*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61926 ***

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ .




  MEMOIRS

  OF

  DOCTOR BURNEY.




  MEMOIRS

  OF

  DOCTOR BURNEY,

  ARRANGED

  FROM HIS OWN MANUSCRIPTS, FROM FAMILY PAPERS, AND
  FROM PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS.

  BY

  HIS DAUGHTER, MADAME d’ARBLAY.

  “O could my feeble powers thy virtues trace,
  By filial love each fear should be suppress’d;
  The blush of incapacity I’d chace,
  And stand—Recorder of Thy worth!—confess’d.”

  _Anonymous Dedication of Evelina, to Dr. Burney, in 1778._

  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. II.

  LONDON:

  EDWARD MOXON, 64, NEW BOND STREET.

  1832.




  LONDON:
  BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS,
  BOUVERIE STREET.




MEMOIRS

OF

DOCTOR BURNEY.


SUCH, as far as can be gathered, or recollected, was the list of the
general home circle of Dr. Burney, on his beginning residence in St.
Martin’s-Street; though many persons must be omitted, not to swell
voluminously a mere catalogue of names, where no comment, or memorandum
of incident, has been left of them by the Doctor.

But to enumerate the friends or acquaintances with whom he associated
in the world at large, would be nearly to ransack the Court Calendar,
the list of the Royal Society, of the Literary Club, of all assemblages
of eminent artists; and almost every other list that includes the
celebrated or active characters, then moving, like himself, in the
vortex of public existence.

Chiefly, however, after those already named, stood, in his estimation,
Mr. Chamier, Mr. Boone, Dr. Warton, and his brother, Dr. Thomas Warton,
Sir Richard Jebb, Mr. Matthias, Mr. Cox, Dr. Lind, and Mr. Planta, of
the Museum.




OMIAH.


At the end of the year 1775, the Doctor’s eldest son, Captain James
Burney, who, on board the Cerberus, had convoyed General Burgoyne to
America, obtained permission from the Admiralty to return home, in
order to again accompany Captain Cooke in a voyage round the world; the
second circumnavigation of the young Captain; the third, and unhappily
the last, of the great Captain Cooke.

Omiah, whom they were to restore to his country and friends, came now
upon a leave-taking visit to the family of his favourite Captain Burney.

Omiah, by this time, had made some proficiency in the English language,
and in English customs; and he knew the town so well, that he
perambulated it for exercise and for visits, without either interpreter
or guide.

But he owed quite as much assistance to attitude and gesture, for
making himself understood, as to speech, for in that he was still, at
times, quite unintelligible. To dumb shew he was probably familiar,
the brevity and paucity of his own dialect making it necessarily a
principal source of communication at Ulitea and at Otaheite. What he
knew of English he must have caught instinctively and mechanically,
as it is caught by children; and, it may be, only the faster from
having his attention unencumbered with grammatical difficulties, or
orthographical contrarieties: yesterday served for the past, in all its
distances: tomorrow, for the future, in all its dependences.

The King allowed him a handsome pension, upon which he lived perfectly
at ease, and very happily: and he entertained, in return, as gratefully
loyal a devotion to his Majesty as if he had been a native born subject.

He was very lively, yet gentle; and even politely free from any
forwardness or obtrusion; holding back, and keeping silent, when not
called into notice, with as much delicacy and reserve, as any well bred
European. And his confidence in the benevolence and honour of the
strangers with whom he had trusted his person and his life, spoke a
nature as intrepid as it was guileless.

Dr. Burney inquired of him whether he had lately seen the King?

“Yes,” he answered, “Yes. King George bid me, ‘Omy, you go home.’ O!
dood man, King George! ver dood man!—not ver bad!”

He then endeavoured, very pleasingly, to discriminate between his joy
at returning to his native land, and his grief in quitting England.
“Lord Sandwich,” he said, “bid me—Mr. Omy, you two ships: one, two:
you go home. Omy make ver fine bow;” which he rose to perform, and with
grace and ease; “den Omy say, My lord, ver much oblige!”

The Doctor asked whether he had been at the Opera?

His answer was a violent and ear-jarring squeak, by way of imitating
Italian singing. Nevertheless, he said that he began to like it a great
deal better than he had done at first.

He now missed Richard, the Doctor’s youngest son,[1] and, upon being
told that he was gone to school, clapped his hands, and cried, “O,
learn book? ver well.” Then, putting his hands together, and opening
and shutting them, to imitate turning over the leaves of a book, he
attempted to describe the humour of some school that he had been taken
to see. “Boys here;” he cried: “boys there; boys all over. Master call.
One boy come up. Do so,—” muttering a confused jargon to imitate
reading. “Not ver well. Ver bad. Master do so!”

He then described the master giving the boy a rap on the shoulder with
the book. “Ha! ha!—Boy like ver bad! not ver well. Boy do so;” making
wry faces. “Poor boy! not ver dood. Boy ver bad.”

When the Doctor wished to know what he thought of English horses, and
the English mode of riding, he answered, “Omy like ver well.” He then
tried to expatiate upon riding double, which he had seen upon the high
road, and which had much astonished him. “First,” cried he, “go man;
so!—” making a motion as if mounting and whipping a horse. “Then
here!” pointing behind him; “here go woman! Ha! ha! ha!”

The Doctor asked when he had seen the beautiful Lady Townshend, who was
said to desire his acquaintance.

He immediately made a low bow, with a pleased smile, and said, “Ver
pret woman, Lady Townshend; not ver nasty. Omy drink tea with Lady
Townshend in one, two, tree days. Lord Townshend my friend. Lady
Townshend my friend. Ver pret woman, Lady Townshend: ver pret woman
Mrs. Crewe: ver pret woman Mrs. Bouverie: ver pret woman, Lady Craven.”

Dr. Burney concurred, and admired his taste. He then said, that when
he was invited anywhere they wrote, “Mr. Omy, you come—dinner, tea,
supper.—Then Omy go, ver fast.”

Dr. Burney requested that he would favour us with a national song of
Ulitea, which he had sung to Lord Sandwich, at Hinchenbrook.

He seemed much ashamed, and unwilling to comply, from a full
consciousness now acquired of the inferiority of his native music to
our’s. But the family all joined in the Doctor’s wish, and he was too
obliging to refuse. Nevertheless, he was so modest, that he seemed to
blush alike at his own performance, and at the barbarity of his South
Sea Islands’ harmony; and he began two or three times before he could
gather firmness to proceed.

Nothing could be more curious, or less pleasing than this singing.
Voice he had none; and tune, or air, did not seem to be even aimed at,
either by composer or performer. ’Twas a mere queer, wild and strange
rumbling of uncouth sounds.

His music, Dr. Burney declared, was all that he had about him of savage.

He took great pains, however, to Englishize the meaning of his ditty,
which was laughable enough. It appeared to be a sort of trio, formed
by an old woman, a young woman, and a young man: the two latter begin
by entertaining each other with praises of their mutual merits, and
protestations of their mutual passion; when the old woman enters,
and endeavours to allure to herself the attention of the young man;
and, as she cannot boast of her personal charms, she is very busy in
displaying her dress and decorations, and making him observe and admire
her draperies. He stood up to act this scene; and shewed much humour
in representing the absurd affectation and languishing grimaces of
this ancient enamorata. The youth, next, turning from her with scorn,
openly avows his passion for the young nymph: upon which, the affronted
antique dame authoritatively orders the damsel away; and then, coming
up, with soft and loving smiles, offers herself unreservedly to the
young man; saying, to use his own words, “Come—marry me!” The young
man starts back, as if from some venomous insect; but, half returning,
makes her a reverence, and then humbly begs she will be so good as
to excuse him; but, as she approaches to answer, and to coax him, he
repels her with derision, and impetuously runs off.

Notwithstanding the singing of Omiah was so barbarous, his action,
and the expression of his countenance, was so original, that they
afforded great amusement, of the risible kind, to the Doctor and his
family, who could not finally part from him without much regret; so
gentle, so ingenuous, so artless, and so pleasing had been his conduct
and conversation in his frequent visits to the house; nor did he, in
return, finally quit them without strong symptoms even of sadness.

In the February of the ensuing year, 1776, Captain Burney set sail,
with Captain Cooke and Omiah, on their watery tour.




CONCERTS.


In the private narrative of an historian of the musical art, it
may not be improper to insert some account of the concerts, which
he occasionally gave to invited friends and acquaintances at his
own house; as they biographically mark his style of life, and the
consideration in which he was held by the musical world.

The company was always small, as were the apartments in which it was
received; but always select, as the name, fame, and travels of the
Doctor, by allowing him a choice of guests, enabled him to limit
admission to real lovers of music.

He had never any formal band; though it is probable that there was
hardly a musician in England who, if called upon, would have refused
his services. But they were not requisite to allure those whom the
Doctor wished to please or oblige; and a crowd in a private apartment
he thought as inimical to harmony as to conversation.

It was, primarily, to gratify Mr. Crisp that, while yet in
Poland street, he had begun these little musical assemblages; which, in
different forms, and with different parties, he continued, or renewed,
through life.

The simplicity of the entertainment had, probably, its full share in
the incitement to its participation. A request to or from the master
of the house, was the sole ticket of entrance. And the urbanity of
the Doctor upon these occasions, with the warmth of his praise to
excellence, and the candour of his indulgence to failure, made his
reception of his visitors dispense a pleasure so unconstrained, so
varied, so good-humoured, that his concerts were most sought as a
favour by those whose presence did them the most honour.

To style them, however, concerts, may be conferring on them a dignity
to which they had not any pretension. There was no bill of fare: there
were no engaged subalterns, either to double, or aid, or contrast, with
the principals. The performances were promiscuous; and simply such as
suited the varying humours and desires of the company; a part of which
were always assistants as well as auditors.

Some details of these harmonical coteries, which were written at the
moment by this memorialist to Mr. Crisp, will be selected from amongst
those which contain characteristic traits of persons of celebrity; as
they may more pointedly display their cast and nature, than any merely
descriptive reminiscences.

No apology will be pleaded for the careless manner in which these
accounts are recorded; Mr. Crisp, as may have been observed in the
narrations that have been copied relative to Mr. Bruce, prohibited
all form or study in his epistolary intercourse with his young
correspondent.


CONCERT.—ABSTRACT FIRST.

  “TO SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.

  “_Chesington, Kingston, Surrey._

“Let me now try, my dear Mr. Crisp, if I cannot have the pleasure
to make you dolorously repent your inexorability to coming to town.
We have had such sweet music!—But let me begin with the company,
according to your orders.

“They all arrived early, and staid the whole evening.

“The Baron de Deiden, the Danish ambassador.

“The Baroness, his wife; a sweet woman, indeed; young, pretty,
accomplished, and graceful. She is reckoned the finest _dilletante_
performer on the piano-forte in Europe.

“I might be contented, you will perhaps say, to have given her this
precedence in England and in Denmark; _i.e._ in her own country and in
our’s: but Europe sounds more noble!

“The Honourable Miss Phipps, who came with her, or rather, I believe,
was brought by her, for they are great friends; and Miss Phipps had
already been with us in Queen-square. Miss Phipps is a daughter of Lord
Mulgrave, and sister to the famous Polar captain. She seems full of
spirit and taste.

“Sir James and Lady Lake; Sir Thomas Clarges; Mrs. and Miss Ord; and
a good many others, agreeable enough, though too tedious to mention,
having nothing either striking or odd in them. But the pride of the
evening, as neither you, my dear Mr. Crisp, nor Mr. Twining, could be
with us, was Mr. HARRIS, _of Salisbury_, author of the three treatises
on Poetry, Music, and Painting; Philosophical Arrangements; Hermes, &c.
He brought with him Mrs. Harris, and his second daughter, Miss Louisa,
a distinguished lady-musician. Miss Harris,[2] the eldest, a
cultivated and high-bred character, is, I believe, with her brother,
our minister at Petersburgh.

“Hettina,[3] Mr. Burney, and our noble selves, bring up the rear.

“There was a great deal of conversation previous to the music. But as
the party was too large for a general _chatterment_, every body that
had not courage to stroll about and please themselves, was obliged to
take up with their next neighbour. What think you, then, of my good
fortune, when I tell you I happened to sit by Mr. Harris? and that
that so happening, joined to my being at home,—however otherwise
insignificant,—gave me the intrepidity to abandon my yea and nay
responses, when he was so good as to try whether I could make any
other. His looks, indeed, are so full of benignity, as well as of
meaning and understanding; and his manners have a suavity so gentle, so
encouraging, that, notwithstanding his high name as an author, all fear
from his renown was wholly whisked away by delight in his discourse and
his countenance.

“My father was in excellent spirits, and walked about from one to
another, giving pleasure to all whom he addressed.

“As we had no violins, basses, flutes, &c., we were forced to cut short
the formality of any overture, and to commence by the harp. Mr. Jones
had a very sweet instrument, with new pedals, constructed by Merlin. He
plays very well, and with very neat execution.

“Mr. Burney, then, at the request of the Baroness de Deiden, went to
the harpsichord, where he fired away with his usual genius. He first
played a Concerto of Schobert’s; and then, as the Baroness would not
let him rise, another of my father’s.

“When Mr. Burney had received _the compliments of the nobility and
gentry_, my father solicited the Baroness to take his place.

“‘O no!’ she cried, ‘I cannot hear of such a thing! It is out of
the question! It would be a figurante to dance a _pas seul_ after
Mademoiselle Heinel.’

“However, her animated friend, Miss Phipps, joined so earnestly with
my father in entreaty, that, as the Baron looked strongly his sanction
to their wishes, she was prevailed upon to yield; which she did
most gracefully; and she then played a difficult lesson of Schobert’s
remarkably well, with as much meaning as execution. She is, besides, so
modest, so unassuming, and so pretty, that she was the general object
of admiration.

“When my father went to thank her, she said she had never been so
frightened before in her life.

“My father then begged another German composition from her, which he
had heard her play at Lord Mulgrave’s. She was going, most obligingly,
to comply, when the Baron, in a half whisper, and pointing to my sister
Burney, said; ‘_Après, ma chère!_’

“‘_Eh bien oui!_’ cried Miss Phipps, in a lively tone, ‘_après Madame_
Burney! come Mrs. Burney, pray indulge us.’

“The Baroness, with a pleased smile, most willingly made way; and your
Hettina, unaffectedly, though not quite unfluttered, took her seat; and
to avoid any air of emulation, with great propriety began with a slow
movement, as the Baroness had played a piece of execution.

“For this purpose, she chose your favourite bit of Echard; and I never
heard her play it better, if so well. Merlin’s new pedals made it
exquisite; and the expression, feeling, and taste with which she
performed it, raised a general murmur of applause.

“Mr. Harris inquired eagerly the name of the composer. Every body
seemed to be struck, nay enchanted: and charmed into such silence of
attention, that if a pin had dropt, it would have caused a universal
start.

“I should be ashamed not to give you a more noble metaphor, or simile,
or comparison, than a pin; only I know how cheap you hold all attempts
at fine writing; and that you will like my poor simple pin, just as
well as if I had stunned you with a cannon ball.

“Miss Louisa Harris then consented to vary the entertainment by
singing. She was accompanied by Mr. Harris, whose soul seems all music,
though he has made his pen amass so many other subjects into the
bargain. She has very little voice, either for sound or compass; yet,
which is wonderful, she gave us all extreme pleasure; for she sings in
so high a style, with such pure taste, such native feeling, and such
acquired knowledge of music, that there is not one fine voice in a
hundred I could listen to with equal satisfaction. She gave us an
unpublished air of Sacchini’s, introduced by some noble recitative
of that delicious composer.

“She declared, however, she should have been less frightened to have
sung at a theatre, than to such an audience. But she was prevailed with
to give us, afterwards, a sweet flowing rondeau of Rauzzini’s, from his
opera of Piramis and Thisbe. She is extremely unaffected and agreeable.

“Then followed what my father called the great gun of the evening,
Müthel’s duet for two harpsichords; which my father thinks the noblest
composition of its kind in the world.

“Mr. Burney and the Hettina now came off with flying colours indeed;
nothing could exceed the general approbation. Mr. Harris was in an
ecstacy that played over all his fine features; Sir James Lake, who is
taciturn and cold, was surprised even into loquacity in its praise;
Lady Lake, more prone to be pleased, was delighted to rapture; the
fine physiognomy of Miss Phipps, was lighted up to an animation quite
enlivening to behold; and the sweet Baroness de Deiden, repeatedly
protested she had never been at so singularly agreeable a concert
before.

“She would not listen to any entreaty, however, to play again;
and all instrumental music was voted to be out of the question for that
night. Miss Louisa Harris then, with great good breeding, as well as
good nature, was won by a general call to give us a finale, in a fine
bravura air of Sacchini’s, which she sung extremely well, though under
evident and real affright.

“There was then a good deal of chat, very gay and pleasing; after which
the company went away, in all appearance, uncommonly gratified: and we
who remained at home, were, in all reality, the same.

“But how we wished for our dear Mr. Crisp! Do pray, now, leave your
gout to itself, and come to our next music meeting. Or if it needs must
cling to you, and come also, who knows but that music, which has

        “‘Charms to sooth the savage breast,
    To soften rocks, and bend a knotted oak—’

may have charms also, To soften Gout, and _Un_bend Knotted Fingers?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Previously to any further perusal of these juvenile narrations, it
is necessary to premise, that there were, at this period, three of
the most excelling singers that ever exerted rival powers at the same
epoch, who equally and earnestly sought the acquaintance and suffrage
of Dr. Burney; namely,

  Miss Cecilia Davies, detta l’Inglesina,
  La Signora Agujari, detta la Bastardella,
  And the far-famed Signora Gabrielli.


CECILIA DAVIES, DETTA L’INGLESINA.

Miss Cecilia Davies, during a musical career, unfortunately as brief as
it was splendid, had, at her own desire, been made known to Dr. Burney
in a manner as peculiar as it was honourable, for it was through the
medium of Dr. Johnson; a medium which ensured her the best services of
Dr. Burney, and the esteem of all his family.

Her fame and talents are proclaimed in the History of Music, where it
is said, “Miss Davies had the honour of being the first English woman
who performed the female parts in several great theatres in Italy; to
which extraordinary distinction succeeded that of her becoming the
first woman at the great opera theatre of London.”

And in this course of rare celebrity, her unimpeachable conduct, her
pleasing manners, and her engaging modesty of speech and deportment,
fixed as much respect on her person and character, as her singularly
youthful success had fastened upon her professional abilities.

But, unfortunately, no particulars can be given of any private
performance of this our indigenous brilliant ornament at the house
of Dr. Burney; for though she was there welcomed, and was even eager
to oblige him, the rigour of her opera articles prohibited her from
singing even a note, at that time, to any private party.[4]

The next abstract, therefore, refers to


AGUJARI, DETTA LA BASTARDELLA.

  “TO SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.

  “My dear Mr. Crisp,

“My father says I must write you every thing of every sort about
Agujari, that you may get ready, well or ill, to come and hear her.
So pray make haste, and never mind such common obstacles as health or
sickness upon such an occasion.

“La Signora Agujari has been nick-named, my father says, in Italy, from
some misfortune attendant upon her birth—but of which she, at least,
is innocent—La Bastardella. She is now come over to England, in the
prime of her life and her fame, upon an engagement with the proprietors
of the Pantheon, to sing two songs at their concert, at one hundred
pounds a night! My father’s tour in Italy has made his name and his
historical design so well known there in the musical world, that she
immediately desired his acquaintance on her arrival in London; and Dr.
Maty, one of her protectors in this country, was deputed to bring them
together; which he did, in St. Martin’s-Street, last week.

