Nevertheless, though no further episodical event occurred in 1801, that
year must by no means be passed over without record in the Memoirs
of Dr. Burney; for it was marked by such extraordinary intellectual
exertion as may almost be called unparalleled, when considered as
springing from volition, not necessity; and from efforts the most
virtuously philosophical, to while away enervating sadness upon those
changes and chances that hang upon the very nature of mortal existence:
for now, to tie his activity to his labours, he entered into a formal
agreement with the editors of the then new Encyclopedia, to furnish all
its musical articles at stated periods.
He thus, in a letter of which he has left a copy, though not the
address, speaks of this enterprise to some friend:
“I have entered now into concerns that leave me not
a minute, or a thought, to bestow on other matters.
Besides professional avocations, I have deeply engaged
in a work that can admit of no delay; and which occupies
every instant that I can steal from business, friends,
or sleep. A new edition, on a very enlarged plan, of
the Cyclopedia of Chambers, is now printing in two
double volumes 4to, for which I have agreed to furnish
the musical articles, on a very large scale, including
whatever is connected with the subject; not only
definitions of the musical technica, but reflexions,
discussions, criticism, history, and biography. The first
volume is printed, and does not finish the letter A. And
in _nine months’ hard labour_, I have not brought forth
two letters. I am more and more frightened every day at
the undertaking, so long after the usual allowance of
three score years and ten have expired. And the shortest
calculation for the termination of this work is still ten
years.”
And in his letters to West Hamble on the same subject, he mentions,
that to fulfil his engagement, he generally rises at five or six
o’clock every morning—! in his seventy-sixth year.
1802.
This year partook not of any lack of incident; it commenced during
the operation and incertitude of a public transaction so big, in its
consequences, with deep importance to the domestic life of Dr. Burney,
that it seems requisite for all that will follow, to enter into such
parts of its details as affected the Doctor’s feelings, through their
influence over those of his son-in-law, General d’Arblay. And it will
be done the more willingly, as it must involve an unpublished anecdote
or two of the marvellous character who, for a while, was the ruler of
nearly all Europe,—Napoleon Buonaparte.
At the period of the peace of Amiens, in the preceding year, the
Minister Plenipotentiary who was sent over by Buonaparte, then only
First Consul, to sign its preliminaries, chanced to be an artillery
officer, General de Lauriston, who had been _en garrison_, and in great
personal friendship, with General d’Arblay, during their mutual youth;
and with whom, as with all the _etat major_ of the regiment of Toul, a
connexion of warm esteem and intimacy had faithfully been kept alive,
till the dreadful catastrophe of the 10th of August dispersed every
officer who survived it, into the wanderings of emigration, or the
mystery of concealment.
When the name of Lauriston reached West Hamble, its obscured, but not
enervated Chief, rushed eagerly from his Hermitage to the Metropolis,
where he hastily wrote a few impressive lines to the new Minister
Plenipotentiary, briefly demanding whether or not, in his present
splendid situation, he would avow an old _Camarade_, whose life now was
principally spent in cultivating cabbages in his own garden, for his
own family and table?
Of this note he was fain to be his own bearer; and in some Hotel in, or
near St. James’s Street, he discovered the Minister’s abode.
Unaccoutred, dressed only in his common garden coat, and wearing
no military appendage, or mark of military rank, he found it very
difficult to gain admission into the hotel, even as a messenger; for
such, only, he called himself. The street was crowded so as to be
almost impassable, as it was known to the public, that the French
Minister was going forth to an audience for signing the preliminaries
of Peace with Lord Hawkesbury.[60]
But M. d’Arblay was not a man to be easily baffled. He resolutely
forced his way to the corridor leading to the Minister’s dressing
apartment. There, however, he was arbitrarily stopped; but would not
retire: and compelled the lacquey, who endeavoured to dismiss him, to
take, and to promise the immediate delivery of his note.
With a very wry face, and an indignant shrug, the lacquey almost
perforce complied; carefully, however, leaving another valet at the
outside of the door, to prevent further inroad.
M. de Lauriston was under the hands of his frizeur, and reading a
newspaper. But the gazette gave place to the billet, which, probably
recollecting the handwriting; he rapidly ran over, and then eagerly,
and in a voice of emotion, emphatically demanded who had been its
bearer?
A small ante-room alone separated him from its writer, who, hearing the
question, energetically called out: “_C’est Moi!_”
Up rose the Minister, who opened one door himself, as M. d’Arblay broke
through the other, and in the midst of the little ante-room, they
rushed into one another’s arms.
If M. d’Arblay was joyfully affected by this generous reception, M. de
Lauriston was yet more moved in embracing his early friend, whom report
had mingled with the slaughtered of the 10th of August.
The meeting, indeed, was so peculiar, from the high station of M. de
Lauriston; the superb equipage waiting at his door to carry him, for
the most popular of purposes, to an appointed audience with a British
minister; and the glare, the parade, the cost, the attendants, and the
attentions by which he was encompassed; contrasted with the worn, as
well as plain habiliments of the recluse of West Hamble, that it gave
a singularity to the equality of their manners to each other, and the
mutuality of the joy and affection of their embraces, that from first
exciting the astonishment, next moved the admiration of the domestics
of the Minister Plenipotentiary; and particularly of his frizeur, who,
probably, was his first valet-de-chambre; and who, while they were yet
in each other’s arms, exclaimed aloud, with that familiarity in which
the French indulge their favourite servants, “_Ma foi! voilà qui est
beau!_”
This characteristic freedom of approbation broke into the pathos of the
interview by causing a hearty laugh; and M. de Lauriston, who then had
not another instant to spare, cordially invited his recovered friend to
breakfast with him the next morning.
