there is nobody here who wishes to think with or about me, so I am
very sick and a little sullen, and disposed now and then to say, like
king David, 'My lovers and my friends have been put away from me, and
my acquaintance hid out of my sight.' If the last letter I wrote
showed some degree of placid acquiescence in a situation, which,
however displeasing, is the best I can get at just now, I pray God to
keep me in that disposition, and to lay no more calamity upon me
which may again tempt me to murmur and complain. _In the meantime
assure yourself of my undiminished kindness and veneration: they have
been long out of accident's power either to lessen or increase."_....
"That _you_ should be solitary is a sad thing, and a strange one too,
when every body is willing to drop in, and for a quarter of an hour
at least, save you from a _tête-à-tête_ with yourself. I never could
catch a moment when you were alone whilst we were in London, and Miss
Thrale says the same thing."
A few days afterwards, June 19th, he writes:
"I am sitting down in no cheerful solitude to write a narrative which
would once have affected you with tenderness and sorrow, but which
you will perhaps pass over now with the careless glance of frigid
indifference. For this diminution of regard, however, I know not
whether I ought to blame you, who may have reasons which I cannot
know, and I do not blame myself, who have for a great part of human
life done you what good I could, and have never done you evil."
Two days before, he had suffered a paralytic stroke, and lost the
power of speech for a period. After minutely detailing his ailments
and their treatment by his medical advisers, he proceeds:
"How this will be received by you I know not. I hope you will
sympathise with me; but perhaps
"My mistress gracious, mild, and good,
Cries! Is he dumb? 'Tis time he should.
"But can this be possible? I hope it cannot. I hope that what, when I
could speak, I spoke of you, and to you, will be in a sober and
serious hour remembered by you; and surely it cannot be remembered
but with some degree of kindness. I have loved you with virtuous
affection; I have honoured you with sincere esteem. Let not all our
endearments be forgotten, but let me have in this great distress your
pity and your prayers. _You see, I yet turn to you with my complaints
as a settled and unalienable friend_; do not, do not drive me from
you, for I have not deserved either neglect or hatred.
"O God! give me comfort and confidence in Thee; forgive my sins; and
if it be thy good pleasure, relieve my diseases for Jesus Christ's
sake. Amen.
_"I am almost ashamed of this querulous letter, but now it is
written, let it go."_
The Edinburgh reviewer quotes the first paragraph of this letter to
prove Johnson's consciousness of change on her side, and omits all
mention of the passages in which he turns to her as "a settled and
unalienable friend," and apologises for his querulousness!
Some time before (November 1782), she had written to him:
"My health is growing very bad, to be sure. I will starve still more
rigidly for a while, and watch myself carefully; but more than six
months will I not bestow upon that subject; you shall not have in me
a valetudinary correspondent, _who is always writing such letters,
that to read the labels tied on bottles by an apothecary's boy would
be more eligible and amusing_; nor will I live, like Flavia in 'Law's
Serious Call,' who spends half her time and money on herself, with
sleeping draughts, and waking draughts, and cordials and broths. My
desire is always to determine against my own gratification, so far as
shall be possible for my body to co-operate with my mind, and you
will not suspect me of wearing blisters, and living wholly upon
vegetables for sport. If that will do, the disorder may be removed;
but if health is gone, and gone for ever, we will act as Zachary
Pearce the famous bishop of Rochester did, when he lost the wife he
loved so--call for one glass to the health of her who is departed,
never more to return--and so go quietly back to the usual duties of
life, and forbear to mention her again from that time till the last
day of it."
Instead of acting on the same principle, he perseveres in addressing
his "ideal Urania" as if she had been a consulting physician:
"London, June 20th, 1783.
"DEAREST MADAM,--I think to send you for some time a regular diary.
You will forgive the gross images which disease must necessarily
present. Dr. Lawrence said that medical treatises should be always in
Latin. The two vesicatories did not perform well," &c. &c.
"June 23, 1783.
"_Your offer, dear Madam, of coming to me, is charmingly kind_; but I
will lay it up for future use, and then let it not be considered as
obsolete; _a time of dereliction may come, when I may have hardly any
other friend_, but in the present exigency I cannot name one who has
been deficient in civility or attention. What man can do for man has
been done for me. Write to me very often."
