“To Dr. Burney.
“My Dear Sir,—I give you my sincere thanks for your desire to satisfy my mind relative to your conduct in this exigency. I am well acquainted with your principles and sentiments, and know that every thing good is to be expected from both. * * * God forbid that worthy men, situated as you are, should be made sacrifices to the minuter part of politics, when we are far from able to assure ourselves that the higher parts can be made to answer the good ends we have in view! You have little or no obligations to me; but if you had as many as I really wish it were in my power—as it is certainly in my desire—to lay upon you, I hope you do not think me capable of conferring them, in order to subject your mind, or your affairs, to a painful and mischievous servitude. I know that your sentiments will always outrun the demands of your friends; and that you want rather to be restrained in the excess of what is right, than to be stimulated to a languid and insufficient exertion.” * *
The rest of this letter, so striking, yet so calm in its enlarged political humanity—is not comprehensible, no copy of the letter to which it was a reply having been found. But the following copy of the answer of Dr. Burney to the above letter of Mr. Burke, is still extant.
“To the Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
“The manner, dear Sir, in which you have kindly relieved my mind is a new obligation, for which I am utterly unable to express my gratitude. * * * You have not only removed my fears of incurring your censure, but have put me in humour with my own proceeding: and somebody has truly said, that the worst quarrel a man can have is with himself. Indeed, I was so circumstanced in the late exigency, that I was unable to satisfy my feelings by any mode of action, or of quiescence, in my power: but you have reasoned in so enlarged and liberal a manner on the subject, that, great as I thought the trial during my mental conflict, you have so nearly transformed the evil into good, as to make me almost rejoice in the occasion that has given birth to such a letter as that with which you have honoured me. Your delicacy, dear Sir, in refraining from the least hint or allusion that could be construed into a wish that I should go with you in the late struggle, though you had a fair claim upon me,[20] redoubles my desire to give you some voluntary testimony of the great respect and regard with which I have the honour to be,” &c. &c. &c.
Dr. Burney at this time resided entirely at Chelsea College; and he found this sojourn so perfectly to his taste, that, though obliged, some years afterwards, by official arrangements, to remove from the ground floor to nearly the highest range of rooms in that lofty edifice, he never wished to change the place of his abode.
The distance from town was just sufficient to avoid its bustle, its smoke, its dust, and its noise; yet not enough to impede any evening engagement, as it was not above an hour’s walk, and consequently half an hour’s drive from Piccadilly. Operas, concerts, conversaziones, were all within reach of his time, when without obstruction from his health. And Chelsea air is even proverbially salubrious, Doctors Arbuthnot, Sloane, Mede, Cadogan, Farquar, &c., having given it medical celebrity in making it their chosen residence.
He had also the pleasure, in the College itself, of some very agreeable, hospitable, and respectable neighbours; to all of whom he was an acquisition equally valuable and valued. And which to the taste and pursuits of a man of letters was still more important, he found here safe, lofty, and well fitted-up chambers, that were spacious and ready for the accommodation of his books. Here, therefore, and completely to his satisfaction, he placed his learned, classical, scientific, and miscellaneous library.
Solaced, nevertheless, as was now his anxiety for his invalid daughter, he was not at rest. She looked ill, weak, and languid; and the danger was clearly not over.
She, too, with all the delight her affections experienced, felt her heart involuntarily saddened by quitting their Majesties and the Princesses: and the final marks of their benign favour upon parting with her, cast a shade of melancholy over her retreat from their presence, dejecting—though not amounting to regret.
So deplorably, indeed, was her health injured, that successive changes of air were medicinally advised for her to Dr. Burney; and her maternally zealous friend, Mrs. Ord, most kindly proposed taking charge of the execution of that prescription. A tour to the west was undertaken; the Bath waters were successfully tried: and, after passing nearly four months in gentle travelling, the good Mrs. Ord delivered the invalid to her family, nearly re-established.
The paternal affection which greeted this double restoration, to her health and her home, gave her, then, a happiness which vivified both. The Doctor allowed her the indulgence of living almost wholly in his study; they read together, wrote together, compared notes, communicated projects, and diversified each other’s employment; and his kindness, enlivened by her late danger and difficulties, was more marked, and more precious to her than ever.
THE KING, QUEEN, AND PRINCESSES.
It has been thought necessary to say so much, first upon the appointment in the Queen’s establishment of the Doctor’s second daughter, and next upon her resignation; from the honours to the Doctor in which both these events were entwined, that there now seems a call for a few more last lines upon the subject; which the Memorialist, with the sincerest sense—and perhaps pride!—of gratitude and respect, is anxious to impart.
She had no sooner made known that her western tour was finished, than she was summoned to the Palace, where her Majesty deigned to receive her with the highest grace of condescension; and to keep her in animated discourse, with the same noble trust in her faithful attachment, that had uniformly marked every conference during her royal residence. Each of the amiable Princesses honoured her with a separate interview; vying with each other in kindly lively expressions upon her restored looks and appearance: and the King, the gracious King himself, vouchsafed, with an air the most benevolent, not alone of goodness, but even of pleasure, to inquire after her health, to rejoice in its improvement, and to declare, condescendingly, repeatedly to declare, how glad he was to see her again. He even made her stand under a lustre, that he might examine her countenance, before he pronounced himself satisfied with her recovery.
And, from that time forward, upon her every subsequent admission, the graciousness of her reception bounded with the blandest joy from her own heart to that of the Doctor.
The Queen, full of sense, penetration, and judgment, easily saw that she had preserved a true and devoted adherent, though she had lost a servant. The Princesses, with the impulsive confidence of innocence, had faith in an attachment which they could not but be conscious their own amiability had inspired: and the King, with the purest innate probity of character, possessed a tact, which the quickest parts sometimes fail to bestow, of a straightforward discernment to distinguish fidelity from profession.
And thus, after conflicts and chagrins of which he had deeply felt the severity, and by the harass of which he still remained shaken; the Doctor finally attained the lasting consolation of seeing that the motives, which had urged him to withdraw his daughter from the royal roof, were perfectly understood; and that she had forfeited no favour; but, on the contrary, had left behind her a graciously benignant—he might almost venture to believe friend, in her condescending Royal Mistress; and in each of their Royal Highnesses, nay, even in the King himself, a most august and animated well-wisher.
