From circumstances peculiarly fortunate with regard to the time of
their operation, some solace opened to Dr. Burney for himself, and
still more to his parental kindness for this Memorialist, in this
season of disappointment and deprivation, from a beginning intercourse
which now took place for both, with _the fairest model of female
excellence of the days that were passed_, Mrs. Delany.[55]
Such were the words by which Mrs. Delany had been pictured to this
Memorialist by Mr. Burke, at Miss Moncton’s assembly; and such was the
impression of her character under which this connexion was begun by Dr.
Burney.
The proposition for an acquaintance, and the negotiation for its
commencement between the parties, had been committed, by Mrs. Delany
herself, to Mrs. Chapone; whose literary endowments stood not higher,
either in public or in private estimation, than the virtues of her
mind, and the goodness of her heart. Both were evinced by her popular
writings for the female sex, at a time when its education, whether from
Timidity or Indolence, required a spur, far more certainly than its
cynic traducers can prove that now, from Ambition or Temerity, it calls
for a bridle.
As Dr. Burney could not make an early visit, and Mrs. Delany could
not receive a late one, Mrs. Chapone was commissioned to engage the
daughter to a quiet dinner; and the Doctor to join the party in the
evening.
This was assented to with the utmost pleasure, both father and daughter
being stimulated in curiosity and expectance by Mr. Crisp, who had
formerly known and admired Mrs. Delany, and had been a favourite with
her bosom friend, the Dowager Duchess of Portland; and with some other
of her elegant associates.
As this venerable lady still lives in the memoirs and correspondence of
Dean Swift,[56] an account of this interview, abridged from a letter
to Mr. Crisp, will not, perhaps, be unwillingly received, as a genuine
picture of an aged lady of rare accomplishments, and high-bred manners,
of olden times; who had strikingly been distinguished by Dean Swift,
and was now energetically esteemed by Mr. Burke.
Under the wing of the respectable Mrs. Chapone, this Memorialist was
first conveyed to the dwelling of Mrs. Delany in St. James’s Place.
Mrs. Delany was alone; but the moment her guests were announced, with
an eagerness that seemed forgetful of her years, and that denoted the
most flattering pleasure, she advanced to the door of her apartment to
receive them.
Mrs. Chapone presented to her by name the Memorialist, whose hand she
took with almost youthful vivacity, saying: “Miss Burney must pardon me
if I give her an old-fashioned reception; for I know nothing new!” And
she kindly saluted her.
With a grace of manner the most striking, she then placed Mrs. Chapone
on the sofa, and led the Memorialist to a chair next to her own,
saying: “Can you forgive, Miss Burney, the very great liberty I have
taken of asking you to my little dinner? But you could not come in
the morning; and I wished so impatiently to see one from whom I have
received such very extraordinary pleasure, that I could not bear to put
it off to another day: for I have no days, now, to throw away! And if
I waited for the evening, I might, perhaps, have company. And I hear
so ill in mixt society, that I cannot, as I wish to do, attend to more
than one at a time; for age, now, is making me more stupid even than I
am by nature. And how grieved and mortified I should have been to have
known I had Miss Burney in the room, and not to have heard what she
said!”
Tone, manner, and look, so impressively marked the sincerity of this
humility, as to render it,—her time of life, her high estimation in
the world, and her rare acquirements considered,—as touching as it was
unexpected to her new guest.
Mrs. Delany still was tall, though some of her height was probably
lost. Not much, however, for she was remarkably upright. There were
little remains of beauty left in feature; but benevolence, softness,
piety, and sense, were all, as conversation brought them into play,
depicted in her face, with a sweetness of look and manner, that,
notwithstanding her years, were nearly fascinating.
The report generally spread of her being blind, added surprise to
pleasure at such active personal civilities in receiving her visitors.
Blind, however, she palpably was not. She was neither led about the
room, nor afraid of making any false step, or mistake; and the turn
of her head to those whom she meant to address, was constantly right.
The expression, also, of her still pleasing, though dim eyes, told no
sightless tale; but, on the contrary, manifested that she had by no
means lost the view of the countenance any more than of the presence of
her company.
But the fine perception by which, formerly, she had drawn, painted, cut
out, worked, and read, was obscured; and of all those accomplishments
in which she had excelled, she was utterly deprived.
Of their former possession, however, there were ample proofs to
demonstrate their value; her apartments were hung round with pictures
of her own painting, beautifully designed and delightfully coloured;
and ornaments of her own execution of striking elegance, in cuttings
and variegated stained paper, embellished her chimney-piece; partly
copied from antique studies, partly of fanciful invention; but all
equally in the chaste style of true and refined good taste.
At the request of Mrs. Chapone, she instantly and unaffectedly brought
forth a volume of her newly-invented Mosaic flower-work; an art of her
own creation; consisting of staining paper of all possible colours, and
then cutting it into strips, so finely and delicately, that when pasted
on a dark ground, in accordance to the flower it was to produce, it
had the appearance of a beautiful painting; except that it rose to the
sight with a still richer effect: and this art Mrs. Delany had invented
at seventy-five years of age![57]
It was so long, she said, after its suggestion, before she brought
her work into any system, that in the first year she finished only
two flowers: but in the second she accomplished sixteen; and in the
third, one hundred and sixty. And after that, many more. They were all
from nature, the fresh gathered, or still growing plant, being placed
immediately before her for imitation. Her collection consisted of
whatever was most choice and rare in flowers, plants, and weeds; or,
more properly speaking, field flowers; for, as Thomson ingeniously says,
it is the “dull incurious” alone who stigmatise these native offsprings
of Flora by the degrading title of weeds.
Her plan had been to finish one thousand, for a complete herbal; but
its progress had been stopped short, by the feebleness of her sight,
when she was within only twenty of her original scheme.
She had always marked the spot whence she took, or received, her model,
with the date of the year on the corner of each flower, in different
coloured letters; “but the last year,” she meekly said, “when I found
my eyes becoming weaker and weaker, and threatening to fail me before
my plan could be completed, I cut out my initials, M. D., in white, for
I fancied myself nearly working in my winding sheet!”
There was something in her smile at this melancholy speech that
blended so much cheerfulness with resignation, as to render it, to the
Memorialist, extremely affecting.
Mrs. Chapone inquired whether her eyes had been injured by any cold?
Instantly, at the question, recalling her spirits, “No, no!” she
replied; “nothing has attacked them but my reigning malady, old
age!—’Tis, however, only what we are all striving to obtain! And
I, for one, have found it a very comfortable state. Yesterday,
nevertheless, my peculiar infirmity was rather distressing to me. I
received a note from young Mr. Montagu,[58] written in the name of
his aunt,[59] that required an immediate answer. But how could I give
it to what I could not even read? My good Astley[60] was, by great
chance, gone abroad; and my housemaid can neither write nor read; and
my man happened to be in disgrace, so I could not do him such a favour
[smiling] as to be obliged to him! I resolved, therefore, to try, once
more, to read myself; and I hunted out my old long-laid-by magnifier.
But it would not do! it was all in vain!
I then ferretted out a larger glass; and with that, I had the great
satisfaction to make out the first word,—but before I could get at the
second, even the first became a blank! My eyes, however, have served me
so long and so well, that I should be very ungrateful to quarrel with
them. I then, luckily, recollected that my cook is a scholar! So I sent
for her, and we made out the billet together—which, indeed, deserved a
much better answer than I, or my cook either, scholar as she is, could
bestow. But my dear niece will be with me ere long, and then I shall
not be quite such a bankrupt to my correspondents.”
Bankrupt, indeed, was she not, to gaiety, to good-humour, or to
polished love of giving pleasure to her social circle, any more than to
keeping pace with her correspondents.
When Mrs. Chapone mentioned, with much regret, that a previous evening
engagement must force her away at half-past seven o’clock, “Half-past
seven?” Mrs. Delany repeated, with an arch smile; “O fie! fie! Mrs.
Chapone! why Miss Larolles would not for the world go anywhere before
eight or nine!”[61]
And when the Memorialist, astonished as well as diverted at such a
sally from Mrs. Delany, yet desirous, from embarrassment, not to seem
to have noticed it, turned to look at some of the pictures, and stopped
at a charming portrait of Madame de Savigné, to remark its expressive
mixture of sweetness, intelligence, and vivacity, the smile of Mrs.
Delany became yet archer, as she sportively said, “Yes!—she looks
very—_enjouée_, as Captain Aresby would say.”
This was not a speech to lessen, or meant to lessen, either surprise or
amusement in the Memorialist, who, nevertheless, quietly continued her
examination of the pictures; till she stopped at a portrait that struck
her to have an air of spirit and genius, that induced her to inquire
whom it represented.
Mrs. Delany did not mention the name, but only answered, “I don’t know
how it is, Mrs. Chapone, but I can never, of late, look at that picture
without thinking of poor Belfield.”
This was heard with a real start—though certainly not of pain! But
that Mrs. Delany, at her very advanced time of life, eighty-three,
should thus have personified to herself the characters of a book so
recently published, mingled in its pleasure nearly as much astonishment
as gratification.
Mrs. Delany—still clear-sighted to countenance, at least—seemed to
read her thoughts, and, kindly taking her hand, smilingly said: “You
must forgive us, Miss Burney! it is not quite a propriety, I own, to
talk of these people before you; but we don’t know how to speak at all,
now, without naming them, they run so in our heads!”
Early in the evening, they were joined by Mrs. Delany’s beloved and
loving friend, the Duchess Dowager of Portland; a lady who, though not
as exquisitely pleasing, any more than as interesting by age as Mrs.
