“Sit attentive to my own applause—!”
and my dear father himself, with all his gratified approbation, said I really, at times, looked quite ill. Mrs. Thrale told me, afterwards, she should have come tonaturalizeme with a little common chat, but that I had been so publicly destined for Soame Jenyns before my arrival, that she did not dare interfere!
At length, however, finding they seemed but to address a breathing statue, they entered into a discussion that was a most joyful relief to me, upon foreign and English customs; and especially upon the rarity, in England, of good conversation; from the perpetual intervention of politics, always noisy; or of dissipation, always frivolous.
Here they were joined by Mr. Cambridge, who, asall the world[52]knows, is an intimate friend ofSoame Jenyns; and who is always truly original and entertaining: but imagine my surprise—surprise and delight! in a room and a company like this, where all, except Mr. Cambridge and Mr. Jenyns, were of the beau monde of the present day, suddenly to hear pronounced the name of my dear Mr. Crisp! for, in the midst of this discourse upon customs and conversations in different countries, Mr. Cambridge, who asserted that every man, possessing steadiness with spirit, might live in this great nation exactly as he pleased; either with friends or with strangers, either in public or in solitude, smilingly illustrated his remark, in calling upon my father to second him, by reciting the example of Mr. Crisp! I almost jumped with pleasure and astonishment at the sound of that name, and the praise with which, from the mover and the seconder, it was instantly accompanied. How eloquent grew my father!—but here, I know, I must stop.
When the party broke up, Mr. Jenyns thought it necessary—or, at least, thought it would so be deemed by Mrs. Ord, to recapitulate, though with concentration, his panegyric of the highly honoured Cecilia. And Mrs. Buller renewed, also, her civilities, and hoped “I would not look strange upon them!”—forI looked, my dear father told me afterwards, all the colours of the rainbow; adding, “Why Fanny,
“‘I’d not look at all, if I couldn’t look better!’”[53]
But how I blush when I think of Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. and Miss Thrale, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Garrick, Miss More, Mrs. Chapone, Miss Gregory[54]—nay, Mrs. Montagu herself—being called upon to a scene such as this, not as personages of the drama; but as auditresses and spectatresses! I can only hope they all laugh,—for, if not, I am sure they must all scoff.
Dear, good—mistaken Mrs. Ord!—But my father says such panegyric, and such panegyrists, may well make amends for a little want oftact.
But I have not told you what was said by Mr. Cambridge, and I dare not! lest you should think that fervent friend a little non-compos! for ’twas higher and more piquant in eulogy than all the rest put together. ’Twas to my father, however, that he uttered his lively sentiments; for he studies little me as much as my little books; and he knew how he should double my gratification, bywafting his kind praise to me secretly, softly, and unsuspectedly, through so genial a channel.
How I wish you could catch a glimpse of my dear father upon these occasions! and see the conscious smiles, which, however decorously suppressed by pursing his lips, gleam through every turn, every line, every bit and morsel of his kind countenance during the processes of these agreeable flummeries—for such, I know, my dear Mr. Crisp will call them—and, helas! but too truly! Agreeable, however, they are! ’twere vain to deny that. And here—O how unexpected! I am always trembling in fear of a reverse—but not from you, my dearest Mr. Crisp, will it come to your faithful,
F. B.
Pleasant to Dr. Burney as was this tide of favour, by which he was exhilarated through this second publication of his daughter, it had not yet reached the climax to which it soon afterwards arose; which was the junction of the two first men of the country, if not of the age, in proclaiming each to the other, at an assembly at Miss Moncton’s, where they seated themselves by her side, their kind approvance of this work; and proclaiming it, each animated by thespirit of the other, “in the noblest terms that our language, in its highest glory, is capable of emitting.”
Such were the words of Dr. Johnson himself, in speaking afterwards to Dr. Burney of Mr. Burke’s share in this flattering dialogue; to which Dr. Burney ever after looked back as to the height of his daughter’s literary honours; though he could scarcely then foresee the extent, and the expansion, of that indulgent partiality with which each of them, ever after, invariably distinguished her to the last hour of their lives.
Thus salubriously for Dr. Burney had been cheered the opening winter of 1782, by the celebrated old Wits, Owen Cambridge and Soame Jenyns; through the philanthropy and good-humour which cheered for themselves and their friends the winter of their own lives: and thus radiant with a warmth which Sol in his summer’s glory could not deepen, had gone on the same winter to 1783, through the glowing suffrage of the two first luminaries that brightened the constellation of genius of the reign of George the Third,—Dr. Johnson and Edmund Burke——
But not in fair harmony of progression with thiscommencement proceeded the year 1783! its April had a harshness which its January had escaped. It brought with it no fragrance of happiness to Dr. Burney. With a blight opened this fatal spring, and with a blast it closed!
All being now, though in the dark, and unannounced, arranged for the determined alliance, Mrs. Thrale abandoned London as she had forsaken Streatham, and, in the beginning of April, retired with her three eldest daughters to Bath; there to reside, till she could complete a plan, then in agitation, for superseding the maternal protection with all that might yet be attainable of propriety and dignity.
Dr. Burney was deeply hurt by this now palpably threatening event: the virtues of Mrs. Thrale had borne an equal poize in his admiration with her talents; both were of an extraordinary order. He had praised, he had loved, he had sung them. Nor was he by any means so severe a disciplinarian over the claims of taste, or the elections of the heart, asto disallow their unalienable rights of being candidly heard, and favourably listened to, in the disposal of our persons and our fates; her choice, therefore, would have roused no severity, though it might justly have excited surprise, had her birth, fortune, and rank in life alone been at stake. But Mrs. Thrale had ties that appeared to him to demand precedence over all feelings, all inclinations—in five daughters, who were juvenile heiresses.
To Bath, however, she went; and truly grieved was the prophetic spirit of Dr. Burney at her departure; which he looked upon as the catastrophe of Streatham.
From circumstances peculiarly fortunate with regard to the time of their operation, some solace opened to Dr. Burney for himself, and still more to his parental kindness for this Memorialist, in this season of disappointment and deprivation, from a beginning intercourse which now took place for both, withthe fairest model of female excellence of the days that were passed, Mrs. Delany.[55]
Such were the words by which Mrs. Delany had been pictured to this Memorialist by Mr. Burke, at Miss Moncton’s assembly; and such was the impression of her character under which this connexion was begun by Dr. Burney.
The proposition for an acquaintance, and the negotiation for its commencement between the parties, had been committed, by Mrs. Delany herself, to Mrs. Chapone; whose literary endowments stood not higher, either in public or in private estimation, than the virtues of her mind, and the goodness of her heart. Both were evinced by her popular writings for the female sex, at a time when its education, whether from Timidity or Indolence, required a spur, far more certainly than its cynic traducers can prove that now, from Ambition or Temerity, it calls for a bridle.
As Dr. Burney could not make an early visit, and Mrs. Delany could not receive a late one, Mrs. Chapone was commissioned to engage the daughter to a quiet dinner; and the Doctor to join the party in the evening.
This was assented to with the utmost pleasure, both father and daughter being stimulated in curiosity and expectance by Mr. Crisp, who hadformerly known and admired Mrs. Delany, and had been a favourite with her bosom friend, the Dowager Duchess of Portland; and with some other of her elegant associates.
As this venerable lady still lives in the memoirs and correspondence of Dean Swift,[56]an account of this interview, abridged from a letter to Mr. Crisp, will not, perhaps, be unwillingly received, as a genuine picture of an aged lady of rare accomplishments, and high-bred manners, of olden times; who had strikingly been distinguished by Dean Swift, and was now energetically esteemed by Mr. Burke.
Under the wing of the respectable Mrs. Chapone, this Memorialist was first conveyed to the dwelling of Mrs. Delany in St. James’s Place.
Mrs. Delany was alone; but the moment her guests were announced, with an eagerness that seemed forgetful of her years, and that denoted the most flattering pleasure, she advanced to the door of her apartment to receive them.
Mrs. Chapone presented to her by name the Memorialist, whose hand she took with almost youthful vivacity, saying: “Miss Burney mustpardon me if I give her an old-fashioned reception; for I know nothing new!” And she kindly saluted her.
With a grace of manner the most striking, she then placed Mrs. Chapone on the sofa, and led the Memorialist to a chair next to her own, saying: “Can you forgive, Miss Burney, the very great liberty I have taken of asking you to my little dinner? But you could not come in the morning; and I wished so impatiently to see one from whom I have received such very extraordinary pleasure, that I could not bear to put it off to another day: for I have no days, now, to throw away! And if I waited for the evening, I might, perhaps, have company. And I hear so ill in mixt society, that I cannot, as I wish to do, attend to more than one at a time; for age, now, is making me more stupid even than I am by nature. And how grieved and mortified I should have been to have known I had Miss Burney in the room, and not to have heard what she said!”
Tone, manner, and look, so impressively marked the sincerity of this humility, as to render it,—her time of life, her high estimation in the world, and her rare acquirements considered,—as touching as it was unexpected to her new guest.
Mrs. Delany still was tall, though some of her height was probably lost. Not much, however, for she was remarkably upright. There were little remains of beauty left in feature; but benevolence, softness, piety, and sense, were all, as conversation brought them into play, depicted in her face, with a sweetness of look and manner, that, notwithstanding her years, were nearly fascinating.
The report generally spread of her being blind, added surprise to pleasure at such active personal civilities in receiving her visitors. Blind, however, she palpably was not. She was neither led about the room, nor afraid of making any false step, or mistake; and the turn of her head to those whom she meant to address, was constantly right. The expression, also, of her still pleasing, though dim eyes, told no sightless tale; but, on the contrary, manifested that she had by no means lost the view of the countenance any more than of the presence of her company.
But the fine perception by which, formerly, she had drawn, painted, cut out, worked, and read, was obscured; and of all those accomplishments in which she had excelled, she was utterly deprived.
Of their former possession, however, there wereample proofs to demonstrate their value; her apartments were hung round with pictures of her own painting, beautifully designed and delightfully coloured; and ornaments of her own execution of striking elegance, in cuttings and variegated stained paper, embellished her chimney-piece; partly copied from antique studies, partly of fanciful invention; but all equally in the chaste style of true and refined good taste.
