the winter's walk

by dr sam johnson

illustrated by konrad kraus

Behold my fair, where-e'er we rove,  What dreary prospects round us rise, The naked hills, the leafless grove,  The hoary ground, the frowning skies. Nor only through the wasted plain,  Stern winter, is thy force confest, Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,  I feel thy pow'r usurp my breast. Enliv'ning hope, and fond desire,  Resign the heart to spleen and care, Scarce frighted love maintains his fire,  And rapture saddens to despair. In groundless hope, and causeless fear,  Unhappy man! behold thy doom, Still changing with the changeful year,  The slave of sunshine and of gloom. Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms,  With mental and corporeal strife, Snatch me, my Stella , to thy arms,  And screen me from the ills of life.

Boswell’s Life of Johnson: 283

Edited by Dan Leo, Assistant Professor of Remedial English Grammar and Spelling, Olney Community College; author of Bozzie and Dr. Sam: Sam’s Last Case, the Olney Community College Press.

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Of his last moments, my brother, Thomas David, has furnished me with the following particulars:— 'The Doctor, from the time that he was certain his death was near, appeared to be perfectly resigned, was seldom or never fretful or out of temper, and often said to his faithful servant, who gave me this account, "Attend, Francis, to the salvation of your soul, which is the object of greatest importance:" he also explained to him passages in the scripture, and seemed to have pleasure in talking upon religious subjects. 'On Monday, the 13th of December, the day on which he died, a Miss Morris, daughter to a particular friend of his, called, and said to Francis, that she begged to be permitted to see the Doctor, that she might earnestly request him to give her his blessing. Francis went into his room, followed by the young lady, and delivered the message. The Doctor turned himself in the bed, and said, "GOD bless you, my dear!" These were the last words he spoke. His difficulty of breathing increased till about seven o'clock in the evening, when Mr. Barber and Mrs. Desmoulins, who were sitting in the room, observing that the noise he made in breathing had ceased, went to the bed, and found he was dead.' About two days after his death, the following very agreeable account was communicated to Mr. Malone, in a letter by the Honourable John Byng, to whom I am much obliged for granting me permission to introduce it in my work. 'DEAR SIR,  'Since I saw you, I have had a long conversation with Cawston {William Windham’s servant – Editor}, who sat up with Dr. Johnson, from nine o'clock, on Sunday evening, till ten o'clock, on Monday morning. And, from what I can gather from him, it should seem, that Dr. Johnson was perfectly composed, steady in hope, and resigned to death. At the interval of each hour, they assisted him to sit up in his bed, and move his legs, which were in much pain; when he regularly addressed himself to fervent prayer; and though, sometimes, his voice failed him, his senses never did, during that time. The only sustenance he received, was cyder and water. He said his mind was prepared, and the time to his dissolution seemed long. At six in the morning, he enquired the hour, and, on being informed, said that all went on regularly, and he felt he had but a few hours to live. 'At ten o'clock in the morning, he parted from Cawston, saying, "You should not detain Mr. Windham's servant:— I thank you; bear my remembrance to your master." Cawston says, that no man could appear more collected, more devout, or less terrified at the thoughts of the approaching minute. 'This account has given us the satisfaction of thinking that that great man died as he lived, full of resignation, strengthened in faith, and joyful in hope.' A few days before his death, he had asked Sir John Hawkins, as one of his executors, where he should be buried; and on being answered, 'Doubtless, in Westminster-Abbey,' seemed to feel a satisfaction, very natural to a Poet; and indeed in my opinion very natural to every man of any imagination, who has no family sepulchre in which he can be laid with his fathers. Accordingly, upon Monday, December 20, his remains were deposited in that noble and renowned edifice; and over his grave was placed a large blue flag-stone, with this inscription:—         'SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.           Obiit XIII die Decembris,         Anno Domini M. DCC. LXXXIV.           Aetatis suoe LXXV.' His funeral was attended by a respectable number of his friends, particularly such of the members of the LITERARY CLUB as were then in town; and was also honoured with the presence of several of the Reverend Chapter of Westminster. Mr. Burke, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr. Windham, Mr. Langton, Sir Charles Bunbury, and Mr. Colman, bore his pall. His schoolfellow, Dr. Taylor, performed the mournful office of reading the burial service. I trust, I shall not be accused of affectation, when I declare, that I find myself unable to express all that I felt upon the loss of such a 'Guide, Philosopher, and Friend.' {The quoted phrase is from Pope’s Essay on Man. – Editor} I shall, therefore, not say one word of my own, but adopt those of an eminent friend {William Gerard Hamilton – Editor}, which he uttered with an abrupt felicity, superior to all studied compositions:— 'He has made a chasm, which not only nothing can fill up, but which nothing has a tendency to fill up. Johnson is dead. Let us go to the next best:— there is nobody; no man can be said to put you in mind of Johnson.' The End (classix comix™ is made possible in part through the generous assistance of the Bob’s Bowery Bar Fund for Indigent Artists and Littérateurs: “I should like to invite all of our studio and at-home audience to stop by Bob’s Bowery Bar this Thursday night for our annual Halloween party! Special prizes will be awarded for the most creative costumes, and for the occasion Bob will be breaking out a few kegs of his proprietary seasonal ‘pumpkin spice’ bock! Yours truly will be on hand as master of ceremonies, and musical entertainment will be provided by the Tony Winston Trio with special guest the lovely chanteuse Shirley De LaSalle! Free candy will be distributed within reason to all paying customers.” – Horace P. Sternwall, host and narrator of Bob’s Bowery Bar Presents Philip Morris Commander’s “Blanche Weinberg, Lady Psychiatrist”, broadcast live 8pm Sundays {EST} exclusively on the Dumont Television Network. This week’s play: “The Man Who Thought He Was Dead”, by Hughie P. Stumpf, starring Kitty Carlisle as “Dr. Blanche”, with special guest star Boris Karloff.)

