_25th Nov. 1784._—Our dear father lent me the carriage this morning
for Bolt Court. You will easily conceive how gladly I seized the
opportunity for making a longer visit than usual to my revered Dr.
Johnson, whose health, since his return from Litchfield, has been
deplorably deteriorated.
He was alone, and I had a more satisfactory and entertaining
conversation with him than I have had for many months past. He was
in better spirits, too, than I have seen him, except upon our first
meeting, since he came back to Bolt Court.
He owned, nevertheless, that his nights were grievously restless and
painful; and told me that he was going, by medical advice, to try what
sleeping out of town might do for him. And then, with a smile, but a
smile of more sadness than mirth!—he added: “I remember that my wife,
when she was near her end, poor woman!—was also advised to sleep out
of town: and when she was carried to the lodging that had been prepared
for her, she complained that the staircase was in very bad condition;
for the plaister was beaten off the walls in many places. ‘O!’ said the
man of the house, ‘that’s nothing; it’s only the knocks against it of
the coffins of the poor souls that have died in the lodging.’”
He forced a faint laugh at the man’s brutal honesty; but it was a laugh
of ill-disguised, though checked, secret anguish.
I felt inexpressibly shocked, both by the perspective and retrospective
view of this relation: but, desirous to confine my words to the literal
story, I only exclaimed against the man’s unfeeling _absurdity_ in
making so unnecessary a confession.
“True!” he cried; “such a confession, to a person then mounting his
stairs for the recovery of her health—or, rather, for the preservation
of her life, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our
account to.”
We talked then of poor Mrs. Thrale—but only for a moment—for I saw
him so greatly moved, and with such severity of displeasure, that I
hastened to start another subject; and he solemnly enjoined me to
mention that no more!
I gave him concisely the history of the Bristol milk-woman, who is at
present zealously patronized by the benevolent Hannah More. I expressed
my surprise at the reports generally in circulation, that the first
authors that the milk-woman read, if not the only ones, were Milton
and Young. “I find it difficult,” I added, “to conceive how Milton
and Young could be the first authors with any reader. Could a child
understand them? And grown persons, who have never read, are, in
literature, children still.”
“Doubtless,” he answered. “But there is nothing so little comprehended
as what is Genius. They give it to all, when it can be but a part.
The milk-woman had surely begun with some ballad—Chevy Chace or the
Children in the Wood. Genius is, in fact, _knowing the use of tools_.
But there must be tools, or how use them? A man who has spent all his
life in this room, will give a very poor account of what is contained
in the next.”
“Certainly, sir; and yet there is such a thing as invention?
Shakespeare could never have seen a Caliban?”
“No; but he had seen a man, and knew how to vary him to a monster. A
person, who would draw a monstrous cow, must know first what a cow
is commonly; or how can he tell that to give her an ass’s head, or
an elephant’s tusk, will make her monstrous? Suppose you show me a
man, who is a very expert carpenter, and that an admiring stander-by,
looking at some of his works, exclaims: ‘O! He was born a carpenter!’
What would have become of that birth-right, if he had never seen any
wood?”
Presently, dwelling on this idea, he went on. “Let two men, one with
genius, the other with none, look together at an overturned waggon; he
who has no genius will think of the waggon only as he then sees it;
that is to say, overturned, and walk on: he who has genius will give
it a glance of examination, that will paint it to his imagination such
as it was previously to its being overturned; and when it was standing
still; and when it was in motion; and when it was heavy loaded; and
when it was empty: but both alike must see the waggon to think of it at
all.”
The pleasure with which I listened to his illustration now animated
him on; and he talked upon this milk-woman, and upon a once as
famous shoe-maker; and then mounted his spirits and his subject to
our immortal Shakespeare; flowing and glowing on, with as much wit
and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him
display; but, alack-a-day, my Susan, I have no power to give you the
participation so justly your due. My paper is filling; and I have
no franks for doubling letters across the channel! But delightfully
bright are his faculties, though the poor, infirm, shaken machine that
contains them seems alarmingly giving way! And soon, exhilarated as he
became by the pleasure of bestowing pleasure, I saw a palpable increase
of suffering in the midst of his sallies; I offered, therefore, to
go into the next room, there to wait for the carriage; an offer
which, for the first time! he did not oppose; but taking, and most
affectionately pressing, both my hands, “Be not,” he said, in a voice
of even melting kindness and concern, “be not longer in coming again
for my letting you go now!”
I eagerly assured him I would come the sooner, and was running off;
but he called me back, and in a solemn voice, and a manner the most
energetic, said: “Remember me in your prayers!”
How affecting, my dearest Susanna, such an injunction from Dr.
Johnson! It almost—as once before—made me tremble, from surprise and
emotion—surprise he could so honour me, and emotion that he should
think himself so ill. I longed to ask him so to remember _me_! but he
was too serious for any parleying, and I knew him too well for offering
any disqualifying speeches: I merely, in a low voice, and, I am sure,
a troubled accent, uttered an instant, and heart-felt assurance of
obedience; and then, very heavily, indeed, in spirits, I left him.
