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Title: Memoirs of Doctor Burney (Vol. 3 of 3)

Author: Fanny Burney

Release date: May 7, 2020 [eBook #62046]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by MWS, Brian Wilsden and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF DOCTOR BURNEY (VOL. 3 OF 3) ***




Produced by MWS, Brian Wilsden and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)






  Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




  MEMOIRS

  OF

  DOCTOR BURNEY.




  MEMOIRS

  OF

  DOCTOR BURNEY,

  ARRANGED

  FROM HIS OWN MANUSCRIPTS, FROM FAMILY PAPERS, AND
  FROM PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS,


  BY

  HIS DAUGHTER, MADAME D’ARBLAY.


  “O could my feeble powers thy virtues trace,
  By filial love each fear should be suppress’d;
  The blush of incapacity I’d chace,
  And stand—Recorder of Thy worth!—confess’d.”

  _Anonymous Dedication of Evelina, to Dr. Burney, in 1778._


  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. III.


  LONDON:
  EDWARD MOXON, 64, NEW BOND STREET.
  1832.




  LONDON:
  BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS,
  BOUVERIE STREET.




MEMOIRS

OF

DOCTOR BURNEY.




1784.


DR. JOHNSON.

Towards the end of this year, Dr. Johnson began again to nearly
monopolize the anxious friendship of Dr. Burney.

On the 16th of November, Dr. Johnson, in the carriage, and under
the revering care of Mr. Windham, returned from Litchfield to the
metropolis; after a fruitless attempt to recover his health by
breathing again his natal air.

The very next day, he wrote the following note to St. Martin’s-street.

  “TO DR. BURNEY.

  “Mr. Johnson, who came home last night, sends his
  respects to dear Dr. Burney; and to all the dear Burneys,
  little and great.

  “_Bolt Court, 17th Nov. 1784._”

Dr. Burney hastened to this kind call immediately; but had the grief
to find his honoured friend much weakened, and in great pain; though
cheerful, and struggling to revive. All of the Doctor’s family who had
had the honour of admission, hastened to him also; but chiefly his
second daughter, who chiefly and peculiarly was always demanded.

She was received with his wonted, his never-failing partiality; and, as
well as the Doctor, repeated her visits by every opportunity during the
ensuing short three weeks of his earthly existence.

She will here copy, from the diary she sent to Boulogne, an account of
what, eventually, though unsuspectedly, proved to be her last interview
with this venerated friend.


TO MRS. PHILLIPS.

_25th Nov. 1784._—Our dear father lent me the carriage this morning
for Bolt Court. You will easily conceive how gladly I seized the
opportunity for making a longer visit than usual to my revered Dr.
Johnson, whose health, since his return from Litchfield, has been
deplorably deteriorated.

He was alone, and I had a more satisfactory and entertaining
conversation with him than I have had for many months past. He was
in better spirits, too, than I have seen him, except upon our first
meeting, since he came back to Bolt Court.

He owned, nevertheless, that his nights were grievously restless and
painful; and told me that he was going, by medical advice, to try what
sleeping out of town might do for him. And then, with a smile, but a
smile of more sadness than mirth!—he added: “I remember that my wife,
when she was near her end, poor woman!—was also advised to sleep out
of town: and when she was carried to the lodging that had been prepared
for her, she complained that the staircase was in very bad condition;
for the plaister was beaten off the walls in many places. ‘O!’ said the
man of the house, ‘that’s nothing; it’s only the knocks against it of
the coffins of the poor souls that have died in the lodging.’”

He forced a faint laugh at the man’s brutal honesty; but it was a laugh
of ill-disguised, though checked, secret anguish.

I felt inexpressibly shocked, both by the perspective and retrospective
view of this relation: but, desirous to confine my words to the literal
story, I only exclaimed against the man’s unfeeling _absurdity_ in
making so unnecessary a confession.

“True!” he cried; “such a confession, to a person then mounting his
stairs for the recovery of her health—or, rather, for the preservation
of her life, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our
account to.”

We talked then of poor Mrs. Thrale—but only for a moment—for I saw
him so greatly moved, and with such severity of displeasure, that I
hastened to start another subject; and he solemnly enjoined me to
mention that no more!

I gave him concisely the history of the Bristol milk-woman, who is at
present zealously patronized by the benevolent Hannah More. I expressed
my surprise at the reports generally in circulation, that the first
authors that the milk-woman read, if not the only ones, were Milton
and Young. “I find it difficult,” I added, “to conceive how Milton
and Young could be the first authors with any reader. Could a child
understand them? And grown persons, who have never read, are, in
literature, children still.”

“Doubtless,” he answered. “But there is nothing so little comprehended
as what is Genius. They give it to all, when it can be but a part.
The milk-woman had surely begun with some ballad—Chevy Chace or the
Children in the Wood. Genius is, in fact, _knowing the use of tools_.
But there must be tools, or how use them? A man who has spent all his
life in this room, will give a very poor account of what is contained
in the next.”

“Certainly, sir; and yet there is such a thing as invention?
Shakespeare could never have seen a Caliban?”

“No; but he had seen a man, and knew how to vary him to a monster. A
person, who would draw a monstrous cow, must know first what a cow
is commonly; or how can he tell that to give her an ass’s head, or
an elephant’s tusk, will make her monstrous? Suppose you show me a
man, who is a very expert carpenter, and that an admiring stander-by,
looking at some of his works, exclaims: ‘O! He was born a carpenter!’
What would have become of that birth-right, if he had never seen any
wood?”

Presently, dwelling on this idea, he went on. “Let two men, one with
genius, the other with none, look together at an overturned waggon; he
who has no genius will think of the waggon only as he then sees it;
that is to say, overturned, and walk on: he who has genius will give
it a glance of examination, that will paint it to his imagination such
as it was previously to its being overturned; and when it was standing
still; and when it was in motion; and when it was heavy loaded; and
when it was empty: but both alike must see the waggon to think of it at
all.”

The pleasure with which I listened to his illustration now animated
him on; and he talked upon this milk-woman, and upon a once as
famous shoe-maker; and then mounted his spirits and his subject to
our immortal Shakespeare; flowing and glowing on, with as much wit
and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him
display; but, alack-a-day, my Susan, I have no power to give you the
participation so justly your due. My paper is filling; and I have
no franks for doubling letters across the channel! But delightfully
bright are his faculties, though the poor, infirm, shaken machine that
contains them seems alarmingly giving way! And soon, exhilarated as he
became by the pleasure of bestowing pleasure, I saw a palpable increase
of suffering in the midst of his sallies; I offered, therefore, to
go into the next room, there to wait for the carriage; an offer
which, for the first time! he did not oppose; but taking, and most
affectionately pressing, both my hands, “Be not,” he said, in a voice
of even melting kindness and concern, “be not longer in coming again
for my letting you go now!”

I eagerly assured him I would come the sooner, and was running off;
but he called me back, and in a solemn voice, and a manner the most
energetic, said: “Remember me in your prayers!”

How affecting, my dearest Susanna, such an injunction from Dr.
Johnson! It almost—as once before—made me tremble, from surprise and
emotion—surprise he could so honour me, and emotion that he should
think himself so ill. I longed to ask him so to remember _me_! but he
was too serious for any parleying, and I knew him too well for offering
any disqualifying speeches: I merely, in a low voice, and, I am sure,
a troubled accent, uttered an instant, and heart-felt assurance of
obedience; and then, very heavily, indeed, in spirits, I left him.
Great, good, and surpassing that he is, how short a time will he be our
boast! I see he is going. This winter will never glide him on to a more
genial season here. Elsewhere, who may hope a fairer? I now wish I had
asked for _his_ prayers! and perhaps, so encouraged, I ought: but I
had not the presence of mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Melancholy was the rest of this year to Dr. Burney; and truly mournful
to his daughter, who, from this last recorded meeting, felt redoubled
anxiety both for the health and the sight of this illustrious invalid.
But all accounts thenceforward discouraged her return to him, his
pains daily becoming greater, and his weakness more oppressive: added
to which obstacles, he was now, she was informed, almost constantly
attended by a group of male friends.

Dr. Burney, however, resorted to Bolt Court every moment that he could
tear from the imperious calls of his profession; and was instantly
admitted; unless held back by insuperable impediments belonging to the
malady. He might, indeed, from the kind regard of the sufferer, have
seen him every day, by watching, like some other assiduous friends,
particularly Messrs. Langton, Strahan, the Hooles, and Sastres, whole
hours in the house to catch a favourable minute; but that, for Dr.
Burney, was utterly impossible. His affectionate devoirs could only be
received when he arrived at some interval of ease; and then the kind
invalid constantly, and with tender pleasure gave him welcome.

The Memorialist was soon afterwards engaged on a visit to Norbury Park;
but immediately upon her return to town, presented herself, according
to her willing promise, at Bolt Court.

Frank Barber, the faithful negro, told her, with great sorrow, that
his master was very bad indeed, though he did not keep his bed. The
poor man would have shewn her up stairs. This she declined, desiring
only that he would let the Doctor know that she had called to pay her
respects to him, but would by no means disturb him, if he were not well
enough to see her without inconvenience.

Mr. Straghan, the clergyman, was with him, Frank said, alone; and Mr.
Straghan, in a few minutes, descended.

Dr. Johnson, he told her, was very ill indeed, but very much obliged to
her for coming to him; and he had sent Mr. Straghan to thank her in his
name, but to say that he was so very bad, and very weak, that he hoped
she would excuse his not seeing her.

She was greatly disappointed; but, leaving a message of the most
affectionate respect, acquiesced, and drove away; painfully certain how
extremely ill, or how sorrowfully low he must be, to decline the sight
of one whom so constantly, so partially, he had pressed, nay, adjured,
“to come to him again and again.”

Fast, however, was approaching the time when he could so adjure her no
more!

From her firm conviction of his almost boundless kindness to her,
she was fearful now to importune or distress him, and forbore, for
the moment, repeating her visits; leaving in Dr. Burney’s hands all
propositions for their renewal. But Dr. Burney himself, not arriving at
the propitious interval, unfortunately lost sight of the sufferer for
nearly a week, though he sought it almost daily.

On Friday, the 10th of December, Mr. Seward brought to Dr. Burney the
alarming intelligence from Frank Barber, that Dr. Warren had seen his
master, and told him that he might take what opium he pleased for the
alleviation of his pains.

Dr. Johnson instantly understood, and impressively thanked him, and
then gravely took a last leave of him: after which, with the utmost
kindness, as well as composure, he formally bid adieu to all his
physicians.

Dr. Burney, in much affliction, hurried to Bolt Court; but the invalid
seemed to be sleeping, and could not be spoken to till he should open
his eyes. Mr. Straghan, the clergyman, gave, however, the welcome
information, that the terror of death had now passed away; and that
this excellent man no longer looked forward with dismay to his quick
approaching end; but, on the contrary, with what he himself called the
irradiation of hope.

This was, indeed, the greatest of consolations, at so awful a crisis,
to his grieving friend; nevertheless, Dr. Burney was deeply depressed
at the heavy and irreparable loss he was so soon to sustain; but he
determined to make, at least, one more effort for a parting sight of
his so long-honoured friend. And, on Saturday, the 11th December, to
his unspeakable comfort, he arrived at Bolt Court just as the poor
invalid was able to be visible; and he was immediately admitted.

Dr. Burney found him seated on a great chair, propt up by pillows,
and perfectly tranquil. He affectionately took the Doctor’s hand,
and kindly inquired after his health, and that of his family; and
then, as evermore Dr. Johnson was wont to do, he separately and very
particularly named and dwelt upon the Doctor’s second daughter; gently
adding, “I hope Fanny did not take it amiss, that I did not see her
that morning?—I was very bad indeed!”

Dr. Burney answered, that the word _amiss_ could never be apropos to
her; and least of all now, when he was so ill.

The Doctor ventured to stay about half an hour, which was partly
spent in quiet discourse, partly in calm silence; the invalid always
perfectly placid in looks and manner.

When the Doctor was retiring, Dr. Johnson again took his hand and
encouraged him to call yet another time; and afterwards, when again he
was departing, Dr. Johnson impressively said, though in a low voice,
“Tell Fanny—to pray for me!” And then, still holding, or rather
grasping, his hand, he made a prayer for himself, the most pious,
humble, eloquent, and touching, Dr. Burney said, that mortal man could
compose and utter. He concluded it with an amen! in which Dr. Burney
fervently joined; and which was spontaneously echoed by all who were
present.

This over, he brightened up, as if with revived spirits, and opened
cheerfully into some general conversation; and when Dr. Burney, yet a
third time, was taking his reluctant leave, something of his old arch
look played upon his countenance as, smilingly he said, “Tell Fanny—I
think I shall yet throw the ball at her again!”

A kindness so lively, following an injunction so penetrating,
re-animated a hope of admission in the Memorialist; and, after church,
on the ensuing morning, Sunday, the 12th of December, with the fullest
approbation of Dr. Burney, she repaired once more to Bolt Court.

But grievously was she overset on hearing, at the door, that the Doctor
again was worse, and could receive no one.

She summoned Frank Barber, and told him she had understood, from her
father, that Dr. Johnson had meant to see her. Frank then, but in
silence, conducted her to the parlour. She begged him merely to mention
to the Doctor, that she had called with most earnest inquiries; but not
to hint at any expectation of seeing him till he should be better.

Frank went up stairs; but did not return. A full hour was consumed in
anxious waiting. She then saw Mr. Langton pass the parlour door, which
she watchfully kept open, and ascend the stairs. She had not courage to
stop or speak to him, and another hour lingered on in the same suspense.

But, at about four o’clock, Mr. Langton made his appearance in the
parlour.

She took it for granted he came accidentally, but observed that, though
he bowed, he forbore to speak; or even to look at her, and seemed in
much disturbance.

Extremely alarmed, she durst not venture at any question; but Mrs.
Davis,[1] who was there, uneasily asked, “How is Dr. Johnson now, Sir?”

“Going on to death very fast!” was the mournful reply.

The Memorialist, grievously shocked and overset by so hopeless a
sentence, after an invitation so sprightly of only the preceding
evening from the dying man himself, turned to the window to recover
from so painful a disappointment.

“Has he taken any thing, Sir?” said Mrs. Davis.

“Nothing at all! We carried him some bread and milk; he refused it, and
said, ‘The less the better!’”

Mrs. Davis then asked sundry other questions, from the answers to which
it fully appeared that his faculties were perfect, and that his mind
was quite composed.

This conversation lasted about a quarter of an hour, before the
Memorialist had any suspicion that Mr. Langton had entered the parlour
purposely to speak to her, and with a message from Dr. Johnson:

But as soon as she could summon sufficient firmness to turn round, Mr.
Langton solemnly said, “This poor man, I understand, Ma’am, from Frank,
desired yesterday to see you.”

“My understanding, or hoping that, Sir, brought me hither to-day.”

“Poor man! ’tis a pity he did not know himself better; and that you
should not have been spared this trouble.”

“Trouble?” she repeated; “I would come an hundred times to see Dr.
Johnson the hundredth and first!”

“He begged me, Ma’am, to tell you that he hopes you will excuse him. He
is very sorry, indeed, not to see you. But he desired me to come and
speak to you for him myself, and to tell you, that he hopes you will
excuse him; for he feels himself too weak for such an interview.”

Struck and touched to the very heart by so kind, though sorrowful a
message, at a moment that seemed so awful, the Memorialist hastily
expressed something like thanks to Mr. Langton, who was visibly
affected, and, leaving her most affectionate respects, with every
warmly kind wish she could half utter, she hurried back to her father’s
coach.

The very next day, Monday, the 13th of December, Dr. Johnson
expired—and without a groan. Expired, it is thought, in his sleep.

He was buried in Westminster Abbey; and a noble, almost colossal statue
of him, in the high and chaste workmanship of Bacon, has been erected
in St. Paul’s Cathedral.

The pall-bearers were Mr. Burke, Mr. Windham, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr.
Colman, Sir Charles Bunbury, and Mr. Langton.

Dr. Burney, with all who were in London of the Literary Club, attended
the funeral. The Reverend Dr. Charles Burney also joined the procession.


1785.

This year, happily for Dr. Burney, re-opened with a new professional
interest, that necessarily called him from the tributary sorrow with
which the year 1784 had closed.

The engravings for the Commemoration of Handel were now finished; and
a splendid copy of the work was prepared for the King. Lord Sandwich,
as one of the chief Directors of the late festival, obligingly offered
his services for taking the Doctor under his wing to present the book
at the levee; but his Majesty gave Dr. Burney to understand, through
Mr. Nicolai, that he would receive it, at a private audience, in his
library.

This was an honour most gratifying to Dr. Burney, who returned from
his interview at the palace, in an elevation of pleasure that he
communicated to his family, with the social confidence that made the
charm of his domestic character.

       *       *       *       *       *


ROYAL AUDIENCE.

He had found their Majesties together, without any attendants or any
state, in the library; where he presented both to the King and to the
Queen a copy of his Commemoration.

They had the appearance of being in a serene _tête à tête_, that bore
every mark of frank and cheerful intercourse. His reception was the
most gracious; and they both seemed eager to look at his offerings,
which they instantly opened and examined.

“You have made, Dr. Burney,” said his Majesty, “a much more
considerable book of this Commemoration than I had expected; or,
perhaps, than you had expected yourself?”

“Yes, Sire,” he answered; “the subject grew upon me as I proceeded, and
a continual accumulation of materials rendered it almost daily more
interesting.”

His Majesty then detailed his opinion of the various performers; and
said that one thing only had discredited the business, and that was the
inharmonious manner in which one of the bass singers had sung his part;
which had really been more like a man groaning in a fit of the cholic,
than singing an air.

The Doctor laughingly agreed that such sort of execution certainly more
resembled a convulsive noise, proceeding from some one in torture, than
any species of harmony; and that, therefore, as he could not speak of
that singer favourably in his account, he had been wholly silent on his
subject; as had been his practice in other similar instances.

The Queen seemed perfectly to understand, and much to approve, the
motive for this mild method of treating want of abilities and powers
to please, where the will was good, and where the labour had been
gratuitous.

The King expressed much admiration that the full _fortes_ of so vast a
band, in accompanying the singers, had never been too loud, even for
a single voice; when it might so naturally have been expected that the
accompaniments even of the softest pianos, in such plenitude, would
have been overpowering to all vocal solos. He had talked, he said, both
with musical people and with philosophers upon the subject; but none of
them could assign a reason, or account for so astonishing a fact.

Something, then, bringing forth the name of Shakespeare, the Doctor
mentioned a translation of his plays by Professor Eichenberg. The King,
laughing, exclaimed: “The Germans translate Shakespeare! why we don’t
understand him ourselves: how should foreigners?”

The Queen replied, that she thought Eichenberg had rendered the
soliloquies very exactly.

“Aye,” answered the King, “that is because, in those serious speeches,
there are none of those puns, quibbles, and peculiar idioms of
Shakespeare and his times, for which there are no equivalents in other
languages.”

The Doctor then begged permission to return his most humble thanks to
his Majesty, for the hints with which the work had been honoured during
its compilation. The King bowed; and their Majesties both re-opened
their books to look at the engravings; when the King, remarking to
several of them the signature of E. F. Burney,[2] said: “All your
family are geniuses, Dr. Burney. Your daughter—”

“O! your daughter,” cried the Queen, lifting up one of her hands, “is a
very extraordinary genius, indeed!”

“And is it true,” said the King, eagerly, “that you never saw Evelina
before it was printed?”

“Nor even till long after it was published;” answered the Doctor.
This excited a curiosity for the details that led, from question to
question, to almost all the history that has here been narrated;
and which seemed so much to amuse their Majesties, that they never
changed the theme during the rest of a long audience. And, probably,
the parental pleasure obviously caused by their condescension,
involuntarily augmented its exertions. Certainly it sent home the
flattered father as full of personal gratitude as of happy loyalty.


ROYAL SOCIETY OF MUSICIANS.

Speedily after this interview, Dr. Burney had the great professional
satisfaction and honour to announce officially to the Society of
Musicians, at a general meeting convened for that purpose, that
their Majesties had consented to become Patron and Patroness of the
institution; which might thenceforth be styled The Royal Society of
Musicians.

This honourable and most desirable distinction had been obtained, at
the instance of the Committee of Assistants, by the influence of Dr.
Burney with Lord Sandwich; who brought it to bear through that of the
Earl[3] of Exeter and the Duke of Montagu with the King.

The speech of Dr. Burney, as Chairman of the Committee, both before
and after the petition which he drew up to their Majesties upon this
occasion; as well as the address of thanks by which its success was
followed, was neat, appropriate, and unostentatious; but, from that
same abstemious propriety, they offer nothing new or striking for
publication.

       *       *       *       *       *


MADEMOISELLE PARADIS.

Dr. Burney bestowed, also, in the opening part of this year, a portion
of his time and his thoughts to a purpose of benevolence that may
almost be called pious.

Mademoiselle Paradis, a young German, equally distinguished by her
talents and her misfortunes, was strongly recommended to the Doctor, by
his Vienna correspondents, as an object at once of admiration and of
charity.

When only two years old, she had been suddenly deprived of sight by
a paralytic stroke, or palsy of the optic nerves. Great compassion
was excited by this calamity; and every method was essayed that
could be devised for restoring to her the visible light of heaven,
with the fair view of earth and her fellow creatures; but all was
unavailing. At seven years of age, however, she began to listen with
such ardent attention to the music that she heard in the church, that
it suggested to her parents the idea of having her taught to play on
the piano-forte; and, soon afterwards, to sing. In three or four years
time, she was able to accompany herself on the organ in the _stabat
mater_ of Pergolese; of which she sung the first soprano part in the
church of St. Augustin, at Vienna, in the presence of the Empress
Queen, Maria Theresa, with such sweetness and pathos, that her Imperial
Majesty, touched with her performance and misfortune, settled upon her
a handsome pension.

She then pursued her musical studies under the care of Kozeluch; who
composed many admirable lessons for her use. But, on the death of the
Empress Queen, the pension of Mademoiselle Paradis was withdrawn,
indiscriminately, and inconsiderately, as it was a charity, with all
other pensions that had been granted by her Imperial Majesty.

In 1784, Mademoiselle Paradis quitted Vienna, with her mother, in order
to travel; and, after visiting the principal courts and cities of
Germany, she arrived at Paris, where she received every possible mark
of approbation. She then brought letters to England from persons of the
first rank, to her Majesty, Queen Charlotte; to his Royal Highness the
Prince of Wales;[4] to the Imperial Minister, Count Kageneck; to Lord
Stormont;[5] and to other powerful patrons; as well as to the principal
musical professors in London.

Dr. Burney exerted all his influence to obtain for her some new
benefactors. He invited her to his house, where he gave a concert that
caused her to be heard and seen by those who were best able to aid as
well as judge: and to render this concert the more piquant, he asked
to it our own celebrated blind musician, the worthy Mr. Stanley; who
was extremely pleased to meet her, and took great interest in her fate.

Dr. Burney translated, or rather imitated, into English, a cantata that
had been written by her own blind countryman and friend, M. Pfeffel
of Vienna; and set to music by her master, M. Kozeluch. This cantata
contains a poetical, yet faithful history of her life and sorrows; and
could not but prove affecting to whoever heard it performed by herself.

Dr. Burney took measures for having this narratory effusion set before
our Queen Charlotte, both in its vernacular and its adopted tongue;
and her Majesty, to whom charity never supplicated in vain, humanely
cheered and revived the blind minstrel with essential tokens of royal
liberality. No efforts, however, succeeded in forming any establishment
for her in London; though there is reason to believe that the state of
her finances was considerably amended by her expedition.

The following is the simple and plaintive cantata, which, with a brief
account of her life and situation, Dr. Burney printed and dispersed, at
his own expense, in her service.


CANTATA.

_Written in German for Mademoiselle Paradis, by her blind friend M.
Pfeffel, of Colmar, and set to music by her musicmaster, M. Leopold
Kozeluch, of Vienna, 11th November, 1784._


    IMITATED BY DR. BURNEY.

      “The new born insect sporting in the sun,
        Is the true semblance of my infant state,
      When ev’ry prize for which life’s race is run
        Was hidden from me by malignant fate.

      “Instant destruction quench’d each visual ray,
        No mother’s tears, no objects were reveal’d!
      Extinguish’d was the glorious lamp of day,
        And ev’ry work of God at once conceal’d!

      “Where am I plunged? with trembling voice I cried,
        Ah! why this premature, this sudden night!
      What from my view a parent’s looks can hide,
        Those looks more cheering than celestial light!

      “Vain are affliction’s sobs, or piercing cries;
        The fatal mischief baffles all relief!
      The healing art no succour can devise,
        Nor balm extract from briny tears and grief!

      “How should I wander through the gloomy maze,
        Or hear the black monotony of woe,
      Did not maternal kindness gild my days,
        And guide my devious footsteps to and fro!

         “Upon a festival designed
          To praise the Father of mankind,
          When joining in the lofty theme,
          I tried to hymn the great Supreme,
          A rustling sound of wings I hear,
          Follow’d by accents sweet and clear,
          Such as from inspiration flow
          When Haydn’s fire and fancy glow.

      “‘I am the genius of that gentle art
        Which soothes the sorrows of mankind,
      And to my faithful votaries impart
        Extatic joys the most refin’d.

      “‘On earth, each bard sublime my power displays;
        Divine Cecilia was my own;
      In heav’n each saint and seraph breathes my lays
        In praises round th’ eternal throne.

        “‘To thee, afflicted maid,
          I come with friendly aid,
          To put despair to flight,
          And cheer thy endless night.’

      “Then, gently leading to the new-made lyre,
        He plac’d my fingers on the speaking keys;
      ‘With these (he cries) thou listening crowds shalt fire,
        And rapture teach on every heart to seize.’

      “Elastic force my nerves new brac’d,
        And from my voice new accents flow;
      My soul new pleasures learn’d to taste,
        And sound’s sweet power alleviates woe.

      “Theresa! great in goodness as in power,
        Whose fav’rite use of boundless sway,
      Was benefits on all to shower,
        And wipe the tear of wretchedness away;

      “When first my hand and voice essay’d,
        Sweet Pergolesi’s pious strains,
      Her pitying goodness she displayed,
        To cherish and reward my pains.

      “But now, alas! this friend to woe,
        This benefactress is no more!
      And though my eyes no light bestow
        They’ll long with tears her loss deplore!

      “Yet still where’er my footsteps bend,
       My helpless state has found a friend.

      “How sweet the pity of the good!
        How grateful is their praise!
      How every sorrow is subdued,
        When they applaud my lays!

      “The illustrious patrons I have found,
        Whose approbation warms my heart,
      Excite a wish that every sound
        Seraphic rapture could impart.

      “The wreathes my feeble talents share,
        The balmy solace friends employ,
      Lifting the soul above despair,
        Convert calamity to joy.”


HOUSE-BREAKING.

In this same spring, a very serious misfortune befel Dr. Burney, which,
though not of the affecting cast that had lately tainted his happiness,
severely attacked his worldly comforts.

Early one morning, and before he was risen, Mrs. Burney’s maid, rushing
vehemently into the bedroom, screamed out: “Oh, Sir! Robbers! Robbers!
the house is broke open!”

A wrapping gown and slippers brought the Doctor down stairs in a
moment; when he found that the bureau of Mrs. Burney, in the dining
parlour, had been forced open; and saw upon the table three packets
of mingled gold and silver, which seemed to have been put into three
divisions for a triple booty; but which were left, it was supposed,
upon some sudden alarm, while the robbers were in the act of
distribution.

After securing and rejoicing in what so fortunately had been saved from
seizure, Dr. Burney repaired to his study; but no abandoned pillage
met his gratulations there! his own bureau had been visited with equal
rapacity, though left with less precipitancy; and he soon discovered
that he had been purloined of upwards of £300.

He sent instantly for an officer of the Police, who unhesitatingly
pronounced that the leader, at least, of the burglary, must have been
a former domestic; this was decided, from remarking that he had gone
straight forward to the two bureaus, which were the only depositories
of money; while sundry cabinets and commodes, to the right and to the
left, had been passed unransacked.

The entrance into the house had been effected through the area; and
a kitchen window was still open, at the foot of which, upon the sand
on the floor, the print of a man’s shoe was so perfect, that the
police-officer drew its circumference with great exactitude; picking
up, at the same time, a button that had been squeezed off from a coat,
by the forced passage.

Dr. Burney had recently parted with a man-servant of whom he had much
reason to think ill, though none had occurred to make him believed
a house-breaker. This man was immediately inquired for; but he had
quitted the lodgings to which he had retired upon losing his place; and
had acquainted no one whither he was gone.

The officers of the police, however, with their usual ferretting
routine of dexterity, soon traced the suspected runaway to Hastings;
where he had arrived to embark in a fishing vessel for France; but he
had found none ready, and was waiting for a fair wind.

When the police-officer, having intimation that he was gone to an inn
for some refreshment, entered the kitchen where he was taking some
bread and cheese, he got up so softly, while the officer, not to alarm
him, had turned round to give some directions to a waiter, that he
slid unheard out of the kitchen by an opposite door: and, quickly as
the officer missed him, he was sought for in vain; not a trace of his
footsteps was to be seen; though the inward guilt manifested by such an
evasion redoubled the vigilance of pursuit.

The fugitive was soon, however, discerned, on the top of a high brick
wall, running along its edge in the midst of the most frightful danger,
with a courage that, in any better cause, would have been worthy of
admiration.

The policeman, now, composedly left him to his race and his defeat;
satisfied that no asylum awaited him at the end of the wall, and that
he must thence drop, without further resistance, into captivity.

Cruel for Dr. Burney is what remains of this narration: the runaway
was seized, and brought to the public office, where a true bill was
found for his trial, as he could give no reason for his flight; and
as the button picked up in the area exactly suited a wanting one in
a coat discovered to be in his possession. His shoe, also, precisely
fitted the drawing on the kitchen floor. But though this circumstantial
evidence was so strong as to bring to all the magistrates a
conviction of his guilt that they scrupled not to avow, it was only
circumstantial; it was not positive. He had taken nothing but cash; a
single bank note might have been brought home to him with proof; but to
coin, who could swear? The magistrates, therefore, were compelled to
discharge, though they would not utter the word acquit, the prisoner;
and the Doctor had the mortification to witness in the court the
repayment of upwards of fifty guineas to the felon, that had been found
upon him at Hastings. The rest of the three hundred pounds must have
been secured by the accomplices; or buried in some place of concealment.

But Dr. Burney, however aggrieved and injured by this affair, was
always foremost to subscribe to the liberal maxim of the law, that it
is better to acquit ten criminals, than to condemn one innocent man.
He resigned himself, therefore, submissively, however little pleased,
to the laws of his noble country, ever ready to consider, like Pope,

  “All partial evil universal good.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Would it be just, could it be right, to leave unqualified to the grief
of his friends, and to the rage of the murmurers against destiny, a
blight such as this to the industry and the welfare of Dr. Burney; and
not seek to soften the concern of the kind, and not aim at mitigating
the asperity of the declaimers, by opening a fairer point of view for
the termination of this event, if fact and fair reality can supply
colours for so revivifying a change of scenery?

Surely such a retention, if not exacted by discretion or delicacy,
would be graceless. A secret, therefore, of more than forty-seven
years’ standing, and known at this moment to no living being but this
Memorialist, ought now, in honour, in justice, and in gratitude, to be
laid open to the surviving friends of Dr. Burney.

About a month after this treacherous depredation had filled the
Doctor and his house with dismay, a lady of high rank, fortune,
and independence, well known in the family, mysteriously summoned
this Memorialist to a private room, for a _tête à tête_, in St.
Martin’s-street.

As soon as they were alone, she scrutinizingly examined that no one was
within hearing on the other side of either of the doors leading into
the apartment; and then solemnly said that she came to demand a little
secret service.

The Memorialist protested herself most ready to meet her request; but
that was insufficient: the lady insisted upon a formal and positive
promise, that what she should ask should be done; yet that her name in
the transaction should never be divulged.

There seemed something so little reasonable in a desire for so
unqualified an engagement upon a subject unknown, that the Memorialist,
disturbed, hesitated and hung back.

The lady was palpably hurt; and, dropping a low curtsey, with a
supercilious half smile, and a brief, but civil, “Good morrow, ma’am!”
was proudly stalking out of the room; when, shocked to offend her, the
Memorialist besought her patience; and then frankly asked, how she
could promise what she was in the dark whether she could perform?

The lady, unbending her furrowed brow, replied, “I’ll tell you how,
ma’am: you must either say, I believe you to be an honest woman, and
I’ll trust you; or, I believe you to be no better than you should be,
and I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

An alternative such as this could hardly be called an alternative: the
promise was given.

The smile now of pleasure, almost of triumph, that succeeded to that
of satire, which had almost amounted to scorn, nearly recompenced the
hazarded trust; which, soon afterwards, was even more than repaid by
the sincerest admiration.

The lady, taking a thick letter-case from a capacious and
well-furnished part of the female habiliment of other days, yclept a
pocket, produced a small parcel, and said, “Do me the favour, Ma’am,
to slip this trifle into the Doctor’s bureau the first time you see
him open it; and just say, ‘Sir, this is bank notes for three hundred
pounds, instead of what that rogue robbed you of. But you must ask no
questions; and you must not stare, Sir, for it’s from a friend that
will never be known. So don’t be over curious; for it’s a friend who
will never take it back, if you fret yourself to the bone. So please,
Sir, to do what you please with it. Either use it, or put it behind
the fire, whichever you think the most sensible.’ And then, if he
should say, ‘Pray, Miss, who gave you that impertinent message for me?’
you will get into no jeopardy, for you can answer that you are bound
head and foot to hold your tongue; and then, being a man of honour, he
will hold his. Don’t you think so, Ma’am?”

The Memorialist, heartily laughing, but in great perturbation lest the
Doctor should be hurt or displeased, would fain have resisted this
commission; but the lady, peremptorily saying a promise was a promise,
which no person under a vagabond; but more especially a person of
honour, writing books, could break, would listen to no appeal.

She had been, she protested, on the point of _non compos_ ever since
that rogue had played the Doctor such a knavish trick, as picking his
bureau to get at his cash; in thinking how much richer she, who had
neither child nor chick, nor any particular great talents, was than
she ought to be; while a man who was so much a greater scholar, and
with such a fry of young ones at his heels, all of them such a set of
geniuses, was suddenly made so much poorer, for no offence, only that
rogue’s knavishness. And she could not get back into her right senses
upon the accident, she said, till she had hit upon this scheme: for
knowing Dr. Burney to be a very punctilious man, like most of the
book-writers, who were always rather odd, she was aware she could not
make him accept such a thing in a quiet way, however it might be his
due in conscience; only by some cunning device that he could not get
the better of.

Expostulation was vain; and the matter was arranged exactly according
to her injunctions.

Ultimately, however, when the deed was so confirmed as to be
irrevocable, the Memorialist obtained her leave to make known its
author; though under the most absolute charge of secrecy for all
around; which was strictly observed; notwithstanding all the resistance
of the astonished Doctor, whom she forbade ever to name it, either to
herself, she said, or Co., under pain of never speaking to him again.

All peculiar obstacles, however, having now passed away, justice seems
to demand the recital of this extraordinary little anecdote in the
history of Dr. Burney.

Those who still remember a daughter of the Earl of Thanet, who was
widow of Sir William Duncan, will recognize, without difficulty, in
this narration, the generosity, spirit, and good humour, with the
uncultivated, ungrammatical, and incoherent dialect; and the comic, but
arbitrary manner; of the indescribably diverting and grotesque, though
munificent and nobly liberal, Lady Mary Duncan.

       *       *       *       *       *


MRS. VESEY.

The singular, and, in another way, equally quaint and original, as well
as truly Irish, Mrs. Vesey, no sooner heard of Dr. Burney’s misfortune,
than she sent for an ingenious carpenter, to whom she communicated a
desire to have a private drawer constructed in a private apartment,
for the concealment and preservation of her cash from any fraudulent
servant.

Accordingly, within the wainscot of her dressing room, this was
effected; and, when done, she rang for her principal domestics; and,
after recounting to them the great evil that had happened to poor Dr.
Burney; and bemoaning that he had not taken a similar precaution, she
charged them, in a low voice, never to touch such a part of the wall,
lest they should press upon the spring of the private drawer, in which
she was going to hide her gold and bank notes.


MRS. PHILLIPS.

A beam, however, of softest bosom happiness, soon after this disaster,
lightened, almost dispersed, the cares of Dr. Burney. His Susanna,
called back, with her husband and family, to England, by some change
of affairs, suddenly returned from Boulogne—and returned beyond
expectation, beyond probability, beyond all things earthly, save
Hope—if Hope, indeed,—that sun-mark of all which lights on to
futurity! can be denominated earthly—recruited in health, and restored
to his wishes, as well as to his arms, and to her country and her
friends. So small a change of climate had been salubrious, and in so
short a space of time had proved renovating.

This smiling and propitious event, happily led the Doctor to yet
further acquaintance with the incomparable Mr. Locke and his family; as
the recovered invalid was now settled, with her husband and children,
in the picturesque village of Mickleham, just at the foot of Norbury
Park; and within reach of the habitual enjoyment of its exquisite
society.

       *       *       *       *       *


MADAME DE GENLIS.

In the summer of this year, 1785, came over from France the celebrated
Comtesse de Genlis. Dr. Burney and his second daughter were almost
immediately invited, at the express desire of the Countess, to meet,
and pass a day with her, at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. His
niece, Miss Palmer,[6] Sir Abraham and Lady Hume, Lord Palmerston, and
some others, were of the party.

Madame de Genlis must then have been about thirty-five years of age;
but the whole of her appearance was nearly ten years younger. Her
face, without positive beauty, had the most winning agreeability; her
figure was remarkably elegant, her attire was chastly simple: her air
was reserved, and her demeanour was dignified. Her language had the
same flowing perspicuity, and animated variety, by which it is marked
in the best of her works; and her discourse was full of intelligence,
yet wholly free from presumption or obtrusion. Dr. Burney was forcibly
struck with her, and his daughter was enchanted.

Almost as numerous as her works, and almost as diversified, were the
characters which had preceded this celebrated lady to England. None,
however, of the calumnious sort had reached the ears of the Doctor
previously to this meeting; and though some had buzzed about these of
the Memorialist, they were vague; and she had willingly, from the charm
of such superior talents, believed them unfounded; even before the
witchery of personal partiality drove them wholly from the field: for
from her sight, her manners, and her conversation, not an idea could
elicit that was not instinctively in her favour.

Unconstrained, therefore, was the impulsive regard with which this
illustrious foreigner inspired both; and which, gently, but pointedly,
it was her evident aim to increase. She made a visit the next day to
the Memorialist, whose society she sought with a flattering earnestness
and a spirited grace that, coupled with her rare attractions, made a
straightforward and most animating conquest of her charmed votary.

Madame de Genlis had already been at Windsor, where, through the medium
of Madame de la Fìte, she had been honoured with a private audience
of the Queen: and the energetic respect with which she spoke of her
Majesty, was one of the strongest incentives to the loyal heart of Dr.
Burney for encouraging this rising connexion.

Madame de Genlis had presented, she said, to the Queen the sacred
dramas which she had dedicated to her Serene Highness the Duchess of
Orleans; adding, that she had brought over only two copies of that
work, of which the second was destined for _Mademoiselle Burney!_ to
whom, with a billet of elegance nearly heightened into expressions of
friendship, it was shortly conveyed.

The Memorialist was at a loss how to make acknowledgments for this
obliging offering, as she would have held any return in kind to savour
rather of vanity than of gratitude. Dr. Burney, however, relieved her
embarrassment, by permitting her to be the bearer of his own History
of Music, as far as it had then been published. This Madame de Genlis
received with infinite grace and pleasure; for while capable of
treating luminously almost every subject that occurred, she had an air,
a look, a smile, that gave consequence, transiently, to every thing she
said or did.

She had then by her side, and fondly under her wing, a little girl
whom she called Pamela,[7] who was most attractively lovely, and whom
she had imbibed with a species of enthusiasm for the Memorialist, so
potent and so eccentric, that when, during the visit at Sir Joshua
Reynolds’, Madame de Genlis said, “_Pamela, voilà Mademoiselle
Burney!_” the animated little person rushed hastily forward, and
prostrated herself upon one knee before the astonished, almost
confounded object of her notice; who, though covered with a confusion
half distressing, half ridiculous, observed in every motion and
attitude of the really enchanting little creature, a picturesque beauty
of effect, and a magic allurement in her fine cast up eyes, that she
could not but wish to see perpetuated by Sir Joshua.

On the day that Dr. Burney left his card in Portland-place, for a
parting visit to Madame de Genlis, previously to her quitting London,
he left there, also, the Memorialist; who, by appointment, was to pass
the morning with that lady. This same witching little being was then
capitally aiding and abetting in a preconcerted manoeuvre, with
which Madame de Genlis not a little surprised her guest. This was by
detaining her, through a thousand varying contrivances, all for a while
unsuspected, in a particular position; while a painter, whom Madame
de Genlis mentioned as being with her by chance, and who appeared
to be amusing himself with sketching some fancies of his own, was
clandestinely taking a portrait of the visitor.

However flattered by the desire of its possession in so celebrated a
personage, that visitor had already, and decidedly, refused sitting for
it, not alone to Madame de Genlis, but to various other kind demanders,
from a rooted dislike of being exhibited. And when she discovered what
was going forward, much vexed and disconcerted, she would have quitted
her seat, and fled the premises: but the adroit little charmer had
again recourse to her graceful prostration; and, again casting up her
beautifully picturesque eyes, pleaded the cause and wishes of Madame
de Genlis, whom she called _Maman_, with an eloquence and a pathos so
singular and so captivating, that the Memorialist, though she would
not sit quietly still, nor voluntarily favour the painter’s artifice,
could only have put in practice a peremptory and determined flight, by
trampling upon the urgent, clinging, impassioned little suppliant.

This was the last day’s intercourse of Madame de Genlis with Dr. Burney
and the Memorialist. Circumstances, soon afterwards, suddenly parted
them; and circumstances never again brought them together.


MR. BURKE.

This brilliant new acquaintance offered, in its short duration, a
pleasing interlude for the occasional leisure of Dr. Burney, which
more than ever required some fresh supply, as Mr. Burke now was
entirely lost to him; and to all but his own political set, through the
absorption of his tumultuous accusations against Mr. Hastings; by which
his whole existence became sacrificed to Parliamentary contentions.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, however, not less faithfully than pleasantly,
still kept his high and honoured post of intimacy with Dr. Burney. And
Mrs. Delany maintained hers, with a sweetness of mental attraction that
magnetized languor from infirmity, and deterioration of intellect from
decay of years.


MRS. DELANY.

The society which assembled at that lady’s mansion was elegant and high
bred, yet entertaining and diversified. As Mrs. Delany chose to sustain
her own house, that she might associate without constraint with her
own family, the generous Duchess of Portland would not make a point of
persuading her to sojourn at Whitehall; preferring the sacrifice of her
own ease and comfort, in quitting that noble residence nearly every
evening, to lessening those of her tenderly loved companion.

And here her good sense repaid the goodness of her heart; for she
saw, from time to time, without formality, introduction, or even the
_etiquettes_ of condescension, sundry persons moving in a less exalted
sphere than her own, yet who, as she was a spirited observer of life
and manners, afforded an agreeable variety in the current intercourse
of the day: and from any thing inelegantly inferior, Mrs. Delany, from
her rank in the world, and still more from her good principles and good
taste, was inviolably exempt.

Many of the most favoured of this peculiar assemblage had already
passed away, before Dr. Burney had been honoured with admission.
Amongst those yet remaining, who belonged equally to both these ladies,
were, the Countess of Bute, wife to the early favourite of his Majesty,
George the Third, and the famous Lady Mary Wortley Montague’s daughter;
a person of first-rate understanding, and possessing a large share of
the ready wit, freed from the keen sarcasm and dauntless spirit of
raillery of her renowned mother.

And she was occasionally accompanied by Lady Louisa Stuart, her
accomplished daughter; who inherited only the better part, namely,
sense, taste, and amiability, from any of her progenitors.

The Countess of Bristol, still a strikingly fine woman, and, though
no longer young, still pleasingly interesting; with her engaging and
charming daughter, Lady Louisa Harvey,[8] not seldom formed the party.

The “high-bred, elegant Boscawen,” the everyway honourable widow of the
gallant Admiral, was peculiarly a favourite of Mrs. Delany, for equal
excellence in character, conduct, and abilities.

The old Earl of Guilford, high in all the wit, spirit, and politeness
that he transmitted to his favoured and numerous race, was always
gladly welcomed.

Lady Wallingford, the unhappy widow of a gaming Lord, and the ruined
daughter, though born heiress of the richest speculator of Europe, the
famous South Sea Law, was at this time reduced to aid her existence
by being a pensioner of her feeling friend, Mrs. Delany! by whom this
unfortunate, but very respectable lady, was always distinguished with
assiduous attention, both from her misfortunes and the obligations
under which they forced her to labour. She was extremely well bred,
though mournfully taciturn. She was uniformly habited in black silk,
and in full dress; wearing a hoop, long ruffles, a winged cap, and all
the stately formality of attire of the times, that even then were past;
which, however, in its ceremonial, seemed suited with the rank to which
she had risen; and in its gloom to the distress into which she had
fallen.

Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Chapone, from time to time, spent and enlightened
a day with this inestimable Mrs. Delany; who was connected more
intimately still with Mrs. Montague.

The celebrated Horace Walpole was a frequent visitor, from possessing
enough of genuine taste to delight in Mrs. Delany, and of spirit and
fashion for paying his court to the Duchess Dowager of Portland. He was
enchanted, also, to recreate his quaint humour by mingling occasionally
with persons who, from being little known to him, excited his ever busy
curiosity; which was restlessly seeking fresh food, with a devouring
voracity that made it ever freshly required. And it was observed,
that Mr. Walpole was nowhere more agreeable or more brilliant than in
St. James’s Place; where he was polite and gay, though irrepressibly
sarcastic; and good-humoured and entertaining, though always covertly
epigrammatical.

Owen Cambridge and Soame Jenyns appeared, also, in this society; and
were as fully capable to appreciate the excellences of Mrs. Delany,
as she, in return, was to enjoy their playful wit, and well-seasoned
raillery.

The elegant, polished Mr. Smelt, was peculiarly suited both to the
taste and the situation of Mrs. Delany; with the first there was
congeniality of mind; with the second, there was the similarity of each
being a chosen, though untitled favourite of both King and Queen.

Mr. and Mrs. Locke were latterly added to this set; which they were
truly formed to draw to a climax of social perfection.

But a lamented, though not personal or family event, which occurred
at the end of this summer, must here be recorded, with some detail
of circumstance; as it proved, in its consequences, by no means
unimportant to the history of Dr. Burney.

The venerable Mrs. Delany was suddenly bereft of the right noble friend
who was the delight of her life, the Duchess Dowager of Portland. That
honoured and honourable lady had quitted town for her dowry mansion
of Bulstrode Park. Thither she had just most courteously invited this
Memorialist; who had spent with her Grace and her beloved friend, at
the fine dwelling of the former at Whitehall, nearly the last evening
of their sojourn in town, to arrange this intended summer junction.
A letter of Mrs. Delany’s dictation had afterwards followed to St.
Martin’s-street, fixing a day on which a carriage, consigned by her
Grace to Mrs. Delany’s service, was to fetch the new visitor. But,
on the succeeding morning, a far different epistle, written by the
Amanuensis of Mrs. Delany, brought the mournful counter-tidings of the
seizure, illness, and decease, of the valuable, generous, and charming
mistress of Bulstrode Park.

Mrs. Delany, as soon as possible, was removed back to St. James’s
Place; in a grief the most touchingly profound, though the most
edifyingly resigned.

This was a loss for which, as Mrs. Delany was fifteen years the
senior, no human calculation had prepared; and what other has the
human Mathematician? Her condition in life, therefore, as well as her
heart, was assailed by this privation; and however inferior to the
latter was the former consideration, the conflict of afflicted feelings
with discomfitted affairs, could not but be doubly oppressive: for
though from the Duchess no pecuniary loan was accepted by Mrs. Delany,
unnumbered were the little auxiliaries to domestic economy which her
Grace found means to convey to St. James’s Place.

But now, even the house in that place, though already small for the
splendid persons who frequently sought there to pay their respects to
the Duchess, as well as to Mrs. Delany, became too expensive for her
means of supporting its establishment.

The friendship of the high-minded Duchess for Mrs. Delany had been an
honour to herself and to her sex, in its refinement as well as in its
liberality. Her superior rank she held as a bauble, her superior wealth
as dross, save as they might be made subservient towards equalizing in
condition the chosen companion, with whom in affection all was already
parallel.

To see them together, offered a view of human excellence delightful to
contemplate. They endeared existence to each other, and only what was
participated seemed to be enjoyed by either. And they each possessed so
much understanding, cultivation, taste, and spirit, that their mutual
desire to procure and to give pleasure to each other, operated not
less as a spur to their improvement, even at this late period of life,
than as a delight to their affections. In sentiment and opinion their
converse had the most unrestrained openness; but in manner, a superior
respect in Mrs. Delany was never to be vanquished by the utmost
equalizing efforts of the Duchess: it was a respect of the heart,
grafted upon that of the old school; and every struggle to dislodge it
only proved, by its failure, the unshakeable firmness of its basis.
The Duchess, therefore, was forced to content herself with wearing an
easy cheerfulness of freedom, that flung off all appearance of seeming
aware of this reverence; but which she accompanied with a cherishing
delicacy, that made her watchful of every turn of countenance, every
modulation of voice, and every movement or gesture, that might indicate
any species of desire for something new, altered, or any way attainable
for the advantage or pleasure of the friend whom she most loved to
honour.

What a blank was a breach such as this of an intercourse so tender, and
at an age so advanced! Religion alone could make it supportable; and
to that alone can be attributed the patient sweetness with which Mrs.
Delany met every consolation that could be offered to her by her still
existing ties, Lady Bute, Lady Bristol, Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. Sandford,
&c. &c. &c.

But most eager amongst them, from the energy of her attachment, forth
rushed her latest, newest, and last chosen friend, who, in another day
or two, would have been at her side, on the very moment of this heavy
deprivation. Fearfully, nevertheless, she came, every other consoler
having priority of almost every species to plead for preference: but
those chords of unison, which in sympathy alone include every claim,
discarding, as dissonance, whatever would break in upon their harmony,
had here struck from heart to heart with responsive tenderness; and
what of merit preponderated in the scales of one, was balanced into
fair equilibrium by venerating devotion in the other.

Upon first receiving the melancholy intelligence of the broken-up
meeting at Bulstrode Park, Dr. Burney had taken his much-grieved
daughter with him to Chesington; where, with all its bereavements, he
repaired, to go on with his History; but, with a kindness which always
led him to participate in the calls of affection, he no sooner learned
that her presence would be acceptable to Mrs. Delany, than he spared
his amanuensis from his side and his work, and instantly lent her his
carriage to convey her back to town, and to the house of that afflicted
lady; whose tenderly open-armed, though tearful reception, was as
gratifying to the feelings of her deeply-attached guest, as the grief
that she witnessed was saddening.

The Doctor permitted her now to take up her abode in this house of
mourning; where she had the heart-felt satisfaction to find herself
not only soothing to the admirable friend, by whom so late in life,
but so warmly in love, she had been taken to the bosom; but empowered
to relieve some of her cares by being intrusted to overlook, examine,
and read to her letters and manuscripts of every description; and to
select, destroy, or arrange the long-hoarded mass. She even began
revising and continuing a manuscript memoir of the early days of Mrs.
Delany; but, as it could be proceeded with only in moments of unbroken
_tête à tête_, it never was finished.

Meanwhile, when the tidings of the death of the Duchess Dowager of
Portland reached their Majesties, their first thought, after their
immediate grief at her departure, was of Mrs. Delany; and when they
found that the Duchess, from a natural expectation of being herself the
longest liver, had taken no measures to soften off the worldly part, at
least, of this separation, the King, with most benevolent munificence,
resolved to supply the deficiency which a failure of foresight alone,
he was sure, had occasioned in a friend of such anxious fondness. He
completely, therefore, and even minutely fitted up for Mrs. Delany
a house at Windsor, near the Castle; and settled a pension of three
hundred pounds a-year upon her for life; to enable her to still keep
her house in town, that she might repair thither every winter, for the
pleasure of enjoying the society of her old friends.

The grateful heart of Mrs. Delany overflowed at her eyes at marks so
attentive, as well as beneficent, of kindness and goodness in her
Sovereigns; for well she felt convinced that the Queen had a mental
share and influence in these royal offerings.

To Windsor, thus invited, Mrs. Delany now went; and this Memorialist,
lightened of a thousand apprehensions by this cheer to the feelings
of her honoured friend, returned to Dr. Burney, in Surrey. A letter
speedily followed her, with an account that the good King himself,
having issued orders to be apprized when Mrs. Delany entered the town
of Windsor, had repaired to her newly allotted house, there, in person,
to give her welcome. Overcome by such condescension, she flung herself
upon her knees before him, to express a sense of his graciousness for
which she could find no words.

Their Majesties almost immediately visited her in person; an honour
which they frequently repeated: and they condescendingly sent to
her, alternately, all their royal daughters. And, as soon as she was
recovered from her fatigues, they invited her to their evening concerts
at the Upper Lodge, in which, at that time, they sojourned.[9]


MRS. DELANY.

The time is now come to open upon the circumstances which will lead,
ere long, to the cause of a seeming episode in these memoirs.

Dr. Burney was soon informed that the Queen had deigned to inquire of
Mrs. Delany, why she had not brought her friend, Miss Burney, to her
new home? an inquiry that was instantly followed by an invitation that
hastened, of course, the person in question to St. Albans’-street,
Windsor.

Here she found her venerable friend in the full solace of as much
contentment as her recent severe personal loss, and her advanced
period of life, could well admit. And, oftentimes, far nearer to
mortal happiness is such contentment in the aged, than is suspected,
or believed, by assuming and presuming youth; who frequently take upon
trust—or upon poetry—their capability of superior enjoyment for
its possession. She was honoured by all who approached her; she was
loved by all with whom she associated. Her very dependence was made
independent by the delicacy with which it left her completely mistress
of her actions and her abode. Her Sovereigns unbent from their state to
bestow upon her graciousness and favour: and the youthful object of her
dearest affections[10] was fostered, with their full permission, under
her wing.

And, would it not seem senseless ingratitude, or puerile affectation,
not to acknowledge, that the gracious encouragement with which they
urged to her side the singularly elected friend of her later years,
bore a share, and not a small one, in contributing to the serenity of
her mind, and the pleasantness of her social life?


THE KING AND QUEEN.

In a week or two after the arrival of the new visitant, she was
surprised into the presence of the King, by a sudden, unannounced, and
unexpected entrance of his Majesty, one evening, into the drawing-room
of Mrs. Delany; where, however, the confusion occasioned by his
unlooked-for appearance speedily, nay blithely, subsided, from the
suavity of his manners, the impressive benevolence of his countenance,
and the cheering gaiety of his discourse. Fear could no more exist
where goodness of heart was so predominant, than respect could fail
where dignity of rank was so pre-eminent; and, ere many minutes had
elapsed, Mrs. Delany had the soft satisfaction not only of seeing the
first tremors of her favoured friend pass insensibly away, but of
observing them to be supplanted by ease, nay, delight, from the mild
yet lively graciousness with which she was drawn into conversation by
his Majesty.

The Queen, a few days later, made an entry with almost as little
preparation; save that the King, though he had not announced, had
preceded her; and that the chairman’s knock at the door had excited
some suspicion of her approach; while the King, who came on foot, and
quite alone, had only rung at the bell; each of them palpably showing
a condescending intention to avoid creating a panic in the new guest;
as well as to obviate, what repeatedly had happened when they arrived
without these precautions, a timid escape.

To describe what the Queen was in this interview, would be to pourtray
grace, sprightliness, sweetness, and spirit, embodied in one frame. And
each of these Sovereigns, while bestowing all their decided attentions
upon their venerable and admirable hostess, deigned to display the most
favourable disposition towards her new visitor; the whole of their
manner, and the whole tenor of their discourse denoting a curious
desire to develop, if traceable, the peculiarities which had impelled
that small person, almost whether she would or not, into public notice.

The pleasure with which Dr. Burney received the details now transmitted
to him, of the favour with which his daughter was viewed at Windsor,
made a marked period of parental satisfaction in his life: and these
accounts, with some others on a similar topic of a more recent date,
were placed amongst hoards to which he had the most frequent recourse
for recreation in his latter years.

The incidents, indeed, leading to this so honourable distinction
were singular almost to romance. This daughter, from a shyness of
disposition the most fearful, as well as from her native obscurity,
would have been the last, in the common course of things, to have had
the smallest chance of attracting royal notice; but the eccentricity of
her opening adventure into life had excited the very curiosity which
its scheme meant to render abortive; and these august personages
beheld her with an evident wish of making some acquaintance with her
character. They saw her, also, under the auspices of a lady whom they
had almost singled out from amongst womankind as an object worthy of
their private friendship; and whose animated regard for her, they knew,
had set aloof all distance of years, and all recency of intercourse.

These were circumstances to exile common form and royal
disciplinarianism from these great personages; and to give to them the
smiling front and unbent brow of their fair native, not majestically
acquired, physiognomies. And the impulsive effect of such urbanity was
facilitating their purpose to its happy, honoured object; who found
herself, as if by enchantment, in this august presence, without the
panic of being summoned, or the awe of being presented. Nothing was
chilled by ceremonial, nothing was stiffened by etiquette, nothing
belonging to the _formulæ_ of royalty kept up stately distance. No lady
in waiting exhibited the Queen; no equerry pointed out the King; the
reverence of the heart sufficed to impede any forgetfulness of their
rank; and the courtesy of their own unaffected hilarity diffused ease,
spirit, and pleasure all around.

The King, insatiably curious to become still more minutely master
of the history of the publication of Evelina, was pointed, though
sportive, in question to bring forth that result. The Queen, still more
desirous to develop the author than the book, was arch and intelligent
in converse, to draw out her general sentiments and opinions; and
both were so gently, yet so gaily, encouraging, that not to have met
their benignant openness with frank vivacity, must rather have been
insensibility than timidity.

They appeared themselves to enjoy the novelty of so domestic an evening
visit, which, it is believed, was unknown to their practice till they
had settled Mrs. Delany in a private house of their own presentation at
Windsor. Comfortably here they now took their tea, which was brought to
them by Miss Port; Mrs. Delany, to whom that office belonged, being too
infirm for its performance; and they stayed on, in lively, easy, and
pleasant conversation, abandoning cards, concert, and court circle, for
the whole evening. And still, when, very late, they made their exit,
they seemed reluctantly to depart.

Mrs. Delany was elevated with grateful pleasure; her devoted guest was
delighted, astonished, enchanted; and Dr. Burney, with the highest
vivacity, read her narrative of this visit; with other nearly similar
scenes that followed it, during a three weeks’ residence at Windsor; to
almost all his confidential friends.

       *       *       *       *       *


WARREN HASTINGS.

The far, and but too deeply, widely, and unfortunately famed Warren
Hastings was now amongst the persons of high renown, who courteously
sought the acquaintance of Dr. Burney.

The tremendous attack upon the character and conduct of Governor
Hastings, which terminated, through his own dauntless appeal for
justice, in the memorable trial at Westminster Hall, hung then
suspended over his head: and, as Mr. Burke was his principal accuser,
it would strongly have prejudiced the Doctor against the accused, had
not some of the most respectable connexions of the Governor, who had
known him through the successive series of his several governments,
and through the whole display of his almost unprecedented power, been
particularly of the Doctor’s acquaintance; and these all agreed, that
the uniform tenor of the actions of Mr. Hastings, while he was Governor
General of India, spoke humanity, moderation, and liberality.

His demeanour and converse were perfectly corroboratory with this
praise; and he appeared to Dr. Burney to be one of the greatest
men then living as a public character; while as a private man, his
gentleness, candour, and openness of discourse, made him one of the
most pleasing. He talked with the utmost frankness upon his situation
and affairs; and with a perfect reliance of victory over his enemies,
from a fearless consciousness of probity and honour.

That Mr. Burke, the high-minded Mr. Burke, with a zeal nearly frantic
in the belief of popular rumours, could so impetuously, so wildly, so
imperiously be his prosecutor, was a true grief to the Doctor; and
seemed an enigma inexplicable.

But Mr. Burke, with all the depth and sagacity of the rarest wisdom
where he had time for consideration, and opportunity for research, had
still not only the ardour, but the irreflection of ingenuous juvenile
credulity, where tales of horror, of cruelty, or of woe, were placed
before him with a cry for redress.

Dr. Burney was painfully and doubly disturbed at this terrific trial,
through his esteem and admiration for both parties; and he kept
as aloof from the scene of action during the whole of its Trojan
endurance, as he would have done from a bull fight, to which both
antagonists had been mercilessly exposed. For though, through his
transcendent merit, joined to a longer and more grateful connexion, he
had an infinitely warmer personal regard for Mr. Burke, he held Mr.
Hastings, in this case, to be innocent, and, consequently, injured: on
him, therefore, every wish of victory devolved; yet so high was the
reliance of the Doctor on the character of intentional integrity in
the prosecutor, that he always beheld him as a man under a generous,
however fanatical delusion of avenging imputed wrongs; and he forgave
what he could not justify.[11]


STRAWBERRY HILL.

Few amongst those who, at this period, honoured Dr. Burney with an
increasing desire of intimacy, stood higher in fashionable celebrity
than Horace Walpole,[12] and his civilities to the father were ever
more accompanied by an at least equal portion of distinction for his
daughter; with whom, after numerous invitations that circumstances had
rendered ineffective, the Doctor, in 1786, had the pleasure of making a
visit of some days to Strawberry Hill.

Mr. Walpole paid them the high and well understood compliment of
receiving them without other company. No man less needed auxiliaries
for the entertainment of his guests, when he was himself in good humour
and good spirits. He had a fund of anecdote that could provide food
for conversation without any assistance from the news of the day,
or the state of the elements: and he had wit and general knowledge
to have supplied their place, had his memory been of that volatile
description that retained no former occurrence, either of his own or
of his neighbour, to relate. He was scrupulously, and even elaborately
well-bred; fearing, perhaps, from his conscious turn to sarcasm, that
if he suffered himself to be unguarded, he might utter expressions
more amusing to be recounted aside, than agreeable to be received
in front. He was a witty, sarcastic, ingenious, deeply-thinking,
highly-cultivated, quaint, though evermore gallant and romantic,
though very mundane, old bachelor of other days.

But his external obligations to nature were by no means upon a par with
those which he owed to her mentally: his eyes were inexpressive; and
his countenance, when not worked upon by his elocution, was of the same
description; at least in these his latter days.

Strawberry Hill was now exhibited to the utmost advantage. All that
was peculiar, especially the most valuable of his pictures, he had the
politeness to point out to his guests himself; and not unfrequently,
from the deep shade in which some of his antique portraits were placed;
and the lone sort of look of the unusually shaped apartments in which
they were hung, striking recollections were brought to their minds of
his Gothic story of the Castle of Otranto.

He shewed them, also, with marked pleasure, the very vase immortalized
by Gray, into which the pensive, but rapacious Selima had glided to her
own destruction, whilst grasping at that of her golden prey. On the
outside of the vase Mr. Walpole had had labelled,

  “’Twas on THIS lofty vase’s side.”

He accompanied them to the picturesque villa already mentioned, which
had been graced by the residence of Lady Di. Beauclerk; but which,
having lost that fair possessor, was now destined for two successors
in the highly-talented Miss Berrys; of whom he was anticipating with
delight the expected arrival from Italy. After displaying the elegant
apartments, pictures, decorations, and beautiful grounds and views;
all which, to speak in his own manner, had a sort of well-bred as well
as gay and recreative appearance, he conducted them to a small but
charming octagon room, which was ornamented in every panel by designs
taken from his own tragedy of the Mysterious Mother, and executed by
the accomplished Lady Di.

Dr. Burney beheld them with the admiration that could not but be
excited by the skill, sensibility, and refined expression of that
eminent lady artist: and the pleasure of his admiration happily escaped
the alloy by which it would have been adulterated, had he previously
read the horrific tragedy whence the subject had been chosen; a tragedy
that seems written upon a plan as revolting to probability as to
nature; and that violates good taste as forcibly as good feeling. It
seems written, indeed, as if in epigrammatic scorn of the horrors of
the Greek drama, by giving birth to conceptions equally terrific, and
yet more appalling.

In the evening, Mr. Walpole favoured them with producing several, and
opening some of his numerous repositories of hoarded manuscripts; and
he pointed to a peculiar caravan, or strong box, that he meant to leave
to his great nephew, Lord Waldegrave; with an injunction that it should
not be unlocked for a certain number of years, perhaps thirty, after
the death of Mr. Walpole; by which time, he probably calculated, that
all then living, who might be hurt by its contents, would be above,—or
beneath them.

He read several picked out and extremely clever letters of Madame
du Deffand,[13] of whom he recounted a multiplicity of pleasant
histories; and he introduced to them her favourite little lap-dog,
which he fondled and cherished, fed by his side, and made his constant
companion. There was no appearance of the roughness with which he had
treated its mistress, in his treatment of the little animal; to whom,
perhaps, he paid his court in secret penitence, as _l’amende honorable_
for his harshness to its bequeather.

Horace Walpole was amongst those whose character, as far as it was
apparent, had contradictory qualities so difficult to reconcile
one with another, as to make its development, from mere general
observation, superficial and unsatisfactory. And Strawberry Hill
itself, with all its chequered and interesting varieties of detail,
had a something in its whole of monotony, that cast, insensibly, over
its visitors, an indefinable species of secret constraint; and made
cheerfulness rather the effect of effort than the spring of pleasure;
by keeping more within bounds than belongs to their buoyant love of
liberty, those light, airy, darting, bursts of unsought gaiety, yclept
animal spirits.

Nevertheless, the evenings of this visit were spent delightfully—they
were given up to literature, and to entertaining, critical, ludicrous,
or anecdotical conversation. Dr. Burney was nearly as full fraught as
Mr. Walpole with all that could supply materials of this genus; and Mr.
Walpole had so much taste for his society, that he was wont to say,
when Dr. Burney was running off, after a rapid call in Berkeley-square,
“Are you going already, Dr. Burney?—Very well, sir! but remember you
owe me a visit!”

The pleasure, however, which his urbanity and unwearied exertions
evidently bestowed upon his present guests, seemed to kindle in his
mind a reciprocity of sensation that warmed him into an increase of
kindness; and urged the most impressive desire of retaining them for a
lengthened visit. He left no flattery of persuasion, and no bribery of
promised entertainment untried to allure their compliance. The daughter
was most willing: and the father was not less so; but his time was
irremediably portioned out, and no change was in his power.

Mr. Walpole looked seriously surprised as well as chagrined at the
failure of his eloquence and his temptations: though soon recovering
his usual tone, he turned off his vexation with his characteristic
pleasantry, by uncovering a large portfolio, and telling them that it
contained a collection of all the portraits that were extant, of every
person mentioned in the Letters of Madame de Sevigné; “and if you will
not stay at least another day,” he said, patting the portfolio with an
air of menace, “you shan’t see one drop of them!”

Highly pleased and gratified, they came away with a positive engagement
for a quick return; but an event was soon to take place which shewed,
as usual, the nullity of any engagement for the future of Man to his
fellow.


MR. STANLEY.

In May, 1786, died that wonderful blind musician, and truly worthy man,
Mr. Stanley, who had long been in a declining; state of health, but who
was much lamented by all with whom he had lived in any intimacy.

Once more, a vacancy opened to Dr. Burney of the highest post of honour
in his profession, that of Master of the King’s Band; a post which in
earlier life he had been promised, and of which the disappointment had
caused him the most cruel chagrin.

He had now to renew his application. The Chamberlain was changed; and
whether the successor to Lord Hertford had received, as any part of the
bequests of his predecessor, the history of the violated rights of Dr.
Burney, remained to be tried.


MR. SMELT.

Dr. Burney was himself persuaded, from the favour shewn to him by the
King, relative to the Commemoration of Handel, that his best chance was
with his Majesty in person: and with this notion and hope, he waited
upon his amiable friend Mr. Smelt, to consult with him upon what
course to pursue.

Mr. Smelt counselled him to go instantly to Windsor; not to address
the King, but to be seen by him. “Take your daughter in your hand,” he
said, “and walk in the evening upon the terrace. Your appearing there
at this time, the King will instantly understand; and he has feelings
so good and so quick, that he is much more likely to be touched by a
hint of that delicate sort, than by any direct application. But—take
your daughter in your hand.”

Mr. Smelt had probably heard, from Mrs. Delany, the graciousness with
which that daughter had been signalized; and the Doctor determined
implicitly to follow this advice.


MRS. DELANY.

Fortunately, to encourage and enliven the little expedition, just
before the post-chaise stopped at the door, a letter from Mrs. Delany,
written by Miss Port, warmly pressing for a renewal of the visit of the
daughter, with an intimation, that it was asked by the Queen’s express
desire, came, through a private conveyance, from Windsor.

Arrived at Windsor, Dr. Burney drove to the house of Dr. Lind, after
first depositing his companion at that of Mrs. Delany. With joy
inexpressible that companion flew into the kind open arms of the most
venerable of women, from whom her reception had all the liveliness of
pleasant surprise, added to its unfading affection. They spent the rest
of the morning together, and chiefly in the closet of Mrs. Delany; who,
to her revering friend, unbosomed all her cares and sorrows, with a
soft and touching unreserve, that could not but more and more endear
her to one who took a share in all her griefs, as quick and sensitive
as if they had been her own.

And many were the solicitudes of this feeling and most generous lady,
though, at her great age, it might have been hoped that such would have
been spared her; but her primitive sensibility was unimpaired, and the
difficulties or misfortunes of all with whom she was connected, were
felt as if personal. Her beloved great niece was still with her, and
was her first comfort and delight; but too young and inexperienced to
enter into her cares. These, however, though not their cause, had
been perceived by the penetrating Queen; who had then condescended
to counsel this valued lady to press for another visit “from her new
friend and favourite; who seemed,” she deigned to say, “peculiarly
suited to sooth her anxieties:” a gracious partiality, which Mrs.
Delany related as of good omen to the present application.


WINDSOR TERRACE.

When the hour came for the evening walk on the Terrace, Dr. Burney
took the arm of Dr. Lind; and Mrs. Delany consigned his daughter to
the charge of Lady Louisa Clayton, a sister of Lady Charlotte Finch,
Governess of the Princesses.

All the Royal Family were already on the Terrace. The King and Queen,
and the Prince of Mecklenburgh, her Majesty’s brother, walked together;
followed by a procession of the six lovely young Princesses, and some
of the Princes; exhibiting a gay and striking appearance of one of the
finest families in the world. Everywhere as they advanced, the crowd
drew back against the walls on each side, making a double hedge for
their passage: after which, the mass re-united behind, to follow.

When the King and Queen approached towards the party of Lady Louisa
Clayton, her ladyship most kindly placed by her own side the
Memorialist; without which attention she had been certainly unnoticed;
for the moment their Majesties were in sight, she instinctively looked
down, and drew her hat over her face. The courage with which their
graciousness had invested her in the interviews at Mrs. Delany’s,
where she was seen by them through their own courtesy, and at their
own desire, all failed her here; where she came with personal, or,
rather, filial views, and felt terrified lest they might appear to be
presumptuous.

The Doctor was annoyed by the same feeling; and looked so conscious
and embarrassed, that though he attained the honour of a bow from the
King, and a curtsey from the Queen, every time they passed him, he
involuntarily hung back, without the smallest attempt at even looking
for further notice. Thus, and almost laughably, each of them, after
coming so far merely with the hope of being recognized, might have
gone back to their cells, without raising a surmise that they had ever
quitted them, but for the considerate kindness of Lady Louisa Clayton;
who, in taking under her own wing the Memorialist, gave her a post of
honour too conspicuous to be unremarked.

And, as soon as the Queen had stopped, and spoken to Lady Louisa in
general terms, her Majesty, in a whisper, demanded, “Who is with you,
Lady Louisa?” And when Lady Louisa answered: “Miss Burney, Ma’am;”
her Majesty smilingly stepped nearer, with gentle and condescending
inquiries.

The King, then, having finished his discourse with some other party,
repeated the same question to Lady Louisa; and, having received the
same answer, immediately addressed himself to the Memorialist, to ask
whether she were come to Windsor to make any stay?

“No, Sir; not now.”

“I was sure,” cried the Queen, “she was not come to stay, by seeing her
father, who has so little time.”

“And when shall you come again,” said the King, “to Windsor?”

“Very soon—I hope, Sir!”

“And—and—and—” added he, half-laughing, and hesitating significantly,
while he flourished his hand and fingers as if wielding a pen; “pray—how
goes on—the Muse?”

To this she only answered by laughing also; but he would not be so
evaded, and repeated the interrogatory. She then replied, “Not at all,
Sir!”

“No?—but why?—why not?”

“I am—afraid, Sir!” she stammered.

“And why?” repeated he, surprised: “Of what are you afraid?—of what?—”

Ashamed, however gratified, at the implied civility of this surprise,
she answered something so hesitatingly and indistinctly, that he could
not hear—or, at least, understand her; though he had bent his head to
a level with her hat from the beginning of the little conference; and
after another such question or two, with no greater satisfaction of
reply—for she knew not how to treat so personal a subject in such full
Congress—he smiled very good-humouredly, as if suddenly recollecting
her father’s account of the shyness of her Muse, and walked on: the
Queen, wearing a smile of the same expression, by his side.

This exceeding condescension was truly reviving to Dr. Burney; but
it was all of good that repaid his journey and his effort. The place
which he sought with so many motives to expect, and for which his rank
in his profession so conclusively entitled him, he was informed, a
few days afterwards, had been given away instantly upon the death of
Mr. Stanley, without any consultation with his Majesty; and, it was
generally surmised, much to his Majesty’s displeasure.


SIR WILLIAM PARSONS.

But not, however, against the successful rival, Mr. Parsons, afterwards
Sir William, was this displeasure directed: he was wholly blameless,
not only in this superseding promotion, but in the tenor of his life at
large. He might even be uninformed of Dr. Burney’s prior claims. And
such, in fact, was Dr. Burney’s belief.

The ensuing paragraph, which appears to have been written in Italy,
and is copied from a manuscript memorandum book of Dr. Burney’s, will
demonstrate the early and liberal kindness of the Doctor towards Mr.
Parsons.


“RINALDO DI CAPUA,

  “An old and excellent composer, now out of fashion, with
  whom I was made acquainted by Mr. Morrison, has very
  singular notions about all invention being at an end in
  music; asserting that composers only repeat themselves
  and each other. And that, as to modulation, it is only
  in the second part of songs (a da capo) that it is
  attempted, merely to frighten the hearer back to the
  first. It seems, he adds, as if these second parts were
  made by the valet-de-chambre of the Maestro di Capella.
  I recommended him to Mr. Parsons, who consulted me about
  a master at Rome, after he had been at a conservatoriò
  at Naples, where he learned, he said, nothing. Rinaldo,
  an admirable as well as fanciful musician, but deemed
  to be _passé_, could afford to give him more time than
  if in full employment; and for but little money. Mr.
  Parsons solicited me, likewise, to prevail on Santarelli
  to favour him with a few lessons in singing; which, at
  my request, he did, without fee or reward; for he had
  long ceased teaching _da professore_, except his charming
  _Eléve_, La Signorina Battoni.”

The Doctor, it is true, could not then foresee the personal competition
he was accelerating; but neither his equity nor his generosity were
warped by the after discovery: all of injustice, if any there were in
the nomination, hung upon the patron, not the candidate.


MR. SMELT.

Very shortly after this most undeserved disappointment, the
Memorialist—who must still, perforce, mingle, partially, something of
her own memoirs with those of her father, with which, at this period,
they were indispensably linked—met, by his own immediate request,
Mr. Smelt, at the house of Mrs. Delany, who was then at her London
dwelling, in St. James’s Place.

He expressed the most obliging concern at the precipitancy of the Lord
Chamberlain, who had disposed, he said, of the place before he knew
the King’s pleasure; and Mr. Smelt scrupled not to confess that his
Majesty’s own intentions had by no means been fulfilled.

As soon in the evening as all visitors were gone, and only himself
and the Memorialist remained with Mrs. Delany, Mr. Smelt glided, with
a gentleness and delicacy that accompanied all his proceedings, into
the subject that had led him to demand this interview. And this was
no other than the offer of a place to the Memorialist in the private
establishment of the Queen.

Her surprise was considerable; though by no means what she would
have felt had such an offer not been preceded by the most singular
graciousness. Nevertheless, a mark of personal favour so unsolicited,
so unthought of, could not but greatly move her: and the moment of
disappointment and chagrin to her father at which it occurred; with
the expressive tone and manner in which it was announced by Mr. Smelt,
brought it close to her heart, as an intended and benevolent mark
of goodness to her father himself, that might publicly manifest how
little their Majesties had been consulted, when Dr. Burney had again so
unfairly been set aside.

But while these were the ideas that on the first moment awakened the
most grateful sensations towards their Majesties, others, far less
exhilarating, broke into their vivacity before they had even found
utterance. A morbid stroke of sickly apprehension struck upon her
mind with forebodings of separation from her father, her family, her
friends; a separation which, when there is neither distress to enforce,
nor ambition to stimulate a change, can have one only equivalent, or
inducement, for an affectionate female; namely, a home of her own with
a chosen partner; and even then, the filial sunderment, where there is
filial tenderness, is a pungent drawback to all new scenes of life.

Nevertheless, she was fully sensible that here, though there was
not that potent call to bosom feelings, there was honour the most
gratifying in a choice so perfectly spontaneous; and favour amounting
to kindness, from a quarter whence such condescension could not but
elevate with pleasure, as well as charm and penetrate with gratitude
and respect.

Still—the separation,—for the residence was to be invariably at the
Palace;—the total change of life; the relinquishing the brilliant
intellectual circle into which she had been so flatteringly invited—

She hesitated—she breathed hard—she could not attempt to speak—

But she was with those to whom speech is not indispensable for
discourse; who could reciprocate ideas without uttering or hearing a
syllable; and to whose penetrating acumen words are the bonds, but not
the revealers of thoughts.

They saw, and understood her conflict; and by their own silence shewed
that they respected hers, and its latent cause.

And when, after a long pause, ashamed of their patience, she would have
expressed her sense of its kindness, they would not hear her apology.
“Do not hurry your spirits in your answer, my dear Miss Burney,” said
Mrs. Delany; “pray take your own time: Mr. Smelt, I am sure, will wait
it.”

“Certainly he will,” said Mr. Smelt; “he can wait it even till
to-morrow morning; for he is not to give his answer till to-morrow
noon.”

“Take then the night, my dear Miss Burney,” cried Mrs. Delany, in a
tone of the softest sympathy, “for deliberation; that you may think
every thing over, and not be hurried; and let us all three meet here
again to-morrow morning at breakfast.”

“How good you both are!” the Memorialist was faintly uttering, when
what was her surprise to hear Mr. Smelt, who, with a smile, interrupted
her, say: “I have no claim to such a panegyric! I should ill execute
the commission with which I have been entrusted, if I embarrassed
Miss Burney; for the great personage, from whom I hold it, permitted
my speaking first to Miss Burney alone, without consulting even Dr.
Burney; that she might form her own unbiassed determination.”

Where now was the hesitation, the incertitude, the irresolution of
the Memorialist? Where the severity of her conflict, the pang of
her sundering wishes? All were suddenly dissolved by overwhelming
astonishment, and melted by respectful gratitude: and to the decision
of Dr. Burney all now was willingly, and with resolute and cheerful
acquiescence, referred.

Dr. Burney felt honoured, felt elated, felt proud of a mark so
gracious, so unexpected, of personal partiality to his daughter; but
felt it, perforce, with the same drawbacks to entire happiness that so
strongly had balanced its pleasure with herself. Yet his high sense
of such singular condescension, and his hope of the worldly advantage
to which it might possibly lead; joined to the inherent loyalty that
rendered a wish of his Sovereign a law to him, checked his disturbance
ere it amounted to hesitation. Mutually, therefore, resigned to a
parting from so honourable a call, they embraced in tearful unison
of sentiment; and, with the warmest feelings of heart-felt and most
respectful—though not unsighing—devotion, Dr. Burney hastened to Mr.
Smelt, with their unitedly grateful and obedient acceptance of the
offer which her Majesty had deigned to transmit to them through his
kind and liberal medium.


THE QUEEN.

Dr. Burney now became nearly absorbed by this interesting crisis in the
life of his second daughter; of which, however, the results, not the
details, belong to these Memoirs.

She was summoned almost immediately to Windsor, though only, at
first, to the house of Mrs. Delany; in whose presence, as the Doctor
learned from her letters, this Memorialist was called to the honour
of an interview of more than two hours with her Majesty. Not, however,
for the purpose of arranging the particulars of her destination.
The penetrating Queen, who soon, no doubt, perceived a degree of
agitation which could not be quite controlled in so new, so unexpected
a position, with a delicacy the most winning put that subject quite
aside; and discoursed solely, during the whole long audience, upon
general or literary matters.

“I know well,” continued the letter to the Doctor, “how my kind father
will rejoice at so generous an opening; especially when I tell him
that, in parting, she condescended, and in the softest manner, to
say, ‘I am sure, Miss Burney, we shall suit one another very well!’
And then, turning to Mrs. Delany, she added, ‘I was led to think of
Miss Burney first by her books—then by seeing her—and then by always
hearing how she was loved by her friends—but chiefly, and over all, by
your regard for her.’”

The Doctor was then further informed, through Mrs. Delany, that the
office of his daughter was to be that of an immediate attendant upon
her Majesty, designated in the Court Calendar by the name of Keeper of
the Robes.

His sense of the voluntary favour and good opinion shown by the Queen
in this election, made now nearly the first pleasure of his life; yet
not superior, even if equal, was, or could be, either his satisfaction
or the gratitude of his daughter, to the pleasure of Mrs. Delany, at
this approximating residence of a favourite whom she most partially
loved, and by whom she knew herself to be most tenderly revered.

The business thus fixed, though unannounced, as Mrs. Haggerdorn, the
predecessor, still held her place, the Doctor again, for a few weeks,
received back his daughter; whom he found, like himself, extremely
gratified that her office consisted entirely in attendance upon so
kind and generous a Queen: though he could not but smile a little,
upon learning that its duties exacted constant readiness to assist at
her Majesty’s toilette: not from any pragmatical disdain of dress—on
the contrary, dress had its full share of his admiration, when he saw
it in harmony with the person, the class, and the time of life of its
exhibitor. But its charms and its capabilities, he was well aware,
had engaged no part of his daughter’s reflections; what she knew of
it was accidental, caught and forgotten with the same facility; and
conducing, consequently, to no system or knowledge that might lead to
any eminence of judgment for inventing or directing ornamental personal
drapery. And she was as utterly unacquainted with the value of jewelry,
as she was unused to its wear and care.

The Queen, however, he considered, as she made no inquiry, and
delivered no charge, was probably determined to take her chance;
well knowing she had others more initiated about her to supply such
deficiencies. It appeared to him, indeed, that far from seeking, she
waived all obstacles; anxious, upon this occasion, at least, where the
services were to be peculiarly personal, to make and abide by a choice
exclusively her own; and in which no common routine of chamberlain
etiquette should interfere.

And, ere long, he had the inexpressible comfort to be informed that
so changed, through the partial graciousness of the Queen to the
Memorialist, was the place from that which had been Mrs. Haggerdorn’s;
so lightened and so simplified, that, in fact, the nominal new Keeper
of the Robes had no robes in her keeping; that the difficulties with
respect to jewelry, laces, and court habiliments, and the other
routine business belonging to the dress manufactory, appertained to
her colleague, Mrs. Schwellenberg; and that the manual labours and
cares devolved upon the Wardrobe-women; while from herself all that
officially was required was assiduous attention, unremitting readiness
for every summons to the dressing-room, not unfrequent long readings,
and perpetual sojourn at the palace.


KEEPER OF THE ROBES.

Not till within a few days of the departure of Mrs. Haggerdorn for
Germany, there to enjoy, in her own country and family, the fruits
of her faithful services, was the vacation of her place made public;
when, to avoid troublesome canvassings, Dr. Burney was commissioned to
announce in the newspapers her successor.

Open preparations were then made for a removal to Windsor; and a
general leave-taking of the Memorialist with her family and friends
ensued.

Not, indeed, a leave-taking of that mournful cast which belongs to
great distance, or decided absence; distance here was trifling, and
absence merely precarious; yet was it a leave-taking that could not be
gay, though it ought not to be sad. It was a parting from all habitual
or voluntary intercourse with natal home, and bosom friends; since she
could only at stated hours receive even her nearest of kin in her
apartments; and no appointment could be hazarded for abroad, that the
duties of office did not make liable to be broken.

These restrictions, nevertheless, as they were official, Dr. Burney was
satisfied could cause no offence to her connexions: and with regard to
her own privations, they were redeemed by so much personal favour and
condescension, that they called not for more philosophy than is almost
regularly demanded, by the universal equipoise of good and evil, in all
sublunary changes.

General satisfaction and universal wishing joy ensued from all around
to Dr. Burney; who had the great pleasure of seeing that this disposal
of his second daughter was spread far and wide through the kingdom, and
even beyond its watery bounds, so far as so small an individual could
excite any interest, with one accord of approbation.

But the chief notice of this transaction that charmed Dr. Burney, a
notice which he hailed with equal pride and delight, was from Mr.
Burke; to whom it was no sooner made known, than he hastened in person
to St. Martin’s-street with his warm gratulations; and, upon missing
both father and daughter, he entered the parlour, to write upon a card
that he picked from a bracket, these flattering words:

                  “MR. BURKE,
  “To congratulate upon the Honour done by
         “The QUEEN to MISS BURNEY,—
              “And to HERSELF.”


WINDSOR.

The 17th of July, 1786, was the day appointed by the Queen for the
entrance into her Majesty’s establishment of Dr. Burney’s second
daughter.

Mrs. Ord, the worthy and zealous friend of Dr. Burney and his family,
who, with even maternal affection, had long delighted to place the
Memorialist by the side of her own and most amiable daughter, in
chaperoning them to assemblies, or large societies; insisted upon
resigning her kind adoption at the very place where it must necessarily
cease, by being herself the convoy of the new Robe-keeper to Windsor.
Dr. Burney, therefore, made his own carriage follow that of Mrs. Ord
merely as a baggage-waggon, and to bring him afterwards back to town;
as Mrs. Ord meant to travel on from Windsor to Bath.

The serene kindness of this excellent lady, who was enchanted at this
appointment, kept up the gaiety of Dr. Burney to an height with his
satisfaction, by banishing all discourse upon the only drawbacks to his
contentment; immediate parting, and permanent separation from under his
roof.

To their no small surprise, they did not find Mrs. Delany at home; but
her lovely great niece[14] flew out, with juvenile joy, to hail the
approaching residence of the Memorialist so near to the habitation of
her aunt.

Mrs. Ord soon took leave, to proceed on her journey to Bath. Cordial
and cheering was her congratulatory shake of the hand with Dr. Burney;
but when she came to the quitting embrace with the new Windsor
resident, an involuntary check to her pleasure, at sight of the
disturbed air of its object, started into her eyes, and ran down her
cheeks. But though thus sensible to foregoing an almost continual
intercourse with a fondly favourite companion, her native equanimity of
disposition soon resumed its steadiness; for sensibility, though now
and then the excursive guest of sudden emotion, is soon chased for
something wiser, at least, if not better, when it comes not in contact
with habitual sympathies. She uttered, therefore, her kind wishes, and
auspicious auguries of royal favour, with the usual firmness of her
calm temperament; and then, with cheerful satisfaction, repaired to her
carriage.

Mrs. Delany appeared shortly afterwards, and received her guests with
an ardour as animated as that of her little niece, and nearly as
youthful. Sensibility here was the characteristic of the composition.
Untamed by age, unexhausted by calamity, it still crimsoned her pale
cheeks, still brightened, or dimmed her soft eyes, as sorrow or as joy
touched her still sensitive heart.

Delightful to Dr. Burney was the sight of her expansive pleasure;
delightful and congenial. His own ever airy spirits caught the gay
infection. He saw in it a gentle solace to every private care of his
daughter, and an augmentation of every enjoyment: while the view of
such blithe and pure hilarity, in beings so beloved and so revered,
could not but mitigate the fears, the doubts, the fond regrets that
waive over every experimental change of life to a reflecting mind.

To Mrs. Delany,—her time of life, her heart-rending recent loss of
the friend most dear to her upon earth, and the tender affection she
had conceived for the Memorialist considered—this appointment, which
brought immediately and constantly within her reach, a person, whom she
knew to be attached to her by the warmest ties of love and veneration,
seemed an event too romantic for reality; and almost she thought it,
she said, a dream.

The absence of Mrs. Delany had been occasioned by the honour of taking
an airing with her Majesty; to whom intelligence was immediately
conveyed of the arrival of the new attendant; which as immediately was
followed by a command for that attendant to mount the hill forthwith to
the Queen’s Lodge.

An abridged account of the rest of this day’s transaction will be
copied from a letter of Dr. Burney,


  “TO LEMUEL SMELT, ESQ.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “When the summons from the Queen arrived, Mrs. Delany,
  who most kindly persuaded me to remain a day or two at
  Windsor, to see my daughter installed in her new office,
  persuaded me to walk with her to the Lodge. The weather
  was very fine, and the distance next to nothing. The
  approach, nevertheless, was so formidable to the poor
  new Robe-keeper, that I feared she would not be able
  to get thither. She turned pale, her lips quivered, and
  she found herself so faint, that it was with the utmost
  difficulty she reached the portico; whence we were shewn
  immediately, by one of the pages, to her stated apartment.

  “This seizure was by no means from any panic at advancing
  to the presence of her Majesty, for that she already
  knew to be all gentleness and benignity; it was but the
  aggregate of her feelings in quitting her family and
  her friends; with whom she had ever lived in the most
  perfect harmony, and of whose cordial affection she was
  gratefully convinced.

  “She had scarcely a moment to indulge in these
  reflections, ere she was conducted, by a page, to her
  Majesty; from whose sight she returned to me in a quarter
  of an hour, quite revived; and relieved and rejoiced
  me past measure by saying, that the Queen’s reception
  had been so gracious, or rather so kind, as to have had
  the effect of a potent cordial; a cordial, dear Sir, of
  which, you may imagine, I had my full portion.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “After dining the next day at Mrs. Delany’s, and walking
  in the evening upon the terrace, where I received
  congratulatory compliments from various friends I there
  met; and where I was honoured with the gracious notice
  of their Majesties, and nearly a quarter of an hour’s
  conversation; I called, in my way back to Mrs. Delany,
  upon my daughter in her new abode; and had the happiness
  to find her in recruiting spirits, and much pleased and
  flattered by all that had passed during the course of
  the day. And when, the following noon, I called again
  to take leave ere I returned to town, I heard that she
  had received visits and civilities from the whole female
  household at present resident at Windsor. She likes her
  apartments extremely. Her sitting room, which is large
  and pleasant, is upon the lawn before the lodge, and has
  in full view, but at a commodious distance, the walk
  that leads to the terrace, which, of course, is gay and
  thronged with company; yet never noisy, nor riotously
  crowded.

  “I left her with the most comforting hope that her
  spirits will be soon entirely restored; for the
  condescending goodness of her Majesty is so sweet and
  gracious, that she is quite penetrated with reverence and
  gratitude. And I have since had a completely satisfactory
  letter from her, in which she says, ‘I have been told
  frightful stories of the precipices and brambles I shall
  find in my paths in a residence at court; but my road, on
  the contrary, only grows smoother and smoother; so that,
  if precipices and brambles there may be to encounter,
  they have not, at least, jutted forth to terrify me on
  the onset: I therefore hope that they will not occur till
  I am so well aware of their danger, that I shall know how
  to step aside without tumbling from one, or being torn by
  the other.’

  “But that which most has touched the new Robe-keeper,
  is the delicacy with which her Royal Mistress, during
  the first three or four days, forbore to call her into
  office, though she called her into presence. It was
  merely as if she had been a visitor; and one for whom the
  Queen deigned herself to furnish topics of conversation;
  an elegance so engaging, that it enabled the noviciate to
  glide into her office gradually, and without fright or
  embarrassment.

  “The Princesses, also, every one of the lovely six,
  come occasionally, upon various small pretences, to
  her apartment, with a sweetness of speech and manner
  that seems almost eager to shew her favour. The little
  Princess Amelia is brought often by her nurse,[15] at her
  own playful desire.

  “I should make my letter of an unreasonable length,
  even, dear Sir, to you, if I were to enumerate all the
  flattering and encouraging things that have come to my
  knowledge, not from the household only, but from many
  others; all uniting to tell me, that no one speaks of
  this appointment without pleasure and approbation. The
  Bishop of Salisbury[16] said this to me aloud on the
  terrace, the first evening; and my daughter was much
  gratified by such episcopal approvance. The Bishop added
  that his brother, Lord Barrington, declared there never
  was any thing of the sort more peculiarly judicious than
  this choice. I mention these circumstances in hopes of
  exculpating you, dear Sir, in some measure, for your kind
  partialities upon this event; and I will frankly add,
  that though I have had the good fortune to marry to my
  own contentment three of my daughters, I never gave one
  of them away with the pride or the pleasure I experienced
  in my gift of last Monday.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Burney now felt perfectly, nay thankfully, at ease, as to the lot
of his second daughter; who was distinguished in her new abode by the
most noble benignity, and addressed even with elegance by all of the
royal race who honoured her with any notice; a graciousness which, to
Dr. Burney, in whose composition loyalty bore a most conspicuous sway,
produced an even exulting delight.

His correspondence with the new Robe-keeper was active, lively,
incessant; and he had no greater pleasure than in perusing and
answering her letters from Windsor Lodge.

As soon as it was in his power to steal a few days from his business
and from London, he accepted an invitation from Mrs. Delany to pass
them in her abode, by the express permission, or rather with the lively
approbation of the King and Queen; without which Mrs. Delany held it
utterly unbecoming to receive any guests in the house of private, but
royal hospitality, which they had consigned to her use.

The Queen, on this occasion, as on others that were similar, gave
orders that Dr. Burney should be requested to dine at the Lodge
with his daughter; to whom devolved, in the then absence of her
coadjutrix, Mrs. Schwellenberg, the office of doing the honours of a
very magnificent table. And that daughter had the happiness, at this
time, to engage for meeting her father, two of the first characters for
virtue, purity, and elegance, that she had ever known,—the exemplary
Mr. Smelt, and the nearly incomparable Mrs. Delany. There were, also,
some other agreeable people; but the spirited Dr. Burney was the
principal object: and he enjoyed himself from the gay feelings of his
contentment, as much as by the company he was enjoyed.

In the evening, when the party adjourned from the dining-room to the
parlour of the Robe-keeper, how high was the gratification of Dr.
Burney to see the King enter the apartment; and to see that, though
professedly it was to do honour to years and virtue, in fetching Mrs.
Delany himself to the Queen; which was very generally his benevolent
custom; he now superadded to that goodness the design of according an
audience to Dr. Burney; for when Mrs. Delany was preparing to attend
his Majesty, he, smilingly, made her re-seat herself, with his usual
benign consideration for her time of life; and then courteously entered
into conversation with the happy Dr. Burney.

He opened upon musical matters, with the most animated wish to hear the
sentiments of the Doctor, and to communicate his own; and the Doctor,
enchanted, was more than ready, was eager to meet these condescending
advances.

No one at all accustomed to Court etiquette could have seen him without
smiling: he was so totally unimpressed with the modes which, even in
private, are observed in the royal presence, that he moved, spoke, and
walked about the room without constraint; nay, he even debated with
the King precisely with the same frankness that he would have used with
any other gentleman, whom he had accidentally met in society.

Nevertheless, a certain flutter of spirits which always accompanies
royal interviews that are infrequent, even with those who are least
awed by them, took from him that self-possession which, in new, or
uncommon cases, teaches us how to get through difficulties of form, by
watching the manoeuvres of our neighbours. Elated by the openness and
benignity of his Majesty, he seemed in a sort of honest enchantment
that drove from his mind all thought of ceremonial; though in his usual
commerce with the world, he was scrupulously observant of all customary
attentions. But now, on the contrary, he pursued every topic that was
started till he had satisfied himself by saying all that belonged to
it; and he started any topic that occurred to him, whether the King
appeared to be ready for another, or not; and while the rest of the
party, retreating towards the wainscot, formed a distant and respectful
circle, in which the King, approaching separately and individually
those whom he meant to address, was alone wont to move, the Doctor,
quite unconsciously, came forward into the circle himself; and, wholly
bent upon pursuing whatever theme was begun, either followed the King
when he turned away, or came onward to meet his steps when he inclined
them towards some other person; with an earnestness irrepressible to go
on with his own subject; and to retain to himself the attention and the
eyes—which never looked adverse to him—of the sweet-tempered monarch.

This vivacity and this nature evidently amused the King, whose candour
and good sense always distinguished an ignorance of the routine of
forms, from the ill manners or ill-will of disrespect.

The Queen, also, with a grace all her own towards those whom she
deigned to wish to please, honoured her Robe-keeper’s apartment with
her presence on the following evening, by accompanying thither the
King; with the same sweetness of benevolence of seeking Mrs. Delany, in
granting an audience to Dr. Burney.

No one better understood conversation than the Queen, or appreciated
conversers with better judgment: gaily, therefore, she drew out, and
truly enjoyed, the flowing, unpracticed, yet always informing discourse
of Dr. Burney.


DR. HERSCHEL.[17]

One morning of this excursion was dedicated to the famous Herschel,
whom Dr. Burney visited at Slough; whither he carried his daughter,
to see, and to _take a walk_ through the immense new telescope of
Herschel’s own construction. Already from another very large, though,
in comparison with this, very diminutive one, Dr. Herschel said he
had discovered 1500 universes! The moon, too, which, at that moment,
was his favourite object, had afforded him two volcanos; and his own
planet, or the _Georgium Sidus_, had favoured him with two satellites.

Dr. Burney, who had a passionate inclination for astronomy, had a
double tie to admiration and regard for Dr. Herschel, who, both
practically and theoretically, was, also, an excellent musician.
They had much likewise in common of suavity of disposition; and they
conversed together with a pleasure that led, eventually, to much
after-intercourse.

The accomplished and amiable Mr. Smelt joined them here by appointment;
as did, afterwards, the erudite, poetical, and elegant Dr. Hurd,
Bishop of Worcester, and author of the Marks of Imitation; whose fine
features, fine expression, and fine manners made him styled by Mr.
Smelt “The Beauty of Holiness;” and who was accompanied by the learned
Dr. Douglas, afterwards Bishop of Salisbury.

Miss Herschel, the celebrated comet-searcher, and one of the most truly
modest, or rather humble, of human beings, having sat up all night at
her eccentric vocation, was now, much to their regret, mocking the
day-beams in sound repose.

       *       *       *       *       *

In similar visits to his daughter, Dr. Burney had again and again the
high honour and happiness of being indulged with long, lively, and most
agreeable conversations with his Majesty; who, himself a perfectly
natural man, had a true taste for what, in a court—or, in truth, out
of one—is so rarely to be met with,—an unsophisticated character.

And thus, congenial with his principles, and flattering to his taste,
softly, gaily, salubriously, began for Dr. Burney the new career of his
second daughter. It was a stream of happiness, now gliding on gently
with the serenity of enjoyment for the present; now rapidly flowing
faster with the aspiring velocity of hope for the future.


MRS. DELANY.

What a reverse to this beaming sunshine was floating in the air! A
second year was yet incomplete, when a cloud intercepted the bright
rays that had almost revivified Dr. Burney, by suddenly and for ever
closing from his view the inestimable, the exemplary, the venerated
friend of his daughter, Mrs. Delany; for sudden was this mortal
eclipse, though, at her great age, it could never be unexpected.

And yet, it was not the death of age that carried her hence; no
shattering preparatory warning, either corporeally debilitating, or
intellectually decaying, had raised that alarm which teaches the waning
value, as well as duration, of life; and makes grief in the survivors
blush at its selfishness; and regret appear nearly a crime. Her eyes
alone had failed, and those not totally. Nor even was her general
frame, though enfeebled, wholly deprived of its elastic powers. She
was still upright; her air and carriage were full of dignity; all her
motions were graceful; and her gestures, when she was animated, had a
vivacity almost sportive. Her exquisitely susceptible soul, at every
strong emotion, still mantled in her cheeks: and her spirits, to the
last, retained their innocent gaiety; her conversation its balmy tone
of sympathy; and her manners, their soft and resistless attraction;
while her piety was at once the most fervent, yet most humble.

The immediate cause of her death was an inflammation of the chest,
brought on by a cold. Skill and care were unavailing for this world;
and she, though she accepted, sought them not; her pious spirit
had been long and cheerfully, though not impatiently, prepared for
another—a better!

She seemed, indeed, to grieve at leaving her darling young niece; and a
generous sorrow touched her kind and tender heart for the deep sadness
with which she knew she must be mourned, almost incessantly mourned,
by her latest adopted, but not least loved friend; to whom she left,
by her faithful Astley, this affecting message: “Tell her—when I am
gone—for I know how she will miss me!—tell her how much comfort she
must always feel, in reflecting how mightily my latter days have been
soothed by her!” Words of such heart-melting tenderness, that they
consoled at once, and redoubled the survivor’s grief.

Dr. Burney was amongst the last persons that she mentioned; and with
a kindness the most touching; but the latest name that, on the night
of her death, she pronounced to this Memorialist, was that of the
King; to whom she sent her most grateful duty, with a petition that he
would deign to accept her humble bequest of what she thought the least
worthless amongst her paintings, and what he most had approved.

When faintly, but most impressively, she had articulated this message,
she spoke a word of fondness to her sorrowing niece; and murmured a
gentle, a tender “Good night!” to her afflicted friend; and then, with
evident intent to compose her mind to pious meditation, she turned away
her head; uttering, though with closed eyes, but a cheerful smile upon
her lips; “And now—I’ll go to sleep!—”

This was not more than a quarter of an hour ere, to all human
perception, that sleep became eternal![18]


GEORGE THE THIRD.

Such was the cloud that obscured the spring horizon of Dr. Burney
in 1788; but which, severely as it damped and saddened him, was
but as a point in a general mass, save from his kind grief for his
heart-afflicted daughter, compared with the effect produced upon him
by the appalling hurricane that afterwards ensued; though there, he
himself was but as a point, and scarcely that, in the vast mass of
general woe and universal disorder, of which that fatal storm was the
precursor.

The war of all the elements, when their strife darts with lightnings,
and hurls with thunder, that seem threatening destruction all around,
is peace, is calm, is tameness and sameness, to that which was caused
by the first sudden breaking out of a malady nameless, but tremendous,
terrific, but unknown, in the King—that father of his people, that
friend of human kind.

To mourn here was but the nation’s lot; daily to rise in the most
anxious expectation; nightly to go to rest in the most fearful dismay,
was but the universal fate, from the highest peer to the lowest peasant
of Great Britain. With one heart the whole empire seemed to beat for
his sufferings; and to unite with one voice in supplication for his
recovery.

This malady, however, so baleful in itself, so affrighting in its
concomitants, so agitating in its effects, is now become not a page
but a volume of history. All recurrence to it here would, therefore,
be superfluous; especially as Dr. Burney, though amongst the most
poignantly interested in its progress, from the loyalty of his
character joined to the situation of his daughter, had no intelligence
upon the subject but such as was public: for the Memorialist received
the commands of her Majesty, immediately upon the breaking out of
alarm, not to touch upon this calamity in a single letter sent from the
Lodge, even to her father: an order which she strictly obeyed, till,
first, the evil had become publicly known, and, next, was worn away.

This event, then, is foreign to all domestic memoirs; and to such
as are political, Dr. Burney’s can have no pretensions. It will
rapidly, therefore, be passed over, in consonance with the intentions
of the Doctor, manifested by an entire omission of any intervening
memorandums, from his grief at the illness, to his joy at the recovery
of his Sovereign; a joy which, however diversified by the endless
shadings of multitudinous circumstances, was almost universally felt by
all ranks, all classes, all ages; and hailed by a chorus of sympathy,
that resounded in songs of thanksgiving and triumph throughout the
British empire.

The Heavens then,—as far as the Heavens with the transitory events
of living man may be assimilated—once again were clear, transparent,
and bright with lustre to every loyal heart in the King’s dominions.
The royal sufferer, renovated in health, mental and corporeal,
re-instated in his exalted functions, and restored to the benediction
of his family, the exercise of his virtues, and the enjoyment of his
beneficence; suddenly emerged from an enveloping darkness of mystery
and seclusion, to an unexampled eclât of popularity; reverberating
from every voice, beating in every heart; streaming from every eye, to
hail his sight, wherever even a glimpse of him could be caught, with a
joy that seemed to shed over his presence a radiance celestial.

Who, in the fair front of humble individual rejoicers, stood more
prominent in vivacity of exultation than Dr. Burney? whose whole soul
had been nearly monopolized by the alternating passions of fear, hope,
pity, or horror, successively awakened by the changeful rumours that
coloured, or discoloured, all intelligence during the illness.


WINDSOR.

And yet—though joy flew to his bosom with such exalting delight, when
that joy had spent its first effervescence; when, exhausted by its own
eager ebullition, it subsided into quiet thankfulness—did Dr. Burney
find himself in the same state of self-gratulation at the position of
his daughter, as before that blight which bereaved her of Mrs. Delany?
did he experience the same vivid glow of pleasure in her destination,
that he had felt previously to that tremendous national tempest that
had shaken the palace, and shattered all its dwellers, through terror,
watchfulness, and sorrow?

Alas, no! the charm was broken, the curtain was dropt! the scene was
changed by unlooked-for contingencies; and a catastrophe of calamity
seemed menacing his peace, that was precisely the reverse of all that
the opening of this part of his life’s drama had appeared to augur of
felicity.

The health of his daughter fell visibly into decay; her looks were
alarmingly altered; her strength was daily enfeebling; and the native
vivacity of her character and spirits was palpably sinking from
premature internal debility.

Nevertheless, not the first, nor even the twentieth, was Dr. Burney to
remark this change. Natively unsuspicious of evil, the pleasure with
which his sight always lighted up the countenance of his daughter, kept
him long in ignorance of the threatening decline which, to almost all
others who beheld her, was apparent. But when her family and friends
perceived his delusion, they conceived it to be more kind to give him
timely alarm, than to leave him to make the discovery himself—perhaps
too late. They agreed, therefore, after various consultations, to point
out to him the aspect of danger.

This indeed, was a blight to close, in sickly mists, the most brilliant
avenues of his parental ambition. It was a shock of the deepest
disappointment, that the one amongst his progeny on whom fortune had
seemed most to smile, should be threatened with lingering dissolution,
through the very channel in which she appeared to be gliding to honour
and favour; and that he, her hope-beguiled parent, must now, at all
mundane risks, snatch her away from every mundane advantage; or incur
the perilous chance of weeping over her precipitated grave.

Yet, where such seemed the alternative, there could be no hesitation:
the tender parent took place of the provident friend, and his decision
was immediate to recal the invalid from all higher worldly aspirations
to her retired natal home.

The gratitude of his daughter at this paternal tenderness rose to
her eyes, in her then weakened state, with constant tears every time
it occurred to her mind; for well she knew how many a gay hope, and
glowing fond idea, must be sacrificed by so retrograde a measure.

Medical aid was, however, called in; but no prescription was
efficacious: no further room, therefore, was left for demur, and with
the sanction, or rather by the direction of her kind father, she
addressed a letter to the Queen—having first besought and obtained her
Majesty’s leave for taking so direct a course.

In this letter, the Memorialist unreservedly represented the
altered state of her health; with the fears of her father that her
constitution would be utterly undermined, unless it could be restored
by retirement from all official exertions. She supplicated, therefore,
her Majesty’s permission to give in her resignation, with her humblest
acknowledgments for all the extraordinary goodness that had been shown
to her; the remembrance of which would be ever gratefully and indelibly
engraven on her heart.

Scarcely with more reluctance was this letter delivered than it was
received; and as painful to Dr. Burney were the conflicting scenes that
followed this step, as had been the apprehensions by which it had been
produced. The Queen was moved even to tears at the prospect of losing a
faithful attendant, whom she had considered as consecrated to her for
life; and on whose attachment she had the firmest reliance: and the
reluctance with which she turned from the separation led to modifying
propositions, so condescendingly urgent, that the plan of retreat was
soon nearly melted away from grateful devotion.

To withstand any kindness is ungenial to all feeling; to withstand
that which a Sovereign deigns to display is revolting to the orders of
society. The last person upon earth was Dr. Burney for such a species
of offence; from week, therefore, to week, and from month to month,
this uncertain state of things continued, and his daughter kept to her
post; though, from the view of her changed appearance, there was almost
an outcry in their own little world at such continual delay.

In no common manner, indeed, was Dr. Burney beset to adhere to his
purpose; he was invoked, conjured, nay, exhorted, by calls and
supplications from the most distinguished of his friends, which,
however gratifying to his parental feelings, were distressful to his
loyal ideas from his conviction that the gracious wish of detention
sprung from a belief that the restoration of the invalid might be
effected without relinquishing her place.


MR. BOSWELL.

And while thus poignantly he was disturbed by this conflict, his
daughter became accidentally informed of plans that were in secret
agitation to goad his resolves. Mr. Boswell, about this time, guided
by M. de Gaiffardiere, crossed and intercepted her passage, one Sunday
morning, from the Windsor cathedral to the Queen’s lodge.

Mr. Boswell had visited Windsor to solicit the King’s leave, which
graciously had been granted, for publishing Dr. Johnson’s dialogue with
his Majesty.

Almost forcibly stopping her in her path, though making her an
obsequious, or rather a theatrical, bow, “I am happy,” he cried, “to
find you, Madam, for I was told you were lost! closed in the unscalable
walls of a royal convent. But let me tell you, Madam!” assuming his
highest tone of mock-heroic, “it won’t do! You must come forth, Madam!
You must abscond from your princely monastery, and come forth! You were
not born to be immured, like a tabby cat, Madam, in yon august cell! We
want you in the world. And we are told you are very ill. But we can’t
spare you.—Besides, Madam, I want your Johnson’s letters for my book!”

Then, stopping at once himself and his hearer, by spreading abroad both
his arms, in starting suddenly before her, he energetically added, “FOR
THE BOOK, Madam! the first book in the universe!”

Swelling, then, with internal gratulation, yet involuntarily
half-laughing, from good-humouredly catching the infection of
the impulse which his unrestrained self-complacency excited in
his listener, he significantly paused; but the next minute, with
double emphasis, and strong, even comic gesticulation, he went on:
“I have every thing else! every thing that can be named, of every
sort, and class, and description, to show the great man in all his
bearings!—every thing,—except his letters to you! But I have nothing
of that kind. I look for it all from you! It is necessary to complete
my portrait. It will be the First Book in the whole universe, Madam!
There’s nothing like it—” again half-laughing, yet speaking more and
more forcibly; “There never was,—and there never will be!—So give me
your letters, and I’ll place them with the hand of a master!”

She made some sportive reply, to hurry away from his urgency; but he
pursued her quite to the Lodge; acting the whole way so as to make
gazers of all whom they encountered, and a laughing observer of M.
de Gaiffardiere. “You must come forth, Madam!” he vociferated; “this
monastic life won’t do. You must come forth! We are resolved to a
man,—we, The Club, Madam! ay, THE CLUB, Madam! are resolved
to a man, that Dr. Burney shall have no rest—poor gentleman!—till he
scale the walls of your august convent, to burn your veil, and carry
you off.”

At the iron gate opening into the lawn, not daring to force his
uninvited steps any farther, he seriously and formally again stopped
her, and, with a look and voice that indicated—don’t imagine I am
trifling!—solemnly confirmed to her a rumour which already had reached
her ears, that Mr. Windham, whom she knew to be foremost in this
chivalrous cabal against the patience of Dr. Burney, was modelling
a plan for inducing the members of the Literary Club to address a
round-robin to the Doctor, to recall his daughter to the world.

“And the whole matter was puissantly discussed,” added Mr. Boswell,
“at THE CLUB, Madam, at the last meeting—Charles Fox in the
chair.”

The alarm of this intimation sufficed, however, to save the Doctor from
so disconcerting an honour; for the next time that the invalid, who,
though palpably waning away, was seldom confined to the house, went to
Westminster Hall during the trial of Mr. Hastings, and was joined by
Mr. Windham, she entreated that liberal friend to relinquish his too
kind purpose; assuring him that such a violent measure was unnecessary,
since all, however slowly, was progressive towards her making the essay
so kindly desired for her health, of change of air and life.

Mr. Windham, at first, persisted that nothing short of a round-robin
would decisively re-urge Dr. Burney to his “almost blunted purpose.”
But when, with equal truth and gratitude, she seriously told him
that his own personal influence had already, in this most intricate
difficulty, been persuasively powerful, he exclaimed, with his ever
animated elegance, “Then I have not lived in vain!” and acquiesced.


WINDSOR.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, Horace Walpole, and all the Burkes, were potent
accomplices in this kind and singular conspiracy; which, at last, was
suddenly superseded by so obviously a dilapidated state of health
in its object, as to admit of no further procrastination; and this
uncommon struggle at length ended by the entrance at Windsor of a
successor to the invalid, in July, 1791; when, though with nearly as
much regret as eagerness, Dr. Burney fetched his daughter from the
palace; to which, exactly five years previously, he had conveyed her
with unmixed delight.

It is here a duty—a fair and a willing one—to mention, that in an
audience of leave-taking to which the Memorialist was admitted just
before her departure, the Queen had the gracious munificence to insist
that half the salary annexed to the resigned office should be retained:
and when the Memorialist, from fullness of heart, and the surprise
of gratitude, would have declined, though with the warmest and most
respectful acknowledgments, a remuneration to which she had never
looked forward, the Queen, without listening to her resistance, deigned
to express the softest regret that it was not convenient to her to do
more.[19]

All of ill health, fatigue, or suffering, that had worked the necessity
for this parting, was now, at this moment of its final operation,
sunk in tender gratitude, or lost in the sorrow of leave-taking;
and the Memorialist could difficultly articulate, in retiring, a
single sentence of her regret or her attachment: while the Queen, the
condescending Queen, with weeping eyes, laid her fair hand upon the arm
of the Memorialist, repeatedly and gently wishing her happy—“well,
and happy!” And all the Princesses were graciously demonstrative of a
concern nearly amounting to emotion, in pronouncing their adieus. Even
the King, the benign King himself, coming up to her, with an evident
intention to wish her well, as he entered the apartment that she was
quitting, wore an aspect of so much pity for her broken health, that,
utterly overpowered by the commiserating expression of his benevolent
countenance, she was obliged, instead of murmuring her thanks, and
curtseying her farewell, abruptly to turn from him to an adjoining
window, to hide a grateful sensibility of his goodness that she could
neither subdue, nor venture to manifest.

A minute or two he deigned to wait in silence her resumption of
self-command, that he might speak to her; but finding she could not
enough recover to look round, he moved silently, and not very fast,
away; taking with him a fervency of prayers and blessings that issued
from the heart’s core of his humblest, but most grateful subject.

No one, not even the bitterest of his political enemies, could have
passed five years under the roof of his Majesty George the Third,
and have seen him, whether overwhelmed by the most baneful of
calamities, or brightened by the most unexampled popularity, always,
through every vicissitude, save in the immediate paroxysms of his
malady, HIMSELF unchanged, in zeal for his people; in tender
affection for his family; and in the kindliest benevolence for all
his household—without looking up to him with equal reverence and
attachment, as a being of the most stainless INTENTIONAL
purity both in principle and in conduct.


1791.

Arrived again at the natal home, Dr. Burney welcomed back his daughter
with the most cheering tenderness. All the family,—and in the same
line in partial affection,—Mr. and Mrs. Locke, hastened to hail and
propitiate her return; and congratulatory hopes and wishes for the
speedy restoration of her health poured in upon the Doctor from all
quarters.

But chiefly Mrs. Crewe, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Messrs. Windham,
Horace Walpole, and Seward, started forward, by visits or by letters,
upon this restitution, with greetings almost tumultuous; so imbued had
been their minds with the belief that change of scene and change of
life, alone could retard a change more fatal.


MR. BURKE.

Mr. Burke was at Beaconsfield; and joined not, therefore, in the kind
participation which the Doctor might else have hoped for, on the
re-appearance of his invalid daughter in those enlightening circles of
which Mr. Burke, now, was the unrivalled first ornament.

It may here be right, perhaps, as well as interesting, to note, since
it can be done upon proof, the kindness of heart and liberality of
Mr. Burke, even in politics, when not combatted by the turbulence and
excitement of public contention. Too noble, indeed, was his genuine
character, too great, too grand, for any warp so offensive to mental
liberty, as that of seeking to subject the opinions of his friends to
his own.

This truth will be amply illustrated by the following letter, written
in answer to some apology from Dr. Burney, for withholding his vote,
at a Westminster Election, from the friend and the party that were
canvassed for in person by Mr. Burke.


  “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.

        “Farewell, farewell, illustrious friend!
      Sent here thy art, and men, to mend;
      Farewell, dear friend!—in vain I try
      To think of thee without a sigh!
      If in life’s long and active round
      Thy equal I so rarely found,
      How, in my few remaining days,
      While nature rapidly decays,
      Can hope persuade, in flattering strain,
      Thy niche will e’er be fill’d again?
        Thy loss is not to art alone,
      Which placed thee on Apelles’ throne;
      Society has lost still more,
      Which both the good and wise deplore;
      Thy friends dispers’d, of joy bereft,
      No stand, no central point have left;
      For when fate cut thy vital thread,
      And number’d thee among the dead;
      To all who had seen thee give a glow
      Wherever wit and wisdom flow;
      Who, at thy hospitable board
      Had seen thee lov’d, rever’d, ador’d;
      Who knew thy comprehensive mind,
      Thy zeal for worth of every kind;
      Who, in thy Aristippan bowers,
      Forgot thy pencil’s magic powers,—

      To these, the nation’s light and pride,
      Of wit the source, of taste the guide,
      From all the heart most precious deems,
      Thy loss an amputation seems.”


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.”

       *       *       *       *       *


1793.

This happy summer excursion may be said to have charmed away, for a
while, from Dr. Burney, a species of evil which for some time had
been hovering over him, and which was as new as it was inimical to
his health; and as unwelcome as, hitherto, it had been unknown to
his disposition; namely, a slow, unfixed, and nervous feverishness,
which had infested his whole system; and which, in defiance of this
salubrious episode, soon ruthlessly returned; robbing his spirits, as
well as his frame, of elasticity; and casting him into a state the
least natural to his vigorous character, of wasteful depression.

His recent mental trials had been grievous, and severely felt. The
loss of his old and much valued friend, Mr. Hayes; and of his far more
admired, and almost equally prized favourite, Sir Joshua Reynolds;
joined to that of his early and constantly attached patron, the Earl
of Orford, had all been inflicted, or been menacing, at the same time:
and a continual anxious watchfulness over the gradual deterioration of
health, and decay of life, of three such cherished friends, now nearly
the last of early associations—had been ill adapted for impeding the
mischief of the long and deeper disturbance caused by the precarious
health, and singular situation, of his second daughter: and the
accumulation of the whole had, slowly and underminingly, brought him
into the state that has been described.

The sole employment to which, during this morbid interval, he could
turn himself, was the difficult, the laborious work of composing the
most learned and recondite canons and fugues; to which study and
exposition of his art, he committed all the activity that he could
command from his fatigued faculties.

This distressing state lasted, without relief or remittance, till
it was suddenly and rudely superseded by a violent assault of acute
rheumatism; which drove away all minor or subservient maladies, by the
predominance of a torturing pain that nearly nullified every thing but
itself.

He was now ordered to Bath, where the waters, the change of scene, the
casually meeting with old friends, and incidentally forming new ones;
so recruited his health and his nerves, by chasing away what he called
the foul fiend that had subjugated his animal spirits, that he was soon
imperceptibly restored to his fair genial existence.

One circumstance, more potent, perhaps, in effect, than the concurrence
of every other, contributed to this revivifying termination, by a
power that acted as a spell upon his mind and happiness; namely,
the enlightening society of the incomparable Mr. Burke; who, most
fortunately for the invalid, was then at Bath, with his amiable wife,
his beloved son, and his admiring brother; and whose own good taste led
him to claim the chief portion of Dr. Burney’s recreative leisure. And
with Mr. Burke Dr. Burney had every feeling, every thought, nay, every
emotion in common, with regard to that sole topic of the times, the
French Revolution.

Dr. Burney wrote warmly of these meetings to the Memorialist, by whom
he well knew no subject would be more eagerly welcomed; and he finished
his last Bath details with these flattering words: “I dined, in all,
eight times at the Burkes’, where every day, after dinner, your health
was constantly given by Mr. Burke himself, as his favourite toast.”


GENERAL D’ARBLAY.

The deep public interest which Doctor Burney, whether as a citizen of
the world, or a sound patriot, took in the disastrous situation of
France, was ere long destined to goad yet more pungently his private
feelings, from becoming, in some measure, personal.

At the elegant mansion of the friend, whose sight she never met but
with mingled tenderness and reverence, Mr. Locke, the Doctor’s second
daughter, began an acquaintance that, imperceptibly, led to a connexion
of high esteem and genial sympathy, that no opposition could dispirit,
no danger intimidate, and no time—that impelling underminer of nearly
all things—could wither.

But though to the strong hold of an attachment of which the basis is
a believed congeniality of character, no difficulties are ultimately
unconquerable; the obstacles to this were more than commonly
formidable. M. d’Arblay was at that time so situated, that he must
perforce accompany the friend with whom he acted, Count Louis de
Narbonne, to Switzerland; or decide to fix his own abode permanently
in England, in the only manner which appeared desirable to him, a home
connexion with a chosen object.

Not a ray of hope opened then to point to any restoration in France
of Order and Monarchy with Liberty, to which M. d’Arblay inviolably
adhered; and exile from his country, his family, and his friends,
seemed to him a lot of blessedness, in comparison to joining the
murderous and regicidical republic.

Dr. Burney, it may well be believed, was startled, was affrighted,
when a proposition was made to him for the union of his daughter with
a ruined gentleman—a foreigner—an emigrant; but the proposition came
under the sanction of the wisest as well as kindest of that daughter’s
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Locke, of Norbury Park; and with the fullest
sympathies of his cherished Susanna, who already had demonstrated the
affection, and adopted the conduct, of a sister to M. d’Arblay. The
Doctor could not, therefore, turn from the application implacably; he
only hesitated, and demanded time for consideration.

The dread of pecuniary embarrassment, secretly stimulated and
heightened by a latent hope and belief in a far more advantageous
connexion, strongly opposed a free and happy consent to an alliance
which, otherwise, from all he heard or could gather of the merits, the
character, and rank in life of M. d’Arblay, he would have thought, to
use his own words, “an honour to his daughter, to himself, and to his
family.”

Fortunately, about this time, the Prince de Poix and the Comte de
Lally Tolendahl, wrote some letters, in which were interspersed their
personal attestations of the favour in which they knew M. d’Arblay to
have stood with Louis XVI.; mingled with their intimate conviction
of the spotless honour, the stainless character, and the singularly
amiable disposition for which, in his own country, M. d’Arblay had been
distinguished.

These letters, with their writers’ permission, were shewn to Dr.
Burney; whom they so touched, nay, charmed, as to conquer his prudence
of resistance: and at the village of Mickleham, in the vicinity of
Norbury Park, the marriage took place.

Mr. Locke, whose unerring judgment foresaw what would make both parties
happy; and whose exquisite sensibility made all virtuous felicity
a bosom joy to himself, took the responsible part of father to M.
d’Arblay, at the altar, where, in the absence of the Doctor, Captain
Burney gave his sister to that gentleman: who quickly, or rather
immediately, won from his honoured new relation, an esteem, a kindness,
and an affection, that never afterwards failed or faded.

Of sterner stuff than entered into the composition of Dr. Burney must
that heart have been moulded, that could have witnessed the noble
conduct of that truly loyal sufferer in the calamities of his king and
country, General d’Arblay; and could have seen the cheerful self-denial
with which he limited his expenditure to his wants, and his wants
to the mere calls of necessity; save where he feared involving his
partner in his privations,—in one word, who could have beheld him,
at the opening of his married career, in the village of Bookham, turn
instantly from the uncontrolled restlessness, and careless scorn of
foresight, of the roving military life, into a domestic character of
the most sage description; renouncing all foreign pleasures; retiring
from even martial ambition, though it had been the glory of his hopes,
and the bent of his genius, without a murmur, since he no longer
thought it coalesced with honour; for home occupations, for family
economies, for fireside enjoyments,—and not be struck by such manly
self-command, such active, such practical virtue.


THE KING AND QUEEN.

And while stilled by this generous prudence were the inward fears of
Dr. Burney with regard to this union, his outward and more public
solicitudes were equally removed, by a letter which his daughter
d’Arblay had the high honour and joy to receive, written by royal
order, in answer to her respectful information of her marriage to the
Queen: containing, most benignly by his own command, the gracious good
wishes of the King himself, joined to those of the Queen and all the
Princesses, for her health and happiness.


MR. BURKE.

And, next only to this deeply gratifying condescension, must be ranked
for Dr. Burney, the glowing pleasure with which he welcomed, and copied
for Bookham, the cordial kindness upon this occasion of Mr. Burke.
The letter conveying its energetic and most singular expression, was
written to Dr. Burney by the great orator himself; and speaks first of
a plan that had his fullest approbation and most liberal aid, suggested
by Mrs. Crewe, in favour of the French emigrant priests; from which
Mr. Burke proceeds to treat of the taking of Toulon by Lord Hood; and
his, Mr. Burke’s, hope of ultimate success, from the possession of that
great port and arsenal of France in the Mediterranean; after which he
adds:

  “Besides my general wishes, the establishment of Madame
  d’Arblay is a matter in which I take no slight interest;
  if I had not the greatest affection to her virtues, my
  admiration of her incomparable talents would make me
  desirous of an order of things which would bring forward
  a gentleman of whose merits, by being the object of her
  choice, I have no doubt: his choice of her too would give
  me the best possible opinion of his judgment.

  “I am, with Mrs. Burke’s best regards, and all our best
  wishes for you and M. and Madame d’Arblay, my dear Sir,

  “Yours, &c.

   “EDMD. BURKE.”[32]

And Mrs. Burke, in a postscript of her own, writes:

  “Will you be so good as to make my very best compliments
  to Madame d’Arblay, and tell her that no person can more
  sincerely wish her every happiness than I do.”

Not even the highly flattered, highly honoured Bookham Hermits
themselves could read these generous words from the pen of Mr. Burke,
whose personal kindness must apologise for their extraordinary
exaggeration, with more vivid delight than they excited in the heart of
Dr. Burney, by new stringing his hopes, and lightening his anxieties,
upon this alliance.


FRENCH EMIGRANT CLERGY.

The zeal of Mrs. Crewe to propitiate the cause of the Emigrant French
Clergy, mentioned in the letter of Mr. Burke, induced her now to enlist
as a principal aid-de-camp to her scheme, Dr. Burney; who, having
never acquired that power of negation, which the world at large seems
so generally to possess, of shirking all personal applications that
lead to no avenue, whether straight or oblique, of personal advantage,
immediately listened to her call; and thus mentions the subject in a
letter to Bookham.

“Mrs. Crewe, having seen at East Bourne a great number of venerable
and amiable French Clergy, suffering all the evils of banishment and
beggary with silent resignation, has, for some time, had in meditation
a plan for procuring an addition to the small allowance that the
Committee at the Freemason’s Hall is able to spare from the residue of
the subscriptions and briefs in their favour.”

Dr. Burney lost not a moment in assisting this liberal design; in which
he had the happiness of engaging the powerful energies of Mr. Windham.
And, soon afterwards, growing warmer in the business, from seeing more
of the pious sufferers, he consented to becoming honorary secretary
himself to the private society of the ladies who were at the head of
this charitable exertion; of which the Marchioness of Buckingham[33]
was nominated chief, at the desire of Mrs. Crewe.

The world is so full of claims, and of claimants for whatever has
money for its object, that the benign purpose of these ladies was soon
offensively thwarted from misapprehension, envy, or ill-will, that
sought to excite in its disfavour the prejudices ever ready, of John
Bull against foreigners, till his justice is enlightened by an appeal
to his generosity. Mrs. Crewe wrote warm lamentations on the subject to
Dr. Burney, eagerly pressing him to engage his daughter in its cause.

“I never,” said the Doctor, in discussing this project, “receive a
letter from Mrs. Crewe, in which she does not express her wishes that
_you_ would subscribe with your _pen_. ‘People in common,’ she truly
says, ‘see the coarse, vulgar side of this business; and some good
female writer would do well to put out some short essay, to throw a
good colouring on such a subject; and bring precedents, if possible,
out of the age of chivalry. Now Miss Burney never shone more than
when she made her Cecilia burst from the shackles of common forms
at Vauxhall, to save the life of Harrel. O! I wish Madame d’Arblay
would let us all thank her again for such true pictures of taste and
perfection in the moral world! The refinements of courts have been
great; but they have seldom reached the heart; and I think genuine
elegance was much oftener to be found amongst our ancestors; who,
though, perhaps, too strict concerning the female sex, seem, by their
writings, hardly ever to have let refinements interfere with the
operations of reason and common sense.’”

This quotation was followed by earnestly encouraging exhortations from
the Doctor, to charge the new recluse to make some effort in favour of
this pious emigrant clergy; and as the request had the full concurrence
of M. d’Arblay, to whose every feeling the plan was touchingly
interesting, her compliance, though fearful, could not be reluctant.

This was the origin and cause of The Address to the Ladies of Great
Britain, in favour of the Emigrant French Priests, that was written for
those venerable sufferers, as a pen-offering subscription from this
Memorialist.

And the partial view that was taken of it by her fellow recluse;
and the warm approvance accorded to it by Mrs. Crewe’s new private
secretary, made the writer esteem it the most fortunate effusion of
that pen.

Mrs. Doctor Burney was amongst the most active workers for these pious
self-sacrificed exiles: as well as for whatever had charity for its
object.


GENERAL D’ARBLAY.

Such were the exertions of Dr. Burney, such the concurrent occupations
of the happy new recluse, when suddenly a whirlwind encompassed the
cottage of the latter, that involved its tenants in tremulous disorder.

It was raised by the taking of Toulon, just mentioned in the letter of
Mr. Burke; and began its workings upon the female hermit on the evening
of a day which had brightly dawned upon her, in bringing the junction
of the suffrage of her father upon her pamphlet to that of her life’s
partner.

Her own account of this shock, written to Dr. Burney, will here be
inserted, because it was preserved by the Doctor as characteristic of
the principles and conduct of his new son-in-law.

  “_Bookham, 1794._

  “TO DR. BURNEY.

  “When I received the last letter of my dearest father,
  and for some hours after, I was the happiest of human
  beings; I make no exception. I think none possible. Not
  a wish remained for me—not a thought of forming one!

  “This was just the period—is it not always so?—for a
  stroke of sorrow to reverse the whole scene! That very
  evening, M. d’Arblay communicated to me his desire of
  re-entering the army, and—of going to Toulon!

  “He had intended, upon our marriage, to retire wholly
  from public life. His services and his sufferings, in his
  severe military career,—repaid by exile and confiscation,
  and for ever embittered to his memory by the murder of
  his sovereign, had fulfilled, though not satisfied, the
  claims of his conscience and his honour, and led him,
  without a single self-reproach, to seek a quiet retreat
  in domestic society: but—the second declaration of Lord
  Hood no sooner reached this obscure little dwelling;
  no sooner had he read the words Louis XVII. and the
  Constitution, to which he had sworn, united, than his
  military ardour re-kindled, his loyalty was all up in
  arms, and every sense of monarchical patriotism now
  carries him back to war and public service.

  “I dare not speak of myself!—except to say that I have
  forborne to distress him by a single solicitation. All
  the felicity of that our own chosen and loved retirement,
  would effectually be annulled, by the smallest suspicion
  that it was enjoyed at the expense of any public duty.

  “He is now writing an offer for entering as a volunteer
  into the army destined for Toulon; together with a list
  of his past services up to his becoming Commandant of
  Longwy; and the dates of his various promotions to the
  last recorded of Marechal de Camp, which was yet unsigned
  and unsealed, when the captivity of Louis XVI. forced the
  emigration which brought M. d’Arblay to England.

  “This memorial he addresses and means to convey in person
  to Mr. Pitt.”

       *       *       *       *       *

To Dr. Burney, with all his consideration for his daughter, this
enterprise appeared not to be inauspicious; and its spirit and loyalty
warmly endeared to him his new relative: who could not, however, give
proof of the noble verity of his sentiments and intentions, till many
years later; for before the answer of Mr. Pitt to the memorial could be
returned, the attempt upon Toulon proved abortive.


1794.

The Doctor continued in his benevolent post of private Secretary to
the charitable ladies of the Emigrant Clergy Contribution, so long as
the Committee lasted; though with so expert a distribution of time,
that his new office robbed him not of the pleasure to yet enlarge the
elegance of his literary circles, by being initiated into the Blue
parties of Lady Lucan, supported by her accomplished daughter, Lady
Spencer.


MR. MASON.

He now, also, renewed into long and social meetings, at his own
apartments at Chelsea college, an acquaintance of forty-six years’
standing with Mason, the poet; by whom he was often consulted upon
schemes of church psalmody, with respect both to its composition and
execution; as well as upon other desirable improvements in our sacred
harmony; which Mr. Mason, from practical knowledge both of music and
poetry, was peculiarly fitted to investigate and refine.

Of this formation of intimacy, rather than renewal of acquaintance,
Dr. Burney, in his Letters to the Hermits, spoke with great pleasure;
though, while always admiring the talents, and esteeming the private
character of that charming poet, he never lost either his regret or
his blame for the truly unclerical use made of his powers of wit and
humour, by the insidious, yet biting sarcasms, levelled against his
virtuous Sovereign in the poetical epistle to Sir William Chambers.

Had any crime been held up to view, there might have been an exaltation
of courage in not suffering the Throne to be its protector; or had any
secret vice, that was undermining moral duties, been exposed, there
might have been a nobleness of intrepid indignation in casting upon
it the glare of public contempt. But the shaft was levelled at one
who had neither crime nor vice; an exemption so rare, that it ought
to have created respect for the lowest born subject in the realm; and
therefore, when marking the character of a monarch, became a call, a
commanding call, to every lover of virtue—be his politics what they
might—for being blazoned with public applause, as an excitement to
public example.


MR. MALONE.

Dr. Burney grew closely connected, also, with that indefatigable
anecdote-hunter; date-ferretter; technical difficulty-solver; and
collector of various readings—Mr. Malone.


HON. FRED. NORTH.

And he had the happiness of often meeting with the Hon. Frederic
North, afterwards Earl of Guildford; whose pleasant wit, practical
urbanity, and persevering love of enterprise, made him full of original
entertainment; whilst his unvarying gaiety of good-humour enabled
him to discard spleen from pain, and to banish murmuring from even
the acutest fits of the gout; though maimed by them, distorted, and
crippled.

Upon his first visit to Dr. Burney, at Chelsea College, Mr. Frederick
North appeared there upon crutches, and with difficulty hobbled into
the library; yet he advanced with a smile, saying, that though he
must obsequiously beg permission to produce himself in such a plight
elsewhere, he boldly felt at home in coming with wooden legs to Chelsea
Hospital.


1795.

The health of Dr. Burney was at this time most happily restored to
the full exercise of all his powers of life. In a letter written to
Bookham, at the close of the spring season, he says:

  “I have been such an _evaporé_ lately, that if I were
  near enough to accost you _de vive voix_, it would be
  with Susey’s[34] exclamation, when she was just arrived
  from France, at only eleven years old, after staying at
  Mrs. Lewis’s till ten o’clock one night, “_Que je suis
  libertine, papa!_” And thus, “_Que je suis libertin, ma
  fille!_” cry I. Three huge assemblies at Spencer House;
  two dinners at the Duke and Duchess of Leeds; two ditto
  at Mr. Crewe’s; two clubs; a _dejeuner_ at Mrs. Crewe’s
  villa, at Hampstead; a dinner at Lord Macartney’s;
  ditto at Mr. Locke’s; ditto at Mr. Coxe’s; two ditto
  at Sir George Howard’s, at Chelsea; two philosophical
  _conversationes_ at Sir Joseph Bankes’s; two operas; two
  professional concerts; Haydn’s benefit; Salomon’s three
  ancient musics; &c. &c. &c.

  “What dissipating profligacy! But what _argufies_ all
  this festivity? ’Tis all vanity, and exhalement of
  spirit. I was tired to death of it all before it was
  over: whilst your domestic occupations and pleasures are
  as fresh every morning as the roses of your garden.”

The following is the sportive conclusion of another letter, written in
the season of fashionable engagements.

  “When shall I have done with telling you of _mes bonnes
  fortunes_? Betty Carter, Hannah More, Lady Clarges—nay,
  t’other day, at Dickey Coxe’s, I met with the Miss Berrys, as
  lively and accomplished as ever; and I have strong invites
  to their cottage at Strawberry Hill. What say you to that,
  ma’am?—

  “Torn to pieces, I declare!”


MR. ERSKINE.

The Doctor now, in truth, became so universally in fashion, that he was
even sought, much to his amusement, by those against whose principles,
as far as they were political, he was invariably at war; namely, sundry
celebrated oppositionists.

In his letter to the Hermits he particularizes in this liberty list,
Mr. Mason, Mr. Stonehewer, Sir William Jones, Mr. Hayley, Mr. Godwin,
and the first Lord Lansdowne; ending with Mr. Erskine,[35] whom he had
met at two dinners, and to whose house he had been invited to a third
convivial meeting: and here this renowned orator and new acquaintance
fastened upon the Doctor with all the volubility of his eloquence,
and all the exuberance of his happy good-humour, in singing his own
exploits and praises, without insisting that his hearer should join
in chorus; or rather, perhaps, without discovering, from his own
self-absorption, that that ceremony was omitted.


CAROLINE, PRINCESS OF WALES.

The _dejeuner_ above mentioned of Mrs. Crewe at her little villa, at
Hampstead, was given in honour of Caroline, Princess of Wales.[36]
To this, in order to compliment at once the rank and the taste of
her Royal Highness, Mrs. Crewe invited whoever she thought most
distinguished, either in situation or in talents. Under the latter
class, she was not likely to forget her old friend, Dr. Burney; whose
name her Royal Highness no sooner heard, than she desired Mr. Windham
to bring him to her for presentation. “And then,” the Doctor in his
diary relates, “she said, in very good English, ‘How do you do, Dr.
Burney? You and I are not strangers. You are very well known in
Germany, and often mentioned there; _car, enfin, vous êtes un homme
celebre_.’”

“After which,” the Doctor’s diary goes on, “in the little colloquial
debates, and playful defences of general conversation, she commonly and
flatteringly referred to me for arbitration, saying: ‘Is it not so, Dr.
Burney? You are a wise man, and must know of the best.’”

“The next time her Royal Highness had music, I was remembered for a
summons to Blackheath, forwarded to me by the very agreeable and very
deserving Miss Hayman. And here the Princess had the politeness and
condescension to shew me her plantations and improvements.

“The music performed was chiefly of Mozart; and her Royal Highness, on
piece following piece of the same composer, cried: ‘I hope you like
Mozart, Dr. Burney?’ ‘No compositions can better deserve your Royal
Highness’s favour,’ I answered; ‘for his inventions and resources are
inexhaustible: and his vocal music, of which we knew nothing in England
till after he was dead, surpasses in beauty even his instrumental;
which had so justly, in this country, obtained him the warmest
applause.’ The music was so good, and her Royal Highness was so lively,
that Mrs. Crewe, whom I had the honour to accompany, could not take
leave till past one o’clock in the morning; and it was past six ere my
jaded horses and I reached Chelsea College.”


MRS. THRALE PIOZZI.

Chiefly cheering, however, and agreeable to the Doctor, was an
unexpected re-meeting with a long favourite friend, from whom he had
unavoidably, and most unpleasantly, been separated,—Mrs. Thrale; whom
now, for the first time, he saw as Mrs. Piozzi.

It was at one of the charming concerts of the charming musician,
Salomon, that this occurred. Dr. Burney knew not that she was returned
from Italy, whither she had gone speedily after her marriage; till
here, with much surprise, he perceived amongst the audience, il Signor
Piozzi.

Approaching him, with an aspect of cordiality, which was met with one
of welcoming pleasure, they entered into talk upon the performers and
the instruments, and the enchanting compositions of Haydn. Dr. Burney
then inquired, with all the interest that he most sincerely felt, after
_la sua consorte_. Piozzi, turning round, pointed to a sofa, on which,
to his infinite joy, Dr. Burney beheld Mrs. Thrale Piozzi, seated in
the midst of her daughters, the four Miss Thrales.

His pleasure seemed reciprocated by Mrs. Piozzi, who, sportively
ejaculating, “Here’s Dr. Burney, as young as ever!” held out to him her
hand with lively amity.

His satisfaction now expanded into a conversational gaiety, that opened
from them both those fertile sources of entertainment, that originally
had rendered them most agreeable to each other; the younger branches,
with amiable good-humour, contributing to the spirit of this unexpected
junction.

The Bookhamite Recluse, to whom this occurrence was immediately
communicated, received it with true and tender delight. Most joyfully
would she, also, have held out her hand to that once so dear friend,
from whom she could never sever her heart, had she happily been of this
Salomonic party.[37]


METASTASIO.

Dr. Burney still, as he had done nearly from the hour that his History
was finished, composed various articles for the Monthly Review.
But so precarious and irregular a call upon his fertile abilities,
sufficed not for their occupation; and he soon started a new work, on
a subject peculiar and appropriate, that came singularly home to his
business and bosom; though it was offered to him only by that fatal
power which daily and unfailingly lavishes before us subjects for our
discussions—and for our tears!—Death; which, some time previously to
the liberation of the Doctor’s mind from the arcana of musical history,
had cast the Life and Writings of the Abate Metastasio upon posterity.

No poet could be more congenial to Dr. Burney than Metastasio, the
purity of whose numbers was mellifluously in concord with the purity
of his sentiments; while both were in perfect unison with the taste
of the Doctor. He considered it, professionally, to be even a duty,
for the Historian of the Art of Music, to raise, as far as in him lay,
a biographical monument to the glory of the man whose poetry, after
that which is sacred, is best adapted to inspire the lyric muse with
strains of genial harmony, in all the impassioned varieties that the
choral shell is capable to generate for the musical enthusiast.

The first object of Dr. Burney in his visit to Vienna, at the period of
his German Tour, had been to see and to converse with Metastasio; whose
resplendent lyrical fame had raised him, in his own dramatic career, to
a height unequalled throughout Europe.

The benign reception given to the Doctor by this amiable and venerable
bard; the charm of his converse; the meekly borne honours by which he
was distinguished and surrounded; and the delightful performances, and
graceful attractions of his Niece, Mademoiselle Martinez, are fully and
feelingly set forth in the third volume of the Musical Tours.

When decided, therefore, upon this subject for his pen and his powers,
he employed himself without delay in preparatory measures for his new
undertaking: and procured every edition of the Poet’s works; to glean
from each all that might incidentally be interspersed of anecdote, in
letters, advertisements, prefaces, or notes.

He was kindly assisted in getting over various documents from Vienna,
by the late Lord Mansfield, who, while Lord Stormont, had been British
Ambassador at that capital when it was visited by Dr. Burney.

The present Earl Spencer, also, liberally aided the passage to England
of some works much wanted, but difficult of attainment.

From Haydn, with whom the Doctor was in constant commerce, and who
chiefly resided at Vienna, he received considerable local and agreeable
help.

And through the generous and judicious friendship of the faithful
Pacchierotti, he was furnished with every species of assistance that
judgment, zeal, and a perfect acquaintance with the calls of the
subject, could suggest.

“In short,” says the Doctor, in a letter to Bookham, “I am prodigiously
hallooed on in my Metastasio mania by all sorts of poets and critics;
and, to bring all to a point, I have a letter, which I inclose for your
perusal, from the enchanting Mademoiselle Martinez.”

Thus powerfully encouraged, the Doctor consigned himself to this new
composition. Not, however, as when working at his History, to the
sacrifice of his ease, his comfort, and his friends: with these, on
the contrary, his spring and winter intercourse were now lively and
frequent; and with some of them he indulged himself in spending a
portion of his summer.


1795.

While he had been blessed by the preservation of Messrs. Crisp, Bewley,
and Twining, he had neither inclination nor time for any diffusion that
would have robbed him of their incomparably endearing and enlightening
society. A few days in rotation were all that he could bestow on his
many other claimants; but the two first of these heart, head, and
leisure-monopolizers, Messrs. Crisp and Bewley, were gone; and had
left a chasm that the third only could fill; and he, Mr. Twining, was
now almost unremittingly occupied in kindly attendance upon a sick and
suffering wife.

The next who, now, ranked nearest to Dr. Burney for consolation and
confidence, was Mrs. Crewe; to whom he would willingly have dedicated
the greatest part of his wandering holidays, but that her country
residence, at Crewe Hall, in Cheshire, exacted two journeys so
incommodious and fatiguing, that it was rarely, and with difficulty,
they could be undertaken.

To his valuable old friend, Mr. Coxe, he gave a week or two, at his
pleasant villa, near Southampton, every season. And he made rambling
visits, of a few days, to Lady Mary Duncan, Sir Joseph Bankes, Mrs.
Boscawen, Mrs. Garrick, Lady Clarges, and several others.

With his two sons, and his eldest daughter, as their residences were
within a few miles of his own abode, he was in constant commerce; but
to his Susanna, since she had been separated from the paternal roof, he
devoted a fortnight every year; and he gratified his fourth daughter,
Charlotte, now resident in Norfolk, with visits rather longer, because
her greater distance from Chelsea made them necessarily less frequent.


BOOKHAM.

In the first of these domestic and amical tours that were made after
the marriage of his second daughter, he suddenly turned out of his
direct road to take a view of the dwelling of the Hermits of Bookham;
in which rural village they were temporarily settled, in a small but
pleasant cottage, endeared for ever to their remembrance from having
been found out for them by Mr. Locke.

It was not, perhaps, without the spur of some latent solicitude, some
anxious incertitude, that Dr. Burney made this first visit to them
abruptly, at an early hour, and when believed far distant; and if so,
never were kind doubts more kindlily solved: he found all that most
tenderly he could wish—concord and content; gay concord, and grateful
content.

When he sent in his name from his post-chaise, the Hermits flew to
receive him; and ere he could reach the little threshold of the little
habitation, his daughter was in his arms. How long she there kept him
she knows not, but he was very patient at the detention! Tears of
pleasure standing in his full eyes at her rapturous reception; and at
witnessing the unsophisticated happiness of two beings who, from living
nearly in the front of life, nourished in retirement no wish but for
its continuance.


CAMILLA; OR A PICTURE OF YOUTH.

The Memoirs of Metastasio, with all their interest to a man whose love
of literary composition was so eminently his ruling passion, surmounted
not—for nothing could surmount—the parental benevolence that welcomed
with encouragement, and hailed with hope, a project now communicated
to him of a new work, the third in succession, from the author of
Evelina and Cecilia.

That author, become now a mother as well as a wife, was induced to
print this, her third literary essay, by a hazardous mode of publicity,
from which her natively-retired temperament had made her, in former
days, recoil, even when it was eloquently suggested for her by Mr.
Burke to Dr. Burney; namely, the mode of subscription.

But, at this period, she felt a call against her distaste at once
conjugal and maternal. Her noble-minded partner, though the most
ardent of men to be himself what he thought belonged to the dignity
of his sex, the efficient purveyor of his own small home and family,
was despoiled, by events over which he had no control, of that post of
honour.

This scheme, therefore, was adopted. Its history, however, would be
here a matter of supererogation, save as far as it includes Dr. Burney
in its influence and effect; for neither the author, nor her partner
in all, could feel greater delight than was experienced by Dr. Burney,
from the three principal circumstances which emanated from this
undertaking.

The first of these was the honour graciously accorded by her Majesty,
Queen Charlotte, of suffering her august name to stand at the head of
the Book, by deigning to accept its Dedication.

The second was the feminine approbation marked for the author by three
ladies, equally conspicuous for their virtues and their understanding;
the honourable and sagacious Mrs. Boscawen, the beautiful and zealous
Mrs. Crewe, and the exemplary and captivating Mrs. Locke; who each kept
books for the subscription, which the kindness of their friendship
raised as highly in honour as in advantage.

And the third circumstance, to the Doctor the most touching, because
now the least expected, was the energetic interest, to which the
prospect of seeing this Memorialist emerge again from obscurity,
re-animated the still generous feelings of the now nearly sinking,
altered, gone Mr. Burke! who, on finding that his charges against Mr.
Hastings were adjudged in Westminster Hall to be unfounded, though
he was still persuaded himself that they were just, had retired from
Parliament, wearied and disgusted; and who, on the following year, had
lost his deeply-attached brother; and, almost immediately afterwards,
his nearly idolized son, who was “the pride of his heart, and the joy
of his existence,” to use his own words in a paragraph of a letter
written to the mutually respected and faithful friend of himself and of
Dr. Burney, Mrs. Crewe.

That lady, well acquainted with the reverence of Dr. Burney for Mr.
Burke, and the attachment with which Mr. Burke returned it, generally
communicated her letters from Beaconsfield to Chelsea College; and not
unfrequently with a desire that they might be forwarded on to Bookham;
well knowing that the extraordinary partiality of Mr. Burke for its
female recluse, would make him more than pardon the kind pleasure of
Mrs. Crewe in granting that recluse such an indulgence.

The letter, whence is taken the fond sad phrase just quoted, was
written in answer to the first letter of Mrs. Crewe to Mr. Burke, after
his irreparable bereavement; and the whole of the paragraph in which it
occurs will now be copied, to elucidate the interesting circumstance
for Dr. Burney to which it led. Beautiful is the paragraph in the
pathetic resignation of its submission. No flowery orator here expands
his imagination; nothing finds vent but the touching simplicity of a
tender parent’s heart-breaking sorrow.


  “TO MRS. CREWE.

  “We are thoroughly sensible of your humanity and
  compassion to this desolate house.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “We are as well as people can be, who have nothing
  further to hope or fear in this world. We are in a state
  of quiet; but it is the tranquillity of the grave—in
  which all that could make life interesting to us is
  laid—and to which we are hastening as fast as God
  pleases. This place[38] is no longer pleasant to us! and
  yet we have more satisfaction, if it may so be called,
  here than anywhere else. We go in and out, without any
  of those sentiments of conviviality and joy which alone
  can create an attachment to any spot. We have had a loss
  which time and reflection rather increase the sense of.
  I declare to you that I feel more this day, than on the
  dreadful day in which I was deprived of the comfort and
  support, the pride and ornament of my existence!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Crewe, extremely affected by this distress, and as eager to draw
her illustrious friend from his consuming grief, as to serve and to
gratify the new Recluse, sent to Beaconsfield the next year, 1795,
the plan, in which she took so prominent a part, for bringing forth
Camilla, or a Picture of Youth; in the hope of re-exciting his interest
for its author.

The following is the answer which, almost with exultation of kindness,
Mrs. Crewe transmitted to the Hermits.


  “TO MRS. CREWE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “As to _Miss Burney_—the subscription ought to be,
  for certain persons, five guineas; and to take but a
  single copy each. The rest as it is. I am sure that it
  is a disgrace to the age and nation, if this be not a
  great thing for her, If every person in England who
  has received pleasure and instruction from Cecilia,
  were to rate its value at the hundredth part of their
  satisfaction, Madame d’Arblay would be one of the richest
  women in the kingdom.

  “Her scheme was known before she lost two[39] of her
  most respectful admirers from this house;[40] and this,
  with Mrs. Burke’s subscription and mine, make the paper I
  send you.[41] One book is as good as a thousand: one of
  hers is certainly as good as a thousand others.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The reader will not, it is hoped, imagine, that the emotion excited
by these words at Bookham sprang from a credulity so simple, or a
vanity so insane, as that of arraigning the judgment of Mr. Burke by
a literal acceptation of their benevolent, rather than flattering
exaltation:—No! the emotion was to find Mr. Burke still susceptible
of his old generous warmth of regard: and that emotion was of the
tenderest gratitude in the Recluse, upon seeing herself still, in
defiance of absence, of distance, of time, and even of deadly sorrow,
as much its honoured object as when she had been sought by him in her
opening career.

The felicitations of Dr. Burney to Bookham upon this extraordinary
effusion of heart-affecting kindness, were so full of happiness, as to
demand felicitations in return for himself.

METASTASIO.

In 1795 the Memoirs of Metastasio made their appearance in the republic
of letters. They were received with interest and pleasure by all
readers of taste, and lovers of the lyric muse. They had not, indeed,
that brightness of popular success which had flourished into the world
the previous works of the Doctor; for though the name of Metastasio
was familiar to all who had any pretensions to an acquaintance with
the classical muses, whether ancient or modern, it was only the
chosen few who had any enjoyment of his merit, or who understood the
motives to his fame. The Italian language was by no means then in its
present general cultivation; and the feeling, exalted dramas of this
tenderly touching poet, were only brought forward, in England, by the
miserable, mawkish, no-meaning translations of the opera-house hired
scribblers.[42] And all that was most elegant and most refined, in
thought as well as in language, of this classical bard, was frequently
so ill rendered into English, as to become mere matter of risibility,
held up for mockery and ridicule.

The translations, or, more properly speaking, imitations, occasionally
interspersed in this work, of some of the poetry of Metastasio, were
the most approved by the best critics; as so breathing the sentiments
and the style of the author, that they read, said Horace Lord Orford,
like two originals.

But the dissertation concerning the rules was what excited most
attention. Dr. Warton, a professed and standard supporter of them and
of Aristotle, confessed, with surprise, that he was shaken from his
firm ancient hold, through the treatise on their subject by Metastasio,
as given, in so masterly a manner, by Dr. Burney.

Mr. Twining, the able and learned commentator and translator of
Aristotle, and one of the most candid of men, allowed himself, also,
to be struck, if not convinced, by the reasoning of Metastasio, as
presented by Dr. Burney.

Mr. Mason, likewise, owned that he was set upon taking quite a new
view of that long-battled topic. And the ingenious Mr. Walker opened
a critical and literary correspondence from Dublin with Dr. Burney,
relative to this interminable question.

Meanwhile, from the public at large, these Memoirs obtained a fair and
satisfactory approvance that kindly sheltered the long-earned laurels
of Dr. Burney from withering, if they elicited not such productive
fragrance as to make those laurels bloom afresh.

On the opening of July, 1796, the parental feelings of Dr. Burney were
auspiciously gratified by the reception of his daughter’s new attempt;
of which the first homage was offered, and graciously received in
person at Windsor, by the King, as well as by the Queen; with the most
benevolent marks of unvaried favour, and with the condescension of
repeated private audiences with the Queen, and with the Princesses,
during a short Windsor sojourn. But that which enchanted beyond his
hopes the Doctor’s fondest desires, was that his daughter had the
signal happiness of naming his foreign-born, though domestic-bosomed
son-in-law, General d’Arblay, to the King, upon the Terrace, by the
gracious motion of his Majesty; who there accorded him the high honour
of a conversation of several minutes.

This, which was the proudest instant of his daughter’s life, was not
less elevating to the loyal heart of the Doctor; who considered it
as an indication that the unsullied conduct and character of General
d’Arblay had reached the ears of the King, who had his Royal Highness
the Duke of York at his side; and who certainly would not himself
thus publicly have sought out and distinguished a foreigner, of whose
principles he could have had any doubt.

       *       *       *       *       *


MR. BURKE.

But—what, next to this highest benignity, had most been coveted by
Dr. Burney, met not his hopes! The kindly predilection of Mr. Burke,
brought forward with such previous and decided partiality for this new
enterprise, never reached its intent. Mr. Burke received it at Bath,
on the bed of sickness, in the anguish of his lingering and ceaseless
depression for the loss of his son; and when he was too ill and weak
to have spirits even to open its leaves; withheld, perhaps, the more
poignantly, from internal recurrence to the happy family parties to
which repeatedly he had read its two predecessors, in the hearing of
him by whom his voice now could be heard no more!

Visited by Mrs. Crewe, soon after the appearance of Camilla in the
world, he said, “How ill I am you will easily believe, when a new work
of Madame d’Arblay’s lies on my table, unread!”[43]

       *       *       *       *       *

To Dr. Burney the result of this publication was fondly pleasing, in
realising a project formed by the willing Hermits, immediately upon
their marriage, of constructing a slight and economical, but pretty and
convenient cottage, for their residence and property.

Most welcome, indeed, to the Doctor was a scheme that had their
settlement in England for its basis: and most consoling to the harassed
mind and fortunes of M. d’Arblay was the prospect of creating for
himself a new home; since his native one, at that time, seemed lost
even to his wishes, in appearing lost to religion, to monarchy, and to
humanity.

Almost instantly, therefore, after the return of the Hermits from the
honoured presentation of Camilla at Windsor, a plan previously drawn up
by M. d’Arblay, was brought forward for execution; and a small dwelling
was erected as near as possible to the Norbury mansion, on a field
adjoining to its Park, and rented by the Hermits from the incomparable
Mr. Locke.


EARL MACARTNEY.

The celebrated embassy of Lord Macartney to China, which had taken
place in the year 1792, had led his lordship to consult with Dr.
Burney upon whatever belonged to musical matters, whether instruments,
compositions, band, or decorations, that might contribute, in that
line, to its magnificence.

The reputation of Dr. Burney, in his own art, might fully have sufficed
to draw to him for counsel, in that point, this sagacious ambassador;
but, added to this obvious stimulus, Lord Macartney was a near relation
of Mrs. Crewe, through whom he had become intimately acquainted with
the Doctor’s merits; which his own high attainments and intelligence
well befitted him to note and to value.

Always interested in whatever was brought forward to promote general
knowledge, and to facilitate our intercourse with our distant
fellow creatures, Dr. Burney, even with eagerness, bestowed a
considerable portion of his time, as well as of his thoughts, in
meditating upon musical plans relative to this expedition; animated,
not alone by the spirit of the embassy, but by his admiration of
the ambassador; who, with unlimited trust in his taste and general
skill, as well as in his perfect knowledge upon the subject, gave
_carte blanche_ to his discretion for whatever he could either select
or project. And so pleased was his lordship both with the Doctor’s
collection and suggestions, and so sensible to the time and the pains
bestowed upon the requisite researches, that, on the eve of departure,
his lordship, while uttering a kind farewell, brought forth a striking
memorial of his regard, in a superb and very costly silver inkstand, of
the most beautiful workmanship; upon which he had had engraven a Latin
motto, flatteringly expressive of his esteem and friendship for Dr.
Burney.

At this present period, 1796, this accomplished nobleman was again
preparing to set sail, upon a new and splendid appointment, of Governor
and Captain-General of the Cape of Good Hope; and again, upon the
leave-taking visit of the Doctor, he manifested the same spirit of
kindness that he had displayed when parting for China.

In a room full of company, to which he had been exhibiting the
various treasures prepared as presents for his approaching enterprise,
he gently drew the Doctor apart, and whispered, “To you, Dr.
Burney, I must shew the greatest personal indulgence, and private
recreation, that I have selected for my voyage.” He then took from a
highly-finished travelling bookcase, a volume of Camilla, which had
been published four or five months; and smilingly said, “This I have
not yet opened! nor will I suffer any one to anticipate a word of it
to me; and, still less, suffer myself to take a glimpse of even a
single sentence—till I am many leagues out at sea; that then, without
hindrance of business, or any impediment whatever, I may read the work
throughout with uninterrupted enjoyment.”

       *       *       *       *       *


MRS. PHILLIPS.

Bright again with smiling success and gay prosperity was this period
to Dr. Burney; but not more bright than brittle! for, almost at its
height, its serenity was broken by a stroke that rent it asunder!—a
wound that never could be healed!

The peculiar darling of the whole house of Dr. Burney, as well as
of his heart; whose presence always exhilarated, or whose absence
saddened every branch of it, his daughter Susanna, was called, by
inevitable circumstances, from his paternal embraces and fond society,
to accompany her husband and children upon indispensable business, to
Ireland; then teeming with every evil that invasion, rebellion, civil
war, and famine, could unite to inflict.

The absence was fixed for only three years; but the dreadful state
of that unfortunate country, joined to the delicate, if not already
declining health of this beloved daughter; with his own advance in
years, made this parting a laceration of gloomy prognostic, almost
appalling. He suffered, however, no vent to these sensations before her
whom they would nearly have demolished: he only permitted them to break
out afterwards to some of his children; and strained her to his bosom,
at the cruel instant of separation, with all he could assume of smiling
hope for her speedy return. While she, though trembling throughout her
shattered frame with the acutest filial tenderness, set off without
a murmur. She wished to sustain her beloved father, not to forsake
herself; and she quitted his honoured presence with excited spirits,
and apparent cheerfulness.

Mixed with some of the Doctor’s poetical effusions, there remains an
elegiac fragment upon this voyage to Ireland, from which the following
lines are extracted.


“_On the departure of my daughter Susan to Ireland._

        “My gentle Susan! who, in early state,
      Each pain or care could soothe or mitigate;
      And who in adolescence could impart
      Delight to every eye, and feeling heart;
      Whose mind, expanding with increase of years,
      Precluded all anxiety and fears
      Which parents feel for inexperienc’d youth,
      Unguided in the ways of moral truth—

         *       *       *       *       *

      On her kind nature, genially her friend,
      A heart bestow’d instruction could not mend:
      Intuitive, each virtue she possess’d,
      And learn’d their foes to shun and to detest.
        “Nor did her intellectual powers require
      The usual aid of labour to inspire
      Her soul with prudence, wisdom, and a taste
      Unerring in refinement; sound and chaste.
        “Yet of her merits this the smallest part—
      Far more endear’d by virtues of the heart,
      Which constantly excite her to embrace
      Each duty of her state with active grace.

         *       *       *       *       *

        “Such was the prop and comfort of my age
      Whose filial tenderness might well assuage
      The sorrows which infirmities produce.

         *       *       *       *       *

        “My vital drama’s now so near its end,
      That the last act’s unlikely to extend
      Till she return.——

         *       *       *       *       *

                          “And yet—
      The few remaining scenes to me allow’d
      Shall not on useless murmurs be bestow’d;
      But, patiently resign’d, I’ll act my part;
      Try each expedient——

         *       *       *       *       *

      And, till the curtain drop, and end the play,
      For my dear Susan’s welfare ardent pray!”

This virtuous resolution the Doctor put in practice with his
utmost might; and, having finished with Metastasio, he turned his
thoughts, with all their functions, critical, elucidating, inventive,
etymological, and didactive, upon a work which he purposed to make the
basis of a composition, or compilation, explanatory of every word,
phrase, and difficulty belonging to the science, the theory, and the
practice of music.

From the impossibility to find place in his History for the whole of
his vast accumulation of materials, there remained in his hands matter
amply adequate for forming the major, and far most abstruse part of a
theoretical dictionary of this description. And, from this time, at
intervals, he laboured at it with his usual vigour.

But not here ended the sharp reverse of this altered year; scarcely had
this harrowing filial separation taken place, ere an assault was made
upon his conjugal feelings, by the sudden, at the moment, though from
lingering illnesses often previously expected, death of Mrs. Burney,
his second wife.

She had been for many years a valetudinarian; but her spirits, though
natively unequal, had quick and animated returns to their pristine
gaiety; which, joined to an uncommon muscular force that endured to the
last, led all but herself to believe in her still retained powers of
revival.

Extremely shocked by this fatal event, the Doctor sent the tidings by
express to Bookham; whence the female recluse, speeded by her kind
partner, instantly set off for Chelsea College. There she found the
Doctor encircled by most of his family, but in the lowest spirits,
and in a weak and shattered state of nerves; and there she spent with
him, and his youngest daughter, Sarah Harriet, the whole of the first
melancholy period of this great change.

It was at this time, during their many and long _tête à têtes_, that he
communicated to her almost all the desultory documents, which up to the
year 1796, form these Memoirs.

His sole occupation, when they were alone, was searching for, and
committing to her examination, the whole collection of letters, and
other manuscripts relative to his life and affairs, which, up to that
period, had been written, or hoarded. These, which she read aloud to
him in succession, he either placed alphabetically in the pigeon-holes
of his bureau, or cast at once into the flames.

The following pages upon this catastrophe are copied from his after
memorandums.

Having briefly mentioned that his second son, Dr. Charles, prevailed
with him to accept a secluded apartment at Greenwich, till the mournful
last rites should be paid to the departed, with whose remains his
daughters continued at Chelsea College, he thus goes on.

  “On the 26th of October, she was interred in the burying
  ground of Chelsea College. On the 27th, I returned to
  my melancholy home, disconsolate and stupified. Though
  long expected, this calamity was very severely felt. I
  missed her counsel, converse, and family regulations; and
  a companion of thirty years, whose mind was cultivated,
  whose intellects were above the general level of her sex,
  and whose curiosity after knowledge was insatiable to
  the last. These were losses that caused a vacuum in my
  habitation and in my mind, that has never been filled up.

  “My four eldest daughters, all dutiful, intelligent, and
  affectionate, were married, and had families of their
  own to superintend, or they might have administered
  comfort. My youngest daughter, Sarah Harriet, by my
  second marriage, had quick intellects, and distinguished
  talents; but she had no experience in household affairs.
  However, though she had native spirits of the highest
  gaiety, she became a steady and prudent character, and
  a kind and good girl. There is, I think, considerable
  merit in her novel, Geraldine, particularly in the
  conversations; and I think the scene at the emigrant
  cottage really touching. At least it drew tears from me,
  when I was not so prone to shed them as I am at present.”

Afterwards, recurring again to his departed wife, he says:

   “In the course of nature, she should not have gone
  before me. She was the admirer and sincere friend of
  that first wife, whose virtues and intellectual powers
  were perhaps her model in early life. Without neglecting
  domestic and maternal duties, she cultivated her mind in
  such a manner by extensive reading, and the assistance
  of a tenacious and happy memory, as to enable her to
  converse with persons of learning and talents on all
  subjects to which female studies are commonly allowed to
  extend; and through a coincidence of taste and principles
  in all matters of which the discussion is apt to ruffle
  the temper, and alienate affection, our conversation and
  intercourse was sincere, cordial, and cheering.

  “She had read far more books of divinity and controversy
  than myself, and was as much mistress of the theological
  points of general dispute as reading and reflection
  could make her; but, within a few days, if not hours,
  of her death, she lamented having perused so many
  polemical works; and advised a female friend, fond of
  such researches, who was with her,[44] not to waste her
  time on such inquiries; saying, ‘they will disturb your
  faith—by leading to endless controversy: they have done
  me no good!’”

In the same memorandum book, occurs, afterwards, the following
paragraph:

  “I shut myself up for some weeks; and, during part of
  that time, while sorting and examining papers with my
  daughter d’Arblay, she found among them the fragment
  of a poem on Astronomy, began at the period of the
  first ascent from balloons, and formed on the idea
  that, by their help, if, in process of time, a steerage
  was obtained, and the art of keeping them afloat, and
  ascending to what height the steersman pleased, was also
  discovered, parties might easily and pleasantly undertake
  voyages to the moon; and, perhaps, to the planets nearest
  to the earth, such as Mars and Venus: without considering
  that each planet and satellite must have its vortex and
  atmosphere filled with different beings and productions,
  none of which can subsist in another region.

  “This wild fancy put it into my daughter d’Arblay’s
  head to persuade me to attempt a serious historical and
  didactic poem on the subject of astronomy; in order to
  employ my time and thoughts during the first stages of my
  sorrow for the losses I had sustained: and, having been a
  dabbler almost all my life in astronomy, I was not averse
  to the proposition.”

To the great satisfaction of this daughter, from the recreative
employment of time to which it led, this idea was neither forgotten nor
set aside; it was, in truth, but a return to the original propensity to
astronomy which had been nourished by his first conjugal partner, who
enthusiastically had shared his taste for contemplating the stars.

In his letters, after the return of the Memorialist to her cottage, the
sadness of his mind is touchingly portrayed. In the first of them he
says:

  “_Nov._—I have been writing melancholy, heart-rending
  letters this day or two, which have oppressed me greatly:
  yet I am still more heartless in doing nothing. The
  author of the poem on The Spleen, says, ‘Fling but a
  stone, the giant dies:’ but such stones as I have to
  fling will not do the business. James and Charles[45]
  dined here yesterday, and kept the monster at a little
  distance; but he was here again the minute they were
  gone. I try to read; but ‘pronounce the words without
  understanding one of them,’ as Dr. Johnson said, in
  reading my Dissertation on the Music of the Ancients.”

And in another letter, of Dec. 2nd, 1796, he writes,—

  “I have been tolerably well in body, but in mind
  extremely languid, and full of heartaches.

  “Few people have been more _repandu_, or more frequently
  forced from home than myself; or more separately occupied
  when there: yet the short intervals I was able to spend
  with my family, ever since I had one, were the happiest
  of my life. Even labour, care, and anxiety, for those we
  love, have their pleasures; and those very superior to
  what can be derived by working and thinking for self.”

Most anxiously, in answer to these communications, the Memorialist
pressed upon him a forced application to his Musical Dictionary; or,
preferably yet, to the last started subject of his balloon ideal
Voyages. But while this, after heavenly hopes, was what she urged for
occupation; what chiefly she brought forward to him as comfort, was the
solace which he had bestowed upon herself, during her late visit, from
witnessing his mild and exemplary resignation. She ardently begged him
to have recourse, for further self-consolation, to his own reflections
upon all that had passed with the poor sufferer during the whole of
their long intercourse; by looking back to his unabated, constant, and
indulgent kindness, through sickness, misfortunes, and time; joined to
the most grievous events, and trying circumstances.


MRS. CREWE.

Mrs. Crewe, whose fancy was as fertile as her friendship was zealous,
perceiving the melancholy state of spirits into which the Doctor had
fallen, sought to awaken him again into new life and activity through
the kindly medium of his parental affections. She suggested to him,
therefore, the idea of a new periodical morning paper, serious and
burlesque, informing, yet amusing, upon _The Times as they Run_;
strictly anti-jacobinical, and professedly monarchical; but allowing no
party abuse, nor personal attack; and striving to fight the battles of
morals and manners, by enlisting reason on their side, and raising the
laugh against their foes.

_The Times as they Ran_, at that epoch, appeared big with every
species of danger that could issue, through political avenues, from
the universal sway of revolutionary systems which occupied, or
revolutionary schemes which bewildered mankind. All thoughts were
ingrossed by public affairs. Private life seemed as much a chimera of
imagination, as reverting to the pastoral seasons of the poets of old,
in wandering through valleys, or ascending mountains, crook in hand,
with sheep, deer, or goats.

Mr. Burke, in his unequalled and unrivalled _Essence of the French
Revolution_,—for such his Essay on that stupendous event may be
called, had sounded a bell of alarm throughout Europe; echoing and
re-echoing, aloud, aloft, around, with panic reverberation,

      “Every man to his post! or
       Havoc will let loose the dogs of war,”

with massacre, degradation, shame, and devastation, “involving
all—save the inflictors!”

Nor vain was the clangor of that bell. All who dreaded evils yet
untried, evils wrapped up in the obscurity of hidden circumstances;
dependent on the million of inlets to which accident opens an entrance;
and of uncertain catastrophe; still more than they recoiled from ills
which, however unpalatable, have been experienced, and are therefore
known not to outstretch the powers of endurance; caught its fearful
sound, and listened to its awful warnings: and the lament of Mr. Burke
that the times of chivalry were gone by, nearly re-animated their
return, from the eloquence with which he pointed them out as antidotes
to the anarchy of insubordination; and spurs to rescue mankind from
hovering degeneracy.

Fraught with these notions, Mrs. Crewe conceived an idea that a weekly
paper upon such subjects, treating them so variously as to keep alive
expectation, by essaying

                    “—— happily to steer
      From grave to gay; from lively to severe,”

might turn to what Mr. Burke, and Dr. Burney, and she herself, deemed
the right way of seeing things, the motley many who, from wanting
reflection to think for themselves, are dangerously led to act by
others.

This weekly paper Mrs. Crewe purposed to call The Breakfast Table. And
it was her desire, expressed in the most flattering terms, that the
Doctor should bear a prominent part in it; but that his daughter should
be the editor and chief.

The letters of Mrs. Crewe on this plan are full of spirit and
ingenuity; and of comic as well as sagacious ideas. “If we are
saved,” she cries, “from the infection, _i. e._ the jacobinism of our
neighbours, it will be through the wise foresight of Mr. Burke; and
from seeing that _persiflage_ has been their bane, and that _Quiz_, if
we are not upon our guard, will be ours; and, above all, from taking
heed that Jacobinism does not carry the day in _polite companies_; for
Newgate never does mischief to society. No! ’tis your fine talkers, and
free-thinkers, and refiners, that are to be feared. Watch but the vital
parts, and the extremities will take care of themselves....

“I mentioned my idea of this paper to our Beaconsfield friends;[46] but
they have enough to do there...!

“I think, indeed, there should be a society to join in this plan;
which should include strictures upon life and manners at the end of
the eighteenth century; to come out in one sheet for breakfast tables.
How folks would read away, and talk, in all great towns, and in all
country-houses; nay, and in London itself; where I remember my poor
mother told me much of the effects produced formerly by periodical
papers; even Pamela, when it came out in that way. Now how well Madame
d’Arblay could manage such a work! and how one and all would join to
get epigrams for her; and bobs at the times, in prose and in verse: and
news from Paris; &c. &c. And we might all have a finger in the pie! and
try to laugh people out of their Jacobinism. Old anecdotes, characters,
and bits of poetry rummaged out of old authors; especially from some of
the quaint, but clever ancient French poets: and a thousand interesting
things that would be read, and tasted, and felt, if well introduced:
and if Madame d’Arblay’s name could be said to preside, it would suit
people’s laziness so well to have matters brought before them all ready
chosen and prepared...!

“And O! how Mr. Burke’s spirit would be _relevé_ by such a spur! which
is now choaked and kept down by gross abuse and disheartedness.

“Think of all this, Dr. Burney; it may employ you. Let it be a secret
at first, and I have no objection to cater for our society of writers.
People love to read the beauties of books; and we might pick out
bits of Mr. Burke’s, so as to impress and shame all out of at least
_creeping_ Jacobinism. I am certain, already, that Mr. Windham would
approve the plan. The only point is to do it well.”

Project upon project, scheme upon scheme, and letter upon letter
followed this opening, and sought, progressively, to make it effective
to the Doctor: while all, by the desire of Mrs. Crewe, was communicated
to Bookham, with the most cordial zeal for attracting its female
recluse from her obscurity, by placing her at the head of a design to
work at _mind_ and _morals_, in concert with the high names of Mr.
Windham, Mr. Canning, and the then Dean of Chester; with various other
honourable persons, marked out, but not yet engaged.

“Do ask Madame d’Arblay,” she continues, “to form some plan. We will
all help to address letters to her, if she will be ‘Dear Spec.’”

She then adds a wish that the nominal Editor should be supposed to
live in the neighbourhood of Sir Hugh Tyrold; whose simplicity of
truth, perplexity of doubts and humility, and laughable originality
of dialect, might produce comic entertainment to enliven the serious
disquisitions.

And, in conclusion, her filial heart, always wedded to the memory of
her distinguished mother, earnestly desired to make this work a mean to
bring forth some “novel characters” of that celebrated lady, that might
be taken from a posthumous manuscript which Mrs. Crewe, long since,
had given to this Memorialist, to finish—if she thought feasible—or
otherwise to edit; but which various impediments had, and still have,
kept unpublished in her hands.

Nothing could be more honourable than such a proposition, nor more
gratefully felt by the then Bookham, and afterwards West Hamble Female
Hermit: but she, who, from the origin of her first literary attempt,
might almost be called an accidental author, could by no means so new
model the natural shyness of her character, as to assume courage for
meeting the public eye with the opinions, injunctions, and admonitions
of a didactic one. Her answer, therefore, to her Father, which, after
communicating to Mrs. Crewe, Dr. Burney preserved, is here abridged
and copied.


“TO DR. BURNEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

“I hardly know whether I am most struck with the fertility of the ideas
that Mrs. Crewe has started, or most gratified at their direction.
Certainly, I am flattered where most susceptible of pleasure, when
kindness such as hers would call me forth from my retirement, to second
views so important in their ends, and demanding such powers in their
progress. But though her opinion might give me courage, it cannot give
me means. I am too far removed from the scene of public life to compose
anything of public utility in the style she indicates. The manners as
they rise; the morals, or their deficiencies, as they preponderate,
should be viewed, for such a scheme, in all their variations, with
a diurnal eye. The editor of such a censorial and didactic work,
should be a watchful frequenter of public places, and live in the
midst of public people. The plan is so excellent, it ought to be well
adopted, and well fulfilled: but many circumstances would render its
accomplishment nearly impossible for _me_. Wholly to omit politics,
would mar all the original design: yet the personal hostility in which
all intermingling with them is entangled, would make a dreadful breach
into the peace of my happiness.” &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then follows a statement of local obstacles to her presiding over such
a project, from the peculiar position of M. d’Arblay; which required
the most inflexible adherence to his cottage seclusion, till he could
dauntlessly spring from it in manifestation of his loyal principles.

“But tell Mrs. Crewe,” she continues, “I entreat you, my dearest
Father, that I am not only obliged, but made the happier by her kind
partiality; and that, if otherwise circumstanced, I should have
delighted to have entered into any scheme in which she would have taken
a part.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Here, at once, ere, in fact, it was begun, this business ended:
Dr. Burney was acquiescent: and Mrs. Crewe was far too high-bred a
character to prosecute any scheme, or persist in any wish of her
own, that opposed the feelings of those whom she meant to please, or
to serve. The topic, therefore, from the most eager pressure, was
instantly cast into silence, from which it quietly dropt into oblivion.


DUKE OF PORTLAND.

But not so passive was Mrs. Crewe with respect to the signal favour
to which the Doctor was rising in the estimation of the Duke of
Portland, with whom, through her partial introduction, a long general
acquaintance was now cementing into an intercourse of peculiar esteem
and regard. His Grace, indeed, conceived so strong a liking to the
principles and the opinions of Dr. Burney, as to manifest the most
flattering pleasure in drawing them forth. And equally he seemed
gratified, whenever they chanced to be _tête à tête_, in unbending his
own mind in unrestrained and kind communication.

To owe the origin of this affectionate attachment to Mrs. Crewe, to
whom already were owing such innumerable circumstances of agreeability,
only heightened its charm. And it was here but the natural effect of
situation—Mrs. Crewe being, at her pleasure, domiciliated at the
various mansions of the Duke, from the marriage of one of her brothers
with Lady Charlotte Bentinck, a daughter of his Grace.

This connexion became, ere long, a spring of spirits as well as
of pleasure to Dr. Burney, in affording him, at Burlington House,
a continually easy access to the highest rank of society of the
Metropolis; and an elegantly prepared sojourn in the country, at the
noble villa of Bulstrode Park; where the distinguished kindness of
the Duke made the visits of the Doctor glide on deliciously to his
satisfaction.


MR. BURKE.

But in the midst of this delectable new source of enjoyment to Dr.
Burney, a deeply-mourned and widely-mournful loss tried again, with
poignant sorrow, his kindliest affections.

On the 10th of July, 1797, he received the following note:—

  “Dear Sir,

  “I am grieved to tell you that your late friend, Mr.
  Burke, is no more. He expired last night, at half-past
  twelve o’clock.

  “The long, steady, and unshaken friendship which had
  subsisted between you and him, renders this a painful
  communication; but it is a duty I owe to such friendship.

  “I am, Dear Sir, &c., “EDW. NAGLE.”

  “_Beaconsfield, 9th July, 1797._”

Hard, indeed, was this blow to Dr. Burney. He lamented this high
character in all possible ways, as a friend, a patriot, a statesman, an
orator, and a man of the most exalted genius.

  “He was certainly,” says his letter to Bookham upon this
  event, “one of the greatest men of the present century;
  and, I think I might say, the best orator and statesman
  of modern times. He had his passions and prejudices, to
  which I did not subscribe; but I always ardently admired
  his great abilities, his warmth of friendship, his
  constitutional urbanity.”

He then adds:—

  “That, while such was his character, and such his loss in
  public, he, (Dr. Burney,) and his daughter, to whom Mr.
  Burke had been so unremittingly and singularly partial,
  must be ungrateful indeed not yet more peculiarly to
  lament his departure, and honour his character in
  private.”

In her answer, she sorrowingly assures the Doctor that there was
nothing to fear of her want of sympathy in this affliction. “I feel
it,” she cries, “with my whole heart, and participate in every word you
say of that truly great man. That he was not, as his enemies exclaim,
perfect, is nothing in the scale of his stupendous superiority over
almost all those who are merely exempt from his defects. That he was
upright in heart and intention, even where he acted erroneously, I
firmly believe: and that he asserted nothing that he had not persuaded
himself to be true, even from Mr. Hastings being the most rapacious
of villains, to the King’s being incurably insane.[47] He was as
liberal in sentiment as he was luminous in intellect, and extraordinary
in eloquence; and for amiability, he was surely, when in spirits
and good-humour—_all but_ the most delightful of men. Yet, though
superior to envy, and glowing with the noblest zeal to exalt talents
and merits in others, he had, I believe, an unavoidable, though not
a vain consciousness of his own greatness, that shut out from his
consideration those occasional and useful self-doubts that keep the
judgment in order, by making us, from time to time, call our motives
and our passions to account.”

The Doctor was amongst the invited who paid the last homage to the
manes of Mr. Burke by attending his funeral.

  “Malone and I,” he says, “went to Bulstrode together,
  in my carriage, with two added horses. We found there
  the Dukes of Portland and Devonshire. Windham arrived to
  dinner. The Lord Chancellor and the Speaker could not
  leave London till four o’clock, but were at Bulstrode by
  seven. All set off together for Beaconsfield, where we
  found the rest of the pall-hearers, Lords Fitzwilliam
  and Inchiquin, Sir Gilbert Elliot, Frederick North, Drs.
  King and Lawrence, Dudley North, and very many of the
  great orator’s personal friends; though, by his repeated
  injunctions, the funeral was ordered to be very private.
  He left a list to whom rings of remembrance were to be
  sent, in which my name honourably occurs; and a jeweller
  has been with me for my measure.

  “After these mournful rites, the Duke of Portland
  included me in his invite back to Bulstrode, with the
  Duke of Devonshire, the Chancellor, the Speaker, Windham,
  Malone, and Secretary King: and there I continued the
  next day.

  “The Duke pressed me to stay on, and accompany him and
  his party to a visit, the following morning, in honour of
  Mr. Burke, that was to be made to the school, founded by
  that enlarged philanthropist, for the male children of
  the ruined emigrant nobility, now seeking refuge in this
  country. But it was not in my power to prolong my absence
  from town.”


DR. WARREN.

Dr. Burney now lost, also, his sagacious physician and enlightened
friend, Dr. Warren; “a loss sad,” he says, “indeed, to his family, to
science, and to hundreds of people whose lives he preserved.”


MRS. CREWE.

The unwearied Mrs. Crewe, grieved at the fresh dejection into which
these reiterated misfortunes cast the Doctor, now started a scheme
that had more of promise than any other that could have been devised of
affording him some exhilaration. This was arranging an excursion that
would lead him to visit the scene of his birth, that of his boyhood,
and that of his education; namely, Shrewsbury, Condover, and Chester;
by prevailing with him to accompany her to Mr. Crewe’s noble ancient
mansion of Crewe Hall: a proposal so truly grateful to his feelings,
that he found it resistless.

The following account of its execution is extracted from his own
letters to the Hermits:

  “The die is thrown; and I have agreed, at last, to go
  down with Mrs. Crewe to the family mansion in Cheshire,
  which Mr. Crewe, as well as herself, has so long pressed
  me to visit. M. le President de Fronteville, a very
  agreeable French gentleman, is to be of the party. But
  dear Mr. Crewe, with his daughter,[48] sets off first,
  to pass a condoling day or two with poor Mrs. Burke at
  Beaconsfield. We are then to join at Wycomb; and thence
  to Oxford; &c.

  “_Crewe Hall, 2d August._

  “I could not get a moment to write on the road, as we
  travelled at a great rate, with Mrs. Crewe’s four horses,
  followed by four post. I have now only time to name what
  places we passed ere we got to old Shrewsbury, which
  lies forty miles out of the right road of dear Mrs.
  Crewe; who so kindly made a point of carrying me thither.
  Blenheim—Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon,—where I
  visited the mansion, or rather _cabane_ of our immortal
  bard, now a butcher’s shop! I sate on his easy chair,
  still remaining in his chimney corner; and wondered
  more than ever how a man living in such a miserable
  house and town, should have attained such sublime
  ideas of grandeur in the most exalted situations.
  Birmingham—Wolverhampton—Nufnal by the Rekin—Watling,
  thought a Roman road—Lord Berwick’s—and, at five o’clock
  in the afternoon, on Monday, old Shrewsbury.

  “I ran away from Mrs. Crewe, who was too tired to walk
  about, and played the Cicerone myself to Miss Crewe,
  who has both understanding and curiosity for gaining
  knowledge, and to M. de Fronteville, to whom I undertook
  to shew off old Shrewsbury; of which I knew all the
  streets, lanes, and parishes, as well as I did sixty
  years ago.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “I found my way, without a single question, to the old
  Town Hall, the New Town House, High Street, and Raven
  Street, where I was born. And then to the Free School,
  founded by Henry VIII. and endowed by his daughter Bess.

  “We went up to the top of the highest tower in the
  Castle, which Sir William Pulteney now inhabits. He has
  repaired every one of the lofty and venerable towers in
  their true ancient and Gothic style. After dinner, I laid
  out _a shilling or two_ with an old bookseller, whom I
  catechised about old people and old things,—but alas! of
  the first, not one creature is now alive whom I remember,
  or who can remember me!

       *       *       *       *       *

   “The next morning, Tuesday, I set off alone, at seven
  o’clock, to visit the new church, St. Chad’s; which is
  a very fine one but so irreverently secular, that it
  would make a very handsome theatre. I then walked in that
  most beautiful of all public walks, as I still believe,
  in the world, called the Quarry; formed in verdant and
  flower-enamelled fields, by the Severn side, with the
  boldest and most lovely opposite shore imaginable.

  “I found my way, also, from this walk to a new bridge,
  called The Welsh Bridge; which leads to Montgomeryshire.
  On the former old one there was a statue, which was
  supposed to be of Llewellen, Prince of Wales; but is
  now discovered to be of the Black Prince. It is well
  preserved, and is not of bad sculpture. I was driven back
  to the inn by the rain.

  “We all adjourned to breakfast with Dr. Darwin, who is
  newly married to a daughter of Mr. Wedgewood’s. They are
  very intelligent, agreeable, and shrewd folks.

  “In a most violent rain, nearly a storm, we left my dear
  old Shrewsbury; and without being able, in such weather,
  to get to my dearer old Condover.

  Yet I could have found nothing there but melancholy
  remembrances; all gone for whom I had cared,—or who had
  cared for me!

  “Crewe Hall was built in the reign of James the First,
  of half Gothic, half Grecian architecture. It is the
  completest mansion I ever saw of that kind; and has been
  repaired and kept up in the exact costume of that period.
  It is a noble house; well fitted, and well applied to
  hospitality. Mr. Crewe is one of the politest men in his
  own house, and one of the best landlords that I know.

  “The park, in the midst of which the mansion stands, is
  well wooded and planted. There is a noble piece of water
  in sight of my window, nearly of the same effect as that
  of Blenheim, allowing for the different magnitude of the
  mansions and grounds. Mrs. Crewe has a little _ferme
  ornée_, to which she sometimes retires when the house is
  crowded with mixed company. ’Tis fitted up with infinite
  fancy and good taste. She has established there a school
  of forty girls, who are taught needle-work and reading.
  The outside is built in imitation of a convent, and the
  matron is called the Abbess.

  “When I had passed, most agreeably, about a fortnight
  at Crewe Hall, Mrs. Crewe fulfilled her kind promise
  of making an excursion to Chester, knowing how much I
  yearned to see again that city of my youth. Miss Crewe,
  and M. le President alone made the party; which turned
  out most pleasantly. I ran about Chester, the rows,
  walls, cathedral, and castle, as familiarly as I could
  have done fifty years ago; visited the Free School,
  where I Hic, hæc, hoc’d it three or four years; and the
  cathedral, where I saw and heard the first organ I ever
  touched.

  “From Chester, we went to Liverpool by water, on a new
  canal that communicates with the river Mersey. The
  passage-boat was very convenient, and the voyage very
  pleasant. The sight of the shipping from the Mersey is
  very striking. We put up at the Hôtel; passed all the
  morning in visiting Liverpool, the docks, warehouses,
  &c., which we were shewn by Mr. Walker, a rich and great
  ship-broker, and an acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Crewe’s.
  Mrs. Walker is a really elegant and agreeable woman.

  “Eight Jamaica ships had come in for Mr. Walker a few
  days before our arrival, by which he cleared £10,000. We
  dined at his villa, two or three miles from the town,
  on turtle; and afterwards went to the play, at a pretty
  theatre, where the performance was good.


  “We then took a little dip into a charming part of Wales,
  about Wrexham, and visited Lady Cunliffe, wife of Sir
  Foster, _capo di casa_ of a very old and worthy family of
  my acquaintance of very many years. She is an elegant and
  most pleasing woman; the house is just finished by Wyatt,
  in exquisite taste; as is the furniture, &c. &c.

  “At the end of a month, the President and I took leave,
  reluctantly, of Crewe Hall, and set off together for
  London. Mrs. Crewe made a party with us, the first day,
  to Trentham Hall, the very fine place of the Marquis of
  Stafford. We were very hospitably as well as elegantly
  received by the Marchioness. The park, through which the
  river Trent runs; the woods; the valley of Tempe; the
  iron bridge over a large and clear piece of water; the
  pictures, all fine in their way; and the house, lately
  altered and enlarged by Wyatt: all this we saw to great
  advantage, for almost all, in compliment to Mrs. and Miss
  Crewe, was shewn us by the Marchioness herself.

  “We thence went to Wedgewood’s famous pottery, called
  Etruria, and witnessed the whole process of that
  ingenious and beautiful manufactory, of which the produce
  is now dispersed all over the world. Mrs. Crewe wanted to
  send you a mighty pretty hand churn for your breakfast
  table; but I was sure it would be broken to pieces in
  the journey, and did not dare take it in charge. Here I
  parted with that dear Mrs. Crewe.


LITCHFIELD.

  “The President and I got to Litchfield about ten o’clock
  that night; and the next morning, before my companion was
  up, I strolled about the city with one of the waiters, in
  search of

  Dr. Johnson’s good negro, Frank Barber, who, I had been
  told, lived there; but, upon inquiry, I found that his
  residence was in a village four or five miles off: I
  saw, however, the house where Dr. Johnson was born; and
  where his father, ‘an old bookseller,’ died. The house
  is stuccoed; has five sash windows in front; and pillars
  before it. It is in a broad street, and is the best house
  thereabouts, though it is now a grocer’s shop!

  “I next went to the Garrick mansion; which has been
  repaired, stuccoed, enlarged, and sashed. Peter Garrick,
  David’s elder brother, died nearly two years ago, leaving
  all his property to the apothecary who had attended him:
  but the will was disputed and set aside not long since;
  it having been proved at a trial, that the testator
  was insane at the time the will was made; so that Mrs.
  Doxie, Garrick’s sister, a widow with a numerous family,
  recovered the house and £30,000. She now lives in it with
  her children, and has been able to set up her carriage.
  The inhabitants of Litchfield were so pleased with the
  decision of the Court, that they illuminated the streets,
  and had public rejoicings on the occasion.

  “I next tried to find the abode of Dr. James, inventor
  of the admirable fever powder, which so often has saved
  the life of our dear Susan, and of others without number;
  but the ungrateful Litchfieldites knew nothing about him!
  I could find only one old man who remembered or knew
  even that he was a native of the town! ‘The man who has
  lengthened life’ to be forgotten at his natal place! and
  already!

  “The Cathedral here is the most complete and beautiful
  Gothic building I ever saw. The outside was very ill-used
  by the fanatics of the last century; but there are three
  perfect spires still standing, and more than fifty
  whole-length figures of saints in their original niches.
  The choir is exquisitely beautiful. A fine new organ is
  erected, and was well played. I never heard the cathedral
  service so well performed, to that instrument only,
  before. The services and anthems were of middle-aged
  music, neither too old and dry, nor too modern and
  light; the voices subdued, and exquisitely softened and
  sweetened to the building.

  “I found here a monument to Garrick; and another just
  by it to Johnson. The former put up by Garrick’s widow;
  the latter by Johnson’s friends. Both are beautiful, and
  alike in every particular of workmanship.”

  Note of Dr. Burney’s, in a memorandum book of this year,
  1797:

  “I beg that my pilgrimage to Litchfield, in 1797, may
  somewhere be recorded in my Memoirs, from memorandums made
  on the spot, after visiting the house where Dr. Johnson was
  born, and his father kept a bookseller’s shop; the house where
  Garrick lived, and his elder brother died; and seeking in vain
  for the birth-place, or at least residence, of Dr. James.”


POEM ON ASTRONOMY.

Upon the return of Dr. Burney to Chelsea, his astronomical project
became his greatest amusement as well as occupation. In a memorandum
upon its idea he writes:

  “Very early in life I collected all the books I could
  attain upon this subject. I was already, therefore,
  in possession of a good number; to which I now added
  whatever I could procure from France, as well as in
  England. And with these, having the free run of Sir
  Joseph Bankes’ scientific library, with that of the
  Royal Society, and of the Museum, I obtained such
  ample materials, that I took my daughter d’Arblay’s
  advice, and, in little more than a year from the time
  that I began the work, I had made a rough sketch of an
  historical and didactic Poem on Astronomy.”

This enterprise, shortly afterwards, so grew upon his fancy, that, to
use again his own words,

  “Every spare minute I now devote to astronomy and its
  history, which I try incessantly to versify, but find
  very difficult to render poetical. This probably,
  however, may be the case with most didactic poems.”

In another letter to the Hermitage on this subject, in which he
describes his various whirls of business and engagements, he sportively
cries:

  “And, after fulfilling them all, instead of going to
  sleep, like a mere dull mortal, I take a flight upon
  Pegasus to the moon, or to some planet, or fixed star.”

And, a little later, he writes:

  “Do you know that I have had the assurance to mention my
  planetary undertaking to Herschel, at the Royal Society?
  and he encourages me by liking my plan, and wishing me
  to go on. I am soon, therefore, to read and talk over my
  manuscript with him. I desire very much indeed to have
  his sanction for the scientific part of my characters and
  opinions of the most renowned astronomers. He himself,
  after Newton, will be my Achilles and Æneas, _c’est à
  dire, l’heros de la pièce_. The discoveries which he has
  made, by his improved specula, exceed in number those of
  any one astronomer that ever existed. Galileo discovered
  the four satellites of Jupiter, and Cassini four of the
  five satellites of Saturn; but what are these compared
  with a new planet? an additional satellite to Jupiter,
  two satellites to Saturn, and myriads of fixed stars,
  double as well as single, which his own telescope only
  could discover?”


HERSCHEL.

An account of the first visit to Dr. Herschel, at Slough, upon this
astronomical pilgrimage, written by Dr. Burney, to Bookham, in
September, 1797, displays, though unintentionally, the characters of
both these men of science, with a genuine simplicity that can hardly
fail of giving pleasure to every unsophisticated reader.

After mentioning a call upon Lord Chesterfield, at Baillies, in the
neighbourhood of Slough, he says:

  “I went thence to Dr. Herschel, with whom I had arranged
  a meeting by letter; but being, through a mistake, before
  my time, I stopped at the door, to make inquiry whether
  my visit would be the least inconvenient to Herschel
  that night, or the next morning. The good soul was at
  dinner, but came to the carriage himself, to press me to
  alight immediately, and partake of his family repast: and
  this he did so heartily, that I could not resist. I was
  introduced to the company at table; four ladies, and a
  little boy, about the age and size of Martin.[49] I was
  quite shocked at intruding upon so many females. I knew
  not that Dr. Herschel was married, and expected only to
  have found his sister. One of these females was a very
  old lady, and mother, I believe, of Mrs. Herschel, who
  sat at the head of the table. Another was a daughter
  of Dr. Wilson, an eminent astronomer, of Glasgow; the
  fourth was Miss Herschel. I apologised for coming at so
  uncouth an hour, by telling my story of missing Lord
  Chesterfield, through a blunder; at which they were all
  so cruel as to join in rejoicing; and then in soliciting
  me to send away my carriage, and stay and sleep there.
  I thought it necessary, you may be sure, to _faire la
  petite bouche_; but, in spite of my blushes, I was
  obliged to submit to having my trunk taken in, and my
  carriage sent on. We soon grew acquainted; I mean the
  ladies and I; for Herschel I have known very many years;
  and before dinner was over, we all seemed old friends
  just met after a long absence. Mrs. Herschel is sensible,
  good-humoured, unpretending, and obliging; Miss Herschel
  is all shyness and virgin modesty; the Scots lady
  sensible and harmless; and the little boy entertaining,
  comical, and promising.[50] Herschel, you know, and every
  body knows, is one of the most pleasing and well-bred
  natural characters of the present age, as well as the
  greatest astronomer. Your health was immediately given
  and drunk after dinner, by Dr. Herschel; and, after much
  social conversation, and some hearty laughs, the ladies
  proposed taking a walk by themselves, in order to leave
  Herschel and me together.


  We two, therefore, walked, and talked over my subject,
  _tête à tête_, round his great telescope, till it grew
  damp and dusk; and then we retreated into his study to
  philosophise. I had a string of questions ready to ask,
  and astronomical difficulties to solve, which, with
  looking at curious books and instruments, filled up
  the time charmingly till tea. After which, we retired
  again to the study; where, having now paved the way, we
  began to enter more fully into my poetical plan; and he
  pressed me to read to him what I had done. Lord help his
  head! he little thought I had eight books, or cantos,
  of from four hundred to eight hundred and twenty lines,
  which to read through would require two or three days!
  He made me, however, unpack my trunk for my MS., from
  which I read him the titles of the chapters, and begged
  he would choose any book; or the character of any great
  astronomer that he pleased. ‘O,’ cried he, ‘let us have
  the beginning.’ I read then the first eighteen or twenty
  lines of the exordium; and then told him I rather wished
  to come to modern times; I was more certain of my ground
  in high antiquity than after the time of Copernicus. I
  began, therefore, my eighth chapter.

  “He gave me the greatest encouragement; repeatedly saying
  that I perfectly understood what I was writing about:
  and he only stopped me at two places; one was at a word
  too strong for what I had to describe; and the other
  at one too weak. The doctrine he allowed to be quite
  orthodox concerning gravitation, refraction, reflection,
  optics, comets, magnitudes, distances, revolutions, &c.
  &c.; but he made a discovery to me which, had I known
  sooner, would have overset me, and prevented my reading
  to him any part of my work! this was, that he had almost
  always had an aversion to poetry! which he had generally
  regarded as an arrangement of fine words, without any
  adherence to truth: but he presently added that, when
  truth and science were united to those fine words, he
  then liked poetry very well.

  “The next morning, he made me read as much, from another
  chapter, on Descartes, as the time would allow; for I had
  ordered my carriage at twelve. But I stayed on, reading,
  talking, asking questions, and looking at books and
  instruments, at least another hour, before I could leave
  this excellent man.”


1798.

The spring of the following year, 1798, opened to Dr. Burney with
pupils, operas, concerts, conversationes, and assemblies in their
usual round. All that is marked as peculiar, in his memorandums, is
the intimate view which he had opportunity to take of the triumphant
elevation of commercial splendour over even the highest aristocratical,
in the entertainments of this season.

His late new acquaintance, Mr. Walker, of Liverpool, and his charming
wife, not only, the Doctor says, in their balls, concerts, suppers,
and masquerades, rivalled all the Nobles in expense, but in elegance.
And that with an _eclât_ so indisputable, as to make those overpowered
great ones “hide their diminished heads;” or raise them only in a
tribute of patriotic admiration, at a proof so brilliant of the true
national ascendance of all-conquering commerce.

If a born nobleman, or gentleman, whose income, however great, be
limited to his rent-roll, take up nine or ten thousand pounds for any
extraordinary occasion, so abrupt a dip into his fortune must be met
by selling, or mortgaging some estate; or by borrowing at ruinous
interest: while to the successful man of commerce, there is frequently
so sudden and lucrative a flush of abundance, that no obstacle seems to
be in the way to any species of extraneous expenditure.

Yet it has generally been observed, that this exuberance of
new-acquired wealth, when springing from fortuitous circumstances, not
progressive prosperity, rarely terminates in a pre-eminence that is
durable. On the same wheel, around which turn the favours of fortune,
turn, also, its perils; and though there are splendid exceptions to
the remark, still it is but seldom that the lavish superfluity of
the happy chance, or fortunate speculation, which sets the merchant
above his Peers, escapes, ultimately, the revolving counterbalance of
ever-lurking reverse.

When the Doctor had finished, in twelve books, the rough sketch of
his Astronomical Poem, he was allured into reading parts of it to no
less personages than Messrs. Windham and Canning. His account of this
lecture was thus given to the Hermits:

  “_24th April, 1798, Chelsea College._

  “Mrs. Crewe has frequent singing-parties with young
  people of _ton_, to bring out Miss. Crewe. All the world
  that I know are there. Last week I was at Mrs. Ord’s,
  to meet my old sweethearts, Mrs. Garrick, Betty Carter,
  Hannah More, and my new sweetheart, Mrs. Goodenough,
  the Speaker’s sister, &c. To-morrow at Lord and Lady
  Inchiquin’s; Friday again at Mrs. Crewe’s, with evening
  music at Lady Northwick’s, _ci-devant_ Lady Rushont’s;
  Saturday to dine with Lady Jones, relict of Sir
  William.——And so we go on.

  Well, but in the midst of all this hurly burly, and
  business besides, I have terminated the twelfth book of
  my Poem, and transcribed it fair for your hearing or
  perusal. Mrs. and Miss Crewe, and Miss Hayman, who is now
  privy purse to the Princess of Wales, have been attending
  Walker’s astronomical lectures, and wanted much to hear
  some of my _Schtoff_; so, also, Windham and Canning. An
  evening was fixed upon for a meeting. Windham, after
  dinner, was to read us his balloon journal; Canning a
  manuscript poem; and I a book of my astronomy. The lot
  fell on me to begin. When I had finished book the first,
  “_Tocca Lei_,” quoth I to Mr. Windham. “No, no, not yet;
  another book first!” Well, when that was read, “_Tocca
  Lei_,” I cried to Mr. Canning. “No, no,” all called out,
  “let us go on! another book!” Well, there was no help; so
  hoarse as I now was, I began a third book. Mrs. Crewe,
  however, soon offered to relieve me; and Miss Hayman
  to relieve Mrs. Crewe; and then supper was announced;
  and thus I was taken in! and the rest, with the balloon
  and the manuscript poem, are to be read _comf._ at Mrs.
  Crewe’s villa at Hampstead, as soon as finished.”


THE LITERARY CLUB.

Not the least, nor least prized honour, in the life of Dr. Burney,
occurred in the June of this year, 1798, in seconding the motion of Mr.
Windham for the election of Mr. Canning as a member of the Literary
Club; “though, strange to say,” he relates, “I had already honoured
myself by seconding the same motion once before, when Mr. Canning was
put up, I believe, by Lord Spencer; but was rejected by one abominable
party black-ball, though there were ten or eleven balls all white.”

As this club was instituted for the pursuits and enjoyment of
literature, independent of party or politics, it seems strangely
foreign to such a design, either to elect or reject merely from
political incitement. Dissensions through politics in the senate must
necessarily be endured; nay, cannot rationally be lamented; they are
the unavoidable offsprings of the most exalted exercise of the human
faculties, freedom of debate; that freedom whence spring independence,
justice, and liberty.

But, in meetings consecrated to social intellectuality, might not the
chance be greater of obtaining and dispensing liberal knowledge, if the
scrutiny of the electors were solely directed to the general powers of
instruction or entertainment in the candidates, than in being cast upon
any arbitrary standard of political creeds?

How, but by this comprehensive view of literary conviviality, could
Dr. Johnson and Charles Fox, so opposite in state opinions, yet so
approximate in powers of colloquial combat, have been members of this
very club, without leaving one record behind them of controversial
discord? In truth, to exclude from meetings formed for social
enlargement, all who are not in all things of the same opinion, seems
assembling a company to face an echo, and calling its neat repetition
of whatever is uttered, conversation.

The election this time, however, was honourable to the club, for it was
successful to Mr. Canning. And Mr. Marsden, author of the curious and
spirited account of Sumatra, was happily white-balled at the same time;
which Dr. Burney called, in his next letter to the Hermits, a revival
of the true spirit of the institution.


CAMILLA COTTAGE.

In the ensuing September, the Doctor writes, in a manuscript memoir:

  “This autumn, September, 1798, after spending a week at
  Hampton, at the house of Lady Mary Duncan, who did the
  honours of that charming neighbourhood, by carrying me to
  all the fine places in its circle, Hampton Court, Mrs.
  Garrick’s, Richmond Hill and Park, Oatlands, Kew Gardens,
  &c.; I went to Mrs. and Miss Crewe at Tunbridge; where I
  enjoyed, for more than a fortnight, all the humours of
  the place in the most honourable and pleasant manner.

  “And thence I went to Camilla Cottage at West Hamble; a
  cottage built on a slice of Norbury Park, by M. d’Arblay
  and my daughter, from the production of Camilla, her
  third work; where, and at Mr. and Mrs. Locke’s, I passed
  my time most pleasantly, in reading, in rural quiet, or
  in charming conversation.”

This small residence, here mentioned by Dr. Burney, of which the
structure was just now completed, had, playfully, received from himself
the name of Camilla Cottage; which name was afterwards adopted by all
the Friends of the Hermits.

Its architect, who was also its principal, its most efficient, and even
its most laborious workman, had so skilfully arranged its apartments
for use and for pleasure, by investing them with imperceptible
closets, cupboards, and adroit recesses; and contriving to make every
window offer a freshly beautiful view from the surrounding beautiful
prospects, that while its numerous, though invisible conveniences,
gave it comforts which many dwellings on a much larger scale do not
possess, its pleasing form, and picturesque situation, made it a point,
though in miniature, of beauty and ornament, from every spot in the
neighbourhood whence it could be discerned.

Dr. Burney promised to gratify, from that time, these happy Hermits
once a year with his presence. He could not without admiration,
as well as pleasure, witness the fertile resources with which his
son-in-law, though till then a stranger to a country, or to private
life, could fill up a rainy day without a murmur; and pass through a
retired evening without one moment of _ennui_, either felt or given.
Yet the longest day of sunshine was always too short for the vigorous
exertions, and manly projects that called him to plant in his garden,
to graft and crop in his orchard, to work in his hay-field, or to
invent and execute new paths, and to construct new seats and bowers in
his wood. From which useful and virtuous toils, when corporeally he
required rest and refreshment, his mental powers rose in full force to
the exercise of their equal share in his composition, through his love
of science, poetry, and general literature. And Dr. Burney, through
the wide extent of his varied connexions, could nowhere find taste
more congenial, principles more strictly in unison, or a temper more
harmoniously in accord with his own, than here, in the happy little
dwelling which he named Camilla Cottage.


SIR WILLIAM HERSCHEL.

At the close of this second year of Dr. Burney’s astronomical
operations, their efficacy upon his health and spirits grew more and
more apparent. They chased away his sorrows, by leading to meditations
beyond the reach of their annoyance; and they gave to him a new earthly
connexion that served somewhat to brighten even the regions below, in
an intimacy with Dr. Herschel.

This modest and true philosopher, who, not long afterwards, receiving
the honour of the Guelphic order from the King, became Sir William,
opened again his hospitable dwelling to hear the continuation of the
Doctor’s poem; to which he afforded his valuable remarks with as much
pleasure as acumen. And from that time, the intercourse was kept up
by Sir William’s returning, occasionally, the visits of the Doctor at
Chelsea College, when called to town for reading, or for presenting his
astronomical discoveries to the Royal Society.


THE KING.[51]

Upon one of the excursions of the Doctor to Slough, he has left the
following memorandum.

After having spoken of the lecture of his work, he says:—

  “In the evening we walked upon the terrace, where I
  was most graciously noticed by their Majesties, who
  both talked to me a considerable time. Both, also,
  condescended to inquire much after my health, and seemed
  to observe with pleasure that I looked better than I had
  done in the spring. ‘Yes;’ I answered; ‘the fine weather
  has been more propitious to me than medicine.’

  “‘I dare say it has!’ cried the King with quickness,
  and an expression that implied much of scepticism as to
  physic.

  “In the evening, by the advice of Herschel, I accompanied
  him to the King’s concert at the castle. The performance,
  which was all of sacred music from Handel’s oratorio of
  Joseph, was begun before we arrived. At the end of the
  first part, his Majesty discovered, and graciously came
  up to us; and, after some remarks on the excellence
  of the choruses, the King suddenly cried: ‘How goes on
  Astronomy, Dr. Burney?’

  “This question quite astonished me, as I did not believe
  that any one hut Herschel knew what I had been about. I
  stared a little, but answered, ‘We must ask Dr. Herschel,
  Sir, the state of the heavens.’—‘O, but I know,’ cried
  he, moving his hand as if it held a pen, ‘that you are
  doing something!’

  “On my bowing very humbly at the implied interest of such
  an inquiry, he said: ‘Well, you’ll make it entertaining,
  whatever it is. But how do you find time to write?’

  “‘I make time, Sir;’ I replied; ‘I have a sinking fund.’

  “‘What!’

  “‘I take it out of my sleep, Sir, for extra occasions.’

  “He seemed too kind to laugh, and only very seriously
  said: ‘But you’ll hurt your health.’”


HERSCHEL.

Yet more warmed by such encouragement in his ardour upon this ethereal
subject, the Doctor thus gaily speaks of it in his next letter:

  “_10th December, 1798, Chelsea College._

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Well, but Herschel has been in town, for short spirts
  and back again, two or three times, and I have had him
  here two whole days. * * * I read to him the first
  five books without any one objection, except a little
  hesitation, at my saying, upon Bayly’s authority, that
  if the sun were to move round the earth, according to
  Ptolemy, instead of the earth round the sun, as in the
  Copernican system, the nearest fixed star in every second
  must constantly run at the rate of near 100,000 miles.
  ‘Stop a little!’ cries he; ‘I fancy you have greatly
  under-rated the velocity required; but I will calculate
  it at home.’ And, on his second visit, he brought me a
  slip of paper, written by his sister, as he, I suppose,
  had dictated. ‘Here we see that Sirius, if it revolved
  round the earth, would move at the rate of 1426 millions
  of miles per second. Hence the required velocity of
  Sirius in its orbit would be above 7305 times greater
  than that of light.’ This is all that I had to correct of
  doctrine in the first five books! And he was so humble as
  to protest that I knew more of the _history_ of astronomy
  than he did himself; and that I had surprised him by the
  mass of information that I had gotten together.

  “In arranging another lecture, he flattered me much in a
  note, by saying that, if I should be disengaged on a day
  that he mentioned, it would give him pleasure to devote
  it to the continuation of ‘our’ poetical history. This is
  adoption!

  “He came, and his good wife accompanied him; and I read
  four books and a half. * * * And on parting, still more
  humble than before, or still more amiable, he thanked me
  for the instruction and entertainment I had given him!

  “What say you to that? ‘Can anything be grander?’ And
  all without knowing a word of what I have written of
  himself; all his discoveries, as you may remember, being
  kept back for the twelfth and last book. Adod! I begin to
  be a little conceited! * * * So God bless you, the dear
  Gardener, and the Alexandretto.

  “But hold! on the first evening Herschel spent at
  Chelsea, when I called for my Argand lamp, Herschel, who
  had not seen one of those lamps, was surprised at the
  great effusion of light; and immediately calculated the
  difference between that and a single candle, and found it
  as sixteen to one.”


MR. SEWARD.

But before this year terminated, Dr. Burney had yet another, and a very
sensible loss, through the death of Mr. Seward; who was truly a loss,
also, to all by whom he was known. He was a man of sound worthiness of
character, of a disposition the most amiable, and invested with a zeal
to serve his friends, nay, to serve even strangers, that knew no bounds
which his time or his trouble could remove.

He was pleasing and piquant in society; and, though always shewing an
alacrity to sarcasm in discourse, in action he was all benevolence.

Yet he was eccentric, even wilfully; and wilfully, also, inconsistent,
if not capricious; but he was constantly in a state of suffering, from
some internal and unfathomable obstructions, which generally at night
robbed him of rest; and frequently, in the day, divested him of self
command.[52]

He was author of a very agreeable and amusing, though desultory,
collection of anecdotes, entitled Biographiana.[53]


CHELSEA ARMED ASSOCIATION.

Still in his prime seemed Dr. Burney, in defiance either of years or of
misfortune, for the free use of his unimpaired faculties, when called
upon to any exertion.

On the anniversary of the birth-day of his Majesty George III., in
1799, a body of Cavalry of between 8000 and 9000 men, bearing the
name of the Chelsea Armed Association, mounted, exercised, clothed
and equipped at their own expense, under the command of an honorary
Colonel, Matthew Yateman, Esq., mustered in the courts and precincts of
Chelsea College, in full display of their military force and equipment.
They were received with every honourable testimony to their noble
zeal, and unparalleled liberality, by the Governor of the College, the
principal officers, and the Chaplain: while the colours were presented
to them by a daughter[54] of North, Bishop of Winchester.

Dr. Burney had the pleasure to compose a march for this brave corps;
to play the organ upon the consecration of the colours; and, after
the minutest investigation, and unsparing research into all that was
most correct, and most distinguished of ancient practice upon similar
ceremonies, to draw up the order for its procession.

The delight of the Doctor at this brilliant and disinterested loyalty
in so large a body of volunteers, made his rendering it any assistance
a true and lively self-gratification: the committee, however, of this
armed association, thought it so much obliged for his services, that a
vote of thanks was unanimously passed; and was publicly conveyed to him
by the commander, Colonel Yateman.

He was too sensible to this mark of courtesy to receive it unmoved, and
hastened back the following answer:

  “15th JUNE, 1799.

  “_To_ MATTHEW YATEMAN, ESQ., _Commandant of the Chelsea
  Armed Association._

  “Sir,

  “I cannot resist the desire with which the testimony
  of your approbation, and that of the special committee
  of the Chelsea Armed Association has impressed me, of
  returning thanks for the thanks with which you have
  honoured me for a small service, in the performance of
  which I had infinite pleasure. And, loving my country,
  and its established government as I do, I shall, to the
  last hour of my life, regard the loyalty, zeal, and
  truly patriotic spirit of your very respectable corps,
  manifested on the

  King’s birth-day, as the most honourable to his Majesty
  and to his subjects, which any country has ever shewn.

  “We know that the Roman legions were _paid_, as well as
  the individuals of every other army, ancient or modern;
  and that the title of soldier is derived from _solidus_,
  a piece of money; but a body of eight or nine thousand
  men, voluntarily mounted, exercised, and clothed at their
  own expense, is an instance of such real patriotism as
  does not, perhaps, occur in the history of the world.
  I feel, therefore, proud of my country, and the noble
  efforts it is making to avert the misery and horrors with
  which Gallic principles and plunder have desolated the
  rest of Europe, and shook the globe.

  “I have the honour to be,

  “Sir, &c.

  “CHARLES BURNEY.”

  “_Chelsea College, June 15th, 1799._”


SONG ON THE NAVAL VICTORIES.

The Doctor wrote, also, a song upon the naval victories, of which
the battle of the Nile was the climax. It was designed to stir the
feelings of the multitude; and the language was familiar, and suited to
that purpose. He set it to music himself; and the air was of the most
popular, and what he called hallaballoo species, that he could compose;
his only wish being to adapt it for a street-singing ballad. The
following is his own account of it, written to the Hermitage:—


1799.

  * * * “Pray take note, that I have made a song on the
  five naval British heroes of the present war, to an easy
  popular tune, which any one with a good ear may sing by
  memory, after twice hearing. To this I was provoked by
  Lady Spencer’s complaining to me, that though several
  pretty poems, and a few good songs had been produced by
  our late victories, yet there were no good new tunes. I
  have gotten Lady Harrington to send a copy of this naval
  ditty, both words and music, to the Queen at Windsor: and
  I have sent another copy to Lady Spencer herself, who has
  bestowed upon me the following flattering answer:

  “‘Dear Sir,

  “‘I should have returned you my best thanks for your
  excellent song, and popular air, as soon as I received
  them; but I have been severely ill: * * * however, I am
  now somewhat recovered, and able to thank you; which I do
  most sincerely. I wish you would get it sung at Covent
  Garden theatre: that is always the progress of these kind
  of songs; they begin on the stage, and come thence into
  the street; and this last step is the highest honour such
  music can look to. I declare that whoever composed ‘Rule
  Britannia,’ is next to Handel in my list of composers.
  That your song may have the same honour, and have it
  long, my dear Sir, I most heartily hope. I am sure your
  talents and your excellent intentions, deserve such fame.

  “‘I am, dear Sir, &c. “‘LAV. SPENCER.’

  “Mrs. Crewe, and two or three more, to whom I have
  communicated this patriotic hallaballoo, join in the
  opinion of Lady Spencer, that it should be sung at the
  theatres. That, however, should it be thought worth
  while, must be negociated by some one else—not by me.

  “Lord and Lady Spencer are charming people: _he_, now
  first Lord of the Admiralty, is everything one could wish
  a man, in his high station, to be; active, accessible,
  and well-bred. In private life, a lover of literature and
  talents; manly at once, and elegant in his pursuits; and
  a model for husbands, for fathers, and for masters. _She_
  has a natural cheerfulness and sport about her, joined to
  considerable acquirement; designs and paints well; is a
  good musician; and has a keenness in reading characters
  which I have but lately found out; with great eagerness
  for knowledge of whatever is the subject of conversation.

  “_7th Nov._—Well, Lady Harrington has received the most
  gracious of requests relative to my ballad; and it is
  written by Her Royal Highness the Princess Elizabeth:

  “‘Mamma has just commanded me to beg you to return Dr.
  Burney her thanks for the song he has sent her, which she
  has already sung; and she thinks it has so much merit,
  that she wishes Dr. Burney would give her leave to send
  it to Covent Garden theatre, to be performed there; for
  she thinks the tune so pretty and simple, that it will
  become popular.’”

  Highly gratified was the Doctor by this gracious command,
  which he eagerly obeyed; and the song was performed when
  their Majesties next indulged the public with their
  presence at the theatre.


1799.

In the Doctor’s memorandums of this year, are the following paragraphs
upon the Duke of Leeds and Lord Palmerston:

  “In 1799 our Literary Club lost one of its noble members
  in the Duke of Leeds, to whom I had become known from
  the time of his marriage with Lady Emily d’Arcy, the
  daughter of my first patron, the Earl of Holdernesse.
  I had had the honour, also, of frequently meeting him,
  while Marquis of Carmarthen, in Italy; where he acquired
  a taste for good modern music, and whence he remembered
  fragments of Italian operas, and particularly of the
  opera _L’Artigiano felice_, to his last hours. He kindly
  visited Farinelli when at Bologna, and was cordially
  embraced by him, as the son of his great patron while
  in England. When he became acquainted with the Miss
  Anguishes, four young ladies of great accomplishments,
  and of extraordinary musical powers, he grew fond of
  the old, or Handelian school of music: and the eldest
  of these young ladies, whom he afterwards, in second
  espousals, married, made him a perfectly happy domestic
  man. He desired Boswell to set him up at our club,
  which he was fond of visiting; and where his remarkable
  good breeding and courteous demeanour could not but be
  appreciated; though he escaped not, from those members
  who thought themselves more learned, or better informed
  than himself, the common club-censure of being fonder of
  talking than listening.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “This year I had much pleasure at the Assemblies of Lady
  Palmerston, whose exhilarating character rendered them
  peculiarly lively. The elegant mansion of her well-known
  lord, the Viscount, in Hanover Square, was fitted up
  and furnished with exquisite taste; and its walls were
  covered with pictures of the first masters; the chief
  of which had been collected by his great ancestor,
  Sir William Temple; to which he had added some _chef
  d’oeuvres_ of modern artists; particularly of Sir Joshua
  Reynolds, of whom he was still more a friend and admirer
  than a patron.”


MRS. CREWE.

In the ensuing autumn, when the expedition against Holland was in
preparation, Mrs. Crewe prevailed with the Doctor to accompany her
and her large party to Dover, to see the embarkation; well knowing
the animated interest which his patriotic spirit would take in
that transaction. His own lively and spirited, yet unaffected and
unpretending account of this excursion, will bring him immediately
before those by whom he may yet be remembered.


DOVER.

  “_Dover, 9th Sept. 1799._

  “Why you Fanny!—I did not intend to write you my
  adventures, but to keep them for _vive voix_ on coming
  to Camilla Cottage; but the nasty east wind is arrived,
  to the great inconvenience of our expedition, and of my
  lungs—all which circumstances put it out of my power to
  visit Camilla Cottage at present, as I wished, and had
  settled in my own mind to do. But let me see—where did I
  leave off? I believe I have told you of my arrival here,
  where, at first, I found Mr. Crewe, as you might observe
  by the frank. But two days after he went to Hythe, where
  he is now quartered with the Cheshire Militia corps, of
  which he is Colonel.

  “You may be sure that I hastened to visit the harbour and
  town, which I had not seen for near thirty years * * *
  Did I tell you Mr. Ryder, our Chelsea joint paymaster,
  is here, and that we all dined on Wednesday with him and
  his sposa, Lady Susan? a most sweet creature, handsome,
  accomplished, and perfectly well-bred, with condescending
  good-humour; and who sings and plays well, and in true
  taste. Thursday, bad weather; but Canning came to
  _Longchon_ to brighten it: and at night I read astronomy
  to Mrs. Crewe, and her fair, intelligent daughter.

  “On Friday, I visited with them Lady Grey, wife of the
  Commander in Chief, at the Barham Down Camp. I like Lady
  Grey extremely, notwithstanding she is mother of the
  vehement parliamentary democrat, Mr. Grey, who is as
  pleasing, they pretend, as he is violent, which makes him
  doubly dangerous. She is, indeed, a charming woman, and
  by everybody honoured and admired; and as she is aunt
  to our ardent friend _Spotty_, the Dean of Winchester’s
  daughter, I was sure to be much flattered and _fêted_
  by all her family. Sir Charles’s mother, old Mrs. Grey,
  now eighty-five, is a great and scientific reader and
  studier; and is even yet in correspondence with Sir
  Charles Blagden; who communicates to her all the new
  philosophical discoveries made throughout Europe. What
  a distinguished race! The democrat himself,—but for his
  democracy, strikingly at their head! Mrs. Grey took to
  me mightily, and would hardly let me speak to anybody
  else. Saturday we visited Mr. and Lady Mary Churchill,
  our close neighbours here, and old acquaintance of
  mine of fifty years’ standing or more. Next day, after
  church, I went with Miss Crewe and Canning—I serving for
  chaperon—to visit the Shakespeare Cliff, which is a mile
  and more beyond the town: and a most fatiguing clamber to
  it I found! We took different roads, as our eye pointed
  out the easiest paths; and, in so doing, on my being all
  at once missed, Canning and Miss Crewe were so frightened
  ‘you can’t think!’ as Miss Larolles would say. They
  concluded I had tumbled headlong down the Cliff! It has
  furnished a story to every one we have seen ever since;
  and that arch clever rogue, Canning, makes ample use of
  it, at Walmer Castle, and elsewhere. ‘Is there any news?’
  if he be asked, his ready answer is, ‘only Dr. Burney is
  lost again!’

  “This day, 5th September, pray mind! I went to Walmer
  Castle with Mrs. and Miss Crewe, to dine with Lady Jane
  Dundas—another charming creature, and one of my new
  flirtations; and Mr. Pitt dined at home. And Mr. Dundas,
  Mr. Ryder, Lady Susan, Miss Scott, the sister of the
  Marchioness of Titchfield,[55] and Canning, were of the
  party; with the Hon. Colonel Hope, Lady Jane’s brother.
  What do you think of that, Ma’am? Mr. Pitt!—I liked this
  cabinet dinner prodigiously. Mr. Pitt was all politeness
  and pleasantly. He has won Mrs. Crewe’s, and even Miss
  Crewe’s heart, by his attentions and good-humour. My
  translation of the hymn, ‘Long live the Emperor Francis!’
  was very well sung in duo by Lady Susan Ryder and Miss
  Crewe; I joining in the chorus. Lady Jane Dundas is a
  good musician, and has very good taste. I not only played
  this hymn of Haydn’s setting, but Suwarrow’s March to the
  great minister: and though Mr. Pitt neither knows nor
  cares one farthing for flutes and fiddles, he was very
  attentive; and before, and at dinner, his civility to me
  was as obliging as if I had half a dozen boroughs at my
  devotion; offering to me, though a great way off him, of
  every dish and wine; and entering heartily into Canning’s
  merry stories of my having been lost; and Mrs. Crewe’s
  relation of my dolorous three sea voyages instead of
  one, when I came back from Germany; all with very civil
  pleasantry.

  “Monday the 2d. Dine with Sir Charles Grey, and twenty
  or thirty officers from the camp, for whom he keeps a
  table, and is allowed ten guineas a day towards that
  expense alone. Sir Charles placed me on Lady Grey’s
  right hand, and took the liberty of placing himself on
  mine! What do you say to that, Ma’am? You cannot imagine
  how cordially and openly he talked to me on all sort of
  things that occurred. I only wish he had kept his eldest
  hopes in better order! However, he is a charming man;
  very animated, and, for his time of life, very handsome.
  To Miss Grey,[56] a very sweet girl of ten or eleven, I
  gave a copy of the hymn and of the march; and made her
  try them with me; much to the satisfaction of Sir Charles
  and his lady. Next day, Lady Grey and her young people
  came to breakfast with Mrs. Crewe; and Lord Palmerston
  and his eldest son, Mr. Temple,[57] came in the evening.
  Lord Palmerston is a great favourite of Mrs. Crewe; she
  would have his character stand for the leading one in
  the periodical works at which she wants you to preside.
  Wednesday, we visited the castle at Dover, its Roman
  towers, and remains, &c.

  “Thursday, we go to the camp at Barham Downs, and see
  Mr. Pitt at Sir Charles Grey’s. The Duke of Portland
  and Lady Mary Bentinck arrive at _our_ house, where
  they take up their abode. Friday, go with his Grace and
  the ladies to the parade, where a _feu de joie_, by two
  or three thousand militia and regulars, took place for
  excellent Dutch news. After which, all but the Duke went
  to the Camp to visit Mr. John Crewe, just appointed
  Lieutenant-Commandant of the 9th Regiment, and going
  abroad. The Duke went on horseback to Walmer Castle, and
  lent me his chaise and four to follow the three ladies,
  who occupied Mrs. Crewe’s demi-landau. And I dined very
  comfortably and sociably with the good and gay Sir
  Charles and his charming Partner, and their engaging
  young folks. ’Tis a delightful family; all spirit and
  agreeability. There were likewise a few select officers.
  I came home alone in the Duke’s carriage and four,—in
  which Canning reports I was again lost!

  “Saturday we go encore to Walmer Castle; Lady Mary
  Bentinck, Mrs. and Miss Crewe, in Mr. Crewe’s chaise and
  four; and Mrs. Churchill and I in the Duke’s. His Grace
  on horseback. The Duke of York was at the Castle; and all
  were preparing for the third embarkation for Holland,
  which did not take place till Sunday, the eighth; when
  we were all called up at five in the morning. The three
  ladies set out at six for Deal, which is just by Walmer
  Castle: but the Duke, who took me in his chaise, did not
  set off till between seven and eight: and we arrived just
  before the first boat of transports was launched. After
  seeing five or six launches, in a very high and contrary
  wind, we gazers all repaired to lunch at Walmer Castle.
  Mr. Pitt and Mr. Dundas all hurry, but all attention to
  his Royal Highness the Duke of York; and to the business
  of the day. But just as we were going to depart, Mr. Pitt
  pressed us to stay and take a scrambling dinner, that we
  might see the Duke of York himself launched. This offer
  was gladly accepted.

  “It was truly a scrambling dinner; his Royal Highness,
  with his aides-de-camp, Lord Chatham, two or three
  general officers, the Duke of Portland, Mr. Dundas and
  Lady Jane, and Mrs. Crewe, filled the first table. Lady
  Mary Bentinck, with her youngest brother, Lord Charles,
  going also as aide-de-camp to his Royal Highness; Messrs.
  Ryder and Lady Susan, Miss Scott, Canning, &c. and I,
  filled the second. Canning is delightful in social
  parties; full of wit and humour. The cannon on the castle
  battlements of Walmer and of Deal, and those of all the
  ships, to the number of at least one hundred and fifty,
  were fired when his Royal Highness embarked. He looked
  composed, princely, and noble. It was a very solemn and
  serious operation to all but the military, who went off
  in high spirits and glee; though there was a violent east
  wind against them, which must oblige them to roll about
  all night, if not all this following day. I pity the
  sea-sickness of the fresh water sailors more than their
  fighting. And so here’s my Journal for you up to this
  day, 9th Sept. 1799. And take note, Lady Jane Dundas,
  Lady Susan Ryder, and Lady Grey, I regard as my _bonnes
  fortunes_ in this expedition. All three have pressingly
  invited me to their houses in town, and begged that our
  acquaintance may not drop here. And I don’t intend to be
  cruel!—But _for’ll_ this, I hope to get away in a week;
  for I dread letting the autumn creep on at a distance
  from my own chimney corner.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  _“15th September, 1799._

       *       *       *       *       *

  “The Duke and Lady Mary left us two days after my last,
  but a dinner was fixed for Messrs. Pitt, Dundas, Ryder,
  and Canning, with us at Dover. Now I must give you a
  little episode. Canning told me that Mr. Pitt had gotten
  a telescope, constructed under the superintendence of
  Herschel, which cost one hundred guineas; but that
  they could make no use of it, as no one of the party
  had knowledge enough that way to put it together; and,
  knowing of my astronomical poem, Canning took it for
  granted that I could help them. The first day I went to
  Walmer Castle, I saw the instrument, and Canning put a
  paper in my hand of instructions; or rather, a book, for
  it consisted of twelve or fourteen pages: but before I
  had read six lines, company poured in, and I re-placed
  it in the drawer whence Canning had taken it; and, to
  say the truth, without much reluctance; for I doubted my
  competence. I therefore was very cautious not to start
  the subject! but when I got to Dover, I wrote upon it
  to Herschel, and received his answer just in time to
  meet the Dover visit of Mr. Pitt. It was very friendly
  and satisfactory, as is every thing that comes from
  Herschel; I shewed it to Mr. Pitt, who read it with great
  attention, and, I doubt not, intelligence.

  “After discussing all the particulars concerning the
  telescope, Herschel says: ‘When I learn that you are
  returned to Chelsea, I shall write again on the subject
  of memorandums that I made when I had the pleasure of
  hearing your beautiful poetical work.’ This I did not
  let Mr. Pitt see; but withdrew the letter from him
  after Herschel had done speaking of the telescope,
  lest it should seem that I more wished Mr. Pitt should
  see Herschel’s civilities to me, than his telescopical
  instructions. But Mrs. Crewe, in the course of the
  evening, borrowed the letter from me, and shewed it to
  Lady Jane Dundas; who read it all, and asked what the
  poetical work meant. Miss Crewe smilingly explained.

  “The dinner was very cheerful, you may imagine, for these
  Messieurs had brought with them the important news of the
  taking Seringapatam; truly gratifying to Mr. Pitt; but
  doubly so to Mr. Dundas, who plans and directs all India
  affairs.

  “No one can be more cheerful, attentive, and polite to
  ladies than Mr. Pitt; which astonishes all those who,
  without seeing him, have taken for granted that he is _no
  woman’s man_, but a surly churl, from the accounts of his
  sarcastic enemies.

  “The Major of Mr. Crewe being ill, Mr. Crewe himself
  could not dine at home, being obliged to remain at
  Hythe with his regiment; and, after the ladies left the
  dining-room, it having been perceived that none drank
  port but Mr. Pitt and I; the rest all taking claret,
  which made the passing and repassing the bottle rather
  awkward; I was voted into the chair at the head of the
  table, _to put the bottle about!_ and that between the
  first ministers, Pitt and Dundas! what ‘_only think_,’
  and ‘_no notions_,’ would Miss Larolles have exclaimed!
  I, so notorious for always stopping the bottle!

  “When we went to the ladies, music and cheerfulness
  finished the evening. The hymn and the march were not
  forgotten. In talking over Pizarro, Mr. Pitt related,
  very pleasantly, an amusing anecdote of a total breach of
  memory in some Mrs. Lloyd, a lady, or nominal housekeeper
  of Kensington Palace: ‘being in company,’ he said, ‘with
  Mr. Sheridan, without recollecting him, while Pizarro was
  the topic of discussion, she said to him, “And so this
  fine Pizarro is printed?” “Yes, so I hear,” said Sherry.
  “And did you ever in your life read such stuff?” cried
  she. “Why, I believe it’s bad enough!” quoth Sherry;
  “but at least, Madam, you must allow it’s very loyal.”
  “Ah!” cried she, shaking her head, “loyal? You don’t know
  its author so well as I do?”’

  “In speaking, afterwards, of the great number of young
  men who were just embarked for Holland, Miss Crewe, half
  jocosely, but no doubt half seriously, said it would ruin
  all the balls! for where could the poor females find
  partners? ‘O,’ said Mr. Pitt, with a pretended air of
  condolence, ‘you’ll have partners plenty—both Houses of
  Parliament!’

  “‘Besides,’ said Canning, ‘you’ll have the whole Bench of
  Bishops!’

  “To be sure nobody laughed! Mr. Pitt, by the way, is a
  great and loud laughter at the jokes of others; but this
  was so half his own, that he only made _la petite bouche_.

  “Two days after all this, Mrs. and Miss Crewe brought me
  on in my way home as far as Canterbury.

  “Now what say you? Is this not a _belle histoire_?”

Not to break into the chain of the far too deeply interesting narrative
that must soon follow, the Doctor’s account of the Abbé de Lille and of
M. de Calonne will be here inserted, a little before its date.

  _“19th Nov. 1799._

  “I have been at a _dejeuné_ in the neighbourhood of
  Vauxhall. Mrs. and Miss Crewe called for me, and we went
  over Battersea bridge to Mr. Woodford’s; where we met
  Mr. and Mrs. Windham; M. de Calonne; Beau Dillon; M. Du
  Thé, secretary to Monseigneur le Comte d’Artois; Miss
  Thellasson and her brother; and the Abbé de Lille. It has
  been a very pleasant morning. It is now half-past five,
  and I am just got home, to dine with our governor and
  his lady, Sir William and Lady Fawcet, so having a few
  unappropriated moments, I thought I would tell you my
  morning adventure.

  “We were soon hussled together, and acquainted; and the
  little Abbé and I were presently _quite thick_. He is not
  such a fright as I expected; having been told that he was
  hideous; which, by the way, is a great advantage to any
  one previous to an interview. Well, but we prevailed upon
  him to repeat fragments of some of his best works—his
  _Jardins_; his poem on the Imagination; his defence of
  the Supreme Being, and of Religion in general, against
  the Chevalier Parry’s _Guerre des Dieux, Anciens et
  Moderns_; on the assassination of the Queen of France; a
  parallel between Milton and Ariosto; and some others.

  “His person is not very unlike little Hawkesworth’s,
  though _piu brutto_; but he is so natural, cheerful,
  good-humoured and animated, yet civil, that he wants no
  further beauty. He repeats his verses all by memory, in a
  wonderful manner. I like his style of declaiming, as much
  as the substance and texture of his poetry. In discourse
  he is a fair reasoner, with excellent principles, moral,
  religious, and truly philosophical. He and M. de Calonne
  had a debate on the character of Sieyes, which was well
  supported on both sides. The Abbé thinks him without
  heart, without principles, and a coward: the statesman
  goes still deeper into his character, and says, what
  is very likely, that he is profound and dangerous; and
  that, besides his dexterity in falling upon his feet
  at every revolution since the year 1789, and escaping,
  though deserving, the vengeance of every party, he
  hoards separate designs, which only wait opportunity
  for bursting out in explosions: that he has probably
  been in communication with Buonaparte in Egypt, and has
  been the main-spring of that general’s return to Europe:
  that the present Revolution, effected by Buonaparte, is
  deeply laid; and, consequently, is likely to be more
  permanently mischievous than its predecessors to the
  French nation, and to humanity: that Sieyes has a great
  force of self-denial, insomuch that he has not made _un
  sous_ in all these Revolutions. The Queen, he says, in
  her terror of this Abbé’s sinister power, had applied to
  him, (Calonne,) to give Sieyes a bishopric: upon which
  occasion, Calonne thought proper to remark to him, that,
  though they might pass by his principles, in religion
  and government, as he was always a _Frondeur_, while
  he kept them to himself, he must now be counselled to
  remember that his public hostility to them could be no
  recommendation to church preferment; upon which Sieyes
  flew out into an unqualified declaration that he wanted
  no preferment; nor anything beyond what he already
  possessed, which supplied him with all he required,
  namely, _de quoi manger_; ‘a most dangerous independence
  of defiance, in times such as these,’ said Calonne, ‘as
  it endears him to the mob; for it persuades them to
  believe him sincere when he declaims upon equality.’”


1799.

The Doctor then goes on, in brief but cheerful journalizing upon sundry
select dinners that had been given at the Duke of Portland’s and at
Mr. Crewe’s, for meetings with Lord Macartney, Mr. Canning, Mr. and
Mrs. Windham, Miss Hayman, Mr. Frankland, &c. &c., and then thus gaily
concludes his letter:

  “My cough is better; and so am I; and, as Horace Walpole
  used to say, ‘I am now at my best—for I shall never be
  better!’ I work at my astronomy, polish, make notes,
  &c., and often see Herschel, with whom I dearly love
  to conjure—as Daddy Crisp called all commerce upon the
  sciences. I review an article now and then for Griffith;
  I have had a most comic letter from dear Twi.;[58] I have
  gotten twenty-nine subscribers for Haydn; and to-morrow I
  shall have the musical graduates to dine with me.—And now
  I must run and dress.

  “So here’s my history;—and so good night, and God bless
  you and your Alexanders, the Great and the Little.”

Three days afterwards he writes:

  “A Burney party dined with me yesterday; and we were
  as merry, and laughed as bonnily as the Burneys always
  do when they get together, and open their hearts, and
  tell old stories, and have no fear of being quizzed by
  interlopers.”

       *       *       *       *       *

About this period, Dr. Burney had become extremely earnest that the
recluse of West Hamble should no longer wholly abandon her pen. He had
acquiesced in her declining a project which would have occupied, at
least involved it, in politics; for politics, save as affecting passing
events, he held, abstractedly, to be out of the province of women. To
any decided bent he would, nevertheless, have given way; but his own
native inclination led him to wish that morals and manners, as swaying
society, not as organizing difficulties of state, should employ their
faculties: and one of his most constant desires was to see the writings
of this recluse engaged by her imagination and her reflections. In
relinquishing, therefore, the more ambitious enterprise of Mrs. Crewe,
he urged the production of a pastoral tragedy, of which his daughter
had shown him the manuscript before her marriage; and which he now
pressed her to bring forth with a vivacity that would surely have
charmed her into compliance; but that a secret solicitude, a trembling
anticipation of anguish had seized so severely upon her earliest and
tenderest affections, as wholly to nullify all literary operations.

And, even yet, with what pain does she approach—perforce!—the
afflicting subject of the most heart-rending calamity that could
then befal Dr. Burney—yet which, even while thus vividly the gayest
scenes of his latter years were passing, and thus benignly for the
gratification of the Camilla-cottage Hermits, were recording, was
almost hourly, though obscurely, impending over his peace!


MRS. PHILLIPS.

Early in October, 1799, the desolating intelligence reached West
Hamble, that the lingering sufferings of the inestimable Susanna, from
long latently undermining her delicate frame, began openly to menace
its destruction.

Dr. Burney, at this period, had received no intimation of the hovering
storm, which all around him had for some time feared they saw
gathering. To spare him was the united desire of his family, while any
probability, however chequered, remained, that no dire and absolute
necessity would force the infliction of so fatal a shock.

The disposition of Dr. Burney had aided their wishes, through his
native inattention to all evil that was not obtrusive; for evil,
indeed, he as little sought as practised. Passive, therefore, on one
side, and timid on the other, the month of October, 1799, had arrived,
with little comment or discussion upon the precarious health of the
precious absentee; for Hope till then was still, even to the most
anxious of the apprehensive, predominant—Celestial Hope! more soothing
even than transient! more welcome even than delusive! and higher in
power of inspiring blissful sensations than can be cancelled even by
the misery of disappointment! for while so little of earthly happiness
is permanent, how nothingly would be our portion of earthly enjoyment,
were the episodes of ideal delights, in the epic poem of human
existence, circumscribed by experience, and bounded by reality?

But when, with regard to this affecting subject, an alarm once arose in
the family, that, striking even at Hope, showed it fading fast away,
and verging on becoming imperceptible; the same filial solicitude took
necessarily another turn, from the dread of exposing the parental
tenderness of the Doctor to a blow for which he should be utterly
unprepared.

How dire then was the task which fell upon this Memorialist, superadded
to terrors the most thrilling, and grief the most piercing, of
communicating to Dr. Burney, this harrowing menace! of tearing from
his eyes those kindly mists, which had obscured from their sight the
perspective of danger; and breaking into all the flattering schemes of
ultimately calling that darling child “to rock the cradle of declining
age,” and sooth and cheer its last days of repose!

The disclosure, however, was now imperative; the moment was come that
admitted not of another for delay. A long season of agitating doubt
was terminating in an affrighting conviction, that all possibility for
averting the fast advancing calamity, was change of air and scene for
the drooping sufferer.

The tale, therefore, was unfolded; and all that the truest filial
devotion could suggest for mitigating the misery of this tragic
confession, was zealously put forward, by an energetic enumeration of
the means which might still be essayed, to obviate the difficulties
arising from the insurrectional state of Ireland; and the lateness
of the season for making the now last attempt—a trial of her natal
air—to rescue this treasure, yet a space! from the already opening
grave.

The Doctor bore the dreadful intelligence with a taciturn sadness, a
gloomy consternation, the most affecting; yet that shewed surprise to
have little share in his grief. His heart, during the ardent passions
of glowing early manhood, had been rived by a deprivation that had
nearly assailed his reason; and ever since that baleful period, he
had recoiled from the approach of excessive affliction with a horror
of its power over his mind, that made him shut his ears, and close
his eyes, on the menace of every sorrow, of which the anticipation
would be unavailing.—Such this must have been to him; and from this,
therefore, he had sedulously turned aside; though he had long, it is
presumable, been latently annoyed by apprehensions to which he had
refused examination or harbour: for prognostics there are, where our
wills and our wishes are opposed to the probabilities of events, from
which no conflicts can rescue our fears, combat as we may to chase
them from our thoughts. Prognostics that cross our paths like ruthless
spectres; that present phantasms of perils; and that, while shunned in
one quarter, start up abruptly in another! that invade the avenues of
our most secret ruminations; that flit before even our closed eyes;
and pierce across the shattered brain, in forms, shapes, fancies, and
scenes, that relentlessly represent to us the appalling view of all we
struggle to disbelieve and to discard! To such ineludable prognostics
must be attributed the mutely mournful acquiescence that mingled with
the heavy mass of woe with which the Doctor listened to these deadly
tidings.

Winter now was nearly at hand, and travelling seemed deeply dangerous,
in her sickly state, for the enfeebled Susanna. Yet she herself,
panting to receive again the blessing of her beloved father,
concentrated every idea of recovery in her return. She declined,
therefore, though with exquisite sensibility, the supplicating desire
of this Editor to join and to nurse her at Belcotton, her own cottage;
and persevered through every impediment in her efforts to reach the
parental home.

The ceaseless endeavours to hasten her journey, and the afflicting
circumstances that intervened to retard it, cast the Doctor into a
state of inquietude and disturbance, that had little intermission.
Every part of her fond family severally, and in every way that the most
anxious tenderness could vary or devise, worked at propitiating her
arrival; while her heart-dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Locke, and their
beautiful, inappreciable bridal daughter, Mrs. Angerstein, made never
to be forgotten, never to be equalled exertions of friendship, to draw
her first to Norbury Park—that seat of all loveliness, and of every
virtue!—that there they might recruit her debilitated frame, and brace
her shattered nerves, by their boundless and incomparable restorative
resources, and an air balsamic as their own social sweetness, before
she should venture so near to even the precincts of the Metropolis as
Chelsea College.

In her answer to the urgent propositions and prayers for preference
that now poured in upon her, from her father, her brothers, her
sisters, and these angelic friends, soothing—though nearly too
penetrating to her grateful spirit—she declined, but with the softest
expressions of reluctance, beginning her return at the dwellings of
either sisters or brothers: and to the endearing; solicitations of Mr.
and Mrs. Locke, she replied, that one thing only in the whole world
could enable her to resist their kind desire, namely, her dearest
father’s wishes to receive her himself, in all her feebleness and
shaken state; and to help her restoration by his own personal cares:
“This,” she adds, “had been such a balm to her sufferings, that she
felt as if to behold him again, to meet his commiserating eyes, and to
be under his roof and in his arms, would make him give her a second
life.”

Her expressions had the genuine charm of native eloquence, for her
language was that of her soul, and her soul seemed already angelical;
so that all she said, and all she wrote, when addressing those she
loved, found a passage to the inmost heart, of which they took the
tenderest, the fullest, the most lasting possession.

Every obstacle, at length, being finally vanquished, the journey was
resolved upon, and its preparations were made;—when a fearful new
illness suddenly confined the helpless invalid to her bed. There she
remained some weeks; after which, with the utmost difficulty, and by
two long days’ travelling, though for a distance of only twenty-six
miles, she reached Dublin; where, exhausted, emaciated, she was again
forced to her bed; there again to remain for nearly as long a new delay!

Every hour of separation became now to the Doctor an hour of grief,
from the certainty that, the expedition once begun, it could be caused
only by suffering malady, or expiring strength.

It was not till the very close of the year 1799, amidst deep snow,
fierce frost, blighting winds, and darksome days, that, scarcely alive,
his sinking Susanna was landed at Park Gate.

There she was joined by her affectionate brother, Dr. Charles; who
hastened to hail her arrival, that he might convey her in his own warm
carriage to her heart-yearning father, her fondly impatient brethren,
and the tenderest of friends.

But he found her in no state to travel further!—feeble, drooping,
wasted away, scarcely to be known shrunk, nearly withered!—yet
still with her fair mind in full possession of its clearest powers;
still with all the native sweetness of her looks, manners, voice, and
smiles; still with all her desire to please; her affecting patience of
endurance; her touching sensibility for every species of attention; and
all her unalterable loveliness of disposition, that sought to console
for her own afflictions, to give comfort for her own sufferings!

During the space of a doubtful week, her kind brother, Dr. Charles,
awaited the happy moment when she might be able to move on—— But
on—save as a corpse,—she moved no more!

Gentle was her end! Gentle as the whole tenor of her life; but as
sudden in its conclusion as it had been lingering in its approach.

The news of her reaching—at length!—these shores, written by herself
from Park Gate, in a brief, but soul-touching letter to her father, and
another to this Memorialist, had been enchanting to the whole family.
Not to risk for her any fresh fatigue from haste, all impatience for
her sight was suppressed. A distant day, therefore, had been named by
Dr. Charles for her arrival at Chelsea College.

What a blessed instant was the reception of that appointment to the
Doctor!—An instant indeed, for it passed away, never to return!
But, during its brief interval, the Doctor devoted himself to making
arrangements for this felicitous restoration; and fixed the nearest
time that he could hope his Susanna would be sufficiently recovered to
give, and to receive, the joy springing from a family assemblage to
celebrate her return.——

Such was the radiant gleam that transiently shone upon the Doctor
and his happy race, when all the fair fabric of his renovating
expectations, his parental hopes, his fondest wishes, was broken
down, dissolved, confounded, by tidings that his Susanna—instead of
hastening to his roof, his arms, his blessing——was gone from all! was
gone on that awful journey whence no traveller returns—had landed but
to die—and was gone—gone hence for ever!

The deadly catastrophe was conveyed to the Doctor by his son-in-law
and nephew, the deserving Mr. Burney; who kindly spared his afflicted
wife—rent by personal sorrow—the dreadful task which, necessarily,
had been appointed to her by Dr. Charles. The good Mr. Burney, as the
Doctor afterwards declared, unfolded the irreparable calamity with as
much judiciousness as feeling. And the Doctor again evinced a force
of character unshaken by years, that shewed him capable of supporting,
while bewailing this terrific blow, with the submission of resignation,
and the fortitude of reason; not desponding, however wretched; not
overwhelmed, though indescribably unhappy.

What scenes were those which followed! how deep the tragedy! How wide
from their promised joys were the family meetings! Yet all his family
impressively hastened to the Doctor, and all were kindly received.

It was on the midnight of the first day of this woe, that his unhappy
daughter of West Hamble, whom its baleful blight had pierced the
preceding noon, forced her way, with her sympathizing partner, to
Chelsea College. Her, however, the Doctor could not see! His courage
sunk from that interview! He gave them the apartment that for so far
happier a purpose had been destined, and remitted a meeting to the next
morning.

Nor yet, even at breakfast, was he able to encounter her grief; it
was twelve or one o’clock at noon ere he could assume the strength
necessary: and then, his first words, on opening the parlour door, at
which he stopped and stood, feeble and motionless, with shut eyes, and
a look of unutterable anguish, were an almost inaudible exclamation, “I
dread to see _you_, Fanny! I dread to see _you_!”

The first heart-breaking effort, however, made, all else could not but
be soothing to each, even while to each piercing; and he kept her at
the College for some weeks, during which she devoted herself to him
wholly.

       *       *       *       *       *

But for the fair hope that all the pungency of heart-riving separations
such as these, from the objects of our purest affections, is left
behind;—that their bitterness is not shared; that the void, cold!
unsearchable! of such dire deprivations, is known only to the
survivors—while to the gone all clouds are cleared away, all storms
are calmed, all pangs are chased by bliss; but for this celestial Hope,
and spiritual Belief,—how could the fragile human frame be strong
enough to sustain the convulsed human mind, in the writhings of its
first desolating experience of a woe, which, by one fatal stroke,
seems, for the moment, to leave life without a charm?—For such is the
first, instinctive, imperious sensation upon such dread catastrophes;
whatever are the consolations with which remaining tender ties may
speedily afterwards soothe and regenerate our feelings; and exchange
our mortal grief for immortal aspirations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The ensuing lines were written by Dr. Burney, for an epitaph in Neston
churchyard, near Park Gate, where the remains of Mrs. Phillips were
deposited:


In Memory of

MRS. SUSANNA ELIZABETH PHILLIPS,

Third daughter of Doctor Burney, and wife of Major Phillips, of
Belcotton, in Ireland; who, in her way to visit her father at Chelsea
College, died at Park Gate, 6th of January, 1800.

      Learn, pensive reader, who may pass this way,
    That underneath this stone remains the clay
    That held a soul as pure, inform’d, refin’d,
    As e’er to erring mortal was assign’d.
    Closed are those eyes whose radiance, mild, yet bright,
    Beam’d all that gives to feeling soul’s delight!
    Quench’d are those rays of spirit, taste, and sense,
    Pure emanations of benevolence,
    That could alike instruct, appease, control,
    And speak the genuine dictates of the soul.

    C. B.


1800.

Of the rest of this melancholy year no vestige remains, either from
the Doctor or his Biographer. The beginning of the new century to them
was the closing of hope, not the opening of joy! and the pocket-book
memorandums of both are sterile and blank.

The Doctor, nevertheless, feeling himself past the time of life, and
past the strength of body for yielding to unbending grief without
danger to his faculties, as well as to his existence, accorded himself
but a short period for retirement from the world; and then, with what
force he could muster, returned to his business and his friends.


WILLIAM LOCKE, ESQ., JUNIOR.

The sole circumstance that excited him to any exertion, was the
election of the eldest son of Mr. Locke, of Norbury Park, to be a
member of the Literary Club.

It was to Dr. Burney that the idea of this election first occurred; no
one else at the club, at that period, being equally acquainted with the
claims of Mr. William Locke to confraternity with such a society. The
Doctor communicated this project, in which he felt great interest, to
West Hamble.

  “Fanny Phillips[59] and I,” he says, “have dined thrice
  lately with your excellent neighbours, the Lockes, who
  rise in my esteem and affection at every visit. I have
  been long thinking of putting up Mr. William Locke at our
  club, but would not venture without his permission. After
  the last dinner, therefore, I drew him aside, and fairly
  asked him whether he would give me leave to try for
  his election at a club, established under Dr. Johnson,
  Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Mr. Burke? and he said, after
  some modest scruples of being unworthy, that nothing
  would flatter him more. Yesterday, therefore, I began to
  canvass Malone, at his own house, and Lord Macartney, _a
  sotto voce_, in the club-room, before dinner. Malone was
  readily _de mon avis_; but Lord Macartney, following up
  the known plan of Dr. Johnson, to select the first man
  in every profession, for the more exact information of
  the rest upon those points of which they were ignorant,
  argued that we ought to have a great painter to supply,
  as well as he could, the loss of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

  “‘And you will have one, my Lord,’ I cried. ‘The painters
  all honour themselves in being of that mind with respect
  to Mr. William Locke. He only happens, by chance, to
  be heir to a considerable estate; he would else have
  been a painter by profession, as well as by talent and
  excellence. In Mr. William Locke we shall have every
  gratification we can wish for in a new member; he is
  a scholar, a traveller, a gentleman; and, when he can
  be prevailed with to talk, the best informed and most
  pleasing converser with whom men of cultivated minds can
  wish to associate.’

  “This gave me Lord Macartney as well as Malone; and,
  after dinner, on that very day, Lord Macartney himself,
  seconded by Mr. Langton, put up your dear friend’s
  ‘eldest hopes.’ I was applied to for giving the
  Christian name, and an assurance that the election was
  desired by the proposed new member. An entry then was
  made in the books, and the election will come on at the
  next club.”

The ensuing letter to West Hamble, will shew the happy effect of the
Doctor’s success upon his spirits:

  “I went to the club to-day with fear and trembling,
  lest I should have involved Mr. William Locke in any
  disappointment. Langton, though he had willingly seconded
  Lord Macartney’s motion, could not be there: it was a
  great day at the House, where they were debating the
  Adultery Bill, which lost us Windham, Canning, Bishop
  Douglas, Lords Spencer, Ossory, Palmerston, and Mr.
  Frere, of all whose suffrages I was sure. There were only
  nine members present; and I saw, on entering the room,
  with fear and dismay, the person suspected as a general
  black-baller. I’ll try to recollect the nine members:
  Lord Macartney, Sir Robert Chambers, Malone, Sir Charles
  Bunbury, Marsden, Dr. Fordyce, Mr. Thomas Grenville, Dr.
  Vincent, and your humble servant. Canning, whose turn
  it was to be President, being away, Lord Macartney, and
  two or three more, invited me to take the chair; but I
  modestly declined the honour! Well, we all seemed in
  perfect good-humour, and I hobbed a nob; and got two or
  three more to hob a nob, with the Knight of the Negro
  Ball; and, after dinner, when the box went round, Sir
  Charles Bunbury acted as Vice President, and opened
  it,—and—would you think it?—all was as white as milk!—and
  Mr. William Locke, jun. was declared duly elected.

  “Sir Charles wrote the usual letter of inauguration, and
  I one of congratulation; and I sent my own man with both
  to Manchester Square. And so that fright, at least, is
  happily over.

  “If Mr. and Mrs. Locke are with you, pray lay my best
  respects at their feet; and my love at the hearts of your
  two Alexanders. And so good night. It is past twelve, and
  time for all but owls and bats to be at roost.

  “C. B.”


1801.

In 1801, also, there was but a single event that the Doctor thought
worth committing to paper: and that, indeed, was of a kind that no one
who knew him could read, first without trembling, and next without
rejoicing; for, in the summer of 1801, and in his seventy-sixth
year, he had an escape the most providential from sudden and violent
destruction.

He had accompanied Mrs. Crewe, and some of her friends, to a review
on Ascot Heath, when, in returning home by water, as the boat was
disembarking its crew at Staines, feeling himself light and well, and
equal to a small leap, he jumped incautiously from the boat on what he
believed to be a tuft of grass; but what proved to be a moss-covered
stone, or hillock, which, far from bending, as he had expected, to the
touch of his foot, struck him backwards into the boat with frightful
violence, and a risk the most imminent of breaking his neck, if not of
fracturing his skull. Happily, no such dreadful evil ensued! and every
species of care and kindness were vigilantly exerted to keep aloof
further mischief than accrued from a few bruises.

Mr. Windham, who was of the party, had the Doctor conveyed immediately
to the nearest inn, to be blooded, and to have all the injured parts
examined and bathed. The Doctor’s carriage came to him there, and he
got back to Chelsea, slowly, but tolerably well: and nothing more
followed from this dangerous accident than a confinement of several
days.

That the mind, however, was far stronger than the frame, became now
indisputably evident, from the spirit with which he supported the
fright, the pain, and the mortification of this untoward experiment
upon his remnant and unsuspectedly failing corporeal force. But who
discovers the exact moment of arriving defalcation either of body or
mind, till taught it by one of those severe instructors, Disease, or
Accident?


CYCLOPEDIA.

Nevertheless, though no further episodical event occurred in 1801, that
year must by no means be passed over without record in the Memoirs
of Dr. Burney; for it was marked by such extraordinary intellectual
exertion as may almost be called unparalleled, when considered as
springing from volition, not necessity; and from efforts the most
virtuously philosophical, to while away enervating sadness upon those
changes and chances that hang upon the very nature of mortal existence:
for now, to tie his activity to his labours, he entered into a formal
agreement with the editors of the then new Encyclopedia, to furnish all
its musical articles at stated periods.

He thus, in a letter of which he has left a copy, though not the
address, speaks of this enterprise to some friend:

  “I have entered now into concerns that leave me not
  a minute, or a thought, to bestow on other matters.
  Besides professional avocations, I have deeply engaged
  in a work that can admit of no delay; and which occupies
  every instant that I can steal from business, friends,
  or sleep. A new edition, on a very enlarged plan, of
  the Cyclopedia of Chambers, is now printing in two
  double volumes 4to, for which I have agreed to furnish
  the musical articles, on a very large scale, including
  whatever is connected with the subject; not only
  definitions of the musical technica, but reflexions,
  discussions, criticism, history, and biography. The first
  volume is printed, and does not finish the letter A. And
  in _nine months’ hard labour_, I have not brought forth
  two letters. I am more and more frightened every day at
  the undertaking, so long after the usual allowance of
  three score years and ten have expired. And the shortest
  calculation for the termination of this work is still ten
  years.”

And in his letters to West Hamble on the same subject, he mentions,
that to fulfil his engagement, he generally rises at five or six
o’clock every morning—! in his seventy-sixth year.


1802.

This year partook not of any lack of incident; it commenced during
the operation and incertitude of a public transaction so big, in its
consequences, with deep importance to the domestic life of Dr. Burney,
that it seems requisite for all that will follow, to enter into such
parts of its details as affected the Doctor’s feelings, through their
influence over those of his son-in-law, General d’Arblay. And it will
be done the more willingly, as it must involve an unpublished anecdote
or two of the marvellous character who, for a while, was the ruler of
nearly all Europe,—Napoleon Buonaparte.

At the period of the peace of Amiens, in the preceding year, the
Minister Plenipotentiary who was sent over by Buonaparte, then only
First Consul, to sign its preliminaries, chanced to be an artillery
officer, General de Lauriston, who had been _en garrison_, and in great
personal friendship, with General d’Arblay, during their mutual youth;
and with whom, as with all the _etat major_ of the regiment of Toul, a
connexion of warm esteem and intimacy had faithfully been kept alive,
till the dreadful catastrophe of the 10th of August dispersed every
officer who survived it, into the wanderings of emigration, or the
mystery of concealment.

When the name of Lauriston reached West Hamble, its obscured, but not
enervated Chief, rushed eagerly from his Hermitage to the Metropolis,
where he hastily wrote a few impressive lines to the new Minister
Plenipotentiary, briefly demanding whether or not, in his present
splendid situation, he would avow an old _Camarade_, whose life now was
principally spent in cultivating cabbages in his own garden, for his
own family and table?

Of this note he was fain to be his own bearer; and in some Hotel in, or
near St. James’s Street, he discovered the Minister’s abode.

Unaccoutred, dressed only in his common garden coat, and wearing
no military appendage, or mark of military rank, he found it very
difficult to gain admission into the hotel, even as a messenger; for
such, only, he called himself. The street was crowded so as to be
almost impassable, as it was known to the public, that the French
Minister was going forth to an audience for signing the preliminaries
of Peace with Lord Hawkesbury.[60]

But M. d’Arblay was not a man to be easily baffled. He resolutely
forced his way to the corridor leading to the Minister’s dressing
apartment. There, however, he was arbitrarily stopped; but would not
retire: and compelled the lacquey, who endeavoured to dismiss him, to
take, and to promise the immediate delivery of his note.

With a very wry face, and an indignant shrug, the lacquey almost
perforce complied; carefully, however, leaving another valet at the
outside of the door, to prevent further inroad.

M. de Lauriston was under the hands of his frizeur, and reading a
newspaper. But the gazette gave place to the billet, which, probably
recollecting the handwriting; he rapidly ran over, and then eagerly,
and in a voice of emotion, emphatically demanded who had been its
bearer?

A small ante-room alone separated him from its writer, who, hearing the
question, energetically called out: “_C’est Moi!_”

Up rose the Minister, who opened one door himself, as M. d’Arblay broke
through the other, and in the midst of the little ante-room, they
rushed into one another’s arms.

If M. d’Arblay was joyfully affected by this generous reception, M. de
Lauriston was yet more moved in embracing his early friend, whom report
had mingled with the slaughtered of the 10th of August.

The meeting, indeed, was so peculiar, from the high station of M. de
Lauriston; the superb equipage waiting at his door to carry him, for
the most popular of purposes, to an appointed audience with a British
minister; and the glare, the parade, the cost, the attendants, and the
attentions by which he was encompassed; contrasted with the worn, as
well as plain habiliments of the recluse of West Hamble, that it gave
a singularity to the equality of their manners to each other, and the
mutuality of the joy and affection of their embraces, that from first
exciting the astonishment, next moved the admiration of the domestics
of the Minister Plenipotentiary; and particularly of his frizeur, who,
probably, was his first valet-de-chambre; and who, while they were yet
in each other’s arms, exclaimed aloud, with that familiarity in which
the French indulge their favourite servants, “_Ma foi! voilà qui est
beau!_”

This characteristic freedom of approbation broke into the pathos of the
interview by causing a hearty laugh; and M. de Lauriston, who then had
not another instant to spare, cordially invited his recovered friend to
breakfast with him the next morning.

At that breakfast, M. de Lauriston recorded the circumstances that had
led to his present situation, with all the trust and openness of their
early intercourse. And sacred General d’Arblay held that confidence;
which should have sunk into oblivion, but for the after circumstances,
and present state of things, which render all that, then, was
prudentially secret, now desirably public.

No change, he said, of sentiment, no dereliction of principle, had
influenced his entering into the service of the republic. Personal
gratitude alone had brought about that event. Whilst fighting,
under the banners of Austria, against Buonaparte, in one of the
campaigns of Italy, he had been taken prisoner, with an Austrian
troop. His companions in arms were immediately conveyed to captivity,
there to stand the chances of confinement or exchange; but he, as a
Frenchman, had been singled out by the conquerors, and stigmatized
as a deserter, by the party into whose hands he had fallen, and who
condemned him to be instantly shot: though, as he had never served
Buonaparte, no laws of equity could brand as a traitor the man who had
but constantly adhered to his first allegiance. Buonaparte himself,
either struck by this idea; or with a desire to obtain a distinguished
officer of artillery, of which alone his army wanted a supply; felt
induced to start forward in person, to stop the execution at the very
instant it was going to take place. And, to save M. de Lauriston,
at the same time, from the ill-will or vengeance of the soldiers,
Buonaparte concealed him, till the troop by which he had been taken
was elsewhere occupied; conducting himself, in the meanwhile, with so
much consideration and kindness, that the gentle heart of Lauriston was
gained over by grateful feelings, and he accepted the post afterwards
offered to him of Aide-de-camp to the First Consul; with whom, in a
short time, he rose to so much trust and favour, as to become the
colleague of Duroc, as a chosen and military,—though not, as Duroc, a
confidential secretary.

Buonaparte, Lauriston said, had named him for this important embassy
to England from two motives: one of which was, that he thought such
a nomination might be agreeable to the English, as Lauriston, who
was great grand-son or grand-nephew to the famous Law, of South Sea
notoriety, was of British extraction; and the other was from personal
regard to Lauriston, that he might open a negociation, during his
mission, for the recovery of some part of his Scotch inheritance.

At this, and a subsequent breakfast with M. de Lauriston, M. d’Arblay
discussed the most probable means for claiming his _reforme_, or
half-pay, as some remuneration for his past services and deprivations.
And M. de Lauriston warmly undertook to carry a letter on this subject
to Buonaparte’s minister at war, Berthier; with whom, under Louis the
Sixteenth, M. d’Arblay had formerly transacted military business.

It was found, however, that nothing could be effected without the
presence of M. d’Arblay in France; and therefore, peace between the two
nations being signed, he deemed it right to set sail for the long-lost
land of his birth.

Immediately upon his arrival in Paris, a representation of his claims
was presented to the First Consul himself, accompanied with words of
kindliest interest in its success, by the faithful General de Lauriston.

Buonaparte inquired minutely into the merits of the case, and into the
military character of the claimant; and, having patiently heard the
first account, and eagerly interrogated upon the second, he paused a
few minutes, and then said: “Let him serve in the army, if only for one
year. Let him go to St. Domingo, and join Le Cler;[61] and, at the end
of the year, he shall be allowed to retire, with rank and promotion.”

This was the last purpose that had entered into the projects of M.
d’Arblay; yet, to a military spirit, jealous of his honour, and
passionately fond of his profession, it was a proposition impossible
to be declined. It was not to combat for Buonaparte, nor to fight
against his original allegiance: it was to bear arms in the current
cause of his country, in resisting the insurgents of St. Domingo,[62]
against whom he might equally have been employed by the Monarch[63] in
whose service he had risked, and through whose misfortunes he had lost
his all. He merely, therefore, stipulated to re-enter the army simply
as a volunteer; with an agreed permission to quit it at the close
of the campaign, whatever might be its issue: and he then accepted
from Berthier a commission for St. Domingo, which, in the republican
language adopted by Buonaparte on his first accession to dictatorial
power, was addressed to _le Citoyen_ General-in-Chief, Le Cler; and
which recommended to that General that _le Citoyen Darblay_ should be
employed as a distinguished artillery officer.

M. d’Arblay next obtained leave to come over to England to settle
his private affairs; to make innumerable purchases relative to the
expedition to St. Domingo; and to bid adieu to his wife and son.


1802.

Dr. Burney received him with open arms, but tearful eyes. He had too
much candour to misjudge the nature and the principles of a military
character, so as to censure his non-refusal of an offered restoration
to his profession, since, at that moment, the peace between the two
countries paralysed any possible movement in favour of the Royalists;
yet his grief at the circumstance, and his compassion for his dejected
daughter, gave a gloom to the transaction that was deeply depressing.

The purchases were soon made, for the re-instated man of arms sunk a
considerable sum to be expeditiously accoutred; after which, repelling
every drawback of internal reluctance, he was eager not to exceed his
furlough; and, pronouncing an agitated farewell, hurried back to Paris;
purposing thence to proceed to Brest, whence he was to embark for his
destination.

But, inexpressibly anxious not to be misunderstood, nor drawn into the
service of Buonaparte beyond the contracted engagement; the day before
he left London, M. d’Arblay, with a singleness of integrity that never
calculated consequences where he thought his honour and his interest
might pull different ways, determined to be unequivocally explicit, and
addressed, therefore, the following letter directly to Buonaparte:

  “_Au Premier Consul._

  “General,

  “La generosité et la grandeur d’ame etant inseparables,
  ce qui pourroit me perdre avec un autre, va être ma
  saufegarde avec vous. Admirateur sincere du bien que
  vous avez déja fait; animé par l’éspoir de celui qui
  vous reste à faire; je veux et j’éspere me rendre digne
  de la manière flatteuse dont vous venez de me traiter.
  Je pars, et vous pouvez compter sur ma reconnoissance:
  mais ce seroit vous en donner une preuve indigne de
  vous que de me rendre coupable d’ingratitude envers un
  autre. Enthousiaste de la liberté, je fas encore plus
  ami de l’ordre; et restai jusqu’au dernier moment un des
  serviteurs le plus fidele, et, j’ose le dire, le plus
  energique, d’un monarque dont plus qu’un autre j’ai connu
  le patriotisme et les vertus. Forcé de fuir, rien n’eut
  pû me faire manquer au serment de ne jamais porter les
  armes contre ma patrie; determiné de même de ne jamais
  m’armer contre la patrie de mon epouse—contre le pays qui
  pendant neuf ans nous a nourris. Je vous jure sur tout le
  reste fidelité et devouement.

  “Salut et respect,

  “ALEXANDRE DARBLAY.”

This letter he hurried off by an official express, through Buonaparte’s
then minister here, M. Otto; who, after reading, forwarded it under
cover to Le Citoyen Ministre de la Guerre, Berthier; to whom, as a
former military friend, M. d’Arblay recommended its delivery to Le
Premier Consul.[64] This done, M. d’Arblay pursued his own route.

A frightful chasm of all intelligence to Dr. Burney ensued after this
critical departure of M. d’Arblay; no tidings came over of his arrival
at Brest, his embarkation, or even of his safety, after crossing the
channel in the remarkably tempestuous month of February, in 1802.

The causes of this mysterious silence would be too circumstantial for
these Memoirs, to which it belongs only to state their result. The
First Consul, upon reading the letter of M. d’Arblay, immediately
withdrew his military commission; and Berthier, in an official reply,
desired that _le Citoyen Darblay_ would consider that commission, and
the letter to General Le Cler, as _non avenues_.

Berthier, nevertheless, in the document which annulled the St. Domingo
commission, and which must have been written by the personal command of
Buonaparte, since it was in answer to a letter that had been directed
immediately to himself, calmly, and without rancour, harshness, or
satire, developed the reason of the recall, in simply saying, that
since _le Citoyen Darblay_ would not bear arms against the country of
his wife, which might always, eventually, bear arms against France, he
could not be engaged in the service of the Republic.

Buonaparte, stimulated, it is probable, by M. de Lauriston’s account of
the frank and honourable character of M. d’Arblay, contented himself
with this simple annulling act; without embittering it by any stigma,
or demonstrating any suspicious resentment.

This event, as has been hinted, produced important consequences to Dr.
Burney; consequences the most ungenial to his parental affections;
though happily, at that period, not foreseen in their melancholy
extent, of a ten years’ complete and desperate separation from his
daughter d’Arblay.

Unsuspicious, therefore, of that appendent effect of the letter of M.
d’Arblay to Buonaparte, the satisfaction of Dr. Burney, at this first
moment, that no son-in-law of his would bear arms, through any means,
however innocent, and with any intentions, however pure, under the
banners of Buonaparte, largely contributed to make the unexpected
tidings of this sudden change of situation an epoch of ecstacy, rather
than of joy; of adoration, rather than of thankfulness, to his Hermit
daughter.

But far different were the sensations to which this turn of affairs
gave birth in M. d’Arblay. Consternation seems too tame a word for
the bewildered confusion of his feelings, at so abrupt a breaking up
of an enterprise, which, though unsolicited and unwished for in its
origin, had by degrees, from its recurrence to early habits, become
glowingly animated to his ideas and his prospects. Buonaparte had not
then blackened his glory by the seizure and sacrifice of the Comte
d’Enghein; and M. d’Arblay, in common with several other admirers of
the military fame of the First Consul, had conceived a hope, to which
he meant honestly to allude in his letter, that the final campaign
of that great warrior, would be a voluntary imitation of the final
campaign of General Monk.

Little, therefore, as he had intended to constitute Buonaparte, in
any way, as his chief, a breach such as this in his own professional
career, nearly mastered his faculties with excess of perturbation.
To seem dismissed the service!—he could not brook the idea; he was
confounded by his own position.

He applied to a generous friend,[65] high in military reputation, to
represent his disturbance to the First Consul.

Buonaparte consented to grant an audience on the subject; but almost
instantly interrupted the application, by saying, with vivacity, “I
know that business! However, let him be tranquil. It shall not hurt him
any further. There was a time I might have been capable of acting so
myself!—”

And then, after a little pause, and with a look somewhat ironical, but
by no means ill-humoured or unpleasant, he added: “_Il m’a écrit un
diable de lettre!_”—He stopt again, after which, with a smile half
gay, half cynical, he said: “However, I ought only to regard in it the
husband of Cecilia;” and then abruptly he broke up the conference.

Of the _author_ of Cecilia, of course, he meant.

This certainly was a trait of candour and liberality worthy of a
more gentle mind; and which, till the ever unpardonable massacre of
the Duke d’Enghein, softened, in some measure, the endurance of the
compulsatory stay in France that afterwards ensued to M. d’Arblay.


1802.

Dr. Burney, meanwhile, from the time that the St. Domingo commission
was annulled, was in daily expectation of the return of his son-in-law,
and the re-establishment of the little cottage of West Hamble:—but
mournfully, alas, was he disappointed! The painful news arrived from M.
d’Arblay, that, from the strangeness of the circumstances in which he
was involved, he could not quit France without seeming to have gained
his wish in losing his appointment. He determined, therefore, to remain
a twelvemonth in Paris, to shew himself at hand in case of any change
of orders. And he desired, of course, to be joined there by his wife
and son.

M. d’Arblay, however, wrote to that wife, to Dr. Burney, and to his
dearly reverenced friend, Mr. Locke, the most comforting assurance,
that, one single year revolved, he would return, with his little
family, to the unambitious enjoyment of friendship, repose, and West
Hamble.

By no means gaily did Dr. Burney receive the account of this
arrangement. Gloomy forebodings clouded his brow; though his daughter,
exalted by joy and thankfulness that the pestilential climate of St.
Domingo was relinquished; and happily persuaded that another year would
re-unite her with her honoured father, her brethren, and friends,
assented with alacrity to the scheme. Almost immediately, therefore,
it took place; though not before the loyal heart of Dr. Burney had
the soothing consolation of finding, that the step she was taking was
honoured with the entire approbation of her benevolent late Royal
Mistress; who openly held that to follow the fortune of the man to whom
she had given her hand, was now her first duty in life.

And something of pleasure mixed itself with his parental cares, and a
little mitigated the severity of his concern at this event, when the
Doctor heard that she was not only admitted by that most gracious Queen
to a long and flattering farewell audience; and to the high honour of
separate parting interviews with each of the Princesses; but also to
the unspeakable delight of being graciously detained in her Majesty’s
white closet till the arrival there, from some review, of the benign
King himself; who deigned, with his never-failing benevolence, to
vouchsafe to her some inappreciable minutes of his favouring and
heart-touching notice: while the Queen, with conscious pleasure at the
happiness which she had thus accorded to her, smilingly said, “You did
not expect this, Madame d’Arblay.”

With this high honour and goodness exhilarated, her spirits rose to
their task; with the support of hope, she parted from her family
and friends; with the resolution of remembering the escape from St.
Domingo, should she be pursued by any misfortune, she quitted her loved
cottage; and even from her thrice-dear father she separated without
participating in his alarm, while seeking to dissipate it by her own
brighter views.

Yet moved was she to her heart’s core when, on the evening preceding
her departure, which took place after a long sojourn at Chelsea
College, he suddenly broke from her, as if to stir the fire; but
pronounced, in a voice that shewed he merely sought to hide his
emotion, his fears, nay belief, that M. d’Arblay, though twice he had
returned with speed from Paris when he had visited it alone, would
probably be tempted to lengthen, if not fix his abode there, when the
chief ties to his adopted country became a part of that of his birth.

Nevertheless, even this apprehension, such was her faith in the sacred
influence of Camilla Cottage over the mind of her partner in life,
she courageously parried, though impressively she felt; and at the
leave-taking moment, she was happily able to cheer the presentiments of
the Doctor, by the lively sincerity of the feelings that cheered her
own.

One point only combatted her courage, and was too potent for her
resistance; she could not utter an adieu to her matchless friend, Mr.
Locke!—his frame had always seemed to her as fragile as his virtues
were adamantine; and the tender partiality with which he had ever met
her reverential attachment, made his voice so meltingly affecting to
her, that she feared lest her own should betray how little she already
thought him of this world! she cheerfully bade adieu to her father, her
family, and her friends—but she retreated without uttering a farewell
to Mr. Locke,—whom, alas! she never saw more!

       *       *       *       *       *

No further narrative, of which the detail can be personal or reciprocal
with the Editor, can now be given of Dr. Burney. What follows will be
collected from fragments of memoirs, and innumerable memorandums in
his own handwriting; from his letters, and those of his family and
friends; and from various accidental, incidental, and miscellaneous
circumstances.

Yet, at the period of this separation, the Memorialist had the
solace to know, that many as were the ties already dissolved of his
early affections; numerous the links already broken of his maturer
attachments; and wholly incalculable the mass of losses or changes in
the current objects of pursuit that, from year to year, had eluded his
grasp, flown from his hopes, or betrayed his expectations; he still
possessed a host of consolers and revivers, added to what yet remained
of his truly attached family, who strove, with equal fidelity and
vivacity, to lighten and brighten the years yet lent to their friendly
efforts.

At the head of this honourable list, and, for Dr. Burney, of every
other, since the loss of Mr. Crisp and Mr. Bewley, would have risen Mr.
Twining, had his society been attainable: but Mr. Twining was so seldom
in London, that their meetings became as rare as they were precious.
His correspondence however, still maintained its pre-eminence; and
it is hardly too much to say, that the letters of Mr. Twining were
received with a brighter welcome than the visits of almost any other
person.

First, therefore, now, in positive, prevailing, and graceful activity
of zeal to serve him in his own way, and furnish food to his ideas,
with temptation to his spirits and humour for its welcome, must be
placed his ever faithful and generous friend, and, by proxy, his
god-child, Mrs. Crewe; who prized him equally as a counsellor and a
companion.

Far different from all that belongs to this lady are the records that
further unfold his broken intercourse with Mr. Greville; and most
painful to him was it to turn from the fairness of right reason, and
the steadfastness of constancy, which were unvaryingly manifested in
the attachment of Mrs. Crewe, to the wayward character, and irrational
claims of his erst first patron and friend, her father; who, emerging,
nevertheless, from the apathetic gloom into which he had fallen on the
first public breaking up of his establishment, had started a spirited
resolution to hit upon a new, unknown, unheard-of walk in life, to give
recruit to his fortune, and lustre to his name.

Eagerly he looked around for some striking object that might fix him to
a point; but all was chaos to the disturbed glare of his ill-directed
vision. His internal resources were too diffuse and unsystematized,
to fit him for being the chief of any new enterprise; yet, to be an
agent, a deputy, a second, he thought more intolerable than danger,
distress, debt, difficulty, nay, destruction.

Sick, then, at heart, and self-abandoned for every purpose of active
life, partly from despair, partly from ostentation, he plunged all he
could yet command of faculty into the study of metaphysics; a study
which, from his nervous irritability, soon made all commerce with his
friends become impracticable rather than difficult.


1802.

The Memorialist had the comfort, however, to leave the Doctor always
eagerly solicited to the society, or honoured with the correspondence
of the noble Marquis of Aylesbury, and the liberal Earl of Lonsdale,
inclusively with their singularly amiable families: and sought equally
by the all-accomplished Dowager Lady Templeton, by Lady Manvers, Lady
Mary Duncan, Mrs. Garrick, the Marchioness of Thomond, Mrs. Ord, Lord
Cardigan, Mr. Coxe, Mr. Pepys, the still celebrated, though fading
away Mrs. Montagu, the sagacious and polished Mrs. Boscawen, and the
inimitable Lockes.

And while, in general friendship, such was the nourishment for his
gratitude—that feeling which, when not the most oppressive, is the
most delightful in human associations—his love of literature, science,
and the arts, had food equally nutritive with Mr. Malone, from his
spirit of research after facts, incidents, and all the shades and
shadows of the great or marked characters that, erst, had been objects
of renown.

With Mr. Courtney, though utterly dissimilar in politics, for his wit,
sense, and general agreeability.

With Mr. Rogers, for the coincident elegance and philanthropy of his
disposition with his poetry.

With Sir George Beaumont, from a vivid sympathy of taste in all the
arts.

With Mr. Windham, from a union the most perfect in sentiment, in
principles, and in literature.

And by the President of the Royal Society, Sir Joseph Bankes, the
Doctor, from his own universal thirst of knowledge, and uncommon
capacity for receiving, retaining, and naturalizing its gifts, was
welcomed on public days as a worthy brother of the learned and
studious; and in the hours of private conviviality was courted yet more
from the gaiety of his humour and the entertainment of his anecdotes;
Sir Joseph, when unbent from the state of Newton’s chair, being ever
merrily charmed to reciprocate sportive nonsense; various remnants
of which, laughingly amusing, but too ludicrous from the President
of a scientific society for the press, are amongst the posthumous
collections of the Doctor.

With all these his social hilarity was in constant circulation, kept
alive by their kindness, and invigorated by their plaudits; which
rendered such commerce as medicinal to his health as to his pleasure,
from its sane and active spur to what constitutes the happiest portion
of our mundane composition, animal spirits.

But the intercourse the most delighting to his fancy and his feelings,
was through an increase of attachment for Lady Clarges. Yet melancholy
was the cause of this augmented sympathy; melancholy then, and
afterwards mournful. To the pleasing view of the personal likeness to
his Susanna which had first endeared Lady Clarges to his sight; to the
soothing sensations excited by those vocal notes in which a similarity
of sound was so grateful to his ears, was now superadded another
resemblance, as far more touching as it was less exhilarating; the
health of Lady Clarges, never robust, was now in apparent, though not
yet alarming, decline. This, altogether, occasioned a tender interest
that clung to the breast of the Doctor, first with added regard, and
afterwards with suffering solicitude.

In all, however, that was most efficient in good, most solid, most
serious, most essential in comfort as well as elegance, the noble
kindness of the Duke of Portland took the lead. His magnificent
hospitality was nearly without parallel. The select invitations upon
select occasions to Burlington House, with which his favour to the
Doctor had begun, were succeeded by general ones for all times and all
seasons; and with injunctions that the Doctor would choose his own
days, and adjust their frequency completely by his own convenience.

This _carte blanche_ of admission at will was next extended from
Burlington House to Bulstrode Park; where he was found so agreeable
by the noble host, and so pleasing to the noble family, that, in a
short time, the Duke urged him to take possession of an appropriated
apartment, and to consider himself to be completely at home in that
sumptuous dwelling; where he had his mornings with undisturbed
liberty, wholly at his own disposal; where he even dined, according
to the state of his health and spirits, at the Duke’s table, or in
his own parlour; and where, though welcomed in any part of the day
to every part of the house, he was never troubled with any inquiry
for non-appearance, except at the evening’s assemblage; though not
unfrequently the Duke made him personal visits of such affectionate
freedom, as signally to endear to him this splendid habitation.

So impressive, indeed, was the regard of his Grace for Dr. Burney, and
so animated was the gratitude of its return, that the enjoyments of
Bulstrode Park, with all their refined luxuries, and their cultivated
scenery, soon became less than secondary; they were nearly as nothing
in the calculation of the Doctor, compared with what he experienced
from the cordial conversation and kindness of the Duke.

Such, added to his family circle, were the auspices under which, to her
great consolation, his daughter d’Arblay left Dr. Burney in April, 1802.


1802.

Dr. Burney, upon the arrival in France of his daughter d’Arblay,
for the stated year, opened with her a continental correspondence,
prudent, i.e. silent, in regard to politics; but communicative and
satisfactory on family affairs and interests; which, on her part,
was sustained by all the trust that, at such times, and from such a
quarter, could be hazarded. She knew the passing pleasure, at least,
with which he would read all that she could venture to write on the
new scenes now before her; which were replete with objects, prospects,
and ideas to give occupation to Conjecture and Expectation, of more
vivacity and mental movement than had been offered to the thought of
man for many preceding ages.

And, as her filial letters, from the influence of Mrs. Crewe with
Mr. Pelham,[66] passed through the hands of Mr. Merry, the English
Minister, she freely related various personal occurrences; though she
abstained, of course, from any risk of betraying to the police, through
a surprised correspondence, her private opinions, or secret feelings
upon the vast new theatre of civil, political, and martial manoeuvres
of which she now became, in some measure, a spectatress. Whatever
looked Forward, or looked Backward, at that critical juncture, was
dangerous for the Pen: to be acquiescent with what was Present alone
was safety.

Dr. Burney, upon this separation, redoubled the vigilance of his
self-exertions for turning to account every moment of his existence.
And his spirits appeared to be equal to every demand upon their
efforts. In his first letter to Paris, May 20, 1802, he says:

  “I hope, now, the two nations will heartily shake hands,
  and not be quiet only themselves, but keep the rest
  of the world quiet. My hurries are such at present,
  as to oblige me to draw deeper than ever upon my
  sinking-fund.[67] Business, and more numerous engagements
  than I have ever yet had, swallow all my time; and this
  enormous Cyclopedia fills up all my thoughts. I have been
  long an A.B.C. derian; and now am become so for life.”

In another letter of the same year, written a few months later, the
Cyclopedia is no longer proclaimed to be the principal, but the
exclusive occupation of the Doctor. The indefatigable eagerness of its
pursuit, will best appear from his own account:

  “_July 1st, 1802._—I have this day taken leave, for this
  year, of my town business, which broke into three precious
  mornings of my week, shivered the lord knows how many links of
  the chain of my Cyclopedia, and lost me even the interval of
  time from the trouble of collecting the broken fragments of my
  materials, and re-putting them together.

  “In order to form some idea of the total absorption of my
  present life, by this Herculean labour, added to my usual
  hurricanes during the town season, a delightful letter of
  Twining himself, which I received some weeks ago, remains
  unanswered! I had a mind to see what I could really do in
  twelve months, by driving the quill at every possible moment
  that I could steal from business or repose, by day and by
  night, in bed and up; and, with all this stir and toil, I
  have found it impracticable to finish three letters of the
  alphabet!”

       *       *       *       *       *

How fortunate—may it not be said how benign?—was the invisibility to
coming events at the parental and filial moment of the late separation!
an invisibility that spared from fruitless disturbance the greater part
of that promised year that was to have ended with the balm of re-union,
by hiding the fresh proof with which it was labouring to manifest the
never-ending, yet never-awaited imperfection and fallacy of human
arrangements.

But grievous, however procrastinated, was the light that too soon
broke into that invisibility, when, almost at the moment of happy
expectation, Dr. Burney had the shock of hearing that war was again
declared with France! And dire, most dire and afflicting to his
daughter, was the similar information, of learning that Buonaparte had
peremptorily ordered Lord Whitworth to quit Paris in a specified number
of hours: and that a brief term was dictatorially fixed for either
following that Ambassador, or immoveably remaining in France till the
contest should be over.

The very peculiar position, in a military point of view, in which
M. d’Arblay now stood in his native country, made it impossible for
him to leave it, at so critical a juncture, in the hurried manner
that the imperious decree of the French Dictator commanded. It might
seem deserting his post! He felt, therefore, compelled, by claims
of professional observance, to abide the uncertain storm where its
first thunder rolled; and to risk, at its centre, the hazards of its
circulation, and the chances of its course.

The unhappiness caused by this decision was wholly unmixed with murmurs
from Dr. Burney, whose justice and candour acknowledged it, in such a
situation, to be indispensable.

       *       *       *       *       *

War thus again broken forth, few and concise were the lines, not
letters, that kept up any correspondence between Dr. Burney and Paris;
passing unsealed when they came by the post; and even undirected, as
accidental papers, when they were intrusted to private hands: so great
was the dread in this English Memorialist of raising in the French
Government any suspicion of cabal or conspiracy, by any sort of written
intercourse with England.[68]

Nothing, therefore, at this time, can be drawn for these Memoirs from
the letters of Dr. Burney: and every article or paragraph for the next
two or three years, will be copied, or abridged, from the Doctor’s
posthumous manuscripts.


1803.

In 1803, one short record alone has been found. That he wrote no more
journal-anecdotes that year, may be chiefly attributed to his then
intense application to the Cyclopedia. Perhaps, also, his spirits
for his Diary might be depressed by so abrupt a privation of another
daughter; not, indeed, by the hand of death, yet by a species of exile
that had no certain or visible term.

The following is the single record of 1803 above-mentioned:

  “Beethoven’s compositions for the piano-forte were first
  brought to England by Miss Tate, a most accomplished
  _dilletante_ singer and player. I soon afterwards heard
  some of his instrumental works, which are such as incline
  me to rank him amongst the first musical authors of the
  present century. He was a disciple of Mozart, and is now
  but three or four and twenty years of age.”

1804 turned out far more copious in events and recitals; though
saddening, however philosophical and consonant to the common laws of
nature, are the reflections and avowals of Dr. Burney upon his this
year’s birth-day.


1804.

  _From the Doctor’s Journal._

  “In 1804, in the month of April, I completed my 78th
  year, and decided to relinquish teaching and my musical
  patients; for both my ears and my eyes were beginning
  to fail me. I could still hear the most minute musical
  tone; but in conversation I lost the articulation, and
  was forced to make people at the least distance from me
  repeat everything that they said. Sometimes the mere
  tone of voice, and the countenance of the speaker, told
  me whether I was to smile or to frown; but never so
  explicitly as to allow me to venture at any reply to what
  was said! Yet I never, seemingly, have been more _in
  fashion_ at any period of my life than this spring; never
  invited to more conversaziones, assemblées, dinners, and
  concerts. But I feel myself less and less able to bear a
  part in general conversation every day, from the failure
  of memory, particularly in names; and I am become fearful
  of beginning any story that occurs to me, lest I should
  be stopped short by hunting for Mr. How d’ye call him’s
  style and titles.

  “I was very near-sighted from about my 30th year; but
  though it is usually thought that that sort of sight
  improves with age, I have not discovered that the notion
  was well founded. My sight became not only more short,
  but more feeble. Instead of a concave glass, I was
  forced to have recourse to one that was convex, and that
  magnified highly, for pale ink and small types.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Editor must here remark, that Dr. Burney never required the convex
glass of which he speaks, for the perusal of either printed or written
characters, except when they were presented to him at a distance. He
read to his very last days every book and every letter that he could
hold near to his eyes, without any species of spectacles.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “_30th April._ I finished this month by a cordial
  domestic dinner at Mr. Crewe’s; where, in the evening,
  was held the ambulatory ladies’ concert.”

In the month of the following May, a similar ebullition of political
rancour with that which so difficultly had been conquered for Mr.
Canning, foamed over the ballot box of the Literary Club to the
exclusion of Mr. Rogers; by whom it was the less deserved, from its
contrast to that poet’s own widely opposite liberality, in never
suffering political opinions to shut out, either from his hospitality
or his friendship, those who invite them by congenial sentiments on
other points.

The ensuing page is copied from Dr. Burney’s own manuscript
observations upon this occurrence:

  “_May 1st._ I was at the Club, at which Rogers, put up
  by Courtney, and seconded by me, was ballotted for, and
  blackballed; I believe on account of his politics. There
  can, indeed, be nothing else against him. He is a good
  poet, has a refined taste in all the arts; has a select
  library of the best editions of the best authors in most
  languages; has very fine pictures; very fine drawings;
  and the finest collection I ever saw of the best Etruscan
  vases; and, moreover, he gives the best dinners to
  the best company of men of talents and genius of any
  man I know; the best served, and with the best wines,
  _liqueurs_, &c. He is not fond of talking politics, for
  he is no _Jacobin-enragé_, though I believe him to be a
  principled republican, and therefore in high favour with
  Mr. Fox and his adherents. But he is never obtrusive; and
  neither shuns nor dislikes a man for being of a different
  political creed to himself: it is therefore, that he
  and I, however we may dissent upon that point, concur
  so completely on almost every other, that we always
  meet with pleasure. And, in fact, he is much esteemed
  by many persons belonging to the government, and about
  the court. His books of prints of the greatest engravers
  from the greatest masters, in history, architecture,
  and antiquities, are of the first class. His house in
  St. James’s Place, looking into the Green Park, is
  deliciously situated, and furnished with great taste. He
  seemed very desirous of being elected a member of the
  club, to which, in fact, his talents would have done
  honour; few men are more fitted to contribute to its
  entertainment.”

The Doctor, long afterwards, in talking over this anecdote, said:

  “There is no accounting for such gross injustice in the
  club; except by acknowledging that there are demagogues
  amongst them who enjoy as the highest privilege of an old
  member, the power of excluding, with or without reason, a
  new one.”

In the same month Dr. Burney had the professional gratification of
receiving a perpetual ticket of admission to the Concerts of Ancient
Music, enclosed in the following letter from the Earl of Dartmouth:

  “_Berkeley Square,_ _May 27th._

  “Lord Dartmouth is happy to have it in charge from his
  brother-Directors of the Ancient Concerts, to present the
  enclosed General Ticket to Dr. Burney; and to beg his
  acceptance of it as a token of their sense of his merits
  in the cause of Music; and especially that part of it
  which is more immediately the object of their attention:
  as well as of the respect in which they all hold his
  person and character.”

A copy of his thanks remains, written in a very fair hand, and on the
same day:

  “_To the Right Honourable the Earl of Dartmouth, Lord
  Chamberlain of His Majesty’s Household, and one of the
  Directors of the Concerts of Ancient Music._

  “Dr. Burney presents his most humble respects to the Earl
  of Dartmouth, and to the rest of the Right Honourable
  and Honourable Directors of the Concerts of Ancient
  Music; and feels himself flattered beyond his powers of
  expression, with the liberal testimony of the esteem
  and approbation with which he has been honoured by the
  illustrious Patrons of an Establishment at the formation
  of which he had the honour to be present; and for its
  prosperity constantly zealous.

  “So uncommon and unexpected a token of approbation of his
  exertions in the cultivation and cause of an art which
  he has long laboured, and still labours to improve, as
  well as to record its progress, and the talents of its
  Professors, from the time of Orpheus to that of Handel;
  will gild his latter days, and generate a flattering hope
  that his diligence and perseverance have been regarded in
  a more favourable light than, in his vainest moments, he
  had ever dared to hope or imagine.

  “_Chelsea College,_ _27th May, 1804._”

       *       *       *       *       *

Here stop all journals, all notes, all memorandums of Dr. Burney for
the rest of this year. Not another word remains bearing its date.

The severest tax upon longevity that, apart from his parental
ties, could be inflicted, was levied upon him at this time, by the
heart-harrowing stroke of the death of Mr. Twining.

It was not merely now, in the full tide of sorrow, that Dr. Burney
could neither speak nor write upon the loss of this last-elected
bosom friend; it was a subject from which he shrunk ever after, both
in conversation and by letter: it was a grief too concentrated for
complaint: it demanded not a vent by which, with time, it might be
solaced; but a crush by which, though only morbidly, it might be
subdued: religion and philosophy might then lead, conjointly, to calm
endurance.

And not alone, though from superior sorrow aloft, stood this
deprivation. It was followed by other strokes of similar fatality,
each of which, but for this pre-eminent calamity, would have proved of
tragic effect: for he had successively to mourn, First, the favourite
the most highly prized by his deplored early partner, as well as by her
successor; and who came nearest to his own feelings from the tender
ties in which she had been entwined—Dolly Young; for so, to the last
hour, she was called by those who had early known and loved her, from a
certain caressing pleasure annexed to that youthful appellation, that
seemed in unison with the genuine simplicity of her character.

Second, Mr. Coxe, the oldest and most attached of his associates from
early life.

Third, Lord Macartney, a far newer connexion, but one whose lively
intelligence, and generous kindness, cut off all necessity for the
usual routine of time to fasten attachment. And with Lord Macartney,
from the retired life which his Lordship generally led after his
embassy to China, the Doctor’s intercourse had become more than ever
amical. This, therefore, was a loss to his spirits and exertions, as
well as to his affections, which he felt with strong regret.

Fourth, that distinguished lady whose solid worth and faithful
friendship compensated for manners the most uncouth, and language the
most unpolished,—Lady Mary Duncan.

Fifth, the celebrated Elizabeth Carter; in whom he missed an admiring
as well as an admired friend, the honour of whose attachment both for
him and for his daughter, is recorded by her nephew, Mr. Pennington, in
her Memoirs.

The Doctor truly revered in Mrs. Carter the rare union of humility with
learning, and of piety with cheerfulness. He frequently, and always
with pleasure, conveyed her to or from her home, when they visited the
same parties; and always enjoyed those opportunities in comparing notes
with her, on such topics as were not light enough for the large or
mixed companies which they were just seeking, or had just left: topics,
however, which they always treated with simplicity; for Mrs. Carter,
though natively more serious, and habitually more studious than Dr.
Burney, was as free from pedantry as himself.

By temperance of life and conduct, activity of body, and equanimity of
mind, she nearly reached her 90th year in such health and strength as
to be able to make morning calls upon her favourite friends, without
carriage, companion, or servant. And with all her modest humility upon
her personal acquirements, she had a dignified pride of independence,
that invested her with the good sense to feel rather exalted than
ashamed, at owing her powers of going forth to her own unaided
self-exertion.

And Sixth, the man who, once the most accomplished of his race, had
for half his life loved the Doctor with even passionate regard—Mr.
Greville.

All these sad, and truly saddening catastrophes were unknown, in their
succession, to the Memorialist; whom they only reached in the aggregate
of their loss, when, after a long, unexplained, and ill-boding silence,
Dr. Burney imposed upon himself the hard task of announcing the
irremediable affliction he had sustained through these reiterated and
awful visitations of death. And then, to spare his worn and harassed
sensibility any development of his feelings, he thus summed up the
melancholy list in one short paragraph:

  “Time,” he says, “has made sad havoc amongst my dearest
  friends of late——Twining!——Dolly Young; Mr. Coxe; Lord
  Macartney; Lady Mary Duncan;—poor Elizabeth Carter a few
  months ago;—Mr. Greville only a few weeks!”

And, kindly, then to lighten the grief he knew he must inflict by a
catalogue that included Mr. Twining and Dolly Young, he hastens to add:

  “Mr., Mrs., and Miss[69] Locke, however; Mrs. Angerstein;
  Mrs. Crewe; Miss Cambridge; Mrs. Garrick; Lady
  Templetown; Lady Keith, _ci-devant_ Miss Thrale; the
  Marchioness of Thomond, _ci-devant_ Miss Palmer; Mrs.
  Waddington; and many more of your most faithful votaries,
  still live, and never see me without urgent inquiries
  after you. Your dear Mrs. Locke, who has had a dreadful
  fit of illness, and losses enough to break so tender a
  heart, is perfectly recovered at last; and, I am told, is
  as well, and as sweet and endearing a character to her
  friends as ever.”

He then permits himself to go back to one parting phrase:

  “But though, in spite of age and infirmities, I have
  lately more than doubled the number of friends I have
  lost—the niches of those above-mentioned can never be
  filled!”

From this time he reverted to them no more.

Of his ancient and long-attached friend, Mr. Greville, little and
merely melancholy is what now can be added. His death was rather a
shock than a loss; but it considerably disturbed the Doctor. Mr.
Greville had gone on in his metaphysical career, fatiguing his spirits,
harassing his understanding, and consuming the time of his friends
nearly as much as his own, till, one by one, each of them eluded him as
a foe. How could it be otherwise, when the least dissonance upon any
point upon which he opened a controversial disquisition, so disordered
his nervous system, that he could take no rest till he had re-stated
all his arguments in an elaborate, and commonly sarcastic epistle?
which necessarily provoked a paper war, so prolific of dispute, that,
if the adversary had not regularly broken up the correspondence after
the first week or two, it must have terminated by consuming the stores
of every stationer in London.

His wrath upon such desertions was too scornful for any appeal. Yet so
powerful was still the remembrance of his brilliant opening into life,
and of his many fine qualities, that his loss to society was never
mentioned without regret, either by those who abandoned him, or by
those whom he discarded.

Dr. Burney was one of the last, from the peculiarity of their
intercourse, to have given it up, had it not been, he declared,
necessary to have had two lives for sustaining it without hostility;
one of them for himself, his family, and his life’s purposes; the
other wholly for Mr. Greville;—who never could be content with any
competition against his personal claims to the monopoly of the time and
the thoughts of his friends.

Yet whatever may have disturbed, nothing seems to have shortened his
existence, since, though nearly alienated from his family, estranged
from his connexions, and morbidly at war with the world, the closing
scene of all his gaieties and all his failures, did not shut in till
some time after his 90th year.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lady Mary Duncan bequeathed to Dr. Burney the whole of her great and
curious collection of Music, printed and manuscript, with £600.


PACCHIEROTTI.

Upon the death of this liberal and honourable old friend, the Doctor
re-opened a correspondence with his faithful and most deservedly
cherished favourite, Pacchierotti, which the difficulties of
communication from the irruption of Buonaparte into Italy, had
latterly impeded, though not broken.

The answer of Pacchierotti to the account of his loss of this his
earliest and greatest benefactress in England, was replete with the
lamentation and sorrow to which his susceptible heart was a prey, upon
every species of affliction that assailed either himself or those to
whom he was attached; and for Lady Mary, his gratitude and regard
were the most devoted; for though he saw, with keen perception, her
singularities, he had too much sense to let them outweigh in his
estimation her benevolence, and her many good qualities.

He knew, also, for she published it dauntlessly to the world, with
what energy she admired him; and he suffered not his gratitude to lose
any of its respect from the ridicule which he saw excited when they
appeared together in public; though frequently and anxiously he wished
and sought to withdraw from the general gaze which her notice of him
attracted. And he often spoke with serious simplicity of concern to
Dr. Burney, of the mannish air, and stride, and mien, with which she
would defyingly turn short upon any under-bred scoffer, who looked at
her with vulgar curiosity, when he had the honour to accompany her on
the public walks. And once, in the zeal of his attachment, upon her
asking him, in her abrupt manner, to tell her, unreservedly, what he
thought of her; he took hold, he said, of that affable inquisition to
frankly, in his peculiar English, answer: “Why, madam, if I must, to be
sincere,—I think your ladyship is rather too much of the masculine.”

“No?—you don’t say so?” cried she, with the utmost surprise, but
without taking the smallest offence. “And I am of the opinion,” added
Pacchierotti, in relating the anecdote to Dr. Burney, “that she was not
at all of my advice in that observation; for she ever thinks she does
nothing but the common; though certainly it is of the other nature; for
it must to be confessed, that, with all her goodness, she is not one of
the literature.”

The letter upon the information of Lady Mary’s death, is the last from
Pacchierotti that is preserved in the collection of the Doctor; and,
probably, the last that was received; for the troubles of Italy made
all commerce with it dangerous, save for those who could write with
unqualified approbation of _the powers that were_, be they of what
class they might.

Not such was the correspondence of Dr. Burney with Pacchierotti. They
each wrote with the freedom of sincerity, and the kindness of sympathy,
upon every subject, mental, literary, or political, that occurred to
them: and while Pacchierotti could bemoan without danger the invasion
and oppression of his country, it was soothing to his disturbance to
deposit his apprehensions with so wise a friend: while to Dr. Burney it
was a real pleasure to keep alive an intercourse so full of endearing
recollections. Nevertheless, from the year 1808, the correspondence was
wholly cut off by political dangers.

Amongst the few remaining persons to whom Pacchierotti may still from
memory, not tradition, be known, there are none, probably, who will
not hear with satisfaction, that he finished his long career in the
serene enjoyment of well-merited, and elaborately-earned independence.
Modestly, and wisely, he had retired from the instability of popular
favour, and the uncertainty of public remuneration, while yet his fame
was at its height; sparing thus his sensitive mind from the dangers
of caprice, inconstancy, jealousy, or neglect. His residence was at
Padua; his dwelling was a palazza, elegantly furnished, and rendered a
delicious abode to him by spacious and beautiful gardens.

He lived to the year 1824, and was some time past eighty when he
expired.[70]


1805.

Fortunately for Dr. Burney, another year was not permitted wholly to
wane away, ere circumstances occurred of so much movement and interest,
that they operated like a species of amnesty upon the sufferings of the
year just gone by; and enabled him to pass over submissively his heavy
privations; and, once again, to go cheerfully on in life with what yet
remained for contentment.

The chief mover to this practical philosophy was the indefatigable Mrs.
Crewe; who by degrees, skilful and kind, so lured him from mourning
and retirement to gratitude and society, that his seclusion insensibly
ended by enlisting him in more diffuse social entertainments, than any
in which he had heretofore mixed.

His accepted dinner appointments of this time, enroll in his
pocket-book the following names—

  Mrs. Crewe
  Mr. Windham
  Mr. Rogers
  Mr. Malone
  Mr. Courtney
  Sir Joseph Bankes
  Lady Salisbury
  Duke and Duchess of Leeds
  Duke of Portland
  Marquis of Aylesbury
  Lord and Lady Lonsdale
  Lord and Lady Bruce
  Marquis and Marchioness Thomond
  Lady Melbourne
  Sir Geo. and Lady Beaumont
  Lady Manvers
  Lady Cork
  Bishop of Winchester
  Mr. Wilbraham
  Miss Shepley
  Mr. Angerstein
  Mrs. Ord
  Mrs. Waddington
  Mr. Hammersley
  Mr. Thompson
  Mr. Walker
  And the Right Hon. George Canning.

He rarely missed the Concert of Ancient Music.

