(NOW THAT WOULD BE)

TELLING

DR JOHNSON'S HOUSE

3

THE JOHNSONIAN MYSTERIES

By G.F.A. Southern

(John Murray, London 1878)

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CONTENTS

Introduction 3

Chapter I: Dr Johnson and the Masons 5

Reasons to believe that Johnson was a mason – induction into the order – the Magic Flute – Masonic meetings at Bolt Court – symbolism in portraits of Johnson and his associates – ring bequeathed to Francis Barber.

Chapter II: The Secret Conversion of Mrs Thrale 22

Interests in Catholicism – visits to convents while in France – meeting with the Abbe de Saint-Siegne – Catholic friends – her authoring of previously lost pamphlet ‘A Submission In Favour of the Church of Rome’ – comments to Johnson about her conversion – Piozzi assists with her preparation – conversion in Florence.

Chapter III: The London Wife 41

Boswell’s secret bigamous marriage in London – Fanny Jones the jig dancer – her life in Covent Garden – attachment to Boswell – Boswell mentions her briefly in his diary – marriage at St Paul’s Covent Garden as ‘Mr P. Cross’ – house in Red Lion Square – four children of the marriage and their descendents.

Chapter IV: Mrs Williams’s Fortune 58

Anna Williams inherited wealth – Ancient Williams family of Llandudno - castle and lands – curse put on family – estate passed to cadet branch through act of patricide – strange codicil in will of Evan Rhys-Williams – Mrs Williams cheated by ‘black arts’ – tradition of Welsh witches.

Chapter V: The Desmoulins Girl 77

Mrs Desmoulins – friend of Tetty Johnson – she and her ‘daughter’ come to live with Johnson – questionable gender of Miss Desmoulins – Robert Levett suspects Miss Desmoulins is a boy – letter to relation from Mrs Desmoulins – unwilling to part with her son and disguises him – Miss Desmoulins does not ‘mix with company’ – the boy reaches maturity – Johnson sends to boarding school at age of sixteen.

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Chapter VI: The Curious Affair of Francis Barber 98

The author in possession of strange tokens – visit with Mrs Lane, descendent of Francis Barber – family papers – faerie legend – Johnson disapproves of his servant’s course in life – engaged to Betsy Ball – Polly Carmichael – Barber ‘under her spell’ – life long devotion to ‘his Queen’ – author’s curious experience.

Chapter VII: The haunting of Robert Levett. 109

Levett’s past – comes to live with Johnson – he and Johnson temperamentally unsuited – practices medicine – overwhelmed by visions – reliance upon drink – speaks to the dead – unusual death.

Chapter VIII: Conclusions 125

THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF FRANCIS BARBER

By Hallie Rubenhold

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Upon a shelf in my study, beside a Hindu figurine of Shiva and a collection of Egyptian scarabs, there is to be found a small wood and glass case, given to me some thirty years ago. It would be fair to say, that of all the curiosities I have acquired, none among them has succeeded in capturing my imagination so thoroughly as has the contents of this small casket.

I received the articles in question from a maternal uncle, who upon placing them into my care, explained that they once belonged to Dr Johnson’s negro, Francis Barber, and were believed to be love tokens exchanged between the servant and the woman who became his wife, Miss Betsy Ball. They are exceptionally unusual items; a richly adorned miniature portrait and a lock of dark hair bound up in a ribbon. As a young man, I found there something exotic and esoteric in their appearance, and even to this day, after decades of travel through several continents, I have yet to encounter objects which are in any way similar.

It was in the pursuit of unravelling the history of these curiosities that I was introduced to the widow, Mrs Ann Lane, granddaughter of Francis Barber. My enquiry to this lady was met with an invitation to call upon her at her home in Lichfield, the place to which her grandfather had retired. I proposed only a short visit, as my leg, which had received a wound in Sebastopol, some years earlier, was now in the habit of troubling me. Upon hearing of this, my hostess was most accommodating. She dispatched her carriage and a servant to greet me at the station and to convey me to her abode, a fine red brick house positioned on the outskirts of the town.