That the offer was serious and heartfelt, is clear from "Thraliana":
"_Bath, June 24th_, 1783.--A stroke of the palsy has robbed Johnson
of his speech, I hear. Dreadful event! and I at a distance. Poor
fellow! A letter from himself, _in his usual style_, convinces me
that none of his faculties have failed, and his physicians say that
all present danger is over."
He writes:
"June 24th, 1783.
"Both Queeny's letter and yours gave me, to-day, great pleasure.
Think as well and as kindly of me as you can, but do not flatter me.
Cool reciprocations of esteem are the great comforts of life;
hyberbolical praise only corrupts the tongue of the one, and the ear
of the other."
"June 28th, 1783.
"Your letter is just such as I desire, and as from you I hope always
to deserve."
Her own state of mind at this time may be collected from "Thraliana":
"_June, _1783.--Most sincerely do I regret the sacrifice I have made
of health, happiness, and the society of a worthy and amiable
companion, to the pride and prejudice of three insensible girls, who
would see nature perish without concern ... were their gratification
the cause.
"The two youngest have, for ought I see, hearts as impenetrable as
their sister. They will all starve a favourite animal--all see with
unconcern the afflictions of a friend; and when the anguish I
suffered on their account last winter, in Argyll Street, nearly took
away my life and reason, the younger ridiculed as a jest those
agonies which the eldest despised as a philosopher. When all is said,
they are exceeding valuable girls--beautiful in person, cultivated in
understanding, and well-principled in religion: high in their
notions, lofty in their carriage, and of intents equal to their
expectations; wishing to raise their own family by connections with
some more noble ... and superior to any feeling of tenderness which
might clog the wheels of ambition. What, however, is my state? who am
condemned to live with girls of this disposition? to teach without
authority; to be heard without esteem; to be considered by them as
their superior in fortune, while I live by the money borrowed from
them; and in good sense, when they have seen me submit my judgment to
theirs at the hazard of my life and wits. Oh, 'tis a pleasant
situation! and whoever would wish, as the Greek lady phrased it, to
teize himself and repent of his sins, let him borrow his children's
money, be in love against their interest and prejudice, forbear to
marry by their advice, and then shut himself up and live with
them."[1]
[Footnote 1: After Buckingham had been some time married to Fairfax's
daughter, he said it was like marrying the devil's daughter and
keeping house with your father-in-law.]
Is it possible to misconstrue such a letter as the following from
Johnson to her, now that the querulous and desponding tone of the
writer is familiar to us?
"London, Nov. 13th, 1783.
"DEAR MADAM,--Since you have written to me with the attention and
tenderness of ancient time, your letters give me a great part of the
pleasure which a life of solitude admits. You will never bestow any
share of your good-will on one who deserves better. Those that have
loved longest, love best. A sudden blaze of kindness may by a single
blast of coldness be extinguished, but that fondness which length of
time has connected with many circumstances and occasions, though it
may for a while be suppressed by disgust or resentment, with or
without a cause, is hourly revived by accidental recollection.[1] To
those that have lived long together, every thing heard and every
thing seen recals some pleasure communicated, or some benefit
conferred, some petty quarrel, or some slight endearment. Esteem of
great powers, or amiable qualities newly discovered, may embroider a
day or a week, but a friendship of twenty years is interwoven with
the texture of life. A friend may be often found and lost, but an
_old friend_ never can be found, and Nature has provided that he
cannot easily be lost."
[Footnote 1:
"Yet, oh yet thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away."--BYRON.]
The date of the following scene, as described by Madame D'Arblay in
the "Memoirs," is towards the end of November, 1783:
"Nothing had yet publicly transpired, with certainty or authority,
relative to the projects of Mrs. Thrale, who had now been nearly a
year at Bath[1]; though nothing was left unreported, or unasserted,
with respect to her proceedings. Nevertheless, how far Dr. Johnson
was himself informed, or was ignorant on the subject, neither Dr.
Burney nor his daughter could tell; and each equally feared to learn.
"Scarcely an instant, however, was the latter left alone in Bolt
Court, ere she saw the justice of her long apprehensions; for while
she planned speaking upon some topic that might have a chance to
catch the attention of the Doctor, a sudden change from kind
tranquillity to strong austerity took place in his altered
countenance; and, startled and affrighted, she held her peace....
