Foreigners Read Free

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 1,000
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