Foreigners

Doctor Johnson's Watch It was a cold December morning, and the bitter wind penetrated my black cloak with ease. However, the stubborn sun continued to shine brightly in the sky, although it failed to bestow any warmth on either myself or the two dozen sombre souls gathered outside of Bolt Court. I glanced about my person, realising that I was part of a bizarre congregation that represented both high and low society, but how could we be anything other than a queer assembly of misfits when one considered the personage who was to be buried on this melancholy English morning? London society was still somewhat amused by the gossip relating to the recently departed Dr. Johnson's final exchange with the sour-natured Sir John Hawkins, an apparently abrupt conversation which had taken place only some few short days before the doctor's death. Understanding that his mortal time was limited, the doctor had demanded of his chief executor in that stern, almost impolite, tone that he had perfected, a tenor of voice which unfortunately masked his more cordial nature, "Where do you intend to bury me?" When the news of the doctor's question reached the ears of the leisured gentlemen who recline in the smoke-filled coffee houses which constitute London's informal business world, the question served only to occasion much laughter from both those who knew the gentleman personally, and from those who knew of him by reputation. Indeed, what kind of a question was this? "Where do you intend to bury me?" Apparently Sir John Hawkins maintained his countenance and answered plainly, "In Westminster Abbey." He might well have continued and punctuated his uncharacteristically civil answer with the rather less civil question, "My good man, where else do you expect to be lain to rest?" According to Hawkins, on receiving this news the great man simply stared back and then, almost as an afterthought, he adjusted his inadequate wig. Although he was evidently drawing close to the terminus of his existence, the slovenly doctor still appeared to be insensible to the squalid spectacle that he presented. However, despite his shabby appearance, Samuel Johnson was undoubtedly the foremost literary scholar of his age, a man whom nobody would dare to deny his rightful place in the abbey next to Geoffrey Chaucer and John Dryden. Eventually, the great gentleman, as though finally understanding that his resting place wasindeedto be Westminster Abbey, continued in a less stentorian voice. "Then," he whispered, "if any friends think it worthwhile to give me a stone, let it be placed over me so as to protect my body." No report was made of Sir John Hawkins' reply, if indeed there was any, to this plaintive, and surprisingly coy, request by the good doctor. On the Monday after the doctor took his leave from this earthly world, we subdued mourners gathered on the narrow pavement outside of Bolt Court. Our gloomy congregation could not be accommodated within the modest confines of Dr. Johnson's house and, I confess, at this time I was not a member of that privileged inner circle who strolled boldly from their carriages and knocked upon the door before waiting confidently for admittance. Sixteen years ago, I was little more than a minor literary wit in London society, but more properly I was regarded as a financial investor, a man of the City. My participation in Dr. Johnson's wider circle was unquestioned, but good manners prevented me from attempting to assert a prominence which I had not yet earned. Accordingly, I stood with the less celebrated members of the Literary Club and first stamped my feet, and then rubbed my hands together against the cold, determining that I would remember every last detail of this momentous day so that I might set itPhillips, Caryl is the author of 'Foreigners ', published 2007 under ISBN 9781400043972 and ISBN 1400043972.