Foreigners

I. 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 gentle men 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 was indeed to 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 it down for those who came after me. I was sure that other, more accomplished, pens would eventually make fine prose from the events that were about to unfold, but I remained hopeful that my own modest observations might have some future resonance.

And then, at precisely twelve o'clock, with the sound of City bells pealing gaily in the distance, the door to Bolt Court was thrown open and out into the daylight emerged the grief-stricken figures of the Revd Mr Strahan and the Revd Mr Butt, both of whom were attired in their sootiest frock coats and whose faces were decorated with a grave aspect. While weak sunlight still conspired to brighten the mood of the day, these two imposing men looked all about themselves before standing to one side. Thereafter, the six stern-faced pall-bearers — viz. Mr Burke, Mr Windham, Sir Charles Bunbury, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr Colman, and Mr Langton — walked gingerly from the house with the burdensome body of the deceased carefully balanced at shoulder height, its weight evenly distributed between them. All eyes were upon these half-dozen men as they prudently inched forward and then deposited the doctor into the hearse, while others who had been gathered inside of the house now spilled out on to the pavement and began distributing themselves into the various coaches that were waiting to transport those afflicted with tenderness and sorrow to the abbey.

The procession departed promptly at a quarter after noon with the hearse and six in front, and the executors — viz. Sir John Hawkins, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and William Scott, LLD — taking up the immediate rear in an attractive coach and four. Behind them were arranged a further eight coaches and four, which provided transportation for the favoured members of the Literary Club and other close friends of the deceased. Behind these eight coaches were two more coaches and four, which contained the pallbearers, and behind them another two coaches and four which would convey a small group of gentlemen who had kindly volunteered to help in any way they could. Closing the procession were no less than thirteen gentlemen's carriages, which spoke to both the affection in which the doctor was held and to his high social status, all the more remarkable when one considers that this most distinguished of men had been born into undeniably modest circumstances.

I understood that I was to have the great honour of riding in one of the eight coaches that had been designated to transport the doctor's inner circle. Not wishing to press my suit, I waited until the last possible moment and was eventually ushered into the rearmost vehicle. Once there I was surprised to find myself sharing the coach with Dr Johnson's faithful negro servant, Francis Barber, and another man who appeared, by his slipshod dress, to be an English servant of some description who had fallen below even this low station of life. The man appeared to be uncomfortable, and he immediately stared out of the window, as though concentrating hard upon some person or object in the distance. I soon surmised that this was probably his way of disguising his embarrassment at having entered a place which made him feel inadequate. Either this, or his seemingly purposeful gawping was enabling him to stifle a grief that might otherwise grow uncontrollable. I soon turned my attention from this nameless fair-skinned lackey and fixed my gaze upon the polished sable exterior of the renowned Francis Barber. I had, of course, previously made the acquaintance of the doctor's negro attendant, most commonly when the negro ushered me into the doctor's house, and then, later in the evening, when he conducted me out of the same establishment. On other occasions the black man might accompany his master on the short journey to a tavern in order that the doctor might dine in the company of a small gathering of his admirers, myself included, and once present the negro would sometimes linger a while before disappearing into the night. However, these few encounters with Francis Barber stimulated precious little in the way of conversation between us, save the normal pleasantries between superior and inferior that one might expect in civilised society. Nevertheless, I had formed a favourable opinion of the sooty fellow as one who remained quietly devoted to his master while exhibiting some occasional exuberance of personality such as one might reasonably anticipate from a member of his race.

There were others whose opinions of the negro were not so generous. Some intimates of the doctor's circle freely expressed their conviction that Francis Barber was, to their minds, a wastrel, a man who considered his master's needs only as an afterthought, and who was wont to freely spend the doctor's money in order that he might improve his own situation. My limited experience with Francis Barber rendered me incapable of passing an informed judgement on this matter, but to my eyes the negro Francis loved his master with virtuous affection and was always protective and loyal to the man under whose roof he had spent the greater part of his life. After all, his master had been a great champion of the negro people, and he had loudly expressed his opinion that slavery could never be considered the natural condition of man. Furthermore, the doctor had consistently thundered that the number of black men who still repined under English cruelty, at home and abroad, remained too great. But dissenting voices could be heard, and chief among the negro-detractors, and Francis Barber in particular, was Sir John Hawkins, the chief executor of the doctor's will. This peacock of a gentleman was known to hold an ungenerous impression of his fellow man, be they black or white, but it particularly galled him that during the doctor's life he was never able to dislodge Francis Barber from his high position in Dr Johnson's affection. And now, no doubt due to Sir John Hawkins' scheming, within three days of his master's decease here was Francis Barber riding in the last of the eight carriages rather than at the head of the procession where he rightfully belonged and, no doubt, where his late master would have insisted that he position himself.

Sad to say, I soon discerned that in the carriage there was an odour, and a not altogether agreeable one at that. Although I refrained from casting any accusative glances, it was clear that the negro, Francis Barber, was the source of the unpleasantness. Our third companion, who could hardly boast that he was the most hygienic creature in the kingdom, visibly recoiled at the smell and quickly fastened a handkerchief to his face. I soon realised that it was not the clothes of Francis Barber that were unwashed and troubling to the senses, but in all likelihood it was the badly matted wig that was causing the unfortunate aroma. Clearly the negro's wig had lain unattended and unpowdered for quite some time and the negro had most likely hastily snatched it up for the occasion. Despite my discomfort, I was prepared to forgive Francis Barber, for his late master had not provided him with a reliable example. The doctor's own great bushy wig possessed a hedge-like mass which suggested that a comb had never penetrated its interior, and this chaotic mess no doubt served as the negro's model for what was acceptable in a headpiece. Sensing my eyes upon him, the humble negro continued to stare intently at the floor of the carriage, as though reading some secret message that had been laid out there for him. Eventually, he raised his black eyes so that they met my own, and then he spoke in a clear English voice.

'I am sorry that we should meet again in such unfortunate circumstances.'

I smiled, and nodded slightly, as I replied.

'Indeed, the timing is unfortunate, but I am content to once again make your acquaintance.'

This being said, Francis Barber extended his hand and we shook firmly like two merchants sealing a trading deal, but beyond this opening exchange it was unclear where this conversation might ramble. Accordingly, we retreated to silence and joined our third companion in gazing idly out of the window as London occupied herself with the trifles of daily business, as though unaware of the fact that this day held significance that England would evermore be obliged to note. I thought about 'Dictionary Johnson' and the busy society tongues that were wagging with news of the recent autopsy that had been conducted at William Hunter's School of Anatomy, off Shaftesbury Avenue, where it had been discovered that although the doctor's liver, pancreas, and kidney were chronically diseased, the heart remained both large and strong. I would have liked to engage Francis Barber on the subject of this news, and discover his opinion of its significance, but the negro and I spent the remainder of our journey studiously ignoring one another until our procession reached the west door of Westminster Abbey, which it did at a little before one o'clock. Prior to disembarking I peered through the carriage window and was alarmed to see few members of the general public, and little evidence that more would soon be arriving to swell the numbers. But even as I looked on I could hear the fierce voice of England's great lexicographer reminding me that such worries were pure vanity, and that I should be putting my educated mind to better use.

The carriage door was opened by the tall footman, and a sudden rush of fresh air served only to remind me of the malodorous conditions that I had been forced to endure. The third man quickly took his leave, but Francis Barber deferred to myself and, keen to achieve terra firma and the ability to breathe freely, I seized the proffered opportunity and stepped nimbly from the carriage. The six stern-faced prebendaries of the abbey were there to greet us in their surplices and doctors' hoods, and they marshalled the newly arrived congregants into some semblance of order with the two vergers at the head, followed by the Revds Mr Strahan and Mr Butt, and then the body of the deceased on the sturdy shoulders of the six resolute pall-bearers. The rest of us followed, two by two, behind Sir Joshua Reynolds, the designated chief mourner, and his fellow executors, Sir John Hawkins, and Dr Scott. We proceeded slowly into the woefully empty abbey, and made our way to the south cross where the body was carefully placed with the feet opposite the elegant monument to William Shakespeare. Then, to the surprise of nearly all gathered, the Revd Dr Taylor began to perform what was clearly a simple burial service, not the full service that we were expecting. I later discovered that the executors had felt themselves justified in keeping the expense of the interment modest, and of course they intended no disrespect, but the general feeling of those assembled was one of distress that things were passing so quickly and without lights, music, or a little gaiety. It was noticeable that, once the initial shock had penetrated, some mourners glared disapprovingly at the presiding Dr Taylor, for most of those present held him responsible for the hurried manner in which England's greatest literary figure was being given body room in the abbey. Sad to say, the ceremony was as dull as it was rapid, and it was disturbing to realise how strikingly it differed from the extravagant service that had been held for the doctor's lifelong friend David Garrick, who five years earlier had made his rest at the same venue.