At that breakfast, M. de Lauriston recorded the circumstances that had
led to his present situation, with all the trust and openness of their
early intercourse. And sacred General d’Arblay held that confidence;
which should have sunk into oblivion, but for the after circumstances,
and present state of things, which render all that, then, was
prudentially secret, now desirably public.
No change, he said, of sentiment, no dereliction of principle, had
influenced his entering into the service of the republic. Personal
gratitude alone had brought about that event. Whilst fighting,
under the banners of Austria, against Buonaparte, in one of the
campaigns of Italy, he had been taken prisoner, with an Austrian
troop. His companions in arms were immediately conveyed to captivity,
there to stand the chances of confinement or exchange; but he, as a
Frenchman, had been singled out by the conquerors, and stigmatized
as a deserter, by the party into whose hands he had fallen, and who
condemned him to be instantly shot: though, as he had never served
Buonaparte, no laws of equity could brand as a traitor the man who had
but constantly adhered to his first allegiance. Buonaparte himself,
either struck by this idea; or with a desire to obtain a distinguished
officer of artillery, of which alone his army wanted a supply; felt
induced to start forward in person, to stop the execution at the very
instant it was going to take place. And, to save M. de Lauriston,
at the same time, from the ill-will or vengeance of the soldiers,
Buonaparte concealed him, till the troop by which he had been taken
was elsewhere occupied; conducting himself, in the meanwhile, with so
much consideration and kindness, that the gentle heart of Lauriston was
gained over by grateful feelings, and he accepted the post afterwards
offered to him of Aide-de-camp to the First Consul; with whom, in a
short time, he rose to so much trust and favour, as to become the
colleague of Duroc, as a chosen and military,—though not, as Duroc, a
confidential secretary.
Buonaparte, Lauriston said, had named him for this important embassy
to England from two motives: one of which was, that he thought such
a nomination might be agreeable to the English, as Lauriston, who
was great grand-son or grand-nephew to the famous Law, of South Sea
notoriety, was of British extraction; and the other was from personal
regard to Lauriston, that he might open a negociation, during his
mission, for the recovery of some part of his Scotch inheritance.
At this, and a subsequent breakfast with M. de Lauriston, M. d’Arblay
discussed the most probable means for claiming his _reforme_, or
half-pay, as some remuneration for his past services and deprivations.
And M. de Lauriston warmly undertook to carry a letter on this subject
to Buonaparte’s minister at war, Berthier; with whom, under Louis the
Sixteenth, M. d’Arblay had formerly transacted military business.
It was found, however, that nothing could be effected without the
presence of M. d’Arblay in France; and therefore, peace between the two
nations being signed, he deemed it right to set sail for the long-lost
land of his birth.
Immediately upon his arrival in Paris, a representation of his claims
was presented to the First Consul himself, accompanied with words of
kindliest interest in its success, by the faithful General de Lauriston.
Buonaparte inquired minutely into the merits of the case, and into the
military character of the claimant; and, having patiently heard the
first account, and eagerly interrogated upon the second, he paused a
few minutes, and then said: “Let him serve in the army, if only for one
year. Let him go to St. Domingo, and join Le Cler;[61] and, at the end
of the year, he shall be allowed to retire, with rank and promotion.”
This was the last purpose that had entered into the projects of M.
d’Arblay; yet, to a military spirit, jealous of his honour, and
passionately fond of his profession, it was a proposition impossible
to be declined. It was not to combat for Buonaparte, nor to fight
against his original allegiance: it was to bear arms in the current
cause of his country, in resisting the insurgents of St. Domingo,[62]
against whom he might equally have been employed by the Monarch[63] in
whose service he had risked, and through whose misfortunes he had lost
his all. He merely, therefore, stipulated to re-enter the army simply
as a volunteer; with an agreed permission to quit it at the close
of the campaign, whatever might be its issue: and he then accepted
from Berthier a commission for St. Domingo, which, in the republican
language adopted by Buonaparte on his first accession to dictatorial
power, was addressed to _le Citoyen_ General-in-Chief, Le Cler; and
which recommended to that General that _le Citoyen Darblay_ should be
employed as a distinguished artillery officer.
M. d’Arblay next obtained leave to come over to England to settle
his private affairs; to make innumerable purchases relative to the
expedition to St. Domingo; and to bid adieu to his wife and son.
1802.
Dr. Burney received him with open arms, but tearful eyes. He had too
much candour to misjudge the nature and the principles of a military
character, so as to censure his non-refusal of an offered restoration
to his profession, since, at that moment, the peace between the two
countries paralysed any possible movement in favour of the Royalists;
yet his grief at the circumstance, and his compassion for his dejected
daughter, gave a gloom to the transaction that was deeply depressing.
The purchases were soon made, for the re-instated man of arms sunk a
considerable sum to be expeditiously accoutred; after which, repelling
every drawback of internal reluctance, he was eager not to exceed his
furlough; and, pronouncing an agitated farewell, hurried back to Paris;
purposing thence to proceed to Brest, whence he was to embark for his
destination.
But, inexpressibly anxious not to be misunderstood, nor drawn into the
service of Buonaparte beyond the contracted engagement; the day before
he left London, M. d’Arblay, with a singleness of integrity that never
calculated consequences where he thought his honour and his interest
might pull different ways, determined to be unequivocally explicit, and
addressed, therefore, the following letter directly to Buonaparte:
“_Au Premier Consul._
“General,
“La generosité et la grandeur d’ame etant inseparables,
ce qui pourroit me perdre avec un autre, va être ma
saufegarde avec vous. Admirateur sincere du bien que
vous avez déja fait; animé par l’éspoir de celui qui
vous reste à faire; je veux et j’éspere me rendre digne
de la manière flatteuse dont vous venez de me traiter.