It must be said that in the course of investigating each of the Johnsonian mysteries detailed in this book, I am never entirely apprised of what I am likely to meet with when I set out on my explorations. My encounter with the lunatic priest in Dijon (as outlined in chapter II) is proof that not every journey ends auspiciously. However, for as unpleasant as that discovery may have been, my meeting with Mrs Lane proved to be quite the contrary. Upon arriving at her home, I was met by a woman as striking in her looks as in her manner. Although she possessed some noticeable mulatto features, her visage had the delicate pallor of a lily, while her high cheeks were as round and firm as those of a lady half her age. A warmer more artless smile I have never seen, yet she held herself with all the reserve of a Methodist minister’s widow. ‘Mr Southern, Sir,’ she sang out with a tinkling, high voice, before kindly offering me her arm so I might lean on it, in place of my walking stick.

I was then escorted into the parlour of her home, adorned with those embellishments so often found in the rooms of sentimental matrons; silhouettes, Stoke porcelain, and two or three photographs set into ivory frames. Gesturing to a worn velvet chair, she insisted that I have the seat nearest to the fire, so as to warm my leg. Shortly after, a housemaid appeared with a pot of tea and several plates of sandwiches and cakes. Not wishing to impose upon my hostess for any great length of time, I felt it expedient to launch upon the reason for my visit. Reaching into

my valise, I pulled from it the small wooden box containing the objects. Carefully, I lifted the lid and placed them upon the lace tablecloth. I allowed her to study them for a moment before explaining that they had been love tokens, exchanged between her grandparents.

She took the lock of hair into her palm and smoothed it with her finger. ‘Never did think I would come to see these objects, Mr Southern, for I knew they existed, but I had no idea who had possession of them,’ said she in her broad Staffordshire tones.

‘They belonged to your grandfather – and your grandmother Barber, did they not?’ I questioned, as I reached again into my valise for my notebook and pencil.

‘My grandfather, Francis Barber, yes...but not my grandmother, oh no, not Elizabeth Barber. My grandmother had hair the colour of sand’, said she pointing to a wall lined with miniatures where Elizabeth Barber’s image hung. ‘This hair is raven black.’

I rumpled my brow.

‘Mrs Lane, you baffle me by this’ I responded. ‘They were presented to me as mementos of your grandparents’ courtship.’

The widow shook her head. ‘If you will excuse me for a moment, Mr Southern...’ said she, lifting herself slowly from the table. She disappeared for a short while and then returned with what appeared to be a letter box in her hands.

‘You wished to know the story of these tokens and of my grandfather, Francis Barber, so I shall tell you. You will be the first person not of our family to hear this tale,’ she stated, as she settled herself back into her seat. ‘I was told it by my father, the Reverend Samuel Barber, who had it from his father, as he was upon his death bed.’ She then inhaled and gave me a cautious look. ‘I fear it will make you think less of him. You must understand, my grandfather was a man of many shortcomings. He could be foolish at times. Frightfully foolish.’

She reached for the miniature and ran her thin, neat fingers around the edge of its frame, smiling wistfully as she did so.

‘He very nearly did not marry my grandmother...all on account of some ridiculous notion, some absurd fable he had been told when a boy. Dr Johnson spent most of his life attempting to disabuse him of it.

It was Johnson’s intention to teach the boy to reason, as it had been Captain Bathurst’s before him. You may not know about Bathurst’s great experiment, how he wished to provide Negro boys – slave boys with an education? He wished to turn them from savages into rational beings, by way of books.’ Mrs Lane then

