“To Mrs. Phillips.
“We have a new man, now, almost always at the house, who has brought letters to my father from some of his best French correspondents, M. Berquin; author of the far most interesting lessons of moral conduct for adolescence or for what Mr. Walpole would call the betweenity time that intervals the boy or girl from the man or woman, that ever sprang from a vivid imagination, under the strictest guidance of right and reason. But to all this that is so proper, or rather, so excellent, M. Berquin joins an exuberance of devotion towards l’Hôtel du Grand Newton, and its present owner, and, above all, that owner’s second bairne, that seems with difficulty held back from mounting into an ecstacy really comic. He brought a set of his charming little volumes with him, and begged my mother to present them to Mademoiselle Beurnie; with compliments upon the occasion too florid for writing even, my Susan, to you. And though I was in the room the whole time, quietly scollopping a muslin border, and making entreating signs to my mother not to betray me, he never once suspected I might be the demoiselle myself, because—I am much afraid!—he saw nothing about me to answer to the splendour of his expectations! However, he has since made the discovery, and had the gallantry to comport himself as if he had made it—poor man!—without disappointment. Since then I have begun some acquaintance with him; but his rapture every time I speak is too great to be excited often! therefore, I am chary of my words. You would laugh irresistibly to see how enchanté he deems it fit to appear every time I open my mouth! holding up one hand aloft, as if in sign to all others present to keep the peace! And yet, save for this complimentary extravagance, his manners and appearance are the most simple, candid, and unpretending.”
Dr. Burney himself was seriously of opinion that all the superfluity of civility here described, was the mere effervescence of a romantic imagination; not of artifice, or studied adulation.[65]
MM. LES COMTES DE LA ROCHEFAUCAULT.
Messieurs les Comtes de la Rochefaucault, sons of the Duc de Liancourt, when quite youths, were brought, at the desire of their father, to a morning visit in St. Martin’s-street, with their English tutor, Mr. Symonds, by Arthur Young; to whose superintending care and friendship they had been committed, for the study of agriculture according to the English mode.
The Duke had a passion for farming, for England, for improvement; and above all, for liberty,—which was then rising in glowing ferment in his nation; with little consciousness, and no foresight, of the bloody scenes in which it was to set!
THE DUC DE LIANCOURT.
The Duc de Liancourt himself, not long afterwards, came over to England, and, through the medium of Mr. Young, addressed letters of the most flattering politeness to Dr. Burney; soliciting his acquaintance, and, through his influence, an interview with Mademoiselle Berney. The latter, however, had so invincible a repugnance to being singled out with such undue distinction by strangers, that she prevailed, though with much difficulty, upon her father, to consent to her non-appearance when this visit took place. The Duke was too well bred not to pardon, though, no doubt, he more than marvelled at this mauvaise honte Anglaise.
He made his visit, however, very agreeable to the Doctor, who found him of lofty manners, person, and demeanour; of liberal and enlightened sentiments and opinions; and ardent to acquire new, but practical notions of national liberty; with the noble intention of propagating them amongst his countrymen: an intention which the turbulent humour of the times warpt and perverted into results the most opposed to his genuine views and wishes.
BRISSOT DE WARVILLE.
Brissot de Warville had begun an acquaintance with Dr. Burney upon meeting with him at the apartment of the famous Linguet, during the residence in England of that eloquent, powerful, unfortunate victim of parts too strong for his judgment, and of impulses too imperious for his safety.
At this time, 1783, Brissot de Warville announced himself as a member of a French committee employed to select subjects in foreign countries, for adding to the national stock of worthies of his own soil, who were destined to immortality, by having their portraits, busts, or statues, elevated in the Paris Pantheon. And, as such, he addressed a letter to Dr. Burney. He had been directed, he said, to choose, in England, a female for this high honour; and he wrote to Dr. Burney to say, that the gentlewoman upon whom it had pleased him to fix—was no other than a daughter of the Doctor’s![66]
At that astonished daughter’s earnest supplication, the Doctor, with proper acknowledgments, declined accepting this towering compliment.
M. Brissot employed his highest pains of flattery to conquer this repugnance; but head, heart, and taste were in opposition to his pleadings, and he had no chance of success.
Speedily after, M. Brissot earnestly besought permission to introduce to l’Hôtel du Grand Newton his newly-married wife; and a day was appointed on which he brought thither his blooming young bride, who had been English Reader, he said, to her Serene Highness Mademoiselle d’Orleans,[67] under the auspices of the celebrated Comtesse de Genlis.[68]
Madame Brissot was pretty, and gentle, and had a striking air of youthful innocence. They seemed to live together in tender amity, perfectly satisfied in following literary pursuits. But it has since appeared that Brissot was here upon some deep political projects, of which he afterwards extended the practice to America. He had by no means, at that time, assumed the dogmatizing dialect, or betrayed the revolutionary principles, which, afterwards, contributed to hurl the monarchy, the religion, and the happiness of France into that murderous abyss of anarchy into which, ill-foreseen! he was himself amongst the earliest to be precipitated.
This single visit began and ended the Brissot commerce with St. Martin’s-street. M. Brissot had a certain low-bred fullness and forwardness of look, even in the midst of professions of humility and respect, that were by no means attractive to Dr. Burney; by whom this latent demagogue, who made sundry attempts to enter into a bookish intimacy in St. Martin’s-street, was so completely shirked, that nothing more was there seen or known of him, till his jacobinical harangues and proceedings, five years later, were blazoned to the world by the republican gazettes.
What became of his pretty wife in aftertimes; whether she were involved in his destruction, or sunk his name to save her life, has not been recorded. Dr. Burney heard of her no more; and always regretted that he had been deluded into shewing even the smallest token of hospitality to her intriguing husband: yet great was his thankfulness, that the delusion had not been of such strength, as to induce him to enrol a representation of his daughter in a selection made by a man of principles and conduct so opposite to his own; however, individually, the collection might have been as flattering to his parental pride, as her undue entrance into such a circle would have been painfully ostentatious to the insufficient and unambitious object of M. Brissot’s choice.
LE DUC DE CHAULNES.
Of the Duc de Chaulnes, the following account is copied from Dr. Burney’s memorandums:—
“In 1783, I dined at the Adelphi with Dr. Johnson and the Duc de Chaulnes. This extraordinary personage, a great traveller, and curious inquirer into the productions of art and of nature, had recently been to China; and, amongst many other discoveries that he had made in that immense and remote region, of which he had brought specimens to Europe, being a great chemist, he had particularly applied himself to the disclosure of the means by which the Chinese obtain that extraordinary [Pg 338] brilliancy and permanence in the prismatic colours, which is so much admired and envied by other nations.
“I knew nothing of his being in England till, late one night, I heard a bustle and different voices in the passage, or little hall, in my house in St. Martin’s-street, commonly, from its former great owner, called Newton House; when, on inquiry, I was informed that there was a foreign gentleman, with a guide and an interpreter, who was come to beg permission to see the observatory of the grand Newton.
“I went out of the parlour to speak to this stranger, and to invite him in. He accepted the offer with readiness, and I promised to shew him the observatory the next morning; and we soon became so well acquainted, that, two or three days afterwards, he honoured me with the following note in English; which I shall copy literally, for its foreign originality.
“‘The Duke of Chaulnes’ best compliments to Doctor Burney: he desires the favour of his company to dinner with Doctor Johnson on Sunday next, between about three and four o’clock, which is the hour convenient to the excellent old Doctor, the best piece of man, indeed, that the Duke ever saw.’”
This dinner took place, but was only productive of disappointment; Dr. Johnson, unfortunately, was in a state of bodily uneasiness and pain that unfitted him for exertion; and well as his mind was disposed to do honour to the civilities of a distinguished foreigner, his physical force refused consent to his efforts. The Duke, however, was too enlightened and too rational a man, to permit this failure of his expectations to interfere with his previously formed belief in the genius and powers of Dr. Johnson, when they were unshackled by disease.
Another note in English, which much amused Dr. Burney, was written by the Duke in answer to an invitation to St. Martin’s-street.
“The Duke of Chaulnes’ best compliments to Doctor Burney. He shall certainly do himself the honour of waiting on him on Thursday evening at the English hour of tea. He begs him a thousand pardons for the delay of his answer, but he was himself waiting another answer which he was depending of.”
Dr. Burney received the Duke in his study, which the Duke entered with reverence, from a knowledge that he was treading boards that had been trodden by the great Newton. He then developed at full length his Chinese researches, discoveries, and opinions: after which, and having examined and discoursed upon the Doctor’s library, he made an earnest request to be brought to the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Beurni.
The Doctor, who was never averse to what he thought expressive of approbation, with quite as much pleasure, and almost as much eagerness as the Duke, ushered his noble guest to the family tea-table; where an introduction took place, so pompous on the part of the Duke, and so embarrassed on that of its receiver, that finding, when it was over, she simply bowed, and turned about to make the tea, without attempting any conversational reply, he conceived that his eloquent éloge had not been understood; and, after a little general talk with Mr. Hoole and his son, who were of the evening party, he approached her again, with a grave desire to the Doctor of a second presentation.
This, though unavoidably granted, produced nothing more brilliant to satisfy his expectations; which then, in all probability, were changed into pity, if not contempt, at so egregious a mark of that uncouth malady of which her country stands arraigned, bashful shyness.[69]
BARRY.
Amongst the many cotemporary tributes paid to the merits of Dr. Burney, there was one from a celebrated and estimable artist, that caused no small diversion to the friends of the Doctor; and, perhaps, to the public at large; from the Hibernian tale which it seemed instinctively to unfold of the birth-place of its designer.
The famous painter, Mr. Barry, after a formal declaration that his picture of The Triumph of the Thames, which was painted for the Society of Arts, should be devoted exclusively to immortalizing the eminent dead, placed, in the watery groupes of the renowned departed, Dr. Burney, then full of life and vigour.
