The Life of Samuel Johnson

by James Boswell

  ‘For some months past I have been so withdrawn from the world, that I can send you nothing particular. All your friends, however, are well, and will be glad of your return to London. I am, dear Sir, yours most affectionately,

  ‘January 5, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  At a time when he was less able than he had once been to sustain a shock, he was suddenly deprived of Mr. Levett, which event he thus communicated to Dr. Lawrence: –

  ‘SIR, – Our old friend, Mr. Levett, who was last night eminently cheerful, died this morning. The man who lay in the same room, hearing an uncommon noise, got up and tried to make him speak, but without effect. He then called Mr. Holder, the apothecary, who, though when he came he thought him dead, opened a vein, but could draw no blood. So has ended the long life of a very useful and very blameless man. I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

  ‘Jan. 17, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  In one of his memorandum-books in my possession, is the following entry:– ‘January 20, Sunday. Robert Levett was buried in the church-yard of Bridewell, between one and two in the afternoon. He died on Thursday 17, about seven in the morning, by an instantaneous death. He was an old and faithful friend; I have known him from about 46. Commendavi.1065 May God have mercy on him. May he have mercy on me.’

  Such was Johnson’s affectionate regard for Levett,a that he honoured his memory with the following pathetick verses: –

  ‘CONDEMN’D to Hope’s delusive mine,

  As on we toil from day to day,

  By sudden blast or slow decline

  Our social comforts drop away.

  Well try’d through many a varying year,

  See LEVETT to the grave descend;

  Officious, innocent, sincere,

  Of every friendless name the friend.

  Yet still he fills Affection’s eye,

  Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;

  Nor, letter’d arrogance,b deny

  Thy praise to merit unrefin’d.

  When fainting Nature call’d for aid,

  And hov’ring Death prepar’d the blow,

  His vigorous remedy display’d

  The power of art without the show.

  In Misery’s darkest caverns known,

  His ready help was ever nigh,

  Where hopeless Anguish pour’d his groan,

  And lonely Want retir’d to die.c

  No summons mock’d by chill delay,

  No petty gains disdain’d by pride;

  The modest wants of every day

  The toil of every day supply’d.

  His virtues walk’d their narrow round,

  Nor made a pause, nor left a void;

  And sure th’Eternal Master found

  His single talent well employ’d.

  The busy day, the peaceful night,

  Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

  His frame was firm, his powers were bright,

  Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

  Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,

  No cold gradations of decay,

  Death broke at once the vital chain,

  And freed his soul the nearest way.’

  In one of Johnson’s registers of this year, there occurs the following curious passage: – ‘Jan. 20. The Ministry is dissolved. I prayed with Francis and gave thanks.’a

  It has been the subject of discussion, whether there are two distinct particulars mentioned here? or that we are to understand the giving of thanks to be in consequence of the dissolution of the Ministry? In support of the last of these conjectures may be urged his mean opinion of that Ministry, which has frequently appeared in the course of this work; and it is strongly confirmed by what he said on the subject to Mr. Seward: – ‘I am glad the Ministry is removed. Such a bunch of imbecility never disgraced a country. If they sent a messenger into the City to take up a printer, the messenger was taken up instead of the printer, and committed by the sitting Alderman. If they sent one army to the relief of another, the first army was defeated and taken before the second arrived. I will not say that what they did was always wrong; but it was always done at a wrong time.’

  ‘To MRS. STRAHAN

  ‘DEAR MADAM, – Mrs. Williams shewed me your kind letter. This little habitation is now but a melancholy place, clouded with the gloom of disease and death. Of the four inmates, one has been suddenly snatched away; two are oppressed by very afflictive and dangerous illness; and I tried yesterday to gain some relief by a third bleeding, from a disorder which has for some time distressed me, and I think myself to-day much better.

