I eagerly assured him that I would come the sooner, and was running off; but he called me back, and in a solemn voice, and a manner the most energetic, said: “Remember me in your prayers!”
How affecting, my dearest Susanna, such an injunction from Dr. Johnson! It almost — as once before — made me tremble, from surprise and emotion — surprise he could so honour me, and emotion that he should think himself so ill. I longed to ask him so to remember me! but he was too serious for any parleying, and I knew him too well for offering any disqualifying speeches: I merely, in a low voice, and I am sure a troubled accent, uttered an instant, and heart-felt assurance of obedience; and then, very heavily, indeed, in spirits, I left him. Great, good, and surpassing that he is, how short a time will he be our boast! I see he is going. This winter will never glide him on to a more genial season here. Elsewhere, who may hope a fairer? I now wish I had asked for his prayers! and perhaps, so encouraged, I ought: but I had not the presence of mind.
****
Melancholy was the rest of this year to Dr. Burney; and truly mournful to his daughter, who, from this last recorded meeting, felt redoubled anxiety both for the health and the sight of this illustrious invalid. But all accounts thenceforward discouraged her return to him, his pains daily becoming greater, and his weakness more oppressive: added to which obstacles, he was now, she was informed, almost constantly attended by a group of male friends.
Dr. Burney, however, resorted to Bolt-court every moment that he could tear from the imperious calls of his profession; and was instantly admitted; unless held back by insuperable impediments belonging to the malady. He might, indeed, from the kind regard of the sufferer, have seen him every day, by watching like some other assiduous friends, particularly Messrs. Langton, Strahan, the Hooles, and Sastres, whole hours in the house to catch a favourable minute; but that, for Dr. Burney, was utterly impossible. His affectionate devoirs could only be received when he arrived at some interval of ease, and then the kind invalid constantly, and with tender pleasure, gave him welcome.
The memorialist was soon afterwards engaged on a visit to Norbury Park; but immediately on her return to town, presented herself, according to her willing promise, at Bolt-court Frank Barber, the faithful negro, told her, with great sorrow, that his master was very bad indeed, though he did not keep his, bed. The poor man would have shown her up stairs. This she declined, desiring only that he would let the Doctor know that she had called to pay her respects to him, but would by no means disturb him, if he were not well enough to see her without inconvenience.
Mr. Straghan, the clergyman, was with him, Frank said, alone; and Mr. Straghan, in a few minutes, descended.
Dr. Johnson, he told her, was very ill indeed, but very much obliged to her for coming to him; and he had sent Mr. Straghan to thank her in his name, but to say that he was so very bad, and very weak, that he hoped she would excuse his not seeing her.
She was greatly disappointed; but, leaving a message of the most affectionate respect, acquiesced, and drove away; painfully certain how extremely ill, or how sorrowfully low he must be, to decline the sight of one whom so constantly, so partially, he had pressed, nay, adjured, “to come to him again and again.”
Fast, however, was approaching the time when he could so adjure her no more!
From her firm conviction of his almost boundless kindness to her, she was fearful now to importune or distress him, and forbore, for the moment, repeating her visits; leaving in Dr. Burney’s hands all propositions for their renewal. But Dr. Burney himself, not arriving at the propitious interval, unfortunately lost sight of the sufferer for nearly a week, though he sought it almost daily.
On Friday, the 10th of December, Mr. Seward brought to Dr. Burney the alarming intelligence from Frank Barber, that Dr. Warren had seen his master, and told him that he might take what opium he pleased for the alleviation of his pains.
Dr. Johnson instantly understood, and impressively thanked him, and then gravely took a last leave of him: after which, with the utmost kindness, as well as composure, he formally bid adieu to all his physicians.
Dr. Burney, in much affliction, hurried to Bolt-court; but the invalid seemed to be sleeping, and could not be spoken to till he should open his eyes. Mr. Straghan, the clergyman, gave however the welcome information, that the terror of death had now passed away; and that this excellent man no longer looked forward with dismay to his quick approaching end; but, on the contrary, with what he himself called the irradiation of hope.
This was, indeed, the greatest of consolations, at so awful a crisis, to his grieving friend; nevertheless, Dr. Burney was deeply depressed at the heavy and irreparable loss he was so soon to sustain; but he determined to make, at least, one more effort for a parting sight of his so long honoured friend. And, on Saturday, the 11th December, to his unspeakable comfort, he arrived at Bolt-court just as the poor invalid was able to be visible; and he was immediately admitted.
Dr. Burney found him seated on a great chair, propt up by pillows, and perfectly tranquil. He affectionately took the Doctor’s hand, and kindly inquired after his health, and that of his family; and then, as evermore Dr. Johnson was wont to do, he separately and very particularly named and dwelt upon the Doctor’s second daughter; gently adding, “I hope Fanny did not take it amiss, that I did not see her that morning! — I was very bad indeed!”
Dr. Burney answered, that the word amiss could never be appropos tor her; and least of all now, when he was so ill.
The Doctor ventured to stay about half an hour, which was partly spent in quiet discourse, partly in calm silence; the invalid always perfectly placid in looks and manner.
When the Doctor was retiring, Dr. Johnson again took his hand and encouraged him to call yet another time; and afterwards, when again he was departing, Dr. Johnson impressively said, though in a low voice, “Tell Fanny — to pray for me!” And then, still holding, or rather grasping, his hand, he made a prayer for himself, the most pious, humble, eloquent, and touching, Dr. Burney said, that mortal man could compose and utter. He concluded it with an amen! in which Dr. Burney fervently joined, and which was spontaneously echoed by all who were present This over, he brightened up, as if with revived spirits, and opened cheerfully into some general conversation; and when Dr. Burney, yet a third time, was taking his reluctant leave, something of his old arch look played upon his countenance as, smilingly, he said, “Tell Fanny — I think I shall yet throw the ball at her again!”
A kindness so lively, following an injunction so penetrating, reanimated a hope of admission in the memorialist; and, after church, on the ensuing morning, Sunday, the 12th of December, with the fullest approbation of Dr. Burney, she repaired once more to Bolt-court But grievously was she overset on hearing, at the door, that the Doctor again was worse, and could receive no one.
She summoned Frank Barber, and told him she had understood, from her father, that Dr. Johnson had meant to see her. Frank then, but in silence, conducted her to the parlour. She begged him merely to mention to the Doctor, that she had called with most earnest inquiries; but not to hint at any expectation of seeing him till he should be better.
Frank went up stairs; but did not return. A full hour was consumed in anxious waiting. She then saw Mr. Langton pass the parlour door, which she watchfully kept open, and ascend the stairs. She had not courage to stop or speak to him, and another hour lingered on in the same suspense.
But, at about four o’clock, Mr. Langton made his appearance in the parlour.
She took it for granted he came accidentally, but observed that, though he bowed, he forbore to speak, or even to look at her, and seemed in much disturbance.
Extremely alarmed, she durst not venture at any question; but Mrs. Davis, who was there, uneasily asked, “How is Dr. Johnson now, sir?”
“Going on to death very fast!” was the mournful reply.
The memorialist, grievously shocked and overset by so hopeless a sentence, after an invitation so sprightly of only t
he preceding evening from the dying man himself, turned to the window to recover from so painful a disappointment “Has he taken any thing, sir?” said Mrs. Davis.
“Nothing at all! We carried him some bread and milk; he refused it, and said, ‘The less the better!’”
Mrs. Davis then asked sundry other questions, from the answers to which it fully appeared that his faculties were perfect, and that his mind was quite composed.
This conversation lasted about a quarter of an hour, before the memorialist had any suspicion that Mr. Langton had entered the parlour purposely to speak to her, and with a message from Dr. Johnson.
But as soon as she could summon sufficient firmness to turn round, Mr. Langton solemnly said, “This poor man, I understand, ma’am, from Frank, desired yesterday to see you.”
“My understanding, or hoping that, sir, brought me hither to-day.”
“Poor man! ’tis a pity he did not know himself better; and that you should not have been spared this trouble.”
“Trouble?” she repeated: “I would come an hundred times to see Dr. Johnson the hundreth and first!”
“He begged me, ma’am, to tell you that he hopes you will excuse him. He is very sorry, indeed, not to see you. But he desired me to come and speak to you for him myself, and to tell you that he hopes you will excuse him; for he feels himself too weak for such an interview.”
Struck and touched to the very heart by so kind, though sorrowful a message, at a moment that seemed so awful, the memorialist hastily expressed something like thanks to Mr. Langton, who was visibly affected, and, leaving her most affectionate respects, with every warmly kind wish she could half utter, she hurried back to her father’s coach.
The very next day, Monday, the 13th of December, Dr. Johnson expired — and without a groan. Expired, it is thought, in his sleep.
He was buried in Westminster Abbey; and a noble, almost colossal statute of him, in the high and chaste workmanship of Bacon, has been erected in St Paul’s Cathedral.
The pall-bearers were Mr. Burke, Mr. Windham, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr. Colman, Sir Charles Bunbury, and Mr. Langton. Dr. Burney, with all who were in London of the literary club, attended the funeral. The Reverend Dr. Charles Burney also joined the procession.
1785.
This year, happily for Dr. Burney, re-opened with a new professional interest, that necessarily called him from the tributary sorrow with which the year 1784 had closed.
The engravings for the commemoration of Handel were now finished; and a splendid copy of the work was prepared for the king. Lord Sandwich, as one of the chief directors of the late festival, obligingly offered his services for taking the Doctor under his wing to present the book at the levee; but his majesty gave Dr. Burney to understand, through Mr. Nicolai, that he would receive it, at a private audience, in his library.
This was an honour most gratifying to Dr. Burney, who returned from his interview at the palace, in an elevation of pleasure that he communicated to his family, with the social confidence that made the charm of his domestic character.
HOUSE-BREAKING.
In this same spring, a very serious misfortune befel Dr. Burney, which, though not of the affecting cast that had lately tainted his happiness, severely attacked his worldly comforts.
Early one morning, and before he was risen, Mrs. Burney’s maid, rushing vehemently into the bed-room, screamed out: “O, sir! robbers! robbers! the house is broke open!”
A wrapping gown and slippers brought the Doctor down stairs in a moment; when he found that the bureau of Mrs. Burney, in the dining parlour, had been forced open; and saw upon the table three packets of mingled gold and silver, which seemed to have been put into three divisions for a triple booty; but which were left, it was supposed, upon some sudden alarm, while the robbers were in the act of distribution.
After securing and rejoicing in what so fortunately had been saved from seizure, Dr. Burney repaired to his study; but no abandoned pillage met his gratulations there! his own bureau had been visited with equal rapacity, though left with less precipitancy; and he soon discovered that he had been purloined of upwards of £300.
He sent instantly for an officer of the police, who unhesitatingly pronounced that the leader, at least, of the burglary, must have been a former domestic; this was decided, from remarking that he had gone straight forward to the two bureaus, which were the only depositories of money; while sundry cabinets and commodes, to the right and to the left, had been passed unransacked.
The entrance into the house had been effected through the area; and a kitchen window was still open, at the foot of which, upon the sand on the floor, the print of a man’s shoe was so perfect, that the police-officer drew its circumference with great exactitude; picking up, at the same time, a button that had been squeezed off from a coat, by the forced passage.
Dr. Burney had recently parted with a man servant of whom he had much reason to think ill, though none had occurred to make him believed a house-breaker. This man was immediately inquired for; but he had quitted the lodgings to which he had retired upon losing his place, and had acquainted no one whither he was gone.
The officers of the police, however, with their usual ferreting routine of dexterity, soon traced the suspected runaway to Hastings; where he had arrived to embark in a fishing vessel for France, but he had found none ready, and was waiting for a fair wind.
When the police officer, having intimation that he was gone to an inn for some refreshment, entered the kitchen where he was taking some bread and cheese, he got up so softly, while the officer, not to alarm him, had turned round to give some directions to a waiter, that he slid unheard out of the kitchen by an opposite door: and, quickly as the officer missed him, he was sought for in vain; not a trace of his footsteps was to be seen; though the inward guilt manifested by such an evasion redoubled the vigilance of pursuit The fugitive was soon, however, discerned on the top of a high brick wall, running along its edge in the midst of the most frightful danger, with a courage that, in any better cause, would have been worthy of admiration.
The policeman, now, composedly left him to his race and his defeat; satisfied that no asylum awaited him at the end of the wall, and that he must thence drop, without further resistance, into captivity.
Cruel for Dr. Burney is what remains of this narration: the runaway was seized, and brought to the public office, where a true bill was found for his trial, as he could give no reason for his flight; and as the button picked up in the area exactly suited a wanting one in a coat discovered to be in his possession. His shoe, also, precisely fitted the drawing on the kitchen floor. But though this circumstantial evidence was so strong as to bring to all the magistrates a conviction of his guilt, that they scrupled not to avow, it was only circumstantial; it was not positive. He had taken nothing but cash; a single bank note might have been brought home to him with proof; but to coin, who could swear? The magistrates, therefore, were compelled to discharge, though they would not utter the word acquit, the prisoner; and the Doctor had the mortification to witness in the court the repayment of upwards of fifty guineas to the felon, that had been found upon him at Hastings. The rest of the three hundred pounds must have been secured by the accomplices, or buried in some place of concealment But Dr. Burney, however aggrieved and injured by this affair, was always foremost to subscribe to the liberal maxim of the law, that it is better to acquit ten criminals, than to condemn one innocent man. He resigned himself, therefore, submissively, however little pleased, to the laws of his noble country, ever ready to consider, like Pope, “All partial evil universal good.”
* * * *
Would it be just, could it be right, to leave unqualified to the grief of his friends, and to the rage of the murmurers against destiny, a blight such as this to the industry and the welfare of Dr. Burney; and not seek to soften the concern of the kind, and not aim at mitigating the asperity of the declaimers, by opening a fairer point of view for the termination of this event, if fact and fair reality c
an supply colours for so revivifying a change of scenery?
Surely such a retention, if not exacted by discretion or delicacy, would be graceless. A secret, therefore, of more than forty-seven years’ standing, and known at this moment to no living being but this memorialist, ought now, in honour, in justice, and in gratitude, to be laid open to the surviving friends of Dr. Burney.
About a month after this treacherous depredation had filled the Doctor and his house with dismay, a lady of high rank, fortune, and independence, well known in the family, mysteriously summoned this memorialist to a private room, for a tête-à-tête, in St Martin’s street As soon as they were alone, she scrutinizingly examined that no one was within hearing on the other side of either of the doors leading into the apartment; and then solemnly said that she came to demand a little secret service.
The memorialist protested herself most ready to meet her request; but that was insufficient: the lady insisted upon a formal and positive promise, that what she should ask should be done; yet that her name in the transaction should never be divulged.
There seemed something so little reasonable in a desire for so unqualified an engagement upon a subject unknown, that the memorialist, disturbed, hesitated and hung back.
The lady was palpably hurt; and, dropping a low courtesy, with a supercilious half smile, and a brief, but civil, “Good morrow, ma’am!” was proudly stalking out of the room; when, shocked to offend her, the memorialist besought her patience; and then frankly asked, how she could promise what she was in the dark whether she could perform?
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 419