During the proceedings I sat across the aisle from Francis Barber, who perched uncomfortably with his head bowed and who appeared to be genuinely consumed with grief. It was noticeable that few chose to sit near to him, but having shared a carriage with the said person I fully understood that the reason for their reluctance had precious little to do with his sooty complexion and everything to do with the human sensation of smell. I looked at this unmoored man, who had undoubtedly lost a champion and a defender, for all of Johnson's circle knew that they should never speak ill of Francis Barber while in the doctor's presence, but the sad negro had lost more than perhaps even he had imagined. He had lost his father and his anchor in this world, and although I understood that these days Francis now possessed some version of a wife and a family, sitting quietly by himself in Westminster Abbey this poor man looked to all intent and purpose as though he was suddenly alone in the world.

At the conclusion of the short and unsatisfactory service, it was understood that we members of the Literary Club would repair to a nearby familiar tavern in order that we might drink toast after toast in the doctor's honour until late into the night. Aside from rehearsing the details of the great man's life, there would be other subjects for discussion, including the controversial nature of the day's truncated ceremony, and the question of the will and the disposal of the doctor's assets. These subjects would undoubtedly keep myself and my fellow devotees of Dr Johnson happily occupied for many hours, but I knew full well that Francis Barber, without the protection of his master, would not be invited to join the company. As I stood to take my leave of the abbey, I looked again at this forlorn figure bent forward in the pew and seemingly reluctant to rise to his feet. It occurred to me that the Christian thing to do might be to approach the negro and offer him sincere commiserations for his loss, thereby once again extending the hand of friendship, but I had no desire to place the servant in an awkward predicament and so I cast him a final glance and strode purposefully down the aisle towards daylight, leaving this abandoned man alone in the abbey with his master and his dark thoughts.

Some sixteen years after the funeral of the good doctor, I found myself comfortably appointed inside a carriage that was bowling into Lichfield, a fair-sized city with a reputation bolstered by Mr Daniel Defoe's favourable comments in which he recorded that he considered Lichfield a place for 'good conversation and good company'. I had been led to believe that this low-lying city, surrounded by fields and woods and marshes, was principally distinguished by its fortunate location, situated as it is 110 miles north of London, and a mere 14 miles beyond Birmingham. This places the city in an advantageous position on the main coaching route to the north-west and Ireland, but I understood Lichfield to be also renowned for its beautiful, yet somewhat eccentric, cathedral that was long ago constructed out of faded red stone, and which displays not one but three spires. I had arranged to spend a single night at the Three Crowns, a respectable inn that I had been led to believe was situated close by the doctor's childhood home. Having arrived at my destination, I announced myself to the ruddy-faced innkeeper who quickly escorted me to my room on the first floor. He informed me that dinner would soon be served, and as my hunger had been powerfully aroused by the long journey I suggested to him that I would like to dine as soon as possible. He lowered his eyes somewhat apologetically as he informed me that it might take his cook a full half-hour to prepare my meal, but in the meantime he encouraged me to try some Staffordshire oatcakes and a jug of Lichfield Olde Ale, which I hastily declined.

I dined alone, but under the judicious scrutiny of a young drudge who had clearly been instructed to cater to my needs. I ignored the lackey and carefully observed the boisterous local folk, who noisily refreshed themselves with draught after draught of malty beer. Having finished my adequate, but by no means exceptional, meal I interrogated my simple host with regards to the origins of the city, at which point he asked permission to join my table. He told me that legend had it that around AD 300, and during the reign of the Roman Emperor Diocletian, over 1,00 °Christians were martyred nearby. According to this man, the name Lichfield actually means the 'field of the dead'. My host refreshed my glass of port-wine before laughing out loud and conceding that there was no evidence to support this fact, but he knew it to be true and beyond contention. He also 'knew' that there were no thatched roofs in Lichfield because of the risk of fire, a peculiarity which set this city apart from most English centres to the north or south. Exulting in what he imagined to be his own pleasantry, he continued and informed me that Queen Mary had long ago made Lichfield its own county, so that while the city stands in Staffordshire it does not take part as a member of the said same county. And what, I asked, now warming to the task which had occasioned me to leave London and travel to Lichfield, of the city's prominent or notorious citizenry? At this my host was quick to laugh out loud and proclaim two names that he insisted would be familiar to any who held English to be his tongue: David Garrick and Samuel Johnson. As though this were too easy a resolution to my question he continued and, clearly relishing the heat of conversation and the close proximity to controversy, he lowered his voice and informed me that some 200 years ago the last person to be burnt at the stake in England for heresy was burnt in Lichfield. I nodded sagely and then bided my time before asking after negroes. 'Negroes?' The man seemed confused. 'Around here?' he asked. I said nothing further and waited for him to continue, and then I saw his pockmarked cheeks begin to flush. 'I see. I suppose a gentlemen like you must be asking after Frank Barber?'

I slept badly in the awkward bed, for the whole contraption seemed to be woefully misshapen from having no doubt supported the fatigued bodies of countless exhausted pilgrims. Being one who was not familiar with the turmoil of undertaking frequent excursions, leaving London constituted for me a great adventure of sorts. Having recently retired from my commercial business in the City, where I grew to despise the vulgar rapacity of the sugar and slave men of the West Indies, I had recently begun to contemplate some involvement in the Province of Freedom — Mr Granville Sharp's scheme for resettling blacks on the west coast of Africa in an efficiently managed colony — as a way of honourably investing my money for profit and charitably passing my days. This being the case, my ageing mind was forever returning to the disturbing image of poor Francis Barber all alone in Westminster Abbey, and I finally understood that before making any decision about my own future philanthropic investments it might profit me to revisit the past and try to discover what had become of the forlorn negro. I wondered, was he yet another example of a poor transplanted African whose roots had refused to properly catch the soil of our fair land? Or had life beyond his master's departure showered the negro with good fortune? It chanced that my late-night conversation with the lumpish innkeeper had helped to clarify the situation. Eventually the light of day began to spill through the shuttered windows, and I heard stirrings in the various rooms about the Three Crowns, but I did not move. Recalling the previous evening's conversation, I found myself caught in a web of indecision. Should I follow my host's suggestion and seek out the widow, Mrs Elizabeth Barber, or should I simply depart in the direction of London and admit defeat in my quest. I lay in bed while the day announced itself as a fine summer's morning, and then I heard a timid knock upon the door which I assumed would be the servant bearing water for my ablutions.

The carriage bounced its way unceremoniously down the rutted lane, and I was sure that the ancient driver was deriving childish pleasure from seeking the most difficult and bone-jarring route. The carriage window afforded a fine prospect, and I looked warmly upon the young English maidens labouring merrily in the fields who knew that at the end of their working day there would be liberty and freedom. How different a life it was for those who we forced to expend themselves in the tropical fields of the West Indies. At the end of their day, there was neither liberty nor freedom, but merely the expectation of more suffering unredeemed by any financial or material gain. I continued to stare at the young maidens, but soon realised that, despite their obvious beauty, I should avert my eyes and focus my mind on the task at hand. The previous evening my host, having conveyed the dreadful news of Francis Barber's demise, had continued and informed me that, to the best of his knowledge, the family of Francis Barber had last been heard of living in a place named Burntwood, a hamlet that lay only four miles beyond the city to the west. Having given me this information, the innkeeper had ceased speaking for a few moments as though his mind was tormented with some burdensome secret. 'You do understand,' he said, 'that this is not a place to which those such as yourself habitually journey. Truly, there is nothing there of any consequence.' Again he paused. 'Except, of course, that you will most likely discover Mrs Barber.' With this said the man once again topped off our glasses with wine, and thereafter we fell silent for what remained of the evening. Securing the services of the ancient driver and carriage had been relatively simple, for the innkeeper had made it his business to assist me. However, this morning, when my host informed the driver that Burntwood was to be my destination, the puzzled look on the face of the wizened man spoke eloquently to all that the innkeeper had suggested. It was difficult to ascertain if the aged driver was genuinely offended, or merely temporarily surprised, at having been instructed to undertake a journey to such a place.

We eventually drew up beside a tall, unruly, hedgerow that was clearly in need of some attention. Initially, I found it difficult to understand why my driver had stopped the carriage for I could see no sign of human life. However, taking the whip in his right hand, the ancient man pointed beyond the hedgerow to a modestly proportioned stone cottage which I now understood to be my destination. The morning sun had been kind to my bones and so I required no immediate assistance descending from the contraption, although the driver rightfully made his services available to me. 'Wait here,' I insisted, and then, gathering my wits about me, I walked gingerly towards the unprepossessing abode and knocked sharply on the door. The ominous silence was disturbed only by the pleasing sound of birds singing and a brook babbling somewhere in the distance. I knocked again, and this time shouted out loud in the hope that I might attract the attention of somebody within, but it appeared that I succeeded only in alarming my carriage driver, for the decrepit fellow left his vehicle and hastened to my side imagining that I must be crying out for help. On discovering that I was perfectly safe, and merely attempting to arouse the inhabitants of the dwelling, he rearranged himself and withdrew again to his carriage leaving me perfectly alone.