This whimsical incident produced from the still playful imagination of Mr. Owen Cambridge the following jeu d’esprit; to which he was incited by an accident that had just occurred to the celebrated Gibbon; who, in stepping too lightly from, or to a boat of Mr. Cambridge’s, had slipt into the Thames; whence, however, he was intrepidly and immediately rescued, with no other mischief than a wet jacket, by one of that fearless, water-proof race, denominated, by Mr. Gibbon, the amphibious family of the Cambridges.
“When Chloe’s picture was to Venus shown,” &c.
Prior.
DR. JOHNSON.
But all that Dr. Burney possessed, either of spirited resistance or acquiescent submission to misfortune, was again to be severely tried in the summer that followed the spring of this unkindly year; for the health of his venerated Dr. Johnson received a blow from which it never wholly recovered; though frequent rays of hope intervened from danger to danger; and though more than a year and a half were still allowed to his honoured existence upon earth.
Mr. Seward first brought to Dr. Burney the alarming tidings, that this great and good man had been afflicted by a paralytic stroke. The Doctor hastened to Bolt Court, taking with him this Memorialist, who had frequently and urgently been desired by Dr. Johnson himself, during the time that they lived so much together at Streatham, to see him often if he should be ill. But he was surrounded by medical people, and could only admit the Doctor. He sent down, nevertheless, the kindest message of thanks to the truly-sorrowing daughter, for calling upon him; and a request that, “when he should be better, she would come to him again and again.”
From Mrs. Williams, with whom she remained, she then received the comfort of an assurance that the physicians had pronounced him not to be in danger; and even that they expected the illness would be speedily overcome. The stroke had been confined to the tongue.
Mrs. Williams related a very touching circumstance that had attended the attack. It had happened about four o’clock in the morning, when, though she knew not how, he had been sensible to the seizure of a paralytic affection. He arose, and composed, in his mind, a prayer in Latin to the Almighty, That however acute might be the pains for which he must befit himself, it would please him, through the grace and mediation of our Saviour, to spare his intellects, and to let all his sufferings fall upon his body.
When he had internally conceived this petition, he endeavoured to pronounce it, according to his pious practice, aloud—but his voice was gone!—He was greatly struck, though humbly and resignedly. It was not, however, long, before it returned; but at first with very imperfect articulation.
Dr. Burney, with the zeal of true affection, made time unceasingly for inquiring visits: and no sooner was the invalid restored to the power of reinstating himself in his drawing-room, than the Memorialist received from him a summons, which she obeyed the following morning.
She was welcomed with the kindest pleasure; though it was with difficulty that he endeavoured to rise, and to mark, with wide extended arms, his cordial gladness at her sight; and he was forced to lean back against the wainscot as impressively he uttered, “Ah!—dearest of all dear ladies!—”
He soon, however, recovered more strength, and assumed the force to conduct her himself, and with no small ceremony, to his best chair.
“Can you forgive me, Sir,” she cried, when she saw that he had not breakfasted, “for coming so soon?”
“I can less forgive your not coming sooner!” he answered, with a smile.
She asked whether she might make his tea, which she had not done since they had left poor Streatham; where it had been her constant and gratifying business to give him that regale, Miss Thrale being yet too young for the office.
He readily, and with pleasure consented.
“But, Sir,” quoth she, “I am in the wrong chair.” For it was on his own sick large arm chair, which was too heavy for her to move, that he had formally seated her; and it was away from the table.
“It is so difficult,” cried he, with quickness, “for any thing to be wrong that belongs to you, that it can only be I that am in the wrong chair to keep you from the right one!”
This playful good-humour was so reviving in shewing his recovery, that though Dr. Burney could not remain above ten minutes, his daughter, for whom he sent back his carriage, could with difficulty retire at the end of two hours. Dr. Johnson endeavoured most earnestly to engage her to stay and dine with him and Mrs. Williams; but that was not in her power; though so kindly was his heart opened by her true joy at his re-establishment, that he parted from her with a reluctance that was even, and to both, painful. Warm in its affections was the heart of this great and good man; his temper alone was in fault where it appeared to be otherwise.
When his recovery was confirmed, he accepted some few of the many invitations that were made to him, by various friends, to try at their dwellings, the air of the country. Dr. Burney mentioned to him, one evening, that he had heard that the first of these essays was to be made at the house of Mr. Bowles; and the Memorialist added, that she was extremely glad of that news, because, though she knew not Mr. Bowles, she had been informed that he had a true sense of this distinction, and was delighted by it beyond measure.
“He is so delighted,” said the Doctor, gravely, and almost with a sigh, “that it is really—shocking!”
“And why so, Sir?”
“Why?” he repeated, “because, necessarily, he must be disappointed! For if a man be expected to leap twenty yards, and should really leap ten, which would be so many more than ever were leapt before, still they would not be twenty; and consequently, Mr. Bowles, and Mr. every body else would be disappointed.”
MR. BEWLEY.