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paused thoughtfully before taking a dainty bite of ginger cake, ‘Of course today, the church is far more adept at this exercise. My late husband dedicated his life to the missionary cause,’ said she with a note of pride. ‘Naturally, as Christian virtue was not taught with as much authority as were the morals and values of classical antiquity, Frank Barber was never able to purge his mind entirely of its native, superstitious tendency. This is not to say, Dr Johnson did not try, indeed, he did more than any master might for a servant, in terms of charity and kindness. When my grandfather was given to Dr Johnson, he determined that the boy should not live with him simply as an employee but as a ward. He did not have any children of his own. It was an unusual arrangement, to say the least,’ she sniffed. ‘My grandfather’s standing in Johnson’s household did not make him well liked among the other members of it, and it certainly did not help matters that he was possessed of a rather...tempestuous character. He could never settle on any one direct course in life. There were schools and a sort of apprenticeship to an apothecary, which did not work. Frank Barber was clever and found the menial tasks required of him too dull for his liking,’ she tutted. ‘To tell the truth, Mr Southern, I believe that Dr Johnson indulged my grandfather far too much for his own good. He only acquired some discipline by going off to sea. He joined a ship at Portsmouth and became a sailor in the navy, though Dr Johnson did everything in his power to get him back upon dry land. He feared for the young man’s safety, you see. He feared for his body as much as for his soul – for it is well known what dreadful atrocities occurred on board such frigates in that day.’

I nodded, while keeping my eyes fixed upon my cup of tea.

‘While my grandfather may have been lacking in application, that which he did possess was great charm. His dark skin made him a favourite among the ladies, and many of Johnson’s acquaintance. To them he was somewhat of a curiosity; a blackamoor boy who spoke with all the refinement of an educated gentleman. Mrs Thrale said he had an appealing face... for a Negro, and he always maintained a smart appearance.’ My hostess offered me a reflective smile before taking a sip of her tea. I followed suit.

‘He did have the power to enchant a good many folk. Indeed, the poor and ill educated being what they are, used to approach him in the street and ask to be given the cure!’ She laughed.

I did not follow. ‘They wished him to...lay on hands?’

‘Yes, Mr Southern. That is correct. Some of the poor believed such an exotic creature as a Negro had some magic about him. Some believed him half elf or sprite, due to his colour.’

‘Extraordinary’, I muttered, while making a note of this.

‘It is more extraordinary still, that they believed themselves healed. I was told a story of an old washerwoman who claimed that he cured her rheumatism. She returned to him the following day without a pain in her body. He hadn’t so much as laid a finger upon her, either.’ She then shut her eyes and shook her head ruefully. ‘Perhaps this is where it all began...’.

‘Where what all began, Mrs Lane?’ I pressed.

She sighed. ‘The nonsense - the folly which very nearly meant that I would not be here today to tell this tale.’

‘Dr Johnson blamed it all upon a story the boy had been told when at sea...I have it here, written down in my grandfather’s hand’. She then unlocked the letter box, and after riffling through it, retrieved a weathered sheet of paper. ‘Shall I read it to you?’ she enquired, sliding her spectacles onto the bridge of her nose.

I nodded.

A story I have been told by Tom Dunn, aboard the HMS Stag, this night the 16th of October 1758:

This tale was put to me by Old Tom, who said he had it off a slave woman he met with in Barbados, who claim’d to be descent’d from a tribe of faerie folk from the jungles of Guinea. Tom remark’d to me that he was never so convinc’d of a tale in all his life as this one, and he has seen a good deal of the world, from Cape Horn to the Americas, but never had he seen a person so touch’d by magick as this negress. She had a CHARM about her, said he. It was a power to bewitch, he was certain. He went to her for a remedy for a complaint in his belly which had plagued him for a fortnight without relief. Upon paying his visit to her, she muttered some incantation in her own language and said then, it shall be lifted from you tomorrow. The following morn, Tom rose to find himself heal’d entire. Wishing to thank her for the cure she had effect’d, he went to her and then learn’d something of her life. She told him the tale of her origins, which was that her ancestors were once of a faerie tribe from Guinea. They were known as the Dark Kind, and were reign’d over by a Queen, all powerful. They believ’d her immortal, that her soul was never dispatch’d from this life, but rather came to live within another body. As soon as her soul departed one vessel, it entered into another, and so by these means she had attained eternal life and could exchange her shape for a different one. The negress explained that her tribe were long since dispers’d and sold for slaves. She knew not what became of their queen, nor what form she might now inhabit, tho’ she claim’d there are many like her, descent’d of the Dark Kind who work their magick still. Old Tom then turn’d to me and look’d hard at my expression and said, ‘By God, Frank you have the look of that negro woman. I’ll be d---’d if you too ain’t of that Faerie race’. He had taken a quantity of rum and so laugh’d as he remark’d upon it, but I was inclin’d to agree with him and respond’d ‘that he knew not the truth of his words.