It was then that the door began to slowly open, the crying of the rusty hinges announcing the action, and a shadowy head soon emerged and stared up in my direction. A strangely coloured and clearly disconsolate child, with eyes as big as two saucers, stared up at me, but seemed reluctant to say anything. I bade the apparition a good morning and asked if its mother was hereabouts. The child, which I now determined to be female, shook its fuzzy head, which at least suggested an intelligence of the English language. I asked the girl if she imagined that her mother might show herself in the near future, but it appeared that this question stretched her comprehension a little too far, for the urchin simply stared back at me with frigid indifference and said nothing. Clearly I had arrived at the right place, for this dirty-looking child was obviously the product of a union between one of England's fair wenches and a negro, presumably Francis Barber.

However, it was evident that there was little point in trying to draw the creature into conversation for its understanding was clearly limited, and its mother had obviously absented herself for the day.

By the time I returned to Lichfield it was midday, but my curiosity was so piqued by the discovery of the child that I determined to see what more I might learn about the fate of Francis Barber from my host. It transpired that the phlegmatic innkeeper had absconded to Birmingham on an urgent matter of business, but his portly wife informed me that her husband would certainly return by the evening. I thanked her for the information, and then spent a good part of the afternoon exploring the modest city of Lichfield by foot. To my dismay, the place appeared to lack a coffee house where a man might settle into a snug and partake of some wholesome liquor while perusing the gazette or public papers and, in the convivial company of his peers, receive news and information pertaining to both business and pleasure. Lichfield lacked not only a coffee house, but the city appeared to be thoroughly devoid of that constant flow of humanity which characterises the unique vitality of any great city, and is so abundant in my own London. The great immensity of London which assaults the ears, nose, and eyes of any visitor, where wealth, commerce, and plenty dwell next to poverty, pestilence, and despair, and where fully one-tenth of the nation's population teem and tumble together, was altogether absent in this simple place. In fact, there was little in this Lichfield that I deemed to be worthy of my scrutiny. I did see one or two fine buildings, and the architecture of the twelfth-century cathedral allowed me to soothe my eyes for an hour, but this was the sum total of Lichfield's pleasures. On arriving back at the Three Crowns I discovered that my host had recently returned, and shortly before dinner he sent word to my room that he would very much like to converse with me for he had gleaned information that I might find useful. Perhaps, he suggested, we might take a drink together after the completion of my meal.

Again I dined alone, and with the same young attendant ministering to my needs, but the quality of the food appeared not to have improved. I signalled to the boy that he should remove my plate, and soon thereafter the innkeeper joined my table clutching a bottle of port and two glasses. He looked somewhat downcast, as though in possession of news that he was going to find difficult to convey. However, after some preliminary conversation about the beautiful day that we had enjoyed, he turned his attention to his own journey to Birmingham and began to sing the praises of the merchants of that town. I listened until his tongue stopped flapping, and the sheepish look on his face suggested that he was suddenly aware that he might possibly be exhausting my patience. He poured yet another drink for us both. 'I have,' he said, 'made some discoveries about your Mr Barber.' I presumed he had and so I simply waited for him to share with me the nature of these discoveries. 'The child you saw today is Frank Barber's daughter, but I know there are also other children. Apparently the wife, Elizabeth, attempts to keep their Burntwood schoolhouse by herself, although the place enjoys an enrolment of only four pupils, and it is said that it will probably close before the year is out for want of custom. Mrs Barber's skills as a teacher are not greatly in demand, but her fees are such that practically any pocket can afford her ser vices. According to the intelligence of those who were prepared to speak with me on this sad subject, those in desperate need would today rather send their children elsewhere than to Mrs Barber, so it's inevitable that soon the school will be no more.' At this he paused, as though trying to impress the gravity of the situation upon me, but I said nothing and merely took a sip of my wine. 'And then,' he continued, 'there is the case of Frank Barber himself. His final days hereabouts in Lichfield were not easy, filled as they were with both illness and poverty. Apparently Mr Barber squandered the not inconsiderable sum of money that his master left to him in his will. Furthermore, if you don't mind my saying, the fellow did let himself go, for when I last saw him he'd lost all his teeth, and his face was severely marked with the pox. He was as sad and as broken as a man can be while still remaining with us in this world.' The innkeeper paused. 'Of course, his last offence was to insist on wearing his late master's clothes, although they had clearly long past all usage. It was a truly pitiful sight.'

I listened but chose to say nothing in response to my host's words, but of course London society had long been aware of Francis Barber's descent into financial difficulties. Following his departure to Lichfield, some two years after his master's death, many had answered Francis' calls for money, for the negro claimed to have incurred significant expenses due to his own failing health and that of his delicate children, and the poor man appeared to be permanently fastened into coils of debt and anxiety. However, having squandered the generous sum that his late master had left for him in his will, and having often displayed 'vulgar insolence' in his written communication with those who had tried valiantly to help him, there were soon few in the doctor's circle who felt either sympathy or concern for the negro's welfare. Within a few years of his arrival in Lichfield, the careless Barber had also, much to the dismay of his few remaining supporters, managed to fully deplete the capital which had been set aside to provide him with an annuity. The nature of his presumably unhappy life on Stowe Street in Lichfield remained a mystery to those of us who remembered 'London Frank', and this, after all, was partly why I had chosen to seek out the negro, in order that I might discover for myself the full story of his fall from grace. 'I am led to believe,' continued my host, 'that Mrs Barber will be at home tomorrow, for apparently today she travelled from Burntwood into Lichfield on a series of errands. I'm sure that she'll be happy to speak with a gentleman such as yourself, and particularly on the matter of her late husband. No doubt she can help you with information where perhaps I have failed your good self.' I stifled my contempt, for this outburst of false modesty on the part of my foolish host was perfectly transparent. He was asking me, in an indirect manner, what exactly was my business with Mrs Barber, but that, of course, was something that I would never divulge to a man such as this. It was then that I realised that the man was most likely in drink, and although I desired his absence I reminded myself that he was my host and I should endeavour to tolerate him for a while longer. We sat together for an hour or so more, exchanging pleasantries about the seasons, and about London and Birmingham societies, before I finally tired of this man's prattle and retired to my room where I took to my incommodious bed and discovered that, once again, the innkeeper had not had the decency to at least venture to improve matters by applying a warming pan to make the devilish cot more tolerable.

Unable to immediately find sleep, I hoisted myself upright and squinted about the dismal chamber. Then I lit the candle and reached over and pulled the precious object from the pocket of my waistcoat. The tortoiseshell watch, which I had been led to understand the doctor had paid Mudge and Dutton the princely sum of seventeen guineas to purchase in 1768 had, on his death, been bequeathed by Johnson to his beloved negro. Apparently, as the result of a sale born of desperation, the watch had fallen into the hands of the Canon of Lichfield, at a time when the high and mighty of this city had taken advantage of the black's innocence and poverty and stripped him of all mementoes of his master. Two owners later, the watch had come into my possession at a sale of Johnsonian relics at a London coffee house, and for the past year I had kept it close to my person. I harboured some notion of presenting the watch to the negro in exchange for some testimony about the vicissitudes of his recent life, but it now appeared that the delicate timepiece would remain safely in my keep. I replaced the watch and blew out the candle, and in the darkness I allowed my mind to ruminate upon the strange case of poor Francis Barber who, along with the late writer Gustavus Vassa, was, at one time, probably the foremost negro in England. Sad that this man should have come to an unfortunate end in a place such as Lichfield, but it was possible that my curiosity about the negro's later years might now be satisfied by an audience with his widow. I cast my mind back to the malodorous carriage ride that I had shared with Francis Barber as we journeyed to the funeral of his master, and I remembered our one short conversation. I thought then, and on many other occasions previous to the day of the funeral, that being dependent upon a negro was a remarkable situation for England's greatest literary man to find himself in. Nevertheless, Dr Johnson remained a vocal and vigorous protector of his negro, who he always treated as a son as opposed to a man at his beck and call.

As far as I could ascertain this unique relationship had begun in the middle part of the century when Barber, then only a young boy, and not yet refined by a full exposure to civilisation, arrived on Johnson's doorstep in London. Some few years earlier, the eight-year-old piccaninny had been sold on a plantation in his native Jamaica and brought to England by a Colonel Bathurst. It is said that the boy's original name may well have been Quashey, and it is understood that his value was most likely five pounds or thereabouts. Bathurst and the boy arrived in England in 1750, whereupon Colonel Bathurst chose to live in Lincoln with his son Richard, a doctor of medicine. It was decided that the young Quashey, newly named Francis, should be sent to Yorkshire to attend the Revd William Jackson's school in the hamlet of Barton, where it was hoped that he might acquaint himself with reading and writing. The negro boy remained in Barton for two whole years, during which time he achieved some knowledge of the English language, and then the now cheerful, and surprisingly gentle, ten-year-old boy returned to Lincoln and began service as the younger Bathurst's servant. It soon became clear that Dr Richard Bathurst had no desire to use the boy as an exotic ornament and dress him as a negro page in bright satins and a turban; he was, instead, actively looking for some role in society that the boy might profitably fulfil. As it transpired, Dr Bathurst's closest friend was none other than the literary man, Samuel Johnson, who, around this same time, lost his wife Tetty to a lingering and painful disease, which left Johnson all alone in a large house in London with neither company nor help. Richard Bathurst understood that his dear friend regarded solitude as a horror, for his sensitive mind was dangerously vulnerable to morbid reflections. In these circumstances, the younger Bathurst thought it only proper to pack Francis off to London in order that he might make himself useful to a depressed Dr Johnson.

