Part 18

Nothing yet had publicly transpired, with certainty or authority, relative to the projects of Mrs. Thrale, who had now been nearly a year at Bath; though nothing was left unreported, or unasserted, with respect to her proceedings. Nevertheless, how far Dr. Johnson was himself informed, or was ignorant on the subject, neither Dr. Burney nor his daughter could tell; and each equally feared to learn.

Scarcely an instant, however, was the latter left alone in Bolt Court, ere she saw the justice of her long apprehensions; for while she planned speaking upon some topic that might have a chance to catch the attention of the Doctor, a sudden change from kind tranquillity to strong austerity took place in his altered countenance; and, startled and affrighted, she held her peace.

A silence almost awful succeeded, though, previously to Dr. Burney’s absence, the gayest discourse had been reciprocated.

The Doctor, then, see-sawing violently in his chair, as usual when he was big with any powerful emotion whether of pleasure or of pain, seemed deeply moved; but without looking at her, or speaking, he intently fixed his eyes upon the fire: while his panic-struck visitor, filled with dismay at the storm which she saw gathering; over the character and conduct of one still dear to her very heart, from the furrowed front, the laborious heaving of the ponderous chest, and the roll of the large, penetrating, wrathful eye of her honoured, but, just then, terrific host, sate mute, motionless, and sad; tremblingly awaiting a mentally demolishing thunderbolt.

Thus passed a few minutes, in which she scarcely dared breathe; while the respiration of the Doctor, on the contrary, was of asthmatic force and loudness; then, suddenly turning to her, with an air of mingled wrath and woe, he hoarsely ejaculated: “Piozzi!”

He evidently meant to say more; but the effort with which he articulated that name robbed him of any voice for amplification, and his whole frame grew tremulously convulsed.

His guest, appalled, could not speak; but he soon discerned that it was grief from coincidence, not distrust from opposition of sentiment, that caused her taciturnity.

This perception calmed him, and he then exhibited a face “in sorrow more than anger.” His see-sawing abated of its velocity, and, again fixing his looks upon the fire, he fell into pensive rumination.

From time to time, nevertheless, he impressively glanced upon her his full fraught eye, that told, had its expression been developed, whole volumes of his regret, his disappointment, his astonished indignancy: but, now and then, it also spoke so clearly and so kindly, that he found her sight and her stay soothing to his disturbance, that she felt as if confidentially communing with him, although they exchanged not a word.

At length, and with great agitation, he broke forthwith: “She cares for no one! You, only—You, she loves still!—but no one—and nothing else!—You she still loves—”

A half smile now, though of no very gay character, softened a little the severity of his features, while he tried to resume some cheerfulness in adding: “As .... she loves her little finger!”

It was plain by this burlesque, or, perhaps, playfully literal comparison, that he meant now, and tried, to dissipate the solemnity of his concern.

The hint was taken; his guest started another subject; and this he resumed no more. He saw how distressing was the theme to a hearer whom he ever wished to please, not distress; and he named Mrs. Thrale no more! Common topics took place, till they were rejoined by Dr. Burney, whom then, and indeed always, he likewise spared upon this subject.

* * * * *

Very ill again Dr. Johnson grew on the approach of winter; and with equal fear and affection, both father and daughter sought him as often as it was in their power; though by no means as frequently as their zealous attachment, or as his own kind wishes might have prompted. But fullness of affairs, and the distance of his dwelling, impeded such continual intercourse as their mutual regard would otherwise have instigated.

This new failure of health was accompanied by a sorrowing depression of spirits; though unmixt with the smallest deterioration of intellect.

One evening,—the last but one of the sad year 1783,—when Dr. Burney and the Memorialist were with him, and some other not remembered visitors, he took an opportunity during a general discourse in which he did not join, to turn suddenly to the ever-favoured daughter, and, fervently grasping her hand, to say: “The blister I have tried for my breath has betrayed some very bad tokens!—but I will not terrify myself by talking of them.—Ah!—_priez Dieu pour moi!_”

Her promise was as solemn as it was sorrowful; but more humble, if possible, than either. That such a man should condescend to make her such a request, amazed, and almost bewildered her: yet, to a mind so devout as that of Dr. Johnson, prayer, even from the most lowly, never seemed presumptuous; and even—where he believed in its sincerity, soothed him—for a passing moment—with an idea that it might be propitious.

