The art of joining squares of glass with lead is little used in Scotland, and in some places totally forgotten. The frames of their windows are all of wood. They are more frugal of their glass than the English, and will often, in houses not otherwise mean, compose a square of two pieces, not joining like cracked glass, but with one edge laid perhaps half an inch over the other. Their windows do not move upon hinges, but are pushed up and drawn down in grooves, yet they are seldom accommodated with weights and pullies. He that would have his window open must hold it with his hand, unless what may be sometimes found among good contrivers, there be a nail which he may stick into a hole, to keep it from falling.

I tremble a little before writing about Samuel Johnson. I cannot claim to illuminate his prose, but I will attempt to express the things I like about this little passage concerning Scottish windows (and the paragraphs that follow it) in A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, Dr. Johnson’s rather intimidating version of “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”

Dr. Johnson describes what’s not present as much as what is. The technique distinguishes a wise observer from one who is merely keen. The window pieces were not joining like cracked glass, the windows do not move upon hinges, and are seldom accommodated with weights and pullies. An experience is made equally of expectation and observation, and Johnson captures them both. Does this make Johnson a cultural imperialist, imposing his own standards and notions of window-ness upon a foreign people? Why, yes, actually. His Journey is filled with comparisons between England and Scotland, usually to the humiliation of the latter. I am guilty for laughing with him. The last sentence of the paragraph above was the funniest thing I read all week; I love the image of a man holding open a window to keep cool, and then the phrase “good contrivers” almost killed me. (The humor, of course, is that the “good contrivers” in England were a sight more clever.)

What I like about Johnson’s prose is that it is laden with both morality and understated wit, even in the mundanest details. What I love about it is that he cannot stay focused on these details for long, because his mind is busy understanding the generality at stake. That ability — perhaps I should say tendency or even constancy — to discern a large truth in detail endows Johnson’s prose with a gravity that I regard as greatness. He continues on the subject of Scottish windows:

What cannot be done without some uncommon trouble or particular expedient, will not often be done at all.

(Let me interrupt briefly to say how much I like that sentence. It is simple truth that needs no evidence, explanation, or citation, presented in a way that asserts: if you understand the semantics, you agree with the statement. The sentence could have been written by God Himself.)

The incommodiousness of the Scotch windows keeps them very closely shut. The necessity of ventilating human habitations has not yet been found by our northern neighbours; and even in houses well built and elegantly furnished, a stranger may be sometimes forgiven, if he allows himself to wish for fresher air.

Johnson simply cannot contemplate his subject without giving thought to both generality (What cannot be done…) and morality (a stranger may be sometimes forgiven…). I would that all writing about windows, pies, pets, and wildlife did not shy from such noble thoughts. I would that such writing had Johnson’s good manners, too: if he allows himself to wish for fresher air. Here is a man equally in control of his words and his desires. It’s like reading the prose of Jupiter, or King Solomon.

In fact, Johnson can’t even think about Scottish windows without thinking about the nature of writing about small things. His thoughts finally collect into quite a nice passage about writing, rich in images, long on truth. I refuse to injure the Doctor by taking the last word here for myself, so you must contemplate the paragraph on your own. The chapter on windows in Bamff terminates thus:

These diminutive observations seem to take away something from the dignity of writing, and therefore are never communicated but with hesitation, and a little fear of abasement and contempt. But it must be remembered, that life consists not of a serious of illustrious actions, or elegant enjoyments; the greater part of our time passes in compliance with necessities, in the performance of daily duties, in the removal of small inconveniences, in the procurement of petty pleasures; and we are well or ill at ease, as the main stream of life glides on smoothly, or is ruffled by small obstacles and frequent interruption. The true state of every nation is the state of common life. The manners of a people are not to be found in the schools of learning, or the palaces of greatness, where the national character is obscured or obliterated by travel or instruction, by philosophy or vanity; nor is public happiness to be estimated by the assemblies of the gay, or the banquets of the rich. The great mass of nations is neither rich nor gay: they whose aggregate constitutes the people, are found in the streets, and the villages, in the shops and farms; and from them collectively considered, must the measure of general prosperity be taken. As they approach to delicacy a nation is refined, as their conveniences are multiplied, a nation, at least a commercial nation, must be denominated wealthy.

Further reading: A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland (Samuel Johnson)