A reply so singularly encouraging, demanding “another letter,” and yet “another,” raised the spirits, and flattered the hopes—it might almost be said the foresight—of Mr. Burney, with a prospect of future intimacy, that instigated the following unaffected answer.
“Sir,“That you should think my letter worthy of notice was what I began to despair of; and, indeed, I had framed and admitted several reasons for your silence, more than sufficient for your exculpation. But so highly has your politeness overrated my intentions, that I find it impossible for me to resist accepting the invitation with which you have honoured me, of writing to you again, though conscious that I have nothing to offer that can by any means merit your attention.“It is with the utmost impatience that I await the possession of your great work, in which every literary difficulty will he solved, and curiosity gratified, at least as far as English literature is concerned: nor am I fearful of letting expectation rise to the highest summit in which she can accompany reason.“From what you are pleased to say concerning Mr. Dodsley, I shall ever think myself much his debtor; but yet I cannot help suspecting that you intended him a compliment when you talked ofrecommendation. Is it possible that the world should be so blind, or booksellers so stupid, as to need other recommendation than your own? Indeed, I shall honourboth, world and booksellers, so far as to substitutesolicitationin the place of the above humiliating term.
“Sir,
“That you should think my letter worthy of notice was what I began to despair of; and, indeed, I had framed and admitted several reasons for your silence, more than sufficient for your exculpation. But so highly has your politeness overrated my intentions, that I find it impossible for me to resist accepting the invitation with which you have honoured me, of writing to you again, though conscious that I have nothing to offer that can by any means merit your attention.
“It is with the utmost impatience that I await the possession of your great work, in which every literary difficulty will he solved, and curiosity gratified, at least as far as English literature is concerned: nor am I fearful of letting expectation rise to the highest summit in which she can accompany reason.
“From what you are pleased to say concerning Mr. Dodsley, I shall ever think myself much his debtor; but yet I cannot help suspecting that you intended him a compliment when you talked ofrecommendation. Is it possible that the world should be so blind, or booksellers so stupid, as to need other recommendation than your own? Indeed, I shall honourboth, world and booksellers, so far as to substitutesolicitationin the place of the above humiliating term.
“Perhaps you will smile when I inform you, that since first the rumour of your Dictionary’s coming abroad this winter was spread, I have been supposed to be marvellously deep in politics: not a sun has set since the above time without previously lighting me to the coffee-house; nor risen, without renewing my curiosity. But time, the great revealer of secrets, has at length put an end to my solicitude; for, if there be truth in book men, I can now, by cunning calculation, foretell the day and hour when it will arrive at Lynn.“If, which is probable, I should fix my future abode in London, I cannot help rejoicing that I shall then be an inhabitant of the same town, and exulting that I shall then be a fellow citizen with Mr. Johnson; and were it possible I could be honoured with a small share of his esteem, I should regard it as the most grateful circumstance of my life. And—shall I add, that I have a female companion, whose intellects are sufficiently masculine to enter into the true spirit of your writings, and, consequently, to have an enthusiastic zeal for them and their author? How happy would your presence make us over our tea, so often meliorated by your productions!“If, in the mean time, your avocations would permit you to bestow a line or two upon me, without greatly incommoding yourself, it would communicate the highest delight to“Sir,“Your most obedient,“And most humble servant,“Chas. Burney.”“Have you, Sir, ever met with a little French book, entitled, ‘Synonimes François, par M. l’Abbé Girard?’ I am inclined to imagine, if you have not seen it, that it would afford you, as[Pg 124]a philologer, some pleasure, it being written with great spirit, and, I think, accuracy: but I should rejoice to have my opinion either confirmed or corrected by yours. If you should find any difficulty in procuring the book, mine is wholly at your service.”“Lynn Regis, April 14th, 1755.”
“Perhaps you will smile when I inform you, that since first the rumour of your Dictionary’s coming abroad this winter was spread, I have been supposed to be marvellously deep in politics: not a sun has set since the above time without previously lighting me to the coffee-house; nor risen, without renewing my curiosity. But time, the great revealer of secrets, has at length put an end to my solicitude; for, if there be truth in book men, I can now, by cunning calculation, foretell the day and hour when it will arrive at Lynn.
“If, which is probable, I should fix my future abode in London, I cannot help rejoicing that I shall then be an inhabitant of the same town, and exulting that I shall then be a fellow citizen with Mr. Johnson; and were it possible I could be honoured with a small share of his esteem, I should regard it as the most grateful circumstance of my life. And—shall I add, that I have a female companion, whose intellects are sufficiently masculine to enter into the true spirit of your writings, and, consequently, to have an enthusiastic zeal for them and their author? How happy would your presence make us over our tea, so often meliorated by your productions!
“If, in the mean time, your avocations would permit you to bestow a line or two upon me, without greatly incommoding yourself, it would communicate the highest delight to
“Sir,
“Your most obedient,
“And most humble servant,
“Chas. Burney.”
“Have you, Sir, ever met with a little French book, entitled, ‘Synonimes François, par M. l’Abbé Girard?’ I am inclined to imagine, if you have not seen it, that it would afford you, as[Pg 124]a philologer, some pleasure, it being written with great spirit, and, I think, accuracy: but I should rejoice to have my opinion either confirmed or corrected by yours. If you should find any difficulty in procuring the book, mine is wholly at your service.”
“Lynn Regis, April 14th, 1755.”
To this letter there was little chance of any answer, the demanded “another,” relative to the Dictionary, being still due.
That splendid, and probably, from any single intellect, unequalled work, for vigour of imagination and knowledge amidst the depths of erudition, came out in 1756. And, early in 1757, Mr. Burney paid his faithful homage to its author.
“To Mr. Johnson, Gough-square.“Sir,“Without exercising the greatest self-denial, I should not have been able thus long to withhold from you my grateful acknowledgments for the delight and instruction you have afforded me by means of your admirable Dictionary—a work, I believe, not yet equalled in any language; for, not to mention the accuracy, precision, and elegance of the definitions, the illustrations of words are so judiciously and happily selected as to render it a repository, and, I had almost said, universal register of whatever is sublime or beautiful in English literature. In looking for words, we constantly find things. The road,[Pg 125]indeed, to the former, is so flowery as not to be travelled with speed, at least by me, who find it impossible to arrive at the intelligence I want, without bating by the way, and revelling in collateral entertainment. Were I to express all that I think upon this subject, your Dictionary would be stript of a great part of its furniture: but as praise is never gratefully received by the justly deserving till a deduction is first made of the ignorance or partiality of him who bestows it, I shall support my opinion by a passage from a work of reputation among our neighbours, which, if it have not yet reached you, I shall rejoice at being the first to communicate, in hopes of augmenting the satisfaction arising from honest fame, and a conviction of having conferred benefits on mankind: well knowing with how parsimonious and niggard a hand men administer comfort of the kind to modest merit.
“To Mr. Johnson, Gough-square.
“Sir,
“Without exercising the greatest self-denial, I should not have been able thus long to withhold from you my grateful acknowledgments for the delight and instruction you have afforded me by means of your admirable Dictionary—a work, I believe, not yet equalled in any language; for, not to mention the accuracy, precision, and elegance of the definitions, the illustrations of words are so judiciously and happily selected as to render it a repository, and, I had almost said, universal register of whatever is sublime or beautiful in English literature. In looking for words, we constantly find things. The road,[Pg 125]indeed, to the former, is so flowery as not to be travelled with speed, at least by me, who find it impossible to arrive at the intelligence I want, without bating by the way, and revelling in collateral entertainment. Were I to express all that I think upon this subject, your Dictionary would be stript of a great part of its furniture: but as praise is never gratefully received by the justly deserving till a deduction is first made of the ignorance or partiality of him who bestows it, I shall support my opinion by a passage from a work of reputation among our neighbours, which, if it have not yet reached you, I shall rejoice at being the first to communicate, in hopes of augmenting the satisfaction arising from honest fame, and a conviction of having conferred benefits on mankind: well knowing with how parsimonious and niggard a hand men administer comfort of the kind to modest merit.
“‘Le savant et ingenieux M. Samuel Johnson, qui, dans l’incomparable feuille periodique intitulée le Rambler, apprenoit à ses compatriotes à penser avec justesse sur les matières les plus interessantes, vient de leur fournir des secours pour bien parler, et pour écrire correctement; talens que personne, peut être, ne possede dans un degré plus eminent que lui. Il n’y a qu’une voix sur le succés de l’auteur pour epurer, fixer, et enricher une langue dont son Rambler montre si admirablement l’abondance et la force, l’elegance et l’harmonie.’“Bibliotheque des Savans.Tom. iii. p. 482.