  ‘I am glad, dear Madam, to hear that you are so far recovered as to go to Bath. Let me once more entreat you to stay till your health is not only obtained, but confirmed. Your fortune is such as that no moderate expence deserves your care; and you have a husband, who, I believe, does not regard it. Stay, therefore, till you are quite well. I am, for my part, very much deserted; but complaint is useless. I hope God will bless you, and I desire you to form the same wish for me. I am, dear Madam, your most humble servant,

  ‘Feb. 4, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  ‘To EDMOND MALONE, ESQ.

  ‘Sir, – I have for many weeks been so much out of order, that I have gone out only in a coach to Mrs. Thrale’s, where I can use all the freedom that sickness requires. Do not, therefore, take it amiss, that I am not with you and Dr. Farmer. I hope hereafter to see you often. I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

  ‘Feb. 27, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  To THE SAME

  ‘DEAR SIR, – I hope I grow better, and shall soon be able to enjoy the kindness of my friends. I think this wild adherence toa Chatterton more unaccountable than the obstinate defence of Ossian. In Ossian there is a national pride, which may be forgiven, though it cannot be applauded. In Chatterton there is nothing but the resolution to say again what has once been said. I am, Sir, your humble servant,

  ‘March 7, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  These short letters shew the regard which Dr. Johnson entertained for Mr. Malone, who the more he is known is the more highly valued. It is much to be regretted that Johnson was prevented from sharing the elegant hospitality of that gentleman’s table, at which he would in every respect have been fully gratified. Mr. Malone, who has so ably succeeded him as an Editor of Shakspeare, has, in his Preface, done great and just honour to Johnson’s memory.

  ‘To MRS. LUCY PORTER, in Lichfield

  ‘DEAR MADAM, – I went away from Lichfield ill, and have had a troublesome time with my breath; for some weeks I have been disordered by a cold, of which I could not get the violence abated, till I had been let blood three times. I have not, however, been so bad but that I could have written, and I am sorry that I neglected it.

  ‘My dwelling is but melancholy; both Williams, and Desmoulins, and myself, are very sickly; Frank is not well; and poor Levett died in his bed the other day, by a sudden stroke; I suppose not one minute passed between health and death; so uncertain are human things.

  ‘Such is the appearance of the world about me; I hope your scenes are more cheerful. But whatever befalls us, though it is wise to be serious, it is useless and foolish, and perhaps sinful, to be gloomy. Let us, therefore, keep ourselves as easy as we can; though the loss of friends will be felt, and poor Levett had been a faithful adherent for thirty years.

  ‘Forgive me, my dear love, the omission of writing; I hope to mend that and my other faults. Let me have your prayers.

  ‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Cobb, and Miss Adey, and Mr. Pearson, and the whole company of my friends. I am, my dear, your most humble servant,

  ‘London, March 2, 1782.’ ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  To THE SAME

  ‘DEAR MADAM, – My last was but a dull letter, and I know not that this will be much more cheerful; I am, however, willing to write, because you are desirous to hear from me.

  ‘My disorder has now begun its ninth week, for it is not yet over. I was last Thursday blooded for t
he fourth time, and have since found myself much relieved, but I am very tender and easily hurt; so that since we parted I have had but little comfort, but I hope that the spring will recover me; and that in the summer I shall see Lichfield again, for I will not delay my visit another year to the end of autumn.

  ‘I have, by advertising, found poor Mr. Levett’s brothers in Yorkshire, who will take the little that he has left: it is but little, yet it will be welcome, for I believe they are of very low condition.

  ‘To be sick, and to see nothing but sickness and death, is but a gloomy state; but I hope better times, even in this world, will come, and whatever this world may with-hold or give, we shall be happy in a better state. Pray for me, my dear Lucy.

  ‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Cobb, and Miss Adey, and my old friend Hetty Baily, and to all the Lichfield ladies. I am, dear Madam, yours, affectionately,

  ‘Bolt-court, Fleet-street, ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  March 19, 1782.’

