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.