The stroke was confined to his tongue. Mrs. Williams told me a most striking and touching circumstance that attended the attack. It was at about four o’clock in the morning: he found himself with a paralytic affection; he rose, and composed in his own mind a Latin prayer to the Almighty, “that whatever were the sufferings for which he must prepare himself, it would please Him, through the grace and mediation of our blessed Saviour, to spare his intellects, and let them all fall upon his body.” When he had composed this, internally, he endeavoured to speak it aloud, but found his voice was gone.
Wednesday, July 1. —
I was again at Mrs. Vesey’s where again I met Mr. Walpole Mr. Pepys, Miss Elliott, Mr. Burke, his wife and son, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and some others. . . .
I had the satisfaction to hear from Sir Joshua that Dr. Johnson had dined with him at the Club. I look upon him, therefore, now, as quite recovered. I called the next morning to congratulate him, and found him very gay and very good-humoured.
Thursday, Oct, 29. —
This morning, at breakfast, Mr. Hoole called. I wanted to call upon Dr. Johnson, and it is so disagreeable to me to go to him alone, now poor Mrs. Williams is dead, on account of the quantity of men always visiting him, that I most gladly accepted, almost asked, his ‘squireship.
We went together. The dear Doctor received me with open arms.
“Ah, dearest of all dear ladies!” he cried, and made me sit in his best chair.
He had not breakfasted.
“Do you forgive my coming so soon?” said I.
“I cannot forgive your not coming sooner,” he answered. I asked if I should make his breakfast, which I have done since we left Streatham; he readily consented.
“But, sir,” quoth I, “I am in the wrong chair.” For I was away from the table.
“It is so difficult,” said he, “for anything to be wrong that belongs to you, that it can only be I am in the wrong chair, to keep you from the right one.”
And then we changed.
You will see by this how good were his spirits and his health.
I stayed with him two hours, and could hardly get away; he wanted me to dine with him, and said he would send home to excuse me; but I could not possibly do that. Yet I left him with real regret.
Wednesday, Nov. 19. —
I received a letter from Dr. Johnson, which I have not by me, but will try to recollect.
“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 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.”
Now if ever you read anything more dry, tell me. I was shocked to see him undoubtedly angry, but took courage, and resolved to make a serious defence; therefore thus I answered,
“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 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, signifies the barking of a lap-dog, if once the lion puts out his paw?
“The book was very right. Mrs. Chapone lives at either No. 7 or 8 in Dean Street, Soho.
“I beg you, sir, to forgive a delay for which I can only “tax the elements with unkindness,” and to receive, with your usual goodness and indulgence, your ever most obliged and most faithful humble servant,
F. BURNEY.
Place: “St.Martin’s Street, Nov. 19, 1783.”
My dear father spared me the coach, and to Bolt Court, therefore, I went, and with open arms was I received. Nobody was there but Charles and Mr. Sastres, and Dr. Johnson was, if possible, more instructive, entertaining, good-humoured, and exquisitely fertile, than ever. He thanked me repeatedly for coming, and was so kind I could hardly ever leave him.
Just then my father came in: and then Mr. G. C. came, and took the chair half beside me. I told him of some new members for Dr. Johnson’s club.
“I think,” said he, “it sounds more like some club that one reads of in the Spectator, than like a real club in these times; for the forfeits of a whole year will not amount to those of a single night in other clubs. Does Pepys belong toit?”
“Oh no! he is quite of another party! He is head man on the side of the defenders of Lord Lyttelton. Besides, he has had enough of Dr. Johnson; for they had a grand battle upon the Life of Lyttelton, at Streatham.”
“And had they really a serious quarrel? I never imagined it had amounted to that.”
“Oh yes, serious enough, I assure you. I never saw Dr. Johnson really in a passion but then: and dreadful, indeed, it was to see. I wished myself away a thousand times. It was a frightful scene. He so red, poor Mr. Pepys so pale!.”
“But how did it begin? What did he say?”
“Oh, Dr. Johnson came to the point without much ceremony. He called out aloud, before a large company, at dinner, “What have you to say, sir, to me or of me? Come forth, man! I hear you object to my Life of Lord Lyttelton. What are your objections? If you have anything to say, let’s hear it. Come forth, man, when I call you!”
“What a call, indeed! Why then, he fairly bullied him into a quarrel!”