Delany,—who, born with the century, was now in her 83d year, had yet
a physiognomy that, when lighted up by any discourse in which she took
a part from personal feelings, was singularly expressive of sweetness,
sense, and dignity; three words that exactly formed the description of
her manners; which were not merely free from pride, but free, also,
from its mortifying deputy, affability.
Mrs. Delany, that pattern of the old school in high politeness, was
now, it is probable, in the sphere whence Mr. Burke had signalized
her by that character; for her reception of the Duchess of Portland,
and her conduct to that noble friend, strikingly displayed the
self-possession that good taste with good breeding can bestow, even
upon the most timid mind, in doing the honours of home to a superior.
She welcomed her Grace with as much respectful ceremony as if this had
been a first visit; to manifest that, what in its origin, she had taken
as an honour, she had so much true humility as to hold to be rather
more than less so in its continuance; yet she constantly exerted a
spirit, in pronouncing her opposing or concurring sentiments, in the
conversation that ensued, that shewed as dignified an independence of
character, as it marked a sincerity as well as happiness of friendship,
in the society of her elevated guest.
The Memorialist was presented to her Grace, who came with the
expectation of meeting her, in the most gentle and flattering terms by
Mrs. Delany; and she was received with kindness rather than goodness.
The watchful regard of the Duchess for Mrs. Delany, soon pointed out
the marked partiality which that revered lady was already conceiving
for her new visitor; and the Duchess, pleased to abet, as salubrious,
every cheering propensity in her beloved friend, immediately disposed
herself to second it with the most obliging alacrity.
Mrs. Delany, gratified by this apparent approvance, then started the
subject of the recent publication, with a glow of pleasure that, though
she uttered her favouring opinions with the most unaffected, the
chastest simplicity, made the “eloquent blood” rush at every flattering
sentence into her pale, soft, aged cheeks, as if her years had been as
juvenile as her ideas, and her kindness.
Animated by the animation of her friend, the Duchess gaily increased
it by her own; and the warm-hearted Mrs. Chapone still augmented its
energy, by her benignant delight that she had brought such a scene to
bear for her young companion: while all three sportively united in
talking of the characters in the publication, as if speaking of persons
and incidents of their own peculiar knowledge.
On the first pause upon a theme which, though unavoidably embarrassing,
could not, in hands of such noble courtesy, that knew how to make
flattery subservient to elegance, and praise to delicacy, be seriously
distressing; the deeply honoured, though confused object of so much
condescension, seized the vacant moment for starting the name of Mr.
Crisp.
Nothing could better propitiate the introduction which Dr. Burney
desired for himself to the correspondent of Dean Swift, and the quondam
acquaintance of his early monitor, Mr. Crisp, than bringing this latter
upon the scene.
The Duchess now took the lead in the discourse, and was charmed to hear
tidings of a former friend, who had been missed so long in the world as
to be thought lost. She inquired minutely into his actual way of life,
his health and his welfare; and whether he retained his fondness and
high taste for all the polite arts.
To the Memorialist this was a topic to give a flow of spirits, that
spontaneously banished the reserve and silence with strangers of
which she stood generally accused: and her history of the patriarchal
attachment of Mr. Crisp to Dr. Burney, and its benevolent extension to
every part of his family, while it revived Mr. Crisp to the memories
and regard of the Duchess and of Mrs. Delany, stimulated their wishes
to know the man—Dr. Burney—who alone, of all the original connexions
of Mr. Crisp, had preserved such power over his affections, as to be a
welcome inmate to his almost hermetically closed retreat.
And the account of Chesington Hall, its insulated and lonely position,
its dilapidated state, its nearly inaccessible roads, its quaint old
pictures, and straight long garden paths; was as curious and amusing
to Mrs. Chapone, who was spiritedly awake to whatever was romantic or
uncommon, as the description of the chief of the domain was interesting
to those who had known him when he was as eminently a man of the world,
as he was now become, singularly, the recluse of a village.
Such was the basis of the intercourse that thenceforward took place
between Dr. Burney and the admirable Mrs. Delany; who was not, from her
feminine and elegant character, and her skill in the arts, more to the
taste of Dr. Burney, than he had the honour to be to her’s, from his
varied acquirements, and his unstrained readiness to bring them forth
in social meetings. While his daughter, who thus, by chance, was the
happy instrument of this junction, reaped from it a delight that was
soon exalted to even bosom felicity, from the indulgent partiality with
which that graceful pattern of olden times met, received, and cherished
the reverential attachment which she inspired; and which imperceptibly
graduated into a mutual, a trusting, a sacred friendship; as soothing,
from his share in its formation, to her honoured Mr. Crisp, as it was
delighting to Dr. Burney from its seasonable mitigation of the loss,
the disappointment, the breaking up of Streatham.