And while thus poignantly he was disturbed by this conflict, his
daughter became accidentally informed of plans that were in secret
agitation to goad his resolves. Mr. Boswell, about this time, guided
by M. de Gaiffardiere, crossed and intercepted her passage, one Sunday
morning, from the Windsor cathedral to the Queen’s lodge.
Mr. Boswell had visited Windsor to solicit the King’s leave, which
graciously had been granted, for publishing Dr. Johnson’s dialogue with
his Majesty.
Almost forcibly stopping her in her path, though making her an
obsequious, or rather a theatrical, bow, “I am happy,” he cried, “to
find you, Madam, for I was told you were lost! closed in the unscalable
walls of a royal convent. But let me tell you, Madam!” assuming his
highest tone of mock-heroic, “it won’t do! You must come forth, Madam!
You must abscond from your princely monastery, and come forth! You were
not born to be immured, like a tabby cat, Madam, in yon august cell! We
want you in the world. And we are told you are very ill. But we can’t
spare you.—Besides, Madam, I want your Johnson’s letters for my book!”
Then, stopping at once himself and his hearer, by spreading abroad both
his arms, in starting suddenly before her, he energetically added, “FOR
THE BOOK, Madam! the first book in the universe!”
Swelling, then, with internal gratulation, yet involuntarily
half-laughing, from good-humouredly catching the infection of
the impulse which his unrestrained self-complacency excited in
his listener, he significantly paused; but the next minute, with
double emphasis, and strong, even comic gesticulation, he went on:
“I have every thing else! every thing that can be named, of every
sort, and class, and description, to show the great man in all his
bearings!—every thing,—except his letters to you! But I have nothing
of that kind. I look for it all from you! It is necessary to complete
my portrait. It will be the First Book in the whole universe, Madam!
There’s nothing like it—” again half-laughing, yet speaking more and
more forcibly; “There never was,—and there never will be!—So give me
your letters, and I’ll place them with the hand of a master!”
She made some sportive reply, to hurry away from his urgency; but he
pursued her quite to the Lodge; acting the whole way so as to make
gazers of all whom they encountered, and a laughing observer of M.
de Gaiffardiere. “You must come forth, Madam!” he vociferated; “this
monastic life won’t do. You must come forth! We are resolved to a
man,—we, The Club, Madam! ay, THE CLUB, Madam! are resolved
to a man, that Dr. Burney shall have no rest—poor gentleman!—till he
scale the walls of your august convent, to burn your veil, and carry
you off.”
At the iron gate opening into the lawn, not daring to force his
uninvited steps any farther, he seriously and formally again stopped
her, and, with a look and voice that indicated—don’t imagine I am
trifling!—solemnly confirmed to her a rumour which already had reached
her ears, that Mr. Windham, whom she knew to be foremost in this
chivalrous cabal against the patience of Dr. Burney, was modelling
a plan for inducing the members of the Literary Club to address a
round-robin to the Doctor, to recall his daughter to the world.
“And the whole matter was puissantly discussed,” added Mr. Boswell,
“at THE CLUB, Madam, at the last meeting—Charles Fox in the
chair.”
The alarm of this intimation sufficed, however, to save the Doctor from
so disconcerting an honour; for the next time that the invalid, who,
though palpably waning away, was seldom confined to the house, went to
Westminster Hall during the trial of Mr. Hastings, and was joined by
Mr. Windham, she entreated that liberal friend to relinquish his too
kind purpose; assuring him that such a violent measure was unnecessary,
since all, however slowly, was progressive towards her making the essay
so kindly desired for her health, of change of air and life.
Mr. Windham, at first, persisted that nothing short of a round-robin
would decisively re-urge Dr. Burney to his “almost blunted purpose.”
But when, with equal truth and gratitude, she seriously told him
that his own personal influence had already, in this most intricate
difficulty, been persuasively powerful, he exclaimed, with his ever
animated elegance, “Then I have not lived in vain!” and acquiesced.