This was the only instance in which Dr. Johnson ever addressed her in French. He did not wish so serious an injunction to reach other ears than her own.

But those who imagine that the fear of death, which, at this period, was the prominent feature of the mind of Dr. Johnson; and which excited not more commiseration than wonder in the observers and commentators of the day; was the effect of conscious criminality; or produced by a latent belief that he had sinned more than his fellow sinners, knew not Dr. Johnson! He thought not ill of himself as compared with his human brethren: but he weighed, in the rigid scales of his calculating justice, the great talent which he had received, against the uses of it which he had made — —

And found himself wanting!

Could it be otherwise, to one who had a conscience poignantly alive to a sense of duty, and religiously submissive to the awards of retributive responsibility?

If those, therefore, who ignorantly have marvelled, or who maliciously would triumph at the terror of death in the pious, would sincerely and severely bow down to a similar self-examination, the marvel would subside, and the triumph might perhaps turn to blushes! in considering—not the trembling inferiority, but the sublime humility of this ablest and most dauntless of Men, but humblest and most orthodox of Christians.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

While thus with Dr. Johnson, the most reverenced of Dr. Burney’s connexions, all intercourse was shaken in gaiety and happiness, with Sir Joshua Reynolds, save from grief for Dr. Johnson, gaiety and happiness still seemed almost stationary.

Sir Joshua Reynolds had a suavity of disposition that set every body at their ease in his society; though neither that, nor what Dr. Johnson called his “_inoffensiveness_,” bore the character of a tame insipidity that never differed from a neighbour; or that knew not how to support an opposing opinion with firmness and independence. On the contrary, Sir Joshua was even peculiar in thinking for himself: and frequently, after a silent rumination, to which he was unavoidably led by not following up, from his deafness, the various stages of any given question, he would surprise the whole company by starting some new and unexpected idea on the subject in discussion, in a manner so imaginative and so original, that it either drew the attention of the interlocutors into a quite different mode of argument to that with which they had set out; or it incited them to come forth, in battle array, against the novelty of his assertions. In the first case, he was frankly gratified, but never moved to triumph; in the second, he met the opposition with candour; but was never brow-beaten from defending his cause with courage, even by the most eminent antagonist.

Both father and daughter shared his favour alike; and both returned it with an always augmenting attachment.

MRS. DELANY.

The setting, but with glory setting, sun of Mrs. Delany, was still glowing with all the warmth of generous friendship, all the capabilities of mental exertion, and all the ingenuous readiness for enjoyment of innocent pleasure,—or nearly all—that had irradiated its brilliant rise.

She was venerated by Dr. Burney, whom most sincerely, in return, she admired, esteemed, and liked. She has left, indeed, a lasting proof of her kind disposition to him in her narrative of Anastasia Robinson, Countess of Peterborough; which, at the request of Dr. Burney, she dictated, in her eighty-seventh year, to her much-attached and faithful amanuensis, Anna Astley; and which the Doctor has printed in the fourth volume of his History.

Mrs. Delany had known and loved Anastasia Robinson while she was a public concert and opera singer. The uncommon musical talents of that songstress were seconded by such faultless and sweet manners, and a life so irreproachable, that she was received by ladies of the first rank and character upon terms nearly of equality; though so modest was her demeanour, that the born distance between them was never by herself forgotten. She was peculiarly a favourite with the bosom friend of Mrs. Delany, the Duchess of Portland, whose mother, the Countess of Oxford, had been the first patroness of Anastasia, and had consented to be present, as a witness, as well as a support, at the private and concealed marriage of that syren of her day with the famous and martial Earl of Peterborough.