At the request of Mrs. Chapone, she instantly and unaffectedly brought forth a volume of her newly-invented Mosaic flower-work; an art of her own creation; consisting of staining paper of all possible colours, and then cutting it into strips, so finely and delicately, that when pasted on a dark ground, in accordance to the flower it was to produce, it had the appearance of a beautiful painting; except that it rose to the sight with a still richer effect: and this art Mrs. Delany had invented at seventy-five years of age![57]
It was so long, she said, after its suggestion, before she brought her work into any system, that inthe first year she finished only two flowers: but in the second she accomplished sixteen; and in the third, one hundred and sixty. And after that, many more. They were all from nature, the fresh gathered, or still growing plant, being placed immediately before her for imitation. Her collection consisted of whatever was most choice and rare in flowers, plants, and weeds; or, more properly speaking, field flowers; for, as Thomson ingeniously says, it is the “dull incurious” alone who stigmatise these native offsprings of Flora by the degrading title of weeds.
Her plan had been to finish one thousand, for a complete herbal; but its progress had been stopped short, by the feebleness of her sight, when she was within only twenty of her original scheme.
She had always marked the spot whence she took, or received, her model, with the date of the year on the corner of each flower, in different coloured letters; “but the last year,” she meekly said, “when I found my eyes becoming weaker and weaker, and threatening to fail me before my plan could be completed, I cut out my initials, M. D., in white, for I fancied myself nearly working in my winding sheet!”
There was something in her smile at this melancholy speech that blended so much cheerfulness with resignation, as to render it, to the Memorialist, extremely affecting.
Mrs. Chapone inquired whether her eyes had been injured by any cold?
Instantly, at the question, recalling her spirits, “No, no!” she replied; “nothing has attacked them but my reigning malady, old age!—’Tis, however, only what we are all striving to obtain! And I, for one, have found it a very comfortable state. Yesterday, nevertheless, my peculiar infirmity was rather distressing to me. I received a note from young Mr. Montagu,[58]written in the name of his aunt,[59]that required an immediate answer. But how could I give it to what I could not even read? My good Astley[60]was, by great chance, gone abroad; and my housemaid can neither write nor read; and my man happened to be in disgrace, so I could not do him such a favour [smiling] as to be obliged to him! I resolved, therefore, to try, once more, to read myself; and I hunted out my old long-laid-by magnifier. But it would not do! it was all in vain!
I then ferretted out a larger glass; and with that, I had the great satisfaction to make out the first word,—but before I could get at the second, even the first became a blank! My eyes, however, have served me so long and so well, that I should be very ungrateful to quarrel with them. I then, luckily, recollected that my cook is a scholar! So I sent for her, and we made out the billet together—which, indeed, deserved a much better answer than I, or my cook either, scholar as she is, could bestow. But my dear niece will be with me ere long, and then I shall not be quite such a bankrupt to my correspondents.”
Bankrupt, indeed, was she not, to gaiety, to good-humour, or to polished love of giving pleasure to her social circle, any more than to keeping pace with her correspondents.
When Mrs. Chapone mentioned, with much regret, that a previous evening engagement must force her away at half-past seven o’clock, “Half-past seven?” Mrs. Delany repeated, with an arch smile; “O fie! fie! Mrs. Chapone! why Miss Larolles would not for the world go anywhere before eight or nine!”[61]
And when the Memorialist, astonished as well asdiverted at such a sally from Mrs. Delany, yet desirous, from embarrassment, not to seem to have noticed it, turned to look at some of the pictures, and stopped at a charming portrait of Madame de Savigné, to remark its expressive mixture of sweetness, intelligence, and vivacity, the smile of Mrs. Delany became yet archer, as she sportively said, “Yes!—she looks very—enjouée, as Captain Aresby would say.”
This was not a speech to lessen, or meant to lessen, either surprise or amusement in the Memorialist, who, nevertheless, quietly continued her examination of the pictures; till she stopped at a portrait that struck her to have an air of spirit and genius, that induced her to inquire whom it represented.
Mrs. Delany did not mention the name, but only answered, “I don’t know how it is, Mrs. Chapone, but I can never, of late, look at that picture without thinking of poor Belfield.”
This was heard with a real start—though certainly not of pain! But that Mrs. Delany, at her very advanced time of life, eighty-three, should thus have personified to herself the characters of a book so recently published, mingled in its pleasure nearly as much astonishment as gratification.
Mrs. Delany—still clear-sighted to countenance, at least—seemed to read her thoughts, and, kindly taking her hand, smilingly said: “You must forgive us, Miss Burney! it is not quite a propriety, I own, to talk of these people before you; but we don’t know how to speak at all, now, without naming them, they run so in our heads!”
Early in the evening, they were joined by Mrs. Delany’s beloved and loving friend, the Duchess Dowager of Portland; a lady who, though not as exquisitely pleasing, any more than as interesting by age as Mrs. Delany,—who, born with the century, was now in her 83d year, had yet a physiognomy that, when lighted up by any discourse in which she took a part from personal feelings, was singularly expressive of sweetness, sense, and dignity; three words that exactly formed the description of her manners; which were not merely free from pride, but free, also, from its mortifying deputy, affability.