“Dr. Maty is pleasing, intelligent, and well bred; though formal,
precise, and a rather affected little man. But he stands very high,
they say, in the classes of literature and learning; and, moreover, of
character and worthiness.

He handed the Signora, with much pompous ceremony, into the
drawing-room, where—trumpets not being at hand—he introduced her to
my father with a fine flourish of compliments, as a phenomenon now
first letting herself down to grace this pigmy island.

This style of lofty grandeur seemed perfectly accordant with the style
and fancy of the Signora; whose air and deportment announced deliberate
dignity, and a design to strike all beholders with awe, as well as
admiration.

She is a handsome woman, of middle stature, and seems to be about
twenty-four or twenty-five years of age; with a very good and healthy
complexion, becomingly and not absurdly rouged; a well-shaped nose, a
well-cut mouth, and very prominent, rolling, expressive, and dyingly
languishing eyes.

She was attended by Signor Colla, her maestro, and, as some assert, her
husband; but, undoubtedly, her obsequious and inseparable companion. He
is tall, thin, almost fiery when conversing; and tolerably well
furnished with gesture and grimace; _id est_, made up of nothing else.

The talk was all in French or Italian, and almost all between the two
Doctors, Burney and Maty; we rest, being only auditors, except when
something striking was said upon music, or upon some musician; and then
the hot thin Italian, who is probably a Neapolitan, jumped up, and
started forth into an abrupt rhapsody, with such agitation of voice and
manner, that every limb seemed at work almost as nimbly as his tongue.

But la Signora Agujari sat always in placid, majestic silence, when she
was not personally addressed.

Signor Colla expressed the most unbounded veneration for il Signor
Dottore Borni; whose learned character, he said, in Italy, had left
him there a name that had made it an honour to be introduced to _un si
célebre homme_. My father retorted the compliment upon the Agujari;
lamenting that he had missed hearing her abroad, where her talents,
then, were but rising into renown.

Nevertheless, though he naturally concluded that this visit was
designed for granting him that gratification, he was somewhat diffident
how to demand it from one who, in England, never quavers for less
than fifty guineas an air. To pave, therefore, the way to his
request, he called upon Mr. Burney and the Hettina to open the concert
with a duet.

They readily complied; and the Agujari, now, relinquished a part of her
stately solemnity, to give way, though not without palpably marvelling
that it could be called for, to the pleasure that their performance
excited; for pleasure in music is a sensation that she seems to think
ought to be held in her own gift. And, indeed, for vocal music,
Gabrielli is, avowedly, the only exception to her universal disdain.

As Mr. Burney and the Hettina, however, attempted not to invade her
excluding prerogative, they first escaped her supercilious contempt,
and next caught her astonished attention; which soon, to our no small
satisfaction, rose to open, lively, and even vociferous rapture. In
truth, I believe, she was really glad to be surprised out of her
fatiguing dumb grandeur.

This was a moment not to be lost, and my father hinted his wishes to
Dr. Maty; Dr. Maty hinted them to Signor Colla; but Signor Colla did
not take the hint of hinting them to La Bastardella. He shrugged, and
became all gesticulation, and answered that the Signora would
undoubtedly sing to the Signor Dottore Borni; but that, at this moment,
she had a slight sore throat; and her desire, when she performed to il
Signor Dottore Borni was, _si possible_, he added, to surpass herself.

We were all horribly disappointed; but Signor Colla made what amends
he could, by assuring us that we had never yet known what singing
was! “_car c’est une prodêge, Messieurs et Mesdames, que la Signora
Agujari_.”

My father bowed his acquiescence; and then enquired whether she had
been at the opera?

“‘O no;’ Signor Colla answered; ‘she was too much afraid of that
complaint which all her countrymen who travelled to England had so
long lamented, and which the English call catch-cold, to venture to a
theatre.’

“Agujari then condescended to inquire whether _il Signor Dottore_ had
heard the Gabrielli?

“‘Not yet,’ he replied; ‘he waited her coming to England. He had missed
her in Italy, from her having passed that year in Sicily.’

“‘_Ah Diable!_’ exclaimed the Bastardini, ‘_mais c’est dommage!_’

“This familiar ‘_Diable!_’ from such majestic loftiness, had a very
droll effect.

“‘_Et vous, Signora, l’avez-vous entendue?_’

“‘_O que non!_’ answered she, quite bluffly; ‘_cela n’est pas
possible!_’

“And we were alarmed to observe that she looked highly affronted;
though we could not possibly conjecture why, till Signor Colla, in a
whisper, represented the error of the inquiry, by saying, that two
first singers could never meet.

“‘True!’ Dr. Maty cried; ‘two suns never light us at once.’

“The Signora, to whom this was repeated in Italian, presently recovered
her placid dignity by the blaze of these two suns; and, before she went
away, was in such perfect amity with _il Signor Dottore_, that she
voluntarily declared she would come again, when her sore throat was
over, and _chanter comme il faut_.”

       *       *       *       *       *


CONCERT.—EXTRACT THE THIRD.

  “My dear Mr. Crisp,

“My father, now, bids me write for him—which I do with joy and pride,
for now, now, thus instigated, thus authorised, let me present
to you the triumphant, the unique Agujari!

“O how we all wished for you when she broke forth in her vocal glory!
The great singers of olden times, whom I have heard you so emphatically
describe, seem to have all their talents revived in this wonderful
creature. I could compare her to nothing I have ever heard, but only
to what you have heard; your Carestini, Farinelli, Senesino, alone are
worthy to be ranked with the Bastardini.

“She came with the Signor Maestro Colla, very early, to tea.

“I cannot deign to mention our party,—but it was small and
good:—though by no means bright enough to be enumerated in the same
page with Agujari.

“She frightened us a little, at first, by complaining of a cold. How
we looked at one another! Mr. Burney was called upon to begin; which
he did with even more than his usual spirit; and then—without waiting
for a petition—which nobody, not even my dear father, had yet gathered
courage to make, Agujari, the Bastardella, arose, voluntarily arose, to
sing!

“We all rose too! we seemed all ear. There was no occasion for
any other part to our persons. Had a fan,—for I won’t again give
you a pin,—fallen, I suppose we should have taken it for at least a
thunder-clap. All was hushed and rapt attention.

“Signor Colla accompanied her. She began with what she called a little
minuet of his composition.

“Her cold was not affected, for her voice, at first, was not quite
clear; but she acquitted herself charmingly. And, little as she called
this minuet, it contained difficulties which I firmly believe no other
singer in the world could have executed.

“But her great talents, and our great astonishment, were reserved for
her second song, which was taken from Metastatio’s opera of Didone, set
by Colla, ‘_Non hai ragione, ingrato!_’

“As this was an _aria parlante_, she first, in a voice softly
melodious, read us the words, that we might comprehend what she had to
express.

“It is nobly set; nobly! ‘Bravo, il Signor Maestro!’ cried my father,
two or three times. She began with a fullness and power of voice that
amazed us beyond all our possible expectations. She then lowered it
to the most expressive softness—in short, my dear Mr. Crisp, she was
sublime! I can use no other word without degrading her.

“This, and a second great song from the same opera, _Son Regina_, and
_Son Amante_, she sang in a style to which my ears have hitherto been
strangers. She unites, to her surprising and incomparable powers of
execution, and luxuriant facility and compass of voice, an expression
still more delicate—and, I had almost said, equally feeling with that
of my darling Millico, who first opened my sensations to the melting
and boundless delights of vocal melody.[6] In fact, in Millico, it
was his own sensibility that excited that of his hearers; it was so
genuine, so touching! It seemed never to want any spur from admiration,
but always to owe its excellence to its own resistless pathos.

“Yet, with all its vast compass, and these stupendous sonorous sounds,
the voice of Agujari has a mellowness, a sweetness, that are quite
vanquishing. One can hardly help falling at her feet while one listens!
Her shake, too, is so plump, so true, so open! and, to display her
various abilities to my father, she sang in twenty styles—if twenty
there may be; for nothing is beyond her reach. In songs of execution,
her divisions were so rapid, and so brilliant, they almost made one
dizzy from breathless admiration: her cantabiles were so fine, so rich,
so moving, that we could hardly keep the tears from our eyes. Then she
gave us some accompanied recitative, with a nobleness of accent, that
made every one of us stand erect out of respect! Then, how fascinately
she condescended to indulge us with a rondeau! though she holds that
simplicity of melody beneath her; and therefore rose from it to chaunt
some church music, of the Pope’s Chapel, in a style so nobly simple,
so grandly unadorned, that it penetrated to the inmost sense. She is
just what she will: she has the highest taste, with an expression the
most pathetic; and she executes difficulties the most wild, the most
varied, the most incredible, with just as much ease and facility as I
can say—my dear Mr. Crisp!

“Now don’t you die to come and hear her? I hope you do. O, she is
indescribable!

“Assure yourself my father joins in all this, though perhaps, if he
had time to write for himself, he might do it more Lady Grace like,
‘soberly.’ I hope she will fill up at least half a volume of his
history. I wish he would call her, The Heroine of Music!

“We could not help regretting that her engagement was at the Pantheon,
as her evidently fine ideas of acting are thrown away at a mere concert.

At this, she made faces of such scorn and derision against the
managers, for not putting her upon the stage, that they altered her
handsome countenance almost to ugliness; and, snatching up a music
book, and opening it, and holding it full broad in her hands, she dropt
a formal courtesy, to take herself off at the Pantheon, and said;
‘_Oui! j’y suis là comme une statue! comme une petite ecolière!_’ And
afterwards she contemptuously added: ‘_Mais, on n’aime e guerre ici que
les rondeaux!—Moi—j’abhorre ces miseres là!_’

One objection, however, and a rather serious one, against her walking
the stage, is that she limps.

Do you know what they assert to be the cause of this lameness? It is
said that, while a mere baby, and at nurse in the country, she was left
rolling on the grass one evening, till she rolled herself round and
round to a pigstie; where a hideous hog welcomed her as a delicious
repast, and mangled one side of the poor infant most cruelly, before
she was missed and rescued. She was recovered with great difficulty;
but obliged to bear the insertion of a plate of silver, to
sustain the parts where the terrible swine had made a chasm; and thence
she has been called ... I forget the Italian name, but that which has
been adopted here is Silver-sides.

“You may imagine that the wags of the day do not let such a
circumstance, belonging to so famous a person, pass unmadrigalled:
Foote, my father tells us, has declared he shall impeach the
custom-house officers, for letting her be smuggled into the kingdom
contrary to law; unless her sides have been entered at the stamp
office. And Lord Sandwich has made a catch, in dialogue and in Italian,
between the infant and the hog, where the former, in a plaintive tone
of soliciting mercy, cries; ‘_Caro mio Porco!_’ The hog answers by
a grunt. Her piteous entreaty is renewed in the softest, tenderest
treble. His sole reply is expressed in one long note of the lowest,
deepest bass. Some of her highest notes are then ludicrously imitated
to vocalize little shrieks; and the hog, in finale, grunts out, ‘_Ah!
che bel mangiar!_’

“Lord Sandwich, who shewed this to my father, had, at least, the grace
to say, that he would not have it printed, lest it should get to her
knowledge, till after her return to Italy.”

The radical and scientific merits of this singular personage, and
astonishing performer, are fully expounded in the History of Music. She
left England with great contempt for the land of Rondeaux; and never
desired to visit it again.


LA GABRIELLI.

Of the person and performance of Gabrielli, the History of Music
contains a full and luminous description. She was the most universally
renowned singer of her time; for Agujari died before her high and
unexampled talents had expanded their truly wonderful supremacy.

Yet here, also, no private detail can be written of the private
performance, or manners, of La Gabrielli, as she never visited at
the house of Dr. Burney; though she most courteously invited him to
her own; in which she received him with flattering distinction. And,
as she had the judgment to set aside, upon his visits, the airs,
caprices, coquetries, and gay insolences, of which the boundless
report had preceded her arrival in England, he found her a high-bred,
accomplished, and engaging woman of the world; or rather, he said,
woman of fashion; for there was a winning ease, nay, captivation, in
her look and air, that could scarcely, in any circle, be surpassed. Her
great celebrity, however, for beauty and eccentricity, as well as for
professional excellence, had raised such inordinate expectations before
she came out, that the following juvenile letters upon the appearance
of so extraordinary a musical personage, will be curious,—or, at
least, diverting, to lovers of musical anecdote.


CONCERT.—EXTRACT IV.

  TO SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.

  _Chesington._

  _October, 1775._

  “My dear Mr. Crisp,

“‘Tis so long since I have written, that I suppose you conclude we are
all gone fortune-hunting to some other planet; but, to skip apologies,
which I know you scoff, I shall atone for my silence, by telling you
that my dear father returned from Buxton in quite restored health, I
thank God! and that his first volume is now rough-sketched quite to the
end, Preface and Dedication inclusive.

“But you are vehement, you say, to hear of Gabrielli.

“Well, so is every body else; but she has not yet sung.

“She is the subject of inquiry and discussion wherever you go. Every
one expects her to sing like a thousand angels, yet to be as ridiculous
as a thousand imps. But I believe she purposes to astonish them all in
a new way; for imagine how sober and how English she means to become,
when I tell you that she has taken a house in Golden-square, and put a
plate upon her door, on which she has had engraven, “Mrs. Gabrielli.”

“If John Bull is not flattered by that, he must be John Bear.

“Rauzzini, meanwhile, who is to be the first serious singer, has taken
precisely the other side; and will have nothing to do with his Johnship
at all; for he has had his apartments painted a beautiful rose-colour,
with a light myrtle sprig border; and has ornamented them with little
knic-knacs and trinkets, like a fine lady’s dressing-room.

My father dined with them both the other day, at the manager’s,
Mrs. Brookes, the author, and Mrs. Yates, the _ci-devant_ actress.
Rauzzini sang a great many sweet airs, and very delightfully;
but Gabrielli not a note! Neither did any one presume to ask for
such a favour. Her sister was of the party also, who they say cannot
sing at all; but Gabrielli insisted upon having her engaged, and
advantageously, or refused, peremptorily, to come over.

“Nothing can exceed the impatience of people of all ranks, and all ways
of thinking, concerning this so celebrated singer. And if you do not
come to town to hear her, I shall conclude you lost to all the Saint
Cecilian powers of attraction; and that you are become as indifferent
to music, as to dancing or to horse-racing. For my own part, if any
thing should unfortunately prevent my hearing her first performance,
I shall set it down in my memory ever after, as a very serious
misfortune. Don’t laugh so, dear daddy, pray!

_Written the week following._

“How I rejoice, for once, in your hard-heartedness! how ashamed
I should have been if you had come, dearest Sir, to my call! The
Gabrielli did not sing! And she let all London, and all the country
too, I believe, arrive at the theatre before it was proclaimed
that she was not to appear! Every one of our family, and of every
other family that I know,—and that I don’t know besides, were at the
Opera House at an early hour. We, who were to enter at a private door,
per favour of Mrs. Brookes, rushed past all handbills, not thinking
them worth heeding. Poor Mr. Yates, the manager, kept running from
one outlet to another, to relate the sudden desperate hoarseness
of la Signora Gabrielli; and, supplicate patience, and, moreover,
credence,—now from the box openings, now from the pit, now from the
galleries. Had he been less active, or less humble, it is thought the
theatre would have been pulled down; so prodigious was the rage of the
large assemblage; none of them in the least believing that Gabrielli
had the slightest thing the matter with her.

“My father says people do not think that singers have the capacity of
having such a thing as a cold!

“The murmurs, ‘What a shame!’—‘how scandalous!’—‘what insolent
airs!’—kept Mr. Yates upon the alert from post to post, to the utmost
stretch of his ability; though his dolorous countenance painted his
full conviction that he himself was the most seriously to be pitied of
the party; for it was clear that he said, in soliloquy, upon every one
that he sent away: ‘There goes half a guinea!—or, at the least,
three shillings,—if not five, out of my pocket!’

“We all returned home in horrible ill-humour; but solacing ourselves
with a candid determination, taken in a true spirit of liberality, that
though she should sing even better than Agujari, we would not like her!

My father called upon the managers to know what all this meant; and
Mrs. Brookes then told him, that all that had been reported of the
extraordinary wilfulness of this spoilt child of talent and beauty, was
exceeded by her behaviour. She only sent them word that she was out of
voice, and could not sing, one hour before the house must be opened!
They instantly hurried to her to expostulate, or rather to supplicate,
for they dare neither reproach nor command; and to represent the utter
impossibility of getting up any other opera so late; and to acknowledge
their terror, even for their property, upon the fury of an English
audience, if disappointed so bluffly at the last moment.

To this she answered very coolly, but with smiles and politeness, that
if _le monde_ expected her so eagerly, she would dress herself, and let
the opera be performed; only, when her songs came to their symphony,
instead of singing, she would make a courtesy, and point to her throat.

“‘You may imagine, Doctor,’ said Mrs. Brookes, ‘whether we could trust
John Bull with so easy a lady! and at the very instant his ears were
opening to hear her so vaunted performance!’

       *       *       *       *       *

“Well, my dear Mr. Crisp, now for Saturday, and now for the real
opera. We all went again. There was a prodigious house; such a one,
for fashion at least, as, before Christmas, never yet was seen. For
though every body was afraid there would be a riot, and that Gabrielli
would be furiously hissed, from the spleen of the late disappointment,
nobody could stay away; for her whims and eccentricities only heighten
curiosity for beholding her person.

“The opera was Metastasio’s Didone, and the part for Gabrielli was new
set by Sacchini.

“In the first scene, Rauzzini and Sestini appeared with la Signora
Francesca, the sister of Gabrielli. They prepared us for the approach
of the blazing comet that burst forth in the second.

“Nothing could be more noble than her entrance. It seemed
instantaneously to triumph over her enemies, and conquer her
threateners. The stage was open to its furthest limits, and she
was discerned at its most distant point; and, for a minute or two,
there dauntlessly she stood; and then took a sweep, with a firm, but
accelerating step; and a deep, finely flowing train, till she reached
the orchestra. There she stopt, amidst peals of applause, that seemed
as if they would have shaken the foundations of the theatre.

“What think you now of John Bull?

“I had quite quivered for her, in expectation of cat-calling and
hissings; but the intrepidity of her appearance and approach, quashed
all his resentment into surprised admiration.

“She is still very pretty, though not still very young. She has small,
intelligent, sparkling features; and though she is rather short, she
is charmingly proportioned, and has a very engaging figure. All her
notions are graceful, her air is full of dignity, and her walk is
majestic.

“Though the applause was so violent, she seemed to think it so simply
her due, that she deigned not to honour it with the slightest mark of
acknowledgment, but calmly began her song.

“John Bull, however, enchained, as I believe, by the reported vagaries
of her character, and by the high delight he expected from her talents,
clapped on,—clap, clap, clap!—with such assiduous noise, that not a
note could be heard, nor a _notion_ be started that any note was sung.
Unwilling, then,

  “To waste her sweetness on the clamorous air,”

and perhaps growing a little gratified to find she could “soothe the
savage breast,” she condescended to make an Italian courtesy, _i.e._ a
slight, but dignified bow.

“Honest John, who had thought she would not accept his homage, but
who, through the most abrupt turn from resentment to admiration,
had resolved to bear with all her freaks, was so enchanted by this
affability, that clapping he went on, till, I have little doubt, the
skin of his battered hands went off; determining to gain another gentle
salutation whether she would or not, as an august sign that she was not
displeased with him for being so smitten, and so humble.