The grievous blight by the loss of Mrs. Thrale; and the irreparable blast by the death of Mr. Crisp, in the spring of 1783; followed, in the ensuing summer, by this alarming shake to the constitution and strength of Dr. Johnson; were now to be succeeded, in this same unhappy year, by a fearful and calamitous event, that made the falling leaves of its autumn corrosively sepulchral to Dr. Burney.
His erudite, witty, scientific, and truly dear friend, Mr. Bewley of Massingham, though now in the wane of life, had never visited the metropolis, except to pass through it upon business; his narrow income, and confined country practice, having hitherto stood in the way of such an excursion. Yet he had long desired to make the journey, not only for seeing the capital, its curiosities, its men of letters, and his own most highly prized friend, Dr. Burney, but, also, for calling a consultation amongst the wisest of his brethren of the Æsculapian tribe, upon the subject of his own health, which was now in a state of alarming deterioration.
Continual letters, upon the lighter and pleasanter part of this project, passed between Massingham and St. Martin’s-street, in preparatory schemes on one side, and hurrying persuasion on the other, before it could take place; though it was never-ceasingly the goal at which the hopes and wishes of Mr. Bewley aimed, when he permitted them to turn their course from business or science: but now, suddenly, an occult disease, which for many years had been preying upon the constitution of the too patient philosopher, began more roughly to ravage his debilitating frame: and the excess of his pains, with whatever fortitude they were borne, forced him from his Stoic endurance, by dismembering it, through bodily torture, from the palliations of intellectual occupation.
Irresolution, therefore, was over; and he hastily prepared to quit his resident village, and consult personally with two surgeons and two physicians of eminence, Messrs. Hunter and Potts, and Doctors Warren and John Jebb, with whom he had long been incidentally and professionally in correspondence.
There is, probably, no disease, save of that malignantly fatal nature that joins, at once, the malady with the grave, that may not, for a while, be parried, or, at least, diverted from its strait-forward progress, by the indefinable power of those inward impellers of the human machine, called the animal spirits; for no sooner was the invalid decided upon this long-delayed journey, than a wish occurred to soften off its vital solemnity, by rendering it mental and amical, as well as medicinal: and from this wish emanated a glow of courage, that enabled him to baffle his infirmities, and to begin his excursion by a tour to Birmingham; where he had long promised a visit to a renowned fellow-labourer in the walks of science, Dr. Priestley. And this he accomplished, though with not more satisfaction than difficulty.
From the high gratification of this expedition, he proceeded to one warmer, kindlier, and closer still to his breast, for he came on to his first favourite upon earth, Dr. Burney; with whom he spent about a week, under an influence of congenial feelings, and enlivening pursuits, that charmed away pains that had seemed insupportable, through the magic control of a delighted imagination, and an expanded heart.
His eagerness, from the vigour of his fancy, was yet young, notwithstanding his years, for every thing that was new to him, and, of its sort, ingenious. Dr. Burney accompanied him in taking a general view of the most celebrated literary and scientific institutions, buildings, and public places; and presented him to the Duke de Chaulnes, with whom a whole morning was spent in viewing specimens of Chinese arts and discoveries. And they passed several hours in examining the extensive paintings of Barry, which that extraordinary artist elucidated to them himself: while every evening was devoted to studying and hearing favourite old musical composers of Mr. Bewley; or favourite new ones of Dr. Burney, now first brought forward to his friend’s enraptured ears.
But that which most flattered, and exhilarated the Massingham philosopher, was an interview accorded to him by Dr. Johnson; to whom he was presented as the humble, but devoted preserver of the bristly tuft of the Bolt Court Hearth-Broom.
He then left St. Martin’s-street, to visit Mr. Griffith, Editor of the Monthly Review, who received him at Turnham Green.
Here, from the flitting and stimulating, though willing hurries of pleasure, he meant to dedicate a short space to repose.——But repose, here, was to be his no more! The visionary illusions of a fevered imagination, and the eclât of novelty to all his sensations, were passed away; and sober, severe reality, with all the acute pangs of latent, but excruciating disease, resumed, unbridled, their sway. He grew suddenly altered, and radically worse; and abruptly came back, thus fatally changed, to St. Martin’s-street; where Dr. Burney, who had returned to his work at Chesington, was recalled by an express to join him; and where the long procrastinated consultation at length was held.
But nor Hunter, nor Potts, nor Warren, nor Jebb could cure, could even alleviate pains, of which they could not discern the source, nor ascertain the cause. Nevertheless, from commiseration for his sufferings, respect to his genius, and admiration of his patience, they all attended him with as much zeal and assiduity as if they had grasped at every fee which, generously, they declined: though they had the mortification to observe that they were applied to so tardily, and that so desperate was the case, that they seemed hut summoned to acknowledge it to be beyond their reach, and to prognosticate its quick-approaching fatality. And, a very short time afterwards, Dr. Burney had the deep disappointment of finding all his joy at this so long desired meeting, reversed into the heartfelt affliction of seeing this valued friend expire under his roof!
Mrs. Bewley, the excellent wife of this man of science, philosophy, and virtue, was fortunately, however unhappily, the companion of his tour; and his constant and affectionate nurse to his last moment.
