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Spin-doctor and Moralist 1James T Boulton I want you to imagine yourselves as politically alert readers of the London Chronicle on Tuesday 7 January 1766. Your attention has been caught by a reference to Corsica — which, you realise, has been out of the news and not mentioned by the Chronicle for several months. It’s nearly four years since Jean-Jacques Rousseau, in his Contrat Social, declared: ‘I have a feeling that some day that little island will astonish Europe.’2 Corsica, he believed, alone in Europe, was capable of developing a political system able to secure freedom for its citizens. Genoa, for four centuries the sovereign and oppressive power in the island, thought otherwise — and so, officially, did Great Britain. In December 1763, as the royal proclamation expressed it, British subjects were forbidden ‘to give or furnish aid, assistance, countenance, or succour, by any means whatsoever, to any inhabitants of the island of Corsica, in rebellion against the most serene republic’ of Genoa. Seaborne trade had continued with the ports controlled by the Genoese but no first-hand information about the interior of the island was available to British readers. So this paragraph in January 1766 arouses more than a little interest; it read as follows: Corsica has, then, become a matter of international, mercantile, even military importance. Its strategic position is clear: Genoa about 100 miles from the northern tip of the island; Nice about 120 miles; Leghorn about 70 — so whichever foreign power is in control of Corsica has a dominant position in a significant area of the Mediterranean. (France has been in that position since 1769.) General Pascal Paoli has emerged, you are told, not only as a formidable military leader of the Corsican people but as a man able to create political unity out of anarchy.3 Only a couple of days later, the Chronicle published an ‘Extract of a Letter from Rome’, dated in the previous month: This presents authentic, first-hand knowledge about a named visitor to the island who has penetrated to the interior, has met Paoli and conversed intimately with him but whose motives are suspect, justifying surveillance from the Genoese and some alarm in Italy, and arousing your curiosity as an informed reader: ‘what will really be the consequence of Mr Boswell’s tour to Corsica’? That was the question and it was not rhetorical in the case of the Genoese; it has been established that their spies did indeed report on Boswell throughout his stay on the island. Two days later, on 11 January, the Chronicle follows the letter from Rome with an extract from a letter from Marseilles dated 7 December: When Mr Boswell was presented to the General de Paoli, he paid this compliment to the Corsicans: "Sir, I am upon my travels, and have lately visited Rome: I am come from seeing the ruins of one brave and free people: I now see the rise of another." Two days later still, appears a Postscript from London: The portrait by the fashionable artist Richard Cosway, painted in the late 1780s, provides a visual interpretation which complements the description in the Chronicle: it shows Paoli as dignified, powerful and intense, very much the heroic general with his iron breastplate; the newspaper report in addition establishes him as outstanding in civil as well as military affairs, a man of inherent nobility, highly intelligent and cultivated, as distinguished as any contemporary, generous, but living in constant danger and needing protection. Returning to the newspaper’s coverage of the intriguing case of Mr Boswell, the mystery deepens but is not dispelled by what the paper calls ‘Foreign Intelligence’ on 23 January regarding the possibility of confusing Mr B. — treated in Corsica ‘with great civility and politeness’ — with the young Chevalier Charles Stuart. A fortnight later, on 7 February, the Chronicle prints a letter from Genoa, in which two Genoese officers declare that they ‘could not certainly discover whether [Mr Boswell’s] motives for having been in Corsica, were of a public or private nature. They could only observe that he had a good many papers, about which he seemed very anxious, and that he talked freely of what he had seen in his singular tours.’ Then the mysterious Mr Boswell temporarily disappears from the London Chronicle. But Corsica and Paoli do not. A letter from a brave but semi-literate English soldier who has fought alongside the islanders is printed in April 1767. And for the first six months of the year, readers of the Chronicle were regularly kept informed of the remarkable exploits of a Corsican courier Signor Romanzo who travelled across Europe, conversed with British ambassadors to the Prussian and Dutch courts, fought a duel with a French duke who maligned the British nation, and eventually reported back to General Paoli. Concurrently a series of communications from ‘J.B.’ to the Printer begins, in which the writer seeks the public’s assistance to discover the most satisfactory translation from the Latin of what he calls ‘two outrageous Epigrams’ by Seneca which were disparaging about Corsica.4 On 27 January 1767 he comments adversely on a version offered by the correspondent ‘R.D.’ and informs the paper’s readers that he wants to insert the translation ‘in a work on which I cannot help setting some value.’ The correspondence continues and on 26 March, J.B. declares that the version submitted by ‘Patricius’ is the best. In mid-August ‘J.B’. reveals himself as James Boswell and announces that his book An Account of Corsica is ready for printing and will include — as indeed it did —the translation by Patricius (subsequently revealed as the young Thomas Day, later well-known as a Rousseauesque novelist). Finally, ten days later, the Chronicle printed a letter from an impatient reader writing from Oxford under the initials ‘B.M.’: As you may have guessed, the entire correspondence with the London Chronicle — whether it purported to come from Rome or Marseilles, London, Florence or Oxford, whether about Seneca or the courier Romanzo, or from Sam Jones, the semi-literate soldier – was the invention of James Boswell, a Scottish lawyer then in his mid-to-late twenties. He had devised a ‘puffing’ campaign for his book as sustained and effective as any in literary history. It meant that when the 400-page book actually appeared on 18 February 1768 – only six months after the letter from ‘B. M.’ – the virtually unknown author had already created for himself a readership of considerable size and established himself as a person of note and international significance, shrouded in an intriguing degree of mystery. The combination of this careful manipulation of the reading public, together with the growing political, military and diplomatic importance of Corsica itself, ensured that, when the book was published, it was a runaway success. The author was almost at once known as ‘Corsica Boswell’. The first edition of 3, 500 copies was sold out in six weeks, requiring a second which appeared two months later, also of 3,500 copies. There was then a lull in demand but a third edition was advertised for 1 May 1769. (To see these figures from an 18th century perspective is to recognise more fully the scale of Boswell’s success: for example, the 1st and 2nd editions taken together, of Fielding’s novel, Tom Jones in 1749, amounted only to 3,500 copies; the demand for Edmund Burke’s highly influential Enquiry into... the Sublime and Beautiful, published in 1757, was satisfied by 7,000 copies over 40 years.) So far my remarks apply solely to the home market for Boswell’s Corsica. As the author proudly recalled in a memoir published in 1791, ‘the work is universally known, it having...been translated into Dutch, German, Italian, and twice into French’ all within a year of its first London appearance.5 The doyen of Boswellian scholars, Frederick Pottle, remarked: ‘Many more copies of it were sold in Boswell’s lifetime than of either of his great works in the biography of Johnson [i.e. his Journal of the Tour to the Hebrides and The Life of Johnson] , and it achieved abroad a much more remarkable success.’6 It seems almost incredible at this distance of time, but it remains true, that Boswell was far better known on the continent of Europe than was Dr Johnson. Indeed there is some justification for his jocular boast to his friend Temple which coincided with the publication of the third English edition: ‘I beseech you to write to me without delay: Dublin is Address enough for Corsican Boswell.’7 It sounds and, by any reasonable standard, is immodest but we should show some understanding of the temptations to which Boswell was exposed (and he was never a man to ignore temptation). Let me illustrate. Within a month of the book’s appearance he was in York; he attended a Minster service on Sunday 20th March, but slipped out and went to a coffee-house and there, according to his journal, Isn’t that enough to turn a young man’s head? In addition, the reviews were favourable; his friends praised him; John Wesley excitedly recorded in his journal the pleasure he derived from the book; the actor John Kemble told Boswell later that, when at school in Lancashire, he was required to translate the Account of Corsica into Latin as an exercise.9 On 8 November 1768 Corsica was the subject of a parliamentary debate, the central question of which can be deduced from Edmund Burke’s memorable observation in the debate: ‘Corsica naked I dread not, but Corsica a Province of France is terrible to me.’10 That Boswell shared this view is clear from the manuscript of his book; in a passage which did not appear in print, he wrote: ‘With