But a catastrophe of the most sorrowing sort soon afterwards cast a
shade of saddest hue upon this happy and promising period, by the death
of the friend to whom, after his many deprivations, Dr. Burney had owed
his greatest share of pleasure and animation—Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Deeply this loss affected his spirits. Sir Joshua was the last of
the new circle with whom his intimacy had mellowed into positive
friendship. And though with many, and indeed with most of the Literary
Club, a connexion was gradually increasing which might lead to that
heart-expanding interest in life, friendship,—to part with what we
possess while what we wish is of uncertain attainment, leaves a chasm
in the feelings of a man of taste and selection, that he is long nearly
as unwilling as he may be unable to re-occupy.
With Mr. Burke, indeed, with the immortal Edmund Burke, Dr. Burney
might have been as closely united in heart as he was charmed in
intellect, had circumstances offered time and opportunity for the
cultivation of intimacy. Political dissimilarity of sentiment does not
necessarily sunder those who, in other points, are drawn together by
congeniality of worth; except where their walk in life compels them to
confront each other with public rivalry.
But Mr. Burke, in whose composition imagination was the leading
feature, had so genuine a love of rural life and rural scenery, that
he seldom came voluntarily to the metropolis but upon parliamentary
business; and then the whole powers of his ardent mind were absorbed by
politics, or political connexions: while Sir Joshua, whose equanimity
of temper kept his imagination under control; and whose art was as
much the happiness as it was the pride of his prosperity, finding
London the seat of his glory, judiciously determined to make it that
of his contentment. His loss, therefore, to Dr. Burney, was not only
that of an admired friend, with whom emulously he might reciprocate
and enlighten ideas; but, also, of that charm to current life the most
soothing to its cares, a congenial companion always at hand.
And more particularly was he affected at this time by the departure
of this valuable friend, from the circumstance of having just brought
to bear the return home of the Memorialist, for which Sir Joshua,
previously to a paralytic attack, had been the most eager and incessant
pleader. The Doctor, therefore, had looked forward with the gayest
gratification to the renewal of those meetings which, alike to himself,
to his daughter, and to the knight, had invariably been productive of
glee and pleasure.
But gone, ere arrived that renewal, was the power of its enjoyment! A
meeting, indeed, took place, and with unalterable friendship on both
sides. Immediately after the Western tour, Dr. Burney carried the
Memorialist to Leicester-square; first mounting to the drawing-room
himself, to inquire whether Sir Joshua were well enough for her
admission. Assent was immediate; and she felt a sprightly renovation of
strength in again ascending his stairs.
Miss Palmer came forward to receive her with warm greeting cordiality;
but she rapidly hastened onward to shake hands with Sir Joshua. He
was now all but quite blind. He had a green bandage over one eye, and
the other was shaded by a green half bonnet. He was playing at cards
with Mr. William Burke, and some others. He attempted to rise, to
welcome a long-lost favourite; but found himself too weak. He was even
affectingly kind to her, but serious almost to melancholy. “I am very
glad indeed,” he emphatically said, though in a meek voice, and with a
dejected accent, “to see you again! and I wish I could see you better!
But I have only one eye now,—and hardly that!”
She was extremely touched; and knew not how to express either her
concern for his altered situation since they had last met, or her joy
at being with him again; or her gratitude for the earnest exertions he
had made to spur Dr. Burney to the step that had been taken.
The Doctor, perceiving the emotion she both felt and caused, hurried
her away. And once more only she ever saw the English Raphael again.
And then he was still more deeply depressed; though Miss Palmer
good-humouredly drew a smile from him, by gaily exclaiming, “Do pray,
now, uncle, ask Miss Burney to write another book directly! for we have
almost finished Cecilia again—and this is our sixth reading of it!”
The little occupation, Miss Palmer said, of which Sir Joshua was then
capable, was carefully dusting the paintings in his picture gallery,
and placing them in different points of view.
This passed at the conclusion of 1791; on the February of the following
year, this friend, equally amiable and eminent, was no more!
Dr. Burney, extremely unwell at that period himself, could not attend
the funeral; which, under the direction of Mr. Burke, the chief
executor, was conducted with the splendour due to the genius, and
suitable to the fortune of the departed. Dr. Charles Burney was invited
in the place of his father, and attended at the obsequies for both.
In the retirement of this mournful interval of personal sickness and
mental dejection, Dr. Burney composed the following elegy to the
memory of Sir Joshua.
“Farewell, farewell, illustrious friend!
Sent here thy art, and men, to mend;
Farewell, dear friend!—in vain I try
To think of thee without a sigh!
If in life’s long and active round
Thy equal I so rarely found,
How, in my few remaining days,
While nature rapidly decays,
Can hope persuade, in flattering strain,
Thy niche will e’er be fill’d again?
Thy loss is not to art alone,
Which placed thee on Apelles’ throne;
Society has lost still more,
Which both the good and wise deplore;
Thy friends dispers’d, of joy bereft,
No stand, no central point have left;
For when fate cut thy vital thread,
And number’d thee among the dead;
To all who had seen thee give a glow
Wherever wit and wisdom flow;
Who, at thy hospitable board
Had seen thee lov’d, rever’d, ador’d;
Who knew thy comprehensive mind,
Thy zeal for worth of every kind;
Who, in thy Aristippan bowers,
Forgot thy pencil’s magic powers,—
To these, the nation’s light and pride,
Of wit the source, of taste the guide,
From all the heart most precious deems,
Thy loss an amputation seems.”