Complete Works of Frances Burney

by Frances Burney

  Medical aid was, however, called in; but no prescription was efficacious: no further room, therefore, was left for demur, and with the sanction, or rather by the direction of her kind father, she addressed a letter to the queen — having first besought and obtained her majesty’s leave for taking so direct a course.

  In this letter the memorialist unreservedly represented the altered state of her health; with the fears of her father that her constitution would be utterly undermined, unless it could be restored by retirement from all official exertions. She supplicated, therefore, her majesty’s permission to give in her resignation, with her humblest acknowledgments for all the extraordinary goodness that had been shown to her; the remembrance of which would be ever gratefully and indelibly engraven on her heart Scarcely with more reluctance was this letter delivered than it was received; and as painful to Dr. Burney were the conflicting scenes that followed this step, as had been the apprehensions by which it had been produced. The queen was moved even to tears at the prospect of losing a faithful attendant, whom she had considered as consecrated to her for life, and on whose attachment she had the firmest reliance: and the reluctance with which she turned from the separation led to modifying propositions, so condescendingly urgent, that the plan of retreat was soon nearly melted away from grateful devotion.

  In no common manner, indeed, was Dr. Burney beset to adhere to his purpose; he was invoked, conjured, nay exhorted, by calls and supplications from the most distinguished of his friends, which, however gratifying to his parental feelings, were distressful to his loyal ideas, from his conviction that the gracious wish of detention sprung from a belief that the restoration of the invalid might be effected without relinquishing her place.

  MR. BOSWELL.

  And while thus poignantly he was disturbed by this conflict, his daughter became accidentally informed of plans that were in secret agitation to goad his resolves. Mr. Boswell, about this time, guided by M. de Guiffardiere, crossed and intercepted her passage, one Sunday morning, from the Windsor cathedral to the queen’s lodge.

  Mr. Boswell had visited Windsor to solicit the king’s leave, which graciously had been granted, for publishing Dr. Johnson’s dialogue with his majesty.

  Almost forcibly stopping her in her path, though making her an obsequious, or rather a theatrical, bow, “I am happy,” he cried, “to find you, madam, for I was told you were lost! closed in the unscalable walls of a royal convent But let me tell you, madam!” assuming his highest tone of mock-heroic, “it wont do! You must come forth, madam! You must abscond from your princely monastery, and come forth! You were not born to be immured, like a tabby cat, madam, in your august cell! We want you in the world. And we are told you are very ill. But we can’t spare you. Besides, madam, I want your Johnson’s letters for my book!”

  Then, stopping at once himself and his hearer, by spreading abroad both his arms, in stalling suddenly before her, he energetically added, “FOR THE BOOK, madam! the first book in the universe!”

  Swelling then with internal gratulation, yet involuntarily half laughing, from good-humouredly catching the infection of the impulse which his unrestrained self-complacency excited in his listener, he significantly paused; but the next minute, with double emphasis, and strong, even comic gesticulation, he went on: “I have every thing else! every thing that can be named, of every sort, and class, and description, to show the great man in all his bearings! — everything — except his letters to you! But I have nothing of that kind. I look for it all from you! It is necessary to complete my portrait It will be the first book in the whole universe, madam! There’s nothing like it—” again half laughing, yet speaking more and more forcibly: “There never was, — and there never will be! — So give me your letters, and I’ll place them with the hand of a master!”

  She made some sportive reply, to hurry away from his urgency; but he pursued her quite to the lodge; acting the whole way so as to make gazers of all whom they encountered, and a laughing observer of M. de Guiffardiere. “You must come forth, madam!” he vociferated; “this monastic life won’t do. You must come forth! We are resolved to a man, — WE, The Club, madam! ay, THE CLUB, madam! are resolved to a man that Dr. Burney shall have no rest — poor gentleman! — till he scale the walls of your august convent, to burn your veil, and carry you off.”

  At the iron gate opening into the lawn, not daring to force his uninvited steps any farther, he seriously and formally again stopped her, and, with a look and voice that indicated — don’t imagine I am trifling! — solemnly confirmed to her a rumour which already had reached her ears, that Mr. Windham, whom she knew to be foremost in this chivalrous cabal against the patience of Dr. Burney, was modelling a plan for inducing the members of the Literary Club to address a round-robin to the Doctor, to recall his daughter to the world.

  “And the whole matter was puissantly discussed,” added Mr. Boswell, “at THE CLUB, madam, at the last meeting — Charles Fox in the chair.”

  The alarm of this intimation sufficed, however, to save the Doctor from so disconcerting an honour; for the next time that the invalid, who, though palpably waning away, was seldom confined to the house, went to Westminster Hall during the trial of Mr. Hastings, and was joined by Mr. Windham, she entreated that liberal friend to relinquish his too kind purpose; assuring him that such a violent measure was unnecessary, since all, however slowly, was progressive towards her making the essay so kindly desired for her health, of change of air and life.

  Mr. Windham, at first, persisted’ that nothing short of a round-robin would decisively re-urge Dr. Burney to his “almost blunted purpose.” But when, with equal truth and gratitude, she seriously told him that his own personal influence had already, in this most intricate difficulty, been persuasively powerful, he exclaimed, with his ever animated elegance, “ Then I have not lived in vain!” and acquiesced.

  WINDSOR.

  Sir Joshua Reynolds, Horace Walpole, and all the Burkes, were potent accomplices in this kind and singular conspiracy; which, at last, was suddenly superseded by so obviously a dilapidated state of health in its object, as to admit of no further procrastination; and this uncommon struggle at length ended by the entrance at Windsor of a successor to the invalid, in July, 1791; when, though with nearly as much regret as eagerness, Dr. Burney fetched his daughter from the palace; to which, exactly five years previously, he had conveyed her with unmixed delight It is here a duty — a fair and a willing one — to mention, that in an audience of leave-taking to which the memorialist was admitted just before her departure, the queen had the gracious munificence to insist that half the salary annexed to the resigned office should be retained, and when the memorialist, from fulness of heart, and the surprise of gratitude, would have declined, though with the warmest and most respectful acknowledgments, a remuneration to which she had never looked forward, the queen, without listening to her resistance, deigned to express the softest regret that it was not convenient to her to do more.,’

  All of ill health, fatigue, or suffering, that had worked the necessity for this parting, was now, at this moment of its final operation, sunk in tender gratitude, or lost in the sorrow of leavetaking; and the memorialist could difficultly articulate, in retiring, a single sentence of her regret or her attachment: while the queen, with weeping eyes, laid her fair hand upon the arm of the memorialist, repeatedly and gently wishing her happy— “well and happy!” And all the princesses were graciously demonstrative of a concern nearly amounting to emotion in pronouncing their adieus. Even the king, coming up to her, with an evident intention to wish her well, as he entered the apartment that she was quitting, wore an aspect of so much pity for her broken health, that, utterly overpowered by the commiserating expression of his benevolent countenance, she was obliged, instead of murmuring her thanks, and curtesying her farewell, abruptly to turn from him to an adjoining window, to hide a grateful sensibility of his goodness that she could neither subdue, nor venture to manifest

  1791.

&nb
sp; Arrived again at the natal home, Dr. Burney welcomed back his daughter with the most cheering tenderness. All the family hastened to hail and propitiate her return; and congratulatory hopes and wishes for the speedy restoration of her health poured in upon the Doctor from all quarters.

  But chiefly Mrs. Crewe, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Messrs. Windham, Horace Walpole, and Seward, started forward, by visits or by letters, upon this restitution, with greetings almost tumultuous; so imbued had been their minds with the belief that change of scene and change of life alone could retard a change more fatal.

  MR. BURKE.