“‘Le savant et ingenieux M. Samuel Johnson, qui, dans l’incomparable feuille periodique intitulée le Rambler, apprenoit à ses compatriotes à penser avec justesse sur les matières les plus interessantes, vient de leur fournir des secours pour bien parler, et pour écrire correctement; talens que personne, peut être, ne possede dans un degré plus eminent que lui. Il n’y a qu’une voix sur le succés de l’auteur pour epurer, fixer, et enricher une langue dont son Rambler montre si admirablement l’abondance et la force, l’elegance et l’harmonie.’
“Bibliotheque des Savans.Tom. iii. p. 482.
“Though I had constantly in my remembrance the encouragement with which you flattered me in your reply to my first letter, yet knowing that civility and politeness seem often to countenance actions which they would not perform, I couldhardly think myself entitled to the permission you gave me of writing to you again, had I not lately been apprised of your intention to oblige the admirers of Shakespeare with a new edition of his works by subscription. But, shall I venture to tell you, notwithstanding my veneration for you and Shakespeare, that I do not partake of the joy which the selfish public seem to feel on this occasion?—so far from it, I could not but be afflicted at reflecting, that so exalted, so refined a genius as the author of the Rambler, should submit to a task so unworthy of him as that of a mere editor: for who would not grieve to see a Palladio, or a Jones, undergo the dull drudgery of carrying rubbish from an old building, when he should be tracing the model of a new one? But I detain you too long from the main subject of this letter, which is to beg a place in the subscription for,The Right Hon. the Earl of Orford,Miss Mason,Brigs Carey, Esq.Archdale Wilson, Esq.Richard Fuller, Esq.“And for, Sir,“Your most humble, and extremely devoted servant,“Charles Burney.”“Lynn Regis,28th March, 1757.”
“Though I had constantly in my remembrance the encouragement with which you flattered me in your reply to my first letter, yet knowing that civility and politeness seem often to countenance actions which they would not perform, I couldhardly think myself entitled to the permission you gave me of writing to you again, had I not lately been apprised of your intention to oblige the admirers of Shakespeare with a new edition of his works by subscription. But, shall I venture to tell you, notwithstanding my veneration for you and Shakespeare, that I do not partake of the joy which the selfish public seem to feel on this occasion?—so far from it, I could not but be afflicted at reflecting, that so exalted, so refined a genius as the author of the Rambler, should submit to a task so unworthy of him as that of a mere editor: for who would not grieve to see a Palladio, or a Jones, undergo the dull drudgery of carrying rubbish from an old building, when he should be tracing the model of a new one? But I detain you too long from the main subject of this letter, which is to beg a place in the subscription for,
The Right Hon. the Earl of Orford,Miss Mason,Brigs Carey, Esq.Archdale Wilson, Esq.Richard Fuller, Esq.
“And for, Sir,
“Your most humble, and extremely devoted servant,
“Charles Burney.”
“Lynn Regis,
28th March, 1757.”
It was yet some years later than this last date of correspondence, before Mr. Burney found an opportunity of paying his personal respects to Dr. Johnson; who then, in 1760, resided in chambersat the Temple. No account, unfortunately, remains of this first interview, except an anecdote that relates to Mr. Bewley.
While awaiting the appearance of his revered host, Mr. Burney recollected a supplication from the philosopher of Massingham, to be indulged with some token, however trifling or common, of his friend’s admission to the habitation of this great man. Vainly, however, Mr. Burney looked around the apartment for something that he might innoxiously purloin. Nothing but coarse and necessary furniture was in view; nothing portable—not even a wafer, the cover of a letter, or a split pen, was to be caught; till, at length, he had the happiness to espie an old hearth broom in the chimney corner. From this, with hasty glee, he cut off a bristly wisp, which he hurried into his pocket-book; and afterwards formally folded in silver paper, and forwarded, in a frank, to Lord Orford, for Mr. Bewley; by whom the burlesque offering was hailed with good-humoured acclamation, and preserved through life.
In this manner passed on, quick though occupied, and happy though toilsome, nine or ten yearsin Norfolk; when the health of Mr. Burney being re-established, and his rising reputation demanding a wider field for expansion, a sort of cry was raised amongst his early friends to spur his return to the metropolis.
Fully, however, as he felt the flattery of that cry, and ill as, in its origin, he had been satisfied with his Lynn residence, he had now experienced from that town and its vicinity, so much true kindness, and cordial hospitality, that his reluctance to quit them was verging upon renouncing such a measure; when he received the following admonition upon the subject from his first friend, and earliest guide, Mr. Crisp.
“To Mr. Burney.
* * *
“I have no more to say, my dear Burney, about harpsichords: and if you remain amongst your foggy aldermen, I shall be the more indifferent whether I have one or not. But really, among friends, is not settling at Lynn, planting your youth, genius, hopes, fortune, &c., against a north wall? Can you ever expect ripe, high-flavoured fruit, from such an aspect? Your underrate prices in the town, and galloping about the country for higher, especially in the winter—are they worthy of your talents? In all professions, do you not see every thing that has the least pretence to genius, fly up to the capital—the centre of riches,[Pg 129]luxury, taste, pride, extravagance,—all that ingenuity is to fatten upon? Take, then, your spare person, your pretty mate, and your brats, to that propitious mart, and,‘Seize the glorious, golden opportunity,’while yet you have youth, spirits, and vigour to give fair play to your abilities, for placing them and yourself in a proper point of view. And so I give you my blessing.“Samuel Crisp.”
“I have no more to say, my dear Burney, about harpsichords: and if you remain amongst your foggy aldermen, I shall be the more indifferent whether I have one or not. But really, among friends, is not settling at Lynn, planting your youth, genius, hopes, fortune, &c., against a north wall? Can you ever expect ripe, high-flavoured fruit, from such an aspect? Your underrate prices in the town, and galloping about the country for higher, especially in the winter—are they worthy of your talents? In all professions, do you not see every thing that has the least pretence to genius, fly up to the capital—the centre of riches,[Pg 129]luxury, taste, pride, extravagance,—all that ingenuity is to fatten upon? Take, then, your spare person, your pretty mate, and your brats, to that propitious mart, and,
‘Seize the glorious, golden opportunity,’
while yet you have youth, spirits, and vigour to give fair play to your abilities, for placing them and yourself in a proper point of view. And so I give you my blessing.
“Samuel Crisp.”
Mr. Crisp, almost immediately after this letter, visited, and for some years, the continent.
This exhortation, in common with whatever emanated from Mr. Crisp, proved decisive; and Mr. Burney fixed at once his resolve upon returning to the capital; though some years still passed ere he could put it in execution.
The following are his reflections, written at a much later period, upon this determination.
After enumerating, with warm regard, the many to whom he owed kindness in the county of Norfolk, he adds:
“All of these, for nearly thirty miles round, had their houses and tables pressingly open to me: and, in the town of Lynn, my wife, to all evening parties, though herself no card player, never failed to be equally invited; for she had a most delightful turn in conversation, seasoned with agreeable wit, and pleasing[Pg 130]manners; and great powers of entering into the humours of her company; which, with the beauty of her person, occasioned her to receive more invitations than she wished; as she was truly domestic, had a young family on her hands, and, generally, one of them at her breast. But whenever we could spend an evening at home, without disappointing our almost too kind inviters, we had a course of reading so various and entertaining, in history, voyages, poetry, and, as far as Chambers’ Dictionary, the Philosophical Transactions, and the French Encyclopedia, to the first edition of which I was a subscriber, could carry us, in science, that thosetête à têteseclusions were what we enjoyed the most completely.“This, of course, raised my wife far above all the females of Lynn, who were, then, no readers, with the exception of Mrs. Stephen Allen and Dolly Young. And this congeniality of taste brought on an intimacy of friendship in these three females, that lasted during their several lives.“My wife was the delight of all her acquaintance; excellent mother—zealous friend—of highly superior intellects.“We enjoyed at Lynn tranquillity and social happiness—”
“All of these, for nearly thirty miles round, had their houses and tables pressingly open to me: and, in the town of Lynn, my wife, to all evening parties, though herself no card player, never failed to be equally invited; for she had a most delightful turn in conversation, seasoned with agreeable wit, and pleasing[Pg 130]manners; and great powers of entering into the humours of her company; which, with the beauty of her person, occasioned her to receive more invitations than she wished; as she was truly domestic, had a young family on her hands, and, generally, one of them at her breast. But whenever we could spend an evening at home, without disappointing our almost too kind inviters, we had a course of reading so various and entertaining, in history, voyages, poetry, and, as far as Chambers’ Dictionary, the Philosophical Transactions, and the French Encyclopedia, to the first edition of which I was a subscriber, could carry us, in science, that thosetête à têteseclusions were what we enjoyed the most completely.