A narrative such as this, and so well authenticated, could not but cause great satisfaction to Dr. Burney, in holding to view such splendid success to the power of harmony, when accompanied by virtue.

This increase of intercourse with Mrs. Delany, was a source of gentle pleasure in perfect concord with the Doctor’s present turn of mind; and trebly welcome on account of his daughter, to whose poignant grief for the loss of Mr. Crisp it was a solace the most seasonable. Her description of its soothing effect, which is gratefully recorded in her diary to her sister at Boulogne, may here, perhaps, not unacceptably be copied for the reader, as a further picture of this venerable widow of one of the most favourite friends of Dean Swift.

“_July 18, 1783._—I called again, my dear Susan, upon the sweet Mrs. Delany, whom every time I see I feel myself to love even more than I admire. And how dear, how consolatory is it to me to be honoured with so much of her favour, as to find her always eager, upon every meeting, to fix a time for another and another visit! How truly desirable are added years, where the spirit of life evaporates not before its extinction! She is as generously awake to the interests of those she loves, as if her own life still claimed their responsive sympathies. There is something in her quite angelic. I feel no cares when with her. I think myself with the true image and representative of our so loved maternal Grandmother, in whose presence not only all committal of evil, even in thought, was impossible, but its sufferance, also, seemed immaterial, from the higher views that the very air she breathed imparted. This composure, and these thoughts, are not for lasting endurance! Yet it is salubrious to feel them even for a few hours. I wish my Susan knew her. I would not give up my knowledge of her for the universe. I spend with her all the time I have at my own disposal; and nothing has so sensibly calmed my mind, since our fatal Chesington deprivation, as her society. The religious turn which kindness, united to wisdom, in old age, gives, involuntarily, to all commerce with it, beguiles us out of anxiety and misery a thousand times more successfully than all the forced exertions of gaiety from dissipation.”

If such was the benefit reaped by the daughter from this animated and very uncommon friendship, the great age of one of the parties at its formation considered, who can wonder at the glad as well as proud encouragement which it met with from Dr. Burney?

MR. BURKE.

But the cordial the most potent to the feelings and the spirits of the Doctor, in this hard-trying year, was the exhilarating partiality displayed towards him by Mr. Burke; and which was doubly soothing by warmly and constantly including the Memorialist in its urbanity. From the time of the party at Sir Joshua Reynolds’ upon Richmond Hill, their intercourse had gone on with increase of regard. They met, and not unfrequently, at various places; but chiefly at Sir Joshua Reynolds’, Miss Moncton’s, and Mrs. Vesey’s. Mr. Burke delighted in society as much as of society he was the supreme delight: and perhaps to this social disposition he owed that part of his oratorical excellence that made it so entertainingly varying, and so frequently interspersed with penetrating reflections on human life.

But to the political circle to which Mr. Burke and his powers were principally devoted, Dr. Burney was, accidentally, a stranger. Accidentally may be said, for it was by no means deliberately, as he was not of any public station or rank that demanded any restrictions to his mental connexions. He was excursive, therefore, in his intercourse, though fixed in his principles.

But besides the three places above named, Mr. Burke himself, from the period of the assembly at Miss Moncton’s, had the grace and amiability to drop in occasionally, uninvited and unexpectedly, to the little tea-table of St. Martin’s-street; where his bright welcome from the enchanted Memorialist, for whom he constantly inquired when the Doctor was abroad, repaid him—in some measure, perhaps—for almost always missing the chief of whom he came in search.

The Doctor, also, when he had half an hour to spare, took the new votary of Mr. Burke to visit him and his pleasing wife, at their apartments at the Treasury, where now was their official residence. And here they saw, with wonder and admiration, amidst the whirl of politics and the perplexities of ministerial arrangements, in which Mr. Burke, then in the administration, was incessantly involved, how cheerfully, how agreeably, how vivaciously, he could still be the most winning of domestic men, the kindest of husbands, the fondest of fathers, and the most delightful of friends.