Mrs. Delany, that pattern of the old school in high politeness, was now, it is probable, in the sphere whence Mr. Burke had signalized her by that character; for her reception of the Duchess of Portland, and her conduct to that noble friend, strikingly displayed the self-possession that goodtaste with good breeding can bestow, even upon the most timid mind, in doing the honours of home to a superior.
She welcomed her Grace with as much respectful ceremony as if this had been a first visit; to manifest that, what in its origin, she had taken as an honour, she had so much true humility as to hold to be rather more than less so in its continuance; yet she constantly exerted a spirit, in pronouncing her opposing or concurring sentiments, in the conversation that ensued, that shewed as dignified an independence of character, as it marked a sincerity as well as happiness of friendship, in the society of her elevated guest.
The Memorialist was presented to her Grace, who came with the expectation of meeting her, in the most gentle and flattering terms by Mrs. Delany; and she was received with kindness rather than goodness. The watchful regard of the Duchess for Mrs. Delany, soon pointed out the marked partiality which that revered lady was already conceiving for her new visitor; and the Duchess, pleased to abet, as salubrious, every cheering propensity in her beloved friend, immediately disposed herself to second it with the most obliging alacrity.
Mrs. Delany, gratified by this apparent approvance, then started the subject of the recent publication, with a glow of pleasure that, though she uttered her favouring opinions with the most unaffected, the chastest simplicity, made the “eloquent blood” rush at every flattering sentence into her pale, soft, aged cheeks, as if her years had been as juvenile as her ideas, and her kindness.
Animated by the animation of her friend, the Duchess gaily increased it by her own; and the warm-hearted Mrs. Chapone still augmented its energy, by her benignant delight that she had brought such a scene to bear for her young companion: while all three sportively united in talking of the characters in the publication, as if speaking of persons and incidents of their own peculiar knowledge.
On the first pause upon a theme which, though unavoidably embarrassing, could not, in hands of such noble courtesy, that knew how to make flattery subservient to elegance, and praise to delicacy, be seriously distressing; the deeply honoured, though confused object of so much condescension, seized the vacant moment for starting the name of Mr. Crisp.
Nothing could better propitiate the introduction which Dr. Burney desired for himself to the correspondent of Dean Swift, and the quondam acquaintance of his early monitor, Mr. Crisp, than bringing this latter upon the scene.
The Duchess now took the lead in the discourse, and was charmed to hear tidings of a former friend, who had been missed so long in the world as to be thought lost. She inquired minutely into his actual way of life, his health and his welfare; and whether he retained his fondness and high taste for all the polite arts.
To the Memorialist this was a topic to give a flow of spirits, that spontaneously banished the reserve and silence with strangers of which she stood generally accused: and her history of the patriarchal attachment of Mr. Crisp to Dr. Burney, and its benevolent extension to every part of his family, while it revived Mr. Crisp to the memories and regard of the Duchess and of Mrs. Delany, stimulated their wishes to know the man—Dr. Burney—who alone, of all the original connexions of Mr. Crisp, had preserved such power over his affections, as to be a welcome inmate to his almost hermetically closed retreat.
And the account of Chesington Hall, its insulated and lonely position, its dilapidated state, its nearly inaccessible roads, its quaint old pictures, and straight long garden paths; was as curious and amusing to Mrs. Chapone, who was spiritedly awake to whatever was romantic or uncommon, as the description of the chief of the domain was interesting to those who had known him when he was as eminently a man of the world, as he was now become, singularly, the recluse of a village.
Such was the basis of the intercourse that thenceforward took place between Dr. Burney and the admirable Mrs. Delany; who was not, from her feminine and elegant character, and her skill in the arts, more to the taste of Dr. Burney, than he had the honour to be to her’s, from his varied acquirements, and his unstrained readiness to bring them forth in social meetings. While his daughter, who thus, by chance, was the happy instrument of this junction, reaped from it a delight that was soon exalted to even bosom felicity, from the indulgent partiality with which that graceful pattern of olden times met, received, and cherished the reverential attachment which she inspired; and which imperceptibly graduated into a mutual, a trusting, asacred friendship; as soothing, from his share in its formation, to her honoured Mr. Crisp, as it was delighting to Dr. Burney from its seasonable mitigation of the loss, the disappointment, the breaking up of Streatham.
But though this gently cheering, and highly honourable connexion, by its kindly operation, offered the first mental solace to that portentous journey to Bath, which with a blight had opened the spring of 1783; that blight was still unhealed in the excoriation of its infliction, when a new incision of anguish, more deeply cutting still, and more permanently incurable, pierced the heart of Dr. Burney by tidings from Chesington, that Mr. Crisp was taken dangerously ill.
The ravages of the gout, which had long laid waste the health, strength, spirits, and life-enjoying nerves of this admirable man, now extended their baleful devastations to the seats of existence, the head and the breast; wavering occasionally in their work, with something of less relentless rigour, but never abating in menace of fatality.
Susanna,—now Mrs. Phillips,—was at Chesingtonat the time of the seizure; and to her gentle bosom, and most reluctant pen, fell the sorrowing task of announcing this quick-approaching calamity to Dr. Burney, and all his house: and in the same unison that had been their love, was now their grief. Sorrow, save at the dissolution of conjugal or filial ties, could go no deeper. The Doctor would have abandoned every call of business or interest,—for pleasure at such a period, had no call to make! in order to embrace and to attend upon his long dearest friend, if his Susanna had not dissuaded him from so mournful an exertion, by representations of the uncertainty of finding even a moment in which it might be safe to risk any agitation to the sufferer; whose pains were so torturing, that he fervently and perpetually prayed to heaven for the relief of death:—while the prayers for the dying were read to him daily by his pious sister, Mrs. Gast.
And only by the most urgent similar remonstrances, could the elder[62]or the younger[63]of the Doctor’s daughters be kept away; so completely as a fond father was Mr. Crisp loved by all.
But this Memorialist, to whom, for many preceding years, Mr. Crisp had rendered Chesington a second, a tender, an always open, always inviting home, was so wretched while withheld from seeking once more his sight and his benediction, that Dr. Burney could not long oppose her wishes. In some measure, indeed, he sent her as his own representative, by entrusting to her a letter full of tender attachment and poignant grief from himself; which he told her not to deliver, lest it should be oppressive or too affecting; but to keep in hand, for reading more or less of it to him herself, according to the strength, spirits, and wishes of his dying friend.
With this fondly-sad commission, she hastened to Chesington; where she found her Susanna, and all the house, immersed in affliction: and where, in about a week, she endured the heartfelt sorrow of witnessing the departure of the first, the most invaluable, the dearest Friend of her mourning Father; and the inestimable object of her own chosen confidence, her deepest respect, and, from her earliest youth, almost filial affection.
She had the support, however, of the soul-soothing sympathy of her Susanna; and the tender consolation of having read to him, by intervals, nearlythe whole of Dr. Barney’s touching Farewell! and of having seen that her presence had been grateful to him, even in the midst of his sufferings; and of inhaling the balmy kindness with which his nearly final powers of utterance had called her “the dearest thing to him on earth!”
This wound, in its acuteness to Dr. Burney, was only less lacerating than that which had bled from the stroke that had torn away from him the early and adored partner of his heart. But the submissive resignation and patient philosophy with which he bore it, will best be exemplified by the following extract from a letter, written, on this occasion, to his second daughter; whose quick feelings had—as yet!—only once been strongly called forth; and that nearly in childhood, on her maternal deprivation; who knew not, therefore, enough of their force to be guarded against their invasion: and who, in the depth of her grief, had shut herself up in mournful seclusion; for,—blind to sickly foresight!—neither the age nor the infirmities of Mr. Crisp had worked upon her as preparatory to his exit.
His age, indeed, as it was unaccompanied by the smallest diminution of his faculties, though he had reached his seventy-sixth year, offered no mitigationto grief for his death; though a general one, undoubtedly, to its shock. What we lament, is what we lose; what we lose, whether young or old, is what we miss: it may justly, therefore, perhaps, be affirmed, that youth and beauty, however more elegiacally they may be sung, are only by the Lover and the Poet mourned over with stronger regret than age and goodness.
The animadversions upon the excess of sorrow to which this extract may give rise, must not induce the Memorialist of Dr. Burney to spare herself from their infliction, by withholding what she considers it her bounden duty to produce, a document that strikingly displays his tender parental kindness, his patient wisdom, and his governed sensibility.
“To Miss Burney.“ * * I am much more afflicted than surprised at the violence and duration of your sorrow for the terrible scenes and events you have witnessed at Chesington; and not only pity you, but participate in all your feelings. Not an hour in the day has passed—as you will some time or other find—since the fatal catastrophe, in which I have not felt a pang for the irreparable loss I have sustained. However, as something is due to theliving—there is, perhaps, a boundary at which it is right toendeavourto stop in lamenting thedead. It is very difficult,—as[Pg 320]I have found!—to exceed that boundary in our duty or attention, without its being at the expense of others. I have experienced the loss of one so dear to me as to throw me into the utmost affliction of despondency which can be suffered without insanity. But I had claims on my life, my reason, and my activity, which, joined to higher motives, drew me from the pit of despair, and forced me, though with great difficulty, to rouse and exert every nerve and faculty in answering them.“It has been very well said of mental wounds, that they must digest, like those of the body, before they can be healed. The poultice of necessity can alone, perhaps, in some cases, bring on this digestion; but we should not impede it by caustics or corrosions. Let the wound be open a due time—but not kept bare with violence.—“To quit all metaphor, we must, alas! try to diminish our sorrow for one calamity to enable us to support another! A general peace gives but time to refit for new war; a mental blow, or wound, is no more. So far, however, am I from blaming your sorrow on the present occasion, that, in fact, I both love and honour you for it;—and, therefore, will add no more on that melancholy subject. With respect to the other,—&c. &c.“* * *.”
“To Miss Burney.
