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Letters, a non-fiction book by Samuel Johnson |
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Letter 42. To Mrs. Thrale |
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_ LETTER XLII. To MRS. THRALE DEAR MADAM,--On Sunday I dined with poor Lawrence, who is deafer than ever. When he was told that Dr. Moisy visited Mr. Thrale, he inquired for what? and said there was nothing to be done, which nature would not do for herself. On Sunday evening, I was at Mrs. Vesy's, and there was inquiry about my master, but I told them all good. There was Dr. Bernard of Eton, and we made a noise all the evening; and there was Pepys, and Wraxal, till I drove him away. And I have no loss of my mistress, who laughs, and frisks, and frolicks it all the long day, and never thinks of poor Colin. If Mr. Thrale will but continue to mend, we shall, I hope, come together again, and do as good things as ever we did; but, perhaps, you will be made too proud to heed me, and yet, as I have often told you, it will not be easy for you to find such another. Queeney has been a good girl, and wrote me a letter; if Burney said she would write, she told you a fib. She writes nothing to me. She can write home fast enough. I have a good mind not to let her know that Dr. Bernard, to whom I had recommended her novel, speaks of it with great commendation, and that the copy which she lent me, has been read by Dr. Lawrence three times over. And yet what a gipsy it is. She no more minds me than if I were a Brangton. Pray speak to Queeney to write again. I have had a cold and a cough, and taken opium, and think I am better. We have had very cold weather; bad riding weather for my master, but he will surmount it all. Did Mrs. Browne make any reply to your comparison of business with solitude, or did you quite down her? I am much pleased to think that Mrs. Cotton thinks me worth a frame, and a place upon her wall; her kindness was hardly within my hope, but time does wonderful things. All my fear is, that if I should come again, my print would be taken down. I fear I shall never hold it. Who dines with you? Do you see Dr. Woodward, or Dr. Harrington? Do you go to the house where they write for the myrtle? You are at all places of high resort, and bring home hearts by dozens; while I am seeking for something to say about men, of whom I know nothing, but their verses, and, sometimes, very little of them. Now I have begun, however, I do not despair of making an end. Mr. Nichols holds, that Addison is the most taking of all that I have done. I doubt they will not be done, before you come away. Now you think yourself the first writer in the world for a letter about nothing. Can you write such a letter as this? So miscellaneous, with such noble disdain of regularity, like Shakespeare's works; such graceful negligence of transition, like the ancient enthusiasts? The pure voice of nature and of friendship. Now, of whom shall I proceed to speak? Of whom but Mrs. Montague? Having mentioned Shakespeare and nature, does not the name of Montague force itself upon me? Such were the transitions of the ancients, which now seem abrupt, because the intermediate idea is lost to modern understandings. I wish her name had connected itself with friendship; but, ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain! One thing, however, is left me, I have still to complain; but I hope I shall not complain much, while you have any kindness for me. I am, dearest, and dearest madam, your, &c. London, April, 11, 1780.
DEAREST MADAM,--Mr. Thrale never will live abstinently, till he can persuade himself to abstain by rule. I lived on potatoes on Friday, and on spinage to-day; but I have had, I am afraid, too many dinners of late. I took physick too both days, and hope to fast to-morrow. When he comes home, we will shame him, and Jebb shall scold him into regularity. I am glad, however, that he is always one of the company, and that my dear Queeney is again another. Encourage, as you can, the musical girl. Nothing is more common than mutual dislike, where mutual approbation is particularly expected. There is often on both sides a vigilance, not over-benevolent; and as attention is strongly excited, so that nothing drops unheeded, any difference in taste or opinion, and some difference, where there is no restraint, will commonly appear, immediately generates dislike. Never let criticisms operate upon your face, or your mind; it is very rarely that an author is hurt by his criticks. The blaze of reputation cannot be blown out, but it often dies in the socket; a very few names may be considered as perpetual lamps, that shine unconsumed. From the author of Fitzosborne's Letters, I cannot think myself in much danger. I met him only once, about thirty years ago, and, in some small dispute, reduced him to whistle; having not seen him since, that is the last impression. Poor Moore, the fabulist, was one of the company. Mrs. Montague's long stay, against her own inclination, is very convenient. You would, by your own confession, want a companion; and she is "par pluribus," conversing with her you may "find variety in one." At Mrs. Ord's I met one Mrs. B--, a travelled lady, of great spirit, and some consciousness of her own abilities. We had a contest of gallantry, an hour long, so much to the diversion of the company, that at Ramsay's, last night, in a crowded room, they would have pitted us again. There were Smelt, and the bishop of St. Asaph, who comes to every place; and lord Monboddo, and sir Joshua, and ladies out of tale. The exhibition, how will you do either to see or not to see! The exhibition is eminently splendid. There is contour, and keeping, and grace, and expression, and all the varieties of artificial excellence. The apartments were truly very noble. The pictures, for the sake of a skylight, are at the top of the house; there we dined, and I sat over against the archbishop of York. See how I live, when I am not under petticoat government. I am, &c. London, May 1, 1780.
London, June 9, 1780. DEAR MADAM,--To the question, Who was impressed with consternation? it may, with great truth, be answered, that every body was impressed, for nobody was sure of his safety. On Friday, the good protestants met in St. George's fields, at the summons of lord George Gordon, and marching to Westminster, insulted the lords and commons, who all bore it with great tameness. At night, the outrages began, by the demolition of the mass-house by Lincoln's inn. An exact journal of a week's defiance of government, I cannot give you. On Monday, Mr. Strahan, who had been insulted, spoke to lord Mansfield, who had, I think been insulted too, of the licentiousness of the populace; and his lordship treated it, as a very slight irregularity. On Tuesday night, they pulled down Fielding's house and burnt his goods in the street. They had gutted, on Monday sir George Saville's house, but the building was saved. On Tuesday evening, leaving Fielding's ruins, they went to Newgate, to demand their companions, who had been seized, demolishing the chapel. The keeper could not release them, but by the mayor's permission, which he went to ask; at his return, he found all the prisoners released, and Newgate in a blaze. They then went to Bloomsbury, and fastened upon lord Mansfield's house which they pulled down; and as for his goods, they totally burnt them. They have since gone to Caen wood, but a guard was there before them. They plundered some papists, I think, and burnt a mass-house in Moorfields the same night. On Wednesday, I walked with Dr. Scott, to look at Newgate, and found it in ruins, with the fire yet glowing As I went by, the protestants were plundering the Sessions house at the Old Bailey. There were not, I believe, a hundred; but they did their work at leisure, in full security, without sentinels, without trepidation, as men lawfully employed in full day. Such is the cowardice of a commercial place. On Wednesday they broke open the Fleet, and the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea, and Wood street Counter, and Clerkenwell Bridewell, and released all the prisoners. At night, they set fire to the Fleet, and to the King's Bench, and I know not how many other places; and one might see the glare of conflagration fill the sky from many parts. The sight was dreadful. Some people were threatened; Mr. Strahan advised me to take care of myself. Such a time of terrour you have been happy in not seeing. The king said, in council, that the magistrates had not done their duty, but that he would do his own; and a proclamation was published, directing us to keep our servants within doors, as the peace was now to be preserved by force. The soldiers were sent out to different parts, and the town is now at quiet. What has happened at your house, you will know; the harm is only a few butts of beer; and I think you may be sure that the danger is over. There is a body of soldiers at St. Margaret's hill. Of Mr. Tyson I know nothing, nor can guess to what he can allude; but I know that a young fellow of little more than seventy is naturally an unresisted conqueror of hearts. Pray tell Mr. Thrale that I live here and have no fruit, and if he does not interpose, am not likely to have much; but, I think, he might as well give me a little, as give all to the gardener. Pray make my compliments to Queeney and Burney. I am, &c.
June 10, 1780. DEAR MADAM,--You have, ere now, heard and read enough to convince you, that we have had something to suffer, and something to fear, and, therefore, I think it necessary to quiet the solicitude which you undoubtedly feel, by telling you that our calamities and terrours are now at an end. The soldiers are stationed so as to be every where within call; there is no longer any body of rioters, and the individuals are hunted to their holes, and led to prison; the streets are safe and quiet: lord George was last night sent to the Tower. Mr. John Wilkes was, this day, with a party of soldiers, in my neighbourhood, to seize the publisher of a seditious paper. Every body walks, and eats, and sleeps in security. But the history of the last week would fill you with amazement: it is without any modern example. Several chapels have been destroyed, and several inoffensive papists have been plundered, but the high sport was to burn the gaols. This was a good rabble trick. The debtors and the criminals were all set at liberty; but, of the criminals, as has always happened, many are already retaken, and two pirates have surrendered themselves, and it is expected that they will be pardoned. Government now acts again with its proper force; and we are all again under the protection of the king and the law. I thought that it would be agreeable to you and my master, to have my testimony to the publick security; and that you would sleep more quietly, when I told you, that you are safe. I am, dearest lady, your, &c.
London, April 5, 1781. DEAREST MADAM,--Of your injunctions, to pray for you, and write to you, I hope to leave neither unobserved; and I hope to find you willing, in a short time, to alleviate your trouble by some other exercise of the mind. I am not without my part of the calamity. No death, since that of my wife, has ever oppressed me like this. But let us remember, that we are in the hands of him who knows when to give and when to take away; who will look upon us, with mercy, through all our variations of existence, and who invites us to call on him in the day of trouble. Call upon him in this great revolution of life, and call with confidence. You will then find comfort for the past, and support for the future. He that has given you happiness in marriage, to a degree of which, without personal knowledge, I should have thought the description fabulous, can give you another mode of happiness as a mother, and, at last, the happiness of losing all temporal cares, in the thoughts of an eternity in heaven. I do not exhort you to reason yourself into tranquillity. We must first pray, and then labour; first implore the blessing of God, and use those means which he puts into our hands. Cultivated ground has few weeds; a mind, occupied by lawful business, has little room for useless regret. We read the will to-day; but I will not fill my first letter with any other account, than that, with all my zeal for your advantage, I am satisfied; and, that the other executors, more used to consider property than I, commended it for wisdom and equity. Yet, why should I not tell you, that you have five hundred pounds for your immediate expenses, and two thousand pounds a year, with both the houses, and all the goods. Let us pray for one another, that the time, whether long or short, that shall yet be granted us, may be well spent; and, that, when this life, which, at the longest, is very short, shall come to an end, a better may begin, which shall never end. I am, dearest madam, your, &c.
April 7, 1781. DEAR MADAM,--I hope you begin to find your mind grow clearer. My part of the loss hangs upon me. I have lost a friend of boundless kindness, at an age when it is very unlikely that I should find another. If you think change of place likely to relieve you, there is no reason why you should not go to Bath; the distances are unequal, but with regard to practice and business they are the same. It is a day's journey from either place; and the post is more expeditious and certain to Bath. Consult only your own inclination, for there is really no other principle of choice. God direct and bless you. Mr. C--has offered Mr. P--money, but it was not wanted. I hope we shall all do all we can to make you less unhappy, and you must do all you can for yourself. What we, or what you can do, will, for a time, be but little; yet, certainly, that calamity which may be considered as doomed to fall inevitably on half mankind, is not finally without alleviation. It is something for me, that, as I have not the decrepitude, I have not the callousness of old age. I hope, in time, to be less affected. I am, &c.
London, April 9, 1781. DEAR MADAM,--That you are gradually recovering your tranquillity is the effect to be humbly expected from trust in God. Do not represent life as darker than it is. Your loss has been very great, but you retain more than almost any other can hope to possess. You are high in the opinion of mankind; you have children, from whom much pleasure may be expected; and that you will find many friends you have no reason to doubt. Of my friendship, be it worth more or less, I hope you think yourself certain, without much art or care. It will not be easy for me to repay the benefits that I have received; but I hope to be always ready at your call. Our sorrow has different effects; you are withdrawn into solitude, and I am driven into company. I am afraid of thinking what I have lost. I never had such a friend before. Let me have your prayers and those of my dear Queeney. The prudence and resolution of your design to return so soon to your business and your duty, deserves great praise; I shall communicate it, on Wednesday, to the other executors. Be pleased to let me know, whether you would have me come to Streatham to receive you, or stay here till the next day. I am, &c.
Bolt court, Fleet street, June 19, 1783. DEAR MADAM,--I am sitting down, in no cheerful solitude, to write a narrative, which would once have affected you with tenderness and sorrow, but which you will, perhaps, pass over now with a careless glance of frigid indifference. For this diminution of regard, however, I know not whether I ought to blame you, who may have reasons which I cannot know; and I do not blame myself, who have, for a great part of human life, done you what good I could, and have never done you evil. I have been disordered in the usual way, and had been relieved, by the usual methods, by opium and catharticks, but had rather lessened my dose of opium. On Monday, the 16th, I sat for my picture, and walked a considerable way, with little inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening, I felt myself light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed, and, in a short time, waked and sat up, as has been long my custom, when I felt a confusion and indistinctness in my head, which lasted, I suppose, about half a minute; I was alarmed, and prayed God, that, however he might afflict my body, he would spare my understanding. This prayer, that I might try the integrity of my faculties, I made in Latin verse. The lines were not very good, but I knew them not to be very good: I made them easily, and concluded myself to be unimpaired in my faculties. Soon after, I perceived that I had suffered a paralytick stroke, and that my speech was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection, in this dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered that, perhaps, death itself, when it should come, would excite less horrour than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the vocal organs, I took two drams. Wine has been celebrated for the production of eloquence. I put myself into violent motion, and, I think, repeated it; but all was vain. I then went to bed, and, strange as it may seem, I think, slept. When I saw light, it was time to contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, he left me my hand: I enjoyed a mercy, which was not granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now, perhaps, overlooks me, as I am writing, and rejoices that I have what he wanted. My first note was, necessarily, to my servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend, why he should read what I put into his hands. I then wrote a card to Mr. Allen, that I might have a discreet friend at hand, to act as occasion should require. In penning this note, I had some difficulty; my hand, I knew not how nor why, made wrong letters. I then wrote to Dr. Taylor, to come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden, and I sent to Dr. Brocklesby, who is my neighbour. My physicians are very friendly and very disinterested, and give me great hopes, but you may imagine my situation. I have so far recovered my vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's prayer, with no very imperfect articulation. My memory, I hope, yet remains as it was; but such an attack produces solicitude for the safety of every faculty. How this will be received by you, I know not. I hope you will sympathize with me; but, perhaps,
To the girls, who do not write often, for Susy has written only once, and Miss Thrale owes me a letter, I earnestly recommend, as their guardian and friend, that they remember their creator in the days of their youth. I suppose, you may wish to know, how my disease is treated by the physicians. They put a blister upon my back, and two from my ear to my throat, one on a side. The blister on the back has done little, and those on the throat have not risen. I bullied and bounced, (it sticks to our last sand,) and compelled the apothecary to make his salve according to the Edinburgh dispensatory, that it might adhere better. I have two on now of my own prescription. They, likewise, give me salt of hartshorn, which I take with no great confidence, but I am satisfied that what can be done, is done for me. O God! give me comfort and confidence in thee; forgive my sins; and, if it be thy good pleasure, relieve my diseases, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen. I am almost ashamed of this querulous letter; but now it is written, let it go. I am, &c.
DEAR MADAM,--Among those that have inquired after me, sir Philip is one; and Dr. Burney was one of those who came to see me. I have had no reason to complain of indifference or neglect. Dick Burney is come home five inches taller. Yesterday, in the evening, I went to church, and have been to-day to see the great burning-glass, which does more than was ever done before, by the transmission of the rays, but is not equal in power to those which reflect them. It wastes a diamond placed in the focus, but causes no diminution of pure gold. Of the rubies, exposed to its action, one was made more vivid, the other paler. To see the glass, I climbed up stairs to the garret, and then up a ladder to the leads, and talked to the artist rather too long; for my voice, though clear and distinct for a little while, soon tires and falters. The organs of speech are yet very feeble, but will, I hope, be, by the mercy of God, finally restored: at present, like any other weak limb, they can endure but little labour at once. Would you not have been very sorry for me, when I could scarcely speak? Fresh cantharides were this morning applied to my head, and are to be continued some time longer. If they play me no treacherous tricks, they give me very little pain. Let me have your kindness and your prayers; and think on me, as on a man, who, for a very great portion of your life has done you all the good he could, and desires still to be considered, madam, your, &c.
London, July 1, 1783. DEAREST MADAM,--This morning I took the air by a ride to Hampstead, and this afternoon I dined with the club. But fresh cantharides were this day applied to my head. Mr. Cator called on me to-day, and told me, that he had invited you back to Streatham. I showed the unfitness of your return thither, till the neighbourhood should have lost its habits of depredation, and he seemed to be satisfied. He invited me, very kindly and cordially, to try the air of Beckenham; and pleased me very much by his affectionate attention to Miss Vesy. There is much good in his character, and much usefulness in his knowledge. Queeney seems now to have forgotten me. Of the different appearance of the hills and valleys an account may, perhaps, be given, without the supposition of any prodigy! If she had been out, and the evening was breezy, the exhalations would rise from the low grounds very copiously; and the wind that swept and cleared the hills, would only, by its cold, condense the vapours of the sheltered valleys. Murphy is just gone from me; he visits me very kindly, and I have no unkindness to complain of. I am sorry that sir Philip's request was not treated with more respect, nor can I imagine what has put them so much out of humour; I hope their business is prosperous. I hope that I recover by degrees, but my nights are restless; and you will suppose the nervous system to be somewhat enfeebled. I am, madam, your, &c.
London, October 9, 1783. Two nights ago, Mr. Burke sat with me a long time; he seems much pleased with his journey. We had both seen Stonehenge this summer, for the first time. I told him that the view had enabled me to confute two opinions which have been advanced about it. One, that the materials are not natural stones, but an artificial composition, hardened by time. This notion is as old as Camden's time; and has this strong argument to support it, that stone of that species is nowhere to be found. The other opinion, advanced by Dr. Charlton, is, that it was erected by the Danes. Mr. Bowles made me observe, that the transverse stones were fixed on the perpendicular supporters by a knob, formed on the top of the upright stone, which entered into a hollow, cut in the crossing stone. This is a proof, that the enormous edifice was raised by a people who had not yet the knowledge of mortar; which cannot be supposed of the Danes, who came hither in ships, and were not ignorant, certainly, of the arts of life. This proves, likewise, the stones not to be factitious; for they that could mould such durable masses, could do much more than make mortar, and could have continued the transverse from the upright part with the same paste. You have, doubtless, seen Stonehenge; and if you have not, I should think it a hard task to make an adequate description. It is, in my opinion, to be referred to the earliest habitation of the island, as a druidical monument of, at least, two thousand years; probably the most ancient work of man, upon the island. Salisbury cathedral, and its neighbour Stonehenge, are two eminent monuments of art and rudeness, and may show the first essay, and the last perfection in architecture. I have not yet settled my thoughts about the generation of light air, which I, indeed, once saw produced, but I was at the height of my great complaint. I have made inquiry, and shall soon be able to tell you how to fill a balloon. I am, madam, your, &c.
London, Dec. 27, 1783. DEAR MADAM,--The wearisome solitude of the long evenings did, indeed, suggest to me the convenience of a club in my neighbourhood, but I have been hindered from attending it by want of breath. If I can complete the scheme, you shall have the names and the regulations. The time of the year, for I hope the fault is rather in the weather than in me, has been very hard upon me. The muscles of my breast are much convulsed. Dr. Heberden recommends opiates, of which I have such horrour, that I do not think of them but _in extremis_. I was, however, driven to them, last night, for refuge, and, having taken the usual quantity, durst not go to bed, for fear of that uneasiness to which a supine posture exposes me, but rested all night in a chair, with much relief, and have been, to-day, more warm, active, and cheerful. You have more than once wondered at my complaint of solitude, when you hear that I am crowded with visits. "Inopem me copia fecit." Visitors are no proper companions in the chamber of sickness. They come, when I could sleep or read, they stay till I am weary, they force me to attend, when my mind calls for relaxation, and to speak, when my powers will hardly actuate my tongue. The amusements and consolations of languor and depression are conferred by familiar and domestick companions, which can be visited or called at will, and can, occasionally, be quitted or dismissed, who do not obstruct accommodation by ceremony, or destroy indolence by awakening effort. Such society I had with Levet and Williams; such I had where--I am never likely to have it more. I wish, dear lady, to you and my dear girls, many a cheerful and pious Christmas. I am, your, &c. _ |
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