Great, good, and surpassing that he is, how short a time will he be our
boast! I see he is going. This winter will never glide him on to a more
genial season here. Elsewhere, who may hope a fairer? I now wish I had
asked for _his_ prayers! and perhaps, so encouraged, I ought: but I
had not the presence of mind.
* * * * *
Melancholy was the rest of this year to Dr. Burney; and truly mournful
to his daughter, who, from this last recorded meeting, felt redoubled
anxiety both for the health and the sight of this illustrious invalid.
But all accounts thenceforward discouraged her return to him, his
pains daily becoming greater, and his weakness more oppressive: added
to which obstacles, he was now, she was informed, almost constantly
attended by a group of male friends.
Dr. Burney, however, resorted to Bolt Court every moment that he could
tear from the imperious calls of his profession; and was instantly
admitted; unless held back by insuperable impediments belonging to the
malady. He might, indeed, from the kind regard of the sufferer, have
seen him every day, by watching, like some other assiduous friends,
particularly Messrs. Langton, Strahan, the Hooles, and Sastres, whole
hours in the house to catch a favourable minute; but that, for Dr.
Burney, was utterly impossible. His affectionate devoirs could only be
received when he arrived at some interval of ease; and then the kind
invalid constantly, and with tender pleasure gave him welcome.
The Memorialist was soon afterwards engaged on a visit to Norbury Park;
but immediately upon her return to town, presented herself, according
to her willing promise, at Bolt Court.
Frank Barber, the faithful negro, told her, with great sorrow, that
his master was very bad indeed, though he did not keep his bed. The
poor man would have shewn her up stairs. This she declined, desiring
only that he would let the Doctor know that she had called to pay her
respects to him, but would by no means disturb him, if he were not well
enough to see her without inconvenience.
Mr. Straghan, the clergyman, was with him, Frank said, alone; and Mr.
Straghan, in a few minutes, descended.
Dr. Johnson, he told her, was very ill indeed, but very much obliged to
her for coming to him; and he had sent Mr. Straghan to thank her in his
name, but to say that he was so very bad, and very weak, that he hoped
she would excuse his not seeing her.
She was greatly disappointed; but, leaving a message of the most
affectionate respect, acquiesced, and drove away; painfully certain how
extremely ill, or how sorrowfully low he must be, to decline the sight
of one whom so constantly, so partially, he had pressed, nay, adjured,
“to come to him again and again.”
Fast, however, was approaching the time when he could so adjure her no
more!
From her firm conviction of his almost boundless kindness to her,
she was fearful now to importune or distress him, and forbore, for
the moment, repeating her visits; leaving in Dr. Burney’s hands all
propositions for their renewal. But Dr. Burney himself, not arriving at
the propitious interval, unfortunately lost sight of the sufferer for
nearly a week, though he sought it almost daily.
On Friday, the 10th of December, Mr. Seward brought to Dr. Burney the
alarming intelligence from Frank Barber, that Dr. Warren had seen his
master, and told him that he might take what opium he pleased for the
alleviation of his pains.
Dr. Johnson instantly understood, and impressively thanked him, and
then gravely took a last leave of him: after which, with the utmost
kindness, as well as composure, he formally bid adieu to all his
physicians.
Dr. Burney, in much affliction, hurried to Bolt Court; but the invalid
seemed to be sleeping, and could not be spoken to till he should open
his eyes. Mr. Straghan, the clergyman, gave, however, the welcome
information, that the terror of death had now passed away; and that
this excellent man no longer looked forward with dismay to his quick
approaching end; but, on the contrary, with what he himself called the
irradiation of hope.
This was, indeed, the greatest of consolations, at so awful a crisis,
to his grieving friend; nevertheless, Dr. Burney was deeply depressed
at the heavy and irreparable loss he was so soon to sustain; but he
determined to make, at least, one more effort for a parting sight of
his so long-honoured friend. And, on Saturday, the 11th December, to
his unspeakable comfort, he arrived at Bolt Court just as the poor
invalid was able to be visible; and he was immediately admitted.
Dr. Burney found him seated on a great chair, propt up by pillows,
and perfectly tranquil. He affectionately took the Doctor’s hand,
and kindly inquired after his health, and that of his family; and
then, as evermore Dr. Johnson was wont to do, he separately and very
particularly named and dwelt upon the Doctor’s second daughter; gently
adding, “I hope Fanny did not take it amiss, that I did not see her
that morning?—I was very bad indeed!”
Dr. Burney answered, that the word _amiss_ could never be apropos to
her; and least of all now, when he was so ill.
The Doctor ventured to stay about half an hour, which was partly
spent in quiet discourse, partly in calm silence; the invalid always
perfectly placid in looks and manner.