  Mr. Burke was at Beaconsfield; and joined not, therefore, in the kind participation which the Doctor might else have hoped for, on the re-appearance of his invalid daughter in those enlightening circles of which Mr. Burke, now, was the unrivalled first ornament It may here be right, perhaps, as well as interesting, to note, since it can be done upon proof, the kindness of heart and liberality of Mr. Burke, even in politics, when not combatted by the turbulence and excitement of public contention. Too noble, indeed, was his genuine character, too great, too grand, for any warp so offensive to mental liberty, as that of seeking to subject the opinions of his friends to his own.

  This truth will be amply illustrated by the following letter, written in answer to some apology from Dr. Burney, for withholding his vote at a Westminster election, from the friend and the party that were canvassed for in person by Mr. Burke.

  “ To Dr. Burney.

  “My Dear Sir, — I give you my sincere thanks for your desire to satisfy my mind relative to your conduct in this exigency. I am well acquainted with your principles and sentiments, and know that every thing good is to be expected from both.

  ***

  God forbid that worthy men, situated as you are, should be made sacrifices to the minuter part of politics, when we are far from able to assure ourselves that the higher parts can be made to answer the good ends we have in view! You have little or no obligations to me; but if you had as many as I really wish it were in my power — as it is certainly in my desire — to lay upon you, I hope you do not think me capable of conferring them, in order to subject your mind, or your affairs, to a painful and mischievous servitude. I know that your sentiments will always outrun the demands of your friends; and that you want rather to be restrained in the excess of what is right, than to be stimulated to a languid and insufficient exertion.”

  Dr. Burney at this time resided entirely at Chelsea College; and he found this sojourn so perfectly to his taste, that, though obliged, some years afterwards, by official arrangements, to remove from the ground floor to nearly the highest range of rooms in that lofty edifice, he never wished to change the place of his abode.

  Solaced, nevertheless, as was now his anxiety for his invalid daughter, he was not at rest She looked ill, weak, and languid; and the danger was clearly not over.

  So deplorably, indeed, was her health injured, that successive changes of air were medicinally advised for her to Dr. Burney; and her maternally zealous friend, Mrs. Ord, most kindly proposed taking charge of the execution of that prescription. A tour to the west was undertaken; the Bath waters were successfully tried: and, after passing nearly four months in gentle travelling, the good Mrs. Ord delivered the invalid to her family, nearly re-established.

  The paternal affection which greeted this double restoration, to her health and her home, gave her, then, a happiness which vivified both. The Doctor allowed her the indulgence of living almost wholly in his study; they read together, wrote together, compared notes, communicated projects, and diversified each other’s employment; and his kindness, enlivened by her late danger and difficulties, was more marked, and more precious to her than ever.

  She had no sooner made known that her western tour was finished, than she was summoned to the palace, where her majesty deigned to receive her with the highest grace of condescension; and to keep her in animated discourse, with the same noble trust in her faithful attachment, that had uniformly marked every confidence during her royal residence. Each of the amiable princesses honoured her with a separate interview; vying with each other in kindly lively expressions upon her restored looks and appearance: and the king, the gracious king himself, vouchsafed, with an air the most benevolent, not alone of goodness, but even of pleasure, to inquire after her health, to rejoice in its improvement, and to declare, condescendingly, repeatedly to declare, how glad he was to see her again. He even made her stand under a lustre, that he might examine her countenance, before he pronounced himself satisfied with her recovery.

  And, from that time forward, upon her every subsequent admission, the graciousness of her reception bounded with the blandest joy from her own heart to that of the Doctor.

  HISTORY OF MUSIC.

  Not to break into the little history which mentally, during the last five years, had almost absorbed Dr. Burney, no mention has been made of a personal event of as much moment to his peace as to his fame; namely, the publication, in 1789, of the third volume of his History of Music; nor that, before the end of the same year, he had the brain-relieving satisfaction of completing his long impending work, by bringing out the fourth and last volume.

  It seemed to him a sort of regeneration to feel freedom restored to his reflections, and liberty to his use of time, by arriving at the close of this literary labour; which, though in its origin voluntary, had of late become heavily fatiguing, because shackled by an engagement, and therefore obligatory.

  1791.

  The life of Dr. Burney was now almost equally distributed in literary, professional, and amical divisions.

  In literature, his time, ostensibly, was become his own; but never was time less so than when put into his own hands; for his eagerness was without either curb or limit to devote it to some new pursuit And scarcely had that elastic bound of renovated youth, of which he speaks to Mr. Repton, been capered, than a fresh, yet voluntary occupation, drove his newly-restored leisure away, and opened a course of bookish and critical toil, that soon seized again upon every spare moment This was constituting himself a member amongst the Monthly Reviewers, under the editorship of the worthy Mr. Griffith.

  Of the articles which were Dr. Burney’s, no list has been found; and probably none was kept The ardour of sincerity in pointing out faults and failures, is so apt to lead to a similar ardour of severity in their censure, that, in those days, when the critics were not, wisely, anonymous, the secret and passive war of books and words among authors, menaced the more public and tumultuous one of swords and pistols.

  The unfortunate, but truly amiable and high-minded Mr. Beckford was amongst the greatest favourites and most welcome visiters to Dr. Burney; whose remembrance of the friendly zeal of that gentleman in Italy, was a never failing call for every soothing return that could be offered to him in the calamities which, roughly and ruinously, had now changed his whole situation in life — leaving his virtues alone unalterable.

  The two Wesleys, Charles and Samuel, those born rather than bred musicians, sought, and were welcomed by the Doctor, whenever his leisure agreed with his estimation of their talents.

  With Samuel he was often in musical correspondence.

  Horace Walpole invariably delighted in the society of Dr. Burney; and had himself no admirer who carried from his company and conversation a larger or more zested portion of his lordship’s bon mots; or who had a higher taste for his peculiar style of entertainment

  MR. GREVILLE.

  But Mr. Greville, the old friend and early patron of the Doctor, he now never saw, save by accident; and rarely as that occurred, it was oftener than could be wished; so querulous was that gentleman grown, from ill-luck in his perilous pursuits; so irascible within, and so supercilious without; assuming to all around him a sort of dignified distance, that bordered, at least, upon universal disdain.

  The world seemed completely in decadence with this fallen gentleman; and the writhings of long suffocated mortification, from sinking his fine spirits and sicken
ing his gay hopes, began to engender a morbid irritation, that was ready, upon every fancied provocation, to boil into vehemence of passion, or burst into the bitterness of sarcastic reproach.

  So torpid was the infatuation of self-security in Mr. Greville, that pertinaciously he frequented the same seductive haunts, and mechanically adhered to the same dangerous society, till the knowledge of his errors and their mischief was forced upon him by his creditors.

  Angered and disgusted, he then, in gloomy sullenness, retired from public view; and lived a rambling, unsettled sort of life, as ill at ease with his family as with the world, from the wounds he habitually inflicted, and occasionally suffered, through the irritability of his argumentative commerce.

  MR. AND MRS. SHERIDAN.

  Another of the Doctor’s brightest calls to high and animated society was now, also, utterly eclipsed; for she, the loveliest of the lovely, the first Mrs. Sheridan, was fading away — vanishing — from the list of his fair enchantresses.

  This paragon of syrens, by almost universal and national consent, had been looked up to, when she sang at oratorios and at concerts, as the star of harmony in England: though so short was that eclat of supremacy, that, from the date of her marriage, her claim to such pre-eminence was known to the public only by remembrance or by rumour; Mr. Sheridan, her husband, inexorably renouncing all similar engagements, and only at his own house suffering her to sing.

  Far happier had it been for that captivating and beautiful creature, far happier for her eminent and highly talented husband, had the appropriate fame that belonged equally to the birth, education, and extraordinary abilities of both, been adequate to their pride of expectation: for then, glowing with rational and modest, not burning with inordinate and eccentric ambition, they would not disdainfully — almost madly — have cast away from their serious and real service the brilliant gifts of favouring nature, which, if seasonably brought forth, would have opened to them, without struggle or difficulty, the golden portals of that splendour to which their passion for grandeur and enjoyment throbbingly aspired.