  On the day on which this letter was written, he thus feelingly mentions his respected friend and physician, Dr. Lawrence: – ‘Poor Lawrence has almost lost the sense of hearing; and I have lost the conversation of a learned, intelligent, and communicative companion, and a friend whom long familiarity has much endeared. Lawrence is one of the best men whom I have known. –Nostrum omnium miserere Deus.’a1066

  It was Dr. Johnson’s custom when he wrote to Dr. Lawrence concerning his own health, to use the Latin language. I have been favoured by Miss Lawrence with one of these letters as a specimen: –

  ‘T. Lawrencio, Medico, S.

  ‘Novum frigus, nova tussis, nova spirandi difficultas, novam sanguinis missionem suadent, quam tarnen te inconsulto nolim fieri. Ad te venire vix possum, nee est cur ad me venias. Licere vel non licere uno verbo dicendum est; cætera mihi et Holderoa reliqueris. Si per te licet, imperetur nuncio Holderum ad me deducere.

  ‘Maiis Calendis, 1782.

  ‘Postquàm tu discesseris, quòme vertam?’b1067

  ‘To CAPTAIN LANGTON,c in Rochester

  ‘DEAR SIR, – It is now long since we saw one another; and whatever has been the reason neither you have written to me, nor I to you. To let friendship die away by negligence and silence, is certainly not wise. It is voluntarily to throw away one of the greatest comforts of this weary pilgrimage, of which when it is, as it must be, taken finally away, he that travels on alone, will wonder how his esteem could be so little. Do not forget me; you see that I do not forget you. It is pleasing in the silence of solitude to think, that there is one at least, however distant, of whose benevolence there is little doubt, and whom there is yet hope of seeing again.

  ‘Of my life, from the time we parted, the history is mournful. The spring of last year deprived me of Thrale, a man whose eye for fifteen years had scarcely been turned upon me but with respect or tenderness; for such another friend, the general course of human things will not suffer man to hope. I passed the summer at Streatham, but there was no Thrale; and having idled away the summer with a weakly body and neglected mind, I made a journey to Staffordshire on the edge of winter. The season was dreary, I was sickly, and found the friends sickly whom I went to see. After a sorrowful sojourn, I returned to a habitation possessed for the present by two sick women, where my dear old friend, Mr. Levett, to whom as he used to tell me, I owe your acquaintance, died a few weeks ago, suddenly in his bed: there passed not, I believe, a minute between health and death. At night, as at Mrs. Thrale’s I was musing in my chamber, I thought with uncommon earnestness, that however I might alter my mode of life, or whithersoever I might remove, I would endeavour to retain Levett about me; in the morning my servant brought me word that Levett was called to another state, a state for which, I think, he was not unprepared, for he was very useful to the poor. How much soever I valued him, I now wish that I had valued him more.

  ‘I have myself been ill more than eight weeks of a disorder, from which at the expence of about fifty ounces of blood, I hope I am now recovering.

  ‘You, dear Sir, have, I hope, a more cheerful scene; you see George fond of his book, and the pretty misses airy and lively, with my own little Jenny equal to the best: and in whatever can contribute to your quiet or pleasure, you have Lady Rothes ready to concur. May whatever you enjoy of good be encreased, and whatever you suffer of evil be diminished. I am, dear Sir, your humble servant, ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  ‘Bolt-court, Fleet-street, March 20, 1782.’

  ‘To MR. HECTOR, in Birminghama

  ‘DEAR SIR, – I hope I do not very grossly flatter myself to imagine that you and dear Mrs. Carelessb will be glad to hear some account of me. I performed the journey to London with very little inconvenience, and came safe to my habitation, where I found nothing but ill health, and, of consequence, very little cheerfulness. I then went to visit a little way into the country, where I got a complaint by a cold which has hung eight weeks upon me, and from which I am, at the expence of fifty ounces of blood, not yet free. I am afraid I must once more owe my recovery to warm weather, which seems to make no advances towards us.

