Complete Works of Frances Burney

by Frances Burney

  Dec. 11. —

  We had a party to dinner, by long appointment, for which, indeed, none of us were well disposed, the apprehension of hearing news only of death being hard upon us all. The party was, Dr. Rose, Dr. Gillies, Dr. Garthshore, and Charles.

  The day could not be well — but mark the night. My father, in the morning, saw this first of men! I had not his account till bedtime; he feared over- exciting me. He would not, he said, but have seen him for worlds! He happened to be better, and admitted him. He was up, and very composed. He took his hand very kindly, asked after all his family, and then, in particular, how Fanny did?

  “I hope,” he said, “Fanny did not take it amiss that I did not see her? I was very bad!.”

  Amiss! — what a word! Oh that I had been present to have answered it! My father stayed, I suppose, half an hour, and then was coming away. He again took his hand, and encouraged him to come again to him; and when he was taking leave, said— “Tell Fanny to pray for me!”

  Ah! dear Dr. Johnson! might I but have your prayers! After which, still grasping his hand, he made a prayer himself, — the most fervent, pious, humble, eloquent, and touching, my father says, that ever was composed. Oh, would I had heard it! He ended it with Amen! in which my father joined, and was echoed by all present. And again, when my father was leaving him, he brightened up, something of his arch look returned, and he said— “I think I shall throw the ball at Fanny yet!”

  Little more passed ere my father came away, decided, most tenderly, not to tell me this till our party was gone.

  This most earnestly increased my desire to see him; this kind and frequent mention of me melted me into double sorrow and regret. I would give the world I had but gone to him that day! It was, however, impossible, and the day was over before I knew he had said what I look upon as a call to me. This morning, after church time, I went. Frank said he was very ill, and saw nobody; I told him I had understood by my father the day before that he meant to see me. He then let me in. I went into his room upstairs; he was in his bedroom. I saw it crowded, and ran hastily down. Frank told me his master had refused seeing even Mr. Langton. I told him merely to say I had called, but by no means to press my admission. His own feelings were all that should be consulted; his tenderness, I knew, would be equal, whether he was able to see me or not.

  I went into the parlour, preferring being alone in the cold, to any company with a fire. Here I waited long, here and upon the stairs, which I ascended and descended to meet again with Frank, and make inquiries; but I met him not. At last upon Dr. Johnson’s ringing his bell, I saw Frank enter his room, and Mr. Langton follow. “Who’s that?” I heard him say; they answered, “Mr. Langton,” and I found he did not retum.

  Soon after, all the rest went away but a Mrs. Davis, a good sort of woman, whom this truly charitable soul had sent for to take a dinner at his house. I then went and waited with her by the fire: it was, however, between three and four o’clock before I got any answer. Mr. Langton then came himself. He could not look at me, and I turned away from him. Mrs. Davis asked how the Doctor was? “Going on to death very fast!” was his mournful answer. “Has he taken,” she said, “anything?” “Nothing at all! We carried him some bread and milk — he refused it, and said—” The less the better.” She asked more questions, by which I found his faculties were perfect, his mind composed, and his dissolution was quick drawing on.

  I could not immediately go on, and it is now long since I have written at all; but I will go back to this afflicting theme, which I can now better bear.

  Mr. Langton was, I believe, a quarter of an hour in the room before I suspected he meant to speak to me, never looking near me. At last he said,

  “This poor man, I understand, ma”am, desired yesterday to see you.”

  “My understanding that, sir, brought me today.”

  “Poor man! it is pity he did not know himself better, and that you should have had this trouble.”

  “Trouble!” cried I; “I would come a hundred times to see him the hundredth and first!”

  “He hopes, now, you will excuse him; he is very sorry not to see you; but he desired me to come and speak to you myself, and tell you he hopes you will excuse him, he feels himself too weak for such an interview.”

  I hastily got up, left him my most affectionate respects, and every good wish I could half utter, and ran back to the coach. Ah, my Susy! I have never been to Bolt Court since!