Boswell’s Life of Johnson: 282

Edited by Dan Leo, Professor of 18th Century British Religious Studies, Olney Community College; author of Bozzie and Dr. Sam: One Final Case for Dr. Sam , the Olney Community College Press.

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Mr. Windham having placed a pillow conveniently to support him, he thanked him for his kindness, and said, 'That will do,— all that a pillow can do.' He repeated with great spirit a poem, consisting of several stanzas, in four lines, in alternate rhyme, which he said he had composed some years before, on occasion of a rich, extravagant young gentleman's coming of age; saying he had never repeated it but once since he composed it, and had given but one copy of it. That copy was given to Mrs. Thrale, now Piozzi, who has published it in a Book which she entitles British Synonymy, but which is truly a collection of entertaining remarks and stories, no matter whether accurate or not. Being a piece of exquisite satire, conveyed in a strain of pointed vivacity and humour, and in a manner of which no other instance is to be found in Johnson's writings, I shall here insert it:— Long-expected one-and-twenty,             Ling'ring year, at length is flown;           Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,               Great —- ——, are now your own.   Loosen'd from the Minor's tether,              Free to mortgage or to sell,          Wild as wind, and light as feather,              Bid the sons of thrift farewell.          Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies,              All the names that banish care;         Lavish of your grandsire's guineas,              Shew the spirit of an heir.          All that prey on vice or folly               Joy to see their quarry fly;           There the gamester, light and jolly,               There the lender, grave and sly.         Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,              Let it wander as it will;          Call the jockey, call the pander,              Bid them come and take their fill.          When the bonny blade carouses,              Pockets full, and spirits high—         What are acres? what are houses?              Only dirt, or wet or dry.          Should the guardian friend or mother               Tell the woes of wilful waste;          Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother,—              You can hang or drown at last.   As he opened a note which his servant brought to him, he said, 'An odd thought strikes me: we shall receive no letters in the grave.' He requested three things of Sir Joshua Reynolds:— To forgive him thirty pounds which he had borrowed of him; to read the Bible; and never to use his pencil on a Sunday. Sir Joshua readily acquiesced. Indeed he shewed the greatest anxiety for the religious improvement of his friends, to whom he discoursed of its infinite consequence. He begged of Mr. Hoole to think of what he had said, and to commit it to writing: and, upon being afterwards assured that this was done, pressed his hands, and in an earnest tone thanked him. Dr. Brocklesby having attended him with the utmost assiduity and kindness as his physician and friend, he was peculiarly desirous that this gentleman should not entertain any loose speculative notions, but be confirmed in the truths of Christianity, and insisted on his writing down in his presence, as nearly as he could collect it, the import of what passed on the subject: and Dr. Brocklesby having complied with the request, he made him sign the paper, and urged him to keep it in his own custody as long as he lived. Johnson, with that native fortitude, which, amidst all his bodily distress and mental sufferings, never forsook him, asked Dr. Brocklesby, as a man in whom he had confidence, to tell him plainly whether he could recover. 'Give me (said he) a direct answer.'  The Doctor having first asked him if he could bear the whole truth, which way soever it might lead, and being answered that he could, declared that, in his opinion, he could not recover without a miracle.  'Then, (said Johnson,) I will take no more physick, not even my opiates; for I have prayed that I may render up my soul to GOD unclouded.'  In this resolution he persevered, and, at the same time, used only the weakest kinds of sustenance. Being pressed by Mr. Windham to take somewhat more generous nourishment, lest too low a diet should have the very effect which he dreaded, by debilitating his mind, he said, 'I will take any thing but inebriating sustenance.' The Reverend Mr. Strahan, who was the son of his friend, and had been always one of his great favourites, had, during his last illness, the satisfaction of contributing to soothe and comfort him. That gentleman's house, at Islington, of which he is Vicar, afforded Johnson, occasionally and easily, an agreeable change of place and fresh air; and he attended also upon him in town in the discharge of the sacred offices of his profession. Mr. Strahan has given me the agreeable assurance, that, after being in much agitation, Johnson became quite composed, and continued so till his death.  Dr. Brocklesby, who will not be suspected of fanaticism, obliged me with the following accounts:— 'For some time before his death, all his fears were calmed and absorbed by the prevalence of his faith, and his trust in the merits and propitiation of JESUS CHRIST. 'He talked often to me about the necessity of faith in the sacrifice of Jesus, as necessary beyond all good works whatever, for the salvation of mankind.'   Having, as has been already mentioned, made his will on the 8th and 9th of December, and settled all his worldly affairs, he languished till Monday, the 13th of that month, when he expired, about seven o'clock in the evening, with so little apparent pain that his attendants hardly perceived when his dissolution took place. (classix comix™ is proudly sponsored by Bob’s Bowery Bar, still resisting the blandishments of so-called “urban developers” at the northwest corner of Bleecker and the Bowery: “Yes, it’s officially autumn, and that means hunting season in the mysterious Pine Barrens of New Jersey, and the addition of some tasty game dishes to the bill of fare at my favorite neighborhood taproom Bob’s Bowery Bar! Come in this week and try our Boar à la Bob: brined boar’s breast braised in bock beer with beets ‘n’ beans on buttered black bread! This dish always sells out quickly, so don’t complain to me if you wait until next weekend!” – Horace P. Sternwall, host and narrator of Bob’s Bowery Bar Presents Philip Morris Commander’s “Blanche Weinberg, Lady Psychiatrist”, broadcast live 8pm Sundays {EST} exclusively on the Dumont Television Network. This week’s play: “Listen to the Voices in My Head”, by Huberta P. Steffington, starring Kitty Carlisle as “Dr. Blanche”, with special guest star Lord Buckley.)    part 283