“ * * I am much more afflicted than surprised at the violence and duration of your sorrow for the terrible scenes and events you have witnessed at Chesington; and not only pity you, but participate in all your feelings. Not an hour in the day has passed—as you will some time or other find—since the fatal catastrophe, in which I have not felt a pang for the irreparable loss I have sustained. However, as something is due to theliving—there is, perhaps, a boundary at which it is right toendeavourto stop in lamenting thedead. It is very difficult,—as[Pg 320]I have found!—to exceed that boundary in our duty or attention, without its being at the expense of others. I have experienced the loss of one so dear to me as to throw me into the utmost affliction of despondency which can be suffered without insanity. But I had claims on my life, my reason, and my activity, which, joined to higher motives, drew me from the pit of despair, and forced me, though with great difficulty, to rouse and exert every nerve and faculty in answering them.
“It has been very well said of mental wounds, that they must digest, like those of the body, before they can be healed. The poultice of necessity can alone, perhaps, in some cases, bring on this digestion; but we should not impede it by caustics or corrosions. Let the wound be open a due time—but not kept bare with violence.—
“To quit all metaphor, we must, alas! try to diminish our sorrow for one calamity to enable us to support another! A general peace gives but time to refit for new war; a mental blow, or wound, is no more. So far, however, am I from blaming your sorrow on the present occasion, that, in fact, I both love and honour you for it;—and, therefore, will add no more on that melancholy subject. With respect to the other,—&c. &c.
“* * *.”
It would be needless, it is hoped, to say that this mild and admirable exhortation effected fully its benevolent purpose. With grateful tears, and immediate compliance to his will, she hastened to his arms, received his tenderest welcome, and, quitting her chamber seclusion, again joined the family—if not with immediate cheerfulness, at leastwith composure: and again, upon his motion, and under his loved wing, returned to the world; if not with inward gaiety, with outward, yet true and unaffected gratitude for the kindness with which it received her back again to its circles:—but Mr. Crisp was not less gone, nor less internally lamented!
What the Doctor intimates of the proofs she would one day find of the continual occupation of his thoughts by his departed friend, alludes to an elegy to which he was then devoting every instant he could snatch from his innumerable engagements; and which, as a memorial of his friendship, was soothing to his affliction. It opens with the following lines.
“Elegy on the Death of a Friend.
“The guide and tutor of my early youth,Whose word was wisdom, and whose wisdom, truth,Whose cordial kindness, and whose active zealFull forty years I never ceas’d to feel;The Friend to whose abode I eager stoleTo pour each inward secret of my soul;The dear companion of my leisure hours,Whose cheerful looks, and intellectual powers,Drove care, anxiety, and doubt away,And all the fiends that on reflection prey,Is now no more!—The features of that faceWhere glow’d intelligence and manly grace;Those eyes which flash’d with intellectual fireKindled by all that genius could inspire—Those, those—and all his pleasing powers are fledTo the cold, squalid mansions of the dead!This highly polished gem, which shone so bright,Impervious now, eclips’d in viewless nightFrom earthly eye, irradiates no moreThis nether sphere!”—
“The guide and tutor of my early youth,Whose word was wisdom, and whose wisdom, truth,Whose cordial kindness, and whose active zealFull forty years I never ceas’d to feel;The Friend to whose abode I eager stoleTo pour each inward secret of my soul;The dear companion of my leisure hours,Whose cheerful looks, and intellectual powers,Drove care, anxiety, and doubt away,And all the fiends that on reflection prey,Is now no more!—The features of that faceWhere glow’d intelligence and manly grace;Those eyes which flash’d with intellectual fireKindled by all that genius could inspire—Those, those—and all his pleasing powers are fledTo the cold, squalid mansions of the dead!This highly polished gem, which shone so bright,Impervious now, eclips’d in viewless nightFrom earthly eye, irradiates no moreThis nether sphere!”—
“The guide and tutor of my early youth,Whose word was wisdom, and whose wisdom, truth,Whose cordial kindness, and whose active zealFull forty years I never ceas’d to feel;The Friend to whose abode I eager stoleTo pour each inward secret of my soul;The dear companion of my leisure hours,Whose cheerful looks, and intellectual powers,Drove care, anxiety, and doubt away,And all the fiends that on reflection prey,Is now no more!—The features of that faceWhere glow’d intelligence and manly grace;Those eyes which flash’d with intellectual fireKindled by all that genius could inspire—Those, those—and all his pleasing powers are fledTo the cold, squalid mansions of the dead!This highly polished gem, which shone so bright,Impervious now, eclips’d in viewless nightFrom earthly eye, irradiates no moreThis nether sphere!”—
“The guide and tutor of my early youth,Whose word was wisdom, and whose wisdom, truth,Whose cordial kindness, and whose active zealFull forty years I never ceas’d to feel;The Friend to whose abode I eager stoleTo pour each inward secret of my soul;The dear companion of my leisure hours,Whose cheerful looks, and intellectual powers,Drove care, anxiety, and doubt away,And all the fiends that on reflection prey,Is now no more!—The features of that faceWhere glow’d intelligence and manly grace;Those eyes which flash’d with intellectual fireKindled by all that genius could inspire—Those, those—and all his pleasing powers are fledTo the cold, squalid mansions of the dead!This highly polished gem, which shone so bright,Impervious now, eclips’d in viewless nightFrom earthly eye, irradiates no moreThis nether sphere!”—
“The guide and tutor of my early youth,
Whose word was wisdom, and whose wisdom, truth,
Whose cordial kindness, and whose active zeal
Full forty years I never ceas’d to feel;
The Friend to whose abode I eager stole
To pour each inward secret of my soul;
The dear companion of my leisure hours,
Whose cheerful looks, and intellectual powers,
Drove care, anxiety, and doubt away,
And all the fiends that on reflection prey,
Is now no more!—The features of that face
Where glow’d intelligence and manly grace;
Those eyes which flash’d with intellectual fire
Kindled by all that genius could inspire—
Those, those—and all his pleasing powers are fled
To the cold, squalid mansions of the dead!
