Chapter X: Part 10

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.