“After this, he suffered the orchestra to be heard.

“Gabrielli, however, was not flattered into spoiling her flatterers.
Probably she liked the spoiling too well to make it over to
them. Be that as it may, she still kept expectation on the rack, by
giving us only recitative, till every other performer had tired our
reluctant attention.

“At length, however, came the grand bravura, ‘_Son Regina, e sono
Amante_.’

“Here I must stop!—Ah, Mr. Crisp! why would she take words that had
been sung by Agujari?

“Opinions are so different, you must come and judge for yourself.
Praise and censure are bandied backwards and forwards, as if they were
two shuttlecocks between two battledores. The _Son Regina_ was the only
air of consequence that she even attempted; all else were but bits;
pretty enough, but of no force or character for a great singer.

“How unfortunate that she should take the words, even though to other
music, that we had heard from Agujari!—Oh! She is no Agujari!

“In short, and to come to the truth, she disappointed us all
egregiously.

However, my dear father, who beyond any body tempers his judgment with
indulgence, pronounces her a very capital singer.

“But she visibly took no pains to exert herself, and appeared so
impertinently easy, that I believe she thought it condescension
enough for us poor savage Islanders to see her stand upon the stage,
and let us look at her. Yet it must at least be owned, that the tone
of her voice, though feeble, is remarkably sweet; that her action is
judicious and graceful, and that her style and manner of singing are
masterly.”


CONCERT.—EXTRACT V.

“You reproach me, my dear Mr. Crisp, for not sending you an account of
our last two concerts. But the fact is, I have not any thing new to
tell you. The music has always been the same: the matrimonial duets are
so much _à-la-mode_, that no other thing in our house is now demanded.

“But if I can write you nothing new about music—you want, I well know
you will say, to hear some conversations.

“My dear Mr. Crisp, there is, at this moment, no such thing as
conversation. There is only one question asked, meet whom you may,
namely; ‘How do you like Gabrielli?’ and only two modes, contradictory
to be sure, but very steady, of reply: either, ‘Of all things upon
earth!’ or, ‘Not the least bit in the whole world!’

“Well, now I will present you with a specimen, beginning with our last
concert but one, and arranging the persons of the drama in the order of
their actual appearance.

“But imprimis, I should tell you, that the motive to this concert was
a particular request to my father from Dr. King, our old friend, and
the chaplain to the British—something—at St. Petersburgh, that he
would give a little music to a certain mighty personage, who, somehow
or other how, must needs take, transiently at least, a front place in
future history,—namely, the famed favourite of the Empress Catherine
of Russia, Prince Orloff.

“There, my dear Mr. Crisp! what say you to seeing such a doughty
personage as that in a private house, at a private party, of a private
individual, fresh imported from the Czarina of all the Russias,—to sip
a cup of tea in St. Martin’s-Street?

“I wonder whether future historians will happen to mention this
circumstance? I am thinking of sending it to all the keepers of records.

“But I see your rising eyebrow at this name—your start—your
disgust—yet big curiosity.

“Well, suppose the family assembled, its honoured chief in the
midst—and Tat, tat, tat, tat, at the door.

_Enter_ DR. OGLE, DEAN OF WINCHESTER.

“_Dr. Burney_, after the usual ceremonies.—‘Did you hear the Gabrielli
last night, Mr. Dean?’

“_The Dean._—‘No, Doctor, I made the attempt, but soon retreated; for
I hate a crowd,—as much as the ladies love it!—I beg pardon!’ bowing
with a sort of civil sneer at we Fair Sex.

“My mother was entering upon a spirited defence, when—Tat, tat, tat.

_Enter_ DR. KING.

“He brought the compliments of Prince Orloff, with his Highness’s
apologies for being so late, but he was obliged to dine at Lord
Buckingham’s, and thence, to shew himself at Lady Harrington’s.

“As nobody thought of inquiring into Dr. King’s opinion of La
Gabrielli, conversation was at a stand, till—Tat, tat, tat, tat, too,
and

“_Enter_ LADY EDGCUMBE.

“We were all introduced to her, and she was very chatty, courteous, and
entertaining.

“_Dr. Burney._—‘Your Ladyship was certainly at the Opera last night?’

“_Lady Edgcumbe._—‘O yes!—but I have not heard the Gabrielli! I
cannot allow that I have yet heard her.’

“_Dr. Burney._—‘Your Ladyship expected a more powerful voice?’

“_Lady Edgcumbe._—‘Why n-o—not much. The shadow can tell what the
substance must be; but she cannot have acquired this great reputation
throughout Europe for nothing. I therefore repeat that I have not
yet heard her. She must have had a cold.—But, for me—I have heard
Mingotti!—I have heard Montecelli!—I have heard Mansuoli!—and I
shall never hear them again!’

“_The Dean._—‘But, Lady Edgcumbe, may not Gabrielli have great powers,
and yet have too weak a voice for so large a theatre?’

“_Lady Edgcumbe._—‘Our theatre, Mr. Dean, is of no size to what she
has been accustomed to abroad. But,—Dr. Burney, I have also heard the
Agujari!’

“_Hettina_, _Fanny_, _Susanna_.—‘Oh! Agujari!’ (All three speaking
with clasped hands.)

“_Dr. Burney_ (laughing).—‘Your ladyship darts into all their hearts
by naming Agujari! However, I have hopes you _will_ hear her again.’

“_Lady Edgcumbe._—‘O, Dr. Burney! bring her but to the Opera,—and I
shall grow crazy!’

“I assure you, my dear Mr. Crisp, we all longed to embrace her
ladyship. And she met our sympathy with a good-humour full of pleasure.
My father added, that we all doated upon Agujari.

“_Lady Edgcumbe._—‘O! she is incomparable!—Mark but the difference,
Dr. Burney; by Gabrielli, Rauzzini seems to have a great voice;—by
Agujari, he seemed to have that of a child.’—

“Tat, tat, tat, tat, too.

“_Enter_ THE HON. MR. and MRS. BRUDENEL.

“Mr. Brudenell,[7] commonly called ‘His Honour,’ from high birth, I
suppose, without title, or from some quaint old cause that nobody knows
who has let me into its secret, is tall and stiff, and strongly in the
_ton_ of the present day; which is anything rather than macaroniism;
for it consists of unbounded freedom and ease, with a short, abrupt,
dry manner of speech; and in taking the liberty to ask any question
that occurs upon other people’s affairs and opinions; even upon their
incomes and expences;—nay, even upon their age!

“Did you ever hear of any thing so shocking?

“I do not much mind it now; but, when I grow older, I intend
recommending to have this part of their code abolished.

“Mrs. Brudenel is very obliging and pleasing; and of as great fame as a
lady singer, as Lady Edgcumbe is as a first rate lady player.

“The usual question being asked of La Gabrielli;

“_Mrs. Brudenel._—‘O, Lady Edgcumbe and I are entirely of the same
opinion; we agree that we have not yet heard her.’

“_Lady Edgcumbe._—‘The ceremony of her quitting the theatre after the
opera is over, is extremely curious. First goes a man in livery to
clear the way; then follows the sister; then the Gabrielli herself.
Then, a little foot-page, to bear her train; and, lastly, another man,
who carries her muff, in which is her lap-dog.’

“_Mr. Brudenel._—‘But where is Lord March all this time?’

“_Lady Edgcumbe_ (laughing).—‘Lord March? O,——he, you know, is First
Lord of the Bedchamber!’—

“Tat, tat, tat, tat.

“_Enter_ M. le BARON DE DEMIDOFF.

“He is a Russian nobleman, who travels with Prince Orloff; and
he preceded his Highness with fresh apologies, and a desire that
the concert might not wait, as he would only shew himself at Lady
Harrington’s, and hasten hither.

“My father then attended Lady Edgcumbe to the Library, and Mr. Burney
took his place at the harpsichord.

“We all followed. He was extremely admired; but I have nothing new to
tell you upon that subject.

“Then enter Mr. Chamier. Then followed several others; and then

“_Enter_ MR. HARRIS, _of Salisbury_.

“Susan and I quite delighted in his sight, he is so amiable to talk
with, and so benevolent to look at. Lady Edgcumbe rose to meet him,
saying he was her particular old friend. He then placed himself by
Susan and me, and renewed acquaintance in the most pleasing manner
possible. I told him we were all afraid he would be tired to death of
so much of one thing, for we had nothing to offer him but again the
duet. ‘That is the very reason I solicited to come,’ he answered; ‘I
was so much charmed the last time, that I begged Dr. Burney to give me
a repetition of the same pleasure.’

“‘Then—of course, the opera? The Gabrielli?’

“Mr. Harris declared himself her partizan.

“Lady Edgcumbe warmed up ardently for Agajari.

“_Mr. Dean._—‘But pray, Dr. Burney, why should not these two
melodious signoras sing together, that we might judge them fairly?’

“_Dr. Burney._—‘Oh! the rivalry would be too strong. It would create a
musical war. It would be Cæsar and Pompey.’

“_Lady Edgcumbe._—‘Pompey the Little, then, I am sure would be la
Gabrielli!’

“_Enter_ LORD BRUCE.

“He is a younger brother not only of the Duke of Montagu, but of his
Honour Brudenel. How the titles came to be so awkwardly arranged in
this family is no affair of mine; so you will excuse my sending you to
the Herald’s Office, if you want that information, my dear Mr. Crisp;
though as you are one of the rare personages who are skilled in every
thing yourself,—at least so says my father;—and he is a Doctor, you
know!—I dare say you will genealogize the matter to me at once, when
next I come to dear Chesington.

“He is tall, thin, and plain, but remarkably sensible, agreeable,
and polite; as, I believe, are very generally all those keen looking
Scotchmen; for Scotch, not from his accent, but his name, I conclude
him of course. Can Bruce be other than Scotch? They are far more
entertaining, I think, as well as informing, taken in the common
run, than we silentious English; who, taken _en masse_, are tolerably
dull.

“The Opera?—the Gabrielli?—were now again brought forward. Lady
Edgcumbe, who is delightfully music mad, was so animated, that she was
quite the life of the company.

“At length—Tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, too!

“_Enter_ HIS HIGHNESS PRINCE ORLOFF.

“Have you heard the dreadful story of the thumb, by which this terrible
Prince is said to have throttled the late Emperor of Russia, Peter, by
suddenly pressing his windpipe while he was drinking? I hope it is not
true; and Dr. King, of whom, while he resided in Russia, Prince Orloff
was the patron, denies the charge. Nevertheless, it is so currently
reported, that neither Susan nor I could keep it one moment from our
thoughts; and we both shrunk from him with secret horror, heartily
wishing him in his own Black Sea.

“His sight, however, produced a strong sensation, both in those who
believed, and those who discredited this disgusting barbarity; for
another story, not perhaps, of less real, though of less sanguinary
guilt, is not a tale of rumour, but a crime of certainty; namely, that
he is the first favourite of the cruel inhuman Empress—if it be true
that she connived at this horrible murder.

“His Highness was immediately preceded by another Russian nobleman,
whose name I have forgot; and followed by a noble Hessian, General Bawr.

“Prince Orloff is of stupendous stature, something resembling Mr.
Bruce. He is handsome, tall, fat, upright, magnificent. His dress
was superb. Besides the blue garter, he had a star of diamonds of
prodigious brilliancy, a shoulder knot of the same lustre and value,
and a picture of the Empress hung about his neck, set round with
diamonds of such brightness and magnitude, that, when near the light,
they were too dazzling for the eye. His jewels, Dr. King says, are
estimated at one hundred thousand pounds sterling.

“His air and address are shewy, striking, and assiduously courteous.
He had a look that frequently seemed to say, ‘I hope you observe that
I come from a polished court?—I hope you take note that I am no
Cossack?’—Yet, with all this display of commanding affability, he
seems, from his native taste and humour, ‘agreeably addicted to
pleasantry.’ He speaks very little English, but knows French perfectly.

“His introduction to my father, in which Dr. King pompously figured,
passed in the drawing-room. The library was so crowded, that he could
only show himself at the door, which was barely high enough not to
discompose his prodigious toupee.

“He bowed to Mr. Chamier, then my next neighbour, whom he had somewhere
met; but I was so impressed by the shocking rumours of his horrible
actions, that involuntarily I drew back even from a bow of vicinity;
murmuring to Mr. Chamier, ‘He looks so potent and mighty, I do not like
to be near him!’

“‘He has been less unfortunate,’ answered Mr. Chamier, archly,
‘elsewhere; such objection has not been made to him by all ladies!’

“Lord Bruce, who knew, immediately rose to make way for him, and moved
to another end of the room. The Prince instantly held out his vast
hand, in which, if he had also held a cambric handkerchief, it must
have looked like a white flag on the top of a mast,—so much higher
than the most tip-top height of every head in the room was his
spread out arm, as he exclaimed, ‘_Ah! mi lord me fuit!_’

“His Honour, then, rising also, with a profound reverence, offered
his seat to his Highness; but he positively refused to accept it, and
declared, that if Mr. Brudenel would not be seated, he would himself
retire; and seeing Mr. Brudenel demur, still begging his Highness to
take the chair, he cried with a laugh, but very peremptorily, ‘_Non,
non, Monsieur! Je ne le veux pas! Je suis opiniatre, moi;—un peu comme
Messieurs les Anglais!_’

“Mr. Brudenel then re-seated himself: and the corner of a form
appearing to be vacant, from the pains taken by poor Susan to shrink
away from Mr. Orloff, his Highness suddenly dropped down upon it his
immense weight, with a force—notwithstanding a palpable and studied
endeavour to avoid doing mischief—that threatened his gigantic person
with plumping upon the floor; and terrified all on the opposite side of
the form with the danger of visiting the ceiling.

“Perceiving Susan strive, though vainly, from want of space, to glide
further off from him, and struck, perhaps, by her sweet countenance,
‘_Ah_, _ha!_’ he cried, ‘_Je tiens ici, Je vois, une petite
Prisonnière?!_’

“Charlotte, blooming like a budding little Hebe, actually stole into a
corner, from affright at the whispered history of his thumb ferocity.

“Mr. Chamier, who now probably had developed what passed in my mind,
contrived, very comically, to disclose his similar sentiment; for,
making a quiet way to my ear, he said, in a low voice, ‘I wish Dr.
Burney had invited Omiah here tonight, instead of Prince Orloff!’
Meaning, no doubt, of the two exotics, he should have preferred the
most innocent!

“The grand duet of Müthel was now called for, and played. But I can
tell you nothing extra of the admiration it excited. Your Hettina
looked remarkably pretty; and, added to the applause given to the
music, every body had something to observe upon the singularity of the
performers being husband and wife. Prince Orloff was witty quite to
facetiousness; sarcastically marking something beyond what he said, by
a certain ogling, half cynical, half amorous, cast of his eyes; and
declaring he should take care to initiate all the foreign academies
of natural philosophy, in the secret of the harmony that might be
produced by such nuptial concord.

“The Russian nobleman who accompanied Prince Orloff, and who knew
English, they told us, so well that he was the best interpreter for his
Highness in his visits, gave us now a specimen of his proficiency; for,
clapping his fore finger upon a superfine snuffbox, he exclaimed, when
the duet was finished, ‘Ma foi, dis is so pretty as never I hear in my
life!’

“General Bawr, also, to whom Mr. Harris directed my attention, was
greatly charmed. He is tall, and of stern and martial aspect. ‘He is a
man,’ said Mr. Harris, ‘_to be looked at_, from his courage, conduct,
and success during the last Russian war; when, though a Hessian by
birth, he was a Lieutenant General in the service of the Empress of
Russia; and obtained the two military stars, which you now see him wear
on each side, by his valour.’

“But the rapture of Lady Edgcumbe was more lively than that of any
other. ‘Oh, Doctor Burney,’ she cried, ‘you have set me a madding! I
would willingly practice night and day to be able to perform in such
a manner. I vow I would rather hear that extraordinary duet played in
that extraordinary manner, than twenty operas!’

“Her ladyship was now introduced to Prince Orloff, whom she had not
happened to meet with before; and they struck up a most violent
flirtation together. She invited him to her house, and begged leave to
send him a card. He accepted the invitation, but begged leave to fetch
the card in person. She should be most happy, she said, to receive him,
for though she had but a small house, she had a great ambition. And so
they went on, in gallant courtesie, till, once again, the question was
brought back of the opera, and the Gabrielli.

“The Prince declared that she had not by any means sang as well as at
St. Petersburgh; and General Bawr protested that, had he shut his eyes,
he should not again have known her.

“Then followed, to vary the entertainment, singing by Mrs. Brudenel.

“Prince Orloff inquired very particularly of Dr. King, who we four
young female Burneys were; for we were all dressed alike, on account of
our mourning; and when Dr. King answered, ‘Dr. Burney’s daughters;’ she
was quite astonished; for he had not thought our dear father, he said,
more than thirty years of age; if so much.

“Mr. Harris, in a whisper, told me he wished some of the ladies
would desire to see the miniature of the Empress a little nearer; the
monstrous height of the Prince putting it quite out of view to his
old eyes and short figure; and _being a man_, he could not, he said,
presume to ask such an indulgence as that of holding it in his own
hands.

“Delighted to do any thing for this excellent Mr. Harris, and quite at
my ease with poor prosing Dr. King, I told him the wish of Mr. Harris.

“Dr. King whispered the desire to M. de Demidoff; M. de Demidoff did
the same to General de Bawr; and General de Bawr dauntlessly made the
petition to the Prince, in the name of _The Ladies_.

“The Prince laughed, rather sardonically; yet with ready good-humour
complied; telling the General, pretty much _sans ceremonie_, to untie
the ribbon round his neck, and give the picture into the possession of
The Ladies.

“He was very gallant and _debonnaire_ upon the occasion, entreating
they would by no means hurry themselves; yet his smile, as his eye
sharply followed the progress, from hand to hand, of the miniature, had
a suspicious cast of investigating whether it would be worth his while
to ask any favour of them in return! and through all the superb
magnificence of his display of courtly manners, a little bit of the
Cossack, methought, broke out, when he desired to know whether _The
Ladies_ wished for any thing else? declaring, with a smiling bow, and
rolling, languishing, yet half contemptuous eyes, that, if _The Ladies_
would issue their commands, they should strip him entirely!

“You may suppose, after that, nobody asked for a closer view of any
more of his ornaments! The good, yet unaffectedly humorous philosopher
of Salisbury, could not help laughing, even while actually blushing at
it, that his own curiosity should have involved _The Ladies_ in this
supercilious sort of sarcastic homage.

“There was hardly any looking at the picture of the Empress for the
glare of the diamonds. One of them, I really believe, was as big as
a nutmeg: though I am somewhat ashamed to undignify my subject by so
culinary a comparison.

“When we were all satisfied, the miniature was restored by General Bawr
to the Prince, who took it with stately complacency; condescendingly
making a smiling bow to each fair female who had had possession of it;
and receiving from her in return a lowly courtesy.

“Mr. Harris, who was the most curious to see the Empress, because his
son, Sir James,[8] was, or is intended to be, minister at her court,
had slyly looked over every shoulder that held her; but would not
venture, he archly whispered, to take the picture in his own hands,
lest he should be included, by the Prince, amongst _The Ladies_, as an
old woman!

“Have you had enough of this concert, my dear Mr. Crisp? I have given
it in detail, for the humour of letting you see how absorbing of the
public voice is La Gabrielli: and, also, for describing to you Prince
Orloff; a man who, when time lets out facts, and drives in mysteries,
must necessarily make a considerable figure, good or bad—but certainly
not indifferent,—in European history. Besides, I want your opinion,
whether there is not an odd and striking resemblance in general
manners, as well as in Herculean strength and height, in this Siberian
Prince and his Abyssinian Majesty?”