Coming to the end of her story, Mrs Lane inhaled disapprovingly and then folded the letter away. ‘Dear Grandfather Frank. It is no wonder his guardian wished him out of the navy. With tales such as those, he feared they would undo all he had striven to put right.’

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‘What happened then?’ I was now entirely rapt by her narrative.

‘Dr Johnson retrieved his ward from the navy, though he was slow to return to London. My grandfather regaled him with his wild stories, which put his guardian greatly out of humour. “Your head is full of nonsense, Frank”, he would say. “A man’s mind can not hold long against a constant assault of idiocy”. To cure him of it, Dr Johnson sent him off for further schooling in Bishops Stortford, although his ward was now past twenty. I suppose this did him some good, for after two years, he returned to London with a greater degree of erudition, and a mind cleansed of his sea adventures – or so his guardian believed.’ She held my gaze before taking another sip from her cup.

‘Would you care for some more tea, Mr Southern?’

‘No thank you, madam’. My preference was for more of her story, rather than her tea.

‘My grandfather returned from Hertfordshire with more than a proficiency in Greek and Latin. Too many afternoons passed in idleness meant that he had also acquired an interest in country lasses – perhaps more so than he ought, and this concerned Dr Johnson greatly. It is said that, following a visit to Lincolnshire with his guardian that a country girl followed my grandfather back to London. This incident led his master to conclude that an urgent measure was required to prevent Frank Barber bringing disgrace upon himself. No sooner had the girl been dispatched back to her relations then Dr Johnson summoned his servant to him.

“Frank” said he, “you have run enough of cupid’s race to know what is what, but now you must turn your thoughts to taking a wife.”

Until then, my grandfather had not considered the prospect of marriage. “But I am not designed to be a husband, Sir”, he said in response, “I was intended for a life of service. I have no means to support a wife.”

I am told that Dr Johnson simply waved away his concerns. “No man should be kept by another, as he might keep a horse or a cow. What sort of cruel master would I be, if I did not allow you the freedom of your heart? You know well that you are more a son to me than a servant. I shall see to it that your wages are enough to feed your wife and family. Do consider it, Frank.”

My grandfather admitted he was rather bewildered by this suggestion. He did not know what sort of woman to take as a wife. Should he ingratiate himself into the company of the Negresses he had seen, those pretty, beribboned girls kept by West Indian planters in lodgings near Lincoln’s Inn Fields? Certainly they would not have him. Should he find himself a servant of his colour, a housemaid or seamstress? Of those he knew, he liked none of them well enough. Would a white woman have him for a husband? He wondered. Was he not just a pet to such

ladies, like a tame cockerel? Well, Mr Southern, as you might imagine, that which often befalls men in search of a wife did so to Francis Barber; he came across my grandmother without even intending it.

It has been said of my grandfather that until the day they first spoke, he had never looked twice at Elizabeth Ball, the bookseller’s daughter. Mr Ball had his shop on Chancery Lane; a mere hovel of a place, not much larger than a bookstall. They were little better than paupers, a family of six living in the rooms above the shop. “Fetch it from Mr Ball”, Dr Johnson would direct his servant, when he sent him to purchase some mundane pamphlet. “The beggar needs the trade, else his brood shall starve this winter”. So away to Ball’s Frank Barber would go with a purse of coin to pay for his master’s purchases. The good Dr Johnson would never accept credit from my impecunious great grandfather.

Prior to the present occasion when he called, my grandfather had only ever caught sight of Mr Ball’s eldest daughter fleetingly. He remembered her as being a pretty doll-faced girl who hid beneath her large linen cap. Once or twice she had flashed her round blue eyes in his direction, but she was modest enough not to court his attention. Until that day, nothing more than innocent looks had passed between them, but the Lord saw fit to intercede. He sent a customer into the shop, distracting Mr Ball, who left his daughter to record Francis Barber’s purchase in the ledger. As she scribbled silently, my grandfather had an opportunity to inspect her features and, he later claimed, found her even fairer than he had imagined.

He teased her about the sweet innocence of her appearance, calling her eyes cornflowers and her lips rose buds, until he drew a blush from her cheek. My grandmother had often told us that before she was introduced to my grandfather, she had only ever seen Negroes from afar. There were many blackamoors in London; those little servant boys in turbans and curled slippers, and the other sort too, the type who laboured at the docks or sold goods in the street. However, she had never before had the opportunity to converse with one. She was delighted by my grandfather, who she found to be, in her own words, “a charming, but impish sort of learned man”.

Although, my grandfather was as taken with Miss Ball as she was with him, it was his master who ultimately encouraged the match. “Dear Frank,” said he, “I fear she has not a penny or a pot to her name, but from what I have seen of her, Betsy Ball is a good, honest girl, and not without some measure of understanding in her head.” And so with his guardian’s blessing, Francis Barber proposed marriage.’

Mrs Lane then sat for a moment with a warm, knowing expression on her face, as if she intended to conclude the tale there. Not wishing to press her, I waited patiently for the remainder of it. Eventually, the corners of her mouth began to straighten and my hostess returned her attention to the two objects on the table before her. She took the lock of hair into her hand and sighed, faintly.

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‘That is where the story regularly concludes, Mr Southern’, said she. ‘However, there is, as you know... an additional part to it’. She then reached into her box and removed another folded piece of paper from it. Slowly, shutting the lid, she held it in her hand for a beat before sliding it across the table to me. I regarded it, and then her. She paid me a nod, as an encouragement to open it.

Madam, pray accept this humble devotion from your faithful subject, nay, your slave, who is not worthy of the honour of your attentions. Dear heavenly creature, from the instant I laid eyes upon you, I understood it to be true, that you are indeed my Queen. Your fragile, dark beauty has convinc’d me so, as has the confession you offer’d me last night. Madam, I swear my life to your service and protection. I shall honour you as a husband and a consort, for I am eternally yr Francis Barber.

I could not help but find these candid professions of affection touching, and smiled wryly as I folded the billet doux and returned it to its owner. However, my hostess did not appear to share my sense of amusement.

‘It is not what you think, Mr Southern’ said the stony faced Mrs Lane. ‘This note was not addressed to my grandmother, but another.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘In the week before my grandparents were due to wed, a stranger came to Dr Johnson’s House. As you know, the good gentleman had a large heart and was prone to taking in waifs and strays. All manner of person passed through his door, dined at his table and slept beneath his roof. Poor poets and Grub Street authors were only the half of them. You know of course about Mrs Williams, the blind poetess, and then of course the doctor, Robert Levett, the gentleman who gave his life to tending the poor, but who, himself could not resist the lures of the demon drink? Later there was that Desmoulins woman, the failed school mistress and her daughter.’ My hostess rolled her eyes. ‘But I would wager, you do not know of Miss Polly Carmichael?’

‘I have read the name, yes, but do not know much of her story?’

Mrs Lane let out a sniff. ‘That is because, she was not of a polite make, Mr Southern.’ Then, gently clearing her throat, she raised her serviette to her mouth and whispered, ‘She was a girl of the street’.

Silence gathered between us. Good breeding prevented my further speaking of the matter, but after a beat, Mrs Lane resumed the subject undeterred.

‘The story was told to me as thus: one night, shortly before my grandparents were to be wed, Dr Johnson encountered Miss Carmichael lying expired near Fleet Street. As he could not detect the scent of drink about her, and as she bore no apparent injuries, he believed her to have fainted from hunger. Unwilling to leave

her in such a condition, it is said that he heaved the frail creature upon his back and brought her to his house.’

