A reluctant, however eagerly sought parting then abruptly took place in
the faubourg, or suburbs of Paris; and, after various other, but minor
difficulties, and a detention of six weeks at Dunkirk, the mother and
the son reached the long-lost land of their desires.
It was at Deal they were disembarked, where their American vessel,
the Marianne, was immediately captured; though they, as English, were
of course set at liberty; and, to their first ecstacy in touching
British ground, they had the added delight of being almost instantly
recognized by the lady[90] of the commander of the port; and the honour
of taking their first British repast at the hospitable table of the
commander himself.[91]
After a separation so bordering upon banishment, from a parent so loved
and so aged, some preparation seemed requisite, previous to a meeting,
to avoid risking a surprise that might mar all its happiness. At Deal,
therefore, and under this delectable protection, they remained three
or four days, to give time for the passage of letters to Dr. Burney;
first, to let him know their hopes of revisiting England, of which they
had had no power to give him any intimation; and next, to announce
their approach to his honoured presence.
Fully, therefore, they were expected, when, on the evening of the 20th
of August, 1812, they alighted at the apartment of Dr. Burney, at
Chelsea College, which they had quitted in the beginning of April, 1802.
The joy of this Memorialist at the arrival of this long sighed-for
moment, was almost disorder; she knew none of the servants, though
they were the same that she had left; she could not recollect whether
the apartment to which she was hurrying was on the ground door or the
attic, the Doctor having inhabited both; her head was confused; her
feelings were intense; her heart almost swelled from her bosom.
And so well was her kind parent aware of the throbbing sensations
with which an instant yearned for so eagerly, and despaired of so
frequently, would fill her whole being—would take possession of
all its faculties, that he almost feared the excess of her emotion;
and, while repeatedly, in the course of the day, he exclaimed, in
the hearing of his housekeeper: “Shall I live to see her honest face
again?”[92] he had the precaution, kindly, almost comically, to give
orders to his immediate attendants, Rebecca and George, to move all the
chairs and tables close to the wall; and to see that nothing whatsoever
should remain between the door and his sofa, which stood at the farther
end of a large room, that could interfere with her rapid approach.
And, indeed, the ecstatic delight with which she sprang to his arms,
was utterly indescribable. It was a rush that nothing could have
checked; a joy quite speechless—an emotion almost overwhelming!
But, alas! the joy quickly abated, though the emotion long
remained!—remained when bereft of its gay transport, to be worked upon
only by grief.
The total dearth of familiar intercourse between Paris and London had
kept all detailed family accounts so completely out of view, that she
returned to her parental home without the smallest suspicion of the
melancholy change she was to witness; and though she did not, and
could not expect, that ten years should have passed by unmarked in his
physiognomy—still there is nothing we so little paint to ourselves
at a distance, as the phenomenon of the living metamorphoses that we
are destined to exhibit, one to another, upon re-unions after long
absences. When, therefore, she became calm enough to look at the
honoured figure before which she stood, what a revulsion was produced
in her mind!
She had left him, cheerful and cheering; communicating knowledge,
imparting ideas; the delight of every house that he entered.
She had left him, with his elegantly formed person still unbroken
by his years; his face still susceptible of manifesting the varying
associations of his vivid character; his motions alert; his voice clear
and pleasing; his spirits, when called forth by social enjoyment, gay,
animating, and inspiring animation.
She found him—alas! how altered! in looks, strength, complexion,
voice, and spirits!
But that which was most affecting was the change in his carriage and
person: his revered head was not merely by age and weakness bowed
down; it was completely bent, and hung helplessly upon his breast; his
voice, though still distinct, sunk almost to a whisper: his feeble
frame reclined upon a sofa; his air and look forlorn; and his whole
appearance manifesting a species of self-desertion.
His eyes, indeed, still kept a considerable portion of their native
spirit; they were large, and, from his thinness, looked more prominent
than ever; and they exhibited a strong, nay, eloquent power of
expression, which still could graduate from pathos to gaiety; and from
investigating intelligence to playful archness; with energies truly
wonderful, because beyond, rather than within, their original force;
though every other feature marked the wither of decay! but, at this
moment, from conscious alteration, their disturbed look depicted
only dejection or inquiry; dejection, that mournfully said: “How am I
changed since we parted!” or inquiry, anxiously demanding: “Do you not
perceive it?”
This melancholy, though mute interrogatory with which his “asking eye
explored her secret thoughts,” quickly impelled her to stifle her
dismay under an apparent disorder of general perturbation: and, when
his apprehension of the shock which he might cause, and the shock which
the sight of its impression might bring back to him, was abated, a
gentle smile began to find its way through the earnestness of his brow,
and to restore to him his serene air of native benignity: while, on her
part, the more severely she perceived his change, the more grateful
she felt to the Providence that had propitiated her return, ere that
change,—still changed on!—should have become, to her, invisible.