He generally dined at the appointed meetings of THE Club;
where he has peculiarly noted a still brilliant assemblage, in naming

  Earl Spencer
  Sir Joseph Bankes
  Sir William Scott[71]
  The Dean of Westminster
  The Master of the Rolls
  Mr. Ellis
  Mr. Marsden
  Mr. Frere
  Dr. Lawrence
  Mr. Malone
  Mr. Windham
  Mr. Canning
  And Charles Fox in the Chair.

But the climax of these convivial honours was dining with his Royal
Highness the Prince of Wales.[72]

Of this, as it will appear, he wrote largely, with intention to be
copied precisely.

And about this time, Dr. Burney received a splendid mark of filial
devotion to which he was truly sensible, and of which—who shall
wonder?—he was justly proud, from his son Dr. Charles.

This was a request to possess the Doctor’s bust in marble.

Such a wish was, of course, frankly acceded to; and Nollekens was the
sculptor fixed upon for its execution; not only from the deserved
height to which the fame of that artist had risen, but from old regard
to the man, which the Doctor always believed to be faithfully and
gratefully returned; conceiving him, though under-bred and illiterate,
to be honest and worthy; yet frequently remarking how strikingly he
exemplified the caprice, or locality, of taste, as well as of genius,
which in one point could be truly refined, while in every other it was
wanting.

Thirty casts of this bust, for family, friends, or favourites, were
taken off; and the first of them Dr. Charles had the honour of laying
at the feet of the Prince of Wales: who, when next he saw Dr. Burney,
smilingly said: “I have got your bust, Dr. Burney, and I’ll put it
on my organ. I got it on purpose. I shall place it there instead of
Handel.”

In the month of May, 1805, Dr. Burney, through a private hand,
re-opened, after a twelvemonth’s mournful silence, his correspondence
with his absent daughter, by the following kind and cheering, though
brief and politically cautious lines:


  “TO MADAME D’ARBLAY.

  “_Chelsea College, May, 1805._

  “My dear Fanny,

  “The notice I received of our good friend, Miss
  Sayr’s,[73] departure for the continent, has been
  communicated to me so short a time before its taking
  place, that I am merely able to give you _signe de vie_;
  and tell you that, cough excepted, I am in tolerable
  health, for an _octogenaire_; with the usual infirmities
  in eyes, ears, and memory.

  “God bless you, my dear daughter. Give my kindest love to
  our dear M. d’Arblay, and to little Alexander.

  “Your ever affectionate father,
  “CHAS. BURNEY.

   “As blind as a beetle, as deaf as a post, Whose
  longevity now is all he can boast.”

The following is a paragraph of another letter to Paris, written about
the same time, but conveyed by another private hand:

  “I passed some days very pleasantly at Bulstrode Park in
  the Easter week. The good Duke of Portland came himself
  to invite me, and sat nearly an hour by my fireside,
  conversing in the most open and unreserved manner
  possible upon matters and things. Our party at Bulstrode
  had the ever-admirable Lady Templeton, her two younger
  daughters,[74] and their brother Greville,[75] who is
  an excellent musician, and a very charming young man,
  &c. &c. The Duke’s daughters, Lady Mary Bentinck and
  Lady Charlotte Greville, did the honours very politely;
  and Lord William Bentinck,[76] one of the Duke’s son,
  who was in Italy with Marshal Suwarrow, and has since
  been in Egypt, was also there; and he and I are become
  _inkle-weavers_. I like him much; and we are to meet
  again in town. We never sat down less than thirty each
  day at dinner; and _we_ danced, and _we_ sung, and _we_
  walked, and _we_ rode, and _we_ prayed together at
  chapel, and were so sociable and agreeable ‘_you’ve no
  notion_,’ as Miss Larolles would say.”

What will now follow, will be copied from the memoir book of Dr. Burney
of this month of May; which, after a dreary winter of sorrow, seemed
to have been hailed as genially by the Historian of Music, as by the
minstrelsy of the woods.

  “1805.—In May, at a concert at Lady Salisbury’s, I
  was extremely pleased, both with the music and the
  performance. The former was chiefly selected by the
  Prince of Wales. * * * I had not been five minutes in
  the concert room, before a messenger, sent to me by his
  Royal Highness, gave me a command to join him, which I
  did eagerly enough; when his Royal Highness graciously
  condescended to order me to sit down by him, and kept me
  to that high honour the whole evening. Our ideas, by his
  engaging invitation, were reciprocated upon every piece,
  and its execution. After the concert, Lady Melbourne,
  who, when Miss Milbanke, had been one of my first
  scholars on my return to London from Lynn, obligingly
  complained that she had often vainly tried to tempt me to
  dine with her, but would make one effort more now, by his
  Royal Highness’s permission, that I might meet, at Lord
  Melbourne’s table, with the Prince of Wales.

  “Of course I expressed, as well as I could, my sense of
  so high and unexpected an honour; and the Prince, with a
  smile of unequalled courtesy, said, ‘Aye, do come, Dr.
  Burney, and bring your son with you.’ And then, turning
  to Lady Melbourne, he added,—‘It is singular that the
  father should be the best, and almost the only good judge
  of music in the kingdom; and his son the best scholar.’

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Nothing, however, for the present, came of this: but,
  early in July, at a concert at Lady Newark’s, I first
  saw, to my knowledge, their Royal Highnesses the Dukes
  of Cumberland and Cambridge. These Princes had lived so
  much abroad, that I thought I had never before beheld
  them; till I found my mistake, by their both speaking
  to me, when I stood near them, not only familiarly, but
  with distinction; which I attribute to their respect to
  the noble graciousness they might have observed in their
  august brother; whose notice had something in it so
  engaging as always to brighten as well as honour me.

  “But I heard nothing more of the projected dinner, till
  I met Lady Melbourne at an assembly at the Dowager Lady
  Sefton’s; when I ventured to tell her Ladyship that I
  feared the dinner which my son and I were most ambitious
  should take place, was relinquished. ‘By no means,’
  she answered, ‘for the Prince really desired it.’ And,
  after a note or two of the best bred civility from her
  Ladyship, the day was settled by his Royal Highness, for—

  “_July 9th._—The Prince did not make the company wait at
  Whitehall, (Lord Melbourne’s,); he was not five minutes
  beyond the appointed time, a quarter past six o’clock:
  though he is said never to dine at Carlton House before
  eight. The company consisted, besides the Prince and the
  Lord and Lady of the house, with their two sons and two
  daughters, of Earls Egremont and Cowper, Mr. and Lady
  Caroline Lamb, Mr. Lutterel, Mr. Horner, and Mr. Windham.

  “The dinner was sumptuous, of course, &c.

  “I had almost made a solemn vow, early in life, to quit
  the world without ever drinking a _dry dram_; but the
  heroic virtue of a long life was overset by his Royal
  Highness, through the irresistible temptation to hobbing
  and nobbing with such a partner in a glass of cherry
  brandy! The spirit of it, however, was so finely subdued,
  that it was not more potent than a dose of peppermint
  water; which I have always called a dram.

  “The conversation was lively and general the chief part
  of the evening; but about midnight it turned upon music,
  on which subject his Royal Highness deigned so wholly to
  address himself to me, that we kept it up a full half
  hour, without any one else offering a word. We were,
  generally, in perfect tune in our opinions; though once
  or twice I ventured to dissent from his Royal Highness;
  and once he condescended to come over to my argument:
  and he had the skill, as well as nobleness, to put me
  as perfectly at my ease in expressing my notions, as I
  should have been with any other perfectly well-bred man.

  “The subject was then changed to classical lore; and here
  his Royal Highness, with similar condescension, addressed
  himself to my son, as to a man of erudition whose ideas,
  on learned topics, he respected; and a full discussion
  followed, of several literary matters.

  “When the Prince rose to go to another room, we met Lady
  Melbourne and her daughter, just returned from the opera;
  to which they had been while we sat over the wine, (and
  eke the cherry brandy); and from which they came back
  in exact time for coffee! The Prince here, coming up to
  me, most graciously took my hand, and said, ‘I am glad
  we got, at last, to our favourite subject.’ He then made
  me sit down by him, close to the keys of a piano-forte;
  where, in a low voice, but face to face, we talked again
  upon music, and uttered our sentiments with, I may safely
  say, equal ease and freedom; so politely he encouraged my
  openness and sincerity.

  “I then ventured to mention that I had a book in my
  possession that I regarded as the property of his
  Royal Highness. It was a set of my Commemoration of
  Handel, which I had had splendidly bound for permitted
  presentation through the medium of Lord St. Asaph; but
  which had not been received, from public casualties.
  His Royal Highness answered me with the most engaging
  good-humour, saying that he was now building a library,
  and that, when it was finished, mine should be the first
  book placed in his collection. Nobody is so prompt
  at polite and gratifying compliments as this gracious
  Prince. I had no conception of his accomplishments. He
  quite astonished me by his learning, in conversing with
  my son, after my own musical _tête à tête_ dialogue with
  him. He quoted Homer in Greek as readily as if quoting
  Dryden or Pope in English: and, in general conversation,
  during the dinner, he discovered a fund of wit and humour
  such as demonstrated him a man of reading and parts, who
  knew how to discriminate characters. He is, besides, an
  incomparable mimic. He counterfeited Dr. Parr’s lisp,
  language, and manner; and Kemble’s voice and accent, both
  on and off the stage, so accurately, so nicely, so free
  from caricature, that, had I been in another room, I
  should have sworn they had been speaking themselves. Upon
  the whole, I cannot terminate my account of this Prince
  better than by asserting it as my opinion, from the
  knowledge I acquired by my observations of this night,
  that he has as much conversational talent, and far more
  learning than Charles the Second; who knew no more, even
  of orthography, than Molière’s _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_.

  “My next great concert was at Mr. Thomson’s, in
  Grosvenor-square. Before I arrived, from not knowing
  there was a Royal motive for every one to be early, I
  found the crowd of company so excessively great, that I
  was a considerable time before I could make my way into
  the music-room; which I found also so full, that not only
  I could not discern a place where I might get a seat,
  (and to stand the whole night in such a heat would have
  been impossible for me;) but also I could not discover
  a spot where I might look on even for a few minutes,
  to see what was going forwards, without being bodily
  jammed; except quite close to the orchestra; where alone
  there seemed a little breathing room left. To gain this
  desirable little opening, I ventured to follow closely,
  as if of their party, two very fine ladies, who made
  their way, heaven knows how, to some sofa, I fancy,
  reserved for them. But what was my surprise, and shame,
  when, upon attaining thus my coveted harbour, I found I
  came bounce upon the Prince of Wales! from respect to
  whom alone no crowd had there resorted! I had no time,
  however, for repentance, and no room for apology; for
  that gracious and kind Prince laughed at my exploit, and
  shook me very heartily by the hand, as if glad to see me
  again; and obliged me to sit down by him immediately. Nor
  would he suffer me to relinquish my place, even to any
  of the Princes, his brothers, when they came to him! nor
  even to any fine lady! always making a motion to me, that
  was a command, to be quiet. We talked, as before, over
  every piece and performance, with full ease of expression
  to our thoughts: but how great was my gratification,
  when, upon going into a cooler room, between the acts,
  he put his hat on his seat, and said ‘Dr. Burney, will
  you take care of my place for me?’ thus obviating from my
  stay all fear of intrusion, by making it an obedience.
  And his notions about music so constantly agree with my
  own, that I know of no individual, male or female, with
  whom I talk about music with more sincerity, as well as
  pleasure, than with this most captivating Prince.

  “Another time, at the Opera, the Prince of Wales,
  perceiving me in the pit, sent for me to his splendid
  box; and, making me take a snug seat close behind his
  Royal Highness, entered, with his usual vivacity, into
  discussions upon the performance; and so re-_jeunied_
  me by his gaiety and condescension, joined to his
  extraordinary judgment on musical subjects, that I held
  forth in return as if I had been but five-and-twenty!

  “Soon after these festivities, I went to Bulstrode Park,
  where I had the grief to find the Duke more feeble and
  low-spirited than he had been in town. He could not
  hear the motion of a carriage, and was seldom able to
  dine at the table. He merely walked a little in the
  flower-garden. There was no company, except one day
  at dinner; and for one night Lord and Lady Darnley.
  They came in while I was dressing, and I had not heard
  their names, and knew not who they were. Unacquainted,
  therefore, with the bigoted devotion to the exclusive
  merit of Handel that I had to encounter, I got into a hot
  dispute that I should else, at the Duke’s house, have
  certainly avoided. The expression, ‘modern refinements,’
  happened to escape me, which both my lord and his lady,
  with a tone of consummate contempt, repeated: ‘Modern
  refinements, indeed!’ ‘Well, then,’ cried I, ‘let us
  call them modern changes of style and taste; for what
  one party calls refinements, the other, of course,
  constantly calls corruption and deterioration.’ They
  were quite irritated at this; and we all three then
  went to it ding-dong! I made use of the same arguments
  that I have so often used in my musical writings,—that
  ingenious men cannot have been idle during a century; and
  the language of sound is never stationary, any more than
  that of conversation and books. New modes of expression;
  new ideas from new discoveries and inventions, required
  new phrases: and in the cultivation of instruments, as
  well as of the voice, emulation would produce novelty,
  which, above all things, is wanted in music. And to say
  that the symphonies of Haydn, and the compositions of
  Mozart and Beethoven, have no merit, because they are
  not like Handel, Corelli, and Geminiani;—or to say that
  the singing of a Pacchierotti, a Marchese, a Banti, or
  a Billington, in their several styles, is necessarily
  inferior to singers and compositions of the days of
  Handel, is supposing time to stand still—

  “I was going on, when the kind Duke, struck, I doubt
  not, by a view of the storm I was incautiously brewing,
  contrived to whisper in my ear, ‘You are upon tender
  ground, Dr. Burney!’

  “I drew back, with as troublesome a fit of coughing as I
  could call to my aid; and during its mock operation, his
  Grace had the urbanity to call up a new subject.”


THE KING AND QUEEN.

  “——20, 1805.—The King, the Queen, and all the Royal
  Family in England, I believe, except the Prince and
  Princess of Wales, visited and inspected Chelsea College.
  They went over every ward, the Governor’s apartments, and
  all the offices; with the chapel, refectory, and even
  the kitchen. I was graciously summoned when they entered
  the chapel, and most graciously, indeed, received. The
  first thing the King said on my appearance, was, holding
  up both his hands as if astonished, ‘Ten years younger
  than when I saw you last, Dr. Burney!’ The first words of
  the Queen were, ‘How does Madame d’Arblay do?’ And after
  my answer, and humble thanks, she added in a low voice,
  ‘I am extremely obliged to you, Dr. Burney, for the hymn
  you sent me.’ ‘What? what?’ cried the King. Her Majesty
  answered: ‘The Russian air, Sir.’ ‘Ay, ay; it’s a very
  fine thing; but they performed it too slow. It wanted
  more spirit in the execution. They commonly perform too
  slow, and make things of that sort languid that should be
  animated.’

  “He then illustrated his observation by examples taken
  from the sluggish performance of Acis and Galatea; in
  which I heartily coincided; particularising in my turn
  the trio of, ‘The Flocks shall leave the Mountains,’
  ‘which loses,’ I said, ‘all its effect by being performed
  slowly. The two lovers are not complaining, nor
  accusing one another of infidelity or of cruelty; they
  are perfectly happy, and promising each other eternal
  constancy; the time, therefore, ought to mark liveliness,
  not melancholy: and the envy and jealousy of Polypheme
  while exclaiming, “Rage! Fury! I cannot, cannot bear
  it!” sound so tame, when sung without the fire of quick
  expression, that they seem quite ridiculous: for he
  _does_ bear it! and looks on to the sight of the lover’s
  happiness with very commendable patience and composure.’

  “Their Majesties then both condescended to make some
  inquiries after my family, though by name only after
  my daughter d’Arblay. I heard from her very seldom, I
  answered; I was afraid of writing to her; and I saw she
  was afraid of writing to me. Buonaparte, I said, was so
  outrageous against this country, that I doubted not but
  that a sheet of blank paper that should pass between us,
  would be turned into a conspiracy! My grand-daughter
  Fanny Phillips, I mentioned, now lived with me: for
  she had often and most condescendingly been noticed
  by the Royal Family, during the time that my daughter
  d’Arblay had had the honour of belonging to the Queen’s
  establishment. The Queen said she had heard of my
  young companion from Lady Aylesbury. When I left their
  Majesties, I went in search of my grand-daughter, and
  brought her under my arm into the governor’s great room.

  “The Queen no sooner perceived, than she graciously
  addressed her: while the King held up his hands at her
  growth since he had seen her, at the Palace, in her
  childhood. All the Princesses remembered, and spoke to
  her with the most pleasing kindness.

  “‘And what are you doing now, Dr. Burney?’ said the King.

  “‘I am writing for the new Cyclopedia, Sir.’

  “‘I am glad the subject of music,’ he answered, ‘should
  be in such good hands.’

  “And then, with an arch smile, he added: ‘For the essay
  writers, and the periodical writers—are all, I believe,
  to a man, at this time, Jacobins.’

  “And afterwards, with a good-humoured laugh, he said:
  ‘That disease (the Jacobin) was first caught here, I
  believe, by the poets; and then by the actors; and now
  the infection has caught all the singers, and dancers,
  and fiddlers!’

  “‘Tis the shortest cut, Sir,’ I answered, ‘to make
  them all, what they all want to be, chiefs and masters
  severally themselves.’

  “More seriously, then, the King said the contagion was so
  general only from the want of religion; without which all
  men were scrambling savages. ‘Religion,’ he added, ‘alone
  humanizes us.’

  “Something being said, I forget what, about the
  Jew’s-row, Chelsea, his Majesty seemed fully apprised
  of its Bacchanalian character for the pensioners, as he
  directly quoted from Dryden,

  “‘Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure!’

  “And added, ‘when that ode is performing, and that line
  is singing, before Sir William Howe—I always give him a
  nod!’

  “The King then resumed again his old favourite topic of
  amusement, my daughter d’Arblay’s concealed composition
  of Evelina; inquiring again and again into the various
  particulars of its contrivance and its discovery.

  “I could not have been honoured with so much of his
  Majesty’s notice, but that, being at home at Chelsea
  College, I was naturally permitted to follow in his suite
  the whole morning; and all I have written passed at
  different intervals, between matters of higher import.”

  “_May 25._—I heard, with much musical concern, from
  Salomon, of the sudden death of young Pinto, who was
  infinitely the most extraordinary early violin player,
  I believe, of any age or country. When quite a child,
  he used to lead and direct private concerts at Lady
  Clarges’; not only correcting old performers from the
  Opera band, who played under him, with his tongue, but
  with his instrument; informing them of the time and
  the expression of various movements and passages, just
  as Geminiani used to do at sixty; and which professors
  would then bear from nobody else. When he first set
  about studying composition, he read everything he could
  lay hold of; and taught himself the piano-forte; and
  found out the most commodious manner of fingering the
  most difficult and extraneous keys. He composed a set of
  lessons in six of the most unusual keys in the system,
  which no one but himself could play. It is generally
  believed that this most ingenious youth, who would
  listen to no control, shortened his existence by extreme
  irregularity of life. A matter worth recording, as a
  warning to check the ill-judged and fatal presumption of
  genius.”

The ensuing accounts, written by Dr. Burney, of the next successors to
Sir George Howard, as Governors of Chelsea Hospital, are without date:


GENERAL LORD TOWNSHEND.

  “I had the great pleasure, for six months, of seeing
  my old, honourable, and partial friend, General Lord
  Townshend, Governor of Chelsea Hospital. His Lordship
  was the immediate successor of Sir George Howard; and
  he frequently called upon me, as upon a favourite old
  provincial friend, during that period. His great flow
  of wit and humour made all intercourse with him gay and
  agreeable.”

Dr. Burney was wont to relate that, upon his congratulatory visit to
the Marquis of Townshend, after his second nuptials, his lordship
presented the Doctor to his beautiful bride, one of the three Miss
Montgomeries, who were known, at that epoch, by the name of the Three
Graces. The terms of the presentation were so full of kindness and
regard, that her ladyship instantly held out to him her fair hand,
which, being gloveless, he could not, he said, do otherwise than
press to his lips; upon which Lord Townshend exclaimed, “Why, how
now, Burney! She is not the Queen!” “She is _your_ Queen, my Lord,”
he replied; “and I am glad to pay her homage.” Lord Townshend was so
little offended by this repartee, that, when the Doctor retired, his
lordship descended with him to the hall, and, calling to the porter,
said, “Look at this gentleman! Look at him well! D’ye hear? And
whenever he comes, be it when it will, take care you always let him in!”


SIR WILLIAM FAWCET.

  “Sir William Fawcet, the successor of Lord Townshend, was
  one of the most honourable of men; and he is worthy of
  particular notice, from the credit that his nomination
  did to the government of this country. He was friendly,
  benevolent, patient, and even humble; which rarely
  indeed is the case with men exalted from an inferior
  condition to professional honours, and dignity of
  station, such as never could have entered into their
  expectations when they began their career. Sir William is
  said to have opened his military life in the ranks; but
  by his bravery, diligence, and zeal in the service, as
  well as by his integrity, temper, and prudent conduct,
  to have mounted entirely by merit to the summit of
  his profession; regularly acquiring the good-will and
  favour of his superior officers, till he obtained that
  of the Commander in chief;[77] through whose liberal
  recommendation he rose to the countenance and patronage
  of his Majesty himself.

  “He was as firm in probity and honour as in courage. I
  never knew a man of more amiable simplicity, or more
  steady temper. Madame Geoffrin, of Paris, used to say of
  the Baron d’Holbech, that he was _simplement simple_.
  If such a phrase could be naturalized in English, it
  would exactly suit Sir William Fawcet: and the suavity
  of manners he acquired by frequenting the court, though
  late in life, was certainly extraordinary. Marbles and
  metals very difficultly receive a polish after being
  long neglected, and exposed to corrosion; but when the
  intrinsic value is solid, the external, sooner or later,
  always manifests affinity.”

In a memorandum of 1805, is this paragraph:

  “Lady Bruce,—after I had nearly transcribed two huge
  folio volumes of music, or, rather, on music, Sala’s
  Regole di Contrapunto, which I thought Lady Bruce had
  only lent me, and which I had therefore returned; sends
  me them back, telling me she had brought them from
  Naples purposely to put them into my possession, and
  only wishing they were more worth my acceptance. What
  ill usage!—The books, indeed, tell me nothing I did not
  know, and are nothing, with all their value, to me,
  compared to her ladyship’s goodness and kindness. They
  are, nevertheless, the best digested course of study
  on counterpoint that have, perhaps, ever been written;
  and my collection of books on music would be incomplete
  without them.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The severe disappointments, with their aggravating circumstances, that
repeatedly had deprived Dr. Burney of the first post of nominal honour
in his profession, which the whole musical world, not only of his own
country, but of Europe, would have voted to be his due, were now, from
the Doctor’s advanced stage in life, closing, without further struggle,
into inevitable submission.

Yet his many friends to whom this history was familiar, and who knew
that the approbation of the King, from the earliest time that the
Doctor had been made known to His Majesty, had invariably been in his
favour, could not acquiesce in this resignation; and suggested amongst
themselves the propriety of presenting Dr. Burney to the King, as a fit
object for the next vacancy that might occur, in the literary line, for
a pension to a man of letters. And, upon the death of Mrs. Murphy, Mr.
Crewe endeavoured to begin a canvass.

But an audience with the King, at that moment, from various illnesses
and calamities, was so little attainable, that no application had been
found feasible: weeks, months again rolled away without the effort; and
nothing, certainly, could be so unexpected, so utterly unlooked for,
in the course of things, as that Dr. Burney, the most zealous adherent
to government principles, and the most decided enemy to democratic
doctrines, should finally receive all the remuneration he ever attained
for his elaborate workings in that art, which, of all others, was the
avowed favourite of his King, under the administration of the great
chief of opposition, Charles Fox.[78]

So, however, it was; for when, in the year 1806, that renowned orator
of liberty, found himself suddenly, and, by the premature death of Mr.
Pitt, almost unavoidably raised to the head of the state, Mrs. Crewe
started a claim for Dr. Burney.

Mr. Windham was instant and animated in supporting it. Mr. Fox, with
his accustomed grace, where he had a favour to bestow, gave it his
ready countenance; the King’s Sign Manual was granted with alacrity of
approbation; and the faithful, invaluable LADY CREWE, while
her own new honours were freshly ornamenting her brow, had the cordial
happiness of announcing to her unsoliciting and no longer expecting old
friend, his participation in the new turn of the tide.

It was Lord Grenville, however, who was the immediately apparent agent
in this gift of the Crown; though Charles Fox, there can be no doubt,
had a real share of pleasure in propitiating such a reward to a friend
and favourite of Lord and Lady Crewe; to settle whose long withheld
title was amongst the first official acts of his friendship upon coming
into power.

The pension accorded was £300 per annum, and the pleasure caused by
this benevolent royal act amongst the innumerable friends of the man
of four-score—for such, now, was Dr. Burney—was great almost to
exultation. And, in truth, so little had his financial address kept
pace with his mental abilities, that, previously to this grant, he had
found it necessary, in relinquishing the practice of his profession,
to relinquish his carriage.

Such news, of course, was not trusted to the post of Paris; and
it was long after its date, ere it reached the Parisian captives.
Nevertheless, in this same month of May, 1806, Dr. Burney, the
octogenaire, as he now called himself, confided, upon other subjects,
to a passing opportunity, a long letter to Paris; written in a strong
and firm round hand; the following pages from which, evince his
unaltered disposition to cultivate his natural gaiety with his social
spirit of kindness:


  “TO MADAME D’ARBLAY.

  * * “I have so much to say, that I hardly know where to
  begin. * * *

  “At the close of this last summer, I took it into my head
  that the air, water, rocks, woods, fine prospects, and
  delightful rides on the Downs, at Bristol Hotwells, and
  in their vicinity, would do my cough good, and enable me
  to bear the ensuing winter more heroically than I have
  done what have preceded it; for since the Influenza of
  1804, I have dreaded cold, and night air, as much as
  they are dreaded by a trembling Italian greyhound. Do
  you remember Frisk, the pretty little slim dog we had,
  as successor to Mr. Garrick’s favourite pet, Phill?
  who always pestered Garrick to let him lick his hands
  and his fingers,—till Garrick, though provoked, could
  not, in the comic playfulness of his character, help
  caressing him again, even while exclaiming, when the
  animal fawned upon him: ‘What dost follow me for,
  eh,—Slobber-chaps?—Tenderness without ideas!’ Well, as
  chill am I now as that poor puppy, Frisk,—though not
  quite as tender, nor yet, I trust, as void of ideas.

  “Well, to the Hotwells at Bristol I went; and took with
  me Fanny Phillips. And we both took Evelina, as many of
  its best scenes are at the Wells and at Bath. However we
  devoured it so eagerly on the journey, that we had only
  half a volume left when we arrived at No. 7, on Vincent’s
  Parade; where we were sumptuously lodged; and Fanny
  Phillip’s maid went to market; and our landlady dressed
  our dinners; and, as I had my carriage, and horses, and
  servant, we did very well: except that we were too late
  in the season, for we had not above three balmy days in
  our whole month’s residence.

  “I liked little Evelina full as well as ever; and I have
  always thought it the best—that is, the most near to
  perfection of your excellent penmanships. There are none
  of those heart-rending scenes which tear one to pieces
  in the last volumes of Cecilia and Camilla. They always
  make me melancholy for a week. But, for all that, Fanny
  Phillips and I proposed going through the whole while
  at Bristol, for our social reading. However, it was not
  possible; for we could never procure the first volume
  of Cecilia from any of the Libraries. It was always, as
  the Italians say of the English when they vainly try for
  admission, ‘_Sempre_ not at home!’

  “I made an excursion to the city of Wells for one day
  and night, to see its admirable cathedral. The Bishop,
  Dr. Beadon, is an old musical acquaintance of mine, of
  thirty years’ standing. He wished me to have remained
  a week with him. And I should have liked it very
  well,—‘ma!—ma!—ma!’—as the Italians say, I have no weeks
  to spare!”

The health and spirits of Dr. Burney were now so good, that he seized
another opportunity for writing again, in the same month, to his truly
grateful daughter:

  _“12th October._

  “My Dear Fanny,

  “Do you remember a letter of thanks which I received from
  Rousseau for a present of music which I sent him, with a
  printed copy of The Cunning Man, that I had Englishized
  from his _Divan du Village_? I thought myself the most
  fortunate of beings, in 1770, to have obtained an hour’s
  conversation with him; for he was then more difficult of
  access than ever, especially to the English, being out of
  humour with the whole nation, from resentment of Horace
  Walpole’s forged letter from the King of Prussia; and he
  had determined, he said, never to read or write again!
  Guy, the famous bookseller, was the only person he then
  admitted; and it was through the sagacious good offices
  of this truly eminent book-man, urged by my friends,
  Count d’Holbach, Diderot, &c., that the interview I so
  ardently aspired at was procured for me. Well, this
  letter from the great Jean Jacques, which I had not seen
  these twenty years, I have lately found in a cover from
  Lord Harcourt, to whom I had lent it, when his lordship
  was preparing a list of all Rousseau’s works, for the
  benefit of his widow; which, however, he left to find
  another editor, when Madame Rousseau relinquished her
  celebrated name, to become the wife of some ordinary
  man. Lord Harcourt then returned my letter, and, upon
  a recent review of it, I was quite struck with the
  politeness and condescension with which Jean Jacques had
  accepted my little offering, at a time when he refused
  all assistance, nay, all courtesy, from the first persons
  both of England and France. I am now writing in bed, and
  have not the original to quote; but, as far as I can
  remember, he concludes his letter with the following
  flattering lines:

  “‘The works, Sir, which you have presented me, will often
  call to my remembrance the pleasure I had in seeing and
  hearing you; and will augment my regret at my not being
  able sometimes to renew that pleasure. I entreat you,
  Sir, to accept my humble salutations.

  “‘JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.’

  “I give you this in English, not daring, by memory, to
  quote J. J. Rousseau. It was directed to M. Burney, in
  London; and, I believe, under cover to Lord Harcourt,
  who always was his open protector. But is it not
  extraordinary, my dear Fanny, that the most flattering
  letters I have received should be from Dr. Johnson and J.
  J. Rousseau? I can account for it in no other way than
  from my always treating them with openness and frankness,
  yet with that regard and reverence which their great
  literary powers inspired. Much as I loved and respected
  the good and great Dr. Johnson, I saw his prejudices and
  severity of character. Nor was I blind to Rousseau’s
  eccentricities, principles, and paradoxes in all things
  but music; in which his taste and views, particularly in
  dramatic music, were admirable; and supported with more
  wit, reason, and refinement, than by any writer on the
  subject, in any language which I am able to read. But
  as I had no means to correct the prejudices of the one,
  nor the principles of the other of these extraordinary
  persons, was I to shun and detest the whole man because
  of his peccant parts? Ancient and modern poets and sages,
  philosophers and moralists, subscribe to the axiom,
  _humanum est errare_, and yet, every individual, whatever
  be his virtues, science, or talents, is treated, if his
  frailties are discovered, as if the characteristic of
  human nature were perfection, and the least diminution
  from it were unnatural and unpardonable! God bless you,
  my dear Fanny. Write soon, and long, I entreat.”

In this same, to Dr. Burney, memorable year, 1806, he had the agreeable
surprise of a first invitation from Mr. West, President of the Royal
Academy, to the annual dinner given by its directors to the most
munificent patrons, capital artists, distinguished judges, or eminent
men of letters of the day, for the purpose of assembling them to a
private and undisturbed view of the works prepared for forming the
exhibition of the current year.

By that grand painter, and delightful man of letters, Sir Joshua
Reynolds, Dr. Burney, from the time of their first happy intimacy, had
regularly been included in the annual invitations; but Mr. West was
unacquainted, personally, with the Doctor, and had, of course, his own
set and friends to oblige. What led to this late compliment, after a
chasm of fourteen years, does not appear; but the remembrance occurred
at a moment of revived exertion, and the Doctor accepted it with
exceeding satisfaction. Nevertheless, the opening of the account which
he has left in his journal of this classic entertainment, is far from
gay:

  “My sight was now,” he says, “become so feeble, that I
  knew nobody who did not first accost me; and my hearing
  so impaired, that it was with difficulty I caught what
  was said to me by any of my neighbours, except those
  immediately to my right or my left.

  “At the Royal Academy this year, I was placed near my
  son Dr. Charles, and Loutherbourg, who served me as a
  nomenclature, and I was happily in the midst of many old
  as well as new friends and acquaintance; particularly the
  Bishops of Durham,[79] Winchester,[80] and London,[81]
  and Sir George Beaumont.

  “I went early into several small apartments, previously
  to entering the great room; and luckily, in the first I
  entered I came upon Sir George Beaumont, who most kindly,
  politely, and with cordial courtesy, accompanied me
  during the whole review; always, with unerring judgment,
  pointing out what was most worth stopping to examine. He
  was enthusiastically fond of Wilkie’s famous piece.

  “Mr. Windham here came forward in the highest spirits.
  I never saw him more animated, even when conversing
  with favourite females. I eagerly made up to him with
  my thanks, both to himself and Mrs. Windham, for their
  zeal and activity in my affairs.[82] ‘Yes, yes,’ cried he
  gaily, ‘in zeal we all vied one with another.’

  “It had rained torrents all day; but I had promised, not
  expecting the continuance of such weather, to go from the
  exhibition to the opera, to join Lord and Lady Bruce;
  who wanted to make a convert of me to their favourite
  singer, Grassini; but in descending the endless stairs,
  I was joined by my benevolent neighbour, the Bishop of
  Winchester; who, perceiving how cautiously I made my way,
  seized my arm, and insisted on conducting me; and when
  he heard my opera engagement, he dauntlessly, though
  laughingly, ordered away my carriage himself, and helped
  me into his own; promising absolution for my failure to
  Lady Bruce, but protesting he could not, and would not,
  suffer me to go any whither such a desperate night, from
  home; whither he drove me full gallop, setting me down
  at Chelsea College, in his way to Winchester House. More
  kind and cheerful benevolence never entered man’s heart,
  than is lodged in this good prelate’s.”


1807.

In the ensuing year, 1807, the diary of the Doctor contains the
following narration of the Countess of Mount Edgecumbe:

  “_December 21._—I have lost my oldest and most partial
  musical friend, the Countess Dowager of Mount Edgecumbe,
  relict of the third Lord and first Earl, and mother
  of the present Earl. She was daughter of Dr. John
  Gilbert, Archbishop of York. I knew and was known to
  her when she was Miss Gilbert, and at the head of lady
  musicians. She was always of the Italian school, and
  spoke both Italian and French well and fluently: she was
  one of the great patronesses of Giardini and Mengotti,
  in their days of renown; and generously never ceased
  serving and supporting them when they were superseded by
  newer rivals. She was a correspondent in Italian with
  Martinelli. She played with great force and precision
  all the best modern compositions of the times; and in
  so high and spirited a style, that no other lady, or
  hardly professor, in England, durst attempt them. She
  kept her box at the opera till very late in life: and
  then, when, from the bustle and noise of entry and exit,
  she relinquished it, she still sustained her own private
  study and practice on the harpsichord. And, to the very
  last, when told of any musical phenomena, vocal or
  instrumental, she was curious and eager to hear them at
  private or subscription concerts. She went to Tunbridge
  Wells last summer, when her frame was extremely impaired,
  and her faculties no longer of their original brightness.
  Previously to setting out, she honoured me, in as
  infirm and decayed a state as herself, with a visit;
  condescendingly clambering up my flight of stairs to
  nearly the summit of Chelsea Hospital, protesting, with
  her old and very agreeable liveliness, that the exertion
  did her nothing but good: and then, almost on her knees,
  beseeching me to go also to Tunbridge Wells, as she was
  sure its waters would be highly beneficial to me. I was
  then, however, so unwell and feeble, that I feared going
  even to Bulstrode. I could not, therefore, satisfy this
  kind and noble lady with the least prospect of following
  her, and partaking of her offered hospitality.

  “Daughter of so eminent a divine, she had been brought up
  with a firm belief and veneration in religion; and she
  was persuaded that all the calamities of the war were
  inflicted upon us as the scourge of our iniquities, for
  our admission of jacobinical principles at the opening
  of the French Revolution. It was a very remarkable
  circumstance, that pulsation stopped, and her heart
  ceased to beat, three days before she expired.”

About this period, also, or somewhat later, Dr. Burney had to lament
the loss of his constant and respectable friend, Mrs. Ord; which,
though not of a sort to prey upon his feelings, like those privations
that bereaved him of the objects of his taste, as well as connexion,
caused yet a considerable breach in his habits of friendly intercourse,
and of such enlivening parties and projects, as constitute the major,
though not the higher portion of our rotatory comforts.

The whole tenor of the life of Mrs. Ord, and of her minutest as well
as most important actions, was under the concentrated guidance of a
laudable ambition to merit general esteem. And so sagely directed were
her movements for the attainment of their object, that she was one of
those few beings whom censure passed by as unimpeachable.

She was sincerely attached to Dr. Burney and his family, and was
sincerely lamented by all to whom her worth and virtues were known.

       *       *       *       *       *

Towards the close of this year, 1807, Dr. Burney had an infliction
which nearly robbed him of his long-tried, and hitherto almost
invulnerable force of mind, for bearing the rude assaults of
misfortune: this was a paralytic stroke, which, in casting his left
hand into a state of torpor, threw his heart, head, and nerves into
one of ceaseless agitation, from an unremitting expectance of abrupt
dissolution.

His absent daughter was spared from participating in the pain of this
terrifying interval; and the despotic difficulty so often repined at of
foreign correspondence, might here have seemed a benediction, had it
been to political rigidity alone that she had been indebted for this
exemption from availless anguish: but her generous father had made it
his first care to prohibit, and peremptorily, all parts of his house
from sending any communication, any hint whatsoever of his apprehensive
state to Paris: and his exhortation, with the same earnestness, though
not the same authority, was spread to every writing class of friend or
acquaintance.

His own account of this trying event, written in the following year, in
answer to his daughter’s alarm at his silence, will shew the full and
surprising return of his spirits and health upon his recovery:


  “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 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.


DR. BURNEY’S MEMOIRS.

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! —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
  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!”


NATIONAL INSTITUTE OF FRANCE.

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 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. 1_s._, 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 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.”

       *       *       *       *       *


NAPOLEON.

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.


THE RETURN.

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.


THE BURNEY FAMILY.

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.


THE DOCTOR’S WAY OF LIFE.

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.


THE DOCTOR’S WRITINGS.

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

    “When all his genial years were flown,
     And all the Life of Life was gone,”

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.


THE DOCTOR’S WAY OF LIFE.

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.


1814.

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.”


1814.

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]


THE CLOSING SCENE.

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

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Davis is mentioned more than once by Mr. Boswell.]

[Footnote 2: Edward Burney, Esq., of Clipstone Street.]

[Footnote 3: Since Marquis.]

[Footnote 4: His late Majesty, George the Fourth.]

[Footnote 5: Afterwards Earl Mansfield.]

[Footnote 6: Afterwards Marchioness of Thomond.]

[Footnote 7: Afterwards Lady Edward Fitzgerald.]

[Footnote 8: Since Countess of Liverpool.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 10: Miss Port: now Mrs. Waddington, of Llanover House.]

[Footnote 11: In this equitable judgment of Dr. Burney, other of the
managers were included, and Mr. Windham was identified.]

[Footnote 12: Afterwards Earl of Orford.]

[Footnote 13: Afterwards edited by Miss Berry.]

[Footnote 14: Miss Port; now Mrs. Waddington, of Llanover.]

[Footnote 15: Mrs. Cheveley.]

[Footnote 16: Barrington—afterwards Bishop of Durham]

[Footnote 17: Afterwards Sir William.]

[Footnote 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.”]

[Footnote 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.”]

[Footnote 20: This has reference to the situation, and to that only, in
Chelsea College.]

[Footnote 21: The eels, now, _are so used to being skinned_, that these
matters, both for the inflictors and the endurers, are become more easy.]

[Footnote 22: See Mr. Moore’s Life of Sheridan.]

[Footnote 23: George III.]

[Footnote 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!”]

[Footnote 25: Now Baron Crewe.]

[Footnote 26: Now the Hon. Mrs. Cunliffe Offley.]

[Footnote 27: Afterwards the Hon. Mrs. Beauclerk.]

[Footnote 28: Mrs. Locke of Norbury Park.]

[Footnote 29: Mr. Burke, in one of his unpublished Letters, says,
“Coalition is the condition of Mankind!”]

[Footnote 30: Afterwards Lord Chancellor.]

[Footnote 31: Miss French, a niece of Mr. Burke’s.]

[Footnote 32: See Correspondence.]

[Footnote 33: Since Duchess.]

[Footnote 34: Mrs. Phillips.]

[Footnote 35: Afterwards Lord Chancellor.]

[Footnote 36: Afterwards Queen.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 38: Beaconsfield.]

[Footnote 39: Mr. Richard Burke, sen., and Mr. Burke, jun.]

[Footnote 40: Beaconsfield.]

[Footnote 41: A £20 Bank Note.]

[Footnote 42: The translations of Mr. Hoole were not yet in
circulation.]

[Footnote 43: He made the same speech of melancholy, but partial
regret, to Dr. Charles Burney, who visited him also at Bath.]

[Footnote 44: Mrs. General Hales, of Chelsea College.]

[Footnote 45: The Doctor’s Sons.]

[Footnote 46: The Burkes.]

[Footnote 47: At this date, 1797, the King, George III. was perfectly
restored.]

[Footnote 48: Now the Hon. Mrs. Cunliffe Offley.]

[Footnote 49: Mr. Burney, the barrister, son of the late Rear-Admiral
Burney.]

[Footnote 50: The present celebrated mathematician and author.]

[Footnote 51: George III.]

[Footnote 52: To the Editor he once avowed, that to pass twenty-four
hours without one piercing pang of pain would be new to him.]

[Footnote 53: Generally, from the name of the author, attributed, but
erroneously, to Anna Seward, of Litchfield.]

[Footnote 54: Now Mrs. Garnier.]

[Footnote 55: Now Viscountess Canning.]

[Footnote 56: Now Lady Elizabeth Whitbread.]

[Footnote 57: Now Viscount Palmerston.]

[Footnote 58: Mr. Twining.]

[Footnote 59: The Doctor’s grand-daughter, now Mrs. Raper.]

[Footnote 60: Afterwards Earl of Liverpool.]

[Footnote 61: First husband of Buonaparte’s sister, Paulina, afterwards
La Princesse Borghese.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 63: Louis the Sixteenth.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 66: Afterwards Earl of Chichester.]

[Footnote 67: His Sleep.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 69: Now Lady (George) Martin.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 71: Now Lord Stowell.]

[Footnote 72: George IV.]

[Footnote 73: Now wife of le Chevalier de Pougens.]

[Footnote 74: The present Hon. Mrs. Singleton and the Hon. Miss Upton.]

[Footnote 75: The Hon. Col. Greville Howard.]

[Footnote 76: Now Governor General of Bengal.]

[Footnote 77: The Duke of York.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 79: Barrington.]

[Footnote 80: North.]

[Footnote 81: Howley, now Archbishop of Canterbury.]

[Footnote 82: Relative to the pension.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 85: Afterwards the first Marquis of Lansdowne.]

[Footnote 86: Mrs. Solvyns.]

[Footnote 87: The Count Louis de Narbonne.]

[Footnote 88: The Baron de Larrey.]

[Footnote 89: Chiefly the loyal and admirable family De la Tour
Maubourg.]

[Footnote 90: Lady Lucy Foley.]

[Footnote 91: Admiral Sir Richard Foley.]

[Footnote 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.”]

[Footnote 93: Every one of which the Doctor kindly remembered in his
will.]

[Footnote 94: A Tancred Scholarship at Cambridge.]

[Footnote 95: The Editor resided at Paris during the astonishing period
of all these events.]

[Footnote 96: Omitting, of course, all extraneous circumstances.]

[Footnote 97: The dream of human existence, from which death would
awaken him to immortal life!]

       *       *       *       *       *


TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors.

2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.









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