And yet more deeply wounding was the concentrated silence of those faithful friends who, at the period of her bright display of talents, virtues, and hospitality, had attached themselves to her person with sincerity and affection.
Dr. Johnson excepted, none amongst the latter were more painfully impressed than Dr. Burney; for none with more true grief had foreseen the mischief in its menace, or dreaded its deteriorating effect on her maternal devoirs. Nevertheless, conscious that if he had no weight, he had also no right over her actions, he hardened not his heart, when called upon by an appeal, from her own hand, to give her his congratulations; but, the deed once irreversible, civilly addressed himself to both parties at once, with all of conciliatory kindness in good wishes and regard, that did least violence to his sentiments and principles.
Far harder was the task of his daughter, on receiving from the new bride a still more ardent appeal, written at the very instant of quitting the altar: she had been trusted while the conflict still endured; and her opinions and feelings had unreservedly been acknowledged in all their grief of opposition: and their avowal had been borne, nay, almost bowed down to, with a liberality of mind, a softness of affection, a nearly angelic sweetness of temper, that won more fondly than ever the heart that they rived with pitying anguish, — till the very epoch of the second marriage.
Yet, strange to tell! all this contest of opinion, and dissonance of feeling, seemed, at the altar, to be suddenly, but in totality forgotten! and the bride wrote to demand not alone kind wishes for her peace and welfare — those she had no possibility of doubting” but joy, wishing joy; but cordial felicitations upon her marriage!
These, and so abruptly, to have accorded, must, even in their pleader’s eyes, have had the semblance, and more than the semblance, of the most glaring hypocrisy.
A compliance of such inconsistency “such falsehood” the Memorialist could not bestow; her answer, therefore, written in deep distress, and with regrets unspeakable, was necessarily disappointing; disappointment is inevitably chilling; and, after a painful letter or two, involving mistake and misapprehension, the correspondence “ though not on the side of the Memorialist “ abruptly dropt.
The minuter circumstances of this grievous catastrophe to a connexion begun with the most brilliant delight, and broken up with the acutest sorrow, might seem superfluous in the Memoirs of Dr. Burney: yet, in speaking of him Biographically, in his Fatherly capacity, it is necessarily alluded to, for the purpose of stating that the conduct of his daughter, throughout the whole of this afflicting and complex transaction, from the time he was acquainted with its difficulties, had his uniform, nay, warmest sanction. And not more complete in concurrence upon this subject were their opinions than was their unhappiness; and the Doctor always waited, and his daughter always panted, for any opportunity that might re-open so dear a friendship, without warring against their principles, or disturbing their reverence for truth.
THE LOCKES.
Fortunately, and most seasonably, just about the time that these extraordinary nuptials were in agitating approach, an intercourse the most benign was opened between the family of Dr. Burney and that of Mr. Locke, of Norbury Park.
The value of such an intercourse was warmly appreciated by Dr. Burney, to whose taste it was sympathy, and to whose feelings it was animation: while the period at which it took place, that of a blight the most baneful to himself and his second daughter, gave to it a character of salubrity as restorative to their nerves as it was soothing to their hearts.
What, indeed, of blight, of baleful, could adhere to, could commix with the Lockes of Norbury Park? All that could be devised, rather than described, of virtue with hilarity, of imagination with wisdom, appeared there to make their stand. A mansion of classical elegance; a situation bright, varied, bewitching in picturesque attraction; a chief in whom every high quality under heaven seemed concentrated; a partner to that chief uniting the closest mental resemblance to the embellishment of the most captivating beauty; a progeny blithe, blooming, and intelligent, encircling them like grouping angels — exhibited, all together, a picture of happiness so sanctified by virtue; of talents so ennobled by character; of religion so always manifested by good works; that Norbury Park presented a scene of perfection that seemed passing reality I and even while viewed and enjoyed, to wear the air of a living vision of ideal felicity.
The first visit that Dr. Burney paid to this incomparable spot was in company with Sir Joshua Reynolds.