In consequence of her letters from Deal, he had prepared for her and
his Grandson, whose sight he most kindly hailed, apartments near his
own: and he had charged all his family to abstain from breaking in upon
this their first interview.
The turbulence of this trying scene once past, the rest of the evening
glided on so smoothly, yet so rapidly, that when the closing night
forced their reluctant separation, they almost felt as if they had but
recognized one another in a dream.
The next morning, the next, and the next, as soon as he could be
visible, they met again; and for some short and happy, though, from
another absence, most anxious weeks, she delightedly devoted to him
every moment he could accept.
The obscurity of the brief and ambiguous letters that rarely and
irregularly had passed between them, had left subjects for discussion
so innumerable, and so entangled, that they almost seemed to demand a
new life for reciprocating.
Endless, indeed, were the histories they had to unfold; the projects to
announce or develop; the domestic tales to hear and to relate; and the
tombs of departed friends to mourn over.
Amongst these last, the most deeply-lamented by the Doctor was Mr.
Twining, whose name he could not yet pronounce, nor could his daughter
hear, without a sigh of lamenting regret: though to her, far more
keenly still, more profoundly, more piercingly irreparable, was the
privation of Mr. Locke! the matchless Mr. Locke! in mind, in manners,
in heart, in understanding, matchless! matchless!
Gone, too, was Mr. Windham, that pride, as well as delight of the
Doctor’s chosen friendship.
And gone was the “elegant, high-bred Boscawen,” whom he honoured and
esteemed as one of the first of her sex.
Mr. Courtney he missed alike for his wit, his intelligence, and his
flattering personal partiality.
Lord Cardigan, though with none of these to be named in an intellectual
point of view, was yet, from frequency of intercourse, and his
Lordship’s almost ardent regard for the Doctor, a substantial loss in
colloquial cheerfulness without effort; such as, after having passed
the meridian of life, it is not facile in its wane to replace, however
commonly, while possessed, it may be under-rated; the value of easy
commerce being seldom duly appreciated till we are fit for no other.
But the loss the most prejudicial to the Doctor’s commixture with the
world of letters, was that which robbed him of Mr. Malone, with whom
he had now for many years been upon terms of literary intimacy; the
Doctor still, though no longer a principal in any work, retaining a
lively pleasure in promoting, as an agent or coadjutor, the works of
others; for gaily as he had enjoyed, and skilfully as he had earned
his personal reputation, his exertions had always had a nobler stimulus
than vanity. For its own sake he prized whatever was intellectual; and
had he lived
“—in deserts, where no men abide,”
he would have explored whatever his eye could have surveyed, his
understanding have developed, or his activity have pursued, even in so
lone a position of nature in her most savage state, from his integral
love of information.
Nevertheless, the deprivation that, in these last years, had most
sorrowingly touched his feelings, was that of Lady Clarges; whose
exhilarating spirits and lively eccentricities, during her youth and
health, had long been delightful sources to him of entertainment
and agreeability; while her musical excellencies, and her affecting
resemblance to his Susanna, had established her in his mind with a
yet more endearing influence. And so sensible was she to his tender
partiality, that he was amongst the last, as well as the most select,
who obtained almost constant admission to her apartment during her
suffering and lingering premature decline.
His utter retirement from the world had made him gradually, but wholly
lose sight of his favouring and favourite Mrs. Garrick, La Violetta;
of Sir George and Lady Beaumont, Mr. Batt, and Mr. Rogers; though
they were all exhilaratingly alive to the world which they helped to
exhilarate.
Happily, however, most happily, he still preserved his first, who was
now become his oldest cherished friend, Lady Crewe, who constantly kept
her place at the head of all, save of born affinity, who were most
consoling to his sympathies: and though she approved the timely wisdom
of his retreat from full and great societies, she exerted her most
zealous powers to personally enliven his voluntary seclusion.
Amongst those of yet flourishing friends who, after Lady Crewe, were of
the greatest weight to him for comfort, support, and pleasure, foremost
he still reckoned two noblemen of just reputation for goodness, honour,
and benevolence,—the Marquis of Aylesbury and the Earl of Lonsdale,
who, with their exemplary ladies, and their singularly amiable
families, never thought they saw enough of Dr. Burney; and repaired
every breach of verbal intercourse, by an unremitting assiduity through
that of the pen.
Lady Charlotte Greville, Lady Mary Bentinck, Lady Manvers, Lady
Rushont, and several others, might still, also, be named; but imprimis
in this second list must be placed the sprightly Marchioness of
Thomond: and the Dowager Lady Templeton, whom he particularly admired,
and who honoured him with never-varying regard and esteem.
And with the animated and engaging Miss Hayman, and the erudite and
accomplished Miss Knight, some few occasional letters were still
exchanged.