“This, of course, raised my wife far above all the females of Lynn, who were, then, no readers, with the exception of Mrs. Stephen Allen and Dolly Young. And this congeniality of taste brought on an intimacy of friendship in these three females, that lasted during their several lives.
“My wife was the delight of all her acquaintance; excellent mother—zealous friend—of highly superior intellects.
“We enjoyed at Lynn tranquillity and social happiness—”
Here again must be inserted another poetical epistle, written, during a short separation, while still at Lynn; which shews that, with whatever fervour of passion he married, he himself was “that other happy man,” in the words of Lord Lyttleton, who had found “How much the wife is dearer than the bride.”
“To Mrs. Burney.
“To thee, henceforth, my matchless mate,My leisure hours I’ll dedicate;To thee my inmost thoughts transmit,Whene’er the busy scene I quit.For thee, companion dear! I feelAn unextinguishable zeal;A love implanted in the mind,From all the grosser dregs refined.Ah! tell me, must not love like mineBe planted by a hand divine,Which, when creation’s work was done,Our heart-strings tuned in unison?If business, or domestic careThe vigour of my mind impair;If forc’d by toil from thee to rove,’Till wearied limbs forget to move,At night, reclin’d upon thy breast,Thy converse lulls my soul to rest.If sickness her distemper’d broodLet loose,—to burn, or freeze my blood,Thy tender vigilance and care,My feeble frame can soon repair.When in some doubtful maze I stray,’Tis thou point’st out the unerring way;If judgment float on wavering wings,In notions vague of men and things;If different views my mind divide,Thy nod instructs me to decide.My pliant soul ’tis thou can’st bend,My help! companion! wife! and friend!When, in the irksome day of troubleThe mental eye sees evils double,Sweet partner of my hopes and fears!’Tis thou alone can’st dry my tears.’Tis thou alone can’st bring relief,Partner of every joy and grief!E’en when encompass’d with distress,Thy smile can every ill redress.On thee, my lovely, faithful friend,My worldly blessings all depend:But if a cloud thy visage low’r, }Not all the wealth in Plutus’ power, }Could buy my heart one peaceful hour. }Then, lodg’d within that aching heart,Is sorrow’s sympathetic dart.But when upon that brow, the seatOf sense refin’d, and beauty sweet,The graces and the loves are seen,And Venus sits by Wisdom’s queen;Pale sadness takes her heavy flight,And, envious, shuns the blissful sight.So when the sun has long endur’dHis radiant face to be obscur’dBy baleful mists and vapours dense,All nature mourns with grief intense:But the refulgent God of DaySoon shews himself in bright array;And as his glorious visage clears,The globe itself in smiles appears.”“Lynn, 1753.”
“To thee, henceforth, my matchless mate,My leisure hours I’ll dedicate;To thee my inmost thoughts transmit,Whene’er the busy scene I quit.For thee, companion dear! I feelAn unextinguishable zeal;A love implanted in the mind,From all the grosser dregs refined.Ah! tell me, must not love like mineBe planted by a hand divine,Which, when creation’s work was done,Our heart-strings tuned in unison?If business, or domestic careThe vigour of my mind impair;If forc’d by toil from thee to rove,’Till wearied limbs forget to move,At night, reclin’d upon thy breast,Thy converse lulls my soul to rest.If sickness her distemper’d broodLet loose,—to burn, or freeze my blood,Thy tender vigilance and care,My feeble frame can soon repair.When in some doubtful maze I stray,’Tis thou point’st out the unerring way;If judgment float on wavering wings,In notions vague of men and things;If different views my mind divide,Thy nod instructs me to decide.My pliant soul ’tis thou can’st bend,My help! companion! wife! and friend!When, in the irksome day of troubleThe mental eye sees evils double,Sweet partner of my hopes and fears!’Tis thou alone can’st dry my tears.’Tis thou alone can’st bring relief,Partner of every joy and grief!E’en when encompass’d with distress,Thy smile can every ill redress.On thee, my lovely, faithful friend,My worldly blessings all depend:But if a cloud thy visage low’r, }Not all the wealth in Plutus’ power, }Could buy my heart one peaceful hour. }Then, lodg’d within that aching heart,Is sorrow’s sympathetic dart.But when upon that brow, the seatOf sense refin’d, and beauty sweet,The graces and the loves are seen,And Venus sits by Wisdom’s queen;Pale sadness takes her heavy flight,And, envious, shuns the blissful sight.So when the sun has long endur’dHis radiant face to be obscur’dBy baleful mists and vapours dense,All nature mourns with grief intense:But the refulgent God of DaySoon shews himself in bright array;And as his glorious visage clears,The globe itself in smiles appears.”“Lynn, 1753.”
“To thee, henceforth, my matchless mate,My leisure hours I’ll dedicate;To thee my inmost thoughts transmit,Whene’er the busy scene I quit.For thee, companion dear! I feelAn unextinguishable zeal;A love implanted in the mind,From all the grosser dregs refined.Ah! tell me, must not love like mineBe planted by a hand divine,Which, when creation’s work was done,Our heart-strings tuned in unison?If business, or domestic careThe vigour of my mind impair;If forc’d by toil from thee to rove,’Till wearied limbs forget to move,At night, reclin’d upon thy breast,Thy converse lulls my soul to rest.If sickness her distemper’d broodLet loose,—to burn, or freeze my blood,Thy tender vigilance and care,My feeble frame can soon repair.When in some doubtful maze I stray,’Tis thou point’st out the unerring way;If judgment float on wavering wings,In notions vague of men and things;If different views my mind divide,Thy nod instructs me to decide.My pliant soul ’tis thou can’st bend,My help! companion! wife! and friend!When, in the irksome day of troubleThe mental eye sees evils double,Sweet partner of my hopes and fears!’Tis thou alone can’st dry my tears.’Tis thou alone can’st bring relief,Partner of every joy and grief!E’en when encompass’d with distress,Thy smile can every ill redress.On thee, my lovely, faithful friend,My worldly blessings all depend:But if a cloud thy visage low’r, }Not all the wealth in Plutus’ power, }Could buy my heart one peaceful hour. }Then, lodg’d within that aching heart,Is sorrow’s sympathetic dart.But when upon that brow, the seatOf sense refin’d, and beauty sweet,The graces and the loves are seen,And Venus sits by Wisdom’s queen;Pale sadness takes her heavy flight,And, envious, shuns the blissful sight.So when the sun has long endur’dHis radiant face to be obscur’dBy baleful mists and vapours dense,All nature mourns with grief intense:But the refulgent God of DaySoon shews himself in bright array;And as his glorious visage clears,The globe itself in smiles appears.”“Lynn, 1753.”
“To thee, henceforth, my matchless mate,My leisure hours I’ll dedicate;To thee my inmost thoughts transmit,Whene’er the busy scene I quit.For thee, companion dear! I feelAn unextinguishable zeal;A love implanted in the mind,From all the grosser dregs refined.Ah! tell me, must not love like mineBe planted by a hand divine,Which, when creation’s work was done,Our heart-strings tuned in unison?If business, or domestic careThe vigour of my mind impair;If forc’d by toil from thee to rove,’Till wearied limbs forget to move,At night, reclin’d upon thy breast,Thy converse lulls my soul to rest.If sickness her distemper’d broodLet loose,—to burn, or freeze my blood,Thy tender vigilance and care,My feeble frame can soon repair.When in some doubtful maze I stray,’Tis thou point’st out the unerring way;If judgment float on wavering wings,In notions vague of men and things;If different views my mind divide,Thy nod instructs me to decide.My pliant soul ’tis thou can’st bend,My help! companion! wife! and friend!When, in the irksome day of troubleThe mental eye sees evils double,Sweet partner of my hopes and fears!’Tis thou alone can’st dry my tears.’Tis thou alone can’st bring relief,Partner of every joy and grief!E’en when encompass’d with distress,Thy smile can every ill redress.On thee, my lovely, faithful friend,My worldly blessings all depend:But if a cloud thy visage low’r, }Not all the wealth in Plutus’ power, }Could buy my heart one peaceful hour. }Then, lodg’d within that aching heart,Is sorrow’s sympathetic dart.But when upon that brow, the seatOf sense refin’d, and beauty sweet,The graces and the loves are seen,And Venus sits by Wisdom’s queen;Pale sadness takes her heavy flight,And, envious, shuns the blissful sight.So when the sun has long endur’dHis radiant face to be obscur’dBy baleful mists and vapours dense,All nature mourns with grief intense:But the refulgent God of DaySoon shews himself in bright array;And as his glorious visage clears,The globe itself in smiles appears.”“Lynn, 1753.”
“To thee, henceforth, my matchless mate,
My leisure hours I’ll dedicate;
To thee my inmost thoughts transmit,
Whene’er the busy scene I quit.
For thee, companion dear! I feel
An unextinguishable zeal;
A love implanted in the mind,
From all the grosser dregs refined.
Ah! tell me, must not love like mine
Be planted by a hand divine,
Which, when creation’s work was done,
Our heart-strings tuned in unison?
If business, or domestic care
The vigour of my mind impair;
If forc’d by toil from thee to rove,
’Till wearied limbs forget to move,
At night, reclin’d upon thy breast,
Thy converse lulls my soul to rest.
If sickness her distemper’d brood
Let loose,—to burn, or freeze my blood,
Thy tender vigilance and care,
My feeble frame can soon repair.
When in some doubtful maze I stray,
’Tis thou point’st out the unerring way;
If judgment float on wavering wings,
In notions vague of men and things;
If different views my mind divide,
Thy nod instructs me to decide.
My pliant soul ’tis thou can’st bend,
My help! companion! wife! and friend!
When, in the irksome day of trouble
The mental eye sees evils double,
Sweet partner of my hopes and fears!
’Tis thou alone can’st dry my tears.
’Tis thou alone can’st bring relief,
Partner of every joy and grief!
E’en when encompass’d with distress,
Thy smile can every ill redress.
On thee, my lovely, faithful friend,
My worldly blessings all depend:
But if a cloud thy visage low’r, }
Not all the wealth in Plutus’ power, }
Could buy my heart one peaceful hour. }
Then, lodg’d within that aching heart,
Is sorrow’s sympathetic dart.
But when upon that brow, the seat
Of sense refin’d, and beauty sweet,
The graces and the loves are seen,
And Venus sits by Wisdom’s queen;
Pale sadness takes her heavy flight,
And, envious, shuns the blissful sight.
So when the sun has long endur’d
His radiant face to be obscur’d
By baleful mists and vapours dense,
All nature mourns with grief intense:
But the refulgent God of Day
Soon shews himself in bright array;
And as his glorious visage clears,
The globe itself in smiles appears.”
“Lynn, 1753.”
The last act of Mr. Burney in relinquishing his residence in Norfolk, was drawing up a petition to Lord Orford to allow park-room in the Haughton grounds, for the rest of its life, to his excellent, faithful mare, the intelligent Peggy; whose truly useful services he could not bear to requite, according to the unfeeling usage of the many, by selling her to hard labour in the decline of her existence.
Lord Orford good-humouredly complied with the request; and the justly-prized Peggy, after enjoying for several years the most perfect ease and freedom, died the death of old age, in Haughton Park.
In 1760 Mr. Burney, with his wife and young family, returned to London; but no longer to the city, which has the peculiar fate, whilst praised and reverenced by the many who to its noble encouragement owe their first dawn of prosperity, ofbeing almost always set aside and relinquished, when that prosperity is effected. Is it that Fortune, like the sun, while it rises, cold, though of fairest promise, in the East, must ever, in its more luxuriant splendour, set in the West?
The new establishment was in Poland-street; which was not then, as it is now, a sort of street that, like the rest of its neighbourhood, appears to be left in the lurch. House-fanciers were not yet as fastidious as they are become at present, from the endless variety of new habitations. Oxford-road, as, at that time, Oxford-street was called, into which Poland-street terminated, had little on its further side but fields, gardeners’ grounds, or uncultivated suburbs. Portman, Manchester, Russel, Belgrave squares, Portland-place, &c. &c., had not yet a single stone or brick laid, in signal of intended erection: while in plain Poland-street, Mr. Burney, then, had successively for his neighbours, the Duke of Chandos, Lady Augusta Bridges, the Hon. John Smith and the Miss Barrys, Sir Willoughby and the Miss Astons; and, well noted by Mr. Burney’s little family, on the visit of his black majesty to England, sojourned, almost immediately opposite to it, the Cherokee King.
The opening of this new plan of life, was as successful to Mr. Burney as its projection had been promising. Pupils of rank, wealth, and talents, were continually proposed to him; and, in a very short time, he had hardly an hour unappropriated to some fair disciple.
Lady Tankerville, amongst the rest, resumed her lessons with her early master, obligingly submitting her time to his convenience, be it what it might, rather than change her first favourite instructor. Ere long, however, she resided almost wholly abroad, having attached herself with enthusiastic fervour to the Princess Amelia, sister to Frederick the Great of Prussia. The Countess even accepted the place of Dame d’Atour to that accomplished princess; whose charms, according to poetical record, banished for a while their too daring admirer, Voltaire, from the Court of Berlin.
This enterprising Countess retained her spirit of whim, singularity, and activity, through a long life; for when, many years later, she returned to her own country, quite old, while Dr. Burney had not yet reached the zenith of his fame, she again applied to him for musical tuition; and when he told her, with regret, that his day was completely filled up,from eight o’clock in the morning; “Come to me, then,” cried she, with vivacity, “at seven!” which appointment literally, and twice a week, took place.
All the first friends of Mr. Burney were happy to renew with him their social intercourse. Mrs. Greville, when in town, was foremost in eagerly seeking his Esther; and Mr. Greville met again his early favourite with all his original impetuosity of regard: while their joint newer friends of Norfolk, Mrs. Stephen Allen and Miss Dorothy Young in particular, warmly sustained an unremitting communication by letters: and Lords Orford, Eglinton, and March, General Lord Townshend, Charles Boone, and many others, sought this enlivening couple, with an unabating sense of their worth, upon every occasion that either music or conversation offered, for accepting, or desiring, admission to their small parties: for so uncommon were the powers of pleasing which they possessed, that all idea of condescension in their worldly superiors seemed superseded, if not annihilated, by personal eagerness to enjoy their rare society.
Thus glided away, in peace, domestic joys, improvement, and prosperity, this first—and last! happy year of the new London residence. In the course of the second, a cough, with alarming symptoms, menaced the breast of the life and soul of the little circle; consisting now of six children, clinging with equal affection around each parent chief.
She rapidly grew weaker and worse. Her tender husband hastened her to Bristol Hotwells, whither he followed her upon his first possible vacation; and where, in a short time, he had the extasy to believe that he saw her recover, and to bring her back to her fond little family.
But though hope was brightened, expectation was deceived! stability of strength was restored no more; and, in the ensuing autumn, she was seized with an inflammatory disorder with which her delicate and shaken frame had not force to combat. No means were left unessayed to stop the progress of danger; but all were fruitless! and, after less than a week of pain the most terrific, the deadly ease of mortification suddenly, awfully succeeded to the most excruciating torture.
Twelve stated hours of morbid bodily repose became, from that tremendous moment of baleful relief, the counted boundary of her earthly existence.
The wretchedness of her idolizing husband at the development of such a predestined termination to her sufferings, when pronounced by the celebrated Dr. Hunter, was only not distraction. But she herself, though completely aware that her hours now were told, met the irrevocable doom with open, religious, and even cheerful composure—sustained, no doubt, by the blessed aspirations of mediatory salvation; and calmly declaring that she quitted the world with perfect tranquillity, save for leaving her tender husband and helpless children. And, in the arms of that nearly frantic husband, who, till that fatal epoch, had literally believed her existence and his own, in this mortal journey, to be indispensably one—she expired.
When the fatal scene was finally closed, the disconsolate survivor immured himself almost from light and life, through inability to speak or act, or yet to bear witnesses to his misery.
He was soon, however, direfully called from this concentrated anguish, by the last awful summonsto the last awful rites to human memory, the funeral; which he attended in a frame of mind that nothing, probably, could have rescued from unrestrained despair, save a pious invocation to submission that had been ejaculated by his Esther, when she perceived his rising agony, in an impressive “Oh, Charles!”—almost at the very moment she was expiring: an appeal that could not but still vibrate in his penetrated ears, and control his tragic passions.
The character, and its rare, resplendent worth, of this inestimable person, is best committed to the pen of him to whom it best was known; as will appear by the subsequent letter, copied from his own hand-writing. It was found amongst his posthumous papers, so ill-written and so blotted by his tears, that he must have felt himself obliged to re-write it for the post.