CONCERT.—EXTRACT THE SIXTH.

  “My dear Mr. Crisp.

“I must positively talk to you again of the sweet Baroness Deiden,
though I am half afraid to write you any more details of our Duet
Concerts, lest they should tire your patience as much as my fingers.
But you will be pleased to hear that they are still _à-la-mode_. We
have just had another at the request of M. le Comte de Guignes, the
French ambassador, delivered by Lady Edgcumbe; who not only came again
her lively self, but brought her jocose and humorous lord; who seems as
sportive and as fond of a _hoax_ as any tar who walks the quarter-deck;
and as cleverly gifted for making, as he is gaily disposed for enjoying
one. They were both full of good-humour and spirits, and we liked them
amazingly. They have not a grain of what you style the torpor of the
times.

Lady Edgcumbe was so transported by Müthel, that when her lord emitted
a little cough, though it did not find vent till he had half stifled
himself to check it, she called out, ‘What do you do here, my Lord,
coughing? We don’t want that accompaniment.’ I wish you could have seen
how drolly he looked. I am sure he was full primed with a ready
repartee. But her ladyship was so intently in ecstacy, and he saw us
all round so intently admiring her enthusiasm, that I verily believe he
thought it would not be safe to interrupt the performance, even with
the best witticism of his merry imagination.

“We had also, for contrast, the new Groom of the Stole, Lord
Ashburnham, with his key of gold dangling from his pocket. He is
elegant and pleasing, though silent and reserved; and just as
scrupulously high-bred, as Lord Edgcumbe is frolicsomely facetious.

“But, my dear Mr. Crisp, we had again the bewitching Danish
ambassadress, the Baroness Deiden, and her polite husband, the Baron.
She is really one of the most delightful creatures in this lower world,
if she is not one of the most deceitful. We were more charmed with her
than ever. I wonder whether Ophelia was like her? or, rather, I have no
doubt but she was just such another. So musical, too! The Danish Court
was determined to show us that our great English bard knew what he was
about, when he drew so attractive a Danish female. The Baron seems as
sensible of her merit as if he were another Hamlet himself—though that
is no man I ever yet saw! She speaks English very prettily; as
she can’t help, I believe, doing whatever she sets about. She said to
my father, ‘How good you were, Sir, to remember us! We are very much
oblige indeed.’ And then to my sister, ‘I have heard _no music_ since I
was here last!’

“We had also Lord Barrington, brother to my father’s good friend
Daines, and to the excellent Bishop of Salisbury.[9]. His lordship,
as you know, is universally reckoned clever, witty, penetrating, and
shrewd. But he bears this high character any where rather than in his
air and look, which by no means pronounce his superiority of their own
accord. Doubtless, however, he has ‘that within which passeth shew;’
for there is only one voice as to his talents and merit.

“His Honour, Mr. Brudenel,—but I will not again run over the names of
the duplicates from the preceding concerts. I will finish my list with
Lord Sandwich.

“And most welcome he made himself to us, in entering the
drawing-room, by giving intelligence that he had just heard from the
circumnavigators, and that our dear James was well.

“Lord Sandwich is a tall, stout man, and looks as furrowed and
weather-proof as any sailor in the navy; and, like most of the old
set of that brave tribe, he has good nature and joviality marked in
every feature. I want to know why he is called Jemmy Twitcher in the
newspapers? Do pray tell me that?

“But why do I prepare for closing my account, before I mention him
for whom it was opened? namely, M. le Comte de Guignes, the French
ambassador.

“He was looked upon, when he first came over, as one of the handsomest
of men, as well as one of the most gallant; and his conquests amongst
the fair dames of the court were in proportion with those two
circumstances. I hope, therefore, now,—as I am no well-wisher to these
sort of conquerors,—that his defeats, in future, will counter-balance
his victories; for he is grown so fat, and looks so sleek and supine,
that I think the tender tribe will hence-forward be in complete safety,
and may sing, in full chorus, while viewing him,

  “‘Sigh no more, Ladies, sigh no more!’

“He was, however, very civil, and seemed well entertained; though
he left an amusing laugh behind him from the pomposity of his exit;
for not finding, upon quitting the music room, with an abrupt
_French leave_, half a dozen of our lackeys waiting to anticipate his
orders; half a dozen of those gentlemen not being positively at hand;
he indignantly and impatiently called out aloud: ‘_Mes gens! où sont
mes gens? Que sont ils donc devenu? Mes gens! Je dis! Mes gens!_’

“Previously to this, the duet had gone off with its usual eclât.

“Lord Sandwich then expressed an earnest desire to hear the Baroness
play: but she would not listen to him, and seemed vexed to be
entreated, saying to my sister Hettina, who joined his lordship in the
solicitation, ‘Oh yes! it will be very pretty, indeed, after all this
so fine music, to see me play a little minuet!’

“Lord Sandwich applied to my father to aid his petition; but my
father, though he wished himself to hear the Baroness again, did not
like to tease her, when he saw her modesty of refusal was real; and
consequently, that overcoming it would be painful. I am sure I could
not have pressed her for the world! But Lord Sandwich, who, I suppose,
is heart of oak, was not so scrupulous, and hovered over her,
and would not desist; though turning her head away from him, and waving
her hand to distance him, she earnestly said: ‘I beg—I beg, my lord!—’

“Lord Barrington then, who, we found, was an intimate acquaintance of
the ambassador’s, attempted to seize the waving hand; conjuring her to
consent to let him lead her to the instrument.

“But she hastily drew in her hand, and exclaimed: ‘Fie, fie, my lord
Barrington!—so ill natured!—I should not think was you! Besides, you
have heard me so often.’

“‘Madame la Baronne,’ replied he, with vivacity, ‘I want you to play
precisely because Lord Sandwich has not heard you, and because I have!’

“All, however, was in vain, till the Baron came forward, and said to
her, ‘_Ma chère_—you had better play something—anything—than give
such a trouble.’

“She instantly arose, saying with a little reluctant shrug, but
accompanied by a very sweet smile, ‘Now this looks just as if I was
like to be so much pressed!’

“She then played a slow movement of Abel’s, and a minuet of Schobert’s,
most delightfully, and with so much soul and expression, that
your Hettina could hardly have played them better.

“She is surely descended in a right line from Ophelia! only, now I
think of it, Ophelia dies unmarried. That is horribly unlucky. But,
oh Shakespeare!—all-knowing Shakespeare!—how came you to picture
just such female beauty and sweetness and harmony in a Danish court,
as was to be brought over to England so many years after, in a Danish
ambassadress?

“But I have another no common thing to tell you. Do you know that my
Lord Barrington, from the time that he addressed the Baroness Deiden,
and that her manner shewed him to stand fair in her good opinion, wore
quite a new air? and looked so high-bred and pleasing, that I could not
think what he had done with his original appearance; for it then had as
good a Viscount mien as one might wish to see on a summer’s day. Now
how is this, my dear Daddy? You, who deride all romance, tell me how it
could happen? I know you formerly were acquainted with Lord Barrington,
and liked him very much—pray, was it in presence of some fair Ophelia
that you saw him?”


MRS. SHERIDAN.

But highest, at this season, in the highest circles of society, from
the triple bewitchment of talents, beauty, and fashion, stood the fair
Linley Sheridan; who now gave concerts at her own house, to which
entrance was sought not only by all the votaries of taste, and admirers
of musical excellence, but by all the leaders of _ton_, and their
numerous followers, or slaves; with an ardour for admittance that was
as eager for beholding as for listening to this matchless warbler; so
astonishingly in concord were the charms of person, manners, and voice,
for the eye and for the ear, of this resistless syren.

To these concerts Dr. Burney was frequently invited; where he had the
pleasure, while enjoying the spirit of her conversation, the winning
softness of her address, and the attraction of her smiles, to return
her attention to him by the delicacy of accompaniment with which he
displayed her vocal perfection.




HISTORY OF MUSIC.


In the midst of this energetic life of professional exertion, family
avocations, worldly prosperity, and fashionable distinction, Dr. Burney
lost not one moment that he could purloin either from its pleasures or
its toils, to dedicate to what had long become the principal object of
his cares,—his musical work.

Music, as yet, whether considered as a science or as an art, had been
written upon only in partial details, to elucidate particular points of
theory or of practice; but no general plan, or history of its powers,
including its rise, progress, uses, and changes, in all the known
nations of the world, had ever been attempted: though, at the time
Dr. Burney set out upon his tours, to procure or to enlarge materials
for such a work, it singularly chanced that there started up two
fellow-labourers in the same vineyard, one English, the other Italian,
who were working in their studies upon the same idea—namely, Sir John
Hawkins, and Padre Martini. A French musical historian, also, M. de La
Borde, took in hand the same subject, by a striking coincidence, nearly
at the same period.

Each of their labours has now been long before the public; and each, as
usual, has received the mede of pre-eminence, according to the sympathy
of its readers with the several views of the subject given by the
several authors.

The impediments to all progressive expedition that stood in the way
of this undertaking with Dr. Burney, were so completely beyond his
control, that, with his utmost efforts and skill, it was not till the
year 1776, which was six years after the publication of his plan, that
he was able to bring forth his


HISTORY OF MUSIC.

And even then, it was the first volume only that he could publish; nor
was it till six years later followed by the second.

Greatly, however, to a mind like his, was every exertion repaid by
the honour of its reception. The subscription, by which he had been
enabled to sustain its numerous expences in books, travels, and
engravings, had brilliantly been filled with the names of almost all
that were most eminent in literature, high in rank, celebrated in the
arts, or leading in the fashion of the day. And while the lovers of
music received with eagerness every account of that art in which they
delighted; scholars, and men of letters in general, who hitherto had
thought of music but as they thought of a tune that might be played
or sung from imitation, were astonished at the depth of research, and
almost universality of observation, reading, and meditation, which were
now shewn to be requisite for such an undertaking: while the manner in
which, throughout the work, such varied matter was displayed, was so
natural, so spirited, and so agreeable, that the History of Music not
only awakened respect and admiration for its composition; it excited,
also, an animated desire, in almost the whole body of its readers, to
make acquaintance with its author.

The History of Music was dedicated, by permission, to her Majesty,
Queen Charlotte; and was received with even peculiar graciousness when
it was presented, at the drawing-room, by the author. The Queen both
loved and understood the subject; and had shewn the liberal exemption
of her fair mind from all petty nationality, in the frank approbation
she had deigned to express of the Doctor’s Tours; notwithstanding they
so palpably displayed his strong preference of the Italian vocal music
to that of the German.

So delighted was Doctor Burney by the condescending manner of the
Queen’s acceptance of his musical offering, that he never thenceforward
failed paying his homage to their Majesties, upon the two birth-day
anniversaries of those august and beloved Sovereigns.




STREATHAM.


Fair was this period in the life of Dr. Burney. It opened to him a new
region of enjoyment, supported by honours, and exhilarated by pleasures
supremely to his taste: honours that were literary, pleasures that were
intellectual. Fair was this period, though not yet was it risen to its
acme: a fairer still was now advancing to his highest wishes, by free
and frequent intercourse with the man in the world to whose genius and
worth united, he looked up the most reverentially—Dr. Johnson.

And this intercourse was brought forward through circumstances of
such infinite agreeability, that no point, however flattering, of the
success that led him to celebrity, was so welcome to his honest and
honourable pride, as being sought for at Streatham, and his reception
at that seat of the Muses.

Mrs. Thrale, the lively and enlivening lady of the mansion, was then
at the height of the glowing renown which, for many years, held her in
stationary superiority on that summit.

It was professionally that Dr. Burney was first invited to Streatham,
by the master of that fair abode. The eldest daughter of the house[10]
was in the progress of an education fast advancing in most departments
of juvenile accomplishments, when the idea of having recourse to the
chief in “music’s power divine,”—Dr. Burney,—as her instructor in
harmony, occurred to Mrs. Thrale.

So interesting was this new engagement to the family of Dr. Burney,
which had been born and bred to a veneration of Dr. Johnson; and
which had imbibed the general notion that Streatham was a coterie of
wits and scholars, on a par with the blue assemblages in town of Mrs.
Montagu and Mrs. Vesey; that they all flocked around him, on his return
from his first excursion, with eager enquiry whether Dr. Johnson had
appeared; and whether Mrs. Thrale merited the brilliant plaudits of her
panegyrists.

Dr. Burney, delighted with all that had passed, was as communicative
as they could be inquisitive. Dr. Johnson had indeed appeared; and
from his previous knowledge of Dr. Burney, had come forward to him
zealously, and wearing his mildest aspect.

Twenty-two years had now elapsed since first they had opened a
correspondence, that to Dr. Burney had been delightful, and of which
Dr. Johnson retained a warm and pleased remembrance. The early
enthusiasm for that great man, of Dr. Burney, could not have hailed a
more propitious circumstance for promoting the intimacy to which he
aspired, than what hung on this recollection; for kind thoughts must
instinctively have clung to the breast of Dr. Johnson, towards so
voluntary and disinterested a votary; who had broken forth from his
own modest obscurity to offer homage to Dr. Johnson, long before his
stupendous Dictionary, and more stupendous character, had raised him to
his subsequent towering fame.

Mrs. Thrale, Dr. Burney had beheld as a star of the first magnitude in
the constellation of female wits; surpassing, rather than equalizing,
the reputation which her extraordinary endowments, and the splendid
fortune which made them conspicuous, had blazoned abroad; while her
social and easy good-humour allayed the alarm excited by the report of
her spirit of satire; which, nevertheless, he owned she unsparingly
darted around her, in sallies of wit and gaiety, and the happiest
spontaneous epigrams.

Mr. Thrale, the Doctor had found a man of sound sense, good parts, good
instruction, and good manners; with a liberal turn of mind, and an
unaffected taste for talented society. Yet, though it was everywhere
known that Mrs. Thrale sportively, but very decidedly, called and
proclaimed him her master, the Doctor never perceived in Mr. Thrale any
overbearing marital authority; and soon remarked, that while, from a
temper of mingled sweetness and carelessness, his wife never offered
him any opposing opinion, he was too wise to be rallied, by a sarcastic
nickname, out of the rights by which he kept her excess of vivacity
in order. Composedly, therefore, he was content with the appellation;
though from his manly character, joined to his real admiration of her
superior parts, he divested it of its commonly understood imputation of
tyranny, to convert it to a mere simple truism.

But Dr. Burney soon saw that he had little chance of aiding his young
pupil in any very rapid improvement. Mrs. Thrale, who had no passion
but for conversation, in which her eminence was justly her pride,
continually broke into the lesson to discuss the news of the times;
politics, at that period, bearing the complete sway over men’s minds.
But she intermingled what she related, or what she heard, with sallies
so gay, so unexpected, so classically erudite, or so vivaciously
entertaining, that the tutor and the pupil were alike drawn away from
their studies, to an enjoyment of a less laborious, if not of a less
profitable description.

Dr. Johnson, who had no ear for music, had accustomed himself, like
many other great writers who have had that same, and frequently sole,
deficiency, to speak slightingly both of the art and of its professors.
And it was not till after he had become intimately acquainted with Dr.
Burney and his various merits, that he ceased to join in a jargon so
unworthy of his liberal judgment, as that of excluding musicians and
their art from celebrity.

The first symptom that he shewed of a tendency to conversion upon this
subject, was upon hearing the following paragraph read, accidentally,
aloud by Mrs. Thrale, from the preface to the History of Music, while
it was yet in manuscript.

  “The love of lengthened tones and modulated sounds, seems
  a passion implanted in human nature throughout the globe;
  as we hear of no people, however wild and savage in other
  particulars, who have not music of some kind or other, with
  which they seem greatly delighted.”

“Sir,” cried Dr. Johnson, after a little pause, “this assertion I
believe may be right.” And then, see-sawing a minute or two on his
chair, he forcibly added: “All animated nature loves music—except
myself!”

Some time later, when Dr. Burney perceived that he was generally
gaining ground in the house, he said to Mrs. Thrale, who had civilly
been listening to some favourite air that he had been playing: “I have
yet hopes, Madam, with the assistance of my pupil, to see your’s become
a musical family. Nay, I even hope, Sir,” turning to Dr. Johnson, “I
shall some time or other make you, also, sensible of the power of my
art.”

“Sir,” answered the Doctor, smiling, “I shall be very glad to have a
new sense put into me!”

The Tour to the Hebrides being then in hand, Dr. Burney inquired of
what size and form the book would be. “Sir,” he replied, with a little
bow, “you are my model!”

Impelled by the same kindness, when the Doctor lamented the
disappointment of the public in Hawkesworth’s Voyages,—“Sir,” he
cried, “the public is always disappointed in books of travels;—except
your’s!”

And afterwards, he said that he had hardly ever read any book quite
through in his life; but added: “Chamier and I, Sir, however, read all
your travels through;—except, perhaps, the description of the great
pipes in the organs of Germany and the Netherlands!—”

Mr. Thrale had lately fitted up a rational, readable, well chosen
library. It were superfluous to say that he had neither authors for
show, nor bindings for vanity, when it is known, that while it was
forming, he placed merely one hundred pounds in Dr. Johnson’s hands for
its completion; though such was his liberality, and such his opinion of
the wisdom as well as knowledge of Doctor Johnson in literary matters,
that he would not for a moment have hesitated to subscribe to the
highest estimate that the Doctor might have proposed.

One hundred pounds, according to the expensive habits of the present
day, of decorating books like courtiers and coxcombs, rather than
like students and philosophers, would scarcely purchase a single row
for a book-case of the length of Mr. Thrale’s at Streatham; though,
under such guidance as that of Dr. Johnson, to whom all finery seemed
foppery, and all foppery futility, that sum, added to the books
naturally inherited, or already collected, amply sufficed for the
unsophisticated reader, where no peculiar pursuit, or unlimited spirit
of research, demanded a collection for reference rather than for
instruction and enjoyment.

This was no sooner accomplished, than Mr. Thrale resolved to surmount
these treasures for the mind by a similar regale for the eyes, in
selecting the persons he most loved to contemplate, from amongst his
friends and favourites, to preside over the literature that stood
highest in his estimation.

And, that his portrait painter might go hand in hand in judgment
with his collector of books, he fixed upon the matchless Sir Joshua
Reynolds to add living excellence to dead perfection, by giving him the
personal resemblance of the following elected set; every one of which
occasionally made a part of the brilliant society of Streatham.

Mrs. Thrale and her eldest daughter were in one piece, over the
fire-place, at full length.

The rest of the pictures were all three-quarters.

Mr. Thrale was over the door leading to his study.

The general collection then began by Lord Sandys and Lord Westcote, two
early noble friends of Mr. Thrale.

Then followed

  Dr. Johnson.     Mr. Burke.      Dr. Goldsmith.
  Mr. Murphy.      Mr. Garrick.    Mr. Baretti.
  Sir Robert Chambers, and Sir Joshua Reynolds himself.

All painted in the highest style of the great master, who much
delighted in this his Streatham gallery.

There was place left but for one more frame, when the acquaintance with
Dr. Burney began at Streatham; and the charm of his conversation and
manners, joined to his celebrity in letters, so quickly won upon the
master as well as the mistress of the mansion, that he was presently
selected for the honour of filling up this last chasm in the chain of
Streatham worthies. To this flattering distinction, which Dr. Burney
always recognized with pleasure, the public owe the engraving of
Bartolozzi, which is prefixed to the History of Music.




DR. JOHNSON.


