The course of life which has been described was interrupted in Johnson's sixty-fourth year by an important event.He had early read an account of the Hebrides, and had been much interested by learning that there was so near him a land peopled by a race which was still as rude and ****** as in the middle ages.A wish to become intimately acquainted with a state of society so utterly unlike all that he had ever seen frequently crossed his mind.But it is not probable that his curiosity would have overcome his habitual sluggishness, and his love of the smoke, the mud, and the cries of London, had not Boswell importuned him to attempt the adventure, and offered to be his squire.At length, in August 1773, Johnson crossed the Highland line, and plunged courageously into what was then considered, by most Englishmen, as a dreary and perilous wilderness.After wandering about two months through the Celtic region, sometimes in rude boats which did not protect him from the rain, and sometimes on small shaggy ponies which could hardly bear his weight, he returned to his old haunts with a mind full of new images and new theories.During the following year he employed himself in recording his adventures.About the beginning of 1775, his Journey to the Hebrides was published, and was, during some weeks, the chief subject of conversation in all circles in which any attention was paid to literature.The book is still read with pleasure.The narrative is entertaining; the speculations, whether sound or unsound, are always ingenious; and the style, though too stiff and pompous, is somewhat easier and more graceful than that of his early writings.His prejudice against the Scotch had at length become little more than matter of jest;and whatever remained of the old feeling had been effectually removed by the kind and respectful hospitality with which he had been received in every part of Scotland.It was, of course, not to be expected that an Oxonian Tory should praise the Presbyterian polity and ritual, or that an eye accustomed to the hedgerows and parks of England should not be struck by the bareness of Berwickshire and East Lothian.But even in censure Johnson's tone is not unfriendly.The most enlightened Scotchmen, with Lord Mansfield at their head, were well pleased.
But some foolish and ignorant Scotchmen were moved to anger by a little unpalatable truth which was mingled with much eulogy, and assailed him whom they chose to consider as the enemy of their country with libels much more dishonourable to their country than anything that he had ever said or written.They published paragraphs in the newspapers, articles in the magazines, sixpenny pamphlets, five-shilling books.One scribbler abused Johnson for being blear-eyed; another for being a pensioner; a third informed the world that one of the Doctor's uncles had been convicted of felony in Scotland, and had found that there was in that country one tree capable of supporting the weight of an Englishman.
Macpherson, whose Fingal had been proved in the Journey to be an impudent forgery, threatened to take vengeance with a cane.The only effect of this threat was that Johnson reiterated the charge of forgery in the most contemptuous terms, and walked about, during some time, with a cudgel, which, if the impostor had not been too wise to encounter it, would assuredly have descended upon him, to borrow the sublime language of his own epic poem, "like a hammer on the red son of the furnace."Of other assailants Johnson took no notice whatever.He had early resolved never to be drawn into controversy; and he adhered to his resolution with a steadfastness which is the more extraordinary, because he was, both intellectually and morally, of the stuff of which controversialists are made.In conversation, he was a singularly eager, acute, and pertinacious disputant.When at a loss for good reasons, he had recourse to sophistry; and, when heated by altercation, he made unsparing use of sarca** and invective.But, when he took his pen in his hand, his whole character seemed to be changed.A hundred bad writers misrepresented him and reviled him; but not one of the hundred could boast of having been thought by him worthy of a refutation, or even of a retort.The Kenricks, Campbells, MacNicols, and Hendersons, did their best to annoy him, in the hope that he would give them importance by answering them.But the reader will in vain search his works for any allusion to Kenrick or Campbell, to MacNicol or Henderson.One Scotchman, bent on vindicating the fame of Scotch learning, defied him to the combat in a detestable Latin hexameter.
"Maxime, si tu vis, cupio contendere tecum."But Johnson took no notice of the challenge.He had learned, both from his own observation and from literary history, in which he was deeply read, that the place of books in the public estimation is fixed, not by what is written about them, but by what is written in them; and that an author whose works are likely to live is very unwise if he stoops to wrangle with detractors whose works are certain to die.He always maintained that fame was a shuttlecock which could be kept up only by being beaten back, as well as beaten forward, and which would soon fall if there were only one battledore.No saying was oftener in his mouth than that fine apophthegm of Bentley, that no man was ever written down but by himself.
