“To Madame D’arblay.
“Nov. 12th, 1808.
“My dear Fanny,
“The complaints made, in one of the two short notes which I have received, of letters never answered, Old Charles returns—as his account of family affairs he finds has never reached you. Indeed, for these last two or three years, I have had nothing good to say of own self; and I peremptorily charged all the rest of the family to say nothing bad on the subject of health: for I never understood the kindness of alarming distant friends with accounts of severe illness,—as we may be either recovered or dead before the information reaches them.
“I wrote you an account of my excursion to Bristol Hotwells: but I had not been returned to Chelsea more than three days, before I had an alarming seizure in my left hand, which neither heat, friction, nor medicines could subdue. It felt perfectly asleep; in a state of immoveable torpor. My medical friends would not tell me what this obstinate numbness was; but I discovered by their prescriptions, and advice as to regimen, that it was neither more nor less than a paralytic affection; and, near Christmas, it was pronounced to be a Bath case. On Christmas eve, I set out for that City, extremely weak and dispirited: the roads terrible, and almost incessant torrents of rain all the way. I was five days on the journey; I took Fanny Phillips with me, and we had excellent apartments on the South Parade, which is always warm when any sun shines. I put myself under the care of Dr. Parry, who, having resided, and practised physic at Bath more than forty years, must, cæteris paribus, know the virtues and vices of Bath waters better than the most renowned physicians in London. To give them fair play, I remained three months in this City; and I found my hand much more alive, and my general health very considerably amended. But, I caught so violent a fresh cold in my journey home, that it was called what the French style a Fluxion de poitrine, and I was immediately confined to my bed at Chelsea, and unable to eat, sleep, or speak. Strict starvation was then ordered; but softened off into fish and asparagus as soon as possible, by our wise and good [Pg 380] Æsculapius, Sir Walter Farquhar: and now I am allowed poultry and game, under certain restrictions, and find myself tolerably well again. All this tedious account of own self should still have been suppressed, but that I feared it might reach you by some other means, and give you greater alarm; I determined, therefore, to tell you the truth, the whole truth, &c., with my own paw: being able, at the same time, to write you that, cough excepted, which returns with cold weather, I passed last summer more free from complaint than I have passed any for many preceding years. And now it is time to say something of your other kindred, whose names you languish, you say, to see.
“I have forgotten to mention that, during my invalidity at Bath, I had an unexpected visit from your ci-devant Streatham friend, of whom I had lost sight for more than ten years. When her name was sent in, I was much surprised, but desired she might be asked to follow it: and I received her as an old friend with whom I had spent much time very happily, and never wished to quarrel. She still looks well, but is grave, and seems to be turned into candour itself: though she still says good things, and writes admirable notes, and, I am told, letters. We shook hands very cordially; and avoided any allusion to our long separation and its cause. Her caro sposo still lives; but is such an object, from the gout, that the account of his sufferings made me pity him sincerely. He wished, she told me, to see his old friend; and, un beau matin, I could not refuse compliance with this wish. I found him in great pain, but very glad to see me. The old rancour, or ill-will, excited by our desire to impede the marriage, is totally worn away. Indeed, it never could have existed, but from her imprudence in betraying to him that proof of our friendship for her, which ought never to have been regarded as spleen against him, who, certainly, nobody could blame for accepting a gay rich widow.—What could a man do better?[83]”
It is well worthy of notice, and greatly in favour of the Bath waters for paralytic affections, that Dr. Burney never had a return of his alarming seizure of the hand; and never to the end of his life, which was yet prolonged several years, had any other paralytic attack.
It was during this residence at Bath that Dr. Burney made his last will; in which, after settling his various legacies, he left his two eldest daughters, Esther and Frances, his residuary legatees; and nominated his sons, Captain James Burney and Dr. Charles Burney, his executors.
It was here, also, after a cessation of twenty-four years, that the Doctor recurred to his long dormant scheme of writing his own Memoirs.
If, at the date of its design and commencement, in 1782, his plan had been put into execution, according to the nobly independent ideas, and widely liberal intention of its projection, few are the individual narratives of a private life in the last century, that could have exhibited a more expansive, informing, general, or philosophical view of society than those of Dr. Burney.
But, in 1807, though the uncommon powers of his fine mind were still unimpaired for conversation or enjoyment, his frame had received a blow, and his spirits a suspensive shock, that caused a marked diminution of his resources for composition.
His imagination, hitherto the most vivid, even amidst sorrow, calamity, nay care, nay sickness, nay age, was now no longer, as heretofore, rambling abroad and at will for support and renovation. A fixed object, as he expressed himself in various letters of that date, had seized, occupied, absorbed it. The alarm excited by a paralytic attack is far more baneful than its suffering; for every rising dawn, and every darkening eve look tremblingly for its successor; and the sword of Damocles, as he mournfully declared, seemed eternally waving over his head.