"Thus passed a few minutes, in which she scarcely dared breathe;
while the respiration of the Doctor, on the contrary, was of
asthmatic force and loudness; then, suddenly turning to her, with an
air of mingled wrath and woe, he hoarsely ejaculated: 'Piozzi!'
"He evidently meant to say more; but the effort with which he
articulated that name robbed him of any voice for amplification, and
his whole frame grew tremulously convulsed.
"His guest, appalled, could not speak; but he soon discerned that it
was grief from coincidence, not distrust from opposition of
sentiment, that caused her taciturnity. This perception calmed him,
and he then exhibited a face 'in sorrow more than anger.' His
see-sawing abated of its velocity, and, again fixing his looks upon
the fire, he fell into pensive rumination.
"At length, and with great agitation, he broke forth with: 'She cares
for no one! You, only--You, she loves still!--but no one--and nothing
else!--You she still loves----'
"A half smile now, though of no very gay character, softened a little
the severity of his features, while he tried to resume some
cheerfulness in adding: 'As ... she loves her little finger!'
"It was plain by this burlesque, or, perhaps, playfully literal
comparison, that he meant now, and tried, to dissipate the solemnity
of his concern.
"The hint was taken; his guest started another subject; and this he
resumed no more. He saw how distressing was the theme to a hearer
whom he ever wished to please, not distress; and he named Mrs. Thrale
no more! Common topics took place, till they were rejoined by Dr.
Burney, whom then, and indeed always, he likewise spared upon this
subject."
[Footnote 1: About six months.]
After quoting this description at length, Lord Brougham remarks:
"Now Johnson was, perhaps unknown to himself, in love with Mrs.
Thrale, but for Miss Burney's thoughtless folly there can be no
excuse. And her father, a person of the very same rank and profession
with Mr. Piozzi, appears to have adopted the same senseless cant, as
if it were less lawful to marry an Italian musician than an English.
To be sure, Miss Burney says, that Mrs. Thrale was lineally descended
from Adam de Saltsburg, who came over with the Conqueror. But
assuredly that worthy, unable to write his name, would have held Dr.
Johnson himself in as much contempt as his fortunate rival, and would
have regarded his alliance as equally disreputable with the
Italian's, could his consent have been asked."[1]
[Footnote 1: Lives of Men of Letters, &c, vol. ii.]
If the scene took place at all, it must have taken place within a few
days after the profession of satisfied and unaltered friendship
contained in Johnson's letter of November 13th. His next letter is to
Miss Thrale:
"Nov. 18th, 1783.
"Dear Miss,--Here is a whole week, and nothing heard from your house.
Baretti said what a wicked house it would be, and a wicked house it
is. Of you, however, I have no complaint to make, for I owe you a
letter. Still I live here by my own self, and have had of late very
bad nights; but then I have had a pig to dinner, which Mr. Perkins
gave me. Thus life is chequered."
On February 24th, 1784, Dr. Lort writes to Bishop Percy:
"Poor Dr. Johnson has had a very bad winter, attended by Heberden and
Brocklesby, who neither of them expected he would have survived the
frost: that being gone, he still remains, and I hope will now
continue, at least till the next severe one. It has indeed carried
off a great many old people."
Johnson to Mrs. Thrale:
"March 10th, 1784.
"Your kind expressions gave me great pleasure; do not reject me from
your thoughts. Shall we ever exchange confidence by the fireside
again?"
He was so absorbed with his own complaints as to make no allowance
for hers. Yet her health was in a very precarious state, and in the
autumn of the same year, his complaints of silence and neglect were
suspended by the intelligence that her daughter Sophia was lying at
death's door. On March 27th, 1784, she writes:
"You tell one of my daughters that you know not with distinctness the
cause of my complaints. I believe she who lives with me knows them no
better; one very dreadful one is however removed by dear Sophia's
recovery. It is kind in you to quarrel no more about expressions
which were not meant to offend; but unjust to suppose, I have not
lately thought myself dying. Let us, however, take the Prince of
Abyssinia's advice, _and not add to the other evils of life the
bitterness of controversy._ If courage is a noble and generous
quality, let us exert it _to_ the last, and _at_ the last: if faith
is a Christian virtue, let us willingly receive and accept that
support it will most surely bestow--and do permit me to repeat those
words with which I know not why you were displeased: _Let us leave
behind us the best example that we can_.
