When at the end, therefore, of the ensuing autumn, he re-entered Newton
House, his first voluntary egress thence was to Bolt Court; where
he had the heartfelt satisfaction of finding Dr. Johnson recovered
from his paralytic stroke, and not more than usually afflicted by his
other complaints; for free from complaint Dr. Burney had never had the
happiness to know that long and illustrious sufferer; whose pains and
infirmities, however, seemed rather to strengthen than to deaden his
urbanity towards Dr. Burney and this Memorialist.
It had happened, through vexatious circumstances, after the return from
Chesington, that Dr. Burney, in his visits to Bolt Court, had not been
able to take thither his daughter; nor yet to spare her his carriage
for a separate inquiry; and incessant bad weather had made walking
impracticable. After a week or two of this omission, Dr. Johnson, in a
letter to Dr. Burney, enclosed the following billet.
“TO MISS BURNEY.
“Madam,
“You have now been at home this long time, and yet I have neither seen
nor heard from you. Have we quarrelled?
“I have met with a volume of the Philosophical Transactions, which I
imagine to belong to Dr. Burney. Miss Charlotte[71] will please to
examine.
“Pray send me a direction where Mrs. Chapone lives; and pray, some
time, let me have the honour of telling you how much I am, Madam, your
most humble servant,
“SAM. JOHNSON.”
“_Bolt Court, Nov. 19, 1783._”
Inexpressibly shocked to have hurt or displeased her honoured friend,
yet conscious from all within of unalterable and affectionate reverence,
she took courage to answer him without offering any serious defence.
“TO DR. JOHNSON.
“Dear Sir,
“May I not say dear?—for quarrelled I am sure we have not. The bad
weather alone has kept me from waiting upon you: but now, that you have
condescended to give me a summons, no ‘Lion shall stand in the way’ of
my making your tea this afternoon—unless I receive a prohibition from
yourself, and then—I must submit! for what, as you said of a certain
great lady,[72] signifies the barking of a lap-dog, if once the lion
puts out his paw?
“The book was right.
“Mrs. Chapone lives in Dean-street, Soho.
“I beg you, Sir, to forgive a delay for which I can ‘tax the elements
only with unkindness,’ and to receive with your usual goodness and
indulgence,
“Your ever most obliged,
“And most faithful humble servant,
“F. BURNEY.”
“_19th Nov. 1783, St. Martin’s-Street._”
A latent, but most potent reason, had, in fact, some share in abetting
the elements in the failure of the Memorialist of paying her respects
in Bolt Court at this period; except when attending thither her father.
Dr. Burney feared her seeing Dr. Johnson alone; dreading, for both their
sakes, the subject to which the Doctor might revert, if they should
chance to be _tête à tête_. Hitherto, in the many meetings of the two
Doctors and herself that had taken place after the paralytic stroke
of Dr. Johnson, as well as during the many that had more immediately
followed the retreat of Mrs. Thrale to Bath, the name of that lady had
never once been mentioned by any of the three.
Not from difference of opinion was the silence; it was rather from
a painful certainty that their opinions must be in unison, and,
consequently, that in unison must be their regrets. Each of them,
therefore, having so warmly esteemed one whom each of them, now, so
afflictingly blamed, they tacitly concurred that, for the immediate
moment, to cast a veil over her name, actions, and remembrance, seemed
what was most respectful to their past feelings, and to her present
situation.
But, after the impressive reproach of Dr. Johnson to the Memorialist
relative to her absence; and after a seizure which caused a constant
anxiety for his health, she could no longer consult her discretion
at the expense of her regard; and, upon ceasing to observe her
precautions, she was unavoidably left with him, one morning, by Dr.
Burney, who had indispensable business further on in the city, and was
to call for her on his return.
Nothing yet had publicly transpired, with certainty or authority,
relative to the projects of Mrs. Thrale, who had now been nearly a
year at Bath; 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.
A silence almost awful succeeded, though, previously to Dr. Burney’s
absence, the gayest discourse had been reciprocated.
The Doctor, then, see-sawing violently in his chair, as usual when
he was big with any powerful emotion whether of pleasure or of pain,
seemed deeply moved; but without looking at her, or speaking, he
intently fixed his eyes upon the fire: while his panic-struck visitor,
filled with dismay at the storm which she saw gathering; over the
character and conduct of one still dear to her very heart, from the
furrowed front, the laborious heaving of the ponderous chest, and the
roll of the large, penetrating, wrathful eye of her honoured, but,
just then, terrific host, sate mute, motionless, and sad; tremblingly
awaiting a mentally demolishing thunderbolt.
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.
From time to time, nevertheless, he impressively glanced upon her his
full fraught eye, that told, had its expression been developed, whole
volumes of his regret, his disappointment, his astonished indignancy:
but, now and then, it also spoke so clearly and so kindly, that he
found her sight and her stay soothing to his disturbance, that she felt
as if confidentially communing with him, although they exchanged not a
word.
At length, and with great agitation, he broke forthwith: “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.
* * * * *
Very ill again Dr. Johnson grew on the approach of winter; and with
equal fear and affection, both father and daughter sought him as often
as it was in their power; though by no means as frequently as their
zealous attachment, or as his own kind wishes might have prompted.
But fullness of affairs, and the distance of his dwelling, impeded
such continual intercourse as their mutual regard would otherwise have
instigated.
This new failure of health was accompanied by a sorrowing depression of
spirits; though unmixt with the smallest deterioration of intellect.
One evening,—the last but one of the sad year 1783,—when Dr. Burney
and the Memorialist were with him, and some other not remembered
visitors, he took an opportunity during a general discourse in which
he did not join, to turn suddenly to the ever-favoured daughter, and,
fervently grasping her hand, to say: “The blister I have tried for
my breath has betrayed some very bad tokens!—but I will not terrify
myself by talking of them.—Ah!—_priez Dieu pour moi!_”
Her promise was as solemn as it was sorrowful; but more humble, if
possible, than either. That such a man should condescend to make her
such a request, amazed, and almost bewildered her: yet, to a mind so
devout as that of Dr. Johnson, prayer, even from the most lowly, never
seemed presumptuous; and even—where he believed in its sincerity,
soothed him—for a passing moment—with an idea that it might be
propitious.
This was the only instance in which Dr. Johnson ever addressed her in
French. He did not wish so serious an injunction to reach other ears
than her own.
But those who imagine that the fear of death, which, at this period,
was the prominent feature of the mind of Dr. Johnson; and which excited
not more commiseration than wonder in the observers and commentators
of the day; was the effect of conscious criminality; or produced by a
latent belief that he had sinned more than his fellow sinners, knew
not Dr. Johnson! He thought not ill of himself as compared with his
human brethren: but he weighed, in the rigid scales of his calculating
justice, the great talent which he had received, against the uses of
it which he had made — —
And found himself wanting!
Could it be otherwise, to one who had a conscience poignantly alive
to a sense of duty, and religiously submissive to the awards of
retributive responsibility?
If those, therefore, who ignorantly have marvelled, or who maliciously
would triumph at the terror of death in the pious, would sincerely
and severely bow down to a similar self-examination, the marvel
would subside, and the triumph might perhaps turn to blushes! in
considering—not the trembling inferiority, but the sublime humility of
this ablest and most dauntless of Men, but humblest and most orthodox
of Christians.