The spirit, therefore, of composition was now, though not lost, enervated; and the whole force of his faculties was cast exclusively upon his memory, in the research of past incidents that might soothe his affections, or recreate his fancy; but bereft of those exhilarating ideas, which, previously to this alarm, had given attraction to whatever had fallen from his pen.
Hence arose, in that vast compilation for which, from this time, he began collecting materials and reminiscences, a nerveless laxity of expression, a monotonous prolixity of detail, that, upon the maturest examination, decided this Memorialist to abridge, to simplify, or to destroy so immense a mass of morbid leisure, and minute personality, with the fullest conviction, as has been stated, that it never would have seen the public light, had it been revised by its composer in his healthier days of chastening criticism; so little does it resemble the flowing harmony, yet unaffected energy of his every production up to that diseased period.
Nor even can it be compared with any remaining penmanship, though of a much later date, written after his recovery; as appears by sundry letters, occasional essays, and biographical fragments, sketched from the time of that restoration to the very end of his existence.
And hence, consequently, or rather unavoidably, have arisen in their present state those abridged, or recollected, not copied Memoirs; which, though on one hand largely curtailed from their massy original, are occasionally lengthened on the other, from confidential communications; joined to a whole life’s recollections of the history, opinions, disposition, and character of Dr. Burney.
A dire interval again, from political restrictions and prudential difficulties, took place between all communication, all correspondence of Dr. Burney with Paris. But in June, 1810, it was happily broken up, through the active kind offices of a liberal friend,[84] who found means by some returning prisoner, to get a letter conveyed to Chelsea College; and to procure thence the following indescribably welcomed answer:
“June, 1810.
“My Dear Fanny.
“I never was so surprised and delighted at the sight of your well-known autograph, as on the envelop of your last letter; but when I saw, after the melancholy account of your past sufferings, and of the more slight indisposition of your caro sposo, with what openness you spoke of your affairs; and, above all, that your dear Alexander was still with you, and had escaped the terrific code de conscription, it occasioned me an exultation which I cannot describe. And that you should be begging so hard of me for a line, a word, in my own handwriting, at the time that I was, in prudence, imploring all your living old correspondents and my friends, not to venture a letter to you, even by a private hand, lest it should accidentally miscarry, and, being observed, and misconstrued, as coming from this country, should injure M. d’Arblay in the eyes of zealous Frenchmen!—But the detail you have given me of the worthy and accomplished persons who honour you with their friendship; and of the lofty apartments you have procured, Rue d’Anjou, for the sake of more air, more room, more cleanliness, and more bookeries, diverts me much. With regard to my own health, I shall say nothing of past sufferings of various kinds since my last ample family letter; except that ‘Here I am,’ in spite of the old gentleman and his scythe. And the few people I am able to see, ere the warm weather, tell me I look better, speak better, and walk better than I did ‘ever so long ago.’ God knows how handsome I shall be by-and-by! [Pg 386] —but you will allow it behoves the fair ladies who make me a visit now and then, to take care of themselves!—That’s all.
“People wonder, secluded as I am for ever from the world and its joys, how I can cut a joke and be silly: but when I have no serious sufferings, a book, or a pen, makes me forget all the world, and even myself; the best of all oblivions.”
Then follow sundry confidential family details.
“Having now pretty well enumerated your friends, pray, when you have a safe opportunity, tell me how many are living amongst those who were formerly mine, in Paris? particularly the Abbé Roussier; M. l’Abbé Fayton; and Messrs. Framery, La Borde, Hulmandel, and Ginguené.
“I am delighted you are yourself acquainted with the truly scientific and profound M. Suard, to whom I had letters recommendatory from our common friend, Garrick; and from whom I received many instances of friendly zeal in my musical inquiries; and of hospitality at his own home, where the honours were done with remarkable grace by his beautiful and engaging wife. It was there that I became acquainted with the celebrated Grecian, the Abbé Arnaud, and with M. Diderot.
“I knew there, also, M. l’Abbé Morellet; and always thought that no writer on good taste and feeling in the execution of good music, could express his sentiments with more discrimination delicacy, and precision, than M. l’Abbé Morellet, to whom I beg you to present my compliments, as to a very old and intimate acquaintance, during his residence in England, at the Earl of Shelburne’s.[85] I am delighted to hear he has so admirable, and peculiarly fitted-up a library; and that [Pg 387] he has invited you, with so much courtesy, at your common friend’s, the incomparable Madame de Tessé’s, to let him do its honours to you at your own time, and in your own way; and that he keeps up so much spirit and politeness, though—nearly—as old as your aged Father. I was really moved by his so readily and obligingly repeating to you, at the request of Madame de Tessé, the ballad he composed upon attaining his eightieth year. But ’twas a true touch of French malice—that story of his martial equipment, when elected a member of the Institute; and when, with a collar encircled with wreaths of laurel, he girded on his sword, for the first time in his life, at seventy-nine, and, to the great, though, probably, merry shock of his companion-men of letters, suffered it to get between his legs, and trip up his heels! M. de Narbonne was just the man for such a tale, which he made, I doubt not, roguishly comic.”
“I think it is high time now to pull up and give you my benediction; joining sincerely in your prayer for peace; and begging you to assure M. d’Arblay and Alex. of my cordial affection. For yourself, my dear Fanny, be assured that your letter has given me a fillip that has endeared existence; concerning which, during pain and long nights, I have been often worse than indifferent.
C. B.”
How merely an amanuensis had been the Editor of these Memoirs, had all the personal manuscripts of Dr. Burney been written at this healthy, though so much later period of his existence; instead of having fallen under his melancholy pen, to while away nerveless languor when paralysis, through the vision of his imagination, appeared to be unremittingly suspended over his head! the last given pages of his letters to Paris, though composed from his 80th to his 85th year, are all run off in the flowing and lively style of his early penmanship.
But disastrous indeed to Dr. Burney was an after event, of the year 1810, that is now to be recorded; grievously, essentially, permanently disastrous. Misfortune, with all her fevering arrows of hoarded ills, retained no longer the materials that could so deeply empoison another dart, for striking at the root of what life could yet accord him of elegant enjoyment. Lady Crewe alone remained, apart from his family, whose personal loss could more afflictingly have wounded him, than that which he now experienced by the death of the Duke of Portland.
Fatal to all future zest for worldly exertion in Dr. Burney, proved this blow; from which, though he survived it some years, he never mentally recovered; so deeply had he felt and reciprocated the extraordinary partiality conceived for him by his Grace.
It was the Duke alone who, for a long time previously, had been able to prevail with him to come forth from his already begun seclusion, to be domiciliated at Bulstrode Park; where he could animate with society, recreate in rural scenery, or meditate in solitude without difficulty or preparation; that superb country villa being as essentially, and at will, his own, as his apartments at Chelsea College.
A loss such as this, was in all ways irreparable.
The last sentence which he wrote upon the Duke, in his Journal, is mournfully impressive:
“My loss by the decease of my most affectionate and liberal friend and patron, the Duke of Portland, and my grief for his dreadful sufferings, will lower my spirits to the last hour of sensibility! The loss to my heart is indescribable!”
Yet, in the midst of this total and voluntary retreat from public life, a new honour, as little expected by Dr. Burney as, from concomitant circumstances, it was little wished, sought, in 1810, to encircle his brow.
M. le Breton, Secretaire perpetuel de la Classe des Beaux Arts de l’Institut National de France, had, some years previously, put up the name of Dr. Burney as a candidate to be elected an honorary foreign member of the Institute: but the interrupted intercourse between the two countries caused a considerable time to elapse, before it was known whether this compliment was accepted or declined.
Not without much disturbance, from such a doubt, passed that interval in the breast of the Doctor’s absent daughter. She was deeply sensible to a mark so flattering of the literary fame of her father, which she could not but consider as peculiarly generous, the long and public hostility of the Doctor against French music, being as notorious as his passion for Italian and German.
But, on the other hand, knowing the excess of horror conceived against the French, Nationally, though not Individually, by Dr. Burney from the epoch of the Revolution, she was full of apprehension lest he should reject the offering; and reject it with a contempt that might involve her husband and herself in the displeasure which such a species of requital to offered homage might excite.
So keen, indeed, was this alarm upon her mind, that when M. le Breton called upon her to announce, with good-humoured exultation, tidings that he naturally imagined must give her the proudest satisfaction, she involuntarily shrunk from the communication; and, though she ventured not positively to decline, she procrastinated being the organ for conveying the purposed favour to England. M. le Breton was too observant not to perceive her embarrassment, though too well-bred to augment it by any remark.
He soon, however, for he had means and power, found a more willing coadjutrix[86] to forward his proposal to Dr. Burney; who, after a short pause, accepted this new tribute to his renown with due civility.
The parental motives by which this acquiescent conduct was influenced, his daughter could not doubt; but she had the comfort to know how much his repugnance to his new dignity must be lessened, in considering his respected and intimate friend, Sir Joseph Bankes, as his colleague in this new association.
These preliminary measures, with all that belonged to the honour of the offer, passed in the year 1806; but it was not till the year 1810 that Dr. Burney received the official notification of his election; which he has thus briefly marked in his last volume of Journal:—
“Nov. 23, 1810.
“Received from the National Institute at Paris, with a letter from Madame Greenwood Solvyns, my diploma, or patent, as a Member of the Institute, Classe des Beaux Arts.”
And three weeks afterwards:—
“Jan. 14, 1811.
“I received a packet from M. Le Breton, &c., addressed,
“A Monsieur le Docteur Burney,
“Correspondant de l’Institut de France.
“This packet found its way to my apartment at Chelsea College, by means of Mr. West, President of the Royal Academy. Its contents were—
“Notices historiques sur la vie et les ouvrages de M. Pajon. Par M. Joachim le Breton. Du. 6 Otto. 1810.
“Notices historiques sur la vie, et les ouvrages, de Jos. Haydn. Par le même.
This memoir sur la vie de Haydn, sent by M. le Breton, drew from the Doctor, nearly at the close of his own annals, the following paragraph upon that great musician, who, for equal excellence in science and invention, he held to be at the head of all his compeers:
“Haydn, 1810.
“It has been well observed, by Haydn’s excellent biographer, at Paris, M. le Breton, that the public everywhere, by whom his works were so enthusiastically admired, took more care of his fame than of his fortune. He, however, himself, always modest, upright, and prudent, supposed it possible that he might survive his talents; and wished, by rigid economy and self-denial, to accumulate a sufficiently independent income for old age and infirmities, when he might no longer be able to entertain the public with new productions. This humble and most rational wish he was unable, in his own country, from the smallness of remuneration, to accomplish.
“I began an intimate intercourse with him immediately on his arrival in England; and was as much pleased with his mild, unassuming, yet cheerful conversation and countenance, as with his stupendous musical merit. And I procured him more subscribers to that sublime effort of genius—the Creation, than all his other friends, whether at home or abroad, put together.”
Of the year 1811, no species of event, nor detail of circumstance, has reached this Memorialist, except the following letter, which is copied from Doctor Burney’s own handwriting near the conclusion of his Journal:
“To Mr. Kollman, who had left a parcel for me.
“March 24, 1811.
“Dear Sir,
“I was sorry when you did me the favour to call, that I had not left my bedroom, where I had been confined, and unable to see my friends ever [Pg 394] since the beginning of the present year; and I was then in daily fear of the baleful ides of March: but on opening the valuable parcel which you had been so good as to leave with my servant, I have found the contents to be such as to furnish my eyes and my mind with agreeable employment ever since. I have often admired your musical science and ingenuity; but I think your fugues and double counterpoint in four parts, for two performers on one piano-forte, considerably surpass in clearness, contrivance, and pleasing melody, any of your former elaborate and learned productions that I have seen. And if it is so considered, and we count how many folio pages there are of letter-press in your introductory explanations, the works which you left for me would be a cheap purchase at £1. 1s., which I have the pleasure to send, with thanks for my entertainment.
“Your different harmonics to the original melody of the 100th psalm is a work of great study and knowledge.
“I am very seldom, now, in health and spirits to read or comment on works of complication in music, or of speculation in literature, as age, infirmities, and sickness, have made the use of a pen a very heavy task, and rendered me only fit to peruse old authors, that were in high estimation when I was young; but, being now forgotten, are become new to me again; or at least interesting by their antiquity to one who has wholly quitted the modern world.
“The above was written last night to Mr. Kollman. The following is a memorandum of what I have long thought concerning Parochial Psalmody. After justly estimating the varied harmonies which the ingenious organist of his Majesty’s German chapel has found for the original melody of the 100th psalm, I add the following record of an idea of my own long since conceived.
“If the simple tune which is sung in our parish churches throughout [Pg 395] the kingdom, in notes of the same length, without the least discrimination of lōng and shŏrt syllables, (bad in prose, but worse in metre,) was sung in the same measure of 3/2 as the 100th psalm, which is in favour everywhere, the objection would be removed against calvinistical psalmody, which is drawled out, and bawled out, as long and as loud as possible. Indeed, all our old psalm tunes, in simple counterpoint of note against note, received and established at the time of the Reformation, might be correctly accented, without losing the idea of the old melodies when sung in 2, 3, 4, or more parts.”
On the opening of April, 1812, ten years of hard-borne absence were completed between Dr. Burney and his second daughter; after a parting which, in idea, and by agreement, had foreseen but a twelvemonth’s separation. Grievously dejecting in that long epoch, had been, at times, the breach of intercourse: not alone they never met; that, in a season of war, however afflicting, was but the ordinary result of hostile policy; not alone the foreign post-office was closed, and all regular and authentic communication was annihilated; that, again, was but the common lot of belligerent nations while under arms, and was sustained, therefore, with that fortitude which all, save fools and madmen, must, sooner or later, perforce acquire, the fortitude of necessity.
But these prohibitions, however severe upon every national or kindred feeling that binds the affections and the interests of man to man, were inefficient to baffle the portentous vengeance of Napoleon, who suddenly, in one of his explosions of rage against Great Britain, issued a decree that not a letter, a note, an address, or any written document whatsoever, should pass from France to England, or arrive from England to France, under pain of death.
It was then that this dire position became nearly insupportable; for, by this fierce stroke of fiery despotism, all mitigation of private anodyne to public calamity was hopelessly destroyed; all the softening palliatives of billets, or memorandums, trusted to incidental opportunities, which hitherto had glided through these formidable obstacles, and found their way to the continental captive with a solace utterly indescribable, were now denied: the obscure anxiety of total ignorance of the proceedings, nay, even of the life or death, of those ties by which life and death hold their first charm, was without alloy; and hope had not a resting place!
The paroxysm of hatred or revenge which urged Napoleon to this harsh rigidity, passed, indeed, after a while, it may be presumed, away, like most other of his unbridled manifestations of unbounded authority; since its effect, after a certain time, seemed over; and things appeared to go on as they had done before that tremendous decree. But that decree was never annulled! what, then, was the security that its penalty might not be exacted from the first object, who, in disobeying it, should incur his suspicion or ill-will? or of whom, for whatever cause, he might wish to get rid?
Dr. Burney, on this subject, entertained apprehensions so affrighting, that he entirely abstained from writing himself to France; and charged all his family and friends to practise the same forbearance. The example was followed, if not set, by his nearly exiled daughter; and, at one sad time, no intelligence whatever traversed the forbidden route; and two whole, dread, endless years lingered on, in the darkest mystery, whether or not she had still the blessing of a remaining parent.
This was a doubt too cruel to support, where to endure it was not inevitable; though hard was the condition by which alone it could be obviated; namely, submission to another bosom laceration! But all seemed preferable to relinquishing one final effort for obtaining at least one final benediction.
Her noble-minded partner, who participated in all her filial aspirations, but to whom quitting France was utterly impossible, consented to her spending a few months in her native land: and when the rumour of a war with Russia gave hope of the absence of Napoleon from Paris, worked assiduously himself at procuring her a passport; for, while the Emperor inhabited the capital, the police discipline was so impenetrable, that a madman alone could have planned eluding its vigilance.
When, however, it was ascertained that the Czar of all the Russias disclaimed making any concessions; that Napoleon had left Dresden to take the field; and that his yet unconquerable and matchless army, in actual sight of the enemy, was bordering the frontiers of all European Russia; whence two letters, written at that breathless crisis, reached M. d’Arblay himself, from an Aide-de-camp,[87] and from the first surgeon[88] of Napoleon; the singular moment was energetically seized by the most generous of husbands and fathers; his applications, from fresh courage, became more vigorous; the impediments, from an involuntary relaxation of municipal rigidity, grew more feeble; and, liberally seconded by the most zealous, disinterested, and feeling of friends,[89] he finally obtained a passport not only for his wife, but, though through difficulties that had seemed insurmountable, for his son; for whom, during the imperial presence in the French metropolis, even to have solicited one, notwithstanding he was yet much too young to be amenable to the conscription, would have produced incarceration.
A reluctant, however eagerly sought parting then abruptly took place in the faubourg, or suburbs of Paris; and, after various other, but minor difficulties, and a detention of six weeks at Dunkirk, the mother and the son reached the long-lost land of their desires.
It was at Deal they were disembarked, where their American vessel, the Marianne, was immediately captured; though they, as English, were of course set at liberty; and, to their first ecstacy in touching British ground, they had the added delight of being almost instantly recognized by the lady[90] of the commander of the port; and the honour of taking their first British repast at the hospitable table of the commander himself.[91]
After a separation so bordering upon banishment, from a parent so loved and so aged, some preparation seemed requisite, previous to a meeting, to avoid risking a surprise that might mar all its happiness. At Deal, therefore, and under this delectable protection, they remained three or four days, to give time for the passage of letters to Dr. Burney; first, to let him know their hopes of revisiting England, of which they had had no power to give him any intimation; and next, to announce their approach to his honoured presence.
Fully, therefore, they were expected, when, on the evening of the 20th of August, 1812, they alighted at the apartment of Dr. Burney, at Chelsea College, which they had quitted in the beginning of April, 1802.
The joy of this Memorialist at the arrival of this long sighed-for moment, was almost disorder; she knew none of the servants, though they were the same that she had left; she could not recollect whether the apartment to which she was hurrying was on the ground door or the attic, the Doctor having inhabited both; her head was confused; her feelings were intense; her heart almost swelled from her bosom.
And so well was her kind parent aware of the throbbing sensations with which an instant yearned for so eagerly, and despaired of so frequently, would fill her whole being—would take possession of all its faculties, that he almost feared the excess of her emotion; and, while repeatedly, in the course of the day, he exclaimed, in the hearing of his housekeeper: “Shall I live to see her honest face again?”[92] he had the precaution, kindly, almost comically, to give orders to his immediate attendants, Rebecca and George, to move all the chairs and tables close to the wall; and to see that nothing whatsoever should remain between the door and his sofa, which stood at the farther end of a large room, that could interfere with her rapid approach.
And, indeed, the ecstatic delight with which she sprang to his arms, was utterly indescribable. It was a rush that nothing could have checked; a joy quite speechless—an emotion almost overwhelming!
But, alas! the joy quickly abated, though the emotion long remained!—remained when bereft of its gay transport, to be worked upon only by grief.
The total dearth of familiar intercourse between Paris and London had kept all detailed family accounts so completely out of view, that she returned to her parental home without the smallest suspicion of the melancholy change she was to witness; and though she did not, and could not expect, that ten years should have passed by unmarked in his physiognomy—still there is nothing we so little paint to ourselves at a distance, as the phenomenon of the living metamorphoses that we are destined to exhibit, one to another, upon re-unions after long absences. When, therefore, she became calm enough to look at the honoured figure before which she stood, what a revulsion was produced in her mind!
She had left him, cheerful and cheering; communicating knowledge, imparting ideas; the delight of every house that he entered.
She had left him, with his elegantly formed person still unbroken by his years; his face still susceptible of manifesting the varying associations of his vivid character; his motions alert; his voice clear and pleasing; his spirits, when called forth by social enjoyment, gay, animating, and inspiring animation.
She found him—alas! how altered! in looks, strength, complexion, voice, and spirits!
But that which was most affecting was the change in his carriage and person: his revered head was not merely by age and weakness bowed down; it was completely bent, and hung helplessly upon his breast; his voice, though still distinct, sunk almost to a whisper: his feeble frame reclined upon a sofa; his air and look forlorn; and his whole appearance manifesting a species of self-desertion.
His eyes, indeed, still kept a considerable portion of their native spirit; they were large, and, from his thinness, looked more prominent than ever; and they exhibited a strong, nay, eloquent power of expression, which still could graduate from pathos to gaiety; and from investigating intelligence to playful archness; with energies truly wonderful, because beyond, rather than within, their original force; though every other feature marked the wither of decay! but, at this moment, from conscious alteration, their disturbed look depicted only dejection or inquiry; dejection, that mournfully said: “How am I changed since we parted!” or inquiry, anxiously demanding: “Do you not perceive it?”
This melancholy, though mute interrogatory with which his “asking eye explored her secret thoughts,” quickly impelled her to stifle her dismay under an apparent disorder of general perturbation: and, when his apprehension of the shock which he might cause, and the shock which the sight of its impression might bring back to him, was abated, a gentle smile began to find its way through the earnestness of his brow, and to restore to him his serene air of native benignity: while, on her part, the more severely she perceived his change, the more grateful she felt to the Providence that had propitiated her return, ere that change,—still changed on!—should have become, to her, invisible.
In consequence of her letters from Deal, he had prepared for her and his Grandson, whose sight he most kindly hailed, apartments near his own: and he had charged all his family to abstain from breaking in upon this their first interview.
The turbulence of this trying scene once past, the rest of the evening glided on so smoothly, yet so rapidly, that when the closing night forced their reluctant separation, they almost felt as if they had but recognized one another in a dream.
The next morning, the next, and the next, as soon as he could be visible, they met again; and for some short and happy, though, from another absence, most anxious weeks, she delightedly devoted to him every moment he could accept.
The obscurity of the brief and ambiguous letters that rarely and irregularly had passed between them, had left subjects for discussion so innumerable, and so entangled, that they almost seemed to demand a new life for reciprocating.
Endless, indeed, were the histories they had to unfold; the projects to announce or develop; the domestic tales to hear and to relate; and the tombs of departed friends to mourn over.
Amongst these last, the most deeply-lamented by the Doctor was Mr. Twining, whose name he could not yet pronounce, nor could his daughter hear, without a sigh of lamenting regret: though to her, far more keenly still, more profoundly, more piercingly irreparable, was the privation of Mr. Locke! the matchless Mr. Locke! in mind, in manners, in heart, in understanding, matchless! matchless!
Gone, too, was Mr. Windham, that pride, as well as delight of the Doctor’s chosen friendship.
And gone was the “elegant, high-bred Boscawen,” whom he honoured and esteemed as one of the first of her sex.
Mr. Courtney he missed alike for his wit, his intelligence, and his flattering personal partiality.
Lord Cardigan, though with none of these to be named in an intellectual point of view, was yet, from frequency of intercourse, and his Lordship’s almost ardent regard for the Doctor, a substantial loss in colloquial cheerfulness without effort; such as, after having passed the meridian of life, it is not facile in its wane to replace, however commonly, while possessed, it may be under-rated; the value of easy commerce being seldom duly appreciated till we are fit for no other.
But the loss the most prejudicial to the Doctor’s commixture with the world of letters, was that which robbed him of Mr. Malone, with whom he had now for many years been upon terms of literary intimacy; the Doctor still, though no longer a principal in any work, retaining a lively pleasure in promoting, as an agent or coadjutor, the works of others; for gaily as he had enjoyed, and skilfully as he had earned his personal reputation, his exertions had always had a nobler stimulus than vanity. For its own sake he prized whatever was intellectual; and had he lived
“—in deserts, where no men abide,”
he would have explored whatever his eye could have surveyed, his understanding have developed, or his activity have pursued, even in so lone a position of nature in her most savage state, from his integral love of information.
Nevertheless, the deprivation that, in these last years, had most sorrowingly touched his feelings, was that of Lady Clarges; whose exhilarating spirits and lively eccentricities, during her youth and health, had long been delightful sources to him of entertainment and agreeability; while her musical excellencies, and her affecting resemblance to his Susanna, had established her in his mind with a yet more endearing influence. And so sensible was she to his tender partiality, that he was amongst the last, as well as the most select, who obtained almost constant admission to her apartment during her suffering and lingering premature decline.
His utter retirement from the world had made him gradually, but wholly lose sight of his favouring and favourite Mrs. Garrick, La Violetta; of Sir George and Lady Beaumont, Mr. Batt, and Mr. Rogers; though they were all exhilaratingly alive to the world which they helped to exhilarate.
Happily, however, most happily, he still preserved his first, who was now become his oldest cherished friend, Lady Crewe, who constantly kept her place at the head of all, save of born affinity, who were most consoling to his sympathies: and though she approved the timely wisdom of his retreat from full and great societies, she exerted her most zealous powers to personally enliven his voluntary seclusion.
Amongst those of yet flourishing friends who, after Lady Crewe, were of the greatest weight to him for comfort, support, and pleasure, foremost he still reckoned two noblemen of just reputation for goodness, honour, and benevolence,—the Marquis of Aylesbury and the Earl of Lonsdale, who, with their exemplary ladies, and their singularly amiable families, never thought they saw enough of Dr. Burney; and repaired every breach of verbal intercourse, by an unremitting assiduity through that of the pen.
Lady Charlotte Greville, Lady Mary Bentinck, Lady Manvers, Lady Rushont, and several others, might still, also, be named; but imprimis in this second list must be placed the sprightly Marchioness of Thomond: and the Dowager Lady Templeton, whom he particularly admired, and who honoured him with never-varying regard and esteem.
And with the animated and engaging Miss Hayman, and the erudite and accomplished Miss Knight, some few occasional letters were still exchanged.
It was as singular as it was fortunate, that, in this long space of ten years, the Doctor had lost, in England, but one part of his family, Mrs. Rebecca Burney, an ancient and very amiable sister. In India he was less happy, for there died, in the prime of life, Richard Thomas, his only son by his second marriage; who left a large and prosperous family.[93]
His eldest son, Captain James Burney, who had twice circumnavigated the globe with Captain Cooke, and who had always been marked for depth of knowledge in his profession as a naval officer, had now distinguished himself also as a writer upon naval subjects; and, after various slighter works, had recently completed an elaborate, scientific, yet entertaining and well written, General History of Voyages to the South Sea, in five volumes quarto.
His second son, Dr. Charles, had sustained more than unimpaired the high character in Greek erudition which he had acquired early in life, and in which he was generally held, after Porson and Parr, to be the third scholar in the kingdom. The fourth, who now, therefore, is probably the first, was esteemed by Dr. Charles to be Dr. Blomfield, the present Bishop of London. Dr. Charles still toiled on in the same walk with unwearied perseverance; and was, at that time, engaged in collating a newly found manuscript Greek Testament; by the express request of the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Manners Sutton.
