idolater. His mind resembles those creepers which the botanists
call parasites, and which can subsist only by clinging round the
stems and imbibing the juices of stronger plants. He must have
fastened himself on somebody. He might have fastened himself on
Wilkes, and have become the fiercest patriot in the Bill of
Rights Society. He might have fastened himself on Whitfield, and
have become the loudest field preacher among the Calvinistic
Methodists. In a happy hour he fastened himself on Johnson. The
pair might seem ill matched. For Johnson had early been
prejudiced against Boswell's country. To a man of Johnson's
strong understanding and irritable temper, the silly egotism and
adulation of Boswell must have been as teasing as the constant
buzz of a fly. Johnson hated to be questioned; and Boswell was
eternally catechising him on all kinds of subjects, and sometimes
propounded such questions as "What would you do, sir, if you were
locked up in a tower with a baby?" Johnson was a water drinker;
and Boswell was a wine-bibber, and indeed little better than a
habitual sot. It was impossible that there should be perfect
harmony between two such companions. Indeed, the great man was
sometimes provoked into fits of passion in which he said things
which the small man, during a few hours, seriously resented.
Every quarrel, however, was soon made up. During twenty years
the disciple continued to worship the master: the master
continued to scold the disciple, to sneer at him, and to love
him. The two friends ordinarily resided at a great distance from
each other. Boswell practised in the Parliament House of
Edinburgh, and could pay only occasional visits to London.
During those visits his chief business was to watch Johnson, to
discover all Johnson's habits, to turn the conversation to
subjects about which Johnson was likely to say something