And this persuasion, such was the anxious loyalty of the Doctor’s principles, was essential rather than reviving to his happiness.
HISTORY OF MUSIC.
Not to break into the little history which mentally, during the last five years, had almost absorbed Dr. Burney, no mention has been made of a personal event of as much moment to his peace as to his fame; namely, the publication, in 1789, of the third volume of his History of Music; nor that, before the end of the same year, he had the brain-relieving satisfaction of completing his long impending work, by bringing out the fourth and last volume.
All the details, whether thorny or flowery, of the progress to this conclusion, were unknown, in their passage, to the Memorialist; whose intricate situation and disordered health chased, from every paternal interview, all subjects that had not reference to her precarious position.
Unnarrated, however, and undescribed, it will not be difficult to imagine the load of care, thought, and anxiety that were now removed from the nearly overburthened historian.
It seemed to him a sort of regeneration to feel freedom restored to his reflections, and liberty to his use of time, by arriving at the close of this literary labour; which, though in its origin voluntary, had of late become heavily fatiguing, because shackled by an engagement, and therefore obligatory.
His first feelings upon this relief he has expressed, with his characteristic pleasantry, in a letter to Mr. Repton, the successor to Capability Brown, and cotemporary and brother rival park-embellisher with Uvedale Price and Gally Knight.
“Did you ever see, dear Sir,” says the Doctor in this letter, “a child, when musing over his playthings, with seeming quiet sobriety, give an involuntary jump from the mere ebullition of animal spirits? a few nights ago, when I had just sent the last copy of the last chapter of the last volume of my Work to the compositor, I caught myself in the fact; and, if you were here, I would exhibit to you how I jumped for joy at the thought of an enterprise being terminated, that had been thirty years in meditation, and twenty in writing and printing; and for which I had previously taxed every amusement and social enjoyment; and even, in order to gain more time, had drawn deeply upon my sinking fund—Sleep.”
1791.
The life of Dr. Burney was now almost equally distributed in literary, professional, and amical divisions.
In literature, his time, ostensibly, was become his own; but never was time less so than when put into his own hands; for his eagerness was without either curb or limit to devote it to some new pursuit. And scarcely had that elastic bound of renovated youth, of which he speaks to Mr. Repton, been capered, than a fresh, yet voluntary occupation, drove his newly-restored leisure away, and opened a course of bookish and critical toil, that soon seized again upon every spare moment. This was constituting himself a member amongst the Monthly Reviewers, under the editorship of the worthy Mr. Griffith.
Of the articles which were Dr. Burney’s, no list has been found; and probably none was kept. The ardour of sincerity in pointing out faults and failures, is so apt to lead to a similar ardour of severity in their censure, that, in those days, when the critics were not, wisely, anonymous, the secret and passive war of books and words among authors, menaced the more public and tumultuous one of swords and pistols.[21]
The articles which, occasionally, to a small circle, he avowed, were written with a spirit that made them frequently bright with entertainment, and sometimes luminous with instruction.
In his professional department, he has almost with exultation recorded, in the following passage of his journal, the happy commencement of the year 1791.
“1791.—This year was auspiciously begun, in the musical world, by the arrival in London of the illustrious Joseph Haydn. ’Tis to Salomon that the lovers of music are indebted for what the lovers of music will call this blessing. Salomon went over himself to Vienna, upon hearing of the death of the Prince of Esterhazy, the great patron of Haydn, purposely to tempt that celebrated musical genius hither; and on February 25, the first of Haydn’s incomparable symphonies, which was composed for the concerts of Salomon, was performed. Haydn himself presided at the piano-forte: and the sight of that renowned composer so electrified the audience, as to excite an attention and a pleasure superior to any that had ever, to my knowledge, been caused by instrumental music in England. All the slow middle movements were encored; which never before happened, I believe, in any country.”
In his amical career, he still possessed Mr. Twining, to whom he clung with every species of high esteem and fond regard. And he yet retained his early and excellent old friend, Mr. Hayes; who preserved his memory and his faculties unimpaired, though his body was sunk into a state of debility the most deplorable.
The friendship of Sir Joshua Reynolds the Doctor constantly cultivated with the ardour, as well as pleasure, that always rapidly cements connexions that owe their origin to the attraction of sympathy.
With Sir Joseph Bankes he was now upon terms of lively intimacy; and had the satisfaction of seeing both his sons, from their nautical or classical eminence, share with him in the sprightly, as well as learned and lettered pleasures of the president’s good fellowship.
Mr. Windham, in every walk, whether of literature or sentiment, was amongst those with whom he most delightedly associated.
The elegant Mr. Smelt kept steadily his rank in the first line of the admired friends of the Doctor; but Mr. Smelt, though affectionately retaining for him the most faithful esteem and regard, was now nearly lost to all, except his immediate family; for he had himself lost the partner of his life, and the world faded before him with daily diminishing interest in its pleasures, pains, pursuits, or transactions.
The unfortunate, but truly amiable and high-minded Mr. Beckford was amongst the greatest favourites and most welcome visitors to Dr. Burney; whose remembrance of the friendly zeal of that gentleman in Italy, was a never-failing call for every soothing return that could be offered to him in the calamities which, roughly and ruinously, had now changed his whole situation in life—leaving his virtues alone unalterable.
The two Wesleys, Charles and Samuel, those born rather than bred musicians, sought, and were welcomed by the Doctor, whenever his leisure agreed with his estimation of their talents. With Samuel he was often in musical correspondence.
Horace Walpole invariably delighted in the society of Dr. Burney; and had himself no admirer who carried from his company and conversation a larger or more zested portion of his lordship’s bon mots; or who had a higher taste for his peculiar style of entertainment.
MR. GREVILLE.
But Mr. Greville, the old friend and early patron of the Doctor, he now never saw, save by accident; and rarely as that occurred, it was oftener than could be wished; so querulous was that gentleman grown, from ill-luck in his perilous pursuits; so irascible within, and so supercilious without; assuming to all around him a sort of dignified distance, that bordered, at least, upon universal disdain.
The world seemed completely in decadence with this fallen gentleman; and the writhings of long suffocated mortification, from sinking his fine spirits and sickening his gay hopes, began to engender a morbid irritation, that was ready, upon every fancied provocation, to boil into vehemence of passion, or burst into the bitterness of sarcastic reproach.