  ‘Such is my health, which will, I hope, soon grow better. In other respects I have no reason to complain. I know not that I have written anything more generally commended than the Lives of the Poets; and have found the world willing enough to caress me, if my health had invited me to be in much company; but this season I have been almost wholly employed in nursing myself.

  ‘When summer comes I hope to see you again, and will not put off my visit to the end of the year. I have lived so long in London, that I did not remember the difference of seasons.

  ‘Your health, when I saw you, was much improved. You will be prudent enough not to put it in danger. I hope, when we meet again, we shall all congratulate each other upon fair prospects of longer life; though what are the pleasures of the longest life, when placed in comparison with a happy death? I am, dear Sir, yours most affectionately,

  ‘London, March 21, 1782. ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  To THE SAME

  [Without a date, but supposed

  to be about this time.]1068

  ‘DEAR SIR,

  ‘That you and dear Mrs. Careless should have care or curiosity about my health, gives me that pleasure which every man feels from finding himself not forgotten. In age we feel again that love of our native place and our early friends, which in the bustle or amusements of middle life were overborne and suspended. You and I should now naturally cling to one another: we have outlived most of those who could pretend to rival us in each other’s kindness. In our walk through life we have dropped our companions, and are now to pick up such as chance may offer us, or to travel on alone. You, indeed, have a sister, with whom you can divide the day: I have no natural friend left; but Providence has been pleased to preserve me from neglect; I have not wanted such alleviations of life as friendship could supply. My health has been, from my twentieth year, such as has seldom afforded me a single day of ease; but it is at least not worse: and I sometimes make myself believe that it is better. My disorders are, however, still sufficiently oppressive.

  ‘I think of seeing Staffordshire again this autumn, and intend to find my way through Birmingham, where I hope to see you and dear Mrs. Careless well. I am, Sir, your affectionate friend, ‘SAM. JOHNSON.’

  I wrote to him at different dates; regretted that I could not come to London this spring, but hoped we should meet somewhere in the summer; mentioned the state of my affairs, and suggested hopes of some preferment; informed him, that as The Beauties of Johnson had been published in London, some obscure scribbler1069 had published at Edinburgh what he called The deformities of Johnson.

  ‘To JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ.

  ‘DEAR SIR, – The pleasure which we used to receive from each other on Good-Friday and Easter-day, we must be this year content to miss. Let us, however, pray for each other, and hope to see one another yet from time to time with mutual delight. My disorder has been a cold, which impeded the organs of respiration, and kept
me many weeks in a state of great uneasiness; but by repeated phlebotomy1070 it is now relieved; and next to the recovery of Mrs. Boswell, I flatter myself, that you will rejoice at mine.

  ‘What we shall do in the summer it is yet too early to consider. You want to know what you shall do now; I do not think this time of bustle and confusion likely to produce any advantage to you. Every man has those to reward and gratify who have contributed to his advancement. To come hither with such expectations at the expence of borrowed money, which, I find, you know not where to borrow, can hardly be considered as prudent. I am sorry to find, what your solicitation seems to imply, that you have already gone the whole length of your credit. This is to set the quiet of your whole life at hazard. If you anticipate your inheritance, you can at last inherit nothing; all that you receive must pay for the past. You must get a place, or pine in penury, with the empty name of a great estate. Poverty, my dear friend, is so great an evil, and pregnant with so much temptation, and so much misery, that I cannot but earnestly enjoin you to avoid it. Live on what you have; live if you can on less; do not borrow either for vanity or pleasure; the vanity will end in shame, and the pleasure in regret: stay therefore at home, till you have saved money for your journey hither.

  ‘The Beauties of Johnson are said to have got money to the collector; if the Deformities have the same success, I shall be still a more extensive benefactor.

  ‘Make my compliments to Mrs. Boswell, who is, I hope, reconciled to me; and to the young people, whom I never have offended.

  ‘You never told me the success of your plea against the Solicitors. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate,