Part 6

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.