‘Ah yes’, I remarked, ‘...so like the charitable Johnson...’ but no sooner had I spoken then I attempted to imagine the perplexing scene.

Mrs Lane examined me. ‘Ah, I see you, Mr Southern cogitating over this puzzle’, said she, wagging her finger. ‘I know very well what you are thinking, for my grandfather thought it improbable too – Dr Johnson, a man beset with all manner of physical infirmities, undertaking such a task as that. It simply could not be.

Frank Barber had not been present to witness the spectacle, and Mr Levett, who recounted the tale to him, had been abusing the bottle at the time. Of course, Mrs Williams, being blind was of no use in confirming or denying the story either.

My grandfather remonstrated with Mr Levett over this matter, until he declared, “I can not believe a word of it. You are playing me some joke. I shall go directly to the master and enquire of it myself.”

“You shall do no such thing”, was the sharp response from Mrs Williams. “Only a useless, impertinent servant would wake his master on account of such nonsense”. It is to be said, she did not much care for my grandfather.

Frustrated at his inability to discover the truth and fearing the others were playing a trick on him, Francis Barber stormed off, but determined he would come to the bottom of it before he retired for the night.

So, you can see, Mr Southern how this mystery, and my grandfather’s desire to solve it, laid the foundations for a grand deception.

‘A grand deception?’ I enquired, my pencil poised over my notebook.

My hostess’s expression twitched. She appeared at a loss as to how she might continue.

‘Mr Southern, my kinsman was no dunce. Quite to the contrary, he was a man of learning – even a schoolmaster for a time, here in Lichfield, but...you see...he was without religion.’ She paused, and then gave her head a slow shake of disappointment. ‘I spent several years in the Gambia with my late husband and there came to understand the Negro race most intimately – the race whose blood I share. There is something inherent in the Negro nature that inclines us more to belief in spirits and magic. It is a trait which can only be purged by embracing Christ. The body is cleansed of such pagan longings upon baptism. Indeed, had my father not baptised me and raised me a Christian, I can not think what might be my condition, what animals or idols I might worship. It is this primitive, heathen urge which compelled my grandfather to foolishness, to make him believe in such things as he did.’

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With a slight frown, she returned once more to her box of papers. After rummaging through it, she removed another letter. Carefully, she placed the spectacles back upon her nose and cleared her throat.

‘This is the letter that provides all that you need know about my grandfather’s relations with Miss Carmichael. It was written shortly before his death, and addressed to my father, Samuel Barber in 1801.’

My dear Sam,

For many years I have considered how I might convey to you the delicate information contained within this letter. I fear I have delay’d for too long that which my approaching demise now renders it necessary to relate.

In the days shortly before I married your mother, when I lived as a servant to Dr Johnson, a woman was brought to convalesce at his house under circumstances most mysterious. Intrigued by the curious arrival of this unanticipated guest, I crept into her room upon the pretext of tending to the fire.

The chamber, lit by the low glow from the grate and the brightness moon, revealed to me the most splendid, fantastical creature upon whom I had ever set eyes. She bore the serene countenance of a saint, though her sharp features and large nose leant her a wild appearance. Her skin, of a yellowish hue, seemed to also possess some luminescent quality, while her dark hair lay arranged upon the pillow as if she wore a hallow of ebony. She was not the slight, frail creature I imagined her to be, but rather a giantess, an Amazon, the largest woman I have ever had cause to observe. Dear son, I knew in an instant that I was in love with her. Indeed I had never beheld such a vision of other-wordly beauty in all my life. I stood for some time, in raptures, gazing upon her, as Cupid did the dreaming Psyche, until I was startled by her voice.

She addressed me in an odd brogue of which I could scarcely comprehend at first.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“I am Francis Barber, servant to Dr Johnson”.

She opened her eyes, which were black as agates and after studying me awhile, introduced herself as Polly Carmichael.

“How did you come to be here, Miss Carmichael? Is it true that my master carried you upon his back?”

Polly Carmichael moved her head and then announced with a frankness, “I flew into the house. I followed your Master here.”

I laughed at first, but she found no humour in this.