The friendship and kindness of heart of Dr. Johnson, were promptly
brought into play by this renewed intercourse. Richard, the youngest
son of Dr. Burney, born of the second marriage, was then preparing for
Winchester School, whither his father purposed conveying him in person.
This design was no sooner known at Streatham, where Richard, at that
time a beautiful as well as clever boy, was in great favour with Mrs.
Thrale, than Dr. Johnson volunteered an offer to accompany the father
to Winchester; that he might himself present the son to Dr. Warton,
the then celebrated master of that ancient receptacle for the study of
youth.

Dr. Burney, enchanted by such a mark of regard, gratefully accepted the
proposal; and they set out together for Winchester, where Dr. Warton
expected them with ardent hospitality. The acquaintance of Dr. Burney
he had already sought with literary liberality, having kindly given him
notice, through the medium of Mr. Garrick,[11] of a manuscript treatise
on music in the Winchester collection. There was, consequently, already
an opening to pleasure in their meeting: but the master’s reception
of Dr. Johnson, from the high-wrought sense of the honour of such a
visit, was rather rapturous than glad. Dr. Warton was always called an
enthusiast by Dr. Johnson, who, at times, when in gay spirits, and with
those with whom he trusted their ebullition, would take off Dr. Warton
with the strongest humour; describing, almost convulsively, the ecstacy
with which he would seize upon the person nearest to him, to hug in his
arms, lest his grasp should be eluded, while he displayed some picture,
or some prospect; and indicated, in the midst of contortions and
gestures that violently and ludicrously shook, if they did not affright
his captive, the particular point of view, or of design, that he wished
should be noticed.

This Winchester visit, besides the permanent impression made by its
benevolence, considerably quickened the march of intimacy of Dr. Burney
with the great lexicographer, by the _tête à tête_ journies to and from
Winchester; in which there was not only the ease of companionability,
to dissipate the modest awe of intellectual super-eminence, but
also the certitude of not being obtrusive; since, thus coupled in a
post-chaise, Dr. Johnson had no choice of occupation, and no one else
to whom to turn.

Far, however, from Dr. Johnson, upon this occasion, was any desire of
change, or any requisition for variety. The spirit of Dr. Burney, with
his liveliness of communication, drew out the mighty stores which Dr.
Johnson had amassed upon nearly every subject, with an amenity that
brought forth his genius in its very essence, cleared from all turbid
dregs of heated irritability; and Dr. Burney never looked back to this
Winchester tour but with recollected pleasure.

Nor was this the sole exertion in favour of Dr. Burney, of this
admirable friend. He wrote various letters to his own former
associates, and to his newer connexions at Oxford, recommending to them
to facilitate, with their best power, the researches of the musical
historian. And, some time afterwards, he again took a seat in the
chaise of Dr. Burney, and accompanied him in person to that university;
where every head of college, professor, and even general member, vied
one with another in coupling, in every mark of civility, their rising
approbation of Dr. Burney, with their established reverence for Dr.
Johnson.

Most willingly, indeed, would this great and excellent man have made,
had he seen occasion, far superior efforts in favour of Dr. Burney; an
excursion almost any where being, in fact, so agreeable to his taste,
as to be always rather a pleasure to him than a fatigue.

His vast abilities, in truth, were too copious for the small scenes,
objects, and interests of the little world in which he lived;[12]
and frequently must he have felt both curbed and damped by the utter
insufficiency of such minor scenes, objects, and interests, to occupy
powers such as his of conception and investigation. To avow this he
was far too wise, lest it should seem a scorn of his fellow-creatures;
and, indeed, from his internal humility, it is possible that he was not
himself aware of the great chasm that separated him from the herd of
mankind, when not held to it by the ties of benevolence or of necessity.

To talk of humility and Dr. Johnson together, may, perhaps, make the
few who remember him smile, and the many who have only heard of him
stare. But his humility was not that of thinking more lowlily of
himself than of others; it was simply that of thinking so lowlily of
others, as to hold his own conscious superiority of but small scale in
the balance of intrinsic excellence.

After these excursions, the intercourse of Dr. Burney with Streatham
became so friendly, that Mrs. Thrale desired to make acquaintance with
the Doctor’s family; and Dr. Johnson, at the same time, requested to
examine the Doctor’s books; while both wished to see the house of Sir
Isaac Newton.

An account of this beginning connection with St. Martin’s-Street
was drawn up by the present Editor, at the earnest desire of the
revered Chesington family-friend, Mr. Crisp; whom she had just, and
most reluctantly, quitted a day or two before this first visit from
Streatham took place.

This little narration she now consigns to these memoirs, as naturally
belonging to the progress of the friendship of Dr. Burney with Dr.
Johnson; and not without hope that this genuine detail of the first
appearance of Dr. Johnson in St. Martin’s-Street, may afford to the
reader some share of the entertainment which it afforded to the then
young writer.


“TO SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.

  “_Chesington, near Kingston, Surrey._

  “My dearest Mr. Crisp.

“My Father seemed well pleased at my returning to my time; so that
is no small consolation and pleasure to me for the pain of quitting
you. So now to our Thursday morning, and Dr. Johnson; according to my
promise.

“We were all—by we, I mean Suzette,[13] Charlotte,[14] and I,—for my
mother had seen him before, as had my sister Burney;[15] but we three
were all in a twitter, from violent expectation and curiosity for the
sight of this monarch of books and authors.

“Mrs. and Miss Thrale,[16] Miss Owen, and Mr. Seward,[17] came long
before Lexiphanes. Mrs. Thrale is a pretty woman still, though she has
some defect in the mouth that looks like a cut, or scar; but her nose
is very handsome, her complexion very fair; she has the _embonpoint
charmant_, and her eyes are blue and lustrous. She is extremely lively
and chatty; and shewed none of the supercilious or pedantic airs, so
freely, or, rather, so scoffingly attributed, by you envious lords of
the creation, to women of learning or celebrity; on the contrary, she
is full of sport, remarkably gay, and excessively agreeable. I liked
her in every thing except her entrance into the room, which was rather
florid and flourishing, as who should say, ‘It’s I!—No less a person
than Mrs. Thrale!’ However, all that ostentation wore out in the course
of the visit, which lasted the whole morning; and you could not have
helped liking her, she is so very entertaining—though not simple enough,
I believe, for quite winning your heart.

“Miss Thrale seems just verging on her teens. She is certainly
handsome, and her beauty is of a peculiar sort; fair, round, firm, and
cherubimical; with its chief charm exactly where lies the mother’s
failure—namely, in the mouth. She is reckoned cold and proud; but I
believe her to be merely shy and reserved; you, however, would have
liked her, and called her a girl of fashion; for she was very silent,
but very observant; and never looked tired, though she never uttered a
syllable.

“Miss Owen, who is a relation of Mrs. Thrale’s, is good-humoured and
sensible enough. She is a sort of butt, and as such is a general
favourite; though she is a willing, and not a mean butt; for she
is a woman of family and fortune. But those sort of characters are
prodigiously popular, from their facility of giving liberty of speech
to the wit and pleasantry of others, without risking for themselves any
return of the ‘retort courteous.’

“Mr. Seward, who seems to be quite at home among them, appears to be a
penetrating, polite, and agreeable young man. Mrs. Thrale says of him,
that he does good to every body, but speaks well of nobody.

“The conversation was supported with a great deal of vivacity, as usual
when il Signor Padrone is at home; but I can write you none of it, as I
was still in the same twitter, twitter, twitter, I have acknowledged,
to see Dr. Johnson. Nothing could have heightened my impatience—unless
Pope could have been brought to life again—or, perhaps, Shakespeare!

“This confab. was broken up by a duet between your Hettina and, for the
first time to company-listeners, Suzette; who, however, escaped much
fright, for she soon found she had no musical critics to encounter in
Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Seward, or Miss Owen; who know not a flat from a
sharp, nor a crotchet from a quaver. But every knowledge is not given
to every body—except to two gentle wights of my acquaintance; the one
commonly hight il Padre, and the other il Dadda. Do you know any such
sort of people, Sir?

“Well, in the midst of this performance, and before the second movement
was come to a close,—Dr. Johnson was announced!

“Now, my dear Mr. Crisp, if you like a description of emotions and
sensations—but I know you treat them all as burlesque—so let’s
proceed.

“Every body rose to do him honour; and he returned the attention with
the most formal courtesie. My father then, having welcomed him with the
warmest respect, whispered to him that music was going forward; which
he would not, my father thinks, have found out; and placing him on the
best seat vacant, told his daughters to go on with the duet; while Dr.
Johnson, intently rolling towards them one eye—for they say he does
not see with the other—made a grave nod, and gave a dignified motion
with one hand, in silent approvance of the proceeding.

“But now, my dear Mr. Crisp, I am mortified to own, what you, who
always smile at my enthusiasm, will hear without caring a straw
for—that he is, indeed, very ill-favoured! Yet he has naturally a
noble figure; tall, stout, grand, and authoritative: but he stoops
horribly; his back is quite round: his mouth is continually opening and
shutting, as if he were chewing something; he has a singular method
of twirling his fingers, and twisting his hands: his vast body is in
constant agitation, see-sawing backwards and forwards: his feet are
never a moment quiet; and his whole great person looked often as if it
were going to roll itself, quite voluntarily, from his chair to the
floor.

“Since such is his appearance to a person so prejudiced in his favour
as I am, how I must more than ever reverence his abilities, when I tell
you that, upon asking my father why he had not prepared us for such
uncouth, untoward strangeness, he laughed heartily, and said he had
entirely forgotten that the same impression had been, at first, made
upon himself; but had been lost even on the second interview——

“How I long to see him again, to lose it, too!—for, knowing the value
of what would come out when he spoke, he ceased to observe the defects
that were out while he was silent.

“But you always charge me to write without reserve or reservation, and
so I obey as usual. Else, I should be ashamed to acknowledge having
remarked such exterior blemishes in so exalted a character.

“His dress, considering the times, and that he had meant to put on all
his _best becomes_, for he was engaged to dine with a very fine party
at Mrs. Montagu’s, was as much out of the common road as his figure. He
had a large, full, bushy wig, a snuff-colour coat, with gold buttons,
(or, peradventure, brass,) but no ruffles to his doughty fists; and
not, I suppose, to be taken for a Blue, though going to the Blue Queen,
he had on very coarse black worsted stockings.

“He is shockingly near-sighted; a thousand times more so than either
my Padre or myself. He did not even know Mrs. Thrale, till she held
out her hand to him; which she did very engagingly. After the first
few minutes, he drew his chair close to the piano-forte, and then bent
down his nose quite over the keys, to examine them, and the four hands
at work upon them; till poor Hetty and Susan hardly knew how to play
on, for fear of touching his phiz; or, which was harder still, how to
keep their countenances; and the less, as Mr. Seward, who seems to be
very droll and shrewd, and was much diverted, ogled them slyly, with a
provoking expression of arch enjoyment of their apprehensions.

“When the duet was finished, my father introduced your Hettina to him,
as an old acquaintance, to whom, when she was a little girl, he had
presented his Idler.

“His answer to this was imprinting on her pretty face—not a half touch
of a courtly salute—but a good, real, substantial, and very loud kiss.

“Every body was obliged to stroke their chins, that they might hide
their mouths.

“Beyond this chaste embrace, his attention was not to be drawn off
two minutes longer from the books, to which he now strided his way;
for we had left the drawing-room for the library, on account of the
piano-forte. He pored over them, shelf by shelf, almost brushing
them with his eye-lashes from near examination. At last, fixing upon
something that happened to hit his fancy, he took it down, and,
standing aloof from the company, which he seemed clean and clear to
forget, he began, without further ceremony, and very composedly, to
read to himself; and as intently as if he had been alone in his own
study.

“We were all excessively provoked: for we were languishing, fretting,
expiring to hear him talk—not to see him read!—what could that do for
us?

“My sister then played another duet, accompanied by my father, to which
Miss Thrale seemed very attentive; and all the rest quietly resigned.
But Dr. Johnson had opened a volume of the British Encyclopedia, and
was so deeply engaged, that the music, probably, never reached his ears.

“When it was over, Mrs. Thrale, in a laughing manner, said: ‘Pray,
Dr. Burney, will you be so good as to tell me what that song was, and
whose, which Savoi sung last night at Bach’s concert, and which you did
not hear?’

“My father confessed himself by no means so able a diviner, not having
had time to consult the stars, though he lived in the house of Sir
Isaac Newton. But anxious to draw Dr. Johnson into conversation, he
ventured to interrupt him with Mrs. Thrale’s conjuring request relative
to Bach’s concert.

“The Doctor, comprehending his drift, good-naturedly put away his book,
and, see-sawing, with a very humorous smile, drolly repeated, ‘Bach,
sir?—Bach’s concert?—And pray, sir, who is Bach?—Is he a piper?’

“You may imagine what exclamations followed such a question.

“Mrs. Thrale gave a detailed account of the nature of the concert, and
the fame of Mr. Bach; and the many charming performances she had heard,
with all their varieties, in his rooms.

“When there was a pause, ‘Pray, madam,’ said he, with the calmest
gravity, ‘what is the expence for all this?’

“‘O,’ answered she, ‘the expence is—much trouble and solicitation to
obtain a subscriber’s ticket—or else, half a guinea.’

“‘Trouble and solicitation,’ he replied, ‘I will have nothing to
do with!—but, if it be so fine,—I would be willing to give,’—he
hesitated, and then finished with—‘eighteen pence.’

“Ha! ha!—Chocolate being then brought, we returned to the
drawing-room; and Dr. Johnson, when drawn away from the books, freely,
and with social good-humour, gave himself up to conversation.

“The intended dinner of Mrs. Montagu being mentioned, Dr. Johnson
laughingly told us that he had received the most flattering note that
he had ever read, or that any body else had ever read, of invitation
from that lady.

“‘So have I, too,’ cried Mrs. Thrale. ‘So, if a note from Mrs. Montagu
is to be boasted of, I beg mine may not be forgotten.’

“‘Your note, madam,’ cried Dr. Johnson, smiling, ‘can bear no
comparison with mine; for I am at the head of all the philosophers—she
says.’

“‘And I,’ returned Mrs. Thrale, ‘have all the Muses in my train.’

“‘A fair battle!’ cried my father; ‘come! compliment for compliment;
and see who will hold out longest.’

“‘I am afraid for Mrs. Thrale,’ said Mr. Seward; ‘for I know that
Mrs. Montagu exerts all her forces, when she sings the praises of Dr.
Johnson.’

“‘O yes!’ cried Mrs. Thrale, ‘she has often praised him till he has
been ready to faint.’

“‘Well,’ said my father, ‘you two ladies must get him fairly between
you to-day, and see which can lay on the paint the thickest, Mrs.
Montagu or Mrs. Thrale.’

“‘I had rather,’ said the Doctor, very composedly, ‘go to Bach’s
concert!’

“Ha! ha! What a compliment to all three!

“After this, they talked of Mr. Garrick, and his late exhibition before
the King; to whom, and to the Queen and Royal Family, he has been
reading Lethe in character; _c’est à dire_, in different voices, and
theatrically.

“Mr. Seward gave an amusing account of a fable which Mr. Garrick had
written by way of prologue, or introduction, upon this occasion. In
this he says, that a blackbird, grown old and feeble, droops his wings,
&c. &c., and gives up singing; but, upon being called upon by the
eagle, his voice recovers its powers, his spirits revive, he sets age
at defiance, and sings better than ever.

“‘There is not,’ said Dr. Johnson, again beginning to see-saw, ‘much
of the spirit of fabulosity in this fable; for the call of an eagle
never yet had much tendency to restore the warbling of a blackbird!
‘Tis true, the fabulists frequently make the wolves converse with the
lambs; but then, when the conversation is over, the lambs are always
devoured! And, in that manner, the eagle, to be sure, may entertain the
blackbird—but the entertainment always ends in a feast for the eagle.’

“‘They say,’ cried Mrs. Thrale, ‘that Garrick was extremely hurt by the
coldness of the King’s applause; and that he did not find his reception
such as he had expected.’

“‘He has been so long accustomed,’ said Mr. Seward, ‘to the thundering
acclamation of a theatre, that mere calm approbation must necessarily
be insipid, nay, dispiriting to him.’

“‘Sir,’ said Dr. Johnson, ‘he has no right, in a royal apartment, to
expect the hallooing and clamour of the one-shilling gallery. The King,
I doubt not, gave him as much applause as was rationally his due. And,
indeed, great and uncommon as is the merit of Mr. Garrick, no man will
be bold enough to assert that he has not had his just proportion both
of fame and profit. He has long reigned the unequalled favourite of
the public; and therefore nobody, we may venture to say, will mourn
his hard lot, if the King and the Royal Family were not transported
into rapture upon hearing him read Lethe! But yet, Mr. Garrick will
complain to his friends; and his friends will lament the King’s want of
feeling and taste. But then—Mr. Garrick will kindly excuse the King.
He will say that his Majesty—might, perhaps, be thinking of something
else!—That the affairs of America might, possibly, occur to him—or
some other subject of state, more important—perhaps—than Lethe. But
though he will candidly say this himself,—he will not easily forgive
his friends if they do not contradict him!’

“But now, that I have written you this satire of our immortal Roscius,
it is but just, both to Mr. Garrick and to Dr. Johnson, that I should
write to you what was said afterwards, when, with equal humour and
candour, Mr. Garrick’s general character was discriminated by Dr.
Johnson.

“‘Garrick,’ he said, ‘is accused of vanity; but few men would have
borne such unremitting prosperity with greater, if with equal,
moderation. He is accused, too, of avarice, though he lives rather
like a prince than an actor. But the frugality he practised when he
first appeared in the world, has put a stamp upon his character ever
since. And now, though his table, his equipage, and his establishment,
are equal to those of persons of the most splendid rank, the original
stain of avarice still blots his name! And yet, had not his early, and
perhaps necessary economy, fixed upon him the charge of thrift, he
would long since have been reproached with that of luxury.’

“Another time he said of him, ‘Garrick never enters a room, but he
regards himself as the object of general attention, from whom the
entertainment of the company is expected. And true it is, that he
seldom disappoints that expectation: for he has infinite humour, a very
just proportion of wit, and more convivial pleasantry than almost any
man living. But then, off as well as on the stage— he is always an
actor! for he holds it so incumbent upon him to be sportive, that his
gaiety, from being habitual, is become mechanical: and he can exert his
spirits at all times alike, without any consultation of his disposition
to hilarity.’

“I can recollect nothing more, my dear Mr. Crisp. So I beg your
benediction, and bid you adieu.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The accession of the musical historian to the Streatham coterie, was
nearly as desirable to Dr. Johnson himself, as it could be to its new
member; and, with reciprocated vivacity in seeking the society of each
other, they went thither, and returned thence to their homes, in _tête
à tête_ junctions, by every opportunity.

In his chronological doggrel list of his friends and his feats, Dr.
Burney has inserted the following lines upon the Streatham connexion.


    “1776.

    “This year I acquaintance began with the Thrales,
    Where I met with great talents ’mongst females and males:
    But the best thing that happen’d from that time to this,
    Was the freedom it gave me to sound the abyss,
    At my ease and my leisure, of Johnson’s great mind,
    Where new treasures unnumber’d I constantly find.
      Huge Briareus’s head, if old bards have not blunder’d,
    Amounted in all to the sum of one hundred;
    And Johnson,—so wide his intelligence spreads,
    Has the brains of—at least—the same number of heads.”




DR. JOHNSON AND THE GREVILLES.