Je pars, et vous pouvez compter sur ma reconnoissance:
mais ce seroit vous en donner une preuve indigne de
vous que de me rendre coupable d’ingratitude envers un
autre. Enthousiaste de la liberté, je fas encore plus
ami de l’ordre; et restai jusqu’au dernier moment un des
serviteurs le plus fidele, et, j’ose le dire, le plus
energique, d’un monarque dont plus qu’un autre j’ai connu
le patriotisme et les vertus. Forcé de fuir, rien n’eut
pû me faire manquer au serment de ne jamais porter les
armes contre ma patrie; determiné de même de ne jamais
m’armer contre la patrie de mon epouse—contre le pays qui
pendant neuf ans nous a nourris. Je vous jure sur tout le
reste fidelité et devouement.
“Salut et respect,
“ALEXANDRE DARBLAY.”
This letter he hurried off by an official express, through Buonaparte’s
then minister here, M. Otto; who, after reading, forwarded it under
cover to Le Citoyen Ministre de la Guerre, Berthier; to whom, as a
former military friend, M. d’Arblay recommended its delivery to Le
Premier Consul.[64] This done, M. d’Arblay pursued his own route.
A frightful chasm of all intelligence to Dr. Burney ensued after this
critical departure of M. d’Arblay; no tidings came over of his arrival
at Brest, his embarkation, or even of his safety, after crossing the
channel in the remarkably tempestuous month of February, in 1802.
The causes of this mysterious silence would be too circumstantial for
these Memoirs, to which it belongs only to state their result. The
First Consul, upon reading the letter of M. d’Arblay, immediately
withdrew his military commission; and Berthier, in an official reply,
desired that _le Citoyen Darblay_ would consider that commission, and
the letter to General Le Cler, as _non avenues_.
Berthier, nevertheless, in the document which annulled the St. Domingo
commission, and which must have been written by the personal command of
Buonaparte, since it was in answer to a letter that had been directed
immediately to himself, calmly, and without rancour, harshness, or
satire, developed the reason of the recall, in simply saying, that
since _le Citoyen Darblay_ would not bear arms against the country of
his wife, which might always, eventually, bear arms against France, he
could not be engaged in the service of the Republic.
Buonaparte, stimulated, it is probable, by M. de Lauriston’s account of
the frank and honourable character of M. d’Arblay, contented himself
with this simple annulling act; without embittering it by any stigma,
or demonstrating any suspicious resentment.
This event, as has been hinted, produced important consequences to Dr.
Burney; consequences the most ungenial to his parental affections;
though happily, at that period, not foreseen in their melancholy
extent, of a ten years’ complete and desperate separation from his
daughter d’Arblay.
Unsuspicious, therefore, of that appendent effect of the letter of M.
d’Arblay to Buonaparte, the satisfaction of Dr. Burney, at this first
moment, that no son-in-law of his would bear arms, through any means,
however innocent, and with any intentions, however pure, under the
banners of Buonaparte, largely contributed to make the unexpected
tidings of this sudden change of situation an epoch of ecstacy, rather
than of joy; of adoration, rather than of thankfulness, to his Hermit
daughter.
But far different were the sensations to which this turn of affairs
gave birth in M. d’Arblay. Consternation seems too tame a word for
the bewildered confusion of his feelings, at so abrupt a breaking up
of an enterprise, which, though unsolicited and unwished for in its
origin, had by degrees, from its recurrence to early habits, become
glowingly animated to his ideas and his prospects. Buonaparte had not
then blackened his glory by the seizure and sacrifice of the Comte
d’Enghein; and M. d’Arblay, in common with several other admirers of
the military fame of the First Consul, had conceived a hope, to which
he meant honestly to allude in his letter, that the final campaign
of that great warrior, would be a voluntary imitation of the final
campaign of General Monk.
Little, therefore, as he had intended to constitute Buonaparte, in
any way, as his chief, a breach such as this in his own professional
career, nearly mastered his faculties with excess of perturbation.
To seem dismissed the service!—he could not brook the idea; he was
confounded by his own position.
He applied to a generous friend,[65] high in military reputation, to
represent his disturbance to the First Consul.
Buonaparte consented to grant an audience on the subject; but almost
instantly interrupted the application, by saying, with vivacity, “I
know that business! However, let him be tranquil. It shall not hurt him
any further. There was a time I might have been capable of acting so
myself!—”
And then, after a little pause, and with a look somewhat ironical, but
by no means ill-humoured or unpleasant, he added: “_Il m’a écrit un
diable de lettre!_”—He stopt again, after which, with a smile half
gay, half cynical, he said: “However, I ought only to regard in it the
husband of Cecilia;” and then abruptly he broke up the conference.
Of the _author_ of Cecilia, of course, he meant.
This certainly was a trait of candour and liberality worthy of a
more gentle mind; and which, till the ever unpardonable massacre of
the Duke d’Enghein, softened, in some measure, the endurance of the
compulsatory stay in France that afterwards ensued to M. d’Arblay.
1802.
Dr. Burney, meanwhile, from the time that the St. Domingo commission
was annulled, was in daily expectation of the return of his son-in-law,
and the re-establishment of the little cottage of West Hamble:—but
mournfully, alas, was he disappointed! The painful news arrived from M.
d’Arblay, that, from the strangeness of the circumstances in which he
was involved, he could not quit France without seeming to have gained
his wish in losing his appointment. He determined, therefore, to remain
a twelvemonth in Paris, to shew himself at hand in case of any change
of orders. And he desired, of course, to be joined there by his wife
and son.