This state of things had come upon him unconsciously; though to the observations of his friends its advance had been glaringly evident.
It was not that he wanted, at large, foresight for events to be rationally expected, or judgment to dictate how they should be met: but his foresight, his sense of right, were all for his neighbours! for himself—he had none. To all without he had a nearly microscopic vision; to all within he was blind; as the eye sees every thing—but itself.
“Experience,” Mr. Crisp was wont to say, “is rarely of any use collaterally; it does not become efficient till it has personally been bought. And it must be paid for, also,” he would energetically add, “to be well remembered!”
But so torpid was the infatuation of self-security in Mr. Greville, that pertinaciously he frequented the same seductive haunts, and mechanically adhered to the same dangerous society, till the knowledge of his errors and their mischief was forced upon him by his creditors.
Angered and disgusted, he then, in gloomy sullenness, retired from public view; and lived a rambling, unsettled sort of life, as ill at ease with his family as with the world, from the wounds he habitually inflicted, and occasionally suffered, through the irritability of his argumentative commerce.
MR. AND MRS. SHERIDAN.
Another of the Doctor’s brightest calls to high and animated society was now, also, utterly eclipsed; for She, the loveliest of the lovely, the first Mrs. Sheridan, was fading away—vanishing—from the list of his fair enchantresses.
This paragon of syrens, by almost universal and national consent, had been looked up to, when she sang at oratorios and at concerts, as the star of harmony in England: though so short was that eclât of supremacy, that, from the date of her marriage, her claim to such pre-eminence was known to the public only by remembrance or by rumour; Mr. Sheridan, her husband, inexorably renouncing all similar engagements, and only at his own house suffering her to sing.
Far happier had it been for that captivating and beautiful creature, far happier for her eminent and highly-talented husband, had the appropriate fame that belonged equally to the birth, education, and extraordinary abilities of both, been adequate to their pride of expectation: for then, glowing with rational and modest, not burning with inordinate and eccentric ambition, they would not disdainfully—almost madly—have cast away from their serious and real service the brilliant gifts of favouring nature, which, if seasonably brought forth, would have opened to them, without struggle or difficulty, the golden portals of that splendour to which their passion for grandeur and enjoyment throbbingly aspired.
But from these brilliant gifts, as instruments of advantage, they turned captiously aside; as if the exquisite powers, vocal and dramatic, which were severally intrusted to their charge, had been qualities that, in any view of utility, they ought to shrink from with secrecy and shame.
Yet Dr. Burney always believed Mrs. Sheridan herself to be inherently pure in her mind, and elegantly simple in her taste; though first from the magnetism of affection, and next from the force of circumstances, she was drawn into the same vortex of dissipation and extravagance, in which the desires and pursuits of her husband unresistedly rolled.
Every thing, save rank and place, was theirs; every thing, therefore, save rank and place, seemed beneath their aim.
If, in withdrawing his fair partner from public life, the virtues of moderation had bestowed contentment upon their retreat, how dignified had been such a preference, to all the affluence attendant upon a publicity demanding personal exhibition from a delicate and sensitive female!
Such was the light in which this act of Mr. Sheridan, upon its early adoption, had appeared to Dr. Johnson; and, as such, it obtained the high sanction of his approbation.[22] But to no such view was the subsequent conduct of this too aspiring and enchanting couple respondent. They assumed the expenses of wealth, while they disclaimed the remuneration of talents; and they indulged in the luxuries of splendour, by resources not their own.
Not such, had he lived to witness the result, had been the sanction of Dr. Johnson. He had regarded the retirement from public exhibition as a measure of primitive temperance and philosophic virtue. The last of men was Dr. Johnson to have abetted squandering the delicacy of integrity, by nullifying the labours of talents.
The unhappy delusion into which this high-wrought and mis-placed self-appreciation betrayed them, finished its fatal fanaticism by dimming their celebrity, mocking their ambition, and hurling into disorder and ruin their fortune, their reputation, their virtues, and their genius.
MRS. CREWE.
At the head of the female worthies, who gratified Dr. Burney with eager good wishes on the return of the Memorialist, stood Mrs. Montague. And still the honourable corps was upheld by Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Garrick, and Miss More—though, alas, the last-mentioned lady is now the only one of that distinguished set still spared to the world.
But the person at this epoch the most conciliatory and the most welcome to Dr. Burney, was the still beautiful, though no longer the still young; the humorous, though contemplative; the sportively loquacious, though deeply-thinking, Mrs. Crewe.
This lady was now his most confidential friend, and most intimate correspondent. In politics, they were not, indeed, naturally of the same school; though even there, strong mutual esteem, and a great tendency to mutual trust, induced a propensity to such fairness and candour of discussion, that their opinions were more frequently blended than hostile.
Mrs. Greville, her celebrated mother, who to this partiality had led the way by her example, was now no more; to the infinite grief of her tenderly admiring daughter.
Mrs. Crewe, in felicitating the Doctor on the recovery of his invalid, formed innumerable schemes, some of which were put in immediate execution, for aiding him to recruit her shattered nerves, and restring her animal spirits.
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
But a catastrophe of the most sorrowing sort soon afterwards cast a shade of saddest hue upon this happy and promising period, by the death of the friend to whom, after his many deprivations, Dr. Burney had owed his greatest share of pleasure and animation—Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Deeply this loss affected his spirits. Sir Joshua was the last of the new circle with whom his intimacy had mellowed into positive friendship. And though with many, and indeed with most of the Literary Club, a connexion was gradually increasing which might lead to that heart-expanding interest in life, friendship,—to part with what we possess while what we wish is of uncertain attainment, leaves a chasm in the feelings of a man of taste and selection, that he is long nearly as unwilling as he may be unable to re-occupy.
With Mr. Burke, indeed, with the immortal Edmund Burke, Dr. Burney might have been as closely united in heart as he was charmed in intellect, had circumstances offered time and opportunity for the cultivation of intimacy. Political dissimilarity of sentiment does not necessarily sunder those who, in other points, are drawn together by congeniality of worth; except where their walk in life compels them to confront each other with public rivalry.