A few months after the Streathamite morning visit to St.
Martin’s-street that has been narrated, an evening party was arranged
by Dr. Burney, for bringing thither again Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale,
at the desire of Mr. and Mrs. Greville and Mrs. Crewe; who wished,
under the quiet roof of Dr. Burney, to make acquaintance with those
celebrated personages.

This meeting, though more fully furnished with materials, produced
not the same spirit or interest as its predecessor; and it owed,
unfortunately, its miscarriage to the anxious efforts of Dr. Burney for
heightening its success.

To take off, as he hoped, what might be stiff or formidable in an
appointed encounter between persons of such highly famed conversational
powers, who, absolute strangers to one another, must emulously, on
each side, wish to shine with superior lustre, he determined

  To mingle sweet discourse with music sweet;

and to vary, as well as soften the energy of intellectual debate,
by the science and the sweetness of instrumental harmony. But the
lovers of music, and the adepts in conversation, are rarely in true
unison. Exceptions only form, not mar a rule; as witness Messieurs
Crisp, Twining, and Bewley, who were equally eminent for musical and
for mental melody: but, in general, the discourse-votaries think time
thrown away, or misapplied, that is not devoted exclusively to the
powers of reason; while the votaries of harmony deem pleasure and taste
discarded, where precedence is not accorded to the melting delight of
modulated sounds.

The party consisted of Dr. Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Greville, Mrs. Crewe,
Mr., Mrs., and Miss Thrale; Signor Piozzi, Mr. Charles Burney, the
Doctor, his wife, and four of his daughters.[18]

Mr. Greville, in manner, mien, and high personal presentation, was
still the superb Mr. Greville of other days; though from a considerable
diminution of the substantial possessions which erst had given him
pre-eminence at the clubs and on the turf, the splendour of his
importance was now superseded by newer and richer claimants. And even in
_ton_ and fashion, though his rank in life kept him a certain place, his
influence, no longer seconded by fortune, was on the wane.

Mrs. Greville, whose decadence was in that very line in which alone her
husband escaped it,—personal beauty,—had lost, at an early period,
her external attractions, from the excessive thinness that had given to
her erst fine and most delicate small features, a cast of sharpness so
keen and meagre, that, joined to the shrewdly intellectual expression
of her countenance, made her seem fitted to sit for a portrait, such as
might have been delineated by Spencer, of a penetrating, puissant, and
sarcastic fairy queen. She still, however, preserved her early fame;
her Ode to Indifference having twined around her brow a garland of
wide-spreading and unfading fragrance.

Mrs. Crewe seemed to inherit from both parents only what was best.
She was still in a blaze of beauty that her happy and justly poised
_embonpoint_ preserved, with a roseate freshness, that eclipsed even
juvenile rivalry, not then alone, but nearly to the end of a long life.

With all the unavoidable consciousness of only looking, only speaking,
only smiling to give pleasure and receive homage, Mrs. Crewe, even from
her earliest days, had evinced an intuitive eagerness for the sight of
whoever or whatever was original, or peculiar, that gave her a lively
taste for acquiring information; not deep, indeed, nor scientific; but
intelligent, communicative, and gay. She had earnestly, therefore,
availed herself of an opportunity thus free from parade or trouble, of
taking an intimate view of so celebrated a philosopher as Dr. Johnson;
of whom she wished to form a personal judgment, confirmatory or
contradictory, of the rumours, pro and contra, that had instigated her
curiosity.

Mr. Thrale, also, was willing to be present at this interview, from
which he flattered himself with receiving much diversion, through the
literary skirmishes, the pleasant retorts courteous, and the sharp
pointed repartees, that he expected to hear reciprocated between Mrs.
Greville, Mrs. Thrale, and Dr. Johnson: for though entirely a man of
peace, and a gentleman in his character, he had a singular amusement
in hearing, instigating, and provoking a war of words, alternating
triumph and overthrow, between clever and ambitious colloquial
combatants, where, as here, there was nothing that could inflict
disgrace upon defeat.

And this, indeed, in a milder degree, was the idea of entertainment
from the meeting that had generally been conceived. But the first step
taken by Dr. Burney for social conciliation, which was calling for a
cantata from Signor Piozzi, turned out, on the contrary, the herald
to general discomfiture; for it cast a damp of delay upon the mental
gladiators, that dimmed the brightness of the spirit with which, it is
probable, they had meant to vanquish each the other.

Piozzi, a first rate singer, whose voice was deliciously sweet, and
whose expression was perfect, sung in his very best manner, from his
desire to do honour to _il Capo di Casa_; but _il Capo di Casa_ and
his family alone did justice to his strains: neither the Grevilles nor
the Thrales heeded music beyond what belonged to it as fashion: the
expectations of the Grevilles were all occupied by Dr. Johnson; and
those of the Thrales by the authoress of the Ode to Indifference. When
Piozzi, therefore, arose, the party remained as little advanced in
any method or pleasure for carrying on the evening, as upon its first
entrance into the room.

Mr. Greville, who had been curious to see, and who intended to examine
this leviathan of literature, as Dr. Johnson was called in the
current pamphlets of the day, considered it to be his proper post to
open the campaign of the _conversatione_. But he had heard so much,
from his friend Topham Beauclerk, whose highest honour was that of
classing himself as one of the friends of Dr. Johnson; not only of
the bright intellect with which the Doctor brought forth his wit and
knowledge; and of the splendid talents with which he displayed them
when they were aptly met; but also of the overwhelming ability with
which he dismounted and threw into the mire of ridicule and shame, the
antagonist who ventured to attack him with any species of sarcasm, that
he was cautious how to encounter so tremendous a literary athletic. He
thought it, therefore, most consonant to his dignity to leave his own
character as an author in the back ground; and to take the field with
the aristocratic armour of pedigree and distinction. Aloof, therefore,
he kept from all; and, assuming his most supercilious air of distant
superiority, planted himself, immovable as a noble statue, upon the
hearth, as if a stranger to the whole set.

Mrs. Greville would willingly have entered the lists herself, but that
she naturally concluded Dr. Johnson would make the advances.

And Mrs. Crewe, to whom all this seemed odd and unaccountable, but
to whom, also, from her love of any thing unusual, it was secretly
amusing, sat perfectly passive in silent observance.

Dr. Johnson, himself, had come with the full intention of passing
two or three hours, with well chosen companions, in social elegance.
His own expectations, indeed, were small—for what could meet their
expansion? his wish, however, to try all sorts and all conditions
of persons, as far as belonged to their intellect, was unqualified
and unlimited; and gave to him nearly as much desire to see others,
as his great fame gave to others to see his eminent self. But his
signal peculiarity in regard to society, could not be surmised by
strangers; and was as yet unknown even to Dr. Burney. This was that,
notwithstanding the superior powers with which he followed up every
given subject, he scarcely ever began one himself; or, to use the
phrase of Sir W. W. Pepys, originated; though the masterly manner
in which, as soon as any topic was started, he seized it in all its
bearings, had so much the air of belonging to the leader of the
discourse, that this singularity was unnoticed and unsuspected, save by
the experienced observation of long years of acquaintance.

Not, therefore, being summoned to hold forth, he remained silent;
composedly at first, and afterwards abstractedly.

Dr. Burney now began to feel considerably embarrassed; though still he
cherished hopes of ultimate relief from some auspicious circumstance
that, sooner or later, would operate, he hoped, in his favour, through
the magnetism of congenial talents.

Vainly, however, he sought to elicit some observations that might
lead to disserting discourse; all his attempts received only quiet,
acquiescent replies, “signifying nothing.” Every one was awaiting some
spontaneous opening from Dr. Johnson.

Mrs. Thrale, of the whole coterie, was alone at her ease. She feared
not Dr. Johnson; for fear made no part of her composition; and with
Mrs. Greville, as a fair rival genius, she would have been glad,
from curiosity, to have had the honour of a little tilt, in full
carelessness of its event; for though triumphant when victorious,
she had spirits so volatile, and such utter exemption from envy or
spleen, that she was gaily free from mortification when vanquished.
But she knew the meeting to have been fabricated for Dr. Johnson; and,
therefore, though not without difficulty, constrained herself to be
passive.

When, however, she observed the sardonic disposition of Mr. Greville
to stare around him at the whole company in curious silence, she felt
a defiance against his aristocracy beat in every pulse; for, however
grandly he might look back to the long ancestry of the Brookes and
the Grevilles, she had a glowing consciousness that her own blood,
rapid and fluent, flowed in her veins from Adam of Saltsberg; and, at
length, provoked by the dullness of a taciturnity that, in the midst
of such renowned interlocutors, produced as narcotic a torpor as could
have been caused by a dearth the most barren of human faculties; she
grew tired of the music, and yet more tired of remaining, what as
little suited her inclinations as her abilities, a mere cipher in the
company; and, holding such a position, and all its concomitants, to
be ridiculous, her spirits rose rebelliously above her control; and,
in a fit of utter recklessness of what might be thought of her by her
fine new acquaintance, she suddenly, but softly, arose, and stealing
on tip-toe behind Signor Piozzi; who was accompanying himself on the
piano-forte to an animated _arria parlante_, with his back to the
company, and his face to the wall; she ludicrously began imitating him
by squaring her elbows, elevating them with ecstatic shrugs of the
shoulders, and casting up her eyes, while languishingly reclining her
head; as if she were not less enthusiastically, though somewhat more
suddenly, struck with the transports of harmony than himself.

This grotesque ebullition of ungovernable gaiety was not perceived by
Dr. Johnson, who faced the fire, with his back to the performer and the
instrument. But the amusement which such an unlooked for exhibition
caused to the party, was momentary; for Dr. Burney, shocked lest the
poor Signor should observe, and be hurt by this mimicry, glided gently
round to Mrs. Thrale, and, with something between pleasantry and
severity, whispered to her, “Because, Madam, you have no ear yourself
for music, will you destroy the attention of all who, in that one
point, are otherwise gifted?”

It was now that shone the brightest attribute of Mrs. Thrale, sweetness
of temper. She took this rebuke with a candour, and a sense of its
justice the most amiable: she nodded her approbation of the admonition;
and, returning to her chair, quietly sat down, as she afterwards said,
like a pretty little miss, for the remainder of one of the most humdrum
evenings that she had ever passed.

Strange, indeed, strange and most strange, the event considered, was
this opening intercourse between Mrs. Thrale and Signor Piozzi. Little
could she imagine that the person she was thus called away from holding
up to ridicule, would become, but a few years afterwards, the idol
of her fancy and the lord of her destiny! And little did the company
present imagine, that this burlesque scene was but the first of a drama
the most extraordinary of real life, of which these two persons were
to be the hero and heroine: though, when the catastrophe was known,
this incident, witnessed by so many, was recollected and repeated from
coterie to coterie throughout London, with comments and sarcasms of
endless variety.

The most innocent person of all that went forward was the laurelled
chief of the little association, Dr. Johnson; who, though his love for
Dr. Burney made it a pleasure to him to have been included in the
invitation, marvelled, probably, by this time, since uncalled upon
to distinguish himself, why he had been bidden to the meeting. But,
as the evening advanced, he wrapt himself up in his own thoughts, in
a manner it was frequently less difficult to him to do than to let
alone, and became completely absorbed in silent rumination: sustaining,
nevertheless, a grave and composed demeanour, with an air by no means
wanting in dignity any more than in urbanity.

Very unexpectedly, however, ere the evening closed, he shewed himself
alive to what surrounded him, by one of those singular starts of
vision, that made him seem at times,—though purblind to things in
common, and to things inanimate,—gifted with an eye of instinct for
espying any action or position that he thought merited reprehension:
for, all at once, looking fixedly on Mr. Greville, who, without much
self-denial, the night being very cold, pertinaciously kept his station
before the chimney-piece, he exclaimed: “If it were not for depriving
the ladies of the fire,—I should like to stand upon the hearth myself!”

A smile gleamed upon every face at this pointed speech. Mr. Greville
tried to smile himself, though faintly and scoffingly. He tried,
also, to hold to his post, as if determined to disregard so cavalier
a liberty: but the sight of every eye around him cast down, and every
visage struggling vainly to appear serious, disconcerted him; and
though, for two or three minutes, he disdained to move, the awkwardness
of a general pause impelled him, ere long, to glide back to his chair;
but he rang the bell with force as he passed it, to order his carriage.

It is probable that Dr. Johnson had observed the high air and mien of
Mr. Greville, and had purposely brought forth that remark to disenchant
him from his self-consequence.

The party then broke up; and no one from amongst it ever asked, or
wished for its repetition.

If the mode of the first queen of the _Bas Bleu_ Societies, Mrs. Vesey,
had here been adopted, for destroying the formality of the circle, the
party would certainly have been less scrupulously ceremonious; for if
any two of the gifted persons present had been jostled unaffectedly
together, there can be little doubt that the plan and purpose of Dr.
Burney would have been answered by a spirited conversation. But neither
then, nor since, has so happy a confusion to all order of etiquette
been instituted, as was set afloat by that remarkable lady; whose
amiable and intelligent simplicity made her follow up the suggestions
of her singular fancy, without being at all aware that she did not
follow those of common custom.




PACCHIEROTTI.


The professional history, as well as the opinions of Dr. Burney, are
so closely inserted in his History of Music, that they are all passed
by in the memoirs of his life; but there arrived in England, at this
period, a foreign singer of such extraordinary merit in character as
well as talents, that not to inscribe his name in the list of the
Doctor’s chosen friends, as well as in that which enrols him at the
head of the most supremely eminent of vocal performers, would be
ill proclaiming, or remembering, the equal height in both points to
which he was raised in the Doctor’s estimation, by a union the most
delighting of professional with social excellence.

Pacchierotti, who came out upon the opera stage in 1778, is first
mentioned, incidentally, in the History of Music, as “a great and
original performer;” and his public appearance afterwards is announced
by this remarkable paragraph.

  “To describe, with merited discrimination, the uncommon and
  varied powers of Pacchierotti, would require a distinct
  dissertation of considerable length, rather than a short
  article incorporated in a general History of Music.”

The Doctor afterwards relates, that eagerly attending the first
rehearsal of Demofonte, with which opera Pacchierotti began his English
career, and in which, under the pressure of a bad cold, he sang only _a
sotto voce_, his performance afforded a more exquisite pleasure than
the Doctor had ever before experienced, or even imagined. “The natural
tone of his voice,” says the History of Music, “was so interesting,
sweet, and pathetic, that when he had a long note, I never wished him
to change it, or to do any thing but swell, diminish, or prolong it,
in whatever way he pleased. A great compass of voice downwards, with
an ascent up to C in alt.; an unbounded fancy, and a power not only of
executing the most refined and difficult passages, but of inventing new
embellishments which had never then been on paper, made him, during his
long residence here, a new singer to me every time I heard him.”

A still more exact and scientific detail of his powers is then
succeeded by these words: “That Pacchierotti’s feeling and sentiments
were uncommon, was not only discoverable by his voice and performance,
but by his countenance, in which through a general expression of
benevolence, there was a constant play of features that varyingly
manifested all the changing workings and agitations of his soul.
 * * * * When his voice was in order, and obedient to his will, there
was a perfection in tone, taste, knowledge, and sensibility, that my
conception in the art could not imagine possible to be surpassed.”

And scarcely could this incomparable performer stand higher in the
eminence of his profession, than in that of his intellect, his temper,
and his character.

If he had not been a singer, he would probably have been a poet;
for his ideas, even in current conversation, ran involuntarily into
poetical imagery; and the language which was their vehicle, was a sort
of poetry in itself; so luxuriantly was it embellished with fanciful
allusions, or sportive notions, that, when he was highly animated in
conversation, the effusions of his imagination resembled his cadences
in music, by their excursionary flights, and impassioned bursts of
deep, yet tender sensibility.

He made himself nearly as many friends in this country to whom he was
endeared by his society, as admirers by whom he was enthusiastically
courted for his talents.

The first Mrs. Sheridan, Miss Linley, whose sweet voice and manner so
often moved “the soul to transport, and the eyes to tears,” told Dr.
Burney, that Pacchierotti was the only singer who taught her to weep
from melting pleasure and admiration.

He loved England even fervently; its laws, customs, manners, and its
liberty. Of this he gave the sincerest proofs throughout his long
life.[19]

The English language, though so inharmonious compared with his own,
he made his peculiar study, from his desire to mingle with the best
society, and to enjoy its best authors; for both which he had a taste
the most classical and lively.

He had the truly appropriate good fortune, for a turn of mind and
endowments so literary, to fall in the way of Mr. Mason immediately
upon coming over to this country: few persons could be more capable
to appreciate a union of mental with professional merit, than that
elegant poet; who with both in Pacchierotti was so much charmed, as to
volunteer his services in teaching him the English language.

So Parnassian a preceptor was not likely to lead his studies from their
native propensity to the Muses; and the epistles and billets which he
wrote in English, all demonstrated that the Pegasus which he spurred,
when composition was his pursuit, was of the true Olympic breed.[20]

Pacchierotti was attached to Dr. Burney with equal affection and
reverence; while by the Doctor in return, the sight of Pacchierotti
was always hailed with cordial pleasure; and not more from the pathos
of his soul-touching powers of harmony, than from the sweetness, yet
poignancy of his discourse; and the delightful vivacity into which
he could be drawn by his favourites, from the pensive melancholy of
his habitual silence. Timidity and animation seemed to balance his
disposition with alternate sway; but his character was of a benevolence
that had no balance, no mixture whatsoever.

The Doctor’s doggrel register of 1778, has these two couplets upon
Pacchierotti.


“1778.

    “This year Pacchierotti was order’d by Fate
    Every vocal expression to teach us to hate,
    Save his exquisite tones; which delight and surprise,
    And lift us at once from the earth to the skies.”




LADY MARY DUNCAN.


Lady Mary Duncan, the great patroness of Pacchierotti, was one of the
most singular females of her day, for parts utterly uncultivated, and
mother-wit completely untrammelled by the etiquettes of custom. She
singled out Dr. Burney from her passion for his art; and attached
herself to his friendship from her esteem for his character; joined to
their entire sympathy in taste, feeling, and judgment, upon the merits
of Pacchierotti.

This lady displayed in conversation a fund of humour, comic and
fantastic in the extreme, and more than bordering upon the burlesque,
through the extraordinary grimaces with which she enforced her meaning;
and the risible abruptness of a quick transition from the sternest
authority to the most facetious good fellowship, with which she
frequently altered the expression of her countenance while in debate.

Her general language was a jargon entirely her own, and so enveloped
with strange phrases, ludicrously ungrammatical, that it was hardly
intelligible, till an exordium or two gave some insight into its
peculiarities: but then it commonly unfolded into sound, and even
sagacious panegyric of some favourite; or sharp sarcasm, and
extravagant mimicry, upon some one who had incurred her displeasure.
Her wrath, however, once promulgated, seemed to operate by its
utterance as a vent that disburthened her mind of all its angry
workings; and led her cordially to join her laugh with that of her
hearers; without either inquiry, or care, whether that laugh were at
her sayings or at herself.

She was constantly dressed according to the costume of her early days,
in a hoop, with a long pointed stomacher and long pointed ruffles;
and a fly cap. She had a manly courage, a manly stamp, and a manly
hard-featured face: but her heart was as invariably generous and good,
as her manners were original and grotesque.




“EVELINA:

OR,

“A YOUNG LADY’S ENTRANCE INTO THE WORLD.”


A subject now propels itself forward that might better, it is probable,
become any pen than that on which it here devolves. It cannot, however,
be set aside in the Memoirs of Dr. Burney, to whom, and to the end of
his life, it proved a permanent source of deep and bosom interest: and
the Editor, with less unwillingness, though with conscious awkwardness,
approaches this egotistic history, from some recent information that
the obscurity in which its origin was encircled, has left, even yet, a
spur to curiosity and conjecture.