  Dec. 20. —

  This day was the ever-honoured, ever- lamented Dr. Johnson committed to the earth. Oh, how sad a day to me! My father attended, and so did Charles. I could not keep my eyes dry all day;, nor can I now, in the recollecting it; but let me pass over what to mourn is now so vain!

  I long to know what you think of our dear Dr. Johnson’s meditations, and if you do not, in the midst of what you will wish unpublished, see stronger than ever the purity of his principles and character, and only lament that effusions should be given to the world that are too artless to be suited to it.

  Tuesday Dec. 20 . —— 1st summons; 2ndly, entree.

  “Miss Burney, have you heard that Boswell is going to publish a life of your friend Dr. Johnson?”

  “No, ma”am.”

  “I tell you as I heard. I don’t know for the truth of it, and I can’t tell what he will do. He is so extraordinary a man, that perhaps he will devise something extraordinary.”

  He had lately, he told me, had much conversation concerning me with Mr. Boswell. I feel sorry to be named or remembered by that biographical, anecdotical memorandummer, till his book of poor Dr. Johnson’s life is finished and published. What an anecdote, however, did he tell me of that most extraordinary character! He is now an actual admirer and follower of Mrs. Rudd! —— and avows it, and praises her extraordinary attractions aloud!

  The King came into the room during coffee, and talked over Sir John Hawkins’s Life of Dr. Johnson and with great candour and openness. I have not yet read it.

  Once before, when I lived in the world, I had met with Dr. Beattie, but he then spoke very little, the company being large; and for myself, I spoke not at all. Our personal knowledge of each other therefore sunk not very deep. It was at the house of Miss Reynolds. My ever-honoured Dr. Johnson was there, and my poor Mrs. Thrale, her daughter, Mrs. Ord, Mrs. Horneck, Mrs. Gwynn, the Bishop of Dromore, and Mrs. Percy, and Mr. Boswell, and Mr. Seward, with some others.

  Many things I do recollect of that evening, particularly one laughable circumstance. I was coming away at night, without having been seen by Dr. Johnson, but knowing he would reproach me afterwards, I begged my father to tell him I wished him good-night. He instantly called me up to him, took both my hands, which he extended as far asunder as they would go, and just as I was unfortunately curtseying to be gone, he let them loose and dropped both his own on the two sides of my hoop, with so ponderous a weight, that I could not for some time rise from the inclined posture into which I had put myself, and in which, though quite unconscious of what he was about, he seemed forcibly holding me.

  Wednesday, January 9. —

  To-day Mrs. Schwellenberg did me a real favour, and with real good- nature; for she sent me the letters of my poor lost friends, Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale, which she knew me to be almost pining to procure. The book belongs to the Bishop of Carlisle, who lent it to Mr. Turbulent, from whom it was again lent to the Queen, and so passed on to Mrs. Schwellenberg. It is still unpublished.

  With what a sadness have I been reading! what scenes has it revived! — what regrets renewed! These letters have not been more improperly published in the whole, than they are injudiciously displayed in their several parts. She has given all — every word — and thinks that, perhaps, a justice to Dr. Johnson, which, in fact, is the greatest injury to his memory.

  The few she has selected of her own do her, indeed, much credit: she has discarded all that were trivial and merely local, and given only such as contain something instructive, amusing, or ingenious.

&n
bsp; About four of the letters, however, of my ever- revered Dr. Johnson are truly worthy his exalted powers: one is upon Death, in considering its approach as we are surrounded, or not, by mourners; another, upon the sudden and premature loss of poor Mrs. Thrale’s darling and only son.

  Our name once occurs: how I started at its sight!— “Tis to mention the party that planned the first visit to our house: Miss Owen, Mr. Seward, Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and Dr. Johnson. How well shall we ever, my Susan, remember that morning!

  He loved Dr. Johnson, —— and Dr. Johnson returned his affection. Their political principles and connections were opposite, but Mr. Wyndham respected his venerable friend too highly to discuss any points that could offend him; and showed for him so true a regard, that, during all his late illnesses, for the latter part of his life, his carriage and himself were alike at his service, to air, visit, or go out, whenever he was disposed to accept them.

  Nor was this all; one tender proof he gave of warm and generous regard, that I can never forget, and that rose instantly to my mind when I heard his name, and gave him a welcome in my eyes when they met his face: it is this: Dr. Johnson, in his last visit to Lichfield, was taken ill, and waited to recover strength for travelling back to town in his usual vehicle, a stage-coach; — as soon as this reached the ears of Mr. Wyndham, he set off for Lichfield in his own carriage, to offer to bring him back to town in it, and at his own time.

  For a young man of fashion, such a trait towards an old, however dignified philosopher, must surely be a mark indisputable of an elevated mind and character; and still the more strongly it marked a noble way of thinking, as it was done in favour of a person in open opposition to all his own party, and declared prejudices. . . .

  I reminded him of the airings, in which he gave his time with his carriage for the benefit of Dr. Johnson’s health. “What an advantage!” he cried, “was all that to myself! I had not merely an admiration, but a tenderness for him, — the more I knew him, the stronger it became. We never disagreed;, even in politics I found it rather words than things in which we differed.”

  “And if you could so love him,” cried I, “knowing him only in a general way, what would you have felt for him had you known him at Streatham?”

  I then gave him a little history of his manners and way of life there, — his good humour, his sport, his kindness, his sociability, and all the many excellent qualities that, in the world at large, were by so many means obscured.

  He was extremely interested in all I told him, and regrettingly said he had only known him in his worst days, when his health was upon its decline, and infirmities were crowding fast upon him. “Had he lived longer,” he cried, “I am satisfied I should have taken him to my heart! have looked up to him, applied to him, advised with him in the most essential occurrences of my life? I am sure too, — though it is a proud assertion, — he would have liked me, also, better, had we mingled more. I felt a mixed fondness and reverence growing so strong upon me, that I am satisfied the closest union would have followed his longer life.”

  I then mentioned how kindly he had taken his visit to him at Lichfield during a severe illness. “And he left you,” I said, “a book?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “and he gave me one, also, just before he died. “You will look into this sometimes,” he said, “and not refuse to remember whence you had it.”

  And then he added he had heard him speak of me, — and with so much kindness, that I was forced not to press a recapitulation: yet now I wish I had heard it.”

  Just before we broke up, “There is nothing,” he cried, with energy, “for which I look back upon myself with severer discipline than the time I have thrown away in other pursuits, that might else have been devoted to that wonderful man!”,

  And now for a scene a little surprising.

  The beautiful chapel of St. George, repaired and finished by the best artists at an immense expense, which was now opened after a very long shutting up for its preparations, brought innumerable strangers to Windsor, and, among others, Mr. Boswell.

  This I heard, in my way to the chapel, from Mr. Turbulent, who overtook me, and mentioned having met Mr. Boswell at the Bishop of Carlisle’s the evening before. He proposed bringing him to call upon me; but this I declined, certain how little satisfaction would be given here by the entrance of a man so famous for compiling anecdotes. But yet I really wished to see him again, for old acquaintance” sake, and unavoidable amusement from his oddity and good humour, as well as respect for the object of his constant admiration, my revered Dr. Johnson. I therefore told Mr. Turbulent I should be extremely glad to speak with him after the service was over.

  Accordingly, at the gate of the choir, Mr. Turbulent brought him to me. We saluted with mutual glee: his comic-serious face and manner have lost nothing of their wonted singularity; nor yet have his mind and language, as you will soon confess.

  “I am extremely glad to see you indeed,” he cried, “but very sorry to see you here. My dear ma”am, why do you stay? — it won’t do, ma”am! you must resign! 2 — we can put up with it no longer. I told my good host the Bishop so last night; we are all grown quite outrageous!” Whether I laughed the most, or stared the most, I am at a loss to say; but I hurried away from the cathedral, not to have such treasonable declamtions overheard, for we were surrounded by a multitude.

  He accompanied me, however, not losing one moment in continuing his exhortations: “If you do not quit, ma”am, very soon, some violent measures, I assure you, will be taken. We shall address Dr. Burney in a body; I am ready to make the harangue myself. We shall fall upon him all at once.”