On first encountering his future master, the ten-year-old boy was shocked by the sight of this large, shambling man who seemed to twitch uncontrollably about the shoulders, and whose face appeared to be painfully contorted, perhaps to compensate for an obvious blindness in one eye. The scars around this man's throat were terrifying and formed a red lumpish collar, and young Francis found it difficult to tell when Johnson was speaking to him or simply muttering to himself, for there seemed to be little division between the two modes of expression. The nervous Jamaican negro boy entered the service of Samuel Johnson, who informed the dusky stranger that he imagined this Jamaica to be 'a place of great wealth and dreadful wickedness, a den of tyrants and a dungeon of slaves', but the poor boy could make no reply for his mind was now almost totally cleansed of memories of his birthplace.

Johnson took immediately to the young black child, who was now styled Francis Barber, but like his friend Dr Bathurst, he too had no desire to impress his peers by dressing the negro as a satin-clad page or forcing the child to wear livery of any sort. He was aware that ostentatiously attired blacks were now commonplace in London society, appearing in law courts, answering doors, marrying servants, running errands, sitting for portraits. In literature they were making minor appearances in the novels, plays, and the poetry of the age, but to Johnson's eyes the negro, generally through no fault of his own, often lacked a certain civility. Johnson set about the task of saving the young heathen's soul, teaching him to pray and providing him with some basic religious instruction, but the literary man soon discovered that the boy's spirit appeared to be resistant to being given information as to how he should conduct himself. The boy also displayed a lack of enthusiasm in applying himself to even the most basic of household chores, and this was a cause of some surprise to his master, although in most circumstances the general untidiness of his living quarters never seemed to trouble Johnson greatly. After all, Johnson was a man preoccupied with literary matters and he had little time to waste on domestic issues, but he did have some understanding of the possible source of Francis' reluctance to follow orders. Dr Bathurst's father, the planter and former colonel in the Jamaican militia, had recently suffered great financial losses which threw all of his affairs into disarray, and then he had suddenly taken ill and died. However, his will contained a clause which granted young Francis Barber his freedom and the bountiful sum of twelve pounds, which greatly pleased Johnson who was firmly wedded to the belief that no man should by nature be the property of another. Clearly this unexpected benevolence had fed Francis' sense of himself as being somewhat independent and beyond any jurisdiction, but Johnson's personality was such that he found it relatively easy to overlook the boy's rebellious behaviour.

It was during this period that Miss Williams, the middle-aged daughter of a Welsh physician with whom the doctor had become friendly, established herself as a permanent occupant of the house, and she made it her business to reign over the domestic arrangements with a fist of iron. Despite her blindness, she found little difficulty ranging up and down the dangerous stairs, from the kitchen in the basement to her own room beneath Johnson's study, which was located in the garret near the very apex of the house. Miss Williams was a strict disciplinarian who seldom ate more than plain bread with butter, but she drank copious quantities of tea, and she saw little reason why others should indulge themselves beyond her own rigorous diet. Miss Williams was prepared to tolerate the doctor's peculiar, and sometimes offensive, manners, but she had little patience with any others who sought to resist her rule.

Upon her arrival, Francis immediately noticed that Miss Williams exercised considerable influence over his master, for the doctor became a little more careful in his dress, utilising metal buttons instead of twisted hair on his familiar brown suit, and silver buckles occasionally decorated his shoes. However, the influence was limited, for Johnson's wig remained large and greyish, his shirt plain off-white, his stockings black worsted, and he continued to eschew ruffles on his coat so that his white shirtsleeves were generally visible. In short, his master's rugged exterior was still likely to alarm the unsuspecting, and his physical convulsions and general irascibility remained very much in evidence, but Francis continued to feel happy in the company of this kind, if somewhat eccentric, man. However, coping with the daily presence of Miss Williams was proving to be a great trial, for the blind woman made it plain that although Francis might be a clear favourite of her employer, she viewed the Jamaican as little more than an idle black boy who had absolutely no notion of his own modest place in the greater scheme of things. She continually attempted to exercise her authority over Francis, and their rancour was generally uncivil and often bitter. Johnson seemed reluctant to adjudicate, and he habitually allowed Miss Williams to put her oar in and verbally abuse his negro without any attempt on his part to intervene and curb her demanding nature.

Sadly, from the young boy's vantage point, the situation grew steadily worse until finally he could tolerate no more of this peevish woman. With a few pounds safely tucked away in his pocket, and confident of his new-found status as a free man, the negro exchanged his master's household for that of a Mr Farran of Cheapside, an apothecary of modest means, who employed Francis as his assistant. For two years Francis lived with Mr Farran, but he soon understood that he did not enjoy his duties as an apothecary's assistant, finding the work both menial and taxing. During this period Francis did not completely cut himself adrift from his former master, and the young man still visited Johnson, who continued to treat him with kindness and warmth. His former master often suggested that the negro join him for dinner, and the two formed an astonishing spectacle as the doctor slipped a heavy arm around the boy and lumbered his way to a tavern, clutching, in his free hand, a vast oak stick that was six feet in length and of such girth that even the massive hand of Johnson could not completely circle it. Eventually, when Johnson saw that Francis' unhappiness appeared to be incessant, he suggested to the boy that he relinquish his duties as an apothecary's assistant and return to live with him at his new lodgings in Gough Square, for he worried about Francis' frail nature and his susceptibility to illness. However, soon after his return young Francis realised that the miserable Miss Williams' tyrannical hold over domestic matters had not abated and so, determined to make his own way in the world, the sooty youngster resolved to run away to sea.

On 7 June, 1758, sixteen-year-old Francis Barber enlisted in the Royal Navy and was registered in the muster books as 'L. M.' — which identified him as a 'landsman' or a member of a ship's crew who was unfamiliar with the ways of the sea. The young negro boarded The Golden Fleece, which was the tender ship for HMS Princess Royal, and a few days later, on 10 June, the black boy was transferred to HMS Princess Royal which lay at anchor at Sheerness. When Johnson learned that young Francis had once again abandoned his household, but this time run off to sea, he was beside himself with anxiety for he was sure that the boy must have been used wrongly in some vile manner. Initially he feared that his negro may have been kidnapped and pressed on board, or — worse still — disposed of at auction in some coffee house or tavern and become the metal-collared, human property of some conscienceless brute and dispatched back to the West Indies. It was equally possible that young Francis might have become an apprentice to some cockney thief, and Johnson understood that Spitalfields and Whitechapel markets were places where one might buy a poor young child to train as a pickpocket, or beggar, or prostitute, and so he spent many an hour there questioning strangers about his Francis. His enquiries led him to conclude that the sea was undoubtedly the new 'home' of young Francis, and although he now understood that his servant had almost certainly volunteered, he worried constantly about the fate of his boy. It caused him some irritation that Miss Williams seemed to care little that Francis appeared to have exchanged the relative comforts of Gough Square for a life of adventuring, and Johnson's agitation with regard to his servant's new choice of 'career' was further fuelled by the fact that the literary man possessed a particular loathing towards seafaring, being sure that long confinement in a ship served only to narrow the mind as opposed to opening up possibilities of seeing the world anew. He was often quoted as having declared that, 'No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail; for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.'

For sixteen long months, Johnson suffered daily anxiety about the moral and spiritual well-being of Francis, who he knew was not a hardy youngster. Information reached him that the boy had transferred to HMS Stag and, unable to endure any further torment, Johnson decided to contact a Dr Hay at the Admiralty and request that an order for the boy's discharge be issued. Months passed by without the order being acted upon, for apparently HMS Stag was spending a great deal of time at sea, albeit in English waters, but finally, on 8 August, 1760, Francis Barber received the unwelcome news that he had been discharged. Unhappy to be so quickly deprived of his new and independent life, Francis loitered about the ship for two whole months before regretfully disembarking on 22 October at Sheerness.

On returning to London, the eighteen-year-old young man discovered that his master had taken slightly more spacious lodgings at 1 Inner Temple Lane, where he had been joined by a strange widow named Mrs Desmoulins, who appeared to be a person of little merriment, and a Dr Levett, a shabby and silent physician to the lower orders. Francis reluctantly reassumed his previous role, busying himself answering the door, running trifling errands, attending at table whenever company happened to call, and fetching an occasional dinner from a local tavern. In addition, Francis was entrusted with the power of purchasing provisions. The greatest joy for the young man was his discovery that Miss Williams had remained behind at Gough Square, where she now occupied herself running a small boarding school. Her blessed absence afforded Francis considerable time to enjoy leisure about the house without being hounded by this wretched woman. However, concerned that the boy's general level of education remained in dire need of improvement, Johnson insisted that Francis keep pace with his studies, and to this end he eventually dispatched his Francis to a modest grammar school at Bishop's Stortford in Hertfordshire that was willing to take him in and attempt to enhance his literacy and speech, and familiarise him with Latin and Greek. Francis was placed in the charge of the late headmaster's widow, who rose to the challenge of this experiment, but the reports that his master received of Francis' 'progress' were, at least initially, discouraging. Johnson soon found himself in the embarrassing position of being the recipient of written complaints about his servant's ineptitude, but he continued to send money and in the end he expended nearly £300. When the young Francis returned to London, Johnson was gratified that his servant could read and write English with improved ease, although not with great fluency, and in addition the negro had indeed been able to add Latin and Greek to his learning. While it pleased Johnson to now have the company of the negro to relax with him by the fire in the evenings, it frustrated him that the young man chose not to ask any questions or put his new education to the service of spirited conversation. But it was enough for Johnson, who described himself as 'a hardened and shameless tea drinker', that he had somebody to sit with him late into the night as he pursued his vice.