It seems, therefore, a devoir due to the singleness of truth, to cut
short any future vague assertion on this small subject, by an explicit
narration of a simple, though rather singular tale; which, little as in
itself it can be worthy of public attention, may not wholly, perhaps,
be unamusing, from the celebrated characters that must necessarily be
involved in its relation; at the head of which, at this present moment,
she is tempted to disclose, in self-defence—a proud self-defence!—of
this personal obtrusion, the LIVING[21] names of Sir Walter Scott and
Mr. Rogers, who, in a visit with which they favoured her in the year
1826, repeated some of the fabrications to which this mystery of her
early life still gave rise; and condescended to solicit a recital of
the real history of Evelina’s _Entrance into the World_.

This she instantly communicated; though so incoherently, from the
embarrassment of the subject, and its long absence from her thoughts,
that, having since collected documents to refresh her memory, she
ventures, in gratefully dedicating the little incident to these
Illustrious Inquisitors, to insert its details in these memoirs—to
which, parentally, it in fact belongs.[22]

FRANCES, the second daughter of Dr. Burney, was during her childhood
the most backward of all his family in the faculty of receiving
instruction. At eight years of age she was ignorant of the letters of
the alphabet; though at ten, she began scribbling, almost incessantly,
little works of invention; but always in private; and in scrawling
characters, illegible, save to herself.

One of her most remote remembrances, previously to this writing mania,
is that of hearing a neighbouring lady recommend to Mrs. Burney, her
mother, to quicken the indolence, or stupidity, whichever it might be,
of the little dunce, by the chastening ordinances of Solomon. The
alarm, however, of that little dunce, at a suggestion so wide from
the maternal measures that had been practised in her childhood, was
instantly superseded by a joy of gratitude and surprise that still
rests upon her recollection, when she heard gently murmured in reply,
“No, no,—I am not uneasy about her!”

But, alas! the soft music of those encouraging accents had already
ceased to vibrate on human ears, before these scrambling pot-hooks had
begun their operation of converting into Elegies, Odes, Plays, Songs,
Stories, Farces,—nay, Tragedies and Epic Poems, every scrap of white
paper that could be seized upon without question or notice; for she
grew up, probably through the vanity-annihilating circumstances of this
conscious intellectual disgrace, with so affrighted a persuasion that
what she scribbled, if seen, would but expose her to ridicule, that her
pen, though her greatest, was only her clandestine delight.

To one confidant, indeed, all was open; but the fond partiality of
the juvenile Susanna made her opinion of little weight; though the
affection of her praise rendered the stolen moments of their secret
readings the happiest of their adolescent lives.

From the time, however, that she attained her fifteenth year, she
considered it her duty to combat this writing passion as illaudable,
because fruitless. Seizing, therefore, an opportunity, when Dr. Burney
was at Chesington, and the then Mrs. Burney, her mother-in-law, was
in Norfolk, she made over to a bonfire, in a paved play-court, her
whole stock of prose goods and chattels; with the sincere intention
to extinguish for ever in their ashes her scribbling propensity. But
Hudibras too well says—

    “He who complies against his will,
     Is of his own opinion still.”

This grand feat, therefore, which consumed her productions, extirpated
neither the invention nor the inclination that had given them birth;
and, in defiance of all the projected heroism of the sacrifice, the
last of the little works that was immolated, which was the History of
Caroline Evelyn, the Mother of Evelina, left, upon the mind of the
writer, so animated an impression of the singular situations to which
that Caroline’s infant daughter,—from the unequal birth by which she
hung suspended between the elegant connexions of her mother, and
the vulgar ones of her grandmother,—might be exposed; and presented
contrasts and mixtures of society so unusual, yet, thus circumstanced,
so natural, that irresistibly and almost unconsciously, the whole of _A
Young Lady’s Entrance into the World_, was pent up in the inventor’s
memory, ere a paragraph was committed to paper.

Writing, indeed, was far more difficult to her than composing; for that
demanded what she rarely found attainable—secret opportunity: while
composition, in that hey-day of imagination, called only for volition.

When the little narrative, however slowly, from the impediments that
always annoy what requires secrecy, began to assume a “questionable
shape;” a wish—as vague, at first, as it was fantastic—crossed the
brain of the writer, to “see her work in print.”

She communicated, under promise of inviolable silence, this idea to her
sisters; who entered into it with much more amusement than surprise, as
they well knew her taste for quaint sports; and were equally aware of
the sensitive affright with which she shrunk from all personal remark.

She now copied the manuscript in a feigned hand; for as she was the
Doctor’s principal amanuensis, she feared her common writing might
accidentally be seen by some compositor of the History of Music, and
lead to detection.

She grew weary, however, ere long, of an exercise so merely manual;
and had no sooner completed a copy of the first and second volumes,
than she wrote a letter, without any signature, to offer the unfinished
work to a bookseller; with a desire to have the two volumes immediately
printed, if approved; and a promise to send the sequel in the following
year.

This was forwarded by the London post, with a desire that the answer
should be directed to a coffee-house.

Her younger brother—the elder, Captain James, was ‘over the hills
and far away,’—her younger brother, afterwards the celebrated Greek
scholar, gaily, and without reading a word of the work, accepted a
share in so whimsical a frolic; and joyously undertook to be her agent
at the coffee-house with her letters, and to the bookseller with the
manuscript.

After some consultation upon the choice of a bookseller, Mr. Dodsley
was fixed upon; for Dodsley, from his father’s,—or perhaps
grand-father’s,—well chosen collection of fugitive poetry, stood
foremost in the estimation of the juvenile set.

Mr. Dodsley, in answer to the proposition, declined looking at any
thing that was anonymous.

The party, half-amused, half-provoked, sat in full committee upon this
lofty reply; and came to a resolution to forego the _eclât_ of the west
end of the town, and to try their fortune with the urbanity of the city.

Chance fixed them upon the name of Mr. Lowndes.

The city of London here proved more courtly than that of Westminster;
and, to their no small delight, Mr. Lowndes desired to see the
manuscript.

And what added a certain pride to the author’s satisfaction in this
assent, was, that the answer opened by

“Sir,”—

which gave her an elevation to manly consequence, that had not been
accorded to her by Mr. Dodsley, whose reply began

“Sir, or Madam.”

The young agent was muffled up now by the laughing committee, in an old
great coat, and a large old hat, to give him a somewhat antique as
well as vulgar disguise; and was sent forth in the dark of the evening
with the two first volumes to Fleet-street, where he left them to their
fate.

In trances of impatience the party awaited the issue of the examination.

But they were all let down into the very ‘Slough of Despond,’ when the
next coffee-house letter coolly declared, that Mr. Lowndes could not
think of publishing an unfinished book; though he liked the work, and
should be ‘ready to purchase and print it when it should be finished.’

There was nothing in this unreasonable; yet the disappointed author,
tired of what she deemed such priggish punctilio, gave up, for awhile,
and in dudgeon, all thought of the scheme.

Nevertheless, to be thwarted on the score of our inclination acts more
frequently as a spur than as a bridle; the third volume, therefore,
which finished _The young lady’s entrance into the world_, was, ere
another year could pass away, almost involuntarily completed and copied.

But while the scribe was yet wavering whether to abandon or to
prosecute her enterprise, the chasm caused by this suspense to the
workings of her imagination, left an opening from their vagaries to a
mental interrogatory, whether it were right to allow herself such an
amusement, with whatever precautions she might keep it from the world,
unknown to her father?

She had never taken any step without the sanction of his permission;
and had now refrained from requesting it, only through the confusion
of acknowledging her authorship; and the apprehension, or, rather, the
horror of his desiring to see her performance.

Nevertheless, reflection no sooner took place of action, than she
found, in this case at least, the poet’s maxim reversed, and that

  ‘The female who deliberates—is sav’d,’

for she saw in its genuine light what was her duty; and seized,
therefore, upon a happy moment of a kind _tête à tête_ with her father,
to avow, with more blushes than words, her secret little work; and her
odd inclination to see it in print; hastily adding, while he looked
at her, incredulous of what he heard, that her brother Charles would
transact the business with a distant bookseller, who should never know
her name. She only, therefore, entreated that he would not himself ask
to see the manuscript.

His amazement was without parallel; yet it seemed surpassed by his
amusement; and his laugh was so gay, that, revived by its cheering
sound, she lost all her fears and embarrassment, and heartily joined in
it; though somewhat at the expence of her new author-like dignity.

She was the last person, perhaps, in the world from whom Dr. Burney
could have expected a similar scheme. He thought her project, however,
as innocent as it was whimsical, and offered not the smallest
objection; but, kindly embracing her, and calling himself _le père
confident_, he enjoined her to be watchful that Charles was discreet;
and to be invariably strict in guarding her own incognita: and then,
having tacitly granted her personal petition, he dropt the subject.

With fresh eagerness, now, and heightened spirits, the incipient author
rolled up her packet for the bookseller; which was carried to him by a
newly trusted agent,[23] her brother being then in the country.

The suspense was short; in a very few days Mr. Lowndes sent his
approbation of the work, with an offer of 20_l._ for the manuscript—an
offer which was accepted with alacrity, and boundless surprise at its
magnificence!!

The receipt for this settlement, signed simply by “_the Editor of
Evelina_,” was conveyed by the new agent to Fleet-street.

In the ensuing January, 1778, the work was published; a fact which only
became known to its writer, who had dropped all correspondence with Mr.
Lowndes, from hearing the following advertisement read, accidentally,
aloud at breakfast-time, by Mrs. Burney, her mother-in-law.

  _This day was published_,

  EVELINA,

  OR, A YOUNG LADY’S ENTRANCE INTO THE WORLD.

  Printed for T. LOWNDES, Fleet-street.

Mrs. Burney, who read this unsuspectingly, went on immediately to other
articles; but, had she lifted her eyes from the paper, something more
than suspicion must have met them, from the conscious colouring of the
scribbler, and the irresistible smiles of the two sisters, Susanna and
Charlotte, who were present.

Dr. Burney probably read the same advertisement the same morning; but
as he knew neither the name of the book, nor of the bookseller, nor the
time of publication, he must have read it without comment, or thought.

In this projected and intended security from public notice, the author
passed two or three months, during which the Doctor asked not a
question; and perhaps had forgotten the secret with which he had been
entrusted; for, besides the multiplicity of his affairs, his mind, just
then, was deeply disturbed by rising dissension, from claims the most
unwarrantable, with Mr. Greville.

And even from her own mind, the book, with all that belonged to it,
was soon afterwards chased, through the absorbent fears of seeing
her father dangerously attacked by an acute fever; from which by
the admirable prescriptions and skill of Sir Richard Jebb, he was
barely recovered, when she herself, who had been incautiously eager
in aiding her mother and sisters in their assiduous attendance upon
the invaluable invalid, was taken ill with strong symptoms of an
inflammation of the lungs: and though, through the sagacious directions
of the same penetrating physician, she was soon pronounced to be out
of immediate danger, she was so shaken in health and strength, that Sir
Richard enjoined her quitting London for the recruit of country air.
She was therefore conveyed to Chesington Hall, where she was received
and cherished by a second father in Mr. Crisp; with whom, and his
associates, the worthy Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Cooke, she remained for a
considerable time.

A few days before she left town, Dr. Burney, in a visit to her bedside,
revealed to her his late painful disagreement with Mr. Greville; but
told her that they had, at length, come to a full explanation, which
had brought Mr. Greville once more to his former and agreeable self;
and had terminated in a complete reconciliation.

He then read to her, in confidence, a poetical epistle,[24] which he
had just composed, and was preparing to send to his restored friend;
but which was expressed in terms so affecting, that they nearly proved
the reverse of restoration, in her then feeble state, to his fondly
attached daughter.

Dr. Burney’s intercourse with Mr. Greville was then again resumed; and
continued with rational, but true regard, on the part of Dr. Burney;
but with an intemperate importunity on that of Mr. Greville, that
claimed time which could not be spared; and leisure which could not be
found.

Evelina had now been published four or five months, though Dr. Burney
still knew nothing of its existence; and the author herself had learnt
it only by the chance-read advertisement already mentioned. Yet had
that little book found its way abroad; fallen into general reading;
gone through three editions, and been named with favour in sundry
Reviews; till, at length, a sort of cry was excited amongst its readers
for discovering its author.

That author, it will naturally be imagined, would repose her secret,
however sacred, in the breast of so confidential a counsellor as Mr.
Crisp.

And not trust, indeed, was there wanting! far otherwise! But as she
required no advice for what she never meant to avow, and had already
done with, she had no motive of sufficient force to give her courage
for encountering his critic eye. She never, therefore, ventured, and
never purposed to venture revealing to him her anonymous exploit.

June came; and a sixth month was elapsing in the same silent
concealment, when early one morning the Doctor, with great eagerness
and hurry, began a search amongst the pamphlets in his study for a
Monthly Review, which he demanded of his daughter Charlotte, who alone
was in the room. After finding it, he earnestly examined its contents,
and then looked out hastily for an article which he read with a
countenance of so much emotion, that Charlotte stole softly behind him,
to peep over his shoulder; and then saw, with surprise and joy, that
he was perusing an account, which she knew to be most favourable, of
Evelina, beginning, ‘A great variety of natural characters—’

When he had finished the article, he put down the Review, and sat
motionless, without raising his eyes, and looking in deep—but charmed
astonishment. Suddenly, then, he again snatched the Review, and again
ran over the article, with an air yet more intensely occupied. Placing
it afterwards on the chimney-piece, he walked about the room, as if to
recover breath, and recollect himself; though always with looks of the
most vivid pleasure.

Some minutes later, holding the Review in his hand, while inspecting
the table of contents, he beckoned to Charlotte to approach; and
pointing to “Evelina,” ‘you know,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘that book?
Send William for it to Lowndes’, as if for yourself; and give it to me
when we are alone.’

Charlotte obeyed; and, joyous in sanguine expectation, delivered to him
the little volumes, tied up in brown paper, in his study, when, late at
night, he came home from some engagement.

He locked them up in his bureau, without speaking, and retired to his
chamber.

The kindly impatient Charlotte was in his study the next morning with
the lark, waiting the descent of the Doctor from his room.

He, also, was early, and went straight to his desk, whence, taking out
and untying the parcel, he opened the first volume upon the little ode
to himself,—“Oh author of my being! far more dear,” &c.

He ejaculated a ‘Good God!’ and his eyes were suffused with tears.

Twice he read it, and then re-committed the book to his writing desk,
as if his mind were too full for further perusal; and dressed, and went
out, without uttering a syllable.

All this the affectionate Charlotte wrote to her sister; who read it
with a perturbation inexpressible. It was clear that the Doctor had
discovered the name of her book; and learned, also, that Charlotte was
one of her cabal: but how, was inexplicable; though what would be his
opinion of the work absorbed now all the thoughts and surmises of the
clandestine author.

From this time, he frequently, though privately and confidentially,
spoke with all the sisters upon the subject; and with the kindliest
approbation.

From this time, also, daily accounts of the progress made by the
Doctor in reading the work; or of the progress made in the world by
the work itself, were transmitted to recreate the Chesington invalid
from the eagerly kind sisters; the eldest of which, soon afterwards,
wrote a proposal to carry to Chesington, for reading to Mr. Crisp, ‘an
anonymous new work that was running about the town, called Evelina.’

She came; and performed her promised office with a warmth of heart
that glowed through every word she read, and gave an interest to every
detail.

With flying colours, therefore, the book went off, not only with the
easy social circle, but with Mr. Crisp himself; and without the most
remote suspicion that the author was in the midst of the audience;
a circumstance that made the whole perusal seem to that author the
most pleasant of comedies, from the innumerable whimsical incidents
to which it gave rise, alike in panegyrics and in criticisms, which
alternately, and most innocently, were often addressed to herself; and
accompanied with demands of her opinions, that forced her to perplexing
evasions, productive of the most ludicrous confusion, though of the
highest inward diversion.

Meanwhile, Dr. Burney, uninformed of this transaction, yet justly
concluding that, whether the book were owned or not, some one of the
little committee would be carrying it to Chesington; sent an injunction
to procrastinate its being produced, as he himself meant to be its
reader to Mr. Crisp.

This touching testimony of his parental interest in its success with
the first and dearest of their friends, came close to the heart
for which it was designed, with feelings of strong—and yet living
gratitude!

Equally unexpected and exhilarating to the invalid were all these
occurrences: but of much deeper marvel still was the narrative which
follows, and which she received about a week after this time.

In a letter written in this month, June, her sister Susanna stated
to her, that just as she had retired to her own room, on the evening
preceding its date, their father returned from his usual weekly visit
to Streatham, and sent for her to his study.

She immediately perceived, by his expanded brow, that he had something
extraordinary, and of high agreeability, to divulge.

As the Memorialist arrives now at the first mention, in this little
transaction, of a name that the public seems to hail with augmenting
eagerness in every trait that comes to light, she will venture to copy
the genuine account in which that honoured name first occurs; and
which was written to her by her sister Susanna, with an unpretending
simplicity that may to some have a certain charm; and that to no one
can be offensive.

After the opening to the business that has just been abridged, Susanna
thus goes on.

       *       *       *       *       *

“‘Oh my dear girl, how shall I surprise you! Prepare yourself, I
beseech, not to be too much moved.

“‘I have such a thing,’ cried our dear father, ‘to tell you about our
poor Fanny!—’

“‘Dear Sir, what?’ cried I; afraid he had been betraying your secret to
Mrs. Thrale; which I know he longed to do.

“He only smiled—but such a smile of pleasure I never saw! ‘Why to
night at Streatham,’ cried he, while we were sitting at tea, only
Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Thrale, Miss Thrale, and myself. ‘Madam,’ cried
Dr. Johnson, see-sawing on his chair, ‘Mrs. Cholmondeley was talking
to me last night of a new novel, which she says has a very uncommon
share of merit; Evelina. She says she has not been so entertained this
great while as in reading it; and that she shall go all over London to
discover the author.’

“Do you breathe, my dear Fanny?

“‘Odd enough!’ cried Mrs. Thrale; ‘why somebody else mentioned that
book to me t’other day—Lady Westcote it was, I believe. The modest
writer of Evelina, she talked about.’

“‘Mrs. Cholmondeley says,’ answered the Doctor, ‘that she never before
met so much modesty with so much merit in any literary production of
the kind, as is implied by the concealment of the author.’

“‘Well,—’ cried I, continued my father, smiling more and more,
‘somebody recommended that book to me, too; and I read a little of
it—which, indeed—seemed to be above the commonplace works of this
kind.’

“Mrs. Thrale said she would certainly get it.

“‘You _must_ have it, madam!’ cried Johnson, emphatically; ‘Mrs.
Cholmondeley says she shall keep it on her table the whole summer, that
every body that knows her may see it; for she asserts that every body
ought to read it! And she has made Burke get it—and Reynolds.’

“A tolerably agreeable conversation, methinks, my dear Fanny! It took
away my breath, and made me skip about like a mad creature.

“‘And how did you feel, Sir?’ said I to my father, when I could speak.

“‘Feel?—why I liked it of all things! I wanted somebody to introduce
the book at Streatham. ’Twas just what I wished, but could not expect!’

“I could not for my life, my dearest Fanny, help saying that—even if
it should be discovered, shy as you were of being known, it would do
you no discredit. ‘Discredit?’ he repeated; ‘no, indeed!—quite the
reverse! It would be a credit to her—and to me!—and to you—and to
all her family!