It may be proper to again mention, that though Esther was maternally of French extraction, and though her revered mother was a Roman Catholic, she herself was a confirmed Protestant. But that angelic mother had brought her up with a love and a practice of genuine piety which undeviatingly intermingled in every action, and, probably, inevery thought of her virtuous life, so religiously, so deeply, that neither pain nor calamity could make her impatient of existence; nor yet could felicity the most perfect make her reluctant to die.
To paint the despairing grief produced by this deadly blow must be cast, like the portrait of its object, upon the sufferer; and the inartificial pathos, the ingenuous humility, with which both are marked in the affecting detail of her death, written in answer to a letter of sympathizing condolence from the tenderest friend of the deceased, Miss Dorothy Young, so strongly speak a language of virtue as well as of sorrow, that, unconsciously, they exhibit his own fair unsophisticated character in delineating that of his lost love. A more touching description of happiness in conjugal life, or of wretchedness in its dissolution, is rarely, perhaps, with equal simplicity of truth, to be found upon record.
“To Miss Dorothy Young.“I had not thought it possible that any thing could urge me to write in the present deplorable disposition of my mind; but my dear Miss Young’s letter haunts me! Neither did I think it possible for any thing to add to my affliction, borne down and broken-hearted as I am. But the current of your woes and sympathetic sorrows meeting mine, has overpowered all bounds which[Pg 141]religion, philosophy, reason, or even despair, may have been likely to set to my grief. Oh Miss Young! you knew her worth—you were one of the few people capable of seeing and feeling it. Good God! that she should be snatched from me at a time when I thought her health re-establishing, and fixing for a long old age! when our plans began to succeed, and we flattered ourselves with enjoying each other’s society ere long, in a peaceable and quiet retirement from the bustling frivolousness of a capital, to which our niggard stars had compelled us to fly for the prospect of establishing our children.“Amongst the numberless losses I sustain, there are none that unman me so much as the total deprivation of domestic comfort and converse—that converse from which I tore myself with such difficulty in a morning, and to which I flew back with such celerity at night! She was the source of all I could ever project or perform that was praise-worthy—all that I could do that was laudable had an eye to her approbation. There was a rectitude in her mind and judgment, that rendered her approbation so animating, so rational, so satisfactory! I have lost the spur, the stimulus to all exertions, all warrantable pursuits,—except those of another world. From an ambitious, active, enterprising Being, I am become a torpid drone, a listless, desponding wretch!—I know you will bear with my weakness, nay, in part, participate in it; but this is a kind of dotage unfit for common eyes, or even for common friends, to be entrusted with.“You kindly, and truly, my dear Miss Young, styled her one of the greatest ornaments of society; but, apart from the ornamental, in which she shone in a superior degree, think, oh think, of her high merit as a daughter, mother, wife, sister, friend! I always, from the first moment I saw her to the last, had an ardent passion for her person, to which time had added[Pg 142]true friendship and rational regard. Perhaps it is honouring myself too much to say, few people were more suited to each other; but, at least, I always endeavoured to render myself more worthy of her than nature, perhaps, had formed me. But she could mould me to what she pleased! A distant hint—a remote wish from her was enough to inspire me with courage for any undertaking. But all is lost and gone in losing her—the whole world is a desert to me! nor does its whole circumference afford the least hope of succour—not a single ray of that fortitude She so fully possessed!“You, and all who knew her, respected and admired her understanding while she was living. Judge, then, with what awe and veneration I must be struck to hear her counsel when dying!—to see her meet that tremendous spectre, death, with that calmness, resignation, and true religious fortitude, that no stoic philosopher, nor scarcely christian, could surpass; for it was all in privacy and simplicity. Socrates and Seneca called their friends around them to give them that courage that perhaps solitude might have robbed them of, and to spread abroad their fame to posterity; but she, dear pattern of humility! had no such vain view; no parade, no grimace! When she was aware that all was over—when she had herself pronounced the dread sentence, that she felt she should not outlive the coming night, she composedly gave herself up to religion, and begged that she might not be interrupted in her prayers and meditations.“Afterwards she called me to her, and then tranquilly talked about our family and affairs, in a manner quite oracular.“Sometime later she desired to see Hetty,[21]who, till that day, had spent the miserable week almost constantly at her bed-side,[Pg 143]or at the foot of the bed. Fanny, Susan, and Charley, had been sent, some days before, to the kind care of Mrs. Sheeles in Queen-Square, to be out of the way; and little Charlotte was taken to the house of her nurse.“To poor Hetty she then discoursed in so kind, so feeling, so tender a manner, that I am sure her words will never be forgotten. And, this over, she talked of her own death—her funeral—her place of burial,—with as much composure as if talking of a journey to Lynn! Think of this, my dear Miss Young, and see the impossibility of supporting such a loss—such an adieu, with calmness! I hovered over her till she sighed, not groaned, her last—placidly sighed it—just after midnight.“Her disorder was an inflammation of the stomach, with which she was seized on the 19th of September, after being on that day, and for some days previously, remarkably in health and spirits. She suffered the most excruciating torments for eight days, with a patience, a resignation, nearly quite silent. Her malady baffled all medical skill from the beginning. I called in Dr. Hunter.“On the 28th, the last day! she suffered, I suppose, less, perhaps nothing! as mortification must have taken place, which must have afforded that sort of ease, that those who have escaped such previous agony shudder to think of! On that ever memorable, that dreadful day, she talked more than she had done throughout her whole illness. She forgot nothing, nor threw one word away! always hoping we should meet and know each other hereafter!—She told poor Hetty how sweet it would be if she could see her constantly from whence she was going, and begged she would invariably suppose that that would be the case. What a lesson to leave to a daughter!—She exhorted her to remember how much her example might influence the poor younger ones;[Pg 144]and bid her write little letters, and fancies, to her in the other world, to say how they all went on; adding, that she felt as if she should surely know something of them.“Afterwards, feeling probably her end fast approaching, she serenely said, with one hand on the head of Hetty, and the other grasped in mine: “Now this is dying pleasantly! in the arms of one’s friends!” I burst into an unrestrained agony of grief, when, with a superiority of wisdom, resignation, and true religion,—though awaiting, consciously, from instant to instant awaiting the shaft of death,—she mildly uttered, in a faint, faint voice, but penetratingly tender, “Oh Charles!—”“I checked myself instantaneously, over-awed and stilled as by a voice from one above. I felt she meant to beg me not to agitate her last moments!—I entreated her forgiveness, and told her it was but human nature. “And so it is!” said she, gently; and presently added, “Nay, it is worse for the living than the dying,—though a moment sets us even!—life is but a paltry business—yet“‘Who, to dumb forgetfulness a preyThis pleasing—anxious being e’er resign’d?Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?’”“She had still muscular strength left to softly press both our hands as she pronounced these affecting lines.“Other fine passages, also, both from holy writ, and from what is most religious in our best poets, she from time to time recited, with fervent prayers; in which most devoutly we joined.“These, my dear Miss Young, are the outlines of her sublime and edifying exit—— —— —What a situation was mine! but for my poor helpless children, how gladly, how most gladly[Pg 145]should I have wished to accompany her hence on the very instant, to that other world to which she so divinely passed!—for what in this remains for me?”
“To Miss Dorothy Young.
“I had not thought it possible that any thing could urge me to write in the present deplorable disposition of my mind; but my dear Miss Young’s letter haunts me! Neither did I think it possible for any thing to add to my affliction, borne down and broken-hearted as I am. But the current of your woes and sympathetic sorrows meeting mine, has overpowered all bounds which[Pg 141]religion, philosophy, reason, or even despair, may have been likely to set to my grief. Oh Miss Young! you knew her worth—you were one of the few people capable of seeing and feeling it. Good God! that she should be snatched from me at a time when I thought her health re-establishing, and fixing for a long old age! when our plans began to succeed, and we flattered ourselves with enjoying each other’s society ere long, in a peaceable and quiet retirement from the bustling frivolousness of a capital, to which our niggard stars had compelled us to fly for the prospect of establishing our children.
“Amongst the numberless losses I sustain, there are none that unman me so much as the total deprivation of domestic comfort and converse—that converse from which I tore myself with such difficulty in a morning, and to which I flew back with such celerity at night! She was the source of all I could ever project or perform that was praise-worthy—all that I could do that was laudable had an eye to her approbation. There was a rectitude in her mind and judgment, that rendered her approbation so animating, so rational, so satisfactory! I have lost the spur, the stimulus to all exertions, all warrantable pursuits,—except those of another world. From an ambitious, active, enterprising Being, I am become a torpid drone, a listless, desponding wretch!—I know you will bear with my weakness, nay, in part, participate in it; but this is a kind of dotage unfit for common eyes, or even for common friends, to be entrusted with.