It was during this period that sooty Francis began to fraternise with others of his own race who were living at various stations of life in London, and his master welcomed Francis' friends into his house whether he was in residence or not. Far from being intoxicated with liberty, many of these blacks were gainfully employed, and when keeping company with Francis, they were simply enjoying a temporary escape from their menial duties, which included waiting upon ladies of quality, carrying their trains, combing their lapdogs, or producing smelling salts when required. Some, however, found difficulty in obtaining employment and, prohibited by law from learning a trade, the negroes were often confined to living in squalid hovels with whores, beggars, and criminals. Whether employed or not, Barber's negro friends felt at home in Dr Johnson's house and they were able to sit together in the parlour and enjoy a few moments of merriment. Such behaviour was not to the liking of many in Johnson's circle, but none would dare to question the literary man's judgement. Such behaviour was also not to the liking of the irritable Miss Williams, who had once again joined the household, together with a Scotch maid who carried coals, washed dishes, and attempted to clean. The increasingly gloomy Dr Levett contrived to carry on an open conflict with Miss Williams and, in both action and word, he chose not to obscure his ill-feelings towards her. For Francis, this warring household was not a happy abode and he daily wondered if he should leave and perhaps set up home with some of his own complexion, for his friends constantly urged him to escape the tyranny of the blind woman. However, Francis' loyalties to his master ran deep, and having abandoned him twice, and being aware of the anguish that the good man suffered as a result of his running away to sea, he had resolved never again to abscond.

On my second morning, I woke early to find the Lichfield sun streaming through my window, but this peaceful and pleasant start to the day quickly soured as a tempest of raised voices began to emanate from a nearby chamber. I immediately recognised the voice of the innkeeper, and that of his wife, and I was not surprised to hear them squabbling for I had already noted a tension between the pair which seemed to extend beyond any individual act or incident. Clearly this couple failed to understand the distinct roles that the sexes were intended to occupy, roles which complement the different natures and capacities of men and women. I suspected the wife of shrewishness, and the innkeeper of being under the tyrannical rule of a petticoat government, and this unseemly cacophony served only to confirm my suspicions. Surely the foolish man understood that in law husband and wife are one person, that person being the husband, and unless a man rules these trifling creatures with benevolent determination then things will fall out of their natural order. It is difficult to respect a man who cannot control his wife's cantankerous nature for it is clear that such a man will have difficulty maintaining order in all things in his life. I lay still for some moments and attempted to block out these unfortunate sounds, but realising that there was little prob ability of achieving peace I rose from the disagreeable bed and began to prepare for the day that lay ahead. Breakfast was a quiet affair, although the shrew did cause me to become excessively irritable by attempting to stimulate meaningless conversation, however the woman soon realised that her efforts to engage me were in vain and she finally fell silent before eventually withdrawing altogether.

The journey out to Burntwood followed the same pattern as the previous day, and on this occasion the sun shone even more brightly in the blue sky. My host personally escorted me to the carriage and assured me that today I would certainly have the pleasure of meeting with the wife of the late Mr Barber and so my mind was lively with anticipation. The driver, who was the same ancient man as before, remained somewhat puzzled by the nature of my quest, but he knew better than to question my intent. We departed in the direction of the house of Mrs Elizabeth Barber, and once again I observed the strange low-lying fields and peculiar marshes of this completely foreign part of England. There was little hereabouts to remind me of the rolling hills and valleys of my native Kent, and as my excursion progressed I discovered myself staring at a curiously low horizon that was presided over by the odd ugly tree. If nothing else, this venture into the Midlands was providing me with an improved understanding of the many varieties of landscape to be found in my England.

It was shortly after nine o'clock in the morning when we arrived at the modest abode of Mrs Barber, and I slowly alighted and ordered the driver to wait until I was ready to return. I half-expected the impudent elder of Lichfield to ask just how long he would be detained, such was the look of petulance that decorated his visage, but he wisely said nothing and so I had no opportunity to remind him of his inferior station in life. The ramshackle cottage and overgrown garden appeared just as they had on the previous day, but I was set now upon my course and determined not to be distracted by considerations of architecture or flora. Before I could announce myself the door opened and the same child presented herself, but once again she chose not to speak. I scrutinised her tawny visage, but before I could formulate a question the mother appeared behind the child.

'I have been expecting you, sir,' was how the English woman began her address. I noticed a certain high-pitched common tone to her voice which confirmed her lowly origins. 'Won't you please come in?' I smiled in her direction, and then stepped around the child who presented herself as an obstacle that I was obliged to negotiate in order that I might gain entrance into the gloomy residence.

It appeared that the kitchen served a double function as both a place to cook and eat in, and as a chamber to receive guests. I sat carefully at the table and was soon joined by the mite who had a disconcerting habit of simply staring. A coal-black kettle was warming over the fire, and while Mrs Barber prepared tea, I looked all about myself and began to understand the limited means of the shabby woman. Empty crooked shelves decorated the walls, and then I saw a mouse flit nimbly across the floor, but the woman continued to prepare the tea as if nothing untoward had taken place, and it occurred to me that perhaps she was familiar with this creature and his extended family. I turned my attention to the peeling plaster, and to the torn and filthy drapes in the window, before speculating that if she had brought me, a gentleman, to this room, then what of the other rooms in the cottage? How had it come to pass that the widow of Francis Barber, a man so well loved and handsomely provided for by Dr Johnson, could have fallen so low?

Mrs Barber placed a dish of tea before me and then sat quietly across the table. The grimy-faced child looked ruefully at its mother, and then some few words were exchanged between them, although I had no idea of what they were saying for it was as though they were speaking their own secret language. As they continued to jabber, I deemed it polite to lower my eyes and look away for it appeared that whatever was being said between the two of them was becoming increasingly animated and more urgent. Eventually Mrs Barber asked to be momentarily excused. When she returned to the table she did so with a plain piece of bread in one hand, which she passed to the child, clearly intending this gift to be some form of incentive to persuade the cub to remain quiet.

'I'm sorry, sir,' she said. 'I don't mean to delay you in any way, but you know what youngsters can be like.'

The truth was, being a bachelor of some standing, I had been spared the antics of childish misbehaviour, but I nevertheless bestowed a generous smile upon the woman.

'Mrs Barber, first I wish to thank you for agreeing to see me today. I know that you are busy with matters relating to your schoolhouse and I also understand that you must be grieving over your recent loss. However, I wish to write a small profile for the Gentlemen's Magazine concerning your late husband and the unique position that he occupied from which he was able to witness the birth of some of our finest literature. I was, of course, hoping to speak with him directly, but this being impossible I thank you most sincerely for granting me an audience. I will endeavour to occupy only a small portion of your morning.'

The woman looked quizzically upon me, but she chose to say nothing. For my part I was surprised to see how much of an inroad nature had made into her complexion for, sad to say, she was pockmarked extensively, and her grey hair hung lank about her ears. This was not the woman that I had expected to encounter, but the elements have a way of destroying even the most beautiful objects in nature, and sadly it appeared that Mrs Barber had been quite brutally exposed to the vicissitudes of rain and shine for many years now.

'Does it trouble you my daughter being present?' She spoke quietly, but before I could answer, she continued. 'I can send her out if it will please you.' I smiled, first upon her and then in the direction of the mongrel.

'It matters little to me, Mrs Barber. As I said, I have no desire to disturb your day more than is strictly necessary.'

The common woman looked at me in a strange manner, and for a moment I imagined her to be perhaps impaired in her faculties. She began to grin, somewhat toothlessly, and I found myself trying to imagine this Betsy in her full glory a quarter of a century earlier when all of London was animated by the news of the scandalous developments in the great lexicographer's household.

In 1776, Francis announced to his master that he was somewhat persecuted by love and that he had discovered the girl to whom he wished to be married. Initially, Dr Johnson wondered if the lucky girl was with child, but he deemed it politic not to enquire. He knew of Francis' popularity with a variety of young females, and although he regarded the sable young man with paternal concern, he was reluctant to begin lecturing the negro on any aspect of his behaviour in case Francis felt pressured into once again absconding to sea. Dr Johnson asked Francis if he might meet with his bride-to-be, and Francis said that he would bring the girl to him at his master's earliest convenience. Francis also suggested that in order to avoid further conflict with Miss Williams, he would prefer it if after their marriage he and his wife might be permitted to establish lodgings outside of Dr Johnson's house. After all, in addition to Miss Williams there was also her Scotch maid, and the gloomy widow, Mrs Jesmoulins, and her recently arrived daughter, so his master would not be short of assistance. Francis made it clear that he intended to continue to serve his master, but in the interests of peace and harmony he seemed to have already made up his mind that this would be the most sensible course of action.