His daughters, Esther and Charlotte, were well and lively; and each was surrounded by a sprightly and amiable progeny.
His youngest daughter, by his second marriage, Sarah Harriet, had produced, and was still producing, some works in the novel path of literature, that the Doctor had the satisfaction of hearing praised, and of knowing to be well received and favoured in the best society.
And the whole of his generation in all its branches, children, grand-children, and great-grand-children, all studied, with proud affection, to cherish the much-loved trunk whence they sprang; and to which they, and all their successors, must ever look up as to the honoured chief of their race.
His general health was still tolerably good, save from occasional or local sufferings; of which, however, he never spoke; bearing them with such silent fortitude, that even the Memorialist only knew of them through a correspondence which fell to her examination, that he had held with a medical friend, Mr. Rumsey.
The height of his apartments, which were but just beneath the attic of the tall and noble Chelsea College, had been an evil when he grew into years, from the fatigue of mounting and descending; but from the time of his dejected resolve to go forth no more, that height became a blessing, from the greater purity of the air that he inhaled, and the wider prospect that, from some of his windows, he surveyed.
To his bed-chamber, however, which he chiefly inhabited, this good did not extend: its principal window faced the burying-ground in which the remains of the second Mrs. Burney were interred; and that melancholy sight was the first that every morning met his eyes. And, however his strength of mind might ward off its depressing effect, while still he went abroad, and mingled with the world; from the time that it became his sole prospect, that no change of scene created a change of ideas, must inevitably, however silently, have given a gloom to his mind, from that of his position.
Not dense, perhaps, was that gloom to those who seldom lost sight of him; but doubly, trebly was it afflicting to her who, without any graduating interval, abruptly beheld it, in place of a sunshine that had, erst, been the most radiant.
From the fatal period of the loss of the Duke of Portland, and of the delicious retreat of the appropriated villa-residence of Bulstrode Park, the Doctor had become inflexible to every invitation for quitting his own dwelling. The surprise of the shock he had then sustained from his disappointment in out-living a friend and patron so dear to him, and so much younger than himself, had cast him into so forlorn a turn of meditation, that even with the most intimate of his former associates, all spontaneous intercourse was nearly cut off; he never, indeed, refused their solicitations for admission, but rare was the unbidden approach that was hailed with cheering smiles! Solitary reading, and lonely contemplation, were all that, by custom, absorbed the current day: except in moments of renovated animation from the presence of some one of influence over his feelings; or upon the arrival of national good tidings; or upon the starting of any political theme that was flatteringly soothing to his own political principles and creed.
In books, however, he had still the great happiness of retaining a strong portion of his original pleasure: and the table that was placed before his sofa, was commonly covered with chosen authors from his excellent library: though latterly, when deep attention fatigued his nerves, he interspersed his classical collection by works lighter of entertainment, and quicker of comprehension, from the circulating libraries.
With regard to his writings, he had now, for many years, ceased furnishing any articles for the Monthly Review, having broken up his critic-intercourse with Mr. Griffith, that he might devote himself exclusively to the Cyclopedia.
But for the Cyclopedia, also, about the year 1805, he had closed his labours: labours which must ever remain memorials of the clearness, fulness, and spirit of his faculties up to the seventy-eighth year of his age: for more profound knowledge of his subject, or a more natural flow of pleasing language, or more lively elucidations of his theme, appear not in any of even his most favoured productions.
The list, numbered alphabetically, that he drew up of his plan for this work, might almost have staggered the courage of a man of twenty-five years of age for its completion; but fifty years older than that was Dr. Burney when it was formed! There is not a book upon music, which it was possible he could consult, that he has not ransacked; nor a subject, that could afford information for the work, that he has not fathomed. And so excellent are his articles, both in manner and matter, that, to equal him upon the subjects he has selected, another writer must await a future period; when new musical genius, composition, and combinations in the powers of harmony, and the varieties of melody, by creating new tastes, may kindle sensations that may call for a new Historian.
Less pleasing, or rather, extremely painful, is what remains to relate of the last efforts of his genius, and last, and perhaps most cherished of his literary exercises, namely, his Poem on Astronomy; which the Memorialist had now the chagrin, almost the consternation, to learn had been renounced, nay, committed to the flames!
To this work, as, upon her return, he reminded her, with a look implying, though unwillingly, nay, even tenderly, something like reproach, he had been urged by her solicitations.
This, however, he could not but forgive, and freely forgive, knowing that her motive was to draw him from the melancholy inertness that threatened his future existence, upon the loss, and at so late a period of life, of a companion of thirty years.
The subject, also, was his own, and was one in which he had long and early delighted; which offered, therefore, the fairest promise of enabling him