386 AT LUTON HOE. CHAPTER XL. JOHNSON REVISITS SCENES OF YOUTH-DEATH -ELEGY-SICK AT HEART. (1781-1782.) OF MR. LEVETT THE first few days of June the Doctor passed in a visit to Bedfordshire, to Squire Dilly the elder, brother of his friends the booksellers in the Poultry. This visit was varied by an excursion to Luton Hoe, the magnificent seat of Lord Bute. When shown the botanical garden, the Doctor asked, "Is not every garden a botanical garden?" When told that there was a shrubbery to the extent of several miles: "That is making a very foolish use of the ground: a little of it is very well." When it was proposed that they should walk on the pleasure-ground: "Don't let us fatigue ourselves. Why should we walk there? Here's a fine tree, let's get to the top of it." But upon the whole he was very much pleased. He said, "This is one of the places I do not regret having come to see. It is a very stately place indeed; in the house magnificence is not sacrificed for convenience, nor convenience to magnificence. The library is very splendid; the dignity of the rooms is very great; and the quantity of pictures is beyond expectation-beyond hope." On the fifth of June Johnson returned to London, having spent two or three very pleasant days in this country ramble. Rural nature never threw the Doctor into raptures; but he enjoyed it nevertheless in his own way-though he took a kind of wicked delight in concealing his satisfaction. "It was not before yesterday that I received your splendid benefaction. To a hand so liberal in distributing I hope nobody will envy the power of acquiring. "I am, dear Sir, "Your obliged "And most humble servant, "SAM. JOHNSON." Johnson's own liberality to the distressed was extraordinary; he gave largely and made no fuss about it: it was neither his creed nor his practice to shed maudlin tears over misery and want, but, in a prompt manly way, he was constantly soothing the one and relieving the other. And he would beg, too, from his friends when his own pockets were empty-as appears from the letter just quoted. Yet, when not called upon to give, a strong desire to keep would at times get the better of him. Boswell confessed to him one day that he " was occasionally troubled with a fit of narrowness.” "Why, Sir," said Johnson, "so am I, but I do not tell it." He would now and then borrow a shilling from his friend, and, when asked for it again, would seem rather out of humour. Once he said, "Boswell, lend me sixpence—not to be repaid." Johnson's is one of the richest characters on record. “August 9, 3 p.m. ætat. 72, in the summer-house at Streatham. "After innumerable resolutions formed and neglected, I have retired hither, to plan a life of great diligence, in hope that I may yet be useful, and be daily better prepared to appear before my Creator and my Judge, from whose infinite mercy I humbly call for assistance and support. "To pass eight hours every day in some serious employment. "Having prayed, I purpose to employ the next six weeks upon the Italian language, for my settled study." 388 A SAD LETTER. In the autumn he went to Oxford, Birmingham, Lichfield, and Ashbourne: "The motives of my journey I hardly know; I omitted it last year, and am not willing to miss it again." But he goes on to evolve out of his consciousness sufficient reasons for this impulse to visit his native place once more: "Hector is likewise an old friend, the only companion of my childhood that passed through school with me. We have always loved one another; perhaps we may be made better by some serious conversation, of which, however, I have no distinct hope." And again: "At Lichfield, my native place, I hope to show a good example by frequent attendance on public worship." The old man had better go, reason or no reason; for the time is short. "DEAR SIR, "TO JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ. "January 5, 1782. "I sit down to answer your letter on the same day in which I received it, and am pleased that my first letter of the year is to you. No man ought to be at ease while he knows himself in the wrong; and I have not satisfied myself with my long silence. The letter relating to Mr. Sinclair, however, was, I believe, never brought. "My health has been tottering this last year; and I can give no very laudable account of my time. I am always hoping to do better than I have ever hitherto done. "My journey to Ashbourne and Staffordshire was not pleasant; for what enjoyment has a sick man visiting the sick? Shall we ever have another frolic like our journey to the Hebrides? "I hope that dear Mrs. Boswell will surmount her complaints. In losing her you will lose your anchor, and be tost, without stability, by the waves of life. I wish both her and you very many years, and very happy. "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, "SAM. JOHNSON." DEATH OF LEVETT. 389 That is a sad letter: the Doctor's pilgrimage to the scenes of his youth has not made him feel himself younger. The shadows are lengthening towards the close of a long day. "SIR, "TO DR. LAWRENCE. “Fanuary 17, 1782. "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, "SAM. JOHNSON." He "January 20, Sunday. Robert Levett was buried in the churchyard of Bridewell, between one and two in the afternoon. 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. May God have mercy on him. May He have mercy on me." "Condemned to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blast or slow decline Well try'd through many a varying year, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind, Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting Nature call'd for aid, And hov'ring Death prepared the blow, The power of art without the show. In Misery's darkest caverns known, No summons mock'd by chill delay, His virtues walk'd their narrow round, The busy day, the peaceful night, His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Then, with no throbs of fiery pain, And freed his soul the nearest way." A sweeter tribute never was paid to the memory of a man. Wordsworth is right: strong and deep feeling makes us all poets; and Johnson's feeling, when he wrote these verses, was both strong and deep-beyond expression in aught but song. Yet, in the midst of all this sorrow-which is very real, and this sense of loneliness—which is profound, we come upon the fol lowing serio-comic entry in one of the Doctor's diaries of this year: "Jan. 20. and gave The ministry is dissolved. I prayed with Francis, thanks." Johnson's was a big heart; there was room in it at any one moment for many feelings which most people can only accommodate at separate times. |