“Yes. And I was the more sorry, because Mr. Pepys had begged of me, before they met, not to let Lord Lyttelton be mentioned. Now I had no more power to prevent it than this macaroon cake in my hand.”
“It was behaving ill to Mrs. Thrale, certainly, to quarrel in her house.”
“Yes; but he never repeated it; though he wished of all things to have gone through just such another scene with Mrs. Montagu, and to refrain was an act of heroic forbearance.”
“Why, I rather wonder he did not; for she was the head of the set of Lytteltonians.”
“Oh, he knows that; he calls Mr. Pepys only her prime minister.”
“And what does he call her?”
“Queen,” to be sure; “Queen of the Blues!” She came to Streatham one morning, and I saw he was dying to attack her. But he had made a promise to Mrs. Thrale to have no more quarrels in her house, and so he forced himself to forbear. Indeed he was very much concerned, when it was over, for what had passed; and very candid and generous in acknowledging it. He is too noble to adhere to wrong.”
“And how did Mrs. Montagu herself behave?”
“Very stately, indeed, at first. She turned from him stiffly, and with a most distant air, and without even courtesying to him, and with a firm intention to keep to what she had publicly declared — that she would never speak to him more! However, he went up to her himself, longing to begin! and very roughly said,— “Well, madam, what’s become of your fine new house? I hear no more of it.”
“But how did she bear this?”
“Why, she was obliged to answer him; and she soon grew so frightened — as everybody does — that she was as civil as ever.”
He laughed heartily at this account. But I told him Dr. Johnson was now much softened. He had acquainted me, when I saw him last, that he had written to her upon the death of Mrs. Williams, because she had allowed her something yearly, which now ceased.
“And I had a very kind answer from her,” said he.
“Well then, sir,” cried I, “I hope peace now will be again proclaimed.”
“Why, I am now,” said he, “come to that time when I wish all bitterness and animosity to be at an end. I have never done her any serious harm — nor would I; though I could give her a bite! — but she must provoke me much first. In volatile talk, indeed, I may have spoken of her not much to her mind; for in the tumul
t of conversation malice is apt to grow sprightly; and there, I hope, I am not yet decrepid!”
He quite laughed aloud at this characteristic speech.
I most readily assured the Doctor that I had never yet seen him limp!
Tuesday . —
I spent the afternoon with Dr. Johnson, who indeed is very ill, and whom I could hardly tell how to leave. But he is rather better since, though still in a most alarming way. Indeed, I am very much afraid for him! He was very, very kind! — Oh, what a cruel, heavy loss will he be!
Tuesday, Dec. 30 . —
I went to Dr. Johnson, and spent the evening with him. He was very indifferent, indeed. There were some very disagreeable people with him; and he once affected me very much, by turning suddenly to me, and grasping my hand, and saying,
“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!”
You may believe I promised that I would! — Good and excellent as he is, how can he so fear death? — Alas, my Susy, how awful is that idea! — He was quite touchingly affectionate to me. How earnestly I hope for his recovery!
Tuesday Jan. 6. —
I spent the afternoon with Dr. Johnson, and had the great satisfaction of finding him better.
Monday, April 19. —
I went in the evening to see dear Dr. Johnson. He received me with open arms, scolded me with the most flattering expressions for my absence, but would not let me come away without making me promise to dine with him next day, on a salmon from Mrs. Thrale. This I did not dare refuse, as he was urgent, and I had played truant so long; but, to be sure, I had rather have dined first, on account of poor Blacky. He is amazingly recovered, and perfectly good-humoured and comfortable, and smilingly alive to idle chat.
At Dr. Johnson’s we had Mr. and Mrs. Hoole and their son, and Mrs. Hall, a very good Methodist, and sister of John Wesley. The day was tolerable, but Dr. Johnson is never his best when there is nobody to draw him out; but he was much pleased with my coming, and very kind indeed.
Place: Norbury Park, Sunday, Nov. 28. ——
Last Thursday, Nov. 25, 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 have 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 walls 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 lodging for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our account for.”
I had seen Miss T. the day before.
“So,” said he, “did I.”
I then said, “Do you ever, sir, hear from her mother?”
“No,” cried he, “nor write to her. I drive her quite from my mind. If I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly. I have burnt all I can find. I never speak of her, and I desire never to hear of her more. I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind.”
Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the Bristol milk-woman and told him the tales I had heard of her writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and Milton;, ‘though those,” I continued, “could never possibly, I should think, be the first authors with anybody. Would children understand them? and grown people who have not read are children in literature.”
“Doubtless,” said he; “but there is nothing so little comprehended among mankind as what is genius. They give to it all, when it can be but a part. Genius is nothing more than knowing the use of tools; but there must be tools for it to use: 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; yet there is such a thing as invention? Shakespeare could never have seen a Caliban.”
“No; but he had seen a man; and knew, therefore, how to vary him to a monster-. A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first know what a cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her an 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; another will say he was bom to be a carpenter — but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men, one with genius, the other with none, look at an overturned waggon: — he who has no genius, will think of the waggon only as he sees it, overturned, and walk on; he who has genius, will paint it to himself before, it was overturned, — standing still, and moving on, and heavy loaded, and empty; but both must see the waggon, to think of it at all.”
How just and true all this, my dear Susy! He then animated, and talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a once as famous shoemaker, and upon our immortal Shakespeare, with as much fire, spirit, wit, and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him. How delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor and infirm machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way.
Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and offered to go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did not oppose; but, most kindly pressing both my hands,
“Be not,” he said, in a voice of even tenderness, “be not long in coming again for my letting you go now.”
I assured him I would be the sooner, and was running off, but he called me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most energetic, said,
“Remember me in your prayers!”
I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare. I gave him my promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him. Great, good, and excellent that he is, how short a time will he be our boast! Ah, my dear Susy, I see he is going! This winter will never conduct him to a more genial season here! Elsewhere, who shall hope a fairer? I wish I had bid him pray for me; but it seemed to me presumptuous, though this repetition of so kind a condescension might, I think, have encouraged me.
Place: St. Martin’s Street, Wednesday, Dec. 10. ——
I went in the evening to poor Dr. Johnson. Frank told me he was very ill, but let me in. He would have taken me upstairs, but I would not see him without his direct permission. I desired Frank to tell him I called to pay my respects to him, but not to disturb him if he was not well enough to see me. Mr. Strahan, a clergyman, he Said, was with him alone.
In a few minutes, this Mr. Strahan came to me himself. He told me Dr. Johnson was very ill, very much obliged to me for coming, but so weak and bad he hoped I would excuse his not seeing me. . . .
Dear, dear, and much-reverenced Dr. Johnson! how ill or how low must he be, to decline seeing a creature he has so constantly, so fondly, called about him! If I do not see him again I shall be truly afflicted. And I fear, I almost know, I cannot!
At night my father brought us the most dismal tidings of dear Dr. Johnson. Dr. Warren had seen him, and told him to take what opium he pleased! He had thanked and taken leave of all his physicians. Alas! — I shall lose him, and he will take no leave of me! My father was deeply depressed; he has himself tried in vain for admission this week. Yet some people see him — the Hooles, Mr. Sastres, Mr. Langton; — but then they must be in the house, watching for one moment, whole hours. I hear from every one he is now perfectly resi
gned to his approaching fate, and no longer in terror of death. I am thankfully happy in hearing that he speaks himself now of the change his mind has undergone, from its dark horror, and says— “He feels the irradiation of hope!” Good, and pious, and excellent Christian — who shall feel it if not he?
Thursday morning . —
I am told by Mr. Hoole, that he inquired of Dr. Brocklesby if he thought it likely he might live six weeks? and the Doctor’s hesitation saying — No — he has been more deeply depressed than ever. Fearing death as he does, no one can wonder. Why he should fear it, all may wonder.
He sent me down yesterday, by a clergyman who was with him, the kindest of messages, and I hardly know whether I ought to go to him again or not; though I know still less why I say so, for go again I both must and shall. One thing, his extreme dejection of mind considered, has both surprised and pleased me; he has now constantly an amanuensis with him, and dictates to him such compositions, particularly Latin and Greek, as he has formerly made, but repeated to his friends without ever committing to paper. This, I hope, will not only gratify his survivors, but serve to divert him. The good Mr. Hoole and equally good Mr. Sastres attend him, rather as nurses than friends, for they sit whole hours by him, without even speaking to him. He will not, it seems, be talked to — at least very rarely. At times, indeed, he reanimates; but it is soon over, and he says of himself, “I am now like Macbeth, —— question enrages me.”
My father saw him once while I was away, and carried Mr. Burke with him, who was desirous of paying his respects to him once more in person. He rallied a little while they were there; and Mr. Burke, when they left him, said to my father— “His work is almost done; and well has he done it!”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 689