It was afterwards known, that his pains, and their incurability, were produced by an occult and dreadful cancer.
He was buried in St. Martin’s church.
The following account of him was written for the Norwich newspaper by Dr. Burney.
“September 15, 1783.
“On Friday last died, at the house of his friend, Dr. Burney, in St. Martin’s-street, where he had been on a visit, Mr. William Bewley, of Massingham, in Norfolk; whose death will be sincerely lamented by all men of science, to whom his great abilities, particularly in anatomy, [Pg 353] electricity, and chemistry, had penetrated through the obscurity of his abode, and the natural modesty and diffidence of his disposition. Indeed, the depth and extent of his knowledge on every useful branch of science and literature, could only be equalled by the goodness of his heart, simplicity of his character, and innocency of his life; seasoned with a natural, unsought wit and humour, of a cast the most original, pleasant, and inoffensive.
“Hobbes, in the last century, whose chief writings were levelled against the religion of his country, was called, from the place of his residence, the Philosopher of Malmsbury; but with how much more truth and propriety has Mr. Bewley, whose life was spent in the laborious search of the most hidden and useful discoveries in art and nature, in exposing sophistry, and displaying talents, been distinguished in Norfolk by the respectable title of the Philosopher of Massingham.”[70]
HISTORY OF MUSIC.
After this harrowing loss, Dr. Burney again returned to melancholy Chesington; but—still its inmate—to his soothingly reviving Susanna.
These two admirable and bosom friends, the one of early youth, the other of early manhood, Mr. Crisp and Mr. Bewley, both thus gone; both, in the same year, departed; Mr. Twining only now, for the union of musical with mental friendship, remained: but Mr. Twining, though capable to exhilarate as well as console almost every evil—except his own absence, was utterly unattainable, save during the few weeks of his short annual visit to London; or the few days of the Doctor’s yet shorter visits to the vicarage of Fordham.
Alone, therefore, and unassisted, except by the slow mode of correspondence, Dr. Burney prosecuted his work. This labour, nevertheless, however fatiguing to his nerves, and harassing to his health, upon missing the triple participation that had lightened his toil, gradually became, what literary pursuits will ever become to minds capable of their development, when not clogged by the heavy weight of recent grief; first a check to morbid sadness, next a renovator of wearied faculties, and lastly, through their oblivious influence over all objects foreign to their purposes, a source of enjoyment.
To this occupation he owed the re-invigoration of courage that, ere long, was followed by a return to the native temperature of tranquillity, that had early and intuitively taught him not to sully what yet he possessed of happiness, by inconsolably bemoaning what was withdrawn! and he resolved, in aid at once of his spirits and of his work, to cultivate more assiduously than ever his connexions with Dr. Johnson, Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Mrs. Delany.
DR. JOHNSON.
When at the end, therefore, of the ensuing autumn, he re-entered Newton House, his first voluntary egress thence was to Bolt Court; where he had the heartfelt satisfaction of finding Dr. Johnson recovered from his paralytic stroke, and not more than usually afflicted by his other complaints; for free from complaint Dr. Burney had never had the happiness to know that long and illustrious sufferer; whose pains and infirmities, however, seemed rather to strengthen than to deaden his urbanity towards Dr. Burney and this Memorialist.
It had happened, through vexatious circumstances, after the return from Chesington, that Dr. Burney, in his visits to Bolt Court, had not been able to take thither his daughter; nor yet to spare her his carriage for a separate inquiry; and incessant bad weather had made walking impracticable. After a week or two of this omission, Dr. Johnson, in a letter to Dr. Burney, enclosed the following billet.
“To Miss Burney.
“Madam,
“You have now been at home this long time, and yet I have neither seen nor heard from you. Have we quarrelled?
“I have met with a volume of the Philosophical Transactions, which I imagine to belong to Dr. Burney. Miss Charlotte[71] will please to examine.
“Pray send me a direction where Mrs. Chapone lives; and pray, some time, let me have the honour of telling you how much I am, Madam, your most humble servant,
“SAM. JOHNSON.”
“Bolt Court, Nov. 19, 1783.”
Inexpressibly shocked to have hurt or displeased her honoured friend, yet conscious from all within of unalterable and affectionate reverence, she took courage to answer him without offering any serious defence.
“To Dr. Johnson.
“Dear Sir,
“May I not say dear?—for quarrelled I am sure we have not. The bad weather alone has kept me from waiting upon you: but now, that you have condescended to give me a summons, no ‘Lion shall stand in the way’ of my making your tea this afternoon—unless I receive a prohibition from yourself, and then—I must submit! for what, as you said of a certain great lady,[72] signifies the barking of a lap-dog, if once the lion puts out his paw?
“The book was right.
“Mrs. Chapone lives in Dean-street, Soho.
“I beg you, Sir, to forgive a delay for which I can ‘tax the elements only with unkindness,’ and to receive with your usual goodness and indulgence,
“Your ever most obliged,
“And most faithful humble servant,
“F. BURNEY.”
“19th Nov. 1783, St. Martin’s-Street.”