Two days later, Francis arrived at the house with a freshfaced, twenty-year-old English girl in tow, her arm linked nervously through his own. He introduced the girl to Dr Johnson as Elizabeth, and she curtseyed gracefully, but then Francis immediately began referring to her as Betsy, which his master took as his cue to do the same. The older man inspected the young girl, who seemed slight of body but possessed of a natural bloom, and he then asked after her family, and requested intelligence of how it had come to pass that she had met his Francis. He listened to her shy and cautious words, and then he delicately asked if the couple had any immediate plans for a family, at which point the girl blushed a deep crimson. Again, it occurred to the doctor that the wench might already be with child, for he knew full well that Francis' adventures in the world of passion were extensive and freely reported. Apparently some women, particularly those among the lower orders, found his ebony complexion appealing, and he saw no reason why this Betsy should be any different from the others. However, anything short of a direct question was not going to resolve his private speculation, and knowing that it would be impertinent to pose the question the doctor resigned himself to ignorance. After all, nature would soon enough provide him with an answer.

For her part, Betsy looked upon the famous Dr Johnson and wondered just what services her soon-to-be husband provided for this dishevelled man, whose wig had clearly seldom been combed and whose clothes looked dusty and unwashed. She had heard from many who had witnessed the gentleman roaming abroad at all hours of the day and night, that the man appeared to be insensible to his squalid appearance, but nothing had prepared her for this degree of slovenliness. However, he seemed to be a kind man, and he habitually referred to her Frank as 'my boy' in a manner that was affectionate enough for there to be no doubt in her mind how fondly he regarded Frank. And then later, but during this same visit, Betsy came to understand why her husband-to-be had insisted that they find their own place of abode outside of Dr Johnson's residence. Miss Williams, upon being introduced to Francis' intended, simply snorted in disgust and turned on her heels, which prompted neither comment nor admonition from the head of the household. As far as Betsy was able to discern, this blind woman, who apparently knew her way about the house with a confidence and ease that most sighted people lacked, clearly considered herself to be the queen of the establishment, and she made no secret of her contempt for Frank. Her husband-to-be had already informed her that she liked nothing better than to rail against him, calling him 'this supposed scholar!', and now Betsy saw for herself the truth of the situation. It was not until the ill-tempered Miss Williams left the room that she once again relaxed and felt able to breathe freely.

On the day of her wedding, Betsy made an extra effort to appear alluring, and to those gathered at the church she presented a splendid sight. Dr Johnson had seen to it that all the arrangements were to the liking of Francis and his wife and, as one might expect, the list of invitees comprised of those occupying both elevated and lowly stations in society. Guests were encouraged to mingle and, although this experiment was not entirely successful, most enjoyed a tolerable event, although there were some among the invited who had come principally to gawp and speculate at the propriety of this aberrant union. For his part, Dr Johnson looked upon the match as well made, but inwardly he worried with regard to the purity of young Betsy and her loyalty to his 'boy'.

It came about that the doctor soon had reason to be concerned, for not long after the wedding, at a party given by his friends the Thrales in their Streatham home, a party to which Francis and his new wife were cordially and generously invited, some of the male servants began to flirt openly with Betsy Barber. Perhaps unwisely, the newly wed 'lass' chose to do nothing to deflect the attentions of these men, and in a rage Francis flew from the house and determined that he would walk back to London by himself. Dr Johnson noted his servant's rapid departure, and when Mrs Thrale informed him that jealousy was the cause of Francis' anger the news appeared to somewhat exasperate the doctor. Later that same evening, while riding his carriage back to London, Dr Johnson came across Francis walking rapidly and with fury still apparent on his begrimed face. 'Are you jealous of your wife?' bellowed a disembodied voice. Francis stopped dead in his tracks not knowing exactly what was happening. He wondered if he was the victim of an attempted robbery, but he soon recognised both the person and the stern voice. His master did not give him time to answer and he asked Francis if the Thrales' footmen had kissed his wife in his presence.

'Why no, sir,' said Francis, 'I don't believe that any of them kissed my wife at all.'

'Well what, then,' thundered Dr Johnson, 'did they do with the woman?' Francis opened his mouth as though about to utter an answer, but he was too slow to please the doctor. 'Well, come along lad, what did they do to her? Nothing, I'll warrant, and you my boy are merely caught tight in the grip of that green-eyed monster, jealousy. You must learn to make clear the difference between your wife and other women you have known, for truly there is something particular about her person that you value and trust ahead of any others or you surely would not have married her, am I right?' Francis nodded. 'Then will you go back and fetch your wife instead of abandoning her like some woman of the night? Will you be a man and protector for the woman that you stood up for in church, the woman that you professed your love and affection for?' Francis lowered his eyes, as though momentarily ashamed of his behaviour, and then he slowly nodded his head. 'Well, be gone with you then,' said Dr Johnson, 'and make me proud of you, lad.' With this said, he signalled to the driver of his carriage to move off into the night, and he left Francis marooned between London and Streatham and with little choice but to turn on his heels and retrace his steps in search of his wife.

It was difficult for me to believe that the fair woman who had won the heart of Francis Barber, and the woman whose loyalty Dr Johnson eventually came to respect, bore any relation to the fatigued creature who sat before me as I drank my tea. What hardships this Betsy must have endured in the intervening years, for it was evident that the two children that she had given birth to before the death of the doctor, and the daughter that she had produced afterwards had, together with poverty and an excess of hard work, conspired to deprive her of what must once have been an enchanting aspect. For a moment I looked beyond Mrs Barber, and the child curled across her lap like a slumbering animal, and I peered out of the window to where the sun had momentarily hidden itself behind a cloud. Then, realising that having been granted an audience with this woman it was remiss of me to suddenly disengage and peer idly through her window, I returned my attention to Mrs Barber.

'Might I prevail upon you to answer some questions relating to your late husband? As I have mentioned to you already, I am hoping to assemble a short biographical sketch for the Gentlemen's Magazine in London.' I paused. 'I can assure you that this is a most respectable publication and a small entry pertaining to your late husband can only help his reputation.'

As I concluded my words I noticed that the woman appeared to be genuinely alarmed, so much so that she set her child in a chair next to herself, carefully making sure that she did not rouse the mite. She began slowly. 'Please sir, I'm afraid I don't understand. Or perhaps you know something that I'm not aware of, and if you do may it please you to share your news with me. You see, to the best of my knowledge, my Frank is not deceased, or at least not yet. He's alive, but ailing badly in the infirmary. The doctor said he could linger like this for a good while and we've no guarantee when he'll be relieved from his misery.'

Now it was my turn to appear amazed. Had the innkeeper given me false information, or was this poor woman simply unaware of her husband's recent demise? I asked when exactly was the last time that she had spoken with her husband, and on receiving the news that she had seen him only the previous morning I concluded that the intelligence of the doltish innkeeper must have been misguided.

'My Frank has suffered a great number of difficulties during these past few years, and he's not always been comfortable in mind and body. Life hasn't been very kind to Frank since we left London two years after the doctor's death, and then came up here to Lichfield. It was his master's idea. I know he meant well, as he always meant well for his Frank, but maybe we'd have been better off staying in London where we knew people and could always make a few shillings. But the doctor always thought that people up here in his home town would look out for Frank on account of Frank having been so faithful to his master, but it turned out that people didn't care that much. You understand, Lichfield is where the doctor's from. My Frank's from Jamaica, but I expect you already know that, don't you?' I nodded, but said nothing for I was eager for her to continue. 'It's not been easy with the children, and then there were those who cheated us. Lots of them. Eventually we came out here to Burntwood to open a school and pass on the gift of knowledge that Frank's master had given to him. We wanted to bestow it on common people who might otherwise have remained in ignorance. Reading and writing, reason and logic, the principles of self-expression and the knowledge of the Lord, this is what Frank felt he could share with the people, but it seems like most of them wanted to receive such instruction from a more visibly competent source, if you're understanding me. Then Frank's health began to turn for the worse, and so I don't know what else I can say. It was always his master's idea that we leave London and come to Lichfield, and eventually Frank thought alright, but I remember having reservations at the time. I suppose I still have them now, all these years later.'

