to find, through the energy of a favourite pursuit, that his intellectual faculties were not for ever interred before the funeral of the machine, through which, so long and so vividly, they had emanated.
She had the consolation, also, to know that, for many years, this Poem had answered all the purposes for which it had been suggested. Its idea had amused his fancy; its researches had kept alive his thirst of knowledge; and had meandered into so many new channels of information, in the bright regions which it led him to contemplate, that it had been a source to him of pleasure, and a new spring to exertion, that, though not competent to drive away sorrow, had frequently, at least, discarded sadness.
What new view, either of the occupation, or its execution, had determined its total relinquishment, was never to its instigator revealed; the solemn look with which he announced that it was over, had an expression that she had not courage to explore.
Enough, however, remains of the original work, scattered amongst his manuscripts, to shew his project to have been skilfully conceived, while its plan of execution was modestly and sensibly circumscribed to his bounded knowledge of the subject. And its idea, with its general sketch, drawn up at so advanced a period of a life—verging upon eighty—that had been spent in another and an absorbent study, must needs remain a monument of wonder for the general herd of mankind; and a stimulus to courage and enterprise for the gifted few, with whom longevity is united with genius.
From the time of this happy return, the Memorialist passed at Chelsea College every moment that she could tear from personal calls that, most unopportunely yet imperiously, then demanded her attention.
Shut up nevertheless, as the Doctor was now from the general world and its commerce, the seclusion of his person was by no means attended with any seclusion of kindness; or any exemption from what he deemed a parental devoir.
When, on the 12th day of the following year, 1813, his returned daughter, though her first enjoyment was her restoration to his society, excused herself from accompanying her son to the College; and the Doctor gathered that that day, the 6th of January, and the anniversary of the lamented loss of their mutual darling, Susanna, had been yearly devoted, since that privation, to meditative commemoration; he sent his confidential housekeeper to the Memorialist’s apartment with the following lines:
“Few individuals have lost more valuable friends than myself,—Twining, Crisp, poor Bewley, Dr. Johnson, Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds—If I were to keep an anniversary for all these severally, I should not have time allowed me for diminishing the first excess of my affliction for each.”
It may, perhaps, be superfluous, and yet seems unavoidable to mention, that again, as after the death of Mr. Crisp, she hastened to him with her grateful acknowledgments for this exhortation; and that she has ever since refused herself that stated sad indulgence.
Still, also, the epistolary pen of the Doctor not only retained its kind, but kept alive its fanciful flow; as witness the following extract from a letter, written in his eighty-seventh year, three months later than the date of the last copied billet, and in answer to a letter from the Memorialist, written during a visit to Mrs. Locke, senior, at Norbury Park;
“Chelsea College, April, 1813.
“Why, my dear F. B. d’Arblay! what a happy effect has the kindness of your dear, accomplished, and elegant friend, Mrs. Locke, produced! She has poured balm into all your mental wounds, and healed every sore, which, having had no leonine tincture of March in it, now only breathes zephyrs, and the comforts of Favonius; after your anxiety for the success of Alexander’s election[94], your own feeble state of health, and your uneasiness at the alarming silence of your kind and worthy husband.
“I thought the weather was about to mend its manners! but to-day it has been more wet and blustering than for some time past. For the rain, however, as April is begun, it is to be hoped it will bring forth May flowers: and as to the fury of the wind, it seems to have purified the air of its noxious vapours, which have been supposed to have produced the symptoms of influenza.”
&c. &c.
Nothing new, either of event or incident, occurred thenceforward that can be offered to the public reader; though not a day passed that teemed not with circumstance, or discourse, of tender import, or bosom interest, to the family of the Doctor, and to his still surviving and admitted friends.
That Dr. Burney would have approved the destruction, or suppression of the voluminous records begun under his sickly paralytic depression, and kept in hand for occasional additions to the last years of his life, his Biographer has the happy conviction upon her mind, from the following paragraph, left loose amongst his manuscript hoards.
It is without date; but was evidently written after some late perusal of the materials which he had amassed for his Memoirs; and which, from their opposing extremes of amplitude and deficiency, had probably, upon this accidental examination, struck his returning judgment with a consciousness, that he had rather disburthened his memory for his own ease and pastime, than prepared or selected matter from his stores for public interest.