“You kindly, and truly, my dear Miss Young, styled her one of the greatest ornaments of society; but, apart from the ornamental, in which she shone in a superior degree, think, oh think, of her high merit as a daughter, mother, wife, sister, friend! I always, from the first moment I saw her to the last, had an ardent passion for her person, to which time had added[Pg 142]true friendship and rational regard. Perhaps it is honouring myself too much to say, few people were more suited to each other; but, at least, I always endeavoured to render myself more worthy of her than nature, perhaps, had formed me. But she could mould me to what she pleased! A distant hint—a remote wish from her was enough to inspire me with courage for any undertaking. But all is lost and gone in losing her—the whole world is a desert to me! nor does its whole circumference afford the least hope of succour—not a single ray of that fortitude She so fully possessed!
“You, and all who knew her, respected and admired her understanding while she was living. Judge, then, with what awe and veneration I must be struck to hear her counsel when dying!—to see her meet that tremendous spectre, death, with that calmness, resignation, and true religious fortitude, that no stoic philosopher, nor scarcely christian, could surpass; for it was all in privacy and simplicity. Socrates and Seneca called their friends around them to give them that courage that perhaps solitude might have robbed them of, and to spread abroad their fame to posterity; but she, dear pattern of humility! had no such vain view; no parade, no grimace! When she was aware that all was over—when she had herself pronounced the dread sentence, that she felt she should not outlive the coming night, she composedly gave herself up to religion, and begged that she might not be interrupted in her prayers and meditations.
“Afterwards she called me to her, and then tranquilly talked about our family and affairs, in a manner quite oracular.
“Sometime later she desired to see Hetty,[21]who, till that day, had spent the miserable week almost constantly at her bed-side,[Pg 143]or at the foot of the bed. Fanny, Susan, and Charley, had been sent, some days before, to the kind care of Mrs. Sheeles in Queen-Square, to be out of the way; and little Charlotte was taken to the house of her nurse.
“To poor Hetty she then discoursed in so kind, so feeling, so tender a manner, that I am sure her words will never be forgotten. And, this over, she talked of her own death—her funeral—her place of burial,—with as much composure as if talking of a journey to Lynn! Think of this, my dear Miss Young, and see the impossibility of supporting such a loss—such an adieu, with calmness! I hovered over her till she sighed, not groaned, her last—placidly sighed it—just after midnight.
“Her disorder was an inflammation of the stomach, with which she was seized on the 19th of September, after being on that day, and for some days previously, remarkably in health and spirits. She suffered the most excruciating torments for eight days, with a patience, a resignation, nearly quite silent. Her malady baffled all medical skill from the beginning. I called in Dr. Hunter.
“On the 28th, the last day! she suffered, I suppose, less, perhaps nothing! as mortification must have taken place, which must have afforded that sort of ease, that those who have escaped such previous agony shudder to think of! On that ever memorable, that dreadful day, she talked more than she had done throughout her whole illness. She forgot nothing, nor threw one word away! always hoping we should meet and know each other hereafter!—She told poor Hetty how sweet it would be if she could see her constantly from whence she was going, and begged she would invariably suppose that that would be the case. What a lesson to leave to a daughter!—She exhorted her to remember how much her example might influence the poor younger ones;[Pg 144]and bid her write little letters, and fancies, to her in the other world, to say how they all went on; adding, that she felt as if she should surely know something of them.
“Afterwards, feeling probably her end fast approaching, she serenely said, with one hand on the head of Hetty, and the other grasped in mine: “Now this is dying pleasantly! in the arms of one’s friends!” I burst into an unrestrained agony of grief, when, with a superiority of wisdom, resignation, and true religion,—though awaiting, consciously, from instant to instant awaiting the shaft of death,—she mildly uttered, in a faint, faint voice, but penetratingly tender, “Oh Charles!—”
“I checked myself instantaneously, over-awed and stilled as by a voice from one above. I felt she meant to beg me not to agitate her last moments!—I entreated her forgiveness, and told her it was but human nature. “And so it is!” said she, gently; and presently added, “Nay, it is worse for the living than the dying,—though a moment sets us even!—life is but a paltry business—yet
“‘Who, to dumb forgetfulness a preyThis pleasing—anxious being e’er resign’d?Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?’”
“‘Who, to dumb forgetfulness a preyThis pleasing—anxious being e’er resign’d?Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?’”
“‘Who, to dumb forgetfulness a preyThis pleasing—anxious being e’er resign’d?Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?’”
“‘Who, to dumb forgetfulness a preyThis pleasing—anxious being e’er resign’d?Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?’”
“‘Who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey
This pleasing—anxious being e’er resign’d?
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?’”
“She had still muscular strength left to softly press both our hands as she pronounced these affecting lines.
“Other fine passages, also, both from holy writ, and from what is most religious in our best poets, she from time to time recited, with fervent prayers; in which most devoutly we joined.
“These, my dear Miss Young, are the outlines of her sublime and edifying exit—— —— —What a situation was mine! but for my poor helpless children, how gladly, how most gladly[Pg 145]should I have wished to accompany her hence on the very instant, to that other world to which she so divinely passed!—for what in this remains for me?”
Part of a letter, also, to Mrs. Stephen Allen, the friend to whom, next to Miss Dorothy Young, the departed had been most attached, seems to belong to this place. Its style, as it was written at a later period, is more composed; but it evinces in the wretched mourner the same devotion to his Esther’s excellences, and the same hopelessness of earthly happiness.
“To Mrs. Stephen Allen.* * * * *“Even prosperity is insipid without participation with those we love; for me, therefore, heaven knows, all is at an end—all is accumulated wretchedness! I have lost a soul congenial with my own;—a companion, who in outward appurtenances and internal conceptions, condescended to assimilate her ideas and manners with mine. Yet believe not that all my feelings are for myself; my poor girls have sustained a loss far more extensive than they, poor innocents! are at present sensible of. Unprovided as I should have left them with respect to fortune, had it been my fate to resign her and life first, I should have been under no great apprehension for the welfare of my children, in leaving them to a mother who had such inexhaustible resources in her mind and intellects. It would have grieved me, indeed, to have quitted her oppressed by such a load of care; but I could have[Pg 146]had no doubt of her supporting it with fortitude and abilities, as long as life and health had been allowed her. Fortitude and abilities she possessed, indeed, to a degree that, without hyperbole, no human being can conceive but myself, who have seen her under such severe trials as alone can manifest, unquestionably, true parts and greatness of mind. I am thoroughly convinced she was fitted for any situation, either exalted or humble, which this life can furnish. And with all her nice discernment, quickness of perception, and delicacy, she could submit, if occasion seemed to require it, to such drudgery and toil as are suited to the meanest domestic; and that, with a liveliness and alacrity that, in general, are to be found in those only who have never known a better state. Yet with a strength of reason the most solid, and a capacity for literature the most intelligent, she never for a moment relinquished the female and amiable softness of her sex with which, above every other attribute, men are most charmed and captivated.”
“To Mrs. Stephen Allen.
* * * * *
“Even prosperity is insipid without participation with those we love; for me, therefore, heaven knows, all is at an end—all is accumulated wretchedness! I have lost a soul congenial with my own;—a companion, who in outward appurtenances and internal conceptions, condescended to assimilate her ideas and manners with mine. Yet believe not that all my feelings are for myself; my poor girls have sustained a loss far more extensive than they, poor innocents! are at present sensible of. Unprovided as I should have left them with respect to fortune, had it been my fate to resign her and life first, I should have been under no great apprehension for the welfare of my children, in leaving them to a mother who had such inexhaustible resources in her mind and intellects. It would have grieved me, indeed, to have quitted her oppressed by such a load of care; but I could have[Pg 146]had no doubt of her supporting it with fortitude and abilities, as long as life and health had been allowed her. Fortitude and abilities she possessed, indeed, to a degree that, without hyperbole, no human being can conceive but myself, who have seen her under such severe trials as alone can manifest, unquestionably, true parts and greatness of mind. I am thoroughly convinced she was fitted for any situation, either exalted or humble, which this life can furnish. And with all her nice discernment, quickness of perception, and delicacy, she could submit, if occasion seemed to require it, to such drudgery and toil as are suited to the meanest domestic; and that, with a liveliness and alacrity that, in general, are to be found in those only who have never known a better state. Yet with a strength of reason the most solid, and a capacity for literature the most intelligent, she never for a moment relinquished the female and amiable softness of her sex with which, above every other attribute, men are most charmed and captivated.”