During one of these visits to the Treasury, Mr. Burke presented to Miss Palmer a beautiful inkstand, with a joined portfolio, upon some new construction, and finished up with various contrivances, equally useful and embellishing. Miss Palmer accepted it with great pleasure, but not without many conscious glances towards the Memorialist, which, at last, broke out into an exclamation: “I am ashamed to take it, Mr. Burke! how much more Miss Burney deserves a writing present!”

“Miss Burney?” repeated he, with energy; “Fine writing tackle for Miss Burney? No, no; she can bestow value on the most ordinary. A morsel of white tea-paper, and a little blacking from her friend Mr. Briggs, in a broken gallipot, would be converted by Miss Burney into more worth than all the stationery of all the Treasury.”

This gay and ingenious turn, which made the compliment as gratifying to one, as the present could be to the other, raised a smile of general archness at its address in the company; and of comprehensive delight in Dr. Burney.

The year 1783 was now on its wane; so was the administration in which Mr. Burke was a minister; when one day, after a dinner at Sir Joshua Reynolds’, Mr. Burke drew Dr. Burney aside, and, with great delicacy, and feeling his way, by the most investigating looks, as he proceeded, said that the organist’s place at Chelsea College was then vacant: that it was but twenty pounds a year, but that, to a man of Dr. Burney’s eminence, if it should be worth acceptance, it might be raised to fifty. He then lamented that, during the short time in which he had been Paymaster General, nothing better, and, indeed, nothing else had occurred more worthy of offering.

Trifling as this was in a pecuniary light, and certainly far beneath the age or the rank in his profession of Dr. Burney, to possess any thing through the influence, or rather the friendship of Mr. Burke, had a charm irresistible. The Doctor wished, also, for some retreat from, yet near London; and he had reason to hope for apartments, ere long, in the capacious Chelsea College. He therefore warmly returned his acknowledgments for the proposal, to which he frankly acceded.

And two days after, just as the news was published of a total change of administration, Dr. Burney received from Mr. Burke the following notice of his vigilant kindness:—

“TO DR. BURNEY.

“I had yesterday the pleasure of voting you, my dear Sir, a salary of fifty pounds a year, as organist to Chelsea Hospital. But as every increase of salary made at our Board is subject to the approbation of the Lords of the Treasury, what effect the change now made may have I know not;—but I do not think any Treasury will rescind it.

“This was _pour faire la bonne bouche_ at parting with office; and I am only sorry that it did not fall in my way to shew you a more substantial mark of my high respect for you and Miss Burney.

“I have the honour to be, &c. “EDM. BURKE.”

“_Horse Guards, Dec. 9, 1783._”

“I really could not do this business at a more early period, else it would have been done infallibly.”

The pleasure of Dr. Burney at this event was sensibly dampt when he found that _la bonne bouche_ so kindly made for himself, and so flatteringly uniting his daughter in its intentions, was unallied to any species of remuneration, or even of consideration, to Mr. Burke himself, for all his own long willing services, his patriotic exertions for the general good, and his noble, even where erroneous, efforts to stimulate public virtue.

A short time afterwards, Mr. Burke called himself in St. Martin’s-street, and,—for the Doctor, as usual, was not at home,—Mr. Burke, as usual, had the condescension to inquire for this Memorialist; whom he found alone.

He entered the room with that penetrating look, yet open air, that marked his demeanour where his object in giving was, also, to receive pleasure; and in uttering apologies of as much elegance for breaking into her time, as if he could possibly be ignorant of the honour he did her; or blind to the delight with which it was felt.

He was anxious, he said, to make known in person that the business of the Chelsea Organ was finally settled at the Treasury.

Difficult would it be, from the charm of his manner as well as of his words, to decide whether he conveyed this communication with most friendliness or most politeness: but, having delivered for Dr. Burney all that officially belonged to the business, he thoughtfully, a moment, paused; and then impressively said: “This is my last act of office!”

He pronounced these words with a look that almost affectionately displayed his satisfaction that it should so be bestowed; and with such manly self-command of cheerfulness in the midst of frankly undisguised regret that all his official functions were over, that his hearer was sensibly, though silently touched, by such distinguishing partiality. Her looks, however, she hopes, were not so mute as her voice, for those of Mr. Burke seemed responsively to accept their gratitude. He reiterated, then, his kind messages to the Doctor, and took leave.

1784.

The reviving ray of pleasure that gleamed from the kindness of Mr. Burke at the close of the fatal year 1783, still spread its genial warmth over Dr. Burney at the beginning of 1784, by brightening a hope of recovery for Dr. Johnson; a hope which, though frequently dimmed, cast forth, from time to time, a transitory lustre nearly to this year’s conclusion.

DR. JOHNSON’S CLUB.

Dr. Burney now was become a member of the Literary Club; in which he found an association so select, yet so various, that there were few things, either of business or pleasure, that he ever permitted to interfere with his attendance. Where, indeed, could taste point out, or genius furnish, a society to meet his wishes, if that could fail which had the decided national superiority of Johnson and Burke at its head? while Banks, Beauclerk, Boswell, Colman, Courtney, Eliot (Earl,) Fox, Gibbon, Hamilton (Sir William,) Hinchcliffe, Jones, Macartney (Earl,) Malone, Percy, Reynolds, Scott (Lord Sewel,) Sheridan, Spencer (Earl,) Windham, and many others of high and acknowledged abilities, successively entering, marked this assemblage as the pride—not of this meeting alone, but of the Classical British Empire of the day.

It had been the original intention of Dr. Johnson, when this club, of which the idea was conceived by Sir Joshua Reynolds, was in contemplation, to elect amongst its members some one of noted reputation in every art, science, and profession; to the end that solid information might elucidate every subject that should be started. This profound suggestion, nevertheless, was either passed over, or overruled.

It is probable that those, so much the larger portion of mankind, who love light and desultory discourse, were persuaded they should find more amusement in wandering about the wilds of fanciful conjecture, than in submitting to be disciplined by the barriers of systemized conviction.

Brightly forward at this club came Mr. Windham, of Felbrig, amongst those whose penetration had long since preceded the public voice in ranking Dr. Burney as a distinguished Man of Letters. And from the date of these meetings, their early esteem was augmented into partial, yet steady regard.

Mr. Windham was a true and first rate gentleman; polite, cultivated, learned, upright, and noble-minded. To an imagination the most ardent for whatever could issue from native genius in others, he joined a charm of manner that gave an interest to whatever he uttered himself; no matter how light, how slight, how unimportant; that invested it with weight and pleasure to his auditor: while in his smile there was a gentleness that singularly qualified an almost fiery animation in his words. To speak, however, of his instantaneous powers of pleasing,—though it be conferring on him one of the least common of Nature’s gifts, as well as one of the fairest,—is insufficient to characterize the peculiar charm of his address; for it was not simply the power of pleasing that he possessed—it was rather that of winning.

HANDEL’S COMMEMORATION.

In the ensuing spring and summer, a new and brilliant professional occupation fell, fortunately, to the task of Dr. Burney, drawing him from his cares, and beguiling him from his sorrows, by notes of sweetest melody, and combinations of the most intricate, yet sound harmony; for this year, which completed a century from the birth of Handel, was allotted for a public Commemoration of that great musician and his works.

Dr. Burney, justly proud of the honour paid to the chief of that art of which he was a professor, was soon, and instinctively wound up to his native spirits, by the exertions which were called forth in aid of this noble enterprise. He suggested fresh ideas to the Conductors; he was consulted by all the Directors; and his advice and experience enlightened every member of the business in whatever walk he moved.

Not content, however, to be merely a counsellor to a celebration of such eclât in his own career, he resolved upon becoming the Historian of the transaction; and upon devoting to it his best labours gratuitously, by presenting them to the fund for the benefit of decayed musicians and their families.

This offer, accordingly, he made to the honourable Directors; by whom it was accepted with pleasure and gratitude.