Boswell’s Life of Johnson: 281

Edited by Dan Leo, Professor of 18th Century British Cooking Customs, Olney Community College; author of Bozzie and Dr. Sam: The Case of the Absconded Turn-Spit, the Olney Community College Press.

Artwork personally supervised by rhoda penmarq (layout, pencils, inks, recycled lead-free house paints by eddie el greco; lettering by roy dismas ) for penmarqholistiq productions.

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The consideration of numerous papers of which he was possessed, seems to have struck Johnson's mind, with a sudden anxiety, and as they were in great confusion, it is much to be lamented that he had not entrusted some faithful and discreet person with the care and selection of them; instead of which, he in a precipitate manner, burnt large masses of them, with little regard, as I apprehend, to discrimination. Not that I suppose we have thus been deprived of any compositions which he had ever intended for the publick eye; but, from what escaped the flames, I judge that many curious circumstances relating both to himself and other literary characters have perished. Two very valuable articles, I am sure, we have lost, which were two quarto volumes, containing a full, fair, and most particular account of his own life, from his earliest recollection. I owned to him, that having accidentally seen them, I had read a great deal in them; and apologizing for the liberty I had taken, asked him if I could help it. He placidly answered, 'Why, Sir, I do not think you could have helped it.' I said that I had, for once in my life, felt half an inclination to commit theft. It had come into my mind to carry off those two volumes, and never see him more. Upon my inquiring how this would have affected him, 'Sir, (said he,) I believe I should have gone mad.' During his last illness, Johnson experienced the steady and kind attachment of his numerous friends. Mr. Hoole has drawn up a narrative of what passed in the visits which he paid him during that time, and has favoured me with a perusal of it, with permission to make extracts, which I have done. Mr. Langton informs me, that, 'one day he found Mr. Burke and four or five more friends sitting with Johnson. Mr. Burke said to him, "I am afraid, Sir, such a number of us may be oppressive to you." "No, Sir, (said Johnson,) it is not so; and I must be in a wretched state, indeed, when your company would not be a delight to me." Mr. Burke, in a tremulous voice, expressive of being very tenderly affected, replied, "My dear Sir, you have always been too good to me." Immediately afterwards he went away. This was the last circumstance in the acquaintance of these two eminent men.' The following particulars of his conversation within a few days of his death, I give on the authority of Mr. John Nichols:— 'He said, that the Parliamentary Debates were the only part of his writings which then gave him any compunction: but that at the time he wrote them, he had no conception he was imposing upon the world, though they were frequently written from very slender materials, and often from none at all,— the mere coinage of his own imagination. He never wrote any part of his works with equal velocity. Three columns of the Magazine, in an hour, was no uncommon effort, which was faster than most persons could have transcribed that quantity. 'Of his friend Cave, he always spoke with great affection. "Yet (said he,) Cave, (who never looked out of his window, but with a view to the Gentleman's Magazine,) was a penurious pay-master; he would contract for lines by the hundred, and expect the long hundred; but he was a good man, and always delighted to have his friends at his table." 'When talking of a regular edition of his own works, he said, "that he had power, [from the booksellers,] to print such an edition, if his health admitted it; but had no power to assign over any edition, unless he could add notes, and so alter them as to make them new works; which his state of health forbade him to think of. I may possibly live, (said he,) or rather breathe, three days, or perhaps three weeks; but find myself daily and gradually weaker." 'He said at another time, three or four days only before his death, speaking of the little fear he had of undergoing a chirurgical operation, "I would give one of these legs for a year more of life, I mean of comfortable life, not such as that which I now suffer;"— and lamented much his inability to read during his hours of restlessness; "I used formerly, (he added,) when sleepless in bed, to read like a Turk." 'Whilst confined by his last illness, it was his regular practice to have the church-service read to him, by some attentive and friendly Divine The Rev. Mr. Hoole performed this kind office in my presence for the last time, when, by his own desire, no more than the Litany was read; in which his responses were in the deep and sonorous voice which Mr. Boswell has occasionally noticed, and with the most profound devotion that can be imagined. His hearing not being quite perfect, he more than once interrupted Mr. Hoole, with "Louder, my dear Sir, louder, I entreat you, or you pray in vain!" — and, when the service was ended, he, with great earnestness, turned round to an excellent lady who was present, saying, "I thank you, Madam, very heartily, for your kindness in joining me in this solemn exercise. Live well, I conjure you; and you will not feel the compunction at the last, which I now feel." So truly humble were the thoughts which this great and good man entertained of his own approaches to religious perfection. 'He was earnestly invited to publish a volume of Devotional Exercises; but this, (though he listened to the proposal with much complacency, and a large sum of money was offered for it,) he declined, from motives of the sincerest modesty.’ It is to the mutual credit of Johnson and Divines of different communions, that although he was a steady Church-of-England man, there was, nevertheless, much agreeable intercourse between him and them. Let me particularly name the late Mr. La Trobe, and Mr. Hutton, of the Moravian profession. His intimacy with the English Benedictines, at Paris, has been mentioned; and as an additional proof of the charity in which he lived with good men of the Romish Church, I am happy in this opportunity of recording his friendship with the Reverend Thomas Hussey, D.D. His Catholick Majesty's Chaplain of Embassy at the Court of London, that very respectable man, eminent not only for his powerful eloquence as a preacher, but for his various abilities and acquisitions. Nay, though Johnson loved a Presbyterian the least of all, this did not prevent his having a long and uninterrupted social connection with the Reverend Dr. James Fordyce, who, since his death, hath gratefully celebrated him in a warm strain of devotional composition. Amidst the melancholy clouds which hung over the dying Johnson, his characteristical manner shewed itself on different occasions. When Dr. Warren, in the usual style, hoped that he was better; his answer was, 'No, Sir; you cannot conceive with what acceleration I advance towards death.' A man whom he had never seen before was employed one night to sit up with him. Being asked next morning how he liked his attendant, his answer was, 'Not at all, Sir: the fellow's an ideot; he is as aukward as a turn-spit when first put into the wheel, and as sleepy as a dormouse.' {Turn-spits were small dogs placed inside a wheel for the purposes of turning a spit over a cooking fire. – Editor}   (classix comix™ is made possible in part through the generous support of the Bob’s Bowery Bar Foundation for Laughably Uncommercial Arts and Letters: “I should like to extend an invitation to all our studio and at-home audience-members to join me this Columbus Day holiday at Bob’s Bowery Bar, where in honor of that brave sailor we will be serving delightful Italian specialties all day until until 4am, including such crowd-pleasers as Mama Bob’s Spaghetti with Super Spicy Meatballs, the Everything-but-the-Kitchen Sink Foot-long Hoagie, Lasagne à la Sternwall {kidneys and portabella mushrooms – yum!}, and for the first year ever, our own Bowery Vegan ‘Cheesesteak’, made with only the finest stoneground organic flour, groats, buckwheat ‘n’ navy beans!” – Horace P. Sternwall, host and narrator of Bob’s Bowery Bar Presents Philip Morris Commander’s “Blanche Weinberg, Lady Psychiatrist”, broadcast live 8pm Sundays {EST} exclusively on the Dumont Television Network. This week’s presentation: “The Neurotic Teenager”, by Hoagland P. Shuttleworth, starring Kitty Carlisle as “Dr. Blanche”, with special guest star James Dean, as ‘Jimmy’.)    part 282