* * * * *
“Not a week before the last fatal seizure, my dear father had
cheerfully said to me: ‘ I have gone through so rough a winter, and
such severity of bodily pain; and I have held up against such intensity
of cold, that I think now, I can stand any thing!’
“Joyfully I had joined in this belief, which enabled me—most acutely
to my since regret!—to occupy myself in the business I have mentioned
to you; which detained me three or four days from the College. But I
bore the unusual separation the less unwillingly, as public affairs
were just then taking that happy turn in favour of England and her
allies, that I could not but hope would once more, at least for a
while, reanimate his elastic spirits to almost their pristine vivacity.
“When I was nearly at liberty, I sent Alexander to the College, to
pay his duty to his grandfather; with a promise that I would pay mine
before night, to participate in his joy at the auspicious news from the
Continent.
“I was surprised by the early return of my messenger; his air of
pensive absorption, and the disturbance, or rather taciturnity with
which he heard my interrogatories. Too soon, however, I gathered that
his grandfather had passed an alarming night; that both my brothers had
been sent for, and that Dr. Mosely had been summoned.
“I need not, I am sure, tell you that I was in the sick room the next
instant.
“I found the beloved invalid seated, in his customary manner, on his
sofa. My sister Sarah was with him, and his two faithful and favourite
attendants, George and Rebecca. In the same customary manner, also, a
small table before him was covered with books. But he was not reading.
His revered head, as usual, hung upon his breast—and I, as usual,
knelt before him, to catch a view of his face, while I inquired after
his health.
“But alas!—no longer as usual was my reception! He made no sort of
answer; his look was fixed; his posture immoveable; and not a muscle of
his face gave any indication that I was either heard or perceived!
“Struck with awe, I had not courage to press for his notice, and
hurried into the next room not to startle him with my alarm.
“But when I was informed that he had changed his so fearfully fixed
posture, I hastened back; reviving to the happy hope that again I might
experience the balm of his benediction.
“He was now standing, and unusually upright; and, apparently, with
unusual muscular firmness. I was advancing to embrace him, but his air
spoke a rooted concentration of solemn ideas that repelled intrusion.
“Whether or not he recognized, or distinguished me, I know not! I
had no command of voice to attempt any inquiry, and would not risk
betraying my emotion at this great change since my last and happier
admittance to his presence.
“His eyes were intently bent on a window that faced the College
burial-ground, where reposed the ashes of my mother-in-law, and where,
he had more than once said, would repose his own.
“He bestowed at least five or six minutes on this absorbed and
melancholy contemplation of the upper regions of that sacred spot, that
so soon were to enclose for ever his mortal clay.
“No one presumed to interrupt his reverie.
“He next opened his arms wide, extending them with a waving motion,
that seemed indicative of an internally pronounced farewell! to all he
looked at; and shortly afterwards, he uttered to himself, distinctly,
though in a low, but deeply-impressive voice, “All this will soon pass
away as a dream!”[97]
“This extension of his arms offered to his attendants an opportunity,
which they immediately seized, of taking off his wrapping gown.
“He made no resistance: I again retreated; and he was put to bed. My
sister Sarah watched, with his housekeeper, by his side all night; and,
at an early hour in the morning, I took her place.
“My other sisters were also summoned; and my brothers came continually.
But he spoke to no one! and seldom opened his eyes: yet his looks,
though altered, invariably manifested his possession of his faculties
and senses. Deep seemed his ruminations; deep and religious, though
silent and concentrated.
“I would fain have passed this night in the sick room; but my dear
father, perceiving my design, and remembering, probably, how recently I
was recovered from a dangerous malady, strenuously, though by look and
gesture, not words, opposed what he thought, too kindly, might be an
exertion beyond my strength. Grieved and reluctant was my retreat; but
this was no epoch for expostulation, nor even for entreaty.
“The next morning, I found him so palpably weaker, and more emaciated,
that, secretly, I resolved I would quit him no more.