“Do you not believe in faeries, Mr Barber?” She enquired with a perfectly stony expression.

Assuming the role of the gentleman of reason, which is what my kind master had always bid me to be, I answered in the negative. It was falsehood, for even as I spoke it, I knew the truth to be otherwise. Her question had disorder’d me, for, like her radiant charms, it cut right into my heart and by-pass’d all the reason of my mind. I was truly mesmerised, entirely dumbfounded by her.

“Then it is a pity, for you can not see that I have come here for you, Francis Barber. I am your Queen, and I wish to take you for my consort.”

I then laughed powerfully, indeed, I laughed with such force that I fear I may have woken my master. In truth, I laughed to disguise my distress and bewilderment. I knew not what to say. After a moment of uneasy fidgeting, I explained to her that, “I was to be wed in two days time”.

“You shall marry me, instead.” She proclaimed, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

I laughed again. “What nonsense”.

“You shall marry me, Francis Barber, for it is you for whom I have search’d these many years. You are the only faerie descendent upon these isles, the only one of the Dark Kind. I am permitted to marry no one, but one of my own kind.”

I could say no more, my expression had grown quite sober. I was now a good deal shaken by her words and wished to withdraw as quickly as I could.

All that night I lay awake, recounting in my mind the legend I had been told when a boy at sea, about a faerie queen and a faerie tribe, known as the Dark Kind. Indeed I have always believed the coincidence of these events remarkable – beyond remarkable, for she used the very same words in describing the faeries, that I recalled being spoken to me.

By morning, I had convinc’d myself of the truth of her story and in doing so raised myself to a pitch of anxiety, almost indescribable. I could scarcely perform my duties. I believed that the best remedy for this was to pledge my love and eternal devotion to her, until I could contrive some scheme to release myself from my engagement to your mother. I had only just delivered to Miss Carmichael my declaration of love, when my Master came upon me, with the letter I had delivered to my Queen, held in his hand.

“You fool! You blockhead!” he declared “she bid me read her your amorous panegyric! She is as illiterate as a goat, your beloved Titania! What madness is this, Frank?” asked he, before explaining that, as she lay abed the night before, he had read to her some scenes from Mr Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. “She is unwell. She raves. It is the pox that sends her into these fits.” My master then hung his head, for I had, once more proved a disappointment to him, but rather than admonishing me further, he lay a gentle hand upon my shoulder and spoke as might a father, “By nature, most men are feared of marriage, Frank. In order to delay their progress to the altar, they will conjure up all manner of demons and shades.” And with that, he returned to me the letter, and propos’d the matter be laid to rest.

1918

Not two days later, I married your mother at the church of St Dunstan’s on Fleet Street. However, I can not say it cured my heart of its irrational longings.

It pained me greatly that Polly Carmichael continued to live as a member of my master’s household for several years. There was scarcely a day when I had not a chance to look upon her, or communicate some expression of my undiminish’d devotion, though she scarcely spoke to me again. I can not but think that I broke her heart, and somehow lessened her magic through my refusal. She would, on occasion, permit me to kiss her hand and wait upon her, though Dr Johnson attempted to discourage such intercourse. I confess that, for a time, I was even the fortunate owner of a lock of her pretty dark tresses. She, on the other hand, was the recipient of a miniature portrait of me, upon which I had dispos’d of nearly half a year’s wages. I carried her token in my waistcoat pocket, till my master discovered the offending object and removed it from me.

Although he shamed me with accusations of inconstancy to my wife, I seemed incapable of mastering my emotions. She possessed me completely. She gripped my passions as tightly as the words of her story held onto my imagination. Her certain knowledge of the faerie tribe and my place within it, confirmed to me absolutely, the truth of her identity, while the secret we shared, bound me all the more to her. I would not be swayed otherwise, and my devotions to her continued until the day she depart’d. I knew nothing of it, or of how it came to pass. She was simply no longer in the house, and my master would not reveal to me her whereabouts.

My dear Samuel, I know not if she still lives as Polly Carmichael, or what form she may have assumed in slipping from one life into the next. Pray that you are fortune enough to one day pay homage to our Queen. Until that time, I beg of you to remember always the stock from whom you are descended. That you and your sisters have within you all the magic of the faerie race, the powers to charm and heal. Do not permit others, even your mother, to persuade you otherwise, or that you are any less than they. They know not what you are.

I am, as ever, your devoted father,

F. Barber

N.B.: I have enclosed a note of the faerie fable with this letter, so you might read it and be persuaded for yourself.

Mrs Lane and I, sat quietly together, neither of us passing any comment on what had just been disclosed. Her clock chimed a quarter to the hour, the coals shifted in the fire beside me, the hiss of the gas could be heard in the lamps on the wall.

‘And what do you make of this, Mrs Lane?’ I enquired at last.

The widow merely looked beyond me, out the window, where the sun was casting its light between the long shadows.

‘It is all nonsense, Mr Southern’, she sighed. ‘My grandfather had been struck

dumb by love and did not know how to name the sensations he felt. The girl was clearly a lunatic. Raving mad, as Dr Johnson explained to him. I am only pleased she was able to live out some of the days of her life, in a type sanctuary of kindness. I believe she went to the Lock hospital upon leaving the household. I am only sorry that my grandfather was so taken in by her stories…and pleased that my grandmother never knew of it.’ She smiled faintly. ‘But it makes for a fine moral tale…that without the Lord’s guidance we are susceptible to all manner of imaginings and false promises.’

I thanked my hostess for her hospitality and for assisting me to solve a mystery. I explained to her that I hoped to make the London train at half past the hour, and rose swiftly to my feet. It was not until I had walked through her parlour and into the hall that I realised I had done so without the aid of my stick. Remarkably, it remained propped against the wall, beside the fire where I had left it. Astonished, I turned to Mrs Lane and exclaimed that I had not walked more than four steps unassisted in nearly twenty years.

‘The healing power of the fire, Mr Southern’, she smiled. ‘It was all you required.’

The Curious Affair of Francis Barber was written by Hallie Rubenhold on the occasion of (Now that would be) Telling at Dr Johnson’s House, London, 2011.

(Now that would be) TellingHayley Lock with texts by Jessica Hart, Lucinda Hawksley, Ben Moor, Hallie Rubenhold and Liz Williams. Curated by Catherine Hemelryk

5 July–30 October 2011 Ickworth, The Rotunda, Horringer, Bury St Edmunds, IP29 5QEBen Moor

10 August–9 September 2011 Brantwood, Coniston, Cumbria LA21 8AD Lucinda Hawksley

1 October–1 November 2011 Dr Johnson’s House, 17 Gough Square, London EC4A 3DEHallie Rubenhold

5 November 2011–5 February 2012 A La Ronde, Summer Lane, Exmouth, Devon EX8 5BD Liz Williams

14 January – 5 February 2012 Transition Gallery, Unit 25a Regent Studios, 8 Andrews Road London E8 4QN Jessica Hart

© Hallie Rubenhold, London 2011

(Now that would be) Telling

Artist: Hayley Lock Author: Hallie RubenholdEditor: Catherine Hemelryk Design: Present PerfectPrinting: Hato Press

With thanks to: Arts Council England, Stephanie Chapman, Morwenna Rae, Trustees and Governors of Dr Johnson’s House, Heinz archive, Lucinda Hawksley, Escalator, Wysing Arts Centre, Smiths Row, Heather Hemelryk, Jane Bhoyroo, Alison Plumridge, Donna Lynas, Julia Devonshire, Kaavous Clayton, Lotte Juul Petersen, Niki Braithwaite, Amy Louise Nettleton, RCA MA Curating Contemporary Art students 2009, Teddy James, Dr Johnson, Francis Barber and all who lived, visited and worked at Dr Johnson’s House in the past, present and future.

COLOPHON

1 OCTOBER -- 1 NOVEMBER 2011

DR JOHNSON' ’S HOUSE 17 GOUGH SQUARELONDON EC4A 3DEUK

NOWTHATWOULDBETELLING.COM