A latent, but most potent reason, had, in fact, some share in abetting the elements in the failure of the Memorialist of paying her respects in Bolt Court at this period; except when attending thither her father. Dr. Burney feared her seeing Dr. Johnson alone; dreading, for both their sakes, the subject to which the Doctor might revert, if they should chance to be tête à tête. Hitherto, in the many meetings of the two Doctors and herself that had taken place after the paralytic stroke of Dr. Johnson, as well as during the many that had more immediately followed the retreat of Mrs. Thrale to Bath, the name of that lady had never once been mentioned by any of the three.
Not from difference of opinion was the silence; it was rather from a painful certainty that their opinions must be in unison, and, consequently, that in unison must be their regrets. Each of them, therefore, having so warmly esteemed one whom each of them, now, so afflictingly blamed, they tacitly concurred that, for the immediate moment, to cast a veil over her name, actions, and remembrance, seemed what was most respectful to their past feelings, and to her present situation.
But, after the impressive reproach of Dr. Johnson to the Memorialist relative to her absence; and after a seizure which caused a constant anxiety for his health, she could no longer consult her discretion at the expense of her regard; and, upon ceasing to observe her precautions, she was unavoidably left with him, one morning, by Dr. Burney, who had indispensable business further on in the city, and was to call for her on his return.
Nothing yet had publicly transpired, with certainty or authority, relative to the projects of Mrs. Thrale, who had now been nearly a year at Bath; though nothing was left unreported, or unasserted, with respect to her proceedings. Nevertheless, how far Dr. Johnson was himself informed, or was ignorant on the subject, neither Dr. Burney nor his daughter could tell; and each equally feared to learn.
Scarcely an instant, however, was the latter left alone in Bolt Court, ere she saw the justice of her long apprehensions; for while she planned speaking upon some topic that might have a chance to catch the attention of the Doctor, a sudden change from kind tranquillity to strong austerity took place in his altered countenance; and, startled and affrighted, she held her peace.
A silence almost awful succeeded, though, previously to Dr. Burney’s absence, the gayest discourse had been reciprocated.
The Doctor, then, see-sawing violently in his chair, as usual when he was big with any powerful emotion whether of pleasure or of pain, seemed deeply moved; but without looking at her, or speaking, he intently fixed his eyes upon the fire: while his panic-struck visitor, filled with dismay at the storm which she saw gathering; over the character and conduct of one still dear to her very heart, from the furrowed front, the laborious heaving of the ponderous chest, and the roll of the large, penetrating, wrathful eye of her honoured, but, just then, terrific host, sate mute, motionless, and sad; tremblingly awaiting a mentally demolishing thunderbolt.
Thus passed a few minutes, in which she scarcely dared breathe; while the respiration of the Doctor, on the contrary, was of asthmatic force and loudness; then, suddenly turning to her, with an air of mingled wrath and woe, he hoarsely ejaculated: “Piozzi!”
He evidently meant to say more; but the effort with which he articulated that name robbed him of any voice for amplification, and his whole frame grew tremulously convulsed.
His guest, appalled, could not speak; but he soon discerned that it was grief from coincidence, not distrust from opposition of sentiment, that caused her taciturnity.
This perception calmed him, and he then exhibited a face “in sorrow more than anger.” His see-sawing abated of its velocity, and, again fixing his looks upon the fire, he fell into pensive rumination.
From time to time, nevertheless, he impressively glanced upon her his full fraught eye, that told, had its expression been developed, whole volumes of his regret, his disappointment, his astonished indignancy: but, now and then, it also spoke so clearly and so kindly, that he found her sight and her stay soothing to his disturbance, that she felt as if confidentially communing with him, although they exchanged not a word.
At length, and with great agitation, he broke forthwith: “She cares for no one! You, only—You, she loves still!—but no one—and nothing else!—You she still loves—”
A half smile now, though of no very gay character, softened a little the severity of his features, while he tried to resume some cheerfulness in adding: “As .... she loves her little finger!”
It was plain by this burlesque, or, perhaps, playfully literal comparison, that he meant now, and tried, to dissipate the solemnity of his concern.
The hint was taken; his guest started another subject; and this he resumed no more. He saw how distressing was the theme to a hearer whom he ever wished to please, not distress; and he named Mrs. Thrale no more! Common topics took place, till they were rejoined by Dr. Burney, whom then, and indeed always, he likewise spared upon this subject.
Very ill again Dr. Johnson grew on the approach of winter; and with equal fear and affection, both father and daughter sought him as often as it was in their power; though by no means as frequently as their zealous attachment, or as his own kind wishes might have prompted. But fullness of affairs, and the distance of his dwelling, impeded such continual intercourse as their mutual regard would otherwise have instigated.
This new failure of health was accompanied by a sorrowing depression of spirits; though unmixt with the smallest deterioration of intellect.
One evening,—the last but one of the sad year 1783,—when Dr. Burney and the Memorialist were with him, and some other not remembered visitors, he took an opportunity during a general discourse in which he did not join, to turn suddenly to the ever-favoured daughter, and, fervently grasping her hand, to say: “The blister I have tried for my breath has betrayed some very bad tokens!—but I will not terrify myself by talking of them.—Ah!—priez Dieu pour moi!”
Her promise was as solemn as it was sorrowful; but more humble, if possible, than either. That such a man should condescend to make her such a request, amazed, and almost bewildered her: yet, to a mind so devout as that of Dr. Johnson, prayer, even from the most lowly, never seemed presumptuous; and even—where he believed in its sincerity, soothed him—for a passing moment—with an idea that it might be propitious.
This was the only instance in which Dr. Johnson ever addressed her in French. He did not wish so serious an injunction to reach other ears than her own.
But those who imagine that the fear of death, which, at this period, was the prominent feature of the mind of Dr. Johnson; and which excited not more commiseration than wonder in the observers and commentators of the day; was the effect of conscious criminality; or produced by a latent belief that he had sinned more than his fellow sinners, knew not Dr. Johnson! He thought not ill of himself as compared with his human brethren: but he weighed, in the rigid scales of his calculating justice, the great talent which he had received, against the uses of it which he had made — —
And found himself wanting!
Could it be otherwise, to one who had a conscience poignantly alive to a sense of duty, and religiously submissive to the awards of retributive responsibility?
If those, therefore, who ignorantly have marvelled, or who maliciously would triumph at the terror of death in the pious, would sincerely and severely bow down to a similar self-examination, the marvel would subside, and the triumph might perhaps turn to blushes! in considering—not the trembling inferiority, but the sublime humility of this ablest and most dauntless of Men, but humblest and most orthodox of Christians.
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
While thus with Dr. Johnson, the most reverenced of Dr. Burney’s connexions, all intercourse was shaken in gaiety and happiness, with Sir Joshua Reynolds, save from grief for Dr. Johnson, gaiety and happiness still seemed almost stationary.
Sir Joshua Reynolds had a suavity of disposition that set every body at their ease in his society; though neither that, nor what Dr. Johnson called his “inoffensiveness,” bore the character of a tame insipidity that never differed from a neighbour; or that knew not how to support an opposing opinion with firmness and independence. On the contrary, Sir Joshua was even peculiar in thinking for himself: and frequently, after a silent rumination, to which he was unavoidably led by not following up, from his deafness, the various stages of any given question, he would surprise the whole company by starting some new and unexpected idea on the subject in discussion, in a manner so imaginative and so original, that it either drew the attention of the interlocutors into a quite different mode of argument to that with which they had set out; or it incited them to come forth, in battle array, against the novelty of his assertions. In the first case, he was frankly gratified, but never moved to triumph; in the second, he met the opposition with candour; but was never brow-beaten from defending his cause with courage, even by the most eminent antagonist.
Both father and daughter shared his favour alike; and both returned it with an always augmenting attachment.
MRS. DELANY.
The setting, but with glory setting, sun of Mrs. Delany, was still glowing with all the warmth of generous friendship, all the capabilities of mental exertion, and all the ingenuous readiness for enjoyment of innocent pleasure,—or nearly all—that had irradiated its brilliant rise.
She was venerated by Dr. Burney, whom most sincerely, in return, she admired, esteemed, and liked. She has left, indeed, a lasting proof of her kind disposition to him in her narrative of Anastasia Robinson, Countess of Peterborough; which, at the request of Dr. Burney, she dictated, in her eighty-seventh year, to her much-attached and faithful amanuensis, Anna Astley; and which the Doctor has printed in the fourth volume of his History.
Mrs. Delany had known and loved Anastasia Robinson while she was a public concert and opera singer. The uncommon musical talents of that songstress were seconded by such faultless and sweet manners, and a life so irreproachable, that she was received by ladies of the first rank and character upon terms nearly of equality; though so modest was her demeanour, that the born distance between them was never by herself forgotten. She was peculiarly a favourite with the bosom friend of Mrs. Delany, the Duchess of Portland, whose mother, the Countess of Oxford, had been the first patroness of Anastasia, and had consented to be present, as a witness, as well as a support, at the private and concealed marriage of that syren of her day with the famous and martial Earl of Peterborough.
A narrative such as this, and so well authenticated, could not but cause great satisfaction to Dr. Burney, in holding to view such splendid success to the power of harmony, when accompanied by virtue.
This increase of intercourse with Mrs. Delany, was a source of gentle pleasure in perfect concord with the Doctor’s present turn of mind; and trebly welcome on account of his daughter, to whose poignant grief for the loss of Mr. Crisp it was a solace the most seasonable. Her description of its soothing effect, which is gratefully recorded in her diary to her sister at Boulogne, may here, perhaps, not unacceptably be copied for the reader, as a further picture of this venerable widow of one of the most favourite friends of Dean Swift.
