the
curtailment of his roaming proved a crushing blow to the
doctor's spirit. Confined now to Bolt Court, loneliness was
fast becoming a mortal enemy of the doctor, and he
bestowed the name 'black dog' upon his deplorable bouts
of melancholia. He appeared to have even lost his tendency
to become excessively distracted at what he insisted were
his witticisms, but what others often perceived to be nothing
more than very small japes. No longer did the doctor relish
his own jocularity and send forth loud and uninhibited
peals of laughter, and life at Bolt Court was rapidly
becoming miserable for residents and visitors alike. 'When
I rise,' said the doctor in a letter to Mrs Thrale, 'my breakfast
is solitary, the black dog waits to share it . . . Dinner
with a sick woman you may venture to suppose not much
better than solitary. After dinner what remains but to count
the clock, and hope for that sleep which I can scarce expect.
Night comes at last, and some hours of restlessness and
confusion bring me again to a day of solitude. What shall
exclude the black dog from a habitation like this?'
Dr Johnson's only hope, as he understood it, was to
attempt to avoid too much in the way of either seclusion
or idleness, and so he was often discovered by his negro
watering his tiny garden, or sitting at the stout mahogany
table that decorated the drawing room and busily translating
an obscure literary work, or writing long letters.
However, even this pleasure was sometimes denied to him,
for occasional inflammations of the good eye often made
it impossible for him to read for days on end. At these
moments, Francis' presence served to provide him with the
opportunity of a few hours of much-needed conversation.
And then, early one fateful morning, Francis arrived from
his home on St John Street, Smithfield, and discovered his
master sitting upright in his chair, which was not unusual
for the doctor's bronchial asthma was so severe that he was
generally afraid to lie flat at night. However, what made
this occasion disturbing was the fact that when the loyal
Francis entered, talking away as usual, there was no reply
from his master. It was then that Francis noticed a handwritten
note, and by this means he discovered that during
the dead of night his master had become overwhelmed by
confusion and giddiness, suffered a stroke, and subsequently
lost the power of speech. Francis immediately
summoned Dr Brocklesby, his master's physician and best
friend, and over the course of the following two to three
days, and after much dosing and blistering, Dr Johnson's
speech eventually began to return to him.
During this period, Dr Brocklesby spoke privately with
Francis and shared with the servant his worry that, aside
from the doctor's various physical afflictions, his master
was suffering greatly from an oppressive loneliness that
would only be resolved by his actively seeking the company
of others. Conversing carefully with the occasional visitor
over dishes of tea, or keeping the peace among his squabbling
household servants, was never going to be enough
to satisfy the intellect, or truly arrest the isolation, of the
great man, whose appearance had, even by his own negligent
standards, become wretched. These days the neck of
his shirt and his breeches were habitually loose, his stockings
were in need of being drawn up, he wore his shoes
unbuckled, and his unpowdered wig was comically small
and precariously balanced on his oversized head. There
were very few 'clean shirt' days. Dr Brocklesby was sure
that only by forcing the doctor back into society might
things improve and so, during the harsh winter of 1783,
his friends, myself among them, advanced the idea of
establishing a small club in Essex Street, as a place where
the doctor might enjoy congenial company and good
conversation.
We members of this new association were encouraged
to dine three times a week and suffer a fine of three pence
should we miss a gathering. The first meeting was held at
the
curtailment of his roaming proved a crushing blow to the
doctor's spirit. Confined now to Bolt Court, loneliness was
fast becoming a mortal enemy of the doctor, and he
bestowed the name 'black dog' upon his deplorable bouts
of melancholia. He appeared to have even lost his tendency
to become excessively distracted at what he insisted were
his witticisms, but what others often perceived to be nothing
more than very small japes. No longer did the doctor relish
his own jocularity and send forth loud and uninhibited
peals of laughter, and life at Bolt Court was rapidly
becoming miserable for residents and visitors alike. 'When
I rise,' said the doctor in a letter to Mrs Thrale, 'my breakfast
is solitary, the black dog waits to share it . . . Dinner
with a sick woman you may venture to suppose not much
better than solitary. After dinner what remains but to count
the clock, and hope for that sleep which I can scarce expect.
Night comes at last, and some hours of restlessness and
confusion bring me again to a day of solitude. What shall
exclude the black dog from a habitation like this?'
Dr Johnson's only hope, as he understood it, was to
attempt to avoid too much in the way of either seclusion
or idleness, and so he was often discovered by his negro
watering his tiny garden, or sitting at the stout mahogany
table that decorated the drawing room and busily translating
an obscure literary work, or writing long letters.
However, even this pleasure was sometimes denied to him,
for occasional inflammations of the good eye often made
it impossible for him to read for days on end. At these
moments, Francis' presence served to provide him with the
opportunity of a few hours of much-needed conversation.
And then, early one fateful morning, Francis arrived from
his home on St John Street, Smithfield, and discovered his
master sitting upright in his chair, which was not unusual
for the doctor's bronchial asthma was so severe that he was
generally afraid to lie flat at night. However, what made
this occasion disturbing was the fact that when the loyal
Francis entered, talking away as usual, there was no reply
from his master. It was then that Francis noticed a handwritten
note, and by this means he discovered that during
the dead of night his master had become overwhelmed by
confusion and giddiness, suffered a stroke, and subsequently
lost the power of speech. Francis immediately
summoned Dr Brocklesby, his master's physician and best
friend, and over the course of the following two to three
days, and after much dosing and blistering, Dr Johnson's
speech eventually began to return to him.
During this period, Dr Brocklesby spoke privately with
Francis and shared with the servant his worry that, aside
from the doctor's various physical afflictions, his master
was suffering greatly from an oppressive loneliness that
would only be resolved by his actively seeking the company
of others. Conversing carefully with the occasional visitor
over dishes of tea, or keeping the peace among his squabbling
household servants, was never going to be enough
to satisfy the intellect, or truly arrest the isolation, of the
great man, whose appearance had, even by his own negligent
standards, become wretched. These days the neck of
his shirt and his breeches were habitually loose, his stockings
were in need of being drawn up, he wore his shoes
unbuckled, and his unpowdered wig was comically small
and precariously balanced on his oversized head. There
were very few 'clean shirt' days. Dr Brocklesby was sure
that only by forcing the doctor back into society might
things improve and so, during the harsh winter of 1783,
his friends, myself among them, advanced the idea of
establishing a small club in Essex Street, as a place where
the doctor might enjoy congenial company and good
conversation.
We members of this new association were encouraged
to dine three times a week and suffer a fine of three pence
should we miss a gathering. The first meeting was held at
the
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