Chapter IX: Part 9

* * * * *

“Nothing, however, for the present, came of this: but,
early in July, at a concert at Lady Newark’s, I first
saw, to my knowledge, their Royal Highnesses the Dukes
of Cumberland and Cambridge. These Princes had lived so
much abroad, that I thought I had never before beheld
them; till I found my mistake, by their both speaking
to me, when I stood near them, not only familiarly, but
with distinction; which I attribute to their respect to
the noble graciousness they might have observed in their
august brother; whose notice had something in it so
engaging as always to brighten as well as honour me.

“But I heard nothing more of the projected dinner, till
I met Lady Melbourne at an assembly at the Dowager Lady
Sefton’s; when I ventured to tell her Ladyship that I
feared the dinner which my son and I were most ambitious
should take place, was relinquished. ‘By no means,’
she answered, ‘for the Prince really desired it.’ And,
after a note or two of the best bred civility from her
Ladyship, the day was settled by his Royal Highness, for—

“_July 9th._—The Prince did not make the company wait at
Whitehall, (Lord Melbourne’s,); he was not five minutes
beyond the appointed time, a quarter past six o’clock:
though he is said never to dine at Carlton House before
eight. The company consisted, besides the Prince and the
Lord and Lady of the house, with their two sons and two
daughters, of Earls Egremont and Cowper, Mr. and Lady
Caroline Lamb, Mr. Lutterel, Mr. Horner, and Mr. Windham.

“The dinner was sumptuous, of course, &c.

“I had almost made a solemn vow, early in life, to quit
the world without ever drinking a _dry dram_; but the
heroic virtue of a long life was overset by his Royal
Highness, through the irresistible temptation to hobbing
and nobbing with such a partner in a glass of cherry
brandy! The spirit of it, however, was so finely subdued,
that it was not more potent than a dose of peppermint
water; which I have always called a dram.

“The conversation was lively and general the chief part
of the evening; but about midnight it turned upon music,
on which subject his Royal Highness deigned so wholly to
address himself to me, that we kept it up a full half
hour, without any one else offering a word. We were,
generally, in perfect tune in our opinions; though once
or twice I ventured to dissent from his Royal Highness;
and once he condescended to come over to my argument:
and he had the skill, as well as nobleness, to put me
as perfectly at my ease in expressing my notions, as I
should have been with any other perfectly well-bred man.

“The subject was then changed to classical lore; and here
his Royal Highness, with similar condescension, addressed
himself to my son, as to a man of erudition whose ideas,
on learned topics, he respected; and a full discussion
followed, of several literary matters.

“When the Prince rose to go to another room, we met Lady
Melbourne and her daughter, just returned from the opera;
to which they had been while we sat over the wine, (and
eke the cherry brandy); and from which they came back
in exact time for coffee! The Prince here, coming up to
me, most graciously took my hand, and said, ‘I am glad
we got, at last, to our favourite subject.’ He then made
me sit down by him, close to the keys of a piano-forte;
where, in a low voice, but face to face, we talked again
upon music, and uttered our sentiments with, I may safely
say, equal ease and freedom; so politely he encouraged my
openness and sincerity.

“I then ventured to mention that I had a book in my
possession that I regarded as the property of his
Royal Highness. It was a set of my Commemoration of
Handel, which I had had splendidly bound for permitted
presentation through the medium of Lord St. Asaph; but
which had not been received, from public casualties.
His Royal Highness answered me with the most engaging
good-humour, saying that he was now building a library,
and that, when it was finished, mine should be the first
book placed in his collection. Nobody is so prompt
at polite and gratifying compliments as this gracious
Prince. I had no conception of his accomplishments. He
quite astonished me by his learning, in conversing with
my son, after my own musical _tête à tête_ dialogue with
him. He quoted Homer in Greek as readily as if quoting
Dryden or Pope in English: and, in general conversation,
during the dinner, he discovered a fund of wit and humour
such as demonstrated him a man of reading and parts, who
knew how to discriminate characters. He is, besides, an
incomparable mimic. He counterfeited Dr. Parr’s lisp,
language, and manner; and Kemble’s voice and accent, both
on and off the stage, so accurately, so nicely, so free
from caricature, that, had I been in another room, I
should have sworn they had been speaking themselves. Upon
the whole, I cannot terminate my account of this Prince
better than by asserting it as my opinion, from the
knowledge I acquired by my observations of this night,
that he has as much conversational talent, and far more
learning than Charles the Second; who knew no more, even
of orthography, than Molière’s _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_.

“My next great concert was at Mr. Thomson’s, in
Grosvenor-square. Before I arrived, from not knowing
there was a Royal motive for every one to be early, I
found the crowd of company so excessively great, that I
was a considerable time before I could make my way into
the music-room; which I found also so full, that not only
I could not discern a place where I might get a seat,
(and to stand the whole night in such a heat would have
been impossible for me;) but also I could not discover
a spot where I might look on even for a few minutes,
to see what was going forwards, without being bodily
jammed; except quite close to the orchestra; where alone
there seemed a little breathing room left. To gain this
desirable little opening, I ventured to follow closely,
as if of their party, two very fine ladies, who made
their way, heaven knows how, to some sofa, I fancy,
reserved for them. But what was my surprise, and shame,
when, upon attaining thus my coveted harbour, I found I
came bounce upon the Prince of Wales! from respect to
whom alone no crowd had there resorted! I had no time,
however, for repentance, and no room for apology; for
that gracious and kind Prince laughed at my exploit, and
shook me very heartily by the hand, as if glad to see me
again; and obliged me to sit down by him immediately. Nor
would he suffer me to relinquish my place, even to any
of the Princes, his brothers, when they came to him! nor
even to any fine lady! always making a motion to me, that
was a command, to be quiet. We talked, as before, over
every piece and performance, with full ease of expression
to our thoughts: but how great was my gratification,
when, upon going into a cooler room, between the acts,
he put his hat on his seat, and said ‘Dr. Burney, will
you take care of my place for me?’ thus obviating from my
stay all fear of intrusion, by making it an obedience.
And his notions about music so constantly agree with my
own, that I know of no individual, male or female, with
whom I talk about music with more sincerity, as well as
pleasure, than with this most captivating Prince.