“July 18, 1783.—I called again, my dear Susan, upon the sweet Mrs. Delany, whom every time I see I feel myself to love even more than I admire. And how dear, how consolatory is it to me to be honoured with so much of her favour, as to find her always eager, upon every meeting, to fix a time for another and another visit! How truly desirable are added years, where the spirit of life evaporates not before its extinction! She is as generously awake to the interests of those she loves, as if her own life still claimed their responsive sympathies. There is something in her quite angelic. I feel no cares when with her. I think myself with the true image and representative of our so loved maternal Grandmother, in whose presence not only all committal of evil, even in thought, was impossible, but its sufferance, also, seemed immaterial, from the higher views that the very air she breathed imparted. This composure, and these thoughts, are not for lasting endurance! Yet it is salubrious to feel them even for a few hours. I wish my Susan knew her. I would not give up my knowledge of her for the universe. I spend with her all the time I have at my own disposal; and nothing has so sensibly calmed my mind, since our fatal Chesington deprivation, as her society. The religious turn which kindness, united to wisdom, in old age, gives, involuntarily, to all commerce with it, beguiles us out of anxiety and misery a thousand times more successfully than all the forced exertions of gaiety from dissipation.”
If such was the benefit reaped by the daughter from this animated and very uncommon friendship, the great age of one of the parties at its formation considered, who can wonder at the glad as well as proud encouragement which it met with from Dr. Burney?
MR. BURKE.
But the cordial the most potent to the feelings and the spirits of the Doctor, in this hard-trying year, was the exhilarating partiality displayed towards him by Mr. Burke; and which was doubly soothing by warmly and constantly including the Memorialist in its urbanity. From the time of the party at Sir Joshua Reynolds’ upon Richmond Hill, their intercourse had gone on with increase of regard. They met, and not unfrequently, at various places; but chiefly at Sir Joshua Reynolds’, Miss Moncton’s, and Mrs. Vesey’s. Mr. Burke delighted in society as much as of society he was the supreme delight: and perhaps to this social disposition he owed that part of his oratorical excellence that made it so entertainingly varying, and so frequently interspersed with penetrating reflections on human life.
But to the political circle to which Mr. Burke and his powers were principally devoted, Dr. Burney was, accidentally, a stranger. Accidentally may be said, for it was by no means deliberately, as he was not of any public station or rank that demanded any restrictions to his mental connexions. He was excursive, therefore, in his intercourse, though fixed in his principles.
But besides the three places above named, Mr. Burke himself, from the period of the assembly at Miss Moncton’s, had the grace and amiability to drop in occasionally, uninvited and unexpectedly, to the little tea-table of St. Martin’s-street; where his bright welcome from the enchanted Memorialist, for whom he constantly inquired when the Doctor was abroad, repaid him—in some measure, perhaps—for almost always missing the chief of whom he came in search.
The Doctor, also, when he had half an hour to spare, took the new votary of Mr. Burke to visit him and his pleasing wife, at their apartments at the Treasury, where now was their official residence. And here they saw, with wonder and admiration, amidst the whirl of politics and the perplexities of ministerial arrangements, in which Mr. Burke, then in the administration, was incessantly involved, how cheerfully, how agreeably, how vivaciously, he could still be the most winning of domestic men, the kindest of husbands, the fondest of fathers, and the most delightful of friends.
During one of these visits to the Treasury, Mr. Burke presented to Miss Palmer a beautiful inkstand, with a joined portfolio, upon some new construction, and finished up with various contrivances, equally useful and embellishing. Miss Palmer accepted it with great pleasure, but not without many conscious glances towards the Memorialist, which, at last, broke out into an exclamation: “I am ashamed to take it, Mr. Burke! how much more Miss Burney deserves a writing present!”
“Miss Burney?” repeated he, with energy; “Fine writing tackle for Miss Burney? No, no; she can bestow value on the most ordinary. A morsel of white tea-paper, and a little blacking from her friend Mr. Briggs, in a broken gallipot, would be converted by Miss Burney into more worth than all the stationery of all the Treasury.”
This gay and ingenious turn, which made the compliment as gratifying to one, as the present could be to the other, raised a smile of general archness at its address in the company; and of comprehensive delight in Dr. Burney.
The year 1783 was now on its wane; so was the administration in which Mr. Burke was a minister; when one day, after a dinner at Sir Joshua Reynolds’, Mr. Burke drew Dr. Burney aside, and, with great delicacy, and feeling his way, by the most investigating looks, as he proceeded, said that the organist’s place at Chelsea College was then vacant: that it was but twenty pounds a year, but that, to a man of Dr. Burney’s eminence, if it should be worth acceptance, it might be raised to fifty. He then lamented that, during the short time in which he had been Paymaster General, nothing better, and, indeed, nothing else had occurred more worthy of offering.
Trifling as this was in a pecuniary light, and certainly far beneath the age or the rank in his profession of Dr. Burney, to possess any thing through the influence, or rather the friendship of Mr. Burke, had a charm irresistible. The Doctor wished, also, for some retreat from, yet near London; and he had reason to hope for apartments, ere long, in the capacious Chelsea College. He therefore warmly returned his acknowledgments for the proposal, to which he frankly acceded.
And two days after, just as the news was published of a total change of administration, Dr. Burney received from Mr. Burke the following notice of his vigilant kindness:—