"All this is not written by a person in high health and happiness,
but by a fellow-sufferer, who has more to endure than she can tell,
or you can guess; and now let us talk of the Severn salmons, which
will be coming in soon; I shall send you one of the finest, and shall
be glad to hear that your appetite is good."
Johnson to Mrs. Thrale:
"April 21st, 1784.
"The Hooles, Miss Burney, and Mrs. Hull (Wesley's sister), feasted
yesterday with me very cheerfully on your noble salmon. Mr. Allen
could not come, and I sent him a piece, and a great tail is still
left."
"April 26th, 1784.
"Mrs. Davenant called to pay me a guinea, but I gave two for you.
Whatever reasons you have for frugality, it is not worth while to
save a guinea a year by withdrawing it from a public charity."
"Whilst I am writing, the post has brought me your kind letter. Do
not think with dejection of your own condition: a little patience
will probably give you health: it will certainly give you riches, and
all the accommodations that riches can procure."
Up to this time she had put an almost killing restraint on her
inclinations, and had acted according to Johnson's advice in
everything but the final abandonment of Piozzi; yet Boswell reports
him as saying, May 16th: "Sir, she has done everything wrong since
Thrale's bridle was off her neck."
The next extracts are from "Thraliana":
"_Bath, Nov. 30th, 1783._--Sophia will live and do well; I have saved
my daughter, perhaps obtained a friend. They are weary of seeing me
suffer so, and the eldest beg'd me yesterday not to sacrifice my life
to her convenience. She now saw my love of Piozzi was incurable, she
said. Absence had no effect on it, and my health was going so fast
she found that I should soon be useless either to her or him. It was
the hand of God and irresistible, she added, and begged me not to
endure any longer such unnecessary misery.
"So now we may be happy if we will, and now I trust _some_ [_(sic)
query "no?_"] other cross accident will start up to torment us; I
wrote my lover word that he might come and fetch me, but the Alps are
covered with snow, and if his prudence is not greater than his
affection--my life will yet be lost, for it depends on his safety.
Should he come at my call, and meet with any misfortune on the road
... death, with accumulated agonies, would end me. May Heaven avert
such insupportable distress!"
"_Dec._ 1783.--My dearest Piozzi's Miss Chanon is in distress. I will
send her 10_l_. Perhaps he loved her; perhaps she loved _him_;
perhaps both; yet I have and will have confidence in his honour. I
will not suffer love or jealousy to narrow a heart devoted to _him_.
He would assist her if he were in England, and _she_ shall not suffer
for his absence, tho' I _do_. She and her father have reported many
things to my prejudice; she will be ashamed of herself when she sees
me forgive and assist her. O Lord, give me grace so to return good
for evil as to obtain thy gracious favour who died to procure the
salvation of thy professed enemies. 'Tis a good Xmas work!"
"_Bath, Jan. 27th_, 1784.--On this day twelvemonths ... oh
dreadfullest of all days to me I did I send for my Piozzi and tell
him we must part. The sight of my countenance terrified Dr. Pepys, to
whom I went into the parlour for a moment, and the sight of the
agonies I endured in the week following would have affected anything
but interest, avarice, and pride personified, ... with such, however,
I had to deal, so my sorrows were unregarded. Seeing them continue
for a whole year, indeed, has mollified my strong-hearted companions,
and they _now_ relent in earnest and wish me happy: I would now
therefore be _loath to dye_, yet how shall I recruit my constitution
so as to live? The pardon certainly did arrive the very instant of
execution--for I was ill beyond all power of description, when my
eldest daughter, bursting into tears, bid me call home the man of my
heart, and not expire by slow torture in the presence of my children,
who had my life in their power. 'You are dying _now_,' said she. 'I
know it,' replied I, 'and I should die in peace had I but seen him
_once again_.' 'Oh send for him,' said she, 'send for him quickly!'
'He is at Milan, child,' replied I, 'a thousand miles off!' 'Well,
well,' returns she, 'hurry him back, or I myself will send him an
express.' At these words I revived, and have been mending ever since.
This was the first time that any of us had named the name of Piozzi
to each other since we had put our feet into the coach to come to
Bath. I had always thought it a point of civility and prudence never
to mention what could give nothing but offence, and cause nothing but
disgust, while they desired nothing less than a revival of old
uneasiness; so we were all silent on the subject, and Miss Thrale
thought him dead."
According to the Autobiography, the daughters did not conclusively
relent till the end of April or the beginning of May, when a missive
was dispatched for Piozzi, and Mrs. Thrale went to London to make the
requisite preparations.
_Mrs. Thrale to Miss F. Burney_.
"Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square,
"Tuesday Night, May, 1784.
"I am come, dearest Burney. It is neither dream nor fiction; though I
love you dearly, or I would not have come. Absence and distance do
nothing towards wearing out real affection; so you shall always find
it in your true and tender H.L.T.
"I am somewhat shaken bodily, but 'tis the mental shocks that have
made me unable to bear the corporeal ones. 'Tis past ten o'clock,
however, and I must lay myself down with the sweet expectation of
seeing my charming friend in the morning to breakfast. I love Dr.
Burney too well to fear him, and he loves me too well to say a word
which should make me love him less."
_Journal (Madame D'Arblay's) Resumed_.
"May 17.--Let me now, my Susy, acquaint you a little more connectedly
than I have done of late how I have gone on. The rest of that week I
devoted almost wholly to sweet Mrs. Thrale, whose society was truly
the most delightful of cordials to me, however, at times mixed with
bitters the least palatable.
"One day I dined with Mrs. Grarrick to meet Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Carter,
Miss Hamilton, and Dr. and Miss Cadogan; and one evening I went to
Mrs. Vesey, to meet almost everybody,--the Bishop of St. Asaph, and
all the Shipleys, Bishop Chester and Mrs. Porteous, Mrs. and Miss
Ord, Sir Joshua Reynolds and Miss Palmer, Mrs. Buller, all the
Burrows, Mr. Walpole, Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. Grarrick, and Miss More,
and some others. But all the rest of my time I gave wholly to dear
Mrs. Thrale, who lodged in Mortimer Street, and who saw nobody else.
Were I not sensible of her goodness, and full of incurable affection
for her, should I not be a monster?
* * * * *
"I parted most reluctantly with my dear Mrs. Thrale, whom, when or
how, I shall see again, Heaven only knows! but in sorrow we
parted--on _my_ side in real affliction."
The excursion is thus mentioned in "Thraliana": "_28th May_,
1784.--Here is the most sudden and beautiful spring ever seen after a
dismal winter: so may God grant me a renovation of comfort after my
many and sharp afflictions. I have been to London for a week to visit
Fanny Burney, and to talk over my intended (and I hope approaching)
nuptials, with Mr. Borghi: a man, as far as I can judge in so short
an acquaintance with him, of good sense and real honour:--who loves
my Piozzi, _likes_ my conversation, and wishes to serve us sincerely.
He has recommended Duane to take my power of attorney, and Cator's
loss will be the less felt. Duane's name is as high as the Monument,
and his being known familiarly to Borghi will perhaps quicken his
attention to our concerns.
"Dear Burney, who loves me _kindly_ but the world _reverentially_,
was, I believe, equally pained as delighted with my visit: ashamed to
be seen in my company, much of her fondness for me must of course be
diminished; yet she had not chatted freely so long with anybody but
Mrs. Philips, that my coming was a comfort to her. We have told all
to her father, and he behaved with the utmost propriety.
"Nobody likes my settling at Milan except myself and Piozzi; but I
think 'tis nobody's affair but our own: it seems to me quite
irrational to expose ourselves to unnecessary insults, and by going
straight to Italy all will be avoided."
The crisis is told in "Thraliana":
"_10th June_, 1784.--I sent these lines to meet Piozzi on his return.
They are better than those he liked so last year at Dover:
"Over mountains, rivers, vallies,
See my love returns to Calais,
After all their taunts and malice,
Ent'ring safe the gates of Calais,
While delay'd by winds he dallies,
Fretting to be kept at Calais,
Muse, prepare some sprightly sallies
To divert my dear at Calais,
Say how every rogue who rallies
Envies him who waits at Calais
For her that would disdain a Palace
Compar'd to Piozzi, Love, and Calais."
"_24th June_, 1784.--He is set out sure enough, here are letters from
Turin to say so.... Now the Misses _must_ move; they are very loath
to stir: from affection perhaps, or perhaps from art--'tis difficult
to know.--Oh 'tis, yes, it is from tenderness, they want me to go
with them to see Wilton, Stonehenge, &c.--I _will_ go with them to be
sure."