Such, in their early effervescence, was the vent which this man of affliction found to his sorrows, in the sympathy of his affectionate friends.
At other times, they were beguiled from their deadly heaviness by the expansion of fond description in melancholy verse. To this he was less led by poetical enthusiasm—for all of fire, fancy, and imagery, that light up the poet’s flame, was now extinct, or smothered—than by a gentle request of his Esther, uttered in her last days, that he wouldaddress to her some poetry; a request intended, there can be no doubt, as a stimulus to some endearing occupation that might tear him from his first despondence, by an idea that he had still a wish of hers to execute.
Not as poetry, in an era fastidious as the present in metrical criticism, does the editor presume to offer the verses now about to be selected and copied from a vast mass of elegiac laments found amongst the posthumous papers of Dr. Burney: it is biographically alone, like those that have preceded them, that they are brought forward. They are testimonies of the purity of his love, as well as of the acuteness of his bereavement; and, as such, they certainly belong to his memoirs. The reader, therefore, is again entreated to remember that they were not designed for the press, though they were committed, unshackled, to the discretion of the editor. If that be in fault, the motive will probably prove a palliative that will make the heart, not the head, of the reader, the seat of his judgment.
“She’s gone!—the all-pervading soul is fledT’ explore the unknown mansions of the dead,Where, free from earthly clay, the immortal mindCasts many a pitying glance on those behind;[Pg 148]Sees us deplore the wife—the mother—friend—Sees fell despair our wretched bosoms rend!Oh death!—thy dire inexorable dartOf every blessing has bereft my heart!Better to have died like her, in hope of rest,Than live forlorn, and life and light detest.—In hope of rest? ah no! her fervent pray’rWas that her soul, when once dissolv’d in airMight, conscious of its pre-existent state,On those she lov’d alive, benignly wait,—Our genius, and our guardian angel beTill fate unite us in eternity!But—the bless’d shade to me no hope bequeathsTill death his faulchion in my bosom sheaths!Sorrowing, I close my eyes in restless sleep;Sorrowing, I wake the live-long day to weep.No future comfort can this world bestow,’Tis blank and cold, as overwhelm’d with snow.When dying in my arms, she softly said:“Write me some verses!”—and shall be obey’d.The sacred mandate vibrates in my ears,And fills my eyes with reverential tears.For ever on her virtues let me dwell,A Patriarch’s life too short her worth to tell.Such manly sense to female softness join’d,Her person grac’d, and dignified her mind,That she in beauty, while she trod life’s stage,A Venus seem’d—in intellect, a sage.[Pg 149]Before I her beheld, the untutor’d mindStill vacant lay, to mental beauty blind:But when her angel form my sight had bless’dThe flame of passion instant fill’d my breast;Through every vein the fire electric stole,And took dominion of my inmost soul.By her ... possess’d of every pow’r to please,Each toilsome task was exercis’d with ease.For me, comprising every charm of life,Friend—Mistress—Counsellor—Companion—Wife—Wife!—wife!—oh honour’d name! for ever dear,Alike enchanting to the eye and ear!Let the corrupt, licentious, and profaneRail, scoff, and murmur at the sacred chain:It suits not them. Few but the wise and goodIts blessings e’er have priz’d or understood.Matur’d in virtue first the heart must glow,Ere happiness can vegetate and grow.From her I learnt to feel the holy flame,And found that she and virtue were the same.From dissipation, though I might receive—Ere yet I knew I had a heart to give—An evanescent joy, untouch’d the mindStill torpid lay, to mental beauty blind;Till by example more than precept taughtFrom her, to act aright, the flame I caught.How chang’d the face of nature now is grown![Pg 150]Illusive hope no more her charms displays;Her flattering schemes no more my spirits raise;Each airy vision which her pencil drewInexorable death has banish’d from my view.Each gentle solace is withheld by fateTill death conduct me through his awful gate.Come then, Oh Death! let kindred souls be join’d!Oh thou, so often cruel—once be kind!”
“She’s gone!—the all-pervading soul is fledT’ explore the unknown mansions of the dead,Where, free from earthly clay, the immortal mindCasts many a pitying glance on those behind;[Pg 148]Sees us deplore the wife—the mother—friend—Sees fell despair our wretched bosoms rend!Oh death!—thy dire inexorable dartOf every blessing has bereft my heart!Better to have died like her, in hope of rest,Than live forlorn, and life and light detest.—In hope of rest? ah no! her fervent pray’rWas that her soul, when once dissolv’d in airMight, conscious of its pre-existent state,On those she lov’d alive, benignly wait,—Our genius, and our guardian angel beTill fate unite us in eternity!But—the bless’d shade to me no hope bequeathsTill death his faulchion in my bosom sheaths!Sorrowing, I close my eyes in restless sleep;Sorrowing, I wake the live-long day to weep.No future comfort can this world bestow,’Tis blank and cold, as overwhelm’d with snow.When dying in my arms, she softly said:“Write me some verses!”—and shall be obey’d.The sacred mandate vibrates in my ears,And fills my eyes with reverential tears.For ever on her virtues let me dwell,A Patriarch’s life too short her worth to tell.Such manly sense to female softness join’d,Her person grac’d, and dignified her mind,That she in beauty, while she trod life’s stage,A Venus seem’d—in intellect, a sage.[Pg 149]Before I her beheld, the untutor’d mindStill vacant lay, to mental beauty blind:But when her angel form my sight had bless’dThe flame of passion instant fill’d my breast;Through every vein the fire electric stole,And took dominion of my inmost soul.By her ... possess’d of every pow’r to please,Each toilsome task was exercis’d with ease.For me, comprising every charm of life,Friend—Mistress—Counsellor—Companion—Wife—Wife!—wife!—oh honour’d name! for ever dear,Alike enchanting to the eye and ear!Let the corrupt, licentious, and profaneRail, scoff, and murmur at the sacred chain:It suits not them. Few but the wise and goodIts blessings e’er have priz’d or understood.Matur’d in virtue first the heart must glow,Ere happiness can vegetate and grow.From her I learnt to feel the holy flame,And found that she and virtue were the same.From dissipation, though I might receive—Ere yet I knew I had a heart to give—An evanescent joy, untouch’d the mindStill torpid lay, to mental beauty blind;Till by example more than precept taughtFrom her, to act aright, the flame I caught.How chang’d the face of nature now is grown![Pg 150]Illusive hope no more her charms displays;Her flattering schemes no more my spirits raise;Each airy vision which her pencil drewInexorable death has banish’d from my view.Each gentle solace is withheld by fateTill death conduct me through his awful gate.Come then, Oh Death! let kindred souls be join’d!Oh thou, so often cruel—once be kind!”
“She’s gone!—the all-pervading soul is fledT’ explore the unknown mansions of the dead,Where, free from earthly clay, the immortal mindCasts many a pitying glance on those behind;[Pg 148]Sees us deplore the wife—the mother—friend—Sees fell despair our wretched bosoms rend!Oh death!—thy dire inexorable dartOf every blessing has bereft my heart!Better to have died like her, in hope of rest,Than live forlorn, and life and light detest.—In hope of rest? ah no! her fervent pray’rWas that her soul, when once dissolv’d in airMight, conscious of its pre-existent state,On those she lov’d alive, benignly wait,—Our genius, and our guardian angel beTill fate unite us in eternity!But—the bless’d shade to me no hope bequeathsTill death his faulchion in my bosom sheaths!Sorrowing, I close my eyes in restless sleep;Sorrowing, I wake the live-long day to weep.No future comfort can this world bestow,’Tis blank and cold, as overwhelm’d with snow.When dying in my arms, she softly said:“Write me some verses!”—and shall be obey’d.The sacred mandate vibrates in my ears,And fills my eyes with reverential tears.For ever on her virtues let me dwell,A Patriarch’s life too short her worth to tell.Such manly sense to female softness join’d,Her person grac’d, and dignified her mind,That she in beauty, while she trod life’s stage,A Venus seem’d—in intellect, a sage.[Pg 149]Before I her beheld, the untutor’d mindStill vacant lay, to mental beauty blind:But when her angel form my sight had bless’dThe flame of passion instant fill’d my breast;Through every vein the fire electric stole,And took dominion of my inmost soul.By her ... possess’d of every pow’r to please,Each toilsome task was exercis’d with ease.For me, comprising every charm of life,Friend—Mistress—Counsellor—Companion—Wife—Wife!—wife!—oh honour’d name! for ever dear,Alike enchanting to the eye and ear!Let the corrupt, licentious, and profaneRail, scoff, and murmur at the sacred chain:It suits not them. Few but the wise and goodIts blessings e’er have priz’d or understood.Matur’d in virtue first the heart must glow,Ere happiness can vegetate and grow.From her I learnt to feel the holy flame,And found that she and virtue were the same.From dissipation, though I might receive—Ere yet I knew I had a heart to give—An evanescent joy, untouch’d the mindStill torpid lay, to mental beauty blind;Till by example more than precept taughtFrom her, to act aright, the flame I caught.How chang’d the face of nature now is grown![Pg 150]Illusive hope no more her charms displays;Her flattering schemes no more my spirits raise;Each airy vision which her pencil drewInexorable death has banish’d from my view.Each gentle solace is withheld by fateTill death conduct me through his awful gate.Come then, Oh Death! let kindred souls be join’d!Oh thou, so often cruel—once be kind!”