M. d’Arblay, however, wrote to that wife, to Dr. Burney, and to his
dearly reverenced friend, Mr. Locke, the most comforting assurance,
that, one single year revolved, he would return, with his little
family, to the unambitious enjoyment of friendship, repose, and West
Hamble.
By no means gaily did Dr. Burney receive the account of this
arrangement. Gloomy forebodings clouded his brow; though his daughter,
exalted by joy and thankfulness that the pestilential climate of St.
Domingo was relinquished; and happily persuaded that another year would
re-unite her with her honoured father, her brethren, and friends,
assented with alacrity to the scheme. Almost immediately, therefore,
it took place; though not before the loyal heart of Dr. Burney had
the soothing consolation of finding, that the step she was taking was
honoured with the entire approbation of her benevolent late Royal
Mistress; who openly held that to follow the fortune of the man to whom
she had given her hand, was now her first duty in life.
And something of pleasure mixed itself with his parental cares, and a
little mitigated the severity of his concern at this event, when the
Doctor heard that she was not only admitted by that most gracious Queen
to a long and flattering farewell audience; and to the high honour of
separate parting interviews with each of the Princesses; but also to
the unspeakable delight of being graciously detained in her Majesty’s
white closet till the arrival there, from some review, of the benign
King himself; who deigned, with his never-failing benevolence, to
vouchsafe to her some inappreciable minutes of his favouring and
heart-touching notice: while the Queen, with conscious pleasure at the
happiness which she had thus accorded to her, smilingly said, “You did
not expect this, Madame d’Arblay.”
With this high honour and goodness exhilarated, her spirits rose to
their task; with the support of hope, she parted from her family
and friends; with the resolution of remembering the escape from St.
Domingo, should she be pursued by any misfortune, she quitted her loved
cottage; and even from her thrice-dear father she separated without
participating in his alarm, while seeking to dissipate it by her own
brighter views.
Yet moved was she to her heart’s core when, on the evening preceding
her departure, which took place after a long sojourn at Chelsea
College, he suddenly broke from her, as if to stir the fire; but
pronounced, in a voice that shewed he merely sought to hide his
emotion, his fears, nay belief, that M. d’Arblay, though twice he had
returned with speed from Paris when he had visited it alone, would
probably be tempted to lengthen, if not fix his abode there, when the
chief ties to his adopted country became a part of that of his birth.
Nevertheless, even this apprehension, such was her faith in the sacred
influence of Camilla Cottage over the mind of her partner in life,
she courageously parried, though impressively she felt; and at the
leave-taking moment, she was happily able to cheer the presentiments of
the Doctor, by the lively sincerity of the feelings that cheered her
own.
One point only combatted her courage, and was too potent for her
resistance; she could not utter an adieu to her matchless friend, Mr.
Locke!—his frame had always seemed to her as fragile as his virtues
were adamantine; and the tender partiality with which he had ever met
her reverential attachment, made his voice so meltingly affecting to
her, that she feared lest her own should betray how little she already
thought him of this world! she cheerfully bade adieu to her father, her
family, and her friends—but she retreated without uttering a farewell
to Mr. Locke,—whom, alas! she never saw more!
* * * * *
No further narrative, of which the detail can be personal or reciprocal
with the Editor, can now be given of Dr. Burney. What follows will be
collected from fragments of memoirs, and innumerable memorandums in
his own handwriting; from his letters, and those of his family and
friends; and from various accidental, incidental, and miscellaneous
circumstances.
Yet, at the period of this separation, the Memorialist had the
solace to know, that many as were the ties already dissolved of his
early affections; numerous the links already broken of his maturer
attachments; and wholly incalculable the mass of losses or changes in
the current objects of pursuit that, from year to year, had eluded his
grasp, flown from his hopes, or betrayed his expectations; he still
possessed a host of consolers and revivers, added to what yet remained
of his truly attached family, who strove, with equal fidelity and
vivacity, to lighten and brighten the years yet lent to their friendly
efforts.
At the head of this honourable list, and, for Dr. Burney, of every
other, since the loss of Mr. Crisp and Mr. Bewley, would have risen Mr.
Twining, had his society been attainable: but Mr. Twining was so seldom
in London, that their meetings became as rare as they were precious.
His correspondence however, still maintained its pre-eminence; and
it is hardly too much to say, that the letters of Mr. Twining were
received with a brighter welcome than the visits of almost any other
person.
First, therefore, now, in positive, prevailing, and graceful activity
of zeal to serve him in his own way, and furnish food to his ideas,
with temptation to his spirits and humour for its welcome, must be
placed his ever faithful and generous friend, and, by proxy, his
god-child, Mrs. Crewe; who prized him equally as a counsellor and a
companion.
Far different from all that belongs to this lady are the records that
further unfold his broken intercourse with Mr. Greville; and most
painful to him was it to turn from the fairness of right reason, and
the steadfastness of constancy, which were unvaryingly manifested in
the attachment of Mrs. Crewe, to the wayward character, and irrational
claims of his erst first patron and friend, her father; who, emerging,
nevertheless, from the apathetic gloom into which he had fallen on the
first public breaking up of his establishment, had started a spirited
resolution to hit upon a new, unknown, unheard-of walk in life, to give
recruit to his fortune, and lustre to his name.
Eagerly he looked around for some striking object that might fix him to
a point; but all was chaos to the disturbed glare of his ill-directed
vision. His internal resources were too diffuse and unsystematized,
to fit him for being the chief of any new enterprise; yet, to be an
agent, a deputy, a second, he thought more intolerable than danger,
distress, debt, difficulty, nay, destruction.
Sick, then, at heart, and self-abandoned for every purpose of active
life, partly from despair, partly from ostentation, he plunged all he
could yet command of faculty into the study of metaphysics; a study
which, from his nervous irritability, soon made all commerce with his
friends become impracticable rather than difficult.
1802.
The Memorialist had the comfort, however, to leave the Doctor always
eagerly solicited to the society, or honoured with the correspondence
of the noble Marquis of Aylesbury, and the liberal Earl of Lonsdale,
inclusively with their singularly amiable families: and sought equally
by the all-accomplished Dowager Lady Templeton, by Lady Manvers, Lady
Mary Duncan, Mrs. Garrick, the Marchioness of Thomond, Mrs. Ord, Lord
Cardigan, Mr. Coxe, Mr. Pepys, the still celebrated, though fading
away Mrs. Montagu, the sagacious and polished Mrs. Boscawen, and the
inimitable Lockes.
And while, in general friendship, such was the nourishment for his
gratitude—that feeling which, when not the most oppressive, is the
most delightful in human associations—his love of literature, science,
and the arts, had food equally nutritive with Mr. Malone, from his
spirit of research after facts, incidents, and all the shades and
shadows of the great or marked characters that, erst, had been objects
of renown.
With Mr. Courtney, though utterly dissimilar in politics, for his wit,
sense, and general agreeability.
With Mr. Rogers, for the coincident elegance and philanthropy of his
disposition with his poetry.
With Sir George Beaumont, from a vivid sympathy of taste in all the
arts.
With Mr. Windham, from a union the most perfect in sentiment, in
principles, and in literature.
And by the President of the Royal Society, Sir Joseph Bankes, the
Doctor, from his own universal thirst of knowledge, and uncommon
capacity for receiving, retaining, and naturalizing its gifts, was
welcomed on public days as a worthy brother of the learned and
studious; and in the hours of private conviviality was courted yet more
from the gaiety of his humour and the entertainment of his anecdotes;
Sir Joseph, when unbent from the state of Newton’s chair, being ever
merrily charmed to reciprocate sportive nonsense; various remnants
of which, laughingly amusing, but too ludicrous from the President
of a scientific society for the press, are amongst the posthumous
collections of the Doctor.
With all these his social hilarity was in constant circulation, kept
alive by their kindness, and invigorated by their plaudits; which
rendered such commerce as medicinal to his health as to his pleasure,
from its sane and active spur to what constitutes the happiest portion
of our mundane composition, animal spirits.
But the intercourse the most delighting to his fancy and his feelings,
was through an increase of attachment for Lady Clarges. Yet melancholy
was the cause of this augmented sympathy; melancholy then, and
afterwards mournful. To the pleasing view of the personal likeness to
his Susanna which had first endeared Lady Clarges to his sight; to the
soothing sensations excited by those vocal notes in which a similarity
of sound was so grateful to his ears, was now superadded another
resemblance, as far more touching as it was less exhilarating; the
health of Lady Clarges, never robust, was now in apparent, though not
yet alarming, decline. This, altogether, occasioned a tender interest
that clung to the breast of the Doctor, first with added regard, and
afterwards with suffering solicitude.
In all, however, that was most efficient in good, most solid, most
serious, most essential in comfort as well as elegance, the noble
kindness of the Duke of Portland took the lead. His magnificent
hospitality was nearly without parallel. The select invitations upon
select occasions to Burlington House, with which his favour to the
Doctor had begun, were succeeded by general ones for all times and all
seasons; and with injunctions that the Doctor would choose his own
days, and adjust their frequency completely by his own convenience.
This _carte blanche_ of admission at will was next extended from
Burlington House to Bulstrode Park; where he was found so agreeable
by the noble host, and so pleasing to the noble family, that, in a
short time, the Duke urged him to take possession of an appropriated
apartment, and to consider himself to be completely at home in that
sumptuous dwelling; where he had his mornings with undisturbed
liberty, wholly at his own disposal; where he even dined, according
to the state of his health and spirits, at the Duke’s table, or in
his own parlour; and where, though welcomed in any part of the day
to every part of the house, he was never troubled with any inquiry
for non-appearance, except at the evening’s assemblage; though not
unfrequently the Duke made him personal visits of such affectionate
freedom, as signally to endear to him this splendid habitation.
So impressive, indeed, was the regard of his Grace for Dr. Burney, and
so animated was the gratitude of its return, that the enjoyments of
Bulstrode Park, with all their refined luxuries, and their cultivated
scenery, soon became less than secondary; they were nearly as nothing
in the calculation of the Doctor, compared with what he experienced
from the cordial conversation and kindness of the Duke.
Such, added to his family circle, were the auspices under which, to her
great consolation, his daughter d’Arblay left Dr. Burney in April, 1802.
1802.
Dr. Burney, upon the arrival in France of his daughter d’Arblay,
for the stated year, opened with her a continental correspondence,
prudent, i.e. silent, in regard to politics; but communicative and
satisfactory on family affairs and interests; which, on her part,
was sustained by all the trust that, at such times, and from such a
quarter, could be hazarded. She knew the passing pleasure, at least,
with which he would read all that she could venture to write on the
new scenes now before her; which were replete with objects, prospects,
and ideas to give occupation to Conjecture and Expectation, of more
vivacity and mental movement than had been offered to the thought of
man for many preceding ages.
And, as her filial letters, from the influence of Mrs. Crewe with
Mr. Pelham,[66] passed through the hands of Mr. Merry, the English
Minister, she freely related various personal occurrences; though she
abstained, of course, from any risk of betraying to the police, through
a surprised correspondence, her private opinions, or secret feelings
upon the vast new theatre of civil, political, and martial manoeuvres
of which she now became, in some measure, a spectatress. Whatever
looked Forward, or looked Backward, at that critical juncture, was
dangerous for the Pen: to be acquiescent with what was Present alone
was safety.
Dr. Burney, upon this separation, redoubled the vigilance of his
self-exertions for turning to account every moment of his existence.
And his spirits appeared to be equal to every demand upon their
efforts. In his first letter to Paris, May 20, 1802, he says:
“I hope, now, the two nations will heartily shake hands,
and not be quiet only themselves, but keep the rest
of the world quiet. My hurries are such at present,
as to oblige me to draw deeper than ever upon my
sinking-fund.[67] Business, and more numerous engagements
than I have ever yet had, swallow all my time; and this
enormous Cyclopedia fills up all my thoughts. I have been
long an A.B.C. derian; and now am become so for life.”
In another letter of the same year, written a few months later, the
Cyclopedia is no longer proclaimed to be the principal, but the
exclusive occupation of the Doctor. The indefatigable eagerness of its
pursuit, will best appear from his own account:
“_July 1st, 1802._—I have this day taken leave, for this
year, of my town business, which broke into three precious
mornings of my week, shivered the lord knows how many links of
the chain of my Cyclopedia, and lost me even the interval of
time from the trouble of collecting the broken fragments of my
materials, and re-putting them together.
“In order to form some idea of the total absorption of my
present life, by this Herculean labour, added to my usual
hurricanes during the town season, a delightful letter of
Twining himself, which I received some weeks ago, remains
unanswered! I had a mind to see what I could really do in
twelve months, by driving the quill at every possible moment
that I could steal from business or repose, by day and by
night, in bed and up; and, with all this stir and toil, I
have found it impracticable to finish three letters of the
alphabet!”
* * * * *
How fortunate—may it not be said how benign?—was the invisibility to
coming events at the parental and filial moment of the late separation!
an invisibility that spared from fruitless disturbance the greater part
of that promised year that was to have ended with the balm of re-union,
by hiding the fresh proof with which it was labouring to manifest the
never-ending, yet never-awaited imperfection and fallacy of human
arrangements.
But grievous, however procrastinated, was the light that too soon
broke into that invisibility, when, almost at the moment of happy
expectation, Dr. Burney had the shock of hearing that war was again
declared with France! And dire, most dire and afflicting to his
daughter, was the similar information, of learning that Buonaparte had
peremptorily ordered Lord Whitworth to quit Paris in a specified number
of hours: and that a brief term was dictatorially fixed for either
following that Ambassador, or immoveably remaining in France till the
contest should be over.
The very peculiar position, in a military point of view, in which
M. d’Arblay now stood in his native country, made it impossible for
him to leave it, at so critical a juncture, in the hurried manner
that the imperious decree of the French Dictator commanded. It might
seem deserting his post! He felt, therefore, compelled, by claims
of professional observance, to abide the uncertain storm where its
first thunder rolled; and to risk, at its centre, the hazards of its
circulation, and the chances of its course.
The unhappiness caused by this decision was wholly unmixed with murmurs
from Dr. Burney, whose justice and candour acknowledged it, in such a
situation, to be indispensable.
* * * * *
War thus again broken forth, few and concise were the lines, not
letters, that kept up any correspondence between Dr. Burney and Paris;
passing unsealed when they came by the post; and even undirected, as
accidental papers, when they were intrusted to private hands: so great
was the dread in this English Memorialist of raising in the French
Government any suspicion of cabal or conspiracy, by any sort of written
intercourse with England.[68]
Nothing, therefore, at this time, can be drawn for these Memoirs from
the letters of Dr. Burney: and every article or paragraph for the next
two or three years, will be copied, or abridged, from the Doctor’s
posthumous manuscripts.
1803.
In 1803, one short record alone has been found. That he wrote no more
journal-anecdotes that year, may be chiefly attributed to his then
intense application to the Cyclopedia. Perhaps, also, his spirits
for his Diary might be depressed by so abrupt a privation of another
daughter; not, indeed, by the hand of death, yet by a species of exile
that had no certain or visible term.
The following is the single record of 1803 above-mentioned:
“Beethoven’s compositions for the piano-forte were first
brought to England by Miss Tate, a most accomplished
_dilletante_ singer and player. I soon afterwards heard
some of his instrumental works, which are such as incline
me to rank him amongst the first musical authors of the
present century. He was a disciple of Mozart, and is now
but three or four and twenty years of age.”
1804 turned out far more copious in events and recitals; though
saddening, however philosophical and consonant to the common laws of
nature, are the reflections and avowals of Dr. Burney upon his this
year’s birth-day.
1804.
_From the Doctor’s Journal._
“In 1804, in the month of April, I completed my 78th
year, and decided to relinquish teaching and my musical
patients; for both my ears and my eyes were beginning
to fail me. I could still hear the most minute musical
tone; but in conversation I lost the articulation, and
was forced to make people at the least distance from me
repeat everything that they said. Sometimes the mere
tone of voice, and the countenance of the speaker, told
me whether I was to smile or to frown; but never so
explicitly as to allow me to venture at any reply to what
was said! Yet I never, seemingly, have been more _in
fashion_ at any period of my life than this spring; never
invited to more conversaziones, assemblées, dinners, and
concerts. But I feel myself less and less able to bear a
part in general conversation every day, from the failure
of memory, particularly in names; and I am become fearful
of beginning any story that occurs to me, lest I should
be stopped short by hunting for Mr. How d’ye call him’s
style and titles.
