_Norbury Park, Sunday, Nov. 28._--Last Thursday, my father set me down
at Bolt-court, while he went on upon business. I was anxious to again
see poor Dr. Johnson, who has had terrible health since his return from
Lichfield. He let me in, though very ill. He was alone, which I much
rejoiced at; for I had a longer and more satisfactory conversation with
him than I have had for many months. He was in rather better spirits,
too, than I had lately seen him, but he told me he was going to try what
sleeping out of town might do for him.
“I remember,” said he, “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 lodgings that had been prepared for her, she complained that the
staircase was in very bad condition--for the plaster was beaten off the
wall in many places. 'Oh,' said the man of the house, 'that's nothing
but by the knocks against it of the coffins of the poor souls that have
died in the lodgings.'”
He laughed, though not without apparent secret anguish, in telling me
this. I felt extremely shocked, but, willing to confine my words at
least to the literal story, I only exclaimed against the unfeeling
absurdity of such a confession.
“Such a confession,” cried he, “to a person then coming to try his
lodgings for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can
well lay our account for.”