Boswell's Bus Pass (28 page)

Although the castle was officially closed I was welcomed into the main hall and plied with coffee in front of a marrow-warming log fire. The décor was gothic chic. For my entertainment the embers spat sparks and tiny insects of flame onto the hearth. The table was strewn with copies of
Scottish Weddings
many of which were staged at Borthwick. I read a sample bridesmaid’s speech, ‘Well she’s done it. Nicola has finally found a man who deserves her …’ and an obscure poem about bridal favours.

Boswell, increasingly losing momentum and motivation to finish his journal goes through the motions, ‘We went and saw the old castle of Borthwick. I recollect no conversation worth preserving, except one saying of Dr Johnson, which will be a valuable text for many decent old dowagers, and other good company in various circles to descant upon. He said, ‘I am sorry I have not learnt to play at cards. It is very useful in life; it generates kindness and consolidates society.’ In which of the three drawing rooms did Johnson hover over the simpering biddies, sneaking a glance at the aces up their sleeves?

David Sinclair, a young retainer, provided me with the most enthusiastic tour yet. While he spoke a red hot canon ball lodged itself into the masonry and the siege bound cattle nudged each other closer to the warmth of the fire in the dungeon hearth. With a wave of his hand a whole tree trunk forced its way into the main hall and split the stones, as sack-clad peasants looted every splinter of original wood to house their families.

Borthwick Castle must have been much colder when Johnson visited. Boswell tells us, ‘My friend and I thought we should be warmer and more comfortable at the inn at Blackshiels, two miles farther on. We therefore went thither in the evening, and he was very entertaining.’ It was his last night in Scotland.

The following morning Rory and I retraced our steps and eventually found Blackshiels hamlet. The visiting district nurse had no idea
where the original coaching inn had been but the postman thought he knew. Had this continued we would have completed a whole hand of Happy Families. It is now a farm but the original courtyard is still visible. The farmer who owns the place had never heard of Boswell or Johnson.

Boswell’s account ends as if he just wants to get the thing finished. ‘We breakfasted together next morning, and then the coach came and took him up. He had as one of his companions in it as far as Newcastle, the worthy and ingenious Dr Hope, botanical professor at Edinburgh.’ One more sentence about how Johnson and Hope enjoyed each other’s company and that was that.

We managed not to be noticed as we merged into the bustle and chaos of the yard. The new horses bucked and shot gouts of breath into the early morning air as they were harnessed to the coach. The ostler patted his favourite, a large piebald creature and surreptitiously fed it something which the horse snorted up from his hand. A small urchin sidled up to Rory and put his hand out for money. Rory gave him half a sovereign and shooed him away. The coachman tugged irritably at the spring above the rear wheel and gestured at the inn keeper who joined him in tugging at the side of the coach which shook a little.

Johnson stared briefly from the window to see what was going on. A woman holding up her skirts to stop them trailing in the mud ran up to the coach. She was late and flustered. Her maid arrived moments later with a large brown bag which was hoisted onto the luggage rack. Boswell was there, dressed in a large greatcoat which had fallen open to reveal a green flounced shirt. He seemed agitated and took snuff continuously all the while flicking his nose with a large white handkerchief. He shouted at Joseph who was still holding Johnson’s day bag. Joseph muttered something and scowled. Among the crowd of well-wishers and hangers on I saw David, Roy and John; I would speak to them later. The driver, a large man, was the last to arrive. He moved slowly towards the coach as if he couldn’t really be bothered and flicked his whip in the direction of a small dog. Without a glance at the passengers inside he swung himself onto his seat, tugged on the reins and swept out of the yard. I caught a last glance of Johnson’s face and saw the merest hint of anxiety; it could have been loss.

Dr Johnson arrived back in London to discover that Lucy, his god child, had died four days previously. He resumed his complex relationship with Hester Thrale, travelled to Wales and France, declined the challenge of a duel with James Macpherson over the
Ossian
forgery, toyed with owning a brewery, published
A Journey to the Western Isles
in 1777 to very mixed reviews, felt increasingly haunted by Boswell, increased his intake of opium to offset his growing melancholy, and died on December 13
^th
1784. The surgeons at Hunter’s school of Anatomy declared on cutting him open that his heart was ‘exceedingly strong and large.’

After Johnson returned to London James Boswell sank into a deep despair and fought frequently with Margaret who was again
exasperated
by his womanising, drinking and gambling; he threw a lighted candlestick at her on one occasion and a chair on another. When his father died he dabbled with Auchinleck politics before being called to the English bar in 1775. Despite Margaret’s pleas they only ever returned once to Scotland. In London he dogged Johnson’s every step and published the hugely successful
The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson LLD
in 1785. Six years later he published his masterpiece,
The Life of Samuel Johnson
. This success could not dissipate his addiction to drink, vice and despair. In
The Tyranny of Treatment
McEnroe and Simon describe the days leading to his death, aged 54 in 1795. ‘He collapsed at a meeting of the literary club, and had to be carried home. His symptoms included fever, trembling, violent headache, and vomiting. A doctor reported that a swelling in his bladder had ‘mortified’. A month later he died: his kidneys had failed. Ober’s tentative diagnosis is that he died of acute and chronic urinary tract infection, secondary to post-gonorrheal stricture. He had no doubt that Boswell’s premature death resulted from complications arising from his many episodes of gonorrhea, exacerbated by excessive alcohol intake over many years.’

Margaret remained at Boswell’s side despite the huge challenges in the marriage. She sent a ‘marmalade of oranges of her own making’ to Dr Johnson by way of a peace offering. She duly gave birth to Effie, Sandy, David, Jamie and Betsy. She tried to understand what drove her husband to other women and on one occasion accompanied him on one of his nightly trawls through the streets of London to keep him away from temptation but ‘he went on wrapped in darkness’. On March 8
^th
1775 Boswell wrote of his wife, ‘She was sensible, amiable,
and all that I could wish, except being averse to hymeneal rites. I told her I must have a concubine. She said I might go to whom I pleased. She has often said so.’ She became increasingly homesick and her health started to suffer. She died of consumption on January 4
^th
1789. Boswell was not at her side. ‘My second daughter came running out from our house, and announced to us the dismal event in a burst of tears … I had not been with her to soothe her last moments, I cried bitterly and upbraided myself for leaving her, for she would not have left me.’

Of Joseph Ritter we know nothing more.

Stuart Campbell has worked as an English teacher and Advisor in the Lothians, and as a part time manager with Health in Mind, an Edinburgh based mental health charity. He has previously written for the BBC, the Guardian and the Scottish Book Collector, and is the editor of
RLS in Love
, an anthology of Robert Louis Stevenson’s love poetry. For many years resident in Edinburgh, but now living in Glasgow, he is married to Morag with four grown up children.

RLS in Love