“What a moment was this for so great an affliction! a moment almost
throbbing with the promise of that re-union which he has sighed for,
almost—_mon ami_, as I have sighed for it myself! This very day,
this eleventh of April, opened by public announcement, that a general
illumination would take place in the evening, to blazon the glorious
victory of England and her allies, in wresting the dominion of the
whole of Europe—save our own invulnerable island, from the grasp and
the power of the Emperor Napoleon!
“This great catastrophe, which filled my mind, as _you_ can well
conceive! with the most buoyant emotion; and which, at any less
inauspicious period, would have enchanted me almost to rapture in being
the first to reveal it to my ardent and patriotic father, whose love
of his country was nearly his predominant feeling, hung now trembling,
gasping on my lips—but there was icicled, and could not pass
them!—for where now was the vivacious eagerness that would have caught
the tale? where the enraptured intelligence that would have developed
its circumstances? where the ecstatic enthusiasm that would have hailed
it with songs of triumph?
“The whole day was spent in monotonous watchfulness and humble
prayers. At night he grew worse—how grievous was that night; I could
offer him no comfort; I durst not even make known my stay. The long
habits of obedience of olden times robbed me of any courage for trying
so dangerous an experiment as acting contrary to orders. I remained but
to share, or to spare, some fatigue to others; and personally to watch
and pray by his honoured side.
“Yet sometimes, when the brilliancy of mounting rockets and distant
fire-works caught my eyes, to perceive, from the window, the whole
apparent sky illuminated to commemorate our splendid success, _you_
will easily imagine what opposing sensations of joy and sorrow
struggled for ascendance! While all I beheld WITHOUT shone
thus refulgent with the promise of peace, prosperity, and—your return!
I could only contemplate all WITHIN to mourn over the wreck
of lost filial happiness! the extinction of all the earliest sweet
incitements to pleasure, hope, tenderness, and reverence, in the fast
approaching dissolution of the most revered of parents!
“When I was liberated by day-light from the fear of being recognised,
I earnestly coveted the cordial of some notice; and fixed myself by
the side of his bed, where most frequently I could press his paternal
hand, or fasten upon it my lips.
“I languished, also, to bring you, _mon ami!_ back to his remembrance.
It is not, it cannot—I humbly trust! be impious to covet to the last
breathings, the gentle sympathies of those who are most dear to our
hearts, when they are visibly preceding us to the regions of eternity!
We are nowhere bidden to concentrate our feelings and our aspirations
in ourselves! to forget, or to beg to be forgotten by our friends. Even
our Redeemer in quitting mortal life, pityingly takes worldly care of
his worldly mother; and, consigning her to his favourite disciple,
says: “Woman, behold thy Son!”
“Intensely, therefore, I watched to catch a moment for addressing
him: and, at last, it came, for, at last, I had the joy to feel his
loved hand return a pressure from mine. I ventured then, in a low,
but distinct whisper, to utter a brief account of the recent events;
thankfully adding, when I saw by his countenance and the air of his
head, that his attention was undoubtedly engaged, that they would bring
over again to England his long-lost son-in-law.
“At these words, he turned towards me, with a quickness, and a look of
vivacious and kind surprise, such as, with closed eyes, I should have
thought impossible to have been expressed, had I not been its grateful
witness.
“My delight at such a mark of sensibility at the sound of your name,
succeeding to so many hours, or rather days, of taciturn immoveability,
gave me courage to continue my recital, which I could perceive more
and more palpably make the most vivid impression. But when I entered
into the marvellous details of the Wellington victories, by which
the immortal contest had been brought to its crisis; and told him
that Buonaparte was dethroned, was in captivity, and was a personal
prisoner on board an English man-of-war; a raised motion of his under
lip displayed incredulity; and he turned away his head with an air that
shewed him persuaded that I was the simple and sanguine dupe of some
delusive exaggeration. I did not dare risk the excitement of convincing
him of his mistake!
“And nothing more of converse passed between us then—or,
alas!—ever!—Though still I have the consolation to know that he
frequently, and with tender kindness, felt my lips upon his hand, from
soft undulation that, from time to time, acknowledged their pressure.
“But alas! I have nothing—nothing more that is personal to relate.
“The direction of all spiritual matters fell, of course, as I have
mentioned, to my brother, Dr. Charles.
“From about three o’clock in the afternoon he seemed to become quite
easy; and his looks were perfectly tranquil: but, as the evening
advanced, this quietness subsided into sleep—a sleep so composed that,
by tacit consent, every one was silent and motionless, from the fear of
giving him disturbance.
“An awful stillness thence pervaded the apartment, and so soft became
his breathing, that I dropped my head by the side of his pillow, to
be sure that he breathed at all! There, anxiously, I remained, and
such was my position, when his faithful man-servant, George, after
watchfully looking at him from the foot of his bed, suddenly burst into
an audible sob, crying out, “My master!—my dear master!”
“I started and rose, making agitated signs for forbearance, lest the
precious rest, from which I still hoped he might awake recruited,
should prematurely be broken.
“The poor young man hid his face, and all again was still.
“For a moment, however, only; an alarm from his outcry had been raised,
and the servants, full of sorrow, hurried into the chamber, which
none of the family, that could assemble, ever quitted, and a general
lamentation broke forth.
“Yet could I not believe that all had ceased thus suddenly, without a
movement—without even a sigh! and, conjuring that no one would speak
or interfere, I solemnly and steadily persisted in passing a full hour,
or more, in listening to catch again a breath I could so reluctantly
lose: but all of life—of earthly life, was gone for ever!——And here,
_mon ami_, I drop the curtain!—”
* * * * *
On the 20th of the month of April, 1814, the solemn final marks of
religious respect were paid to the remains of DOCTOR BURNEY;
which were then committed to the spot on which his eye had last been
fixed, in the burying-ground of Chelsea College, immediately next to
the ashes of his second wife.
The funeral, according to his own direction, was plain and simple.
His sons, Captain James Burney, and Doctor Charles Burney, walked as
chief mourners; and every male part of his family, that illness or
distance did not impede from attendance, reverentially accompanied the
procession to the grave: while foremost among the pall-bearers walked
that distinguished lover of merit, the Hon. Frederic North, since Earl
of Guildford; and Mr. Salomon, the first professional votary of the
Doctor’s art then within call.
A tablet was soon afterwards erected to his memory, in WESTMINSTER
ABBEY, by a part of his family; the inscription for which was
drawn up by his present inadequate, but faithful Biographer.
* * * * *
When a narratory account is concluded, to delineate the character of
him whom it has brought to view, with its FAILINGS as well as
its EXCELLENCIES, is the proper, and therefore the common task
for the finishing pencil of the Biographer. Impartiality demands this
contrast; and the mind will not accompany a narrative of real life of
which Truth, frank and unequivocal, is not the dictator.
And here, to give that contrast, Truth is not wanting, but, strange to
say, vice and frailty! The Editor, however, trusts that she shall find
pardon from all lovers of veracity, if she seek not to bestow piquancy
upon her portrait through artificial light and shade.
The events and circumstances, with their commentary, that are there
presented to the reader, are conscientiously derived from sources
of indisputable authenticity; aided by a well-stored memory of the
minutest points of the character, conduct, disposition, and opinions
of Dr. Burney. And in the picture, which is here endeavoured to be
portrayed, the virtues are so simple, that they cannot excite disgust
from their exaggeration; though no conflicting qualities give relief to
their panegyric.
But with regard to the monumental lines, unmixed praise, there,
is universally practised, and calls for no apology. Its object is
withdrawn, alike from friends and from foes, from partiality and from
envy; and mankind at large, through all nations and all times, seems
instinctively agreed, that the funereal record of departed virtue is
most stimulating to posterity, when unencumbered by the levelling
weight of human defects.—Not from any belief so impossible as that he
who had been mortal could have been perfect; but from the consciousness
that no accusation can darken the marble of death, ere He whom it
consigns to the tomb, is not already condemned—or acquitted.
The Biographer, therefore, ventures to close these Memoirs with the
following Sepulchral Character: