To Miss Laetitia Hawkins,
2 Sion Row,
Twickenham
December 14th, 1807
Dear Miss Hawkins,
You will forgive my somewhat abbreviated answers to your many questions, but, as you rightly conjecture, I am much preoccupied with preparations for my forthcoming marriage to Admiral Keith.
My mother was indeed a great traveller; her numerous letters give proof of a singular curiosity and an aptitude for enjoyment, which virtues she retains to this day. I recall a letter she wrote from Milan stating her intention of returning to Verona and thence over the Tyrol into Germany, for the sole romantic purpose, as she put it, of washing her mouth in the Danube. Her letters to me often ended with the injunction that I must aim for happiness, movement and gaiety. Alas, I do not feel I have inherited her longing for fresh pastures, nor her capacity for happiness. It is hard to travel and be gay when one is burdened with the baggage of the past.
Of Dr Goldsmith I remember little, apart from the game of Jack and Jill and the tightness of his breeches – that and a remark attributed to him regarding Dr Johnson’s ferocity of argument – ‘If he (Johnson) misses with his pistol, he hits you with the butt end.’ This was told me by my father. Dr Johnson was distressed at Goldsmith’s death; I remember he wept at the mention of his name when we stopped at Lichfield on our way to Wales in the summer of ’74 – but then, as was the fashion of the time, Dr Johnson was not alone in finding it easy to shed tears.
On that same excursion we did indeed become acquainted with Miss Porter. She was somewhat coarse, but worthy. She referred to Dr Johnson’s mother, whom she had nursed when dying, as Grannie. I remember a fish in her kitchen and a dead bird in the garden. There was also a puff-headed mushroom under some cabbages, which burst apart when an old woman fell on it. These bleak memories are possibly to the fore on account of my mother having left behind at Streatham my infant brother, Ralph, whose head was swollen and wanting a brain. My mother loved but two of her many children, the one being Lucy, the other Harry.
To the best of my memory, the story of the drowned man, as told by Dr Johnson, was as follows. A man called Saltmarsh, by trade a brick builder, was walking one Sunday through Hyde Park in the direction of Kensington. He had with him his Newfoundland dog. Idly, he threw a stone into the Serpentine, at which the Newfoundland leapt in and re-emerged carrying a man’s hat – a gentleman’s hat. Laying it down at his master’s feet the dog dived into the water again and this time brought out a wig. A third time he returned, and now he pulled to the surface a man, or rather held the shoulder of a man gripped between his teeth. The dog was not strong enough to carry the man out of the lake, but he dragged him into the shallower water. His master was then able to wade in and bring the body on land. The dead man wore a coat with silver buttons and there was nothing in the pockets save for two sixpences and a gold box of French design in which reposed a lock of golden hair – not his, for he was almost bald and swarthy with it. No sooner had the body been laid down than the dog began to drag at the coat, and though it was driven away several times, it at last worried the sodden material so persistently that a piece tore free and hung from its jaws, one silver button catching the sunlight. Then the animal ran off, and reaching a patch of earth, scraped out a hole, dropped down the rag, covered it over and lay across it, like a hen on an egg. On enquiries being made, it was found that the drowned soul was a Mr Farthingale, who had done some injury to a young lady of a lower class than himself, and whose conscience was afterwards so troubled that he threw himself into the lake. At the close of the story, Dr Johnson observed, ‘Without buttons, we are all undone,’ which remark caused some of the company to guffaw and others to weep.
Dr Johnson’s watch, which on numerous occasions he left under his pillow at Streatham and often required my father, at some inconvenience, straight away to send after him, cost seventeen guineas and was encased in tortoiseshell. It was engraved with an inscription in Greek, the words later scratched out owing to Dr Johnson thinking them ostentatious. On his death I believe your own dear father, Sir John, removed it from the bedside table, no doubt for safety, along with certain papers. Dr Johnson’s executors insisted on its return, after which I understand it was given to Francis Barber.
I have no explanation for my mother’s fallout with Mrs Garrick, who you say was offended by some rudeness done her without subsequent apology, nor do I recall mention of a missing necklace.
In haste, I remain,
Believe me, affectionately yours,
H. M. Thrale
1775
REVOLUTION n.f. (revolution, French, revolutus, Lat.)
1 Courſe of any thing which returns to the point at which it began to move
2 Space meaſured by ſome revolution
At certain revolutions are they bought,
and feel by turns the bitter change.
Milton
The fortunes of the Thrale Brewery much improved due to the exertions of its chief clerk, Perkins, Henry Thrale fastened on the notion of going to France. The party would consist of his wife, Baretti, Johnson, Queeney and two female servants. Accordingly, the child’s eleventh birthday and Johnson’s sixty-sixth were celebrated on September 15th, three days early, at the house of Sir John Hawkins. Frank Barber was not included, an omission which offended Johnson. Dr Levet received an invitation but failed to arrive on account of his dropping into a pothole on his way home from Houndsditch, a mishap spelt out in a letter from Mrs Desmoulins awaiting them at Dover. She wrote that Levet had lain on his back for some hours, but, judging from the raucous singing that accompanied his eventual descent of the cellar steps, had returned none the worse for wear. The veracity of this report caused Johnson some concern; Mrs Desmoulins cared little for Dr Levet, though more so than Mrs Williams.
It was generally agreed that the festivities in Twickenham were not so conducive to merriment as those annually conducted in the summer house at Streatham Park. Hawkins was less than generous with the wine and Thrale woke in the night complaining of hunger. Mrs Thrale flew out of sorts owing to Queeney, on some provocation never adequately explained, tugging at the hair of Laetitia, daughter of Sir John, and reducing her to tears. The next morning it was a disgruntled group that left for the coast in two coaches.
An enthusiastic Baretti had put himself in charge of all travel arrangements; for months he had been writing to his contacts in Paris in order that his friends should be well received. Mrs Thrale, worn down by the birth of yet another sickly daughter and the death of Ralph, allowed herself to be swept along by events. She inclined towards Johnson’s view that anything was better than vacuity.
The party dallied so long in Canterbury, admiring the beauties of the cathedral, that they arrived too late to catch the tide at Dover. Baretti, who had gone on ahead to oversee the crossing, was considerably put out and fell into a sulk. He became more agreeable after Thrale expressed himself mightily pleased to have time to explore the fort and the castle. Johnson, flinging stones down into Julius Caesar’s Well, said that the reverberations emphasised the truth that the echoes of men’s actions, good as well as bad, were always susceptible to revival. He was thinking, though he did not voice it, of Levet’s stumble in the dark and of his muddied calls for help.
In the evening, walking along the shore, they witnessed a blood-red sun sliding into the waves. One moment its rays splashed the cliffs with crimson, the next the world turned black. Mrs Thrale cried out it was a wonder the sun’s drowning was not accompanied by a gigantic hissing, as when a kettle on the coals jerked water from its spout. It was a domestic observation, yet apt.
The journey through France passed enjoyably enough, though Johnson became weary of the continual oohs and aahs of appreciation loosed by his companions at this or that aspect of the landscape. There was, he felt, little to distinguish one clump of trees, one stretch of pasture, from another, and nothing to say of either save that they could be seen. For himself, he would have prefe
rred a vista of bookshelves.
He grew more cheerful when, crossing the Seine for the third time and approaching Vernon, he glimpsed his first vineyard. It was a delightful novelty to step from the chaise, take but a short clamber down the bank at the side of the road and fill one’s hat with grapes. It was the next day, when approaching St Denys, that things turned sour. It happened thus. Mrs Thrale, in the butterfly way of women, was twittering on about the sunlight darting silver arrows from the leaves of a field of asparagus, when she suddenly brought up the name of James Macpherson, author of Fingal: An Ancient Poem. The night before, she said, she had dreamt that Macpherson had approached her with fire in his eyes. The implication was obvious, for she began to simper and fan herself as though grown hot. It was true the weather was warm, but the window of the carriage was let down and a breeze ruffled the pages of the book on Johnson’s knee.