“I was very near-sighted from about my 30th year; but
though it is usually thought that that sort of sight
improves with age, I have not discovered that the notion
was well founded. My sight became not only more short,
but more feeble. Instead of a concave glass, I was
forced to have recourse to one that was convex, and that
magnified highly, for pale ink and small types.”
* * * * *
The Editor must here remark, that Dr. Burney never required the convex
glass of which he speaks, for the perusal of either printed or written
characters, except when they were presented to him at a distance. He
read to his very last days every book and every letter that he could
hold near to his eyes, without any species of spectacles.
* * * * *
“_30th April._ I finished this month by a cordial
domestic dinner at Mr. Crewe’s; where, in the evening,
was held the ambulatory ladies’ concert.”
In the month of the following May, a similar ebullition of political
rancour with that which so difficultly had been conquered for Mr.
Canning, foamed over the ballot box of the Literary Club to the
exclusion of Mr. Rogers; by whom it was the less deserved, from its
contrast to that poet’s own widely opposite liberality, in never
suffering political opinions to shut out, either from his hospitality
or his friendship, those who invite them by congenial sentiments on
other points.
The ensuing page is copied from Dr. Burney’s own manuscript
observations upon this occurrence:
“_May 1st._ I was at the Club, at which Rogers, put up
by Courtney, and seconded by me, was ballotted for, and
blackballed; I believe on account of his politics. There
can, indeed, be nothing else against him. He is a good
poet, has a refined taste in all the arts; has a select
library of the best editions of the best authors in most
languages; has very fine pictures; very fine drawings;
and the finest collection I ever saw of the best Etruscan
vases; and, moreover, he gives the best dinners to
the best company of men of talents and genius of any
man I know; the best served, and with the best wines,
_liqueurs_, &c. He is not fond of talking politics, for
he is no _Jacobin-enragé_, though I believe him to be a
principled republican, and therefore in high favour with
Mr. Fox and his adherents. But he is never obtrusive; and
neither shuns nor dislikes a man for being of a different
political creed to himself: it is therefore, that he
and I, however we may dissent upon that point, concur
so completely on almost every other, that we always
meet with pleasure. And, in fact, he is much esteemed
by many persons belonging to the government, and about
the court. His books of prints of the greatest engravers
from the greatest masters, in history, architecture,
and antiquities, are of the first class. His house in
St. James’s Place, looking into the Green Park, is
deliciously situated, and furnished with great taste. He
seemed very desirous of being elected a member of the
club, to which, in fact, his talents would have done
honour; few men are more fitted to contribute to its
entertainment.”
The Doctor, long afterwards, in talking over this anecdote, said:
“There is no accounting for such gross injustice in the
club; except by acknowledging that there are demagogues
amongst them who enjoy as the highest privilege of an old
member, the power of excluding, with or without reason, a
new one.”
In the same month Dr. Burney had the professional gratification of
receiving a perpetual ticket of admission to the Concerts of Ancient
Music, enclosed in the following letter from the Earl of Dartmouth:
“_Berkeley Square,_ _May 27th._
“Lord Dartmouth is happy to have it in charge from his
brother-Directors of the Ancient Concerts, to present the
enclosed General Ticket to Dr. Burney; and to beg his
acceptance of it as a token of their sense of his merits
in the cause of Music; and especially that part of it
which is more immediately the object of their attention:
as well as of the respect in which they all hold his
person and character.”
A copy of his thanks remains, written in a very fair hand, and on the
same day:
“_To the Right Honourable the Earl of Dartmouth, Lord
Chamberlain of His Majesty’s Household, and one of the
Directors of the Concerts of Ancient Music._
“Dr. Burney presents his most humble respects to the Earl
of Dartmouth, and to the rest of the Right Honourable
and Honourable Directors of the Concerts of Ancient
Music; and feels himself flattered beyond his powers of
expression, with the liberal testimony of the esteem
and approbation with which he has been honoured by the
illustrious Patrons of an Establishment at the formation
of which he had the honour to be present; and for its
prosperity constantly zealous.
“So uncommon and unexpected a token of approbation of his
exertions in the cultivation and cause of an art which
he has long laboured, and still labours to improve, as
well as to record its progress, and the talents of its
Professors, from the time of Orpheus to that of Handel;
will gild his latter days, and generate a flattering hope
that his diligence and perseverance have been regarded in
a more favourable light than, in his vainest moments, he
had ever dared to hope or imagine.
“_Chelsea College,_ _27th May, 1804._”
* * * * *
Here stop all journals, all notes, all memorandums of Dr. Burney for
the rest of this year. Not another word remains bearing its date.
The severest tax upon longevity that, apart from his parental
ties, could be inflicted, was levied upon him at this time, by the
heart-harrowing stroke of the death of Mr. Twining.
It was not merely now, in the full tide of sorrow, that Dr. Burney
could neither speak nor write upon the loss of this last-elected
bosom friend; it was a subject from which he shrunk ever after, both
in conversation and by letter: it was a grief too concentrated for
complaint: it demanded not a vent by which, with time, it might be
solaced; but a crush by which, though only morbidly, it might be
subdued: religion and philosophy might then lead, conjointly, to calm
endurance.
And not alone, though from superior sorrow aloft, stood this
deprivation. It was followed by other strokes of similar fatality,
each of which, but for this pre-eminent calamity, would have proved of
tragic effect: for he had successively to mourn, First, the favourite
the most highly prized by his deplored early partner, as well as by her
successor; and who came nearest to his own feelings from the tender
ties in which she had been entwined—Dolly Young; for so, to the last
hour, she was called by those who had early known and loved her, from a
certain caressing pleasure annexed to that youthful appellation, that
seemed in unison with the genuine simplicity of her character.
Second, Mr. Coxe, the oldest and most attached of his associates from
early life.
Third, Lord Macartney, a far newer connexion, but one whose lively
intelligence, and generous kindness, cut off all necessity for the
usual routine of time to fasten attachment. And with Lord Macartney,
from the retired life which his Lordship generally led after his
embassy to China, the Doctor’s intercourse had become more than ever
amical. This, therefore, was a loss to his spirits and exertions, as
well as to his affections, which he felt with strong regret.
Fourth, that distinguished lady whose solid worth and faithful
friendship compensated for manners the most uncouth, and language the
most unpolished,—Lady Mary Duncan.
Fifth, the celebrated Elizabeth Carter; in whom he missed an admiring
as well as an admired friend, the honour of whose attachment both for
him and for his daughter, is recorded by her nephew, Mr. Pennington, in
her Memoirs.
The Doctor truly revered in Mrs. Carter the rare union of humility with
learning, and of piety with cheerfulness. He frequently, and always
with pleasure, conveyed her to or from her home, when they visited the
same parties; and always enjoyed those opportunities in comparing notes
with her, on such topics as were not light enough for the large or
mixed companies which they were just seeking, or had just left: topics,
however, which they always treated with simplicity; for Mrs. Carter,
though natively more serious, and habitually more studious than Dr.
Burney, was as free from pedantry as himself.
By temperance of life and conduct, activity of body, and equanimity of
mind, she nearly reached her 90th year in such health and strength as
to be able to make morning calls upon her favourite friends, without
carriage, companion, or servant. And with all her modest humility upon
her personal acquirements, she had a dignified pride of independence,
that invested her with the good sense to feel rather exalted than
ashamed, at owing her powers of going forth to her own unaided
self-exertion.
And Sixth, the man who, once the most accomplished of his race, had
for half his life loved the Doctor with even passionate regard—Mr.
Greville.
All these sad, and truly saddening catastrophes were unknown, in their
succession, to the Memorialist; whom they only reached in the aggregate
of their loss, when, after a long, unexplained, and ill-boding silence,
Dr. Burney imposed upon himself the hard task of announcing the
irremediable affliction he had sustained through these reiterated and
awful visitations of death. And then, to spare his worn and harassed
sensibility any development of his feelings, he thus summed up the
melancholy list in one short paragraph:
“Time,” he says, “has made sad havoc amongst my dearest
friends of late——Twining!——Dolly Young; Mr. Coxe; Lord
Macartney; Lady Mary Duncan;—poor Elizabeth Carter a few
months ago;—Mr. Greville only a few weeks!”
And, kindly, then to lighten the grief he knew he must inflict by a
catalogue that included Mr. Twining and Dolly Young, he hastens to add:
“Mr., Mrs., and Miss[69] Locke, however; Mrs. Angerstein;
Mrs. Crewe; Miss Cambridge; Mrs. Garrick; Lady
Templetown; Lady Keith, _ci-devant_ Miss Thrale; the
Marchioness of Thomond, _ci-devant_ Miss Palmer; Mrs.
Waddington; and many more of your most faithful votaries,
still live, and never see me without urgent inquiries
after you. Your dear Mrs. Locke, who has had a dreadful
fit of illness, and losses enough to break so tender a
heart, is perfectly recovered at last; and, I am told, is
as well, and as sweet and endearing a character to her
friends as ever.”
He then permits himself to go back to one parting phrase:
“But though, in spite of age and infirmities, I have
lately more than doubled the number of friends I have
lost—the niches of those above-mentioned can never be
filled!”
From this time he reverted to them no more.
Of his ancient and long-attached friend, Mr. Greville, little and
merely melancholy is what now can be added. His death was rather a
shock than a loss; but it considerably disturbed the Doctor. Mr.
Greville had gone on in his metaphysical career, fatiguing his spirits,
harassing his understanding, and consuming the time of his friends
nearly as much as his own, till, one by one, each of them eluded him as
a foe. How could it be otherwise, when the least dissonance upon any
point upon which he opened a controversial disquisition, so disordered
his nervous system, that he could take no rest till he had re-stated
all his arguments in an elaborate, and commonly sarcastic epistle?
which necessarily provoked a paper war, so prolific of dispute, that,
if the adversary had not regularly broken up the correspondence after
the first week or two, it must have terminated by consuming the stores
of every stationer in London.
His wrath upon such desertions was too scornful for any appeal. Yet so
powerful was still the remembrance of his brilliant opening into life,
and of his many fine qualities, that his loss to society was never
mentioned without regret, either by those who abandoned him, or by
those whom he discarded.
Dr. Burney was one of the last, from the peculiarity of their
intercourse, to have given it up, had it not been, he declared,
necessary to have had two lives for sustaining it without hostility;
one of them for himself, his family, and his life’s purposes; the
other wholly for Mr. Greville;—who never could be content with any
competition against his personal claims to the monopoly of the time and
the thoughts of his friends.
Yet whatever may have disturbed, nothing seems to have shortened his
existence, since, though nearly alienated from his family, estranged
from his connexions, and morbidly at war with the world, the closing
scene of all his gaieties and all his failures, did not shut in till
some time after his 90th year.
* * * * *
Lady Mary Duncan bequeathed to Dr. Burney the whole of her great and
curious collection of Music, printed and manuscript, with £600.