all deference to those who have had the guidance of the affairs of this nation I cannot conceive why We should in any respect give assistance to the Genoese, for, as I heard it observed by the greatest minister whom Britain ever saw [William Pitt], Genoa is not only under the protection of France, but under the thumb of France.’11 Though Boswell deleted this particular passage, there can be little doubt that, through his book, he vicariously contributed to the Commons debate, so justifying the remark by the political wit Henry Fox: ‘Foolish as we are, we cannot be so foolish to go to war because Mr Boswell has been in Corsica.’12 Parliament rejected any thought of intervention. In view of all this prominence and public flattery, we surely can understand the temptation to which Boswell readily succumbed for him to appear ‘in the Dress of an Armed Corsican Chief’ at a masked ball at the Shakespeare Jubilee in September 1769, organised by David Garrick in Stratford-on-Avon. ‘My Corsican dress attracted everybody,’ Boswell recorded in his journal; ‘I was as much a favourite as I could desire.’13 (How can one fail to warm to such charmingly immodest naïveté?) And there is an amusing example of the lasting impact of Boswell’s pre-publication campaign recorded in his journal for March 1772, nearly five years after the puffing ended. The passage contains references to Dr John Brown known as ‘Estimate’ Brown after the title of his famous book, and Thomas Percy, the learned bibliophile and editor. So far we have witnessed the influence mainly exerted by the press, when managed by a skilled and inventive operator, successfully to prepare the way for the launch of Boswell’s book; once published the book’s impact was principally dependent on the persuasive power of the author’s literary artistry. But, before considering this, let me try to analyse his motives in visiting and, subsequently, writing about an island which — before his own publicity campaign — was unfamiliar to virtually every member of the public and unlikely to attract many even in that century renowned for its intrepid travellers. ‘Corsica is as unknown to us as Japan or California,’ as one contemporary historian put it.15 It was certainly not on the standard route for a gentleman on what was known as the Grand Tour, that educational experience undertaken by men of even modest wealth and family. After the end of the Seven Years War in 1763 the opportunity for travel was again open; official figures show that around 40,000 people crossed the Channel in 1765 alone (not all of them on the Grand Tour, of course).1 6 The Tour normally consisted of a fairly leisurely journey through France, perhaps the Low Countries and Germany, then Switzerland, on the way to Italy always regarded as the terminus ad quem of this exploration of European art and civilisation. To call on Rousseau at Moitiers and Voltaire near Geneva was also fashionable; Boswell paid a visit to both and set off with a letter from Rousseau in his pocket as an introduction to the Corsican leader, Pascal Paoli. Why, then, did he venture to this obscure island? To answer in a single word, the driving force was ambition; but the word must be understood as multi-faceted. Certainly, as he confessed in his book, ‘I wished for something more than just the common course of what is called the tour of Europe.’17 He wanted to explore where no Englishman had gone before: ‘I am the first Briton’ he asserted, ‘who has had the curiosity to visit Corsica, and to receive such information as to enable him to form a just idea of it’ (40). There is a mixture here of conceit, adventurousness, and intellectual enquiry adding up to a not unworthy determination to be ahead of the field — and to influence public opinion. Boswell entertained the hope that the British government might be persuaded to forge an alliance with Corsica to secure the island’s independence while, at the same time, creating a powerful British presence in the Mediterranean. Another kind of ambition was to achieve literary distinction: ‘I should be proud to be known as an authour; and I have an ardent ambition for literary fame; for of all possessions I should imagine literary fame to be the most valuable.’(xxiv) So Boswell declared in the preface to the first edition; by the time that he wrote a preface to the third edition he could fairly claim: ‘I have obtained my desire.’ (xxx) His choice of literary form in which to appear before the public had been shrewd; travel literature was probably the most popular genre of the day; hence Swift’s choice for the title of his most comprehensive satire, Gulliver’s Travels, four decades earlier. Scores of travel books were published — featuring Sicily and Malta, the Middle Settlements in North America, the Levant, several ‘Travels through France and Italy,’ and elsewhere. To take 1768 in isolation, the following works were published in that year alone when Boswell’s book hit the market: A New Universal Collection of Authentic and Entertaining Voyages and Travels; The Gentleman’s Guide in his Tour through France; Travels through Germany; Observations on the Religion, Laws, Government and Manners of the Turks; An Account of the Manners and Customs of Italy, as well as that splendid, gentle parody of the genre, Laurence Sterne’s Sentimental Journey through France and Italy by Mr Yorick. Boswell’s choice of title shows how careful he was to incorporate in his book all the features expected by an audience well versed in travel literature: An Account of Corsica, the Journal of a Tour to that Island, and Memoirs of Pascal Paoli. A potential reader could, therefore, expect information about the island’s geography, history, industry, administration and general culture — all coming from a man who had actually been there — and culminating with personal experience of and insights into the character of the illustrious Paoli. And that leads to a further kind of ambition — the desire for uniqueness — which was a compelling force with Boswell throughout his life. It showed itself in a number of ways, such as his determination to meet the supreme literary personage of London, Samuel Johnson and to become his closest friend and confidant; or to take Johnson, whose views on the Scots were notorious, on a tour of Scotland and the Hebrides; or to feed a fascination with the behaviour of people on ‘the dangerous edge of things’ (to borrow Browning’s phrase18) particularly criminals about to be executed, such as those he interviewed in Corsica. And, what concerns us here, Boswell was determined to be the authority, indeed the European authority, on perhaps the most celebrated, charismatic, political leader of the day: Pascal Paoli — in terms of international repute, a man to be compared to Nelson Mandela in our own day. I hesitate to make the comparison which may seem extravagant especially since Mandela’s fame is world-wide and Paoli’s only European, but on other grounds it is not indefensible: Mandela had been imprisoned, Paoli exiled; both effected a moral and political transformation of the community in which they lived; both were indelibly associated in the public mind with a struggle for freedom; they achieved a moral stature of near heroic proportions both inside and outside their own countries; indeed the term iconic is applicable to both men. Such a claim will be readily conceded in the case of Mandela, but what of Paoli? Let me quote his biographer, Peter Thrasher: Little wonder that Richard Palmer, prebendary of Canterbury, having entertained Boswell, declared in front of ‘his eldest son that he was glad he would have it [said] that he had taken by the hand the friend of the great Paoli.20 I referred earlier to Boswell’s literary artistry; it is time to justify the remark. From the outset he had a clear view of his twin, interrelated objectives: to celebrate and promote the ideal of freedom and to present the embodiment of that ideal in the heroic figure of Paoli. It is this clarity of purpose that gives the book its fundamental coherence and unity. Though the early chapters describe and discuss the island’s natural features and resources, its history, the present state of its ‘government, religion, commerce, learning, the genius and character of its inhabitants’ — which may not seem very promising material for the promotion of the ideal of freedom — they prove otherwise. These chapters are marked by a Baconian devotion to facts, they are nevertheless shot through with Boswell’s unifying theme. We discover and explore this unknown island, its physical features, the mores of its citizens and so on, through the author’s eyes: we see only what he saw and react as he did with pleasure or astonishment, admiration or incredulity; we grow with him in awareness; we are educated with him; and — since there is no alternative — we are invited throughout to accept his principles. Central to them is a commitment to liberty and it is instructive to see that in a wider historical context. Boswell published his book — which he called his ‘little monument to liberty’ (p. xviii) — four years after Benjamin Franklin visited London to argue for no taxation without parliamentary representation; within eight years of the American Declaration of Independence; and within 21 years of the French Revolution. His theme was, then, fully in tune with the dominant political mood of his age. It is proclaimed on the title-page itself through a Latin quotation from the Declaration of Arbroath in 1320, meaning: ‘Truly it is not on account of glory, or wealth or honour that we are fighting, but solely for that freedom which a virtuous man will sacrifice only with his life.’ The opening sentences of the Introduction reinforce the message: As the introduction proceeds it is evident that the ground rules are being laid down for the exploration on which we are embarked: We now know where we are heading: to discover such a state: Corsica, where ‘a brave and resolute nation...maintained a constant struggle against the oppression of the republick of Genoa.’ (38) Physical features of the island are evidence of the struggle: the towers of Capo Corso bear the marks of resistance to the enemy (54); the mountains themselves ‘inspire one with the genius of the place...that undaunted and inflexible spirit which will not bow to oppression’ (59). History adds further evidence: the Carthaginians — like the Genoese after them — pursued a ‘cowardly and barbarous policy’ which failed to break the islanders’ spirit (93); the Roman historian Livy testifies to their refusal to ‘bear subjection with patience’ (94); such resistance illustrates ‘the plain and fundamental principle, that the Corsicans are men, and have a right to liberty’ (102). If tyranny is sustained — Boswell continues — ‘nature will revolt, and the original rights of men will call for redress’ (103): this was over twenty years before Tom Paine’s Rights of Man and the French Revolution. In Corsica in 1729 a trivial example of tyranny ‘was sufficient to kindle the generous flame, in a people, who had so often glowed with the enthusiasm of liberty; and... the whole island was in motion.’ (122) Time and again Boswell returns to his theme during his exploration of Corsican history until the moment arrives that Paoli, in exile, takes leave of his father in Naples in a scene whose pathos recalls Esau and Jacob, or Joseph and Benjamin in the Old Testament (155) and he returns to the island ‘to the supreme command...called to it by the unanimous voice of his countrymen’ (156). Once Paoli returns to Corsica and in complete control, Boswell begins in earnest the process of building up, gradually and almost imperceptibly, Paoli’s character, principles and convictions in preparation for his own meeting with the General, the account of which occupies the final section of his book. We are shown how Paoli persuaded the Corsicans to accept the need to act in accordance with the laws; he reformed the system of government, established a university at Corte as well as schools for children, and stimulated the growth of agriculture. The notion of liberty is never far from sight. The drive to improve education, for instance, is ‘to bring the people of Corsica to such a state as it might be hoped their freedom would last, and be carried down pure and generous to posterity’ (222-3). No section of the community would have the power ‘to subvert the enlarged and free constitution which Paoli had formed’ (186) and thus foment ‘discord, and hatred, and assassinations’ as the Genoese had done in the past (187). ‘I look upon it,’ says Boswell, ‘as the best model that hath ever existed in the democratical form’ (189). The Corsicans’ defects are not hidden: they indulge in brutal forms of punishment; they ‘are extremely indolent. The women do the greatest part of the drudgery work, as is also the custom [the Scotsman adds] among the Scots Highlanders’ (244); and — in a passage wisely deleted in manuscript — ‘The Corsican women are for most part ill-looked which may be in some measure owing to their coarse usage. I am sorry to make this observation on the Corsican women but it is a true one. And it was pleasantly enough said by Lord Loudoun that it was a pity such brave fellows as the Corsicans should not have pretty women.’21 Nevertheless, — these weaknesses apart — the overriding impression left by Boswell’s exploration of the geography, history, political structure, educational system and so on, of Corsica, may be gauged from his pleasure in viewing This, with its central concern for freedom — which has threaded its way through the previous three chapters — is what we take into the final section of the book: the Journal of Boswell’s visit to the island and his meeting with Paoli himself. The opening paragraph of the Journal at once picks up the theme and provides the context in which we are required to view the whole tour: to see This is our angle of vision, as well as the author’s; it is maintained to the end of the book; it is inextricably bound up with the character and achievements of Paoli; and, like the eminent Greek biographer, Plutarch, Boswell clearly believed in the moral influence which can be exerted by the example of a great man. His Journal is the record of his own moral education through proximity to Paoli. When he takes his leave of the Corsican General he writes: The extent to which we are convinced of the truth of this claim — and vicariously share it ourselves — wholly depends on Boswell’s literary skills. They are evident from the first pages of his Journal. At the outset he shrewdly adduces the authority of one of the most renowned among European contemporaries, Rousseau, whose letter, printed in both French and English, assures him of Paoli’s nobility of character. Then Boswell deploys a series of personal experiences that cumulatively explain the benign frame of mind in which he arrives on the island. On board ship from Leghorn to Capo Corso, for instance, he meets some native Corsicans who ‘thought it was proper to give a moral lesson to a young traveller’ warning Boswell (who records this doubtless with a wry smile) that ‘if [he] attempted to debauch any of their women [he] might expect instant death’ (295); everyone he meets on landing is hospitable and he is surprised by their cultured mode of life. His — and our — education has been resumed. Men of the world, he decides, could learn the same ‘serenity and peace of mind’ as he experienced from staying in a convent (302); he discovered that no Corsican would accept the shameful office of hangman — a Sicilian was hired for the purpose (308-9); and, in a delightful vignette redolent with integrity and humility, Boswell relates that when he visited the house of the Great Chancellor to obtain a seal on his passport, the Chancellor ‘desired a little boy who was playing in the room…to run to his mother and bring the great seal of the kingdom. I thought myself sitting in the house of a Cincinnatus’ (310) — the very mention of whom would, for his readers, recall the noble example of an illustrious but self-effacing figure from the Roman republic. As he gets closer to Sollacarò where he is to meet Paoli, Boswell is moved by popular expressions of devotion to him (313); he is also apprehensive because of the widespread view of the General ‘as something above humanity’ (314). So anxious is he that ‘[he] almost wished to go back without seeing him’ (314). The tension thus created paves the way appropriately for their first meeting. Boswell is initially struck by Paoli’s appearance: ‘tall, strong and well made...a sensible, free, and open countenance, and a manly and noble carriage...polite but very reserved’ (315). ‘I had stood in the presence of many a prince, but I never had such a trial as in the presence of Paoli’ (315). He felt under severe scrutiny: ‘he looked at me with a stedfast, keen and penetrating eye, as if he searched my very soul’ (316). When, a little later, Boswell remarks ‘I no longer anxiously thought of myself’, we recognise that self-concern is precisely what we have been sharing with him: how would he — perhaps how would we — measure up in the presence of this heroic personage? Once this egocentricity has been admitted Boswell can give his ‘whole attention…to the illustrious commander of [the] nation’ (317); his moral education can be resumed. He confesses to pride in being shown special favours by Paoli such as being allowed to ride the General’s horse and being ‘attended by a party of guards’ (318). Then — like Plutarch — he acknowledges an obligation to his readers to record ‘the memoirs and remarkable sayings’ of his subject; it is from these that they and he will derive permanent benefit. In his portrait of Paoli Boswell presents us with an example of wide learning, patience, humility, the modesty that accompanies greatness, piety, patriotic zeal, and the kind of heroic virtue implicit in his comment about Paoli: ‘His own great qualities appeared to unusual advantage, while he described the virtues of those for whose happiness his whole life was employed’ (332). Boswell’s summary of the benefit he had personally obtained is as cogent as it is vivid: There could be no clearer affirmation of the maturing process he had undergone. From this point to the end of his book Boswell accumulates illustrations of what enriched that process of contemplation: Paoli’s remarkable memory like that of Themistocles (353); his knowledge of classical literature (354); his confidence of divine intervention on the side of the oppressed (355); his humane use of legal means to outlaw the barbarous practice of vendetta (358); his ‘perfect ease of behaviour’ which made him approachable without loss of authority (364); his conviction that ‘the greatest happiness was not in glory, but in goodness’ (370); the very fact that Paoli relies on dogs to protect him during hours of darkness reminds Boswell of heroes of antiquity like Homer’s Telemachus in the Odyssey who was attended by two faithful dogs (365). Little wonder, then, that when in Corsica Boswell was made ‘thoroughly sensible of [his] own defects...I felt how small were my abilities and how little I knew’ (370). This not only confirms his moral growth but also invites his readers to share it. The literary artistry manifest in Boswell’s Account of Corsica has many aspects; some I have discussed, others scarcely at all, such as: his relaxed, lucid style; his subtle use of conversational interchanges between different classes of people, ordinary sailors just as readily as between more august personages; his scholarly references to classical as well as contemporary authorities; his insights into the character of a multitude of persons encountered on his journey — and so on. Taken altogether they enable one to describe the Account of Corsica as offering an early foretaste of the distinguished achievement twenty-three years later in Boswell’s renowned biography of Johnson; that, too, chronicles his development under the influence of a great moralist. In the earlier work he laments that two such illustrious men as Paoli and Johnson had never met: ‘What an idea may we not form of an interview between such a scholar and philosopher as Mr Johnson, and such a legislatour and general as Paoli!’ (356). Imagine the delight, therefore, when Boswell managed to engineer a meeting between them little more than a year later, in 1769. As he expressed it in his journal: ‘I compared myself to an isthmus which joins two great continents.’22 It is a brilliant image which not only records his triumph but also suggests the humility he had learned from both men. In a fine concluding paragraph Boswell invokes the authority of William Pitt whom Paoli compared to the great Athenian statesman and military commander, Pericles. Pitt declared: ‘It may be said of Paoli, as the Cardinal de Retz said of the great Montrose, "He is one of those men who are no longer to be found but in the Lives of Plutarch".’In the eyes of an educated 18th century audience, there was scarcely a higher compliment that could be paid. For readers of the Account of Corsica, however, the Paoli they encountered was Boswell’s creation.
1 The text of a public lecture given in the University of Birmingham on 24 May 2005 to mark the 21st anniversary of the founding of the Institute for Advanced Research in Arts and Social Sciences. 2 Op. cit, (1762), II. x. 3 Pasquale Paoli (1725-1807); b. Morosaglia n.e. Corsica; exiled in Naples, 1739-55; returned to Corsica in 1755, elected General of the Corsicans; established a constitution, opened a university, etc, ruled the island until the Genoese with French assistance forced Paoli into exile, in London, in 1769; he returned to Corsica as President, 1790-95; exiled again to London where he died. 4 Scholars now doubt Seneca’s authorship. 5 European Magazine and London Review (May 1791), p. xxxv. 6 F. A. Pottle, The Literary Career of James Boswell (Oxford, 1929), p. 62. 7 The Correspondence of James Boswell and William Johnson Temple, ed. Thomas Crawford (Edinburgh, 1997), i. 245. 8 Boswell in Search of a Wife, ed. F. Brady and F. A. Pottle (1957), pp. 146-7. 9 The Journal of John Wesley, ed. N. Curnock [n.d.], v. 292-3….Boswell: The English Experiment, ed. I. S. Lustig and F. A. Pottle (New York, 1986), p. 148. 10 The Writings and Speeches of Edmund Burke, ed. P. Langford (Oxford, 1981), ii. 98. 11 MS entitled ‘An Account of Corsica’ in the Boswell Papers, the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University Library, p. 194. 12 F. A. Pottle, James Boswell, The Earlier Years (1966), p. 395. 13 Boswell in Search of a Wife, p. 301. 14 Boswell for the Defence, ed. W. K. Wimsatt and F. A. Pottle (1960), pp. 66-7. 15 See F. Beretti, Pascal Paoli et l’image de la Corse au dix-huitième siècle: le témoignage des voyageurs britanniques (Oxford, 1988), p. 11. 16 Ibid, p. 34 n. 78.
are shown in brackets in the text. 18 Robert Browning, ‘Bishop Blougram’s Apology’ (1855), 1. 395. 19 P. A. Thrasher, Pasquale Paoli: An Enlightened Hero (1970), pp. 97-8. 20 Boswell in Search of a Wife, pp. 284-5. 21 MS p. 221. John Campbell (1705-82), 4th Earl of Loudoun, was a near neighbour of the Boswells in Ayrshire. 22 Boswell in Search of a Wife, p. 334.
Professor James T. Boulton, BA Durham, BLitt Oxford, PhD Nottingham, Hon DLitt Durham & Nottingham, FBA, FRSL, is Deputy Director of the Institute for Advanced Research in Arts and Social Sciences at the University of Birmingham. From 1975-88, he was Head of the Department of English Language and Literature in the same university and, before that, Professor of English Literature in the University of Nottingham. His extensive publications, both as editor and author, were for many years chiefly concerned with the eighteenth century. He is the author of The Language of Politics in the Age of Wilkes and Burke (1963), and editor of Samuel Johnson: The Critical Heritage (1971). In recent years, he has been editing the letters of D.H. Lawrence, but continues his interest in the eighteenth century and is a member of The Johnson Society.
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The Johnson Society, The Birthplace Museum, Breadmarket
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