Towards the end of Dr Johnson's life Francis' presence became increasingly necessary, for it was apparent to all that the doctor's health was failing rapidly. His household was now located at 8 Bolt Court in an alley off Fleet Street, and Dr Johnson was paying the reasonable sum of forty pounds a year for a tall house with a garden to the rear. However, these years were to prove difficult for the doctor as he entered a period of great affliction. Miss Williams, though still present, was increasingly enfeebled, while Mrs Desmoulins and her daughter had suddenly moved clear away. Mrs Desmoulins had been unable to endure any further bickering with Miss Williams, but she had also chosen to go into hiding in order that she might avoid an indictment for debt that had recently been served upon her. Despite her capacity to be as mean and petty as Miss Williams, the doctor mourned the sudden absence of Mrs Desmoulins and it served only to deepen his sense of abandonment. After all, he had recently lost both of his dear friends, the actor David Garrick, and the literary man Oliver Goldsmith, while his Scottish companion, Mr James Boswell, was practising law in faraway Edinburgh. Furthermore, there had been an unfortunate misunderstanding, and subsequent 'break', with Mrs Thrale which, though now somewhat resolved, had left a rift in their friendship that he understood would never be fully healed. In addition to these tender sorrows, he also mourned the passing of his house companion of thirty years, the destitute and dishevelled Dr Levett, who, like Francis, could be relied upon to join him for fireside conversation from the early evening and, if necessary, continue clear through until dawn.

Sadly, the doctor's ailments were such that it was no longer possible for him to roam the narrow, dirty, streets off the Strand, places that were shadowy and populated with a full tide of beggars, thieves, and abandoned women. These were dangerous passageways where violence was commonplace, but the doctor was long accustomed to observing and relishing this low life. Those irritating fellows, the night watchmen who bawled the hour in every dark street and alley of the city, were entirely familiar with his immense bulk and greeted him almost as one of their own. However, being a man dedicated to the night, 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 Essex Head Tavern and it attracted an enthusiastic crowd, but Dr Johnson was racked with asthma, and clearly struggling to breathe properly, so much so that he was too ill to return home unaided. However, the true drama of the occasion was the doctor's behaviour during the gathering. For some time now his friends had noticed that his severe humour and dogmatic manner seemed to intensify as his ailments took a firmer grip. At such moments he would become increasingly oppressive in conversation which caused many, including those who held him in the highest esteem, to grow first to fear, then to abhor, his unpolished and disagreeable irascibility. The doctor's favourite technique of argument was usually a flat denial of his opponent's statement, irrespective of how foolish this made him appear, followed by a grand assault of verbal brilliance such as one might expect from a man who had fixed the English language and succeeded in ridding it of cant. But sadly, these days those opponents whom he could not vanquish by force of his admittedly large intellect, he simply bullied into submission with a vile display of rudeness which seemed unrelated to any quantities of drink that he might have consumed. Thereafter, he often failed to make amends by raising a glass to the offended person's health or shaking his hand when he left the room, gestures which he had long been accustomed to offering.

After the first meeting of the new association, it was nearly two months before the doctor was well enough to once again venture out of his house. During this period, Francis and his wife Betsy and the children moved their household into Bolt Court. This caused the doctor's friend, Sir John Hawkins, some consternation, but he temporarily set aside his prejudices and simply urged the great man to put his affairs in order and immediately prepare a will. However, Dr Johnson was fearful that such a course of action might suggest a willingness to cease struggling with life, and as such he baulked at taking a step that, in his rational mind, he knew to be both sensible and natural. The very thought of his own dissolution and eventual death was intolerable to him, but the one issue that he admitted must be swiftly resolved was the matter of what would happen to Francis, who had served him faithfully for almost thirty-five years, and about whose future he agonised. The doctor had little confidence in Francis' powers of survival, for he understood his servant's weaknesses and he had laboured hard to both accommodate these faults and at the same time protect the man. One afternoon the doctor asked his friend and physician, Dr Brocklesby, what might be a proper annuity to bequeath a highly regarded servant, and he was told that fifty pounds a year might be considered a generous amount. Dr Johnson listened carefully, and then decided upon seventy pounds a year for Francis, whom he determined would be his principal legatee. He instructed Sir John Hawkins to draw up the draft of the will and to include the generous legacy to Francis, however, Sir John Hawkins left blanks where, in good time, he imagined Dr Johnson would insert the names of other legatees, but the doctor appeared to have no desire to do such a thing. Instead he named two more executors, Sir Joshua Reynolds and Dr William Scott, and charged them and Sir John Hawkins with the task of disbursing sums to a few others after his death, and then he reiterated his desire to give 'the rest of the aforesaid sums of money and property, together with my books, plate, and household furniture. . to the use of Francis Barber, my manservant, a negro. .'

Sadly, Dr Johnson's recurrent battles with asthma continued to prevent him from attending the Essex Street Club as regularly as he wished. In fact, as he became increasingly aware of the reality of his situation, Dr Johnson decided to travel to Lichfield and revisit his youth, but while there his ailments caused him to sleep long and often, and his suffering seemed only to increase. And then the doctor received news of the death of Miss Williams, who had, for some time, been languishing in helpless misery, and this loss left him desolate. He returned to London where he yearned for pleasant company and conversation, but most of his time was spent in a deep, but agitated, slumber that was inevitably punctuated by raucous breathing and the occasional yelp of pain. Francis continued to attend upon him daily, but as his master's condition worsened the negro made sure that he was also available for long nightly vigils in the sickroom in case the doctor's pain became intolerable. On the morning of Monday 13 December, Francis noted that the slumbering doctor's breathing had become difficult, and then his master awoke suddenly with a series of convulsive movements that alarmed Francis. Apparently the pain in his master's legs was so unbearable that the doctor snatched up a pair of scissors and plunged them deep into his calves causing jagged wounds. This afforded the doctor some relief, but also occasioned a loss of blood which startled Francis and Mrs Desmoulins, who had recently arrived at the house to offer what help she could. In fact, she had another reason for attending upon her beloved Dr Johnson on this day, for she wished to receive his blessings, which he was happy to give. Once the bleeding had stopped, the doctor slowly turned to Mrs Desmoulins and whispered, 'God bless you,' in a trembling voice. Francis waited and watched as Mrs Desmoulins fought bravely to hold back her tears, and then she rushed quickly from the room.

Later that same day the ailing Dr Johnson received a visit from a Miss Morris, who was the child of a friend of his. The young woman's unexpected arrival alarmed Francis, but he escorted her from the street door up the stairs to Dr Johnson's chamber, where he asked her to wait. He entered and informed his master that a young woman was here who claimed to be the daughter of a friend, and that she had asked permission to see him so that she might receive his blessings. Dr Johnson smiled weakly, which his negro servant took as a sign that he should usher this Miss Morris into the room, which he did. The doctor turned in the bed and looked carefully at the girl before pronouncing, 'God bless you, my dear.' With this said he turned away and Francis marshalled Miss Morris from the room. Soon after, Francis, together with Mrs Desmoulins, returned to Dr Johnson's chamber where they both realised that the doctor's breathing had become even more laboured, but there was nothing that they could do to alleviate his discomfort. Shortly after seven o'clock in the evening, both Francis and Mrs Desmoulins noticed that the painful breathing had ceased and so they quickly left their respective chairs and went to the bed where they discovered that the great Englishman was dead.

The woman poured her visitor more tea and then coughed loudly without resorting to covering her mouth. It was clear that, in common with her husband's late master, this woman had no passion for clean linen or immersing herself in cold water. The story of her time in Lichfield with her negro husband was now clearly uppermost in her mind, but it was apparent that this was not a joyful tale. If, as seemed to be the case, Francis Barber was still alive then what I most desired was an introduction to the man so that I might discover for myself why fortune had not smiled upon him since the death of his master. It was an indisputable fact that Dr Johnson had provided handsomely for Francis, although Sir John Hawkins, among many others, had complained loudly of the imprudence of Dr Johnson leaving money to a negro. If the rumours of Barber's fall from grace, and his foolishly squandering the assets bequeathed to him, and thereby betraying the generosity of England's greatest literary mind, proved to be true then this would serve only to confirm Hawkins' estimation of Dr Johnson's folly.

The woman coughed.

'Lichfield has turned out to be a disappointment for me and for Frank, but I expect you can see that, right?'

I said nothing but again I looked at the squalor that surrounded me.

'After a couple of years trying to make a living in London, we came up here to Lichfield. Then we discovered that my Frank had borrowed so much money from Mr Hawkins that not only was the annuity no more, but Frank was told that the sum of money that provided for it was all spent. Mr Hawkins claimed to have settled his account with my Frank. My husband's health was never that good, then we had difficulties with the children. It was hard to find anybody who would give us work or even welcome us. Three years ago we moved out here to Burntwood, and we used the last of the money to buy this cottage, but Frank's sadness drove him to drink more and so we had to start to let go of the doctor's pieces. We don't have anything left. My Frank, he used to take pleasure in a spot of fishing or cultivating a few potatoes, but even that's gone now and look where he's landed. The Stafford Infirmary, which isn't a place for a decent man.'

Again the woman coughed, and I deemed it an appropriate moment to ask the question that was now sitting somewhat impatiently on my tongue.

'Would it be possible for me to see your husband?' Mrs Barber looked blankly at me, but said nothing. I continued in my efforts to engage the uncultured creature. 'I understand that Mr Barber's health may not be perfect, but an audience, however brief, would assist me greatly with my biographical sketch.' I paused, unsure whether the dull woman was sensible of my words. 'I would appreciate your assistance, if at all possible.'

After what appeared to be an age, the woman nodded briefly and said she would conduct me to the infirmary, but she asked if first it might interest me to see the schoolroom. Clearly this is what she desired, and so I rose to my feet and followed both her and the mongrel through a plain door and into a darkened room. Books and papers were strewn all about, but it was unclear exactly how many pupils still considered this to be a place of learning that they might visit on a daily basis. Mrs Barber drew back the curtains to let a little light into the room, but the illumination served only to highlight the squalor of the place. Just as I was beginning to feel that precious time was being wasted on this gloomy ruin, the child began to cry. Gathering the gamine about her skirt, Mrs Barber announced that it was some months now since her Frank had been forced by ill-health to abandon teaching, but she attempted to attend to those pupils who still wished to learn, although she did confess that her own learning was somewhat rudimentary. As we made ready to leave, I cast my eyes around the dismal chamber and concluded that this place had probably not been used as a schoolroom, or as anything else, for the greater part of a year, and the morose English woman's claims to be, in the absence of her husband, a replacement teacher of some description were undoubtedly exaggerated.

I soon discovered the Stafford Workhouse Infirmary to be a place of great misery, as opposed to a haven of rest and recovery for those who were temporarily ailing. As the carriage came slowly to a halt by the tall oak doors, I noticed that the infirmary boasted a stony black façade, and the grounds all about were entirely treeless, which created a most despondent atmosphere. Mrs Barber and her child led the way into the vaulted interior, and they moved quickly along a seemingly endless corridor as though hurrying to an appointment. Then the grey-haired woman stopped outside of a rough-hewn door that was partially ajar, but through which I was able to spy a long row of tightly packed and fully occupied beds.

'Frank's in there at the end. The last bed but one. We can wait here until you've finished your talking with him.'

I was somewhat surprised by Betsy Barber's reluctance to enter the cheerless chamber and introduce me to her husband, but I imagined that perhaps there was some rift between them that I was not sensible of. Or perhaps she was simply fearful of once again encountering her husband in such a pitiful situation. On entering the miserable place, I decided that it was quite probably the latter reason, for I could not imagine any wife who would be content to gaze upon a loved one who had been reduced to such lamentable circumstances. Most of the patients appeared to be quietly suffering from grave maladies that would soon carry them off, while one or two thrashed about as though trying to free themselves from imaginary leashes, and as they gyrated they howled like beasts. I could see no sign of a physician, but I was soon accosted by an attendant who offered me a sponge soaked in vinegar which I immediately pressed to my nostrils for protection. Thereafter, I made my way to the bed as directed and was somewhat alarmed to see the tortuously aged face of a man I had not seen for sixteen years. Blacky's eyes were fastened tightly shut, but once I sat on the edge of the cot — there being no other place for me to deposit myself — he soon opened his peepers and stared up at me as though unable to properly discern with whom he had an audience.

'Do you remember me, Mr Barber?' As soon as I asked this question I felt foolish, for why should the negro commit to memory knowledge of a man he had not encountered for nearly two decades? It was a somewhat presumptuous enquiry on my part and I regretted that I had allowed it to pass my lips, but to his great credit Francis Barber did not seem at all troubled by my impertinence.

'Forgive me,' he whispered, 'but my mind is weak.' He paused and blinked vigorously, as though trying to regard me anew. I could see now that the man was toothless, and his decrepitude was far advanced. 'Sir, I am sorry that you should discover me in this state of disrepair.'

I assured him that there was no reason for him to apologise, and that it was I who should be begging his forgiveness for this unannounced intrusion. I explained that it was the woman he called 'wife' who had suggested that I might visit, and who had subsequently conveyed me to this place, and he simply nodded as though he had already guessed that this must be the case. Again his eyes closed, and I looked around at the other patients in the room, most of whom, like this negro, appeared to be idling close to death. And then I turned my attention back to Francis who, even as I sat with him, appeared to be already experiencing life racing quickly out of his body. In fact, his short, shallow breaths suggested that he was merely lingering at the door to the next world. A few moments passed, and then Dr Johnson's negro once more opened his eyes and a thin smile crept across his black face.

'I wonder,' he said 'if perhaps I have disappointed my master. Have you come to this place to accuse me of this crime?' The negro paused and gathered his thoughts. 'My master placed a great deal of faith in me that I might resist temptation, do you know this? Towards the end he often called me to his bedside and asked me to pray with him. He never failed to point out appropriate passages in the scriptures, for he feared that my nature was too weak and that I might misuse all that he was about to bestow upon me. He feared that some men might take advantage of my character and so we prayed together that I would find strength and not succumb to my fondness for drink and frivolity. My master and myself, we often prayed together, the two of us, long into the night.' The negro paused and gasped for breath. I instinctively reached down and clasped his black hand, and eventually his breathing subsided, but I chose not to release this poor man's fingers. 'I lack dignity. Even coming to Lichfield was a fulfilment of my master's wishes.' I looked at Johnson's dishevelled negro, but I could find no words. 'My master provided me with many advantages yet I still find myself in these circumstances. I sincerely wish that he had used me differently.' The negro looked nervously all about himself. 'Perhaps,' he continued, 'I would have been better served committing to a life at sea, or returning to my native Jamaica. Perhaps it would have been more profitable for me to have established for myself the limits of my abilities rather than having them blurred by kindness, dependence, and my own indolence. And when presented with real liberty—' He stopped abruptly, then sighed. 'Well, look upon me, sir. Look liberty in the face. What see you?' Suddenly, with this question, his eyes temporarily brightened, but then without waiting for my answer they fell shut again, like a falling curtain, and this time it was clear that they would not reopen again this day. At least not for me. Dr Johnson's negro had withdrawn from the world, and I was left alone with his pitiful words ringing loudly in my ears. Surely liberty had never before appeared to any man in such a state of mournful ruination. It was true, this negro had most likely been destroyed by the unnatural good fortune of many years of keeping company with those of a superior rank, thus depriving him of any real understanding of his own true status in the world. I felt that I could answer his final question with some confidence, even though he would remain insensible to my thoughts on the matter. Yes, the black should have left our country and journeyed back to Jamaica or to Africa with Mr Sharp's expedition. In fact, all ebony personages should do so for I was now convinced that English air is clearly not suitable for negro lungs and soon reduces these creatures to a state of childish helplessness. In this sad, wretched moment, I had received confirmation of the wisdom of my own intention to invest in the Province of Freedom, and thereby help prevent this spectacle of negro abasement from becoming endemic in our land.

In the evening I dined alone at the Three Crowns. The innkeeper had timidly requested permission to join my table once I had completed my meal, and I agreed to his entreaty for I now understood that my acquiescence would enable him to temporarily escape the tedious presence of his wife. In the morning I would be returning to London, so this would probably mark my final exchange with this weak man, whom I had already corrected with regard to the status of Francis Barber's mortality. The innkeeper poured freely from what he termed a 'special' bottle of French claret, and he once again apologised for his error, but I assured him that the man's wife, though puzzled, appeared to have taken no discernible offence. The innkeeper had hardly received my words before he sought intelligence as to just how far Mr Barber had fallen from the lower rungs of the social ladder. I smiled back at this odious man, but resolved to say nothing that might assuage his curiosity. The situation soon became uncomfortable, and my host quickly changed tack, and asked after the negro's wife. I answered that she appeared to be experiencing difficulties providing for her children, for clearly the schoolhouse had been neglected since the onset of Mr Barber's illness. I reminded this foolish citizen of Lichfield of Dr Johnson's conviction that a decent provision for the poor, particularly those in the final season of their lives, is the truest test of civilisation, and I left the rest to his conscience. The effect of the wine had begun to diminish this man's speech and I feared that it had also made inroads into what remained of his judgement. I could sense the deep desire on the part of the innkeeper to ask again after the Jamaican, but my mind was made up. The fall of a man is not a pretty picture to behold, but the spectacle of an individual attempting to hide his indifference behind a thin mask of concern is an altogether unacceptable sight.

I looked around as the inkeeper's 'guests' continued to drink like horses and grow increasingly shrill. Some among them began singing and pulling caps, while others stirred themselves as though preparing to dance a jig. Who in Lichfield had truly tried to help the faithful friend and servant of the city's foremost son? While I was sure that Francis Barber's own failings had led him to death's door in that inhospitable infirmary, I was also convinced that others had conspired in his demise by simply standing to the side and looking on. Dr Johnson's favourite, deprived of the protection of his master, and exposed to the hostile apathy of first London, and then Lichfield, had lost his way. A biographical sketch in the Gentlemen's Magazine would most likely be met with the same combination of fascination and disdain that had blighted the pathetic negro's life. Climbing to my unsteady feet, I bade my host a good night before abandoning him to the enmity of his wife. I carried a candle to my room where I anticipated a few fitful hours of half-sleep before clambering aboard a carriage back to London. I already understood that this night would be long and difficult, and that it was most likely that my dreams would be populated by multiple sightings of a small Jamaican boy named Quashey, who would no doubt be helplessly extending an arm in my direction. I resolved that in the morning I would tarry a while at Burntwood and, without comment, present his English wife with Dr Johnson's watch. Whatever she might obtain from the local pawnbroker would go some way towards feeding her irregular children. The good doctor would, I felt sure, approve of his handsome watch being disposed of for this purpose.