But Mr. Burke, in whose composition imagination was the leading feature, had so genuine a love of rural life and rural scenery, that he seldom came voluntarily to the metropolis but upon parliamentary business; and then the whole powers of his ardent mind were absorbed by politics, or political connexions: while Sir Joshua, whose equanimity of temper kept his imagination under control; and whose art was as much the happiness as it was the pride of his prosperity, finding London the seat of his glory, judiciously determined to make it that of his contentment. His loss, therefore, to Dr. Burney, was not only that of an admired friend, with whom emulously he might reciprocate and enlighten ideas; but, also, of that charm to current life the most soothing to its cares, a congenial companion always at hand.
And more particularly was he affected at this time by the departure of this valuable friend, from the circumstance of having just brought to bear the return home of the Memorialist, for which Sir Joshua, previously to a paralytic attack, had been the most eager and incessant pleader. The Doctor, therefore, had looked forward with the gayest gratification to the renewal of those meetings which, alike to himself, to his daughter, and to the knight, had invariably been productive of glee and pleasure.
But gone, ere arrived that renewal, was the power of its enjoyment! A meeting, indeed, took place, and with unalterable friendship on both sides. Immediately after the Western tour, Dr. Burney carried the Memorialist to Leicester-square; first mounting to the drawing-room himself, to inquire whether Sir Joshua were well enough for her admission. Assent was immediate; and she felt a sprightly renovation of strength in again ascending his stairs.
Miss Palmer came forward to receive her with warm greeting cordiality; but she rapidly hastened onward to shake hands with Sir Joshua. He was now all but quite blind. He had a green bandage over one eye, and the other was shaded by a green half bonnet. He was playing at cards with Mr. William Burke, and some others. He attempted to rise, to welcome a long-lost favourite; but found himself too weak. He was even affectingly kind to her, but serious almost to melancholy. “I am very glad indeed,” he emphatically said, though in a meek voice, and with a dejected accent, “to see you again! and I wish I could see you better! But I have only one eye now,—and hardly that!”
She was extremely touched; and knew not how to express either her concern for his altered situation since they had last met, or her joy at being with him again; or her gratitude for the earnest exertions he had made to spur Dr. Burney to the step that had been taken.
The Doctor, perceiving the emotion she both felt and caused, hurried her away. And once more only she ever saw the English Raphael again. And then he was still more deeply depressed; though Miss Palmer good-humouredly drew a smile from him, by gaily exclaiming, “Do pray, now, uncle, ask Miss Burney to write another book directly! for we have almost finished Cecilia again—and this is our sixth reading of it!”
The little occupation, Miss Palmer said, of which Sir Joshua was then capable, was carefully dusting the paintings in his picture gallery, and placing them in different points of view.
This passed at the conclusion of 1791; on the February of the following year, this friend, equally amiable and eminent, was no more!
Dr. Burney, extremely unwell at that period himself, could not attend the funeral; which, under the direction of Mr. Burke, the chief executor, was conducted with the splendour due to the genius, and suitable to the fortune of the departed. Dr. Charles Burney was invited in the place of his father, and attended at the obsequies for both.
In the retirement of this mournful interval of personal sickness and mental dejection, Dr. Burney composed the following elegy to the memory of Sir Joshua.
MR. HAYES.
Another last separation, long menacing, yet truly grievous to the Doctor, was now almost momentarily impending. His good, gay-hearted, and talented old friend, Mr. Hayes, had had a new paralytic seizure, which, in the words of Dr. Burney, “deprived him of the use of one side, and greatly affected his speech, eyes, and ears; though his faculties were still as good and as sound as his heart.”
This account had been addressed, the preceding year, to George Earl of Orford, by desire of the poor invalid.
Pitiable as was this species of existence, Mr. Hayes long lingered in it, with a patience and cheerfulness that kept him still open to the kind offices, as well as to the compassion of his friends: and Dr. Burney held a regular correspondence with Lord Orford upon this subject, till it ceased from a calamitous catastrophe; not such as was daily expected to the ancient invalid, though then bed-ridden, and past eighty years of age, but to the Earl himself, from an attack of insanity.
EARL OF ORFORD.
This was a new grief. Lord Orford had been not only an early patron, but a familiar friend of the Doctor’s during the whole of his sojourn in Norfolk.
This truly liberal, though, as has been acknowledged, not faultless nobleman, attached himself to all that was literary or scientific that came within reach of his kindness at Haughton Hall; yet without suffering this intellectual hospitality to abridge any of the magnificence of the calls of fair kindred aristocracy, which belonged to his rank and fortune. His high appreciation of Mr. Bewley has been already mentioned; and his value of the innate, though unvarnished worth of Mr. Hayes, sprang from the same genuine sense of intrinsic merit.
Nearly in the meridian of his life, Lord Orford had been afflicted with a seizure of madness, occasioned by an unreflecting application of some repelling plaster or lotion to an eruption on the forehead, that had broken out just before one of the birthdays of the King,[23] upon which, as his lordship was then first Lord of the Bedchamber in waiting, his attendance at St. James’s had seemed indispensable.
This terrible malady, after repeated partial recoveries and disappointing relapses, had appeared to be finally cured by the same gifted medical man who blessedly had restored his Sovereign to the nation, Dr. Willis. Lord Orford, from that happy lucid interval, resided chiefly at Ereswell, his favourite villa. And here, once more, Dr. Burney had had the cordial pleasure of passing a few days with this noble friend; who delighted to resort to that retirement from the grandeur and tumult of Haughton Hall.
It had been nineteen years since they had met; and the flow of conversation, from endless reminiscences, kept them up nearly all the first night of this visit. And Dr. Burney declared that he had then found his lordship’s head as clear, his heart as kind, and his converse as pleasing, as at any period of their early intercourse.
Lord Orford, since his revival, had acquired a knowledge, at once profound and feeling, of the French Revolution—the only topic which those who had either hearts or heads could, at that time, discuss. And he animatedly asserted that never before had any country, or any epoch, produced, in one and the same nation, contrasts so striking of atrocious, unheard-of guilt, and consummate, intrepid virtue; warmly adding, as he adverted to the emigrants then pouring into England, that the detestation excited by the murderous and sacrilegious revolutionary oppressors, ought universally to instigate respect as well as commiseration for their guiltless fugitive victims.
The relapse, by which, not three weeks after this meeting, the Earl again lost his senses, had two current reports for its cause: the first of which gave it to a fall from his horse; the second to the sudden death of Mrs. Turk, his erst lovely Patty; “to whom,” says the Doctor, in a letter, after his Ereswell visit, that was addressed to Mrs. Phillips, “he was more attached than ever, from her faithful and affectionate attendance upon him during the long season of his insanity; though, at this time, she was become a fat and rather coarse old woman.”
Dr. Burney was of opinion that to both these circumstances, since one of them quickly followed the other, this last fatal seizure might be owing. Its prompt termination left the good, infirm, and far older Mr. Hayes a sorrowing, but not a long survivor.
Dr. Burney mourned for both; for Lord Orford with true concern—for Mr. Hayes with lasting regret.
Mr. Hayes bequeathed to Dr. Burney a finely chosen and beautifully bound collection of books, among which were several works of great price and rarity; to which was joined a valuable case of coins and medals. And the Doctor’s eldest son, Captain Burney, who from a boy had been known and loved by Mr. Hayes, was worthily named, by that excellent friend, his general heir and residuary legatee.
In speaking of this last event in a letter to Mrs. Phillips, the Doctor says: “I have been so melancholy as to be unwilling to communicate my lâcheté to you, who, I hope, are in better spirits. The death of my worthy and affectionate friend, Hayes, though I gain a charming collection of books by it, fills me with sorrow every time I look at them. Thirty years ago, such a bequest would have made me mad with joy; but now, alas! my literary curiosity and wants lie in a smaller compass. I was already in possession of the best books he has left me, though in worn editions and worse bindings; and as for the rest, my gain is merely nominal: for our books have been so much in common during more than thirty years, that his were mine and mine were his, as much as our own. We had only to stretch out our hands a little further, when we wanted what were distant. How much harder is such a friend to find than such books, scarce, and really valuable as are many of them!”
MR. BURKE.
Upon the publication of the celebrated Treatise of Mr. Burke on the opening of the French Revolution, Dr. Burney had felt re-wakened all his first unqualified admiration of its author, from a full conviction that error, wholly free from malevolence, had impelled alike his violence in the prosecution of Mr. Hastings, and his assertions upon the incurability of the malady of the King: while a patriotism, superior to all party feeling, and above all considerations but the love of his country, had inspired every sentence of the immortal orator in his new work.
The Doctor had interchanged some billets with Mr. Burke upon this occasion; and once or twice they had met; but only in large companies. This the Doctor lamented to Mrs. Crewe; who promised that, if he would spend three or four days at her Hampstead little villa, she would engage for his passing one of them with Mr. Burke; though she should make, she added, her own terms; namely, “that you are accompanied, Mr. Doctor, by Miss Burney.”
Gladly the invitation and the condition were accepted; and the Editor hopes to be pardoned, if again she spare herself the toil of re-committing to paper an account of this meeting, by copying one written at the moment to her sister Susanna. Egotistic in part it must inevitably be; yet not, she trusts, offensively; as it contains various genuine traits of Mr. Burke in society, that in no graver manner than in a familiar epistle could have been detailed.
“To Mrs. Phillips.
“At length, my Susan, the re-meeting, so long suspended, with Mr. Burke, has taken place. Our dearest father was enchanted at the prospect of spending so many hours with him; and of pouring forth again and again the rapturous delight with which he reads, and studies, and admires, the sublime new composition of this great statesman.
“But—my satisfaction, my dear Susan, with all my native enthusiasm for Mr. Burke, was not so unmingled. If such a meeting, after my long illness, and long seclusion, joined to my knowledge of his kind interest in them, had taken place speedily after that on Richmond Hill, at Sir Joshua Reynolds’; where I beheld him with an admiration that seemed akin to enchantment; and that portrayed him all bright intelligence and gentle amenity;——instead of succeeding to the scenes of Westminster Hall; where I saw him furious to accuse,—implacable not to listen—and insane to vanquish! his respiration troubled, his features nearly distorted, and his countenance haggard with baneful animosity; while his voice, echoing up to the vaulted roof in tremendous execrations, poisoned the heated air with unheard-of crimes!—Oh! but for that more recent recollection, his sight, and the expectation of his kindness, would have given me once again a joy almost ecstatic.[24]
“But now, from this double reminiscence, my mind, my ideas—disturbed as much as delighted—were in a sort of chaos; they could coalesce neither with pleasure nor with pain.
“Our dear father was saved all such conflicting perplexity, as he never attended the trial; and how faint are the impressions of report, compared with those that are produced by what we experience or witness! He was not, therefore, like me, harassed by the continual inward question: ‘Shall I see once more that noble physiognomy that, erst, so fascinated my fancy? or, am I doomed to behold how completely ’tis expression, not feature, that stamps the human countenance upon human view?’
“The little villa at Hampstead is small, but commodious. We were received by Mrs. Crewe with great kindness, which you will easily believe was the last thing to surprise us. Her son[25] was with her; a silent and reserved, but, I think, sensible young man, though looking—so blooming is she still—rather like her brother than her son. He is preparing to go to China with Lord Macartney. Her daughter[26] we had ourselves brought from town, where she had been on a visit to the lovely Emily Ogilvie,[27] at the Duchess Dowager of Leinster’s. She, Miss Crewe, is become an intelligent and amiable adolescent; but so modest, that I never heard her uncourted voice.
“Mr. Burke was not yet arrived; but young Burke, who, when I lived in the midst of things, was almost always at my side, like my shadow, wherever we met, though never obstrusively, was the first person I saw. I felt very glad to renew our old acquaintance; but I soon perceived a strangeness in his bow, that marked a decided change from fervent amity to cold civility.
“This hurt me much for this very estimable young man; but alarmed me ten thousand times more for his father, whose benevolent personal partiality—blame him as I may for one or two public acts—I could not forfeit without the acutest mortification, pain, and sorrow.
“But it now oppressively occurred to me, that perhaps young Mr. Burke, studiously as in whatever is political I always keep in the back ground, had discovered my antipathy to the state trial: for though I felt satisfied that Mr. Windham, to whom so openly I had revealed it, had held sacred, as he had promised, my secret—for how could honour and Mr. Windham be separated?—young Burke, who was always in the manager’s box, must unavoidably have observed how frequently Mr. Windham came to converse with me from the Great Chamberlain’s; and might even, perhaps, have so been placed, at times, in the House of Commons’ partition, as to overhear my unrestrained wishes for the failure of the prosecution, from my belief in its injustice—and if so, how greatly must he have been offended for his reverenced father! to whom, also, he might, perhaps, have made known my sentiments!
“This idea demolished in a moment all my hope of pleasure in the visit! and I became more uncomfortable than I can describe.
“Our dear Father did not perceive my disturbance. Always wisely alive to the present moment, he was occupied exclusively with young Mr. Crewe, at the motion of our fair hostess; who, after naming Lord Macartney’s embassy, said: ‘Come, Dr. Burney, you, who know every thing, come and tell us all about China.’
“Soon after entered Mrs. Burke, who revived in me some better hopes; for she was just the same as I have always seen her; soft, serene, reasonable, sensible, and obliging; and we met, I think, upon just as good terms as if so many years had not parted us.
“Next appeared—for all the family inhabit, at present, some spot at Hampstead—Mr. Richard Burke; that original, humorous, flashing, and entertaining brother of the Burke; whom we have so often met, but whom we have never liked, or, at least, understood well enough to associate with for himself; nor yet liked ill enough to shirk when we have met him with others. From him I could develop nothing of my great point of inquietude, i.e. how I stood with his great brother; for I had put myself into a place, in my old way, in the back ground, with Miss Crewe; Miss French, a lively niece of Mr. Burke’s; and a very pleasing Miss Townshend; and Mr. R. Burke did not recollect, or, probably, see me. But my father, immediately leaving young Crewe, and Lord Macartney, and the whole empire of China in the lurch, darted forward to expatiate with Mr. Richard upon his brother’s noble Essay.
“At length—Mr. Burke himself was announced, and made his appearance; accompanied by the tall, keen-eyed Mr. Elliot, one of the Twelve Managers of the Impeachment; and a favourite friend of Mr. Windham’s.
“The moment Mr. Burke had paid his devoirs to Mrs. Crewe, he turned round to shake hands, with an air the most cordial, with my father; who, proud of his alacrity, accepted the greeting with evident delight.
“I thought this the happiest chance for obtaining his notice, and I arose, though with a strong inward tremor, and ventured to make him a curtesy; but where was I, my dear Susan, when he returned me the most distant bow, without speaking or advancing?—though never yet had I seen him, that he had not made up to me with eager, nay, kind vivacity! nor been anywhere seated, that he had not taken a place next mine!
“Grieved I felt—O how grieved and mortified! not only at the loss of so noble a friend, but at the thought of having given pain and offence to one from whom I had received so much favour, and to whom I owed so much honour! and who, till those two deadly blights to his fair fame, the unsubstantiated charges against Mr. Hastings, and the baneful denunciation of the King’s incurability, had appeared to me of a nature as exalted in purity of feeling as in energy of genius.
“While I hesitated,—all sad within—whether to retire to my retreat in the back ground, or to abide where I stood, obviously seeking to move his returning kindness, Mrs. Crewe suddenly said, ‘I don’t think I have introduced Mr. Elliot to Miss Burney?’
“Mr. Elliot and I were certainly no strangers to each other’s faces, so often I had seen him in the Manager’s box, whence so often he must have seen me in the Great Chamberlain’s; but a slight bow and curtesy had hardly time to be exchanged between us—for the moment I was named, imagine my joy, my Susan, my infinite joy, to find that Mr. Burke had not recollected me! He is more near-sighted, considerably, even than my father or myself. ‘Miss Burney!’ in a tone of vivacity and surprise, he now exclaimed, coming instantly, courteously, and smilingly forward, and taking my willing hand, ‘and I did not see—did not know you!’ And then, again, imagine my increasing joy, after this false alarm, to hear him utter words that were all sweetness and amiability, upon his pleasure on our re-meeting!
“I had so mournfully given up all hope of such sounds, that I was almost re-organized by the sudden transition from dejection to delight; and I felt a glow the most vivid tingle in my cheeks and my whole face. Mr. Burke, not aware of the emotion he himself had caused, from not having distinguished me before its operation, took the colour for re-established health, and the air of gaiety for regenerated vigour; and began to pour forth the most fervent expressions of satisfaction at my restoration. ‘You look,’ cried he, still affectionately holding my hand, while benignly he fixed his investigating eyes upon my face, ‘quite—renewed!—revived!—in short, disengaged! You seemed, when I conversed with you last, at the trial, quite——.’ He paused for a word, and then finished with, ‘quite altered!—I never saw such a change for the better!’
“Ah, Mr. Burke, thought I, this is simply a mistake from judging by your own feelings. I seemed altered for the worse at the trial, because I there looked coldly and distantly from distaste and disapprobation; and I here look changed for the better, because I here meet you with the re-kindling animation of my first devotion to your incomparable genius. For never, my dear Susan, can I believe Mr. Burke to be either wilfully or consciously wrong. I am persuaded, on the contrary, that his intentions are always pure; and that the two fatal transgressions which despoiled him of his supremacy of perfection, were both the wayward produce of that unaccountable and inexplicable occasional warp, which, in some or other unexpected instance, is sure, sooner or later, to betray an Hibernian origin; even in the most transcendant geniuses that spring from the land of Erin.
“Mrs. Crewe now made me take a seat by her side on the sofa; but, perceiving the earnestness with which Mr. Burke was talking to me—and the gratification he was giving to his hearer,—she smilingly rose, and left him her own place; which, with a little bow, he very composedly took. He then entered into a most animated conversation, of which while I had the chief address, young Mr. Crewe was the chief object; as it was upon Lord Macartney, the Chinese expedition, and two Chinese youths who were to accompany it. These he described with a most amusing minuteness of detail: and then spoke of the extent of the undertaking in high, and perhaps fanciful terms; but with allusions and anecdotes intermixed, so full of general information and brilliant ideas, as, happily, to enchain again my charmed attention into a return of my first enthusiasm—and with it a sensation of pleasure, that made the rest of the day delicious.
“My father soon afterwards joined us, and politics took the lead. Mr. Burke then spoke eloquently indeed; but with a vehemence that banished the graces, though it redoubled his energies. The French Revolution, he said, which began by legalizing injustice; and which, by rapid steps, had proceeded to every species of despotism, except owning a despot; was now menacing all mankind, and all the universe, with a diabolical concussion of all principle and order.
“My father, you will be very sure, heartily concurred in his opinions, and participated in his terrors. I assented tacitly to all that he addressed to me against the revolutionary horrors; but I was tacit without assent to his fears for stout old England. Surely, with such a warning before us, we cannot fall into similar atrocities. We have, besides, so little, comparatively, to redress! One speech he then made, that I thought he meant to be explanatory of his own conduct, and apparent change in cutting Mr. Fox; as well as in the sentiments he has divulged in his late book in disfavour of democracy: or rather, perhaps, I ought to say of republicanism.
“After expatiating copiously and energetically upon the present pending dangers to even English liberty and property, and to all organized government, from so neighbouring a contagion of havoc and novelty, he abruptly exclaimed: ‘This it is,—the hovering in the air of this tremendous mischief, that has made me an abettor and supporter of courts and kings! Monarchs are Necessary! If we would preserve peace and prosperity, we must preserve Monarchs! We must all put our shoulders to the work: aye, and stoutly, too!—’
“Then, rising, somewhat moved, he turned suddenly towards me, and repeated—‘’Tis this,—and this alone, could have made ME lend MY shoulders to courts and to kings!’ Here he hastily broke up the subject, and joined Mrs. Crewe; as everybody else had already done, except Mr. Elliot; who had stood silent and fixed and tall, looking all the time in one hard stare at Mr. Burke and a certain sister of yours, with a sort of dry, but insatiable curiosity. I attribute it to his so often seeing Mr. Windham, with whom he is very intimate, converse with me at the trial. But whether he was pleased or displeased is all in his own bosom, as he never either smiled or frowned. He only stood erect and attentive. It was so odd, I could sometimes hardly keep my countenance; for there was nothing bold nor rude in his look: it was merely queer and curious.
“My dear father immediately followed Mr. Burke; as I, if I had not been ashamed, should have done too! for when Mr. Burke is himself—that is, in spirits, but not in a rage, there is no turning from him to any thing or any one else! and my father, who goes all lengths with him on the French Revolution, was here, what I was at Sir Joshua Reynolds’, a ‘rapt enthusiast!’
“At dinner, Mr. Burke sat next to Mrs. Crewe; and I, my dear Susan, had the happiness to be seated next to Mr. Burke!—and that by his own smiling arrangement! My other neighbour was his amiable son, in whom, to my great satisfaction, all strangeness now subsided. Whether, generously, he forgave my adherence to Mr. Hastings; or whether his chagrin at it insensibly wore off from the very nature of things, I know not. But it is at least as clear as it is amiable, that he never had troubled his father or mother with what he must have deemed my delinquency. They could not else have honoured me with such unabating distinction.
“The dinner, and, far more, when the servants were dismissed, the dessert, were delightful. How I wish my dear Susanna and Fredy[28] could meet this wonderful man when he is easy, happy, and with people he cordially likes! But politics, even then, and even on his own side, must always be excluded! His irritability is so terrible upon politics, that they are no sooner the topic of discourse, than they cast upon his face the expression of a man who is going to defend himself against murderers!
“I must now give you such little detached traits as I can recollect.
“Charles Fox being mentioned, Mrs. Crewe told us that lately, upon his being shewn a passage upon some subject that, erst, he had warmly opposed, in Mr. Burke’s Book, but which, in the event, had made its own justification, very candidly said: ‘Well, Burke is right!—but Burke is often right—only he is right too soon!’
“‘Had Fox seen some things in that book,’ answered Mr. Burke, ‘as soon, he would at this moment, in all probability, be first Minister of this country.’
“‘What!’ cried Mrs. Crewe, ‘with Pitt? No, No!—Pitt won’t go out; and Charles Fox will never make a coalition with Pitt.’
“‘And why not?’ said Mr. Burke, drily, almost severely; ‘why not that Coalition, as well as other Coalitions?’
“Nobody tried to answer this! The remembrance of Mr. Fox with Lord North, Mr. Pitt with Lord Rockingham, &c., rose too forcibly to every mind; and Mrs. Crewe looked abashed.[29]
“‘Charles Fox, however,’ said Mr. Burke, after this pause, ‘can never, internally, like this French Revolution. He is’—he stopped for a word, and then added, ‘entangled!—but, in himself, if he could find no other objection to it, he has, at least, too much taste for such a Revolution.’
“Mr. Elliot then related that he had recently been in company with some of the first and most distinguished men of the French nation, now fugitives here, and had asked them some questions concerning the new French ministry; but they had answered that they knew not one of them, even by name! ‘Think,’ said he, ‘what a ministry that must be! Suppose a new administration were formed here of English men, of whom we had never before heard the names? What statesmen must they be! How prepared and fitted for government? To begin being known by being at the Helm!’
“Mr. Richard Burke then narrated, very comically, various censures that had reached his ears upon his brother, concerning his last and most popular work; accusing him of being the Abettor of Despots, because he had been shocked at the imprisonment of the King of France! and the Friend of Slavery, because he was anxious to preserve our own limited monarchy in the same state in which it so long had flourished!
“Mr. Burke had looked half alarmed at his brother’s opening, not knowing, I presume, whither his odd fancy might lead him; but, when he had finished, and so inoffensively, and a general laugh that was excited was over, he—THE Burke—good-humouredly turning to me, and pouring out a glass of wine, cried: ‘Come, then, Miss Burney! here’s Slavery for ever!’
“This was well understood, and echoed round the table.
“‘This would do for you completely, Mr. Burke,’ cried Mrs. Crewe, laughing, ‘if it could but get into a newspaper! Mr. Burke, they would say, has now spoken out! The truth has come to light over a bottle of wine! and his real defection from the cause of true liberty is acknowledged! I should like,’ added she, laughing quite heartily, ‘to draw up the paragraph myself!’
“‘Pray then,’ said Mr. Burke, ‘complete it by putting in, that the toast was addressed to Miss Burney!—in order to pay my court to the Queen!’
“This sport went on, till, upon Mr. Elliot’s again mentioning France, and the rising Jacobins, Mr. Richard Burke, filling himself a bumper, and flourishing his left hand, whilst preparing with his right to toss it off, cried, ‘Come! here’s confusion to confusion!’
“Mr. Windham being mentioned, I was gratified by the warmth with which Mr. Burke returns his attachment; for upon Mr. Elliot’s speaking with regret of Mr. Windham’s being so thin, Mr. Burke exclaimed: ‘He is just as he should be! If I were Windham this minute, I should not wish to be thinner nor fatter, nor taller nor shorter, nor in any way, nor in any thing, altered.’
“A little after, speaking of former times, you may believe how I was struck, nay, how enchanted, to hear Mr. Burke say to Mrs. Crewe: ‘I wish you had known Mrs. Delany! She was a perfect pattern of a perfect fine lady; a real fine lady of other days. Her manners were faultless; her deportment was of marked elegance; her speech was all sweetness; and her air and address were all dignity. I always looked up to Mrs. Delany, as the model of an accomplished gentlewoman of former times.’
“Do you think I could hear this testimony to the worth of my revered and beloved departed friend unmoved?
“When, afterwards, we females were joined by the gentlemen at tea, Mr. Richard Burke, crossing hastily over to me, cried, in a loud whisper, almost in my ear: ‘Miss Burney! prune your plumes!—allow me to say, I never was so glad in my life as I am to see you in the world again! Prune your plumes, we all conjure you!—Prune your plumes! we are all expectation!’
“Our evening finished more curiously than desirably, by a junction that robbed us of the conversation of Mr. Burke. This was the entrance of Lord Loughborough and of Mr.[30] and Mrs. Erskine, who, having villas at Hampstead, and knowing nothing of Mrs. Crewe’s party, called in accidentally from a walk. If not accidentally, Mr. Erskine, at least, would probably have denied himself a visit that brought him into a coterie with Mr. Burke; who openly, in the House of Commons, not long since, upon being called by Mr. Erskine his Right Hon. Friend, sternly demanded of him, whether he knew what Friendship meant?
“From this time there was an evident disunion of cordiality in the party. My father, Mr. Elliot, Mr. Richard Burke, and young Burke, entered into some general discourse, in a separate group. Lord Loughborough joined Mrs. Burke. My new young partizan[31] sat with Miss Crewe and Miss Townshend; but the chair of Mrs. Erskine being next to mine, she immediately began talking to me as chattily and currently as if we had known each other all our lives.
“Mr. Erskine confined his attention exclusively to Mrs. Crewe. Mr. Burke, meanwhile, with a concentrated, but dignified air, walked away from them all, and threw himself on a settee at a distant part of the room. Here he picked up a book, which he opened by chance, and, to my great astonishment, began reading aloud! but not directing his face, voice, or attention to any of the company. On the contrary, he read with the careless freedom from effort or restraint that he might have done had he been alone: and merely aloud, because the book being in verse, he was willing to add the pleasure of sound to its sense. But what to me made this seem highly comic, as well as intrepidly singular, was that the work was French; and he read it not only with the English accent, but exactly as if the two nations had one pronunciation in common of the alphabet. It was a volume of Boileau, which he had opened at the famed and incomparable Epître à son Jardinier.
“Yet, while the delivery was so amusing, the tone, the meaning, the force he gave to every word, were so winning to my ears, that I should have listened to nothing else, if I had not unavoidably been engrossed by Mrs. Erskine; though from her, too, I was soon called off by a surprise and half alarm from her celebrated husband.
“Mr. Erskine had been enumerating, fastidiously, to Mrs. Crewe, his avocations, their varieties, and their excess; till, at length, he mentioned, very calmly, having a case to plead soon against Mr. Crewe, upon a manor business in Cheshire. Mrs. Crewe hastily interrupted him, with an air of some disturbance, to inquire what he meant? and what might ensue to Mr. Crewe? ‘O, nothing but losing the lordship of that spot;’ he coolly answered; ‘though I don’t know that it will be given against him. I only know, for certain, that I shall have three hundred pounds for it!’
“Mrs. Crewe looked thoughtful; and Mr. Erskine then, finding he enjoyed not her whole attention, raised his voice, as well as his manner, and began to speak of the New Association for Reform by the Friends of the People; descanting in powerful, though rather ambiguous terms, upon the use they had thought fit, in that association, to make of his name; though he had never yet been to the society; and I began to understand that he meant to disavow it: but presently he added, ‘I don’t know—I am uncertain—whether ever I shall attend. I have so much to do—so little time—such interminable occupation! However, I don’t yet know—I am not decided; for the People must be supported!’
“‘Pray will you tell me,’ said Mrs. Crewe, coolly, ‘what you mean by The People? for I never know.’
“Whether she asked this with real innocence, or affected ignorance, I cannot tell; but he was evidently surprised by the question, and evaded any answer. Probably he thought he might as well avoid discussing such a point before his friend, Mr. Burke; who, he knew well, though lying perdu from delicacy to Mrs. Crewe, would resistlessly be ready, upon the smallest provocation, to pounce with a hawk’s power and force upon his prey, in order to deliver a counter interpretation to whatever he, Mr. Erskine, might reply of who and what were meant by the People.
“I conjecture this from the suddenness with which Mr. Erskine, after this interrogatory, almost abruptly made his bow.
“Lord Loughborough instantly took his vacated seat on the sofa next to Mrs. Crewe; and presently, with much grave, but strong humour, recited a speech which Mr. Erskine had lately made at some public meeting, and which he had opened to this effect. ‘As to me, gentlemen, I trust I have some title to give my opinions freely. Would you know whence my title is derived? I challenge any man amongst you to inquire? If he ask my birth,—its genealogy may dispute with kings! If my wealth,— it is all for which I have time to hold out my hand! If my talents—No!—of those, gentlemen, I leave you to judge for yourselves!’
“When the party broke up, Mr. and Mrs. Burke joined in giving my dear father and me a most cordial invitation to Beaconsfield. How I should delight in its acceptance!
“We finished this charming day in a little trio of our three selves; when our dear ardent father indulged in a hearty laugh at the untoward question of Mrs. Crewe; and at its electrifying effect; declaring that he almost regretted that Mr. Burke had shown his fair hostess such punctilious deference, as not to start up at once with one of his Thunders of Reply, that might have elicited the Lightnings of Mr. Erskine, so as to have worked out, with the assistance of the arch sarcasms of Lord Loughborough, and the pithy remarks of Mr. Elliot, so tremendous a political storm as to have shaken her little dwelling to its foundation.
“This mock taste for fire and fury soon, you will easily believe, gave way to his genuine one for peace, literature, and elegance; and we concluded a short long evening by various select morsels of poetry, that my father read with his usual feeling and spirit; summing up the whole with Rogers’ Pleasures of Memory; from which we retired to rest, in very serene good-humour, I believe, with one another.”