“Another time, at the Opera, the Prince of Wales,
perceiving me in the pit, sent for me to his splendid
box; and, making me take a snug seat close behind his
Royal Highness, entered, with his usual vivacity, into
discussions upon the performance; and so re-_jeunied_
me by his gaiety and condescension, joined to his
extraordinary judgment on musical subjects, that I held
forth in return as if I had been but five-and-twenty!

“Soon after these festivities, I went to Bulstrode Park,
where I had the grief to find the Duke more feeble and
low-spirited than he had been in town. He could not
hear the motion of a carriage, and was seldom able to
dine at the table. He merely walked a little in the
flower-garden. There was no company, except one day
at dinner; and for one night Lord and Lady Darnley.
They came in while I was dressing, and I had not heard
their names, and knew not who they were. Unacquainted,
therefore, with the bigoted devotion to the exclusive
merit of Handel that I had to encounter, I got into a hot
dispute that I should else, at the Duke’s house, have
certainly avoided. The expression, ‘modern refinements,’
happened to escape me, which both my lord and his lady,
with a tone of consummate contempt, repeated: ‘Modern
refinements, indeed!’ ‘Well, then,’ cried I, ‘let us
call them modern changes of style and taste; for what
one party calls refinements, the other, of course,
constantly calls corruption and deterioration.’ They
were quite irritated at this; and we all three then
went to it ding-dong! I made use of the same arguments
that I have so often used in my musical writings,—that
ingenious men cannot have been idle during a century; and
the language of sound is never stationary, any more than
that of conversation and books. New modes of expression;
new ideas from new discoveries and inventions, required
new phrases: and in the cultivation of instruments, as
well as of the voice, emulation would produce novelty,
which, above all things, is wanted in music. And to say
that the symphonies of Haydn, and the compositions of
Mozart and Beethoven, have no merit, because they are
not like Handel, Corelli, and Geminiani;—or to say that
the singing of a Pacchierotti, a Marchese, a Banti, or
a Billington, in their several styles, is necessarily
inferior to singers and compositions of the days of
Handel, is supposing time to stand still—

“I was going on, when the kind Duke, struck, I doubt
not, by a view of the storm I was incautiously brewing,
contrived to whisper in my ear, ‘You are upon tender
ground, Dr. Burney!’

“I drew back, with as troublesome a fit of coughing as I
could call to my aid; and during its mock operation, his
Grace had the urbanity to call up a new subject.”

THE KING AND QUEEN.

“——20, 1805.—The King, the Queen, and all the Royal
Family in England, I believe, except the Prince and
Princess of Wales, visited and inspected Chelsea College.
They went over every ward, the Governor’s apartments, and
all the offices; with the chapel, refectory, and even
the kitchen. I was graciously summoned when they entered
the chapel, and most graciously, indeed, received. The
first thing the King said on my appearance, was, holding
up both his hands as if astonished, ‘Ten years younger
than when I saw you last, Dr. Burney!’ The first words of
the Queen were, ‘How does Madame d’Arblay do?’ And after
my answer, and humble thanks, she added in a low voice,
‘I am extremely obliged to you, Dr. Burney, for the hymn
you sent me.’ ‘What? what?’ cried the King. Her Majesty
answered: ‘The Russian air, Sir.’ ‘Ay, ay; it’s a very
fine thing; but they performed it too slow. It wanted
more spirit in the execution. They commonly perform too
slow, and make things of that sort languid that should be
animated.’

“He then illustrated his observation by examples taken
from the sluggish performance of Acis and Galatea; in
which I heartily coincided; particularising in my turn
the trio of, ‘The Flocks shall leave the Mountains,’
‘which loses,’ I said, ‘all its effect by being performed
slowly. The two lovers are not complaining, nor
accusing one another of infidelity or of cruelty; they
are perfectly happy, and promising each other eternal
constancy; the time, therefore, ought to mark liveliness,
not melancholy: and the envy and jealousy of Polypheme
while exclaiming, “Rage! Fury! I cannot, cannot bear
it!” sound so tame, when sung without the fire of quick
expression, that they seem quite ridiculous: for he
_does_ bear it! and looks on to the sight of the lover’s
happiness with very commendable patience and composure.’

“Their Majesties then both condescended to make some
inquiries after my family, though by name only after
my daughter d’Arblay. I heard from her very seldom, I
answered; I was afraid of writing to her; and I saw she
was afraid of writing to me. Buonaparte, I said, was so
outrageous against this country, that I doubted not but
that a sheet of blank paper that should pass between us,
would be turned into a conspiracy! My grand-daughter
Fanny Phillips, I mentioned, now lived with me: for
she had often and most condescendingly been noticed
by the Royal Family, during the time that my daughter
d’Arblay had had the honour of belonging to the Queen’s
establishment. The Queen said she had heard of my
young companion from Lady Aylesbury. When I left their
Majesties, I went in search of my grand-daughter, and
brought her under my arm into the governor’s great room.

“The Queen no sooner perceived, than she graciously
addressed her: while the King held up his hands at her
growth since he had seen her, at the Palace, in her
childhood. All the Princesses remembered, and spoke to
her with the most pleasing kindness.

“‘And what are you doing now, Dr. Burney?’ said the King.

“‘I am writing for the new Cyclopedia, Sir.’

“‘I am glad the subject of music,’ he answered, ‘should
be in such good hands.’

“And then, with an arch smile, he added: ‘For the essay
writers, and the periodical writers—are all, I believe,
to a man, at this time, Jacobins.’

“And afterwards, with a good-humoured laugh, he said:
‘That disease (the Jacobin) was first caught here, I
believe, by the poets; and then by the actors; and now
the infection has caught all the singers, and dancers,
and fiddlers!’

“‘Tis the shortest cut, Sir,’ I answered, ‘to make
them all, what they all want to be, chiefs and masters
severally themselves.’

“More seriously, then, the King said the contagion was so
general only from the want of religion; without which all
men were scrambling savages. ‘Religion,’ he added, ‘alone
humanizes us.’

“Something being said, I forget what, about the
Jew’s-row, Chelsea, his Majesty seemed fully apprised
of its Bacchanalian character for the pensioners, as he
directly quoted from Dryden,

“‘Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure!’

“And added, ‘when that ode is performing, and that line
is singing, before Sir William Howe—I always give him a
nod!’

“The King then resumed again his old favourite topic of
amusement, my daughter d’Arblay’s concealed composition
of Evelina; inquiring again and again into the various
particulars of its contrivance and its discovery.

“I could not have been honoured with so much of his
Majesty’s notice, but that, being at home at Chelsea
College, I was naturally permitted to follow in his suite
the whole morning; and all I have written passed at
different intervals, between matters of higher import.”

“_May 25._—I heard, with much musical concern, from
Salomon, of the sudden death of young Pinto, who was
infinitely the most extraordinary early violin player,
I believe, of any age or country. When quite a child,
he used to lead and direct private concerts at Lady
Clarges’; not only correcting old performers from the
Opera band, who played under him, with his tongue, but
with his instrument; informing them of the time and
the expression of various movements and passages, just
as Geminiani used to do at sixty; and which professors
would then bear from nobody else. When he first set
about studying composition, he read everything he could
lay hold of; and taught himself the piano-forte; and
found out the most commodious manner of fingering the
most difficult and extraneous keys. He composed a set of
lessons in six of the most unusual keys in the system,
which no one but himself could play. It is generally
believed that this most ingenious youth, who would
listen to no control, shortened his existence by extreme
irregularity of life. A matter worth recording, as a
warning to check the ill-judged and fatal presumption of
genius.”

The ensuing accounts, written by Dr. Burney, of the next successors to Sir George Howard, as Governors of Chelsea Hospital, are without date:

GENERAL LORD TOWNSHEND.

“I had the great pleasure, for six months, of seeing
my old, honourable, and partial friend, General Lord
Townshend, Governor of Chelsea Hospital. His Lordship
was the immediate successor of Sir George Howard; and
he frequently called upon me, as upon a favourite old
provincial friend, during that period. His great flow
of wit and humour made all intercourse with him gay and
agreeable.”

Dr. Burney was wont to relate that, upon his congratulatory visit to the Marquis of Townshend, after his second nuptials, his lordship presented the Doctor to his beautiful bride, one of the three Miss Montgomeries, who were known, at that epoch, by the name of the Three Graces. The terms of the presentation were so full of kindness and regard, that her ladyship instantly held out to him her fair hand, which, being gloveless, he could not, he said, do otherwise than press to his lips; upon which Lord Townshend exclaimed, “Why, how now, Burney! She is not the Queen!” “She is _your_ Queen, my Lord,” he replied; “and I am glad to pay her homage.” Lord Townshend was so little offended by this repartee, that, when the Doctor retired, his lordship descended with him to the hall, and, calling to the porter, said, “Look at this gentleman! Look at him well! D’ye hear? And whenever he comes, be it when it will, take care you always let him in!”

SIR WILLIAM FAWCET.

“Sir William Fawcet, the successor of Lord Townshend, was
one of the most honourable of men; and he is worthy of
particular notice, from the credit that his nomination
did to the government of this country. He was friendly,
benevolent, patient, and even humble; which rarely
indeed is the case with men exalted from an inferior
condition to professional honours, and dignity of
station, such as never could have entered into their
expectations when they began their career. Sir William is
said to have opened his military life in the ranks; but
by his bravery, diligence, and zeal in the service, as
well as by his integrity, temper, and prudent conduct,
to have mounted entirely by merit to the summit of
his profession; regularly acquiring the good-will and
favour of his superior officers, till he obtained that
of the Commander in chief;[77] through whose liberal
recommendation he rose to the countenance and patronage
of his Majesty himself.

“He was as firm in probity and honour as in courage. I
never knew a man of more amiable simplicity, or more
steady temper. Madame Geoffrin, of Paris, used to say of
the Baron d’Holbech, that he was _simplement simple_.
If such a phrase could be naturalized in English, it
would exactly suit Sir William Fawcet: and the suavity
of manners he acquired by frequenting the court, though
late in life, was certainly extraordinary. Marbles and
metals very difficultly receive a polish after being
long neglected, and exposed to corrosion; but when the
intrinsic value is solid, the external, sooner or later,
always manifests affinity.”

In a memorandum of 1805, is this paragraph:

“Lady Bruce,—after I had nearly transcribed two huge
folio volumes of music, or, rather, on music, Sala’s
Regole di Contrapunto, which I thought Lady Bruce had
only lent me, and which I had therefore returned; sends
me them back, telling me she had brought them from
Naples purposely to put them into my possession, and
only wishing they were more worth my acceptance. What
ill usage!—The books, indeed, tell me nothing I did not
know, and are nothing, with all their value, to me,
compared to her ladyship’s goodness and kindness. They
are, nevertheless, the best digested course of study
on counterpoint that have, perhaps, ever been written;
and my collection of books on music would be incomplete
without them.”

* * * * *

The severe disappointments, with their aggravating circumstances, that repeatedly had deprived Dr. Burney of the first post of nominal honour in his profession, which the whole musical world, not only of his own country, but of Europe, would have voted to be his due, were now, from the Doctor’s advanced stage in life, closing, without further struggle, into inevitable submission.

Yet his many friends to whom this history was familiar, and who knew that the approbation of the King, from the earliest time that the Doctor had been made known to His Majesty, had invariably been in his favour, could not acquiesce in this resignation; and suggested amongst themselves the propriety of presenting Dr. Burney to the King, as a fit object for the next vacancy that might occur, in the literary line, for a pension to a man of letters. And, upon the death of Mrs. Murphy, Mr. Crewe endeavoured to begin a canvass.

But an audience with the King, at that moment, from various illnesses and calamities, was so little attainable, that no application had been found feasible: weeks, months again rolled away without the effort; and nothing, certainly, could be so unexpected, so utterly unlooked for, in the course of things, as that Dr. Burney, the most zealous adherent to government principles, and the most decided enemy to democratic doctrines, should finally receive all the remuneration he ever attained for his elaborate workings in that art, which, of all others, was the avowed favourite of his King, under the administration of the great chief of opposition, Charles Fox.[78]

So, however, it was; for when, in the year 1806, that renowned orator of liberty, found himself suddenly, and, by the premature death of Mr. Pitt, almost unavoidably raised to the head of the state, Mrs. Crewe started a claim for Dr. Burney.

Mr. Windham was instant and animated in supporting it. Mr. Fox, with his accustomed grace, where he had a favour to bestow, gave it his ready countenance; the King’s Sign Manual was granted with alacrity of approbation; and the faithful, invaluable LADY CREWE, while her own new honours were freshly ornamenting her brow, had the cordial happiness of announcing to her unsoliciting and no longer expecting old friend, his participation in the new turn of the tide.

It was Lord Grenville, however, who was the immediately apparent agent in this gift of the Crown; though Charles Fox, there can be no doubt, had a real share of pleasure in propitiating such a reward to a friend and favourite of Lord and Lady Crewe; to settle whose long withheld title was amongst the first official acts of his friendship upon coming into power.

The pension accorded was £300 per annum, and the pleasure caused by this benevolent royal act amongst the innumerable friends of the man of four-score—for such, now, was Dr. Burney—was great almost to exultation. And, in truth, so little had his financial address kept pace with his mental abilities, that, previously to this grant, he had found it necessary, in relinquishing the practice of his profession, to relinquish his carriage.

Such news, of course, was not trusted to the post of Paris; and it was long after its date, ere it reached the Parisian captives. Nevertheless, in this same month of May, 1806, Dr. Burney, the octogenaire, as he now called himself, confided, upon other subjects, to a passing opportunity, a long letter to Paris; written in a strong and firm round hand; the following pages from which, evince his unaltered disposition to cultivate his natural gaiety with his social spirit of kindness:

“TO MADAME D’ARBLAY.

* * “I have so much to say, that I hardly know where to
begin. * * *

“At the close of this last summer, I took it into my head
that the air, water, rocks, woods, fine prospects, and
delightful rides on the Downs, at Bristol Hotwells, and
in their vicinity, would do my cough good, and enable me
to bear the ensuing winter more heroically than I have
done what have preceded it; for since the Influenza of
1804, I have dreaded cold, and night air, as much as
they are dreaded by a trembling Italian greyhound. Do
you remember Frisk, the pretty little slim dog we had,
as successor to Mr. Garrick’s favourite pet, Phill?
who always pestered Garrick to let him lick his hands
and his fingers,—till Garrick, though provoked, could
not, in the comic playfulness of his character, help
caressing him again, even while exclaiming, when the
animal fawned upon him: ‘What dost follow me for,
eh,—Slobber-chaps?—Tenderness without ideas!’ Well, as
chill am I now as that poor puppy, Frisk,—though not
quite as tender, nor yet, I trust, as void of ideas.

“Well, to the Hotwells at Bristol I went; and took with
me Fanny Phillips. And we both took Evelina, as many of
its best scenes are at the Wells and at Bath. However we
devoured it so eagerly on the journey, that we had only
half a volume left when we arrived at No. 7, on Vincent’s
Parade; where we were sumptuously lodged; and Fanny
Phillip’s maid went to market; and our landlady dressed
our dinners; and, as I had my carriage, and horses, and
servant, we did very well: except that we were too late
in the season, for we had not above three balmy days in
our whole month’s residence.

“I liked little Evelina full as well as ever; and I have
always thought it the best—that is, the most near to
perfection of your excellent penmanships. There are none
of those heart-rending scenes which tear one to pieces
in the last volumes of Cecilia and Camilla. They always
make me melancholy for a week. But, for all that, Fanny
Phillips and I proposed going through the whole while
at Bristol, for our social reading. However, it was not
possible; for we could never procure the first volume
of Cecilia from any of the Libraries. It was always, as
the Italians say of the English when they vainly try for
admission, ‘_Sempre_ not at home!’

“I made an excursion to the city of Wells for one day
and night, to see its admirable cathedral. The Bishop,
Dr. Beadon, is an old musical acquaintance of mine, of
thirty years’ standing. He wished me to have remained
a week with him. And I should have liked it very
well,—‘ma!—ma!—ma!’—as the Italians say, I have no weeks
to spare!”

The health and spirits of Dr. Burney were now so good, that he seized another opportunity for writing again, in the same month, to his truly grateful daughter:

_“12th October._

“My Dear Fanny,

“Do you remember a letter of thanks which I received from
Rousseau for a present of music which I sent him, with a
printed copy of The Cunning Man, that I had Englishized
from his _Divan du Village_? I thought myself the most
fortunate of beings, in 1770, to have obtained an hour’s
conversation with him; for he was then more difficult of
access than ever, especially to the English, being out of
humour with the whole nation, from resentment of Horace
Walpole’s forged letter from the King of Prussia; and he
had determined, he said, never to read or write again!
Guy, the famous bookseller, was the only person he then
admitted; and it was through the sagacious good offices
of this truly eminent book-man, urged by my friends,
Count d’Holbach, Diderot, &c., that the interview I so
ardently aspired at was procured for me. Well, this
letter from the great Jean Jacques, which I had not seen
these twenty years, I have lately found in a cover from
Lord Harcourt, to whom I had lent it, when his lordship
was preparing a list of all Rousseau’s works, for the
benefit of his widow; which, however, he left to find
another editor, when Madame Rousseau relinquished her
celebrated name, to become the wife of some ordinary
man. Lord Harcourt then returned my letter, and, upon
a recent review of it, I was quite struck with the
politeness and condescension with which Jean Jacques had
accepted my little offering, at a time when he refused
all assistance, nay, all courtesy, from the first persons
both of England and France. I am now writing in bed, and
have not the original to quote; but, as far as I can
remember, he concludes his letter with the following
flattering lines:

“‘The works, Sir, which you have presented me, will often
call to my remembrance the pleasure I had in seeing and
hearing you; and will augment my regret at my not being
able sometimes to renew that pleasure. I entreat you,
Sir, to accept my humble salutations.

“‘JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.’

“I give you this in English, not daring, by memory, to
quote J. J. Rousseau. It was directed to M. Burney, in
London; and, I believe, under cover to Lord Harcourt,
who always was his open protector. But is it not
extraordinary, my dear Fanny, that the most flattering
letters I have received should be from Dr. Johnson and J.
J. Rousseau? I can account for it in no other way than
from my always treating them with openness and frankness,
yet with that regard and reverence which their great
literary powers inspired. Much as I loved and respected
the good and great Dr. Johnson, I saw his prejudices and
severity of character. Nor was I blind to Rousseau’s
eccentricities, principles, and paradoxes in all things
but music; in which his taste and views, particularly in
dramatic music, were admirable; and supported with more
wit, reason, and refinement, than by any writer on the
subject, in any language which I am able to read. But
as I had no means to correct the prejudices of the one,
nor the principles of the other of these extraordinary
persons, was I to shun and detest the whole man because
of his peccant parts? Ancient and modern poets and sages,
philosophers and moralists, subscribe to the axiom,
_humanum est errare_, and yet, every individual, whatever
be his virtues, science, or talents, is treated, if his
frailties are discovered, as if the characteristic of
human nature were perfection, and the least diminution
from it were unnatural and unpardonable! God bless you,
my dear Fanny. Write soon, and long, I entreat.”

In this same, to Dr. Burney, memorable year, 1806, he had the agreeable surprise of a first invitation from Mr. West, President of the Royal Academy, to the annual dinner given by its directors to the most munificent patrons, capital artists, distinguished judges, or eminent men of letters of the day, for the purpose of assembling them to a private and undisturbed view of the works prepared for forming the exhibition of the current year.

By that grand painter, and delightful man of letters, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Burney, from the time of their first happy intimacy, had regularly been included in the annual invitations; but Mr. West was unacquainted, personally, with the Doctor, and had, of course, his own set and friends to oblige. What led to this late compliment, after a chasm of fourteen years, does not appear; but the remembrance occurred at a moment of revived exertion, and the Doctor accepted it with exceeding satisfaction. Nevertheless, the opening of the account which he has left in his journal of this classic entertainment, is far from gay:

“My sight was now,” he says, “become so feeble, that I
knew nobody who did not first accost me; and my hearing
so impaired, that it was with difficulty I caught what
was said to me by any of my neighbours, except those
immediately to my right or my left.

“At the Royal Academy this year, I was placed near my
son Dr. Charles, and Loutherbourg, who served me as a
nomenclature, and I was happily in the midst of many old
as well as new friends and acquaintance; particularly the
Bishops of Durham,[79] Winchester,[80] and London,[81]
and Sir George Beaumont.

“I went early into several small apartments, previously
to entering the great room; and luckily, in the first I
entered I came upon Sir George Beaumont, who most kindly,
politely, and with cordial courtesy, accompanied me
during the whole review; always, with unerring judgment,
pointing out what was most worth stopping to examine. He
was enthusiastically fond of Wilkie’s famous piece.

“Mr. Windham here came forward in the highest spirits.
I never saw him more animated, even when conversing
with favourite females. I eagerly made up to him with
my thanks, both to himself and Mrs. Windham, for their
zeal and activity in my affairs.[82] ‘Yes, yes,’ cried he
gaily, ‘in zeal we all vied one with another.’

“It had rained torrents all day; but I had promised, not
expecting the continuance of such weather, to go from the
exhibition to the opera, to join Lord and Lady Bruce;
who wanted to make a convert of me to their favourite
singer, Grassini; but in descending the endless stairs,
I was joined by my benevolent neighbour, the Bishop of
Winchester; who, perceiving how cautiously I made my way,
seized my arm, and insisted on conducting me; and when
he heard my opera engagement, he dauntlessly, though
laughingly, ordered away my carriage himself, and helped
me into his own; promising absolution for my failure to
Lady Bruce, but protesting he could not, and would not,
suffer me to go any whither such a desperate night, from
home; whither he drove me full gallop, setting me down
at Chelsea College, in his way to Winchester House. More
kind and cheerful benevolence never entered man’s heart,
than is lodged in this good prelate’s.”

1807.

In the ensuing year, 1807, the diary of the Doctor contains the following narration of the Countess of Mount Edgecumbe:

“_December 21._—I have lost my oldest and most partial
musical friend, the Countess Dowager of Mount Edgecumbe,
relict of the third Lord and first Earl, and mother
of the present Earl. She was daughter of Dr. John
Gilbert, Archbishop of York. I knew and was known to
her when she was Miss Gilbert, and at the head of lady
musicians. She was always of the Italian school, and
spoke both Italian and French well and fluently: she was
one of the great patronesses of Giardini and Mengotti,
in their days of renown; and generously never ceased
serving and supporting them when they were superseded by
newer rivals. She was a correspondent in Italian with
Martinelli. She played with great force and precision
all the best modern compositions of the times; and in
so high and spirited a style, that no other lady, or
hardly professor, in England, durst attempt them. She
kept her box at the opera till very late in life: and
then, when, from the bustle and noise of entry and exit,
she relinquished it, she still sustained her own private
study and practice on the harpsichord. And, to the very
last, when told of any musical phenomena, vocal or
instrumental, she was curious and eager to hear them at
private or subscription concerts. She went to Tunbridge
Wells last summer, when her frame was extremely impaired,
and her faculties no longer of their original brightness.
Previously to setting out, she honoured me, in as
infirm and decayed a state as herself, with a visit;
condescendingly clambering up my flight of stairs to
nearly the summit of Chelsea Hospital, protesting, with
her old and very agreeable liveliness, that the exertion
did her nothing but good: and then, almost on her knees,
beseeching me to go also to Tunbridge Wells, as she was
sure its waters would be highly beneficial to me. I was
then, however, so unwell and feeble, that I feared going
even to Bulstrode. I could not, therefore, satisfy this
kind and noble lady with the least prospect of following
her, and partaking of her offered hospitality.

“Daughter of so eminent a divine, she had been brought up
with a firm belief and veneration in religion; and she
was persuaded that all the calamities of the war were
inflicted upon us as the scourge of our iniquities, for
our admission of jacobinical principles at the opening
of the French Revolution. It was a very remarkable
circumstance, that pulsation stopped, and her heart
ceased to beat, three days before she expired.”

About this period, also, or somewhat later, Dr. Burney had to lament the loss of his constant and respectable friend, Mrs. Ord; which, though not of a sort to prey upon his feelings, like those privations that bereaved him of the objects of his taste, as well as connexion, caused yet a considerable breach in his habits of friendly intercourse, and of such enlivening parties and projects, as constitute the major, though not the higher portion of our rotatory comforts.

The whole tenor of the life of Mrs. Ord, and of her minutest as well as most important actions, was under the concentrated guidance of a laudable ambition to merit general esteem. And so sagely directed were her movements for the attainment of their object, that she was one of those few beings whom censure passed by as unimpeachable.

She was sincerely attached to Dr. Burney and his family, and was sincerely lamented by all to whom her worth and virtues were known.

* * * * *

Towards the close of this year, 1807, Dr. Burney had an infliction which nearly robbed him of his long-tried, and hitherto almost invulnerable force of mind, for bearing the rude assaults of misfortune: this was a paralytic stroke, which, in casting his left hand into a state of torpor, threw his heart, head, and nerves into one of ceaseless agitation, from an unremitting expectance of abrupt dissolution.

His absent daughter was spared from participating in the pain of this terrifying interval; and the despotic difficulty so often repined at of foreign correspondence, might here have seemed a benediction, had it been to political rigidity alone that she had been indebted for this exemption from availless anguish: but her generous father had made it his first care to prohibit, and peremptorily, all parts of his house from sending any communication, any hint whatsoever of his apprehensive state to Paris: and his exhortation, with the same earnestness, though not the same authority, was spread to every writing class of friend or acquaintance.

His own account of this trying event, written in the following year, in answer to his daughter’s alarm at his silence, will shew the full and surprising return of his spirits and health upon his recovery:

“TO MADAME D’ARBLAY.

“_Nov. 12th, 1808._

“My dear Fanny,

“The complaints made, in one of the two short notes which
I have received, of letters never answered, Old Charles
returns—as his account of family affairs he finds has
never reached you. Indeed, for these last two or three
years, I have had nothing _good_ to say of _own self_;
and I peremptorily charged all the rest of the family to
say nothing _bad_ on the subject of health: for I never
understood the kindness of alarming distant friends with
accounts of severe illness,—as we may be either recovered
or dead before the information reaches them.

* * * * *

“I wrote you an account of my excursion to Bristol
Hotwells: but I had not been returned to Chelsea more
than three days, before I had an alarming seizure in my
left hand, which neither heat, friction, nor medicines
could subdue. It felt perfectly asleep; in a state of
immoveable torpor. My medical friends would not tell me
what this obstinate numbness was; but I discovered by
their prescriptions, and advice as to regimen, that it
was neither more nor less than a paralytic affection;
and, near Christmas, it was pronounced to be a Bath case.
On Christmas eve, I set out for that City, extremely
weak and dispirited: the roads terrible, and almost
incessant torrents of rain all the way. I was five days
on the journey; I took Fanny Phillips with me, and we had
excellent apartments on the South Parade, which is always
warm when any sun shines. I put myself under the care of
Dr. Parry, who, having resided, and practised physic at
Bath more than forty years, must, _cæteris paribus_, know
the virtues and vices of Bath waters better than the most
renowned physicians in London. To give them fair play, I
remained three months in this City; and I found my hand
much more alive, and my general health very considerably
amended. But, I caught so violent a fresh cold in my
journey home, that it was called what the French style a
_Fluxion de poitrine_, and I was immediately confined to
my bed at Chelsea, and unable to eat, sleep, or speak.
Strict starvation was then ordered; but softened off into
fish and asparagus as soon as possible, by our wise
and good Æsculapius, Sir Walter Farquhar: and now I am
allowed poultry and game, under certain restrictions,
and find myself tolerably well again. All this tedious
account of _own self_ should still have been suppressed,
but that I feared it might reach you by some other means,
and give you greater alarm; I determined, therefore, to
tell you the truth, the whole truth, &c., with my own
paw: being able, at the same time, to write you that,
cough excepted, which returns with cold weather, I
passed last summer more free from complaint than I have
passed any for many preceding years. And now it is time
to say something of your other kindred, whose names you
languish, you say, to see.

* * * * *

“I have forgotten to mention that, during my invalidity
at Bath, I had an unexpected visit from your _ci-devant_
Streatham friend, of whom I had lost sight for more
than ten years. When her name was sent in, I was much
surprised, but desired she might be asked to follow it:
and I received her as an old friend with whom I had spent
much time very happily, and never wished to quarrel. She
still looks well, but is grave, and seems to be turned
into candour itself: though she still says good things,
and writes admirable notes, and, I am told, letters. We
shook hands very cordially; and avoided any allusion to
our long separation and its cause. Her _caro sposo_ still
lives; but is such an object, from the gout, that the
account of his sufferings made me pity him sincerely. He
wished, she told me, to see his old friend; and, _un beau
matin_, I could not refuse compliance with this wish. I
found him in great pain, but very glad to see me. The old
rancour, or ill-will, excited by our desire to impede the
marriage, is totally worn away. Indeed, it never could
have existed, but from _her_ imprudence in betraying to
him that proof of our friendship for _her_, which ought
never to have been regarded as spleen against _him_, who,
certainly, nobody could blame for accepting a gay rich
widow.—What could a man do better?[83]”

* * * * *

It is well worthy of notice, and greatly in favour of the Bath waters for paralytic affections, that Dr. Burney never had a return of his alarming seizure of the hand; and never to the end of his life, which was yet prolonged several years, had any other paralytic attack.

It was during this residence at Bath that Dr. Burney made his last will; in which, after settling his various legacies, he left his two eldest daughters, Esther and Frances, his residuary legatees; and nominated his sons, Captain James Burney and Dr. Charles Burney, his executors.

DR. BURNEY’S MEMOIRS.

It was here, also, after a cessation of twenty-four years, that the Doctor recurred to his long dormant scheme of writing his own Memoirs.

If, at the date of its design and commencement, in 1782, his plan had been put into execution, according to the nobly independent ideas, and widely liberal intention of its projection, few are the individual narratives of a private life in the last century, that could have exhibited a more expansive, informing, general, or philosophical view of society than those of Dr. Burney.

But, in 1807, though the uncommon powers of his fine mind were still unimpaired for conversation or enjoyment, his frame had received a blow, and his spirits a suspensive shock, that caused a marked diminution of his resources for composition.

His imagination, hitherto the most vivid, even amidst sorrow, calamity, nay care, nay sickness, nay age, was now no longer, as heretofore, rambling abroad and at will for support and renovation. A fixed object, as he expressed himself in various letters of that date, had seized, occupied, absorbed it. The alarm excited by a paralytic attack is far more baneful than its suffering; for every rising dawn, and every darkening eve look tremblingly for its successor; and the sword of Damocles, as he mournfully declared, seemed eternally waving over his head.

The spirit, therefore, of composition was now, though not lost, enervated; and the whole force of his faculties was cast exclusively upon his memory, in the research of past incidents that might soothe his affections, or recreate his fancy; but bereft of those exhilarating ideas, which, previously to this alarm, had given attraction to whatever had fallen from his pen.

Hence arose, in that vast compilation for which, from this time, he began collecting materials and reminiscences, a nerveless laxity of expression, a monotonous prolixity of detail, that, upon the maturest examination, decided this Memorialist to abridge, to simplify, or to destroy so immense a mass of morbid leisure, and minute personality, with the fullest conviction, as has been stated, that it never would have seen the public light, had it been revised by its composer in his healthier days of chastening criticism; so little does it resemble the flowing harmony, yet unaffected energy of his every production up to that diseased period.

Nor even can it be compared with any remaining penmanship, though of a much later date, written after his recovery; as appears by sundry letters, occasional essays, and biographical fragments, sketched from the time of that restoration to the very end of his existence.

And hence, consequently, or rather unavoidably, have arisen in their present state those abridged, or recollected, not copied Memoirs; which, though on one hand largely curtailed from their massy original, are occasionally lengthened on the other, from confidential communications; joined to a whole life’s recollections of the history, opinions, disposition, and character of Dr. Burney.

* * * * *

A dire interval again, from political restrictions and prudential difficulties, took place between all communication, all correspondence of Dr. Burney with Paris. But in June, 1810, it was happily broken up, through the active kind offices of a liberal friend,[84] who found means by some returning prisoner, to get a letter conveyed to Chelsea College; and to procure thence the following indescribably welcomed answer:

“_June, 1810._

“My Dear Fanny.

“I never was so surprised and delighted at the sight
of your well-known autograph, as on the envelop of
your last letter; but when I saw, after the melancholy
account of your past sufferings, and of the more slight
indisposition of your _caro sposo_, with what openness
you spoke of your affairs; and, above all, that your
dear Alexander was still with you, and had escaped
the terrific _code de conscription_, it occasioned me
an exultation which I cannot describe. And that _you_
should be begging so hard of me for a line, a word,
in my own handwriting, at the time that _I_ was, in
prudence, imploring all your living old correspondents
and my friends, not to venture a letter to you, even by
a private hand, lest it should accidentally miscarry,
and, being observed, and misconstrued, as coming from
this country, should injure M. d’Arblay in the eyes of
zealous Frenchmen!—But the detail you have given me of
the worthy and accomplished persons who honour you with
their friendship; and of the lofty apartments you have
procured, Rue d’Anjou, for the sake of more air, more
room, more cleanliness, and more _bookeries_, diverts me
much. With regard to my own health, I shall say nothing
of past sufferings of various kinds since my last ample
family letter; except that ‘Here I am,’ in spite of the
old gentleman and his scythe. And the few people I am
able to see, ere the warm weather, tell me I look better,
speak better, and walk better than I did ‘ever so long
ago.’ God knows how handsome I shall be by-and-by! —but
you will allow it behoves the fair ladies who make me a
visit now and then, to take care of themselves!—That’s
all.

“People wonder, secluded as I am for ever from the world
and its joys, how I can _cut a joke and be silly_: but
when I have no serious sufferings, a book, or a pen,
makes me forget all the world, and even myself; the best
of all oblivions.”

Then follow sundry confidential family details.

* * * * *

“Having now pretty well enumerated your friends, pray,
when you have a safe opportunity, tell me how many are
living amongst those who were formerly mine, in Paris?
particularly the Abbé Roussier; M. l’Abbé Fayton; and
Messrs. Framery, La Borde, Hulmandel, and Ginguené.

“I am delighted you are yourself acquainted with the
truly scientific and profound M. Suard, to whom I had
letters recommendatory from our common friend, Garrick;
and from whom I received many instances of friendly zeal
in my musical inquiries; and of hospitality at his own
home, where the honours were done with remarkable grace
by his beautiful and engaging wife. It was there that I
became acquainted with the celebrated Grecian, the Abbé
Arnaud, and with M. Diderot.

“I knew there, also, M. l’Abbé Morellet; and always
thought that no writer on good taste and feeling in the
execution of good music, could express his sentiments
with more discrimination delicacy, and precision, than
M. l’Abbé Morellet, to whom I beg you to present my
compliments, as to a very old and intimate acquaintance,
during his residence in England, at the Earl of
Shelburne’s.[85] I am delighted to hear he has so
admirable, and peculiarly fitted-up a library; and that
he has invited you, with so much courtesy, at your common
friend’s, the incomparable Madame de Tessé’s, to let him
do its honours to you at your own time, and in your own
way; and that he keeps up so much spirit and politeness,
though—nearly—as old as your aged Father. I was really
moved by his so readily and obligingly repeating to
you, at the request of Madame de Tessé, the ballad he
composed upon attaining his eightieth year. But ’twas a
true touch of French _malice_—that story of his martial
equipment, when elected a member of the Institute; _and
when_, with a collar encircled with wreaths of laurel, he
girded on his sword, for the first time in his life, at
seventy-nine, and, to the great, though, probably, merry
shock of his companion-men of letters, suffered it to get
between his legs, and trip up his heels! M. de Narbonne
was just the man for such a tale, which he made, I doubt
not, roguishly comic.”

“I think it is high time now to pull up and give you
my benediction; joining sincerely in your prayer for
peace; and begging you to assure M. d’Arblay and Alex.
of my cordial affection. For yourself, my dear Fanny, be
assured that your letter has given me a fillip that has
endeared existence; concerning which, during pain and
long nights, I have been often worse than indifferent.

C. B.”

How merely an amanuensis had been the Editor of these Memoirs, had all the personal manuscripts of Dr. Burney been written at this healthy, though so much later period of his existence; instead of having fallen under his melancholy pen, to while away nerveless languor when paralysis, through the vision of his imagination, appeared to be unremittingly suspended over his head! the last given pages of his letters to Paris, though composed from his 80th to his 85th year, are all run off in the flowing and lively style of his early penmanship.

But disastrous indeed to Dr. Burney was an after event, of the year 1810, that is now to be recorded; grievously, essentially, permanently disastrous. Misfortune, with all her fevering arrows of hoarded ills, retained no longer the materials that could so deeply empoison another dart, for striking at the root of what life could yet accord him of elegant enjoyment. Lady Crewe alone remained, apart from his family, whose personal loss could more afflictingly have wounded him, than that which he now experienced by the death of the Duke of Portland.

Fatal to all future zest for worldly exertion in Dr. Burney, proved this blow; from which, though he survived it some years, he never mentally recovered; so deeply had he felt and reciprocated the extraordinary partiality conceived for him by his Grace.