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]