One would have liked to feel that the violent expression of his
convictions represented a real intensity of feeling, but the facts
in this instance seem against it.
He was a great talker--but his talk was more properly a monologue.
It was a discursive essay, with perhaps a few marginal notes from
his subdued audience. How could one talk on equal terms with a man
who could not brook contradiction or even argument upon the most
vital questions in life? Would Goldsmith defend his literary views,
or Burke his Whiggism, or Gibbon his Deism? There was no common
ground of philosophic toleration on which one could stand. If he
could not argue he would be rude, or, as Goldsmith put it: "If his
pistol missed fire, he would knock you down with the butt end."
In the face of that "rhinoceros laugh" there was an end of gentle
argument. Napoleon said that all the other kings would say "Ouf!"
when they heard he was dead, and so I cannot help thinking that the
older men of Johnson's circle must have given a sigh of relief when
at last they could speak freely on that which was near their hearts,
without the danger of a scene where "Why, no, sir!" was very likely
to ripen into "Let us have no more on't!" Certainly one would like
to get behind Boswell's account, and to hear a chat between such
men as Burke and Reynolds, as to the difference in the freedom and
atmosphere of the Club on an evening when the formidable Doctor was
not there, as compared to one when he was.
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