This highly polished gem, which shone so bright,
Impervious now, eclips’d in viewless night
From earthly eye, irradiates no more
This nether sphere!”—
What follows, though in the same strain of genuine grief and exalted friendship, is but an amplification of these lines; and too diffuse for any eyes but those to which the object of the panegyric had been familiar; and which, from habitually seeing and studying that honoured object, coveted, like Dr. Burney himself, to dwell, to linger upon its excellencies with fond reminiscence.
Mrs. Gast, the sister of Mr. Crisp, and Mrs. Catherine Cooke, his residuary legatee, put up a monument to his memory in the little church of Chesington, for which Dr. Burney wrote the following epitaph.
To the MemoryOFSAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.,Who died April 24, 1783, aged 76.May Heaven—through our mercifulRedeemer—receive his soul!
Reader! This rude and humble spot containsThe much lamented, much revered remainsOf one whose learning, judgment, taste, and sense,Good-humour’d wit, and mild benevolenceCharm’d and enlighten’d all the hamlet round,Wherever genius, worth,—or want was found.To few it is that bounteous heaven impartsSuch depth of knowledge, and such taste in arts;Such penetration, and enchanting powersOf brightening social and convivial hours.Had he, through life, been blest, by nature kind,With health robust of body as of mind,With skill to serve and charm mankind, so greatIn arts, in science, letters, church, or state,His fame the nation’s annals had enroll’d,And virtues to remotest ages told.
Reader! This rude and humble spot containsThe much lamented, much revered remainsOf one whose learning, judgment, taste, and sense,Good-humour’d wit, and mild benevolenceCharm’d and enlighten’d all the hamlet round,Wherever genius, worth,—or want was found.To few it is that bounteous heaven impartsSuch depth of knowledge, and such taste in arts;Such penetration, and enchanting powersOf brightening social and convivial hours.Had he, through life, been blest, by nature kind,With health robust of body as of mind,With skill to serve and charm mankind, so greatIn arts, in science, letters, church, or state,His fame the nation’s annals had enroll’d,And virtues to remotest ages told.
Reader! This rude and humble spot containsThe much lamented, much revered remainsOf one whose learning, judgment, taste, and sense,Good-humour’d wit, and mild benevolenceCharm’d and enlighten’d all the hamlet round,Wherever genius, worth,—or want was found.To few it is that bounteous heaven impartsSuch depth of knowledge, and such taste in arts;Such penetration, and enchanting powersOf brightening social and convivial hours.Had he, through life, been blest, by nature kind,With health robust of body as of mind,With skill to serve and charm mankind, so greatIn arts, in science, letters, church, or state,His fame the nation’s annals had enroll’d,And virtues to remotest ages told.
Reader! This rude and humble spot containsThe much lamented, much revered remainsOf one whose learning, judgment, taste, and sense,Good-humour’d wit, and mild benevolenceCharm’d and enlighten’d all the hamlet round,Wherever genius, worth,—or want was found.To few it is that bounteous heaven impartsSuch depth of knowledge, and such taste in arts;Such penetration, and enchanting powersOf brightening social and convivial hours.Had he, through life, been blest, by nature kind,With health robust of body as of mind,With skill to serve and charm mankind, so greatIn arts, in science, letters, church, or state,His fame the nation’s annals had enroll’d,And virtues to remotest ages told.
Reader! This rude and humble spot contains
The much lamented, much revered remains
Of one whose learning, judgment, taste, and sense,
Good-humour’d wit, and mild benevolence
Charm’d and enlighten’d all the hamlet round,
Wherever genius, worth,—or want was found.
To few it is that bounteous heaven imparts
Such depth of knowledge, and such taste in arts;
Such penetration, and enchanting powers
Of brightening social and convivial hours.
Had he, through life, been blest, by nature kind,
With health robust of body as of mind,
With skill to serve and charm mankind, so great
In arts, in science, letters, church, or state,
His fame the nation’s annals had enroll’d,
And virtues to remotest ages told.
C. Burney.
And the following brief account of this event the Doctor sent, in the ensuing May, to the newspapers.
Last week died, at Chesington, in Surrey, whither he had longretired from the world, Samuel Crisp, Esq., aged 75, whose loss will be for ever deplored by all those who were admitted into his retreat, and had the happiness of enjoying his conversation; which was rendered captivating by all that wit, learning, profound knowledge of mankind, and a most exquisite taste in the fine arts, as well as in all that embellishes human life, could furnish.
And thus, from the portentous disappearance of Mrs. Thrale, with a blight had opened this fatal spring; and thus, from the irreparable loss of Mr. Crisp, with a blast it closed!
Even to his History of Music the Doctor knew not, now, how to turn his attention; Chesington had so constantly been the charm, as well as the retreat for its pursuit, and Chesington and Mr. Crisp had seemed so indissolubly one, that it was long ere the painful resolution could be gathered of trying how to support what remained, when they were sundered.
Of the two most intimate of his musical friends after Mr. Crisp, Mr. Twining of Colchester came less frequently than ever to town; and Mr. Bewley of Massingham was too distant for any regularity of evenannual meetings. And those friends still within his reach, in whom he took the deepest interest, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Burke, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, were too little conversant in music to be usefully sought at this music-devoted period. They had neither taste nor care for his art, and not the smallest knowledge upon its subject. Yet this, though for the moment, nearly a misfortune, was not any impediment to friendship on either side: Dr. Burney had too general a love of literature, as well as of the arts, to limit his admiration, any more than his acquirements, to his own particular cast; while the friends just mentioned regarded his musical science but as a matter apart; and esteemed and loved him solely for the qualities that he possessed in common with themselves.
Compelled was he, nevertheless, to endure the altered Chesington; where, happily, however, then resided his tender Susanna; whose sight was always a charm, and whose converse had a balm that enabled him again to return to his work, though it had lost, for the present, all voluntary influence over his spirits. But choice was out of the question; he had a given engagement to fulfil; and there was no place so sacred from intrusion as Chesington.
Thither, therefore, he repaired; and there, in laborious study, he remained, till the season for his professional toils called him again to St. Martin’s-street.
The first spur that urged his restoration to the world, and its ways, was given through the lively and frequent inquiries made after him and his history by sundry celebrated foreigners, German, Italian, and French.
Amongst his German correspondents, Dr. Burney ranked first the super-eminent Emanuel Bach, commonly known by the appellation of Bach of Berlin; whose erudite depths in the science, and exquisite taste in the art of music, seemed emulously combatting one with the other for precedence; so equal was what he owed to inspiration and to study.
Dr. Burney had the great satisfaction, publicly and usefully, to demonstrate his admiration of this superior musician, by successfully promoting both the knowledge and the sale of his works.
With the equally, and yet more popularly celebrated Haydn, Dr. Burney was in correspondence many years before that noble and truly CREATIVE composer visited England; and almost enthusiastic was the admiration with which the musical historian opened upon the subject, and the matchless merits, of that sublime genius, in the fourth volume of the History of Music. “I am now,” he says, “happily arrived at that part of my narrative where it is necessary to speak of HAYDN, the incomparable HAYDN; from whose productions I have received more pleasure late in life, when tired of most other music, than I ever enjoyed in the most ignorant and rapturous part of my youth, when every thing was new, and the disposition to be pleased was undiminished by criticism, or satiety.”
The German correspondent to whom Dr. Burney was most indebted for information, entertainment, and liberal friendship, was Mynhere Ebeling, a native of Hamborough, who volunteered his services tothe Doctor, by opening a correspondence in English, immediately upon reading the first, or French and Italian tour, with a zeal full of sprightliness and good-humour; solidly seconded by well understood documents in aid of the Musical History.[64]
Amongst the Italians, the most essential to his business was Padre Martini; the most essential and the most generous. While the Doctor was at Bologna, he was allowed free access to the rare library of that learned Padre, with permission to examine his Istoria della Musica, before it was published. And this favour was followed by a display of the whole of the materials which the Padre had collected for his elaborate undertaking: upon all which he conversed with a frankness and liberality, that appeared to the Doctor to spring from a nature so completely void of all earthly drops of envy, jealousy, or love of pre-eminence, as to endow him with the nobleness of wishing that a fellow-labourer in the same vineyard in which he was working himself,should share the advantages of his toil, and reap in common its fruits.
With similar openness the Doctor returned every communication; and produced his own plan, of which he presented the Padre with a copy, which that modest man of science most gratefully received; declaring it to be not only edifying, but, in some points, surprisingly new. They entered into a correspondence of equal interest to both, which subsisted, to their mutual pleasure, credit, and advantage, through the remnant life of the good old Padre; and which not unfrequently owed its currency to the friendly intervention of the amiable, and, as far as his leisure and means accorded with his native inclination, literary Pacchierotti.
With Metastasio, who in chaste pathos of sentimental eloquence, and a purity of expression that seems to emanate from purity of feeling, stands nearly unequalled, he assiduously maintained the intercourse which he had happily begun with that laureate-poet at Vienna.
Of the French correspondents, M. Berquin, the true though self-named children’s friend, was foremost in bringing letters of strong recommendation to the Doctor from Paris.
M. Berquin warmly professed that the first inquiry he made upon his entrance into London, was for theHôtel du Grand Newton; where he offered up incense to the owner, and to his second daughter, of so overpowering a perfume, that it would have derogated completely from the character of verity and simplicity that makes the charm of his tales for juvenile pupils, had it not appeared, from passages published in his works after his return to France, that he had really wrought himself into feeling the enthusiasm that here had appeared overstrained, unnatural, and almost, at least to the daughter, burlesque. In an account of him, written at this time to her sister Susanna, are these words: