wanted to edit it to make it work better. Johnson wouldn’t allow it, and a ‘violent dispute’ broke out between them and Boswell writes that, ‘…Garrick applied to the Reverend Dr. Taylor to interpose. Johnson was at first very obstinate. ‘‘Sir, (said he) the fellow wants me to make Mahomet run mad, that he may have an opportunity of tossing his hands and kicking his heels.’’ He was, however, at last, with difficulty, prevailed upon to comply with Garrick’s wishes, so as to allow of some changes, but still there were not enough.’
The play was not liked by the audience, and Johnson in the end, admitted that it was a failed piece of writing.
So, Tetty then was living in Hampstead … for the air? I’m not sure what that implies. Was she ill, was she losing her mind? It’s possible that Johnson was paying very little attention to her at this stage, she’s a bit now you see her now you don’t.