No place would be more worthy the painter’s eye, and painter’s mind of the knight of Plympton than this; and he entered into all the merits of the mansion, its dwellers, and its scenery, with a vivacity of approvance, as gratifying to his elegant host and hostess, as to himself were the objects of taste, fancy, and fine workmanship, with which he was encircled in that school, or assemblage of the fine arts which seemed in Mr. Locke to exhibit a living Apollo at their head: while the delicacy, the feeling, the witching softness of his fair partner, expanded a genial cheerfulness that seemed to bloom around her wherever she looked or moved.
The conversation of Mr. Locke was a source inexhaustible of instruction, conveyed in language at once so sensitive and so pointed; with a tone, a manner, a look so impressively in harmony with every word that he uttered; that observations of a depth and a novelty that seemed to demand the most lengthened discussion, obtained immediate comprehension, if his hearer examined the penetration of his countenance while he listened to that of his voice.
His taste, alike in works of nature and of art, was profound in itself and illuminating to others: yet, from his habitual silence in mixt companies, the most strikingly amiable parts of his character could be developed only on his own domain, amidst his family, his friends, his neighbours, and the poor: where the refinement of his converse, and the melting humanity of his disposition, reflected genial lustre on each other.
Here, too, the knight of Plympton made a leisurely survey of the extraordinary early sketches of the eldest son of the mansion’s Apollo; who, for boundless invention, exquisite taste, and masterly sketches of original execution, was gifted with a genius that mocked all cotemporary rivalry.
Dr. Burney himself, at home in all the arts, partook of this entertainment with his usual animated pleasure in excellence; while in all that accompanied it of literary or social description, he as often led as followed these distinguished conveners.
* * * * *
But the exhilaration of this almost heavenly sojourn — for such, to its guests, it had appeared — was succeeded by an alarm to the heart of Dr. Burney the most intense, perhaps, by which it could be attacked; an alarm deeply affecting his comforts, his wishes, and the happiness of his whole house, from a menace of consumption to his daughter Susanna, which demanded a rapid change of air, and forced a hasty and immediate trial of that of Boulogne sur Mer.
The motive, however, of the little voyage, with its hope, made Dr. Burney submit to it with his accustomed rational resignation; though severe, nearly lacerating, was every separation from that beloved child; and though suspense and fear hovered over him unremittingly during the whole of the ensuing winter.
Doubly, therefore, now, was felt the acquisition of the Lockes, the charm of whose intercourse was endowed with powers the most balsamic for alleviating, though it could not heal, the pain of this fearful wound, through their sympathizing knowledge of the virtues of the invalid; their appreciation of her sweetness of disposition, their taste for her society, their enjoyment of her talents, and their admiration of her conduct and character; of her patience in suffering, her fortitude in adversity; her mild submission to every inevitable evil, with her noble struggles against every calamity that firmness, vigour, or toil, might prevent, or might distance.
They loved her as she merited to be loved! and almost as she loved them in return; for their souls were in unison of excellence.
MRS. DELANY.
But while the Lockes thus afforded a gentle and genial aid towards sustaining t
he illness and absence of Mrs. Phillips, it was not by superseding, but by blending in sweet harmony with the support afforded by Mrs. Delany: and if the narration given of that lady has, in any degree, drawn the reader to join in the admiration with which she inspired Dr. Burney, he will not be sorry to see a further account of her, taken again from the Diary addressed to Mrs. Phillips.
To MRS. PHILLIPS.
“I have just passed a delicious day, my Susanna, with Mrs. Delany; the most pleasing I have spent with her yet. She entrusted to me her collection of letters from Dean Swift and Dr. Young; and told me all the anecdotes that occurred to her of both, and of her acquaintance with them. How grievous that her sight continues enfeebling! all her other senses, and all her faculties are perfect — though she thinks otherwise. ‘My friends,’ she said, ‘ will last me, I believe, as long as I last, because they are very good; but the pleasure of our friendship is now all to be received by me! for I have lost the power of returning any!’
* * * * *
“If she spoke on any other subject such untruths, I should not revere her, as I now do, to my heart’s core. She had been in great affliction at the death of Lady Mansfield; for whom the Duchess Dowager of Portland had grieved, she said, yet more deeply: and they had shut themselves up together from all other company. ‘But to-day,’ she added, with a most soft smile, ‘her Grace could not come; and I felt I quite required a cordial, — so I sent to beg for Miss Burney.’
“‘I have been told,’ she afterwards said, ‘ that when I grew older, I should feel less, but I do not find it so! I am sooner, I think, hurt and affected than ever. I suppose it is with very old age as with extreme youth, the effect of weakness; neither of those stages of life have firmness for bearing misfortune with equanimity.’
“She keeps her good looks, however, unimpaired, except in becoming thinner; and, when not under the pressure of recent grief, she is as lively, gay, pleasant, and good-humouredly arch and playful, as she could have been at eighteen.
“‘ I see, indeed,’ she said, ‘ worse and worse, but I am thankful that, at my age, eighty-four, I can see at all. My chief loss is from not more quickly discerning the changes of countenance in my friends. However, to distinguish even the light is a great blessing!’
“She had no company whatever, but her beautiful great niece. The Duchess was confined to her home by a bad cold.
“She was so good as to shew me a most gracious letter from her Majesty, which she had just received, and which finished thus condescendingly:
“Believe me, my dear Mrs. Delany, “Your affectionate Queen, “CHARLOTTE.”
MR. SMELT.
Fortunately, also, now, Dr. Burney increased the intimacy of his acquaintance with Mr. Smelt, formerly sub-governor to the Prince of Wales; a man who, for displaying human excellence in the three essential points of Understanding, Character, and Conduct, stood upon the same line of acknowledged perfection with Mr. Locke of Norbury Park. And had that virtuous and anxious parent of his people, George III., known them both at the critical instant when he was seeking a model of a true fine gentleman, for the official situation of preceptor to the heir of his sovereignty; he might have had to cope with the most surprising of difficulties, that of seeing before his choice two men, in neither of whom he could espy a blemish that could cast a preference upon the other.
The worth of both these gentlemen was known upon proof: their talents, accomplishments, and taste in the arts and in literature, were singularly similar. Each was soft and winning of speech, but firm and intrepid of conduct; and their manners, their refined high breeding, were unrivalled, save each by the other. And while the same, also, was their reputation for integrity and honour, as for learning and philosophy, the first personal delight of both was in the promotion and exercise of those gentle charities of human life, which teach us to solace and to aid our fellow-creatures.
VOLUME III.
DR. JOHNSON.
Towards the end of this year, 1784, Dr. Johnson began again to nearly monopolize the anxious friendship of Dr. Burney.
On the 16th of November, Dr. Johnson, in the carriage, and under the revering care of Mr. Windham, returned from Litchfield to the metropolis, after a fruitless attempt to recover his health by breathing again his natal air.
The very next day he wrote the following note to St Martin’s street:
“To Dr. Burney.
“Mr. Johnson, who came home last night, sends his respects to dear Dr. Burney; and to all the dear Burneys, little and great “Bolt-court, 17th Nov. 1784.”
Dr. Burney hastened to this kind call immediately; but had the grief to find his honoured friend much weakened, and in great pain; though cheerful and struggling to revive. All of the Doctor’s family who had the honour of admission, hastened to him also; but chiefly his second daughter, who chiefly and peculiarly was always demanded.
She was received with his wonted, his never-failing partiality; and, as well as the Doctor, repeated her visits by every opportunity during the ensuing short three weeks of his earthly existence.
She will here copy, from the diary she sent to Boulogne, an account of what, eventually, though unsuspectedly, proved to be her last interview with this venerated friend.
To Mrs. Phillips.
25th Nov. 1784. — Our dear father lent me the carriage this morning for Bolt-court, You will easily conceive how gladly I seized the opportunity for making a longer visit than usual to my revered Dr. Johnson, whose health, since his return from Litchfield, has been deplorably deteriorated.