  I stopped him to inquire about Sir Joshua; he said he saw him very often, and that his spirits were very good. I asked about Mr. Burke’s book. “Oh” cried he, “it will come out next week: ’tis the first book in the world, except my own, and that’s coming out also very soon; only I want your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Yes, madam; you must give me some of your choice little notes of the Doctor’s; we have seen him long enough upon stilts; I want to show him in a new light. Grave Sam, and great Sam, and solemn Sam, and learned Sam, — all these he has appeared over and over. Now I want to entwine a wreath of the graces across his brow; I want to show him as gay Sam, agreeable Sam, pleasant Sam; so you must help me with some of his beautiful billets to yourself.”

  I evaded this by declaring I had not any stores at hand. He proposed a thousand curious expedients to get at them, but I was invincible. The Bust of Johnson Frowning at Boswell,

  Courtenay, and Mrs. Thrale Then I was hurrying on, lest I should be too late. He followed eagerly, and again exclaimed, “But, ma”am, as I tell you, this won’t do — you must resign off-hand! Why, I would farm-you out myself for double, treble the money! I wish I had the regulation of such a farm, — yet I am no farmer general. But I should like to farm you, and so I will tell Dr. Burney. I mean to address him; I have a speech ready for the first opportunity.”

  He then told me his Life of Dr. Johnson was nearly printed, and took a proof-sheet out of his pocket to show me; with crowds passing and repassing, knowing me well, and staring well at him; for we were now at the iron rails of the Queen’s Lodge.

  I stopped; I could not ask him in: I saw he expected it, and was reduced to apologize, and tell him I must attend the Queen immediately.

  He uttered again stronger and stronger exhortations for my retreat, accompanied by expressions which I was obliged to check in their bud. But finding he had no chance for entering, he stopped me again at the gate, and said he would read me a page of his work.

  There was no refusing this; and he began, with a letter of Dr. Johnson’s to himself. He read it in strong imitation of the Doctor’s manner, very well, and not caricature. But Mrs. Schwellenberg was at her window, a crowd was gathering to stand round the rails, and the King and Queen and Royal family now approached from the Terrace. I made a rather quick apology, and, with a step as quick as my now weakened limbs have
left in my power, I hurried to my apartment.

  You may suppose I had inquiries enough, from all around, of “Who was the gentleman I was talking to at the rails?” And an injunction rather frank not to admit him beyond those limits.

  However, I saw him again the next morning, in coming from early prayers, and he again renewed his remonstrance, and his petition for my letters of Dr. Johnson.

  I cannot consent to print private letters, even of a man so justly celebrated, when addressed to myself; no, I shall hold sacred those revered and but too scarce testimonies of the high honour his kindness conferred upon me. One letter I have from him that is a masterpiece of elegance and kindness united. “Twas his last.

  June 5. —

  Mr. Turbulent at this time outstayed the tea-party one evening, not for his former rhodomontading, but to seriously and earnestly advise me to resign. My situation, he said, was evidently death to me. He was eager to inquire of me who was Mrs. Lenox? He had been reading, like all the rest of the world, Boswell’s Life of Dr. Johnson, and the preference there expressed of Mrs. Lenox to all other females had filled him with astonishment, as he had never even heard her name.

  These occasional sallies of Dr. Johnson, uttered from local causes and circumstances, but all retailed verbatim by Mr. Boswell, are filling all sort of readers with amaze, except the small party to whom Dr. Johnson was known, and who, by acquaintance with the power of the moment over his unguarded conversation, know how little of his solid opinion was to be gathered from his accidental assertions. The King, who was now also reading this work, applied to me for explanations without end. Every night at this period he entered the Queen’s dressing room, and delayed Her Majesty’s proceedings by a length of discourse with me upon this subject. All that flowed from himself was constantly full of the goodness and benevolence of his character; and I was never so happy as in the opportunity thus graciously given me of vindicating, in instances almost innumerable, the serious principles and various excellences of Dr. Johnson from the clouds so frequently involving and darkening them, in narrations so little calculated for any readers who were strangers to his intrinsic worth, and therefore worked upon and struck by what was faulty in his temper and manners.