He said with admirable restraint, ‘I have never met Macpherson, yet know him to be a scoundrel. His attack upon me regarding a passage in my Journey to the Western Isles, in which I state my opinion that the poems of Ossian are impostures of the crudest sort, was not the response of a scholar.’
She: ‘Or of a gentleman—’
He: ‘I care not whether my opponent is a knight of the realm or a herder of swine, only that his intellect be sound.’
She: ‘I believe he accused you of falling into the same error some twenty years since.’
He, with less restraint: ‘To which error, Madam, do you refer?’
‘Why, that of—’ she began, and broke off abruptly, eyes widening in alarm as a distant clamour disturbed the air.
He said again, ‘What error, Madam?’ though he was only too aware she alluded to the regrettable mistake he had made in writing a complimentary preface to a pamphlet published by the schoolmaster William Laud, alleging that Milton in his composing of Paradise Lost had been guilty of plagiarism. It was unforgivable of her to bring up the subject, and cowardly to feign deafness when challenged, for he had surely expressed himself loudly enough to be heard above the screams and whinnyings that now irritated the ear.
Just then the horses were reined in with such abruptness that the carriage shuddered on its wheels and tossed the servant girl, Mags Hewson, on to his lap; in other circumstances the encounter would have been welcome.
‘Which error, Madam?’ he repeated, thrusting the girl from him, but Hester was opening the door and dropping into the road without the aid of the step. He leapt after her, demanding an answer; she ran ahead, skirts stirring up dust, towards a horse rolling belly up, hooves pawing a sky thick with circling gulls. Beyond stood a stationary carriage, much tilted.
Sitting down some yards distant, he busied himself snatching red petals, without malice, from the heads of common leadwort growing amid the grass. He refrained from indulging in the futile business of she loves me, she loves me not, and instead engaged in an argument with Macpherson. The man had not a leg to stand on: his supposed sending of a letter offering to produce the original manuscripts of the Ossian poems was an outright lie. No such letter had ever existed. The impudent rogue had even gone so far as to threaten him with violence if he failed to publish a retraction. Boswell had advised him to purchase a stout new stick to replace the old one mislaid on his visit to Flora Macdonald – in case Macpherson should seek him out.
At the recollection, he could not help laughing out loud at the idea he would have needed anything more than his fists to see off such a nincompoop. It had come to nothing, of course; the fellow was a bladder of air. As for poor William Laud, without the provision of a preface he would have been imprisoned for debt. One would need a heart cast in iron to turn one’s face from the suffering of others.
Glancing up, he saw the horse was now on its feet, albeit unsteady, and that Hester was running round in circles, squealing like a stuck pig. A moment later he was astonished to observe Baretti staggering up from the side of the road supporting a ghostly Henry Thrale, covered from head to foot in some white substance. On the grass verge, rocking back and forth, crouched Queeney, bonnet askew.
It was a full two hours before the journey continued, during which time a dozen or more peasants wearing hats quaintly woven of straw appeared from nowhere and attended to the torn traces and the buckled shafts. The postilion believed his leg to be broke, until, revived with a flagon of wine, he ran about with hardly a limp. Henry Thrale’s complexion, to be sure, was bloodless, but that was on account of his roll in the dust.
Once on their way again Johnson tried to engage Hester in conversation, but she, tight-lipped, merely clasped Queeney closer in her arms and refused to answer directly. Once, she uttered the mysterious phrase, ‘Such indifference,’ and another time, ‘It is scarcely credible …’
It was not a comfortable ride. The sun was now at its height and a quantity of flies, drawn by the smears of grape juice in his hat, buzzed relentlessly about his head. It was only later, when they reached St Germain, that Hester deigned to speak to him, and then with such coldness that he would have wished her to have kept silent. It discomforted him to be spoken to so angrily in the presence of Queeney and Baretti.
His casualness towards the fate of the occupants of the first carriage, namely Baretti, Thrale and Queeney, was, in her opinion, unworthy of a true friend, indeed, of a member of the human species. ‘I would not have believed you capable of such callousness,’ she said. ‘You … who take pride in doing good, who would give the clothes off your back to the lowest wretch in the gutter—’
‘I take no pride—’ he began.
