The grievous blight by the loss of Mrs. Thrale; and the irreparable
blast by the death of Mr. Crisp, in the spring of 1783; followed, in
the ensuing summer, by this alarming shake to the constitution and
strength of Dr. Johnson; were now to be succeeded, in this same unhappy
year, by a fearful and calamitous event, that made the falling leaves
of its autumn corrosively sepulchral to Dr. Burney.
His erudite, witty, scientific, and truly dear friend, Mr. Bewley of
Massingham, though now in the wane of life, had never visited the
metropolis, except to pass through it upon business; his narrow income,
and confined country practice, having hitherto stood in the way of
such an excursion. Yet he had long desired to make the journey, not
only for seeing the capital, its curiosities, its men of letters, and
his own most highly prized friend, Dr. Burney, but, also, for calling
a consultation amongst the wisest of his brethren of the Æsculapian
tribe, upon the subject of his own health, which was now in a state of
alarming deterioration.
Continual letters, upon the lighter and pleasanter part of this
project, passed between Massingham and St. Martin’s-street, in
preparatory schemes on one side, and hurrying persuasion on the
other, before it could take place; though it was never-ceasingly
the goal at which the hopes and wishes of Mr. Bewley aimed, when
he permitted them to turn their course from business or science:
but now, suddenly, an occult disease, which for many years had been
preying upon the constitution of the too patient philosopher, began
more roughly to ravage his debilitating frame: and the excess of his
pains, with whatever fortitude they were borne, forced him from his
Stoic endurance, by dismembering it, through bodily torture, from the
palliations of intellectual occupation.
Irresolution, therefore, was over; and he hastily prepared to quit
his resident village, and consult personally with two surgeons and
two physicians of eminence, Messrs. Hunter and Potts, and Doctors
Warren and John Jebb, with whom he had long been incidentally and
professionally in correspondence.
There is, probably, no disease, save of that malignantly fatal nature
that joins, at once, the malady with the grave, that may not, for a
while, be parried, or, at least, diverted from its strait-forward
progress, by the indefinable power of those inward impellers of the
human machine, called the animal spirits; for no sooner was the invalid
decided upon this long-delayed journey, than a wish occurred to soften
off its vital solemnity, by rendering it mental and amical, as well
as medicinal: and from this wish emanated a glow of courage, that
enabled him to baffle his infirmities, and to begin his excursion by a
tour to Birmingham; where he had long promised a visit to a renowned
fellow-labourer in the walks of science, Dr. Priestley. And this he
accomplished, though with not more satisfaction than difficulty.
From the high gratification of this expedition, he proceeded to one
warmer, kindlier, and closer still to his breast, for he came on to
his first favourite upon earth, Dr. Burney; with whom he spent about
a week, under an influence of congenial feelings, and enlivening
pursuits, that charmed away pains that had seemed insupportable,
through the magic control of a delighted imagination, and an expanded
heart.
His eagerness, from the vigour of his fancy, was yet young,
notwithstanding his years, for every thing that was new to him, and,
of its sort, ingenious. Dr. Burney accompanied him in taking a general
view of the most celebrated literary and scientific institutions,
buildings, and public places; and presented him to the Duke de
Chaulnes, with whom a whole morning was spent in viewing specimens
of Chinese arts and discoveries. And they passed several hours in
examining the extensive paintings of Barry, which that extraordinary
artist elucidated to them himself: while every evening was devoted to
studying and hearing favourite old musical composers of Mr. Bewley;
or favourite new ones of Dr. Burney, now first brought forward to his
friend’s enraptured ears.
But that which most flattered, and exhilarated the Massingham
philosopher, was an interview accorded to him by Dr. Johnson; to whom
he was presented as the humble, but devoted preserver of the bristly
tuft of the Bolt Court Hearth-Broom.
He then left St. Martin’s-street, to visit Mr. Griffith, Editor of the
Monthly Review, who received him at Turnham Green.
Here, from the flitting and stimulating, though willing hurries of
pleasure, he meant to dedicate a short space to repose.——But repose,
here, was to be his no more! The visionary illusions of a fevered
imagination, and the eclât of novelty to all his sensations, were
passed away; and sober, severe reality, with all the acute pangs of
latent, but excruciating disease, resumed, unbridled, their sway. He
grew suddenly altered, and radically worse; and abruptly came back,
thus fatally changed, to St. Martin’s-street; where Dr. Burney, who had
returned to his work at Chesington, was recalled by an express to join
him; and where the long procrastinated consultation at length was held.
But nor Hunter, nor Potts, nor Warren, nor Jebb could cure, could
even alleviate pains, of which they could not discern the source,
nor ascertain the cause. Nevertheless, from commiseration for his
sufferings, respect to his genius, and admiration of his patience,
they all attended him with as much zeal and assiduity as if they had
grasped at every fee which, generously, they declined: though they had
the mortification to observe that they were applied to so tardily,
and that so desperate was the case, that they seemed hut summoned to
acknowledge it to be beyond their reach, and to prognosticate its
quick-approaching fatality. And, a very short time afterwards, Dr.
Burney had the deep disappointment of finding all his joy at this so
long desired meeting, reversed into the heartfelt affliction of seeing
this valued friend expire under his roof!
Mrs. Bewley, the excellent wife of this man of science, philosophy, and
virtue, was fortunately, however unhappily, the companion of his tour;
and his constant and affectionate nurse to his last moment.
It was afterwards known, that his pains, and their incurability, were
produced by an occult and dreadful cancer.
He was buried in St. Martin’s church.
The following account of him was written for the Norwich newspaper by
Dr. Burney.
“_September 15, 1783._
“On Friday last died, at the house of his friend, Dr. Burney,
in St. Martin’s-street, where he had been on a visit, Mr.
William Bewley, of Massingham, in Norfolk; whose death will
be sincerely lamented by all men of science, to whom his
great abilities, particularly in anatomy, electricity, and
chemistry, had penetrated through the obscurity of his abode,
and the natural modesty and diffidence of his disposition.
Indeed, the depth and extent of his knowledge on every useful
branch of science and literature, could only be equalled by
the goodness of his heart, simplicity of his character, and
innocency of his life; seasoned with a natural, unsought
wit and humour, of a cast the most original, pleasant, and
inoffensive.
“Hobbes, in the last century, whose chief writings were
levelled against the religion of his country, was called, from
the place of his residence, the Philosopher of Malmsbury; but
with how much more truth and propriety has Mr. Bewley, whose
life was spent in the laborious search of the most hidden and
useful discoveries in art and nature, in exposing sophistry,
and displaying talents, been distinguished in Norfolk by the
respectable title of the Philosopher of Massingham.”[70]