The following is the paragraph:
“These records of the numerous invitations with which I have been honoured, entered, at the time, into my pocket-books, which served as ledgers, must be very dry and uninteresting, without relating the conversations, bon mots, or characteristic stories, told by individuals, who struck fire out of each other, producing mirth and good-humour: but when these entries were made, I had not leisure for details—and now—memory cannot recall them!”
What next—and last—follows, is copied from the final page of Dr. Burney’s manuscript journal: and closes all there is to offer of his written composition.
Sir Joshua Reynolds desired that the last name he should pronounce in public should be that of Michael Angelo: and Dr. Burney seems to purpose that the last name he should transmit—if so allowed—through his annals, to posterity, should be that of Haydn.
“Finding a blank leaf at the end of my Journal, it may be used in the way of postscriptum, in speaking of the prelude, or opening of Haydn’s Creation, to observe, that though the generality of the subscribers were unable to disentangle the studied confusion in delineating chaos, yet, when dissonance was tuned, when order was established, and God said,
“‘Let there be light!—and there was light!’‘Que la lumière soit!—et la lumière fut!’the composer’s meaning was felt by the whole audience, who instantly broke in upon the performers with rapturous applause before the musical period was closed.”
Little or no change was perceptible in the health of Dr. Burney, save some small diminution of strength, at the beginning of this memorable year; which brought to a crisis a state of things that, by analogy, might challenge belief for the most improbable legends of other times; a state of things in which history seemed to make a mockery of fiction, by giving events to the world, and assorting destinies to mankind, that imagination would have feared to create, and that good taste would have resisted, as a mass of wonders fit only for the wand of the magician, when waved in the fancied precincts of chivalrous old romance—all brought to bear by the unimaginable manoeuvre of the starting of an unknown individual from Corsica to Paris; who, in the course of a few years, without any native influence, or interest, or means whatsoever, but of his own devising, made Kings over foreign dominions of three of his brothers; a Queen of one his sisters; a Cardinal of an uncle; took a daughter of the Cæsars for his wife; proclaimed his infant son King of Rome; and ordered the Pope to Paris, to consecrate and crown him an Emperor![95]
An epoch such as this, unparalleled, perhaps, in hope, dread, danger, and sharp vicissitude, could even still call forth the energies of Dr. Burney through his love of his country; his enthusiasm for those who served it; the warmth of his patriotism for its friends, and the fire of his antipathy for its foes, could still animate him into spirited discourse; bring back the tint of life into his pallid cheek; dart into his eyes a gleam of almost lustrous intelligence; and chase the nervous hoarseness from his voice, to restore it to the native clearness of his younger days.
The apprehension of a long death-bed agony had frequently disturbed the peace of Dr. Burney; but that, at least, he was spared. It was only three days previous to his final dissolution, that any fears were excited of a fast approaching end.
To avoid going over again the same melancholy ground, since nothing fresh recurs to give any advantage to a new statement, the Memorialist will venture to finish this narration, by copying the account of the closing scene which she drew up for General d’Arblay, who was then in Paris.[96]
To General d’Arblay.
“Not a week before the last fatal seizure, my dear father had cheerfully said to me: ‘I have gone through so rough a winter, and such severity of bodily pain; and I have held up against such intensity of cold, that I think now, I can stand any thing!’
“Joyfully I had joined in this belief, which enabled me—most acutely to my since regret!—to occupy myself in the business I have mentioned to you; which detained me three or four days from the College. But I bore the unusual separation the less unwillingly, as public affairs were just then taking that happy turn in favour of England and her allies, that I could not but hope would once more, at least for a while, reanimate his elastic spirits to almost their pristine vivacity.
“When I was nearly at liberty, I sent Alexander to the College, to pay his duty to his grandfather; with a promise that I would pay mine before night, to participate in his joy at the auspicious news from the Continent.
“I was surprised by the early return of my messenger; his air of pensive absorption, and the disturbance, or rather taciturnity with which he heard my interrogatories. Too soon, however, I gathered that his grandfather had passed an alarming night; that both my brothers had been sent for, and that Dr. Mosely had been summoned.
“I need not, I am sure, tell you that I was in the sick room the next instant.
“I found the beloved invalid seated, in his customary manner, on his sofa. My sister Sarah was with him, and his two faithful and favourite attendants, George and Rebecca. In the same customary manner, also, a small table before him was covered with books. But he was not reading. His revered head, as usual, hung upon his breast—and I, as usual, knelt before him, to catch a view of his face, while I inquired after his health.
“But alas!—no longer as usual was my reception! He made no sort of answer; his look was fixed; his posture immoveable; and not a muscle of his face gave any indication that I was either heard or perceived!
“Struck with awe, I had not courage to press for his notice, and hurried into the next room not to startle him with my alarm.
“But when I was informed that he had changed his so fearfully fixed posture, I hastened back; reviving to the happy hope that again I might experience the balm of his benediction.
“He was now standing, and unusually upright; and, apparently, with unusual muscular firmness. I was advancing to embrace him, but his air spoke a rooted concentration of solemn ideas that repelled intrusion.
“Whether or not he recognized, or distinguished me, I know not! I had no command of voice to attempt any inquiry, and would not risk betraying my emotion at this great change since my last and happier admittance to his presence.
“His eyes were intently bent on a window that faced the College burial-ground, where reposed the ashes of my mother-in-law, and where, he had more than once said, would repose his own.
“He bestowed at least five or six minutes on this absorbed and melancholy contemplation of the upper regions of that sacred spot, that so soon were to enclose for ever his mortal clay.
“No one presumed to interrupt his reverie.
“He next opened his arms wide, extending them with a waving motion, that seemed indicative of an internally pronounced farewell! to all he looked at; and shortly afterwards, he uttered to himself, distinctly, though in a low, but deeply-impressive voice, “All this will soon pass away as a dream!”[97]
“This extension of his arms offered to his attendants an opportunity, which they immediately seized, of taking off his wrapping gown.
“He made no resistance: I again retreated; and he was put to bed. My sister Sarah watched, with his housekeeper, by his side all night; and, at an early hour in the morning, I took her place.
“My other sisters were also summoned; and my brothers came continually. But he spoke to no one! and seldom opened his eyes: yet his looks, though altered, invariably manifested his possession of his faculties and senses. Deep seemed his ruminations; deep and religious, though silent and concentrated.
“I would fain have passed this night in the sick room; but my dear father, perceiving my design, and remembering, probably, how recently I was recovered from a dangerous malady, strenuously, though by look and gesture, not words, opposed what he thought, too kindly, might be an exertion beyond my strength. Grieved and reluctant was my retreat; but this was no epoch for expostulation, nor even for entreaty.
“The next morning, I found him so palpably weaker, and more emaciated, that, secretly, I resolved I would quit him no more.
“What a moment was this for so great an affliction! a moment almost throbbing with the promise of that re-union which he has sighed for, almost—mon ami, as I have sighed for it myself! This very day, this eleventh of April, opened by public announcement, that a general illumination would take place in the evening, to blazon the glorious victory of England and her allies, in wresting the dominion of the whole of Europe—save our own invulnerable island, from the grasp and the power of the Emperor Napoleon!
“This great catastrophe, which filled my mind, as you can well conceive! with the most buoyant emotion; and which, at any less inauspicious period, would have enchanted me almost to rapture in being the first to reveal it to my ardent and patriotic father, whose love of his country was nearly his predominant feeling, hung now trembling, gasping on my lips—but there was icicled, and could not pass them!—for where now was the vivacious eagerness that would have caught the tale? where the enraptured intelligence that would have developed its circumstances? where the ecstatic enthusiasm that would have hailed it with songs of triumph?
“The whole day was spent in monotonous watchfulness and humble prayers. At night he grew worse—how grievous was that night; I could offer him no comfort; I durst not even make known my stay. The long habits of obedience of olden times robbed me of any courage for trying so dangerous an experiment as acting contrary to orders. I remained but to share, or to spare, some fatigue to others; and personally to watch and pray by his honoured side.
“Yet sometimes, when the brilliancy of mounting rockets and distant fire-works caught my eyes, to perceive, from the window, the whole apparent sky illuminated to commemorate our splendid success, you will easily imagine what opposing sensations of joy and sorrow struggled for ascendance! While all I beheld without shone thus refulgent with the promise of peace, prosperity, and—your return! I could only contemplate all within to mourn over the wreck of lost filial happiness! the extinction of all the earliest sweet incitements to pleasure, hope, tenderness, and reverence, in the fast approaching dissolution of the most revered of parents!
“When I was liberated by day-light from the fear of being recognised, I earnestly coveted the cordial of some notice; and fixed myself by the side of his bed, where most frequently I could press his paternal hand, or fasten upon it my lips.
“I languished, also, to bring you, mon ami! back to his remembrance. It is not, it cannot—I humbly trust! be impious to covet to the last breathings, the gentle sympathies of those who are most dear to our hearts, when they are visibly preceding us to the regions of eternity! We are nowhere bidden to concentrate our feelings and our aspirations in ourselves! to forget, or to beg to be forgotten by our friends. Even our Redeemer in quitting mortal life, pityingly takes worldly care of his worldly mother; and, consigning her to his favourite disciple, says: “Woman, behold thy Son!”
“Intensely, therefore, I watched to catch a moment for addressing him: and, at last, it came, for, at last, I had the joy to feel his loved hand return a pressure from mine. I ventured then, in a low, but distinct whisper, to utter a brief account of the recent events; thankfully adding, when I saw by his countenance and the air of his head, that his attention was undoubtedly engaged, that they would bring over again to England his long-lost son-in-law.
“At these words, he turned towards me, with a quickness, and a look of vivacious and kind surprise, such as, with closed eyes, I should have thought impossible to have been expressed, had I not been its grateful witness.
“My delight at such a mark of sensibility at the sound of your name, succeeding to so many hours, or rather days, of taciturn immoveability, gave me courage to continue my recital, which I could perceive more and more palpably make the most vivid impression. But when I entered into the marvellous details of the Wellington victories, by which the immortal contest had been brought to its crisis; and told him that Buonaparte was dethroned, was in captivity, and was a personal prisoner on board an English man-of-war; a raised motion of his under lip displayed incredulity; and he turned away his head with an air that shewed him persuaded that I was the simple and sanguine dupe of some delusive exaggeration. I did not dare risk the excitement of convincing him of his mistake!
“And nothing more of converse passed between us then—or, alas!—ever!—Though still I have the consolation to know that he frequently, and with tender kindness, felt my lips upon his hand, from soft undulation that, from time to time, acknowledged their pressure.
“But alas! I have nothing—nothing more that is personal to relate.
“The direction of all spiritual matters fell, of course, as I have mentioned, to my brother, Dr. Charles.
“From about three o’clock in the afternoon he seemed to become quite easy; and his looks were perfectly tranquil: but, as the evening advanced, this quietness subsided into sleep—a sleep so composed that, by tacit consent, every one was silent and motionless, from the fear of giving him disturbance.
“An awful stillness thence pervaded the apartment, and so soft became his breathing, that I dropped my head by the side of his pillow, to be sure that he breathed at all! There, anxiously, I remained, and such was my position, when his faithful man-servant, George, after watchfully looking at him from the foot of his bed, suddenly burst into an audible sob, crying out, “My master!—my dear master!”
“I started and rose, making agitated signs for forbearance, lest the precious rest, from which I still hoped he might awake recruited, should prematurely be broken.
“The poor young man hid his face, and all again was still.
“For a moment, however, only; an alarm from his outcry had been raised, and the servants, full of sorrow, hurried into the chamber, which none of the family, that could assemble, ever quitted, and a general lamentation broke forth.
“Yet could I not believe that all had ceased thus suddenly, without a movement—without even a sigh! and, conjuring that no one would speak or interfere, I solemnly and steadily persisted in passing a full hour, or more, in listening to catch again a breath I could so reluctantly lose: but all of life—of earthly life, was gone for ever!——And here, mon ami, I drop the curtain!—”
On the 20th of the month of April, 1814, the solemn final marks of religious respect were paid to the remains of Doctor Burney; which were then committed to the spot on which his eye had last been fixed, in the burying-ground of Chelsea College, immediately next to the ashes of his second wife.
The funeral, according to his own direction, was plain and simple.
His sons, Captain James Burney, and Doctor Charles Burney, walked as chief mourners; and every male part of his family, that illness or distance did not impede from attendance, reverentially accompanied the procession to the grave: while foremost among the pall-bearers walked that distinguished lover of merit, the Hon. Frederic North, since Earl of Guildford; and Mr. Salomon, the first professional votary of the Doctor’s art then within call.
A tablet was soon afterwards erected to his memory, in Westminster Abbey, by a part of his family; the inscription for which was drawn up by his present inadequate, but faithful Biographer.
When a narratory account is concluded, to delineate the character of him whom it has brought to view, with its failings as well as its excellencies, is the proper, and therefore the common task for the finishing pencil of the Biographer. Impartiality demands this contrast; and the mind will not accompany a narrative of real life of which Truth, frank and unequivocal, is not the dictator.
And here, to give that contrast, Truth is not wanting, but, strange to say, vice and frailty! The Editor, however, trusts that she shall find pardon from all lovers of veracity, if she seek not to bestow piquancy upon her portrait through artificial light and shade.
The events and circumstances, with their commentary, that are there presented to the reader, are conscientiously derived from sources of indisputable authenticity; aided by a well-stored memory of the minutest points of the character, conduct, disposition, and opinions of Dr. Burney. And in the picture, which is here endeavoured to be portrayed, the virtues are so simple, that they cannot excite disgust from their exaggeration; though no conflicting qualities give relief to their panegyric.
But with regard to the monumental lines, unmixed praise, there, is universally practised, and calls for no apology. Its object is withdrawn, alike from friends and from foes, from partiality and from envy; and mankind at large, through all nations and all times, seems instinctively agreed, that the funereal record of departed virtue is most stimulating to posterity, when unencumbered by the levelling weight of human defects.—Not from any belief so impossible as that he who had been mortal could have been perfect; but from the consciousness that no accusation can darken the marble of death, ere He whom it consigns to the tomb, is not already condemned—or acquitted.
The Biographer, therefore, ventures to close these Memoirs with the following Sepulchral Character:
Sacred to the Memory
OF
CHARLES BURNEY, MUS. D.
WHO, FULL OF DAYS, AND FULL OF VIRTUES;
THE PRIDE OF HIS FAMILY; THE DELIGHT OF SOCIETY;
THE UNRIVALLED CHIEF AND SCIENTIFIC
HISTORIAN
OF HIS TUNEFUL ART,
BELOVED, REVERED, REGRETTED,
IN HIS 87th YEAR, APRIL 12th, 1814,
BREATHED, IN CHELSEA COLLEGE, HIS LAST SIGH;
LEAVING TO POSTERITY A FAME UNBLEMISHED,
BUILT ON THE NOBLE FABRIC OF SELF-ACQUIRED ACCOMPLISHMENTS,
HIGH PRINCIPLES, AND PURE BENEVOLENCE;
GOODNESS WITH TALENTS; GAIETY WITH TASTE,
WERE OF HIS GIFTED MIND THE BLENDED ATTRIBUTES:
WHILE THE GENIAL HILARITY OF HIS AIRY SPIRITS,
FLOWING FROM A CONSCIENCE WITHOUT REPROACH,
PREPARED, THROUGH THE WHOLE TENOR OF HIS EARTHLY LIFE,
WITH THE MEDIATION OF OUR BLESSED SAVIOUR,
HIS SOUL FOR HEAVEN.—AMEN!
Footnotes
[1] Mrs. Davis is mentioned more than once by Mr. Boswell.
[2] Edward Burney, Esq., of Clipstone Street.
[3] Since Marquis.
[4] His late Majesty, George the Fourth.
[5] Afterwards Earl Mansfield.
[6] Afterwards Marchioness of Thomond.
[7] Afterwards Lady Edward Fitzgerald.
[8] Since Countess of Liverpool.
[9] When, many years after, the reparations of Windsor Castle were completed, so as to fit it for the residence of the King, George the Third, and the Royal Family, this Lodge, and the Lower, were pulled down.
[10] Miss Port: now Mrs. Waddington, of Llanover House.
[11] In this equitable judgment of Dr. Burney, other of the managers were included, and Mr. Windham was identified.
[12] Afterwards Earl of Orford.
[13] Afterwards edited by Miss Berry.
[14] Miss Port; now Mrs. Waddington, of Llanover.
[15] Mrs. Cheveley.
[16] Barrington—afterwards Bishop of Durham
[17] Afterwards Sir William.
[18] To this highly-favoured latest friend she bequeathed two medallions of the King and Queen; one of the mosaic flowers from her botanical work; her own elegant copy of Waller’s lovely Saccharissa, from Vandyke, the original of which is still in the Waller Family, at Beaconsfield; and, finally, she closed her benign offerings by a verbal commission to her nephew, Mr. Barnard Dewes, to make over to the same person her noble edition of Theobald’s Shakespeare, in eight volumes quarto; kindly desiring him to say, that it was a tribute to the pleasure with which she had listened to that immortal Bard through the reading of the legatee.
Mr. Barnard Dewes sent the Saccharissa, preceded by the following invaluable words.
Copy from the Will of Mrs. Delany.
“I take this liberty that my much-esteemed friend may sometimes recollect a person, who was so sensible to her friendship, and who delighted so much in her conversation and works.”
[19] The Memorialist has since been informed that the King himself had deigned to say, “It is but her due. She has given up five years of her pen.”
[20] This has reference to the situation, and to that only, in Chelsea College.
[21] The eels, now, are so used to being skinned, that these matters, both for the inflictors and the endurers, are become more easy.
[22] See Mr. Moore’s Life of Sheridan.
[23] George III.
[24] The Editor cannot here refuse herself the satisfaction of inserting a remarkable speech, that was made to her by a professionally experienced physiognomist, the Rev. Thomas Willis, upon observing Mr. Burke, after he had spoken to her one day in Westminster Hall: “Give me leave to ask—who was that you were conversing with just now?” “Mr. Burke!” “Is that possible!—Can a man who seeks by EVERY means, not only the obvious and the fair, but the most obscure and irrelevant, to prosecute to infamy and persecute to death—have a countenance of such marked honesty? Every line of his face denotes honour and probity!”
[25] Now Baron Crewe.
[26] Now the Hon. Mrs. Cunliffe Offley.
[27] Afterwards the Hon. Mrs. Beauclerk.
[28] Mrs. Locke of Norbury Park.
[29] Mr. Burke, in one of his unpublished Letters, says, “Coalition is the condition of Mankind!”
[30] Afterwards Lord Chancellor.
[31] Miss French, a niece of Mr. Burke’s.
[32] See Correspondence.
[33] Since Duchess.
[34] Mrs. Phillips.
[35] Afterwards Lord Chancellor.
[36] Afterwards Queen.
[37] Twice only this lady and the Memorialist had yet met, since the Italian marriage; once at a large assembly at Mrs. Locke’s; and afterwards at Windsor, on the way to St. George’s chapel; but neither of these meetings, from circumstantial obstacles, led to any further intercourse; though each of them offered indications to both parties of always subsisting kindness.
[38] Beaconsfield.
[39] Mr. Richard Burke, sen., and Mr. Burke, jun.
[40] Beaconsfield.
[41] A £20 Bank Note.
[42] The translations of Mr. Hoole were not yet in circulation.
[43] He made the same speech of melancholy, but partial regret, to Dr. Charles Burney, who visited him also at Bath.
[44] Mrs. General Hales, of Chelsea College.
[45] The Doctor’s Sons.
[46] The Burkes.
[47] At this date, 1797, the King, George III. was perfectly restored.
[48] Now the Hon. Mrs. Cunliffe Offley.
[49] Mr. Burney, the barrister, son of the late Rear-Admiral Burney.
[50] The present celebrated mathematician and author.
[51] George III.
[52] To the Editor he once avowed, that to pass twenty-four hours without one piercing pang of pain would be new to him.
[53] Generally, from the name of the author, attributed, but erroneously, to Anna Seward, of Litchfield.
[54] Now Mrs. Garnier.
[55] Now Viscountess Canning.
[56] Now Lady Elizabeth Whitbread.
[57] Now Viscount Palmerston.
[58] Mr. Twining.
[59] The Doctor’s grand-daughter, now Mrs. Raper.
[60] Afterwards Earl of Liverpool.
[61] First husband of Buonaparte’s sister, Paulina, afterwards La Princesse Borghese.
[62] The Culpability, or the Rights of the insurgents, could make no part of the business of the soldier; whose services, when once he is enlisted, as unequivocally demand personal subordination as personal bravery.
[63] Louis the Sixteenth.
[64] Of this singular and hazardous letter, M. d’Arblay, who wrote it on a sudden impulse, neither gave nor shewed one copy in England, except to M. Otto.
[65] General de La Fayette; who then, with his virtuous wife and family, resided at his old Chateau of La Grange; exclusively occupied by useful agricultural experiments, and exemplary domestic duties.
[66] Afterwards Earl of Chichester.
[67] His Sleep.
[68] As the wife of a French officer of distinction, living with him in his own country, she would have held any species of clandestine manoeuvre to its disadvantage as treachery, and, indeed, ingratitude; for, during ten unbroken years of sojourn in France, she met with a never abating warmth of friendship, and confidence in her honour, from the singularly amiable personages to whom she had the happiness of being presented by her husband; the charm of whose social intercourse is indelibly engraven on her remembrance. And she cannot here resist the indulgence of gratefully selecting from a list too numerous for this brief record, the names of the amiable Prince and Princesse de Beauvau, and their delightful family; and of the noble-minded General and Madame Victor de la Tour Maubourg, with the whole of that upright and estimable race; including most peculiarly MADAME DE MAISONENNE, the faithful, chosen, and tender friend of this Editor.
[69] Now Lady (George) Martin.
[70] This Editor had a letter from him, after a lapse of correspondence of thirty years, that was written within a few weeks of his decease, by an amanuensis, but signed by himself; and dictated with all the still unimpaired imagination of his fertile mind and poetical country; and with the fervent fancy, and expressive feelings of his grateful recollections of the nation in which he declares himself to have passed the happiest days of his life.
[71] Now Lord Stowell.
[72] George IV.
[73] Now wife of le Chevalier de Pougens.
[74] The present Hon. Mrs. Singleton and the Hon. Miss Upton.
[75] The Hon. Col. Greville Howard.
[76] Now Governor General of Bengal.
[77] The Duke of York.
[78] A mark of genuine liberality this in Mr. Fox, who, like Mr. Burke, in the affair of Chelsea College, clearly held that men of science and letters should, in all great states, be publicly encouraged, without wounding their feelings by shackling their opinions.
[79] Barrington.
[80] North.
[81] Howley, now Archbishop of Canterbury.
[82] Relative to the pension.
[83] At Bath, also, many years afterwards, an intercourse, both personal and epistolary, between Mrs. Piozzi and this Memorialist was renewed; and was gliding on to returning feelings of the early cordiality, that, gaily and delightfully, had been endearing to both—when calamitous circumstances caused a new separation, that soon afterwards became final by the death of Mrs. Piozzi.
[84] General La Fayette, who was then still living in his agricultural retirement, surrounded by a branching family, almost constituting a tribe; and, at that time, utterly a stranger to all politics or public life.
[85] Afterwards the first Marquis of Lansdowne.
[86] Mrs. Solvyns.
[87] The Count Louis de Narbonne.
[88] The Baron de Larrey.
[89] Chiefly the loyal and admirable family De la Tour Maubourg.
[90] Lady Lucy Foley.
[91] Admiral Sir Richard Foley.
[92] While she was very young, the Doctor had accustomed himself to say: “Poor Fanny’s face tells what she thinks, whether she will or no.”
[93] Every one of which the Doctor kindly remembered in his will.
[94] A Tancred Scholarship at Cambridge.
[95] The Editor resided at Paris during the astonishing period of all these events.
[96] Omitting, of course, all extraneous circumstances.
[97] The dream of human existence, from which death would awaken him to immortal life!