“She’s gone!—the all-pervading soul is fledT’ explore the unknown mansions of the dead,Where, free from earthly clay, the immortal mindCasts many a pitying glance on those behind;[Pg 148]Sees us deplore the wife—the mother—friend—Sees fell despair our wretched bosoms rend!Oh death!—thy dire inexorable dartOf every blessing has bereft my heart!Better to have died like her, in hope of rest,Than live forlorn, and life and light detest.—In hope of rest? ah no! her fervent pray’rWas that her soul, when once dissolv’d in airMight, conscious of its pre-existent state,On those she lov’d alive, benignly wait,—Our genius, and our guardian angel beTill fate unite us in eternity!But—the bless’d shade to me no hope bequeathsTill death his faulchion in my bosom sheaths!Sorrowing, I close my eyes in restless sleep;Sorrowing, I wake the live-long day to weep.No future comfort can this world bestow,’Tis blank and cold, as overwhelm’d with snow.When dying in my arms, she softly said:“Write me some verses!”—and shall be obey’d.The sacred mandate vibrates in my ears,And fills my eyes with reverential tears.For ever on her virtues let me dwell,A Patriarch’s life too short her worth to tell.Such manly sense to female softness join’d,Her person grac’d, and dignified her mind,That she in beauty, while she trod life’s stage,A Venus seem’d—in intellect, a sage.[Pg 149]Before I her beheld, the untutor’d mindStill vacant lay, to mental beauty blind:But when her angel form my sight had bless’dThe flame of passion instant fill’d my breast;Through every vein the fire electric stole,And took dominion of my inmost soul.By her ... possess’d of every pow’r to please,Each toilsome task was exercis’d with ease.For me, comprising every charm of life,Friend—Mistress—Counsellor—Companion—Wife—Wife!—wife!—oh honour’d name! for ever dear,Alike enchanting to the eye and ear!Let the corrupt, licentious, and profaneRail, scoff, and murmur at the sacred chain:It suits not them. Few but the wise and goodIts blessings e’er have priz’d or understood.Matur’d in virtue first the heart must glow,Ere happiness can vegetate and grow.From her I learnt to feel the holy flame,And found that she and virtue were the same.From dissipation, though I might receive—Ere yet I knew I had a heart to give—An evanescent joy, untouch’d the mindStill torpid lay, to mental beauty blind;Till by example more than precept taughtFrom her, to act aright, the flame I caught.How chang’d the face of nature now is grown![Pg 150]Illusive hope no more her charms displays;Her flattering schemes no more my spirits raise;Each airy vision which her pencil drewInexorable death has banish’d from my view.Each gentle solace is withheld by fateTill death conduct me through his awful gate.Come then, Oh Death! let kindred souls be join’d!Oh thou, so often cruel—once be kind!”
“She’s gone!—the all-pervading soul is fled
T’ explore the unknown mansions of the dead,
Where, free from earthly clay, the immortal mind
Casts many a pitying glance on those behind;[Pg 148]
Sees us deplore the wife—the mother—friend—
Sees fell despair our wretched bosoms rend!
Oh death!—thy dire inexorable dart
Of every blessing has bereft my heart!
Better to have died like her, in hope of rest,
Than live forlorn, and life and light detest.—
In hope of rest? ah no! her fervent pray’r
Was that her soul, when once dissolv’d in air
Might, conscious of its pre-existent state,
On those she lov’d alive, benignly wait,—
Our genius, and our guardian angel be
Till fate unite us in eternity!
But—the bless’d shade to me no hope bequeaths
Till death his faulchion in my bosom sheaths!
Sorrowing, I close my eyes in restless sleep;
Sorrowing, I wake the live-long day to weep.
No future comfort can this world bestow,
’Tis blank and cold, as overwhelm’d with snow.
When dying in my arms, she softly said:
“Write me some verses!”—and shall be obey’d.
The sacred mandate vibrates in my ears,
And fills my eyes with reverential tears.
For ever on her virtues let me dwell,
A Patriarch’s life too short her worth to tell.
Such manly sense to female softness join’d,
Her person grac’d, and dignified her mind,
That she in beauty, while she trod life’s stage,
A Venus seem’d—in intellect, a sage.
[Pg 149]
Before I her beheld, the untutor’d mind
Still vacant lay, to mental beauty blind:
But when her angel form my sight had bless’d
The flame of passion instant fill’d my breast;
Through every vein the fire electric stole,
And took dominion of my inmost soul.
By her ... possess’d of every pow’r to please,
Each toilsome task was exercis’d with ease.
For me, comprising every charm of life,
Friend—Mistress—Counsellor—Companion—Wife—
Wife!—wife!—oh honour’d name! for ever dear,
Alike enchanting to the eye and ear!
Let the corrupt, licentious, and profane
Rail, scoff, and murmur at the sacred chain:
It suits not them. Few but the wise and good
Its blessings e’er have priz’d or understood.
Matur’d in virtue first the heart must glow,
Ere happiness can vegetate and grow.
From her I learnt to feel the holy flame,
And found that she and virtue were the same.
From dissipation, though I might receive—
Ere yet I knew I had a heart to give—
An evanescent joy, untouch’d the mind
Still torpid lay, to mental beauty blind;
Till by example more than precept taught
From her, to act aright, the flame I caught.
How chang’d the face of nature now is grown!
[Pg 150]
Illusive hope no more her charms displays;
Her flattering schemes no more my spirits raise;
Each airy vision which her pencil drew
Inexorable death has banish’d from my view.
Each gentle solace is withheld by fate
Till death conduct me through his awful gate.
Come then, Oh Death! let kindred souls be join’d!
Oh thou, so often cruel—once be kind!”
A total chasm ensues of all account of events belonging to the period of this irreparable earthly blast. Not a personal memorandum of the unhappy survivor is left; not a single document in his hand-writing, except of verses to her idea, or to her memory; or of imitations, adapted to his loss, and to her excellences, from some selected sonnets of Petrarch, whom he considered to have loved, entombed, and bewailed another Esther in his Laura.
When this similitude, which soothed his spirit and flattered his feelings, had been studied and paralleled in every possible line of comparison, he had recourse to the works of Dante, which, ere long, beguiled from him some attention; because, through the difficulty of idiom, he had not, as of nearly all other favourite authors, lost all zest of the beauties of Dante in solitude, from havingtasted the sweetness of his numbers with a pleasure exalted by participation: for, during the last two years that his Esther was spared to him, her increased maternal claims from a new baby;[22]and augmented domestic cares from a new residence, had checked the daily mutuality of their progress in the pursuit of improvement; and to Esther this great poet was scarcely known.
To Dante, therefore, he first delivered over what he could yet summon from his grief-worn faculties; and to initiate himself into the works, and nearly obsolete style, of that hardest, but most sublime of Italian poets, became the occupation to which, with the least repugnance, he was capable of recurring.
A sedulous, yet energetic, though prose translation of the Inferno, remains amongst his posthumous relics, to demonstrate the sincere struggles with which, even amidst this overwhelming calamity, he strove to combat that most dangerously consuming of all canker-worms upon life and virtue, utter inertness.
Of his children, James,[23]his eldest son, had already, at ten years of age, been sent to sea, a nominal midshipman, in the ship of Admiral Montagu.
The second son, Charles,[24]who was placed, several years later, in the Charterhouse, by Mr. Burney’s first and constant patron, the Earl of Holdernesse, was then but a child.
The eldest daughter was still a little girl; and the last born of her three sisters could scarcely walk alone. But all, save the seaman, who was then aboard his ship, were now called back to the paternal roof of the unhappy father.
None of them, however, were of an age to be companionable; his fondness for them, therefore, full of care and trouble, procured no mitigation to his grief by the pleasure of society: and the heavy march of time, where no solace is accepted from abroad, or attainable at home, gave a species of stagnation to his existence, that made him take, in the words of Young,