‘To appear so unconcerned’, she continued, pearls of sweat clinging to the pale and delicious hairs trembling above the scar on her lip, ‘towards the plight of those you have been pleased to call your family—’
‘If you had not insulted me by ignoring my question,’ he protested, ‘I might have been more conscious of the gravity of the incident. As it was, I was preoccupied.’
‘Incident … incident,’ she shouted, though her voice was so high in pitch it approached a scream, ‘why, three of those closest to you nearly met with their deaths.’
She was wrong; there was but one close to him, and she unhurt.
‘The word incident’, said he, ‘does not detract from the seriousness of the situation. My Dictionary defines it as fortuitous, casual, an accidental happening—’
‘I am not concerned with definitions,’ she spat, ‘only with your lack of imagination.’
‘Imagination,’ he spluttered, ‘what part has imagination in this?’
At which she gazed at him as if seeing him for the first time and then asked, why, as a child, had he fled out into the Market Square after dwelling upon the apparition of Hamlet’s father? Before he could reply, she added scornfully, ‘Though on that we have only your word. Indeed, for all any of us know, it could have been the fable of Cinderella you read, and it was the turning of mice into footmen that caused you fright.’
Shocked, he turned to Baretti for support, but he, false friend, took her part and thunderously proclaimed that lives had been saved by the greatest providence ever exerted in favour of three human creatures.
Such nonsense rendered him speechless, but Baretti was not yet done. Did Johnson not understand, he raged, nostrils flaring, dark eyes flashing contempt, that with the traces snapped, the carriage careering with dangerous rapidity downhill, one animal overrun, the other galloping them to destruction, Henry Thrale, fearful for the safety of his daughter, had jumped out with the intention of averting disaster? By misfortune, his courageous leap had landed him on so steep an incline that he had been bounced sideways and deposited in a chalk pit. ‘The action your Master took,’ he concluded, ‘one embarked upon with the sole aim of helping others, was the likeliest thing in the world to produce broken limbs and death.’
Their combined hostility so unnerved him that he was reduced to muttering that it was not unconcern for Henry that had made him appear disaffected, rather anger at Mrs Thrale for start
ing up a controversy and then shying away from its denouement. He spoke in a contrite tone of voice, though inwardly he bridled at the Italian’s impudent bandying of the word Master, an appellation which, used by anyone but himself, reeked of servitude. Baretti’s stance struck him as curious in the extreme; it was not often he saw eye to eye with Hester. Why, when Queeney, in spite of calm seas, had grown nauseous on the crossing to Calais, he had loudly attributed it to a proximity to her mother.
The next day, when they reached Paris and things turned out better than had been feared, Mrs Thrale made her peace with him. ‘Sam,’ she bleated, ‘you will forgive me, will you not, for speaking in the heat of the moment?’
‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘it is I who should ask pardon.’
‘When we heard you laughing,’ she said, ‘even Queeney spoke out against you.’
‘Laughing?’ he echoed. ‘Who said I laughed?’
‘There was no need for the saying of it,’ she replied, ‘for the sound travelled quite clearly from where you sat beside the precipice.’
He had no remembrance of giving way to amusement, and might have argued the point had not sense prevailed; women had ever been against logic.
‘The tormenting of flies so addled me,’ he told her, ‘along with thoughts of the rascally Macpherson, that I was scarce myself.’ At which Hester was gracious enough to acknowledge that he, being a man who lived in the head rather than the body, had behaved no worse than could be expected.
He was grateful for her forgiveness and made amends by acceding to her wishes in regard to mixing with people he found uncongenial and visiting places which held no interest for him, such as dining with Madame de Brocages and running from church to church. The former outing was memorable for the close stool in the dinner room, a pewter pot in which to spit and a large and ancient cobweb trembling above the table. Mrs Thrale said the food was poor, the dish of hare being not merely tainted but putrefied, the beans old and the sugar plums uneatable. He had taken the spitting pot for an ornament and noticed nothing out of the ordinary save for the presence in the hallway of a number of footmen playing cards.
According to Queeney Page 12