He was alone, and I had a more satisfactory and entertaining conversation with him than I have had for many months past He was in better spirits, too, than I have seen him, except upon our first meeting, since he came back to Bolt-court.
He owned, nevertheless, that his nights were grievously restless and painful; and told me that he was going, by medical advice, to try what sleeping out of town might do for him. And then, with a smile, but a smile of more sadness than mirth! — he added: “I remember that my wife, when she was near her end, poor woman! — was also advised to sleep out of town: and when she was carried to the lodging that had been prepared for her, she complained that the staircase was in a very bad condition; for the plaster was beaten off the walls in many places. ‘O!’ said the man of the house, ‘that’s nothing; its only the knocks against it of the coffins of the poor souls that have died in the lodging.’”
He forced a faint laugh at the man’s brutal honesty; but it was a laugh of ill-disguised, though checked, secret anguish.
I felt inexpressibly shocked, both by the perspective and retrospective view of this relation: but, desirous to confine my words to the literal story, I only exclaimed against the man’s unfeeling absurdity in making so unnecessary a confession.
“True!” he cried; “such a confession, to a person then mounting his stairs for the recovery of her health — or, rather for the preservation of her life, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our account to.”
We talked then of poor Mrs. Thrale — but only for a moment — for I saw him so greatly moved, and with such severity of displeasure, that I hastened to start another subject; and he solemnly enjoined me to mention that no more!
I gave him concisely the history of the Bristol milk-woman, who is at present zealously patronized by the benevolent Hannah More. I expressed my surprise at the reports generally in circulation, that the first authors that the milk-woman read, if not the only ones, were Milton and Young. “I find it difficult,” I added, “to conceive how Milton and Young could be the first authors with any reader. Could a child understand them? And grown persons, who have never read, are, in literature, children still.”
“Doubtless,” he answered. “But there is nothing so little comprehended as what is genius. They give it to all, when it can be but a part. The milk-woman had surely begun with some ballad — Chevy Chace or the Children in the Wood. Genius is, in fact, knowing the use of tools. But there must be tools, or how use
them? A man who has spent all his life in this room, will give a very poor account of what is contained in the next.”
“Certainly, sir; and yet there is such a thing as invention? Shakspeare could never have seen a Caliban?”
“No, but he had seen a man, and knew how to vary him to a monster. A person who would draw a monstrous cow, must know first what a cow is commonly; or how can he tell that to give her an ass’s head, or an elephant’s tusk, will make her monstrous? Suppose you show me a man, who is a very expert carpenter, and that an admiring stander-by, looking at some of his works, exclaims: ‘O! he was born a carpenter!’ What would have become of that birth-right, if he had never seen any wood?”
Presently, dwelling on this idea, he went on. “Let two men, one with genius, the other with none, look together at an overturned wagon; he who has no genius will think of the wagon only as he then sees it; that is to say, overturned, and walk on: he who has genius will give it a glance of examination, that will paint it to his imagination such as it was previously to its being overturned; and when it was standing still; and when it was in motion; and when it was heavy loaded; and when it was empty; but both alike must see the wagon to think of it at all.”
The pleasure with which I listened to his illustration now animated him on; and he talked upon this milk-woman, and upon a once as famous, shoemaker; and then mounted his, spirits and his subject to our immortal Shakspeare; flowing and glowing on, with as much wit and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him display; but, alack-a-day, my Susan, I have no power to give you the participation so justly your due. My paper is filling; and I have no franks for doubling letters across the channel! But delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor, infirm, shaken machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way! And soon, exhilarated as he became by the pleasure of bestowing pleasure, I saw a palpable increase of suffering in the midst of his sallies; I offered, therefore, to go into the next room, there to wait for the carriage; an offer which, for the first time! he did not oppose; but taking, and most affectionately pressing, both my hands, “Be not,” he said, in a voice of even melting kindness and concern, “be not longer in coming again for my letting you go now!”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 418