When the Doctor was retiring, Dr. Johnson again took his hand and
encouraged him to call yet another time; and afterwards, when again he
was departing, Dr. Johnson impressively said, though in a low voice,
“Tell Fanny—to pray for me!” And then, still holding, or rather
grasping, his hand, he made a prayer for himself, the most pious,
humble, eloquent, and touching, Dr. Burney said, that mortal man could
compose and utter. He concluded it with an amen! in which Dr. Burney
fervently joined; and which was spontaneously echoed by all who were
present.
This over, he brightened up, as if with revived spirits, and opened
cheerfully into some general conversation; and when Dr. Burney, yet a
third time, was taking his reluctant leave, something of his old arch
look played upon his countenance as, smilingly he said, “Tell Fanny—I
think I shall yet throw the ball at her again!”
A kindness so lively, following an injunction so penetrating,
re-animated a hope of admission in the Memorialist; and, after church,
on the ensuing morning, Sunday, the 12th of December, with the fullest
approbation of Dr. Burney, she repaired once more to Bolt Court.
But grievously was she overset on hearing, at the door, that the Doctor
again was worse, and could receive no one.
She summoned Frank Barber, and told him she had understood, from her
father, that Dr. Johnson had meant to see her. Frank then, but in
silence, conducted her to the parlour. She begged him merely to mention
to the Doctor, that she had called with most earnest inquiries; but not
to hint at any expectation of seeing him till he should be better.
Frank went up stairs; but did not return. A full hour was consumed in
anxious waiting. She then saw Mr. Langton pass the parlour door, which
she watchfully kept open, and ascend the stairs. She had not courage to
stop or speak to him, and another hour lingered on in the same suspense.
But, at about four o’clock, Mr. Langton made his appearance in the
parlour.
She took it for granted he came accidentally, but observed that, though
he bowed, he forbore to speak; or even to look at her, and seemed in
much disturbance.
Extremely alarmed, she durst not venture at any question; but Mrs.
Davis,[1] who was there, uneasily asked, “How is Dr. Johnson now, Sir?”
“Going on to death very fast!” was the mournful reply.
The Memorialist, grievously shocked and overset by so hopeless a
sentence, after an invitation so sprightly of only the preceding
evening from the dying man himself, turned to the window to recover
from so painful a disappointment.
“Has he taken any thing, Sir?” said Mrs. Davis.
“Nothing at all! We carried him some bread and milk; he refused it, and
said, ‘The less the better!’”
Mrs. Davis then asked sundry other questions, from the answers to which
it fully appeared that his faculties were perfect, and that his mind
was quite composed.
This conversation lasted about a quarter of an hour, before the
Memorialist had any suspicion that Mr. Langton had entered the parlour
purposely to speak to her, and with a message from Dr. Johnson:
But as soon as she could summon sufficient firmness to turn round, Mr.
Langton solemnly said, “This poor man, I understand, Ma’am, from Frank,
desired yesterday to see you.”
“My understanding, or hoping that, Sir, brought me hither to-day.”
“Poor man! ’tis a pity he did not know himself better; and that you
should not have been spared this trouble.”
“Trouble?” she repeated; “I would come an hundred times to see Dr.
Johnson the hundredth and first!”
“He begged me, Ma’am, to tell you that he hopes you will excuse him. He
is very sorry, indeed, not to see you. But he desired me to come and
speak to you for him myself, and to tell you, that he hopes you will
excuse him; for he feels himself too weak for such an interview.”
Struck and touched to the very heart by so kind, though sorrowful a
message, at a moment that seemed so awful, the Memorialist hastily
expressed something like thanks to Mr. Langton, who was visibly
affected, and, leaving her most affectionate respects, with every
warmly kind wish she could half utter, she hurried back to her father’s
coach.
The very next day, Monday, the 13th of December, Dr. Johnson
expired—and without a groan. Expired, it is thought, in his sleep.
He was buried in Westminster Abbey; and a noble, almost colossal statue
of him, in the high and chaste workmanship of Bacon, has been erected
in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
The pall-bearers were Mr. Burke, Mr. Windham, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr.
Colman, Sir Charles Bunbury, and Mr. Langton.
Dr. Burney, with all who were in London of the Literary Club, attended
the funeral. The Reverend Dr. Charles Burney also joined the procession.
1785.
This year, happily for Dr. Burney, re-opened with a new professional
interest, that necessarily called him from the tributary sorrow with
which the year 1784 had closed.
The engravings for the Commemoration of Handel were now finished; and
a splendid copy of the work was prepared for the King. Lord Sandwich,
as one of the chief Directors of the late festival, obligingly offered
his services for taking the Doctor under his wing to present the book
at the levee; but his Majesty gave Dr. Burney to understand, through
Mr. Nicolai, that he would receive it, at a private audience, in his
library.
This was an honour most gratifying to Dr. Burney, who returned from
his interview at the palace, in an elevation of pleasure that he
communicated to his family, with the social confidence that made the
charm of his domestic character.
* * * * *