“Now, my dearest Fanny—pray how do you do?—”

Vain would be any attempt to depict the astonishment of the author at
this communication—the astonishment, or—the pleasure!

And, in truth, in private life, few small events can possibly have
been attended with more remarkable incidents. That a work, voluntarily
consigned by its humble author, even from its birth, to oblivion,
should rise from her condemnation, and,

  “‘Unpatronized, unaided, unknown,’

make its way through the metropolis, in passing from the Monthly Review
into the hands of the beautiful Mrs. Bunbury; and from her’s arriving
at those of the Hon. Mrs. Cholmondeley; whence, triumphantly, it should
be conveyed to Sir Joshua Reynolds; made known to Mr. Burke; be mounted
even to the notice of Dr. Johnson, and reach Streatham;—and that there
its name should first be pronounced by the great lexicographer himself;
and,—by mere chance,—in the presence of Dr. Burney; seemed more like
a romance, even to the Doctor himself, than anything in the book that
was the cause of these coincidences.

Very soon afterwards, another singular circumstance, and one of great
flutter to the spirits of the hidden author, reached her from the kind
sisters. Upon the succeeding excursion of Dr. Burney to Streatham, Mrs.
Thrale, most unconsciously, commissioned him to order Mr. Lowndes to
send her down Evelina.

From this moment, the composure of Chesington was over for the
invalid, though not so the happiness! unequalled, in a short time,
that became—unequalled as it was wonderful. Dr. Burney now, from
his numerous occupations, stole a few hours for a flying visit to
Chesington; where his meeting with his daughter, just rescued from the
grave, and still barely convalescent, at a period of such peculiar
interest to his paternal, and to her filial heart, was of the tenderest
description. Yet, earnestly as she coveted his sight, she felt almost
afraid, and quite ashamed, to be alone with him, from her doubts how he
might accept her versified dedication.

She held back, therefore, from any _tête à tête_ till he sent for her
to his little gallery cabinet; or in Mr. Crisp’s words, conjuring
closet. But there, when he had shut the door, with a significant
smile, that told her what was coming, and gave a glow to her very
forehead from anxious confusion, he gently said, ‘I have read your
book, Fanny!—but you need not blush at it—it is full of merit—it is,
really,—extraordinary!’

She fell upon his neck with heart-throbbing emotion; and he folded
her in his arms so tenderly, that she sobbed upon his shoulder; so
moved was she by his precious approbation. But she soon recovered to
a gayer pleasure—a pleasure more like his own; though the length of
her illness had made her almost too weak for sensations that were
mixed with such excess of amazement. She had written the little book,
like innumerable of its predecessors that she had burnt, simply for
her private recreation. She had printed it for a frolic, to see how a
production of her own would figure in that author-like form. But that
was the whole of her plan. And, in truth, her unlooked for success
evidently surprised her father quite as much as herself.

But what was her start, when he told her that her book was then
actually running the gauntlet at Streatham; and condescended to ask her
leave, if Mrs. Thrale should happen to be pleased with it, to let her
into the secret!

Startled was she indeed, nay, affrighted; for concealment was still her
changeless wish and unalterable purpose. But the words: ‘If Mrs. Thrale
should happen to be pleased with it,’ made her ashamed to demur; and
she could only reply that, upon such a stipulation, she saw no risk of
confidence, for Mrs. Thrale was no partial relative. She besought him,
however, not to betray her to Mr. Crisp, whom she dreaded as a critic
as much as she loved as a friend.

He laughed at her fright, yet forbore agitating her apprehensive
spirits by pressing, at that moment, any abrupt disclosure; and, having
gained his immediate point with regard to Mrs. Thrale, he drove off
eagerly and instantly to Streatham.

And his eagerness there received no check; he found not only Mrs.
Thrale, but her daughter, and sundry visitors, so occupied by Evelina,
that some quotation from it was apropos to whatever was said or done.

An enquiry was promptly made, whether Mrs. Cholmondeley had yet found
out the author of Evelina?—‘because,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘I long to
know him of all things.’

The Him produced a smile that, as soon as they were alone, elicited
an explanation; and the kind civilities that ensued may easily be
conceived.

Every word of them was forwarded to Chesington by the participating
sisters, as so many salutary medicines, they said, for returning
health and strength. And, speedily after, they were followed by a
prescription of the same character, so potent, so superlative, as to
take place of all other mental medicine.

This was conveyed in a packet from Susanna, containing the ensuing
letter from Mrs. Thrale to Dr. Burney; written two days after she had
put the first volume of Evelina into her coach, as Dr. Johnson was
quitting Streatham for a day’s residence in Bolt Court.


  “‘Dear Doctor Burney,

“‘Doctor Johnson returned home last night full of the praises of the
book I had lent him; protesting there were passages in it that might do
honour to Richardson. We talk of it for ever; and he, Doctor Johnson,
feels ardent after the denouement. _He could not get rid of the Rogue!_
he said. I then lent him the second volume, which he instantly read;
and he is, even now, busy with the third.

“‘You must be more a philosopher, and less a father than I wish you,
not to be pleased with this letter; and the giving such pleasure yields
to nothing but receiving it. Long, my dear Sir, may you live to enjoy
the just praises of your children! And long may they live to
deserve and delight such a parent!’”

This packet was accompanied by intelligence, that Sir Joshua Reynolds
had been fed while reading the little work, from refusing to quit it
at table! and that Edmund Burke had sat up a whole night to finish
it!!! It was accompanied, also, by a letter from Dr. Burney, that
almost dissolved the happy scribbler with touching delight, by its
avowal of his increased approbation upon a second reading: “Thou hast
made,” he says, “thy old father laugh and cry at thy pleasure.... I
never yet heard of a novel writer’s statue;[25]—yet who knows?—above
all things, then, take care of thy head, for if that should be at all
turned out of its place by all this intoxicating success, what sort of
figure wouldst thou cut upon a pedestal? _Prens y bien garde!_’

This playful goodness, with the wondrous news that Doctor Johnson
himself had deigned to read the little book, so struck, so nearly
bewildered the author, that, seized with a fit of wild spirits, and not
knowing how to account for the vivacity of her emotion to Mr. Crisp, she
darted out of the room in which she had read the tidings by his side,
to a small lawn before the window, where she danced, lightly, blithely,
gaily, around a large old mulberry tree, as impulsively and airily as
she had often done in her days of adolescence: and Mr. Crisp, though
he looked on with some surprise, wore a smile of the most expressive
kindness, that seemed rejoicing in the sudden resumption of that buoyant
spirit of springing felicity, which, in her first visits to Liberty
Hall—Chesington,—had made the mulberry tree the favourite site of her
juvenile vagaries.

Dr. Burney sent, also, a packet from Mr. Lowndes, containing ten sets
of Evelina very handsomely bound: and the scribbler had the extreme
satisfaction to see that Mr. Lowndes was still in the dark as to his
correspondent, the address being the same as the last;—

  TO MR. GRAFTON,

  _Orange Coffee-House_,

and the opening of the letter still being, Sir.

When Chesington air, kindness, and freedom, had completely chased
away every symptom of disease, Dr. Burney hastened thither himself;
and arrived in the highest, happiest spirits. He had three objects in
view, each of them filling his lively heart with gay ideas; the first
was to bring back to his own roof his restored daughter: the second,
was to tell a laughable tale of wonder to the most revered friend of
both, for which he had previously written to demand her consent: and
the third, was to carry that daughter to Streatham, and present her, by
appointment, to Mrs. Thrale, and—to Dr. Johnson!

No sooner had the Doctor reached Liberty Hall, than the two faithful
old friends were shut up in the _conjuring closet_ where Dr. Burney
rushed at once into “the midst of things,” and disclosed the author of
the little work which, for some weeks past, had occupied Chesington
Hall with quotations, conjectures, and subject matter of talk.

All that belongs, or that ever can belong, in matters of small moment,
to amazement, is short of what was experienced by Mr. Crisp at this
recital: and his astonishment was so prodigious not to have heard of
her writing at all, till he heard of it in a printed work that was
running all over London, and had been read, and approved of by Dr.
Johnson and Edmund Burke; that, with all his powers of speech, his
choice of language, and his general variety of expression, he could
utter no phrase but “Wonderful!”—which burst forth at once on the
discovery; accompanied each of its details; and was still the only vent
to the fullness of his surprise when he had heard the whole history.

That she had consulted neither of these parents in this singular
undertaking, diverted them both: well they knew that no distrust
had caused the concealment, but simply an apprehension of utter
insufficiency to merit their suffrages.

What a dream did all this seem to this Memorialist! The fear, however,
of a reverse, checked all that might have rendered it too delusive;
and she earnestly supplicated that the communication might be spread
no further, lest it should precipitate a spirit of criticism, which
retirement and mystery kept dormant: and which made all her wishes
still unalterable for remaining unknown and unsuspected.

The popularity of this work did not render it very lucrative; ten
pounds a volume, by the addition of ten pounds to the original twenty,
after the third edition, being all that was ever paid, or ever offered
to the author; whose unaffectedly humble idea of its worth had cast
her, unconditionally, upon any terms that might be proposed.

Dr. Burney, enchanted at the new scene of life to which he was
now carrying his daughter, of an introduction to Streatham, and
a presentation to Dr. Johnson, took a most cordial leave of the
congratulatory Mr. Crisp; who sighed, nevertheless, in the midst of
his satisfaction, from a prophetic anticipation of the probable and
sundering calls from his peaceful habitation, of which he thought
this new scene likely to be the result. But the object of this kind
solicitude, far from participating in these fears, was curbed from
the full enjoyment of the honours before her, by a well-grounded
apprehension that Dr. Johnson, at least, if not Mrs. Thrale, might
expect a more important, and less bashful sort of personage, than she
was sure would be found.

Dr. Burney, aware of her dread, because aware of her retired life and
habits, and her native taste for personal obscurity, strove to laugh
off her apprehensions by disallowing their justice; and was himself all
gaiety and spirit.

Mrs. Thrale, who was walking in her paddock, came to the door of the
carriage to receive them; and poured forth a vivacity of thanks to the
Doctor for bringing his daughter, that filled that daughter with the
most agreeable gratitude; and soon made her so easy and comfortable,
that she forgot the formidable renown of wit and satire that were
coupled with the name of Mrs. Thrale; and the whole weight of her
panic, as well as the whole energy of her hopes, devolved upon the
approaching interview with Dr. Johnson.

But there, on the contrary, Dr. Burney felt far greater security.
Dr. Johnson, however undesignedly, nay, involuntarily, had been the
cause of the new author’s invitation to Streatham, from being the
first person who there had pronounced the name of Evelina; and that
previously to the discovery that its unknown writer was the daughter
of a man whose early enthusiasm for Dr. Johnson had merited his warm
acknowledgments; and whose character and conversation had since won
his esteem and friendship. Dr. Burney therefore prognosticated, that
such a circumstance could not but strike the vivid imagination of Dr.
Johnson as a romance of real life; and additionally interest him for
the unobtrusive author of the little work, which, wholly by chance, he
had so singularly helped to bring forward.

The curiosity of Dr. Johnson, however, though certainly excited, was
by no means so powerful as to allure him from his chamber one moment
before his customary time of descending to dinner; and the new author
had three or four hours to pass in constantly augmenting trepidation:
for the prospect of seeing him, which so short a time before would
have sufficed for her delight, was now chequered by the consciousness
that she could not, as heretofore, be in his presence only for her own
gratification, without any reciprocity of notice.

She was introduced, meanwhile, to Mr. Thrale, whose reception of her
was gentle and gentleman-like; and such as shewed his belief in the
verity of her desire to have her authorship unmarked.

She saw also Miss Thrale,[26] then barely entered into adolescence,
though full of sense and cultivated talents; but as shy as herself, and
consequently as little likely to create alarm.

One visitor only was at the house, Mr. Seward, afterwards author of
Biographiana; a singular, but very agreeable, literary, and beneficent
young man.

The morning was passed in the library, and, to the Doctor and his
daughter was passed deliciously: Mrs. Thrale, much amused by the
presence of two persons so peculiarly situated, put forth her utmost
powers of pleasing; and though that great engine to success, flattery,
was not spared, she wielded it with so much skill, and directed it with
so much pleasantry, that all disconcerting effects were chased aside,
to make it only produce laughter and good humour; through which gay
auxiliaries every trait meant, latently, for the fearful daughter, was
openly and plumply addressed to the happy father.

“I wish you had been with us last night, Dr. Burney,” she said; “for
thinking of what would happen to-day, we could talk of nothing in the
world but a certain sweet book; and Dr. Johnson was so full of it,
that he quite astonished us. He has got those incomparable Brangtons
quite by heart, and he recited scene after scene of their squabbles,
and selfishness, and forwardness, till he quite shook his sides with
laughter. But his greatest favourite is The Holbourn Beau, as he calls
Mr. Smith. Such a fine varnish, he says, of low politeness! such
struggles to appear the fine gentleman! such a determination to be
genteel! and, above all, such profound devotion to the ladies,—while
openly declaring his distaste to matrimony!——All this Mr. Johnson
pointed out with so much comicality of sport, that, at last, he got
into such high spirits, that he set about personating Mr. Smith
himself! We all thought we must have died no other death than that of
suffocation, in seeing Dr. Johnson handing about any thing he could
catch, or snatch at, and making smirking bows, saying he was _all for
the ladies,—every thing that was agreeable to the ladies_, &c. &c.
&c., ‘except,’ says he, ‘going to church with them! and as to that,
though marriage, to be sure, is all in all to the ladies, marriage
to a man—is the devil!’ And then he pursued his personifications of
his Holbourn Beau, till he brought him to what Mr. Johnson calls his
climax; which is his meeting with Sir Clement Willoughby at Madame
Duval’s, where a blow is given at once to his self-sufficiency, by
the surprise and confusion of seeing himself so distanced; and the
hopeless envy with which he looks up to Sir Clement, as to a meteor
such as he himself had hitherto been looked up to at Snow Hill, that
give a finishing touch to his portrait. And all this comic humour of
character, he says, owes its effect to contrast; for without Lord
Orville, and Mr. Villars, and that melancholy and gentleman-like
half-starved Scotchman, poor Macartney, the Brangtons, and the Duvals,
would be less than nothing; for vulgarity, in its own unshadowed glare,
is only disgusting.”

This account is abridged from a long journal letter of the
Memorialist; addressed to Mr. Crisp; but she will hazard copying
more at length, from the same source, the original narration of her
subsequent introduction to the notice of Dr. Johnson; as it may not
be incurious to the reader, to see that great man in the uncommon
light of courteously, nay playfully, subduing the fears, and raising
the courage, of a newly discovered, but yet unavowed young author, by
unexpected sallies and pointed allusions to characters in her work;
not as to beings that were the product of her imagination, but as to
persons of his own acquaintance, and in real life.


“TO SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.

“_Chesington, Kingston, Surrey._

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, when, at last, we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my
father and myself sit on each side of her. I said, I hoped I did not
take the place of Dr. Johnson? for, to my great consternation, he did
not even yet appear, and I began to apprehend he meant to abscond.
‘No,’ answered Mrs. Thrale; ‘he will sit next to you,—and that, I am
sure, will give him great pleasure.’

Soon after we were all marshalled, the great man entered. I have so
sincere a veneration for him, that his very sight inspires me with
delight as well as reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities
to which, as I have told you, he is subject. But all that, outwardly,
is so unfortunate, is so nobly compensated by all that, within, is
excelling, that I can now only, like Desdemona for Othello, ‘view his
image in his mind.’

Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him with an emphasis upon my name that
rather frightened me, for it seemed like a call for some compliment.
But he made me a bow the most formal, almost solemn, in utter silence,
and with his eyes bent downwards. I felt relieved by this distance, for
I thought he had forgotten, for the present at least, both the favoured
little book and the invited little scribbler; and I therefore began to
answer the perpetual addresses to me of Mrs. Thrale, with rather more
ease. But by the time I was thus recovered from my panic, Dr. Johnson
asked my father what was the composition of some little pies on his
side of the table; and, while my father was endeavouring to make it
out, Mrs. Thrale said, ‘Nothing but mutton, Mr. Johnson, so I don’t ask
you to eat such poor patties, because I know you despise them.’

‘No, Madam, no!’ cried Doctor Johnson, ‘I despise nothing that is good
of its sort. But I am too proud now, [smiling] to eat mutton pies!
Sitting by Miss Burney makes me very proud to-day!’

“If you had seen, my dear Mr. Crisp, how wide I felt my eyes open!—A
compliment from Doctor Johnson!

‘Miss Burney,’ cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, ‘you must take great care
of your heart, if Mr. Johnson attacks it—for I assure you he is not
often successless!’

‘What’s that you say, Madam?’ cried the Doctor; ‘are you making
mischief between the young lady and me already?’

A little while afterwards, he drank Miss Thrale’s health and mine
together, in a bumper of lemonade; and then added: ‘It is a terrible
thing that we cannot wish young ladies to be well, without wishing them
to become old women!’

‘If the pleasures of longevity were not gradual,’ said my father, ‘If
we were to light upon them by a jump or a skip, we should be cruelly at
a loss how to give them welcome!’

‘But some people,’ said Mr. Seward, ‘are young and old at the same
time; for they wear so well, that they never look old.’

‘No, Sir, no!’ cried the Doctor; ‘that never yet was, and never will
be! You might as well say they were at the same time tall and short.
Though I recollect an epitaph,—I forget upon whom, to that purpose.

    “‘Miss such a one—lies buried here,
    So early wise, and lasting fair,
    That none, unless her years you told,
    Thought her a child—or thought her old.’

My father then mentioned Mr. Garrick’s epilogue to Bonduca, which Dr.
Johnson called a miserable performance; and which every body agreed to
be the worst that Mr. Garrick had ever written.

‘And yet,’ said Mr. Seward, ‘it has been very much admired. But it is
in praise of English valour, and so, I suppose, the subject made it
popular.’

‘I do not know, Sir,’ said Dr. Johnson, ‘any thing about the subject,
for I could not read till I came to any. I got through about half a
dozen lines; but for subject, I could observe no other than perpetual
dullness. I do not know what is the matter with David. I am afraid he
is becoming superannuated; for his prologues and epilogues used to be
incomparable.’

“Nothing is so fatiguing,” said Mrs. Thrale, “as the life of a wit.
Garrick and Wilkes are the oldest men of their age that I know; for
they have both worn themselves out prematurely by being eternally on
the rack to entertain others.”

“David, Madam,” said the Doctor, “looks much older than he is, because
his face has had double the business of any other man’s. It is never at
rest! When he speaks one minute, he has quite a different countenance
to that which he assumes the next. I do not believe he ever kept the
same look for half an hour together in the whole course of his life.
And such a perpetual play of the muscles must certainly wear a man’s
face out before his time.”

While I was cordially laughing at this idea, the Doctor, who had
probably observed in me some little uneasy trepidation, and now, I
suppose, concluded me restored to my usual state, suddenly, though very
ceremoniously, as if to begin some acquaintance with me, requested
that I would help him to some broccoli. This I did; but when he took
it, he put on a face of humorous discontent, and said, ‘Only _this_,
Madam?—You would not have helped Mr. Macartney so parsimoniously!’

He affected to utter this in a whisper; but to see him directly
address me, caught the attention of all the table, and every one
smiled, though in silence; while I felt so surprised and so foolish! so
pleased and so ashamed, that I hardly knew whether he meant _my_ Mr.
Macartney, or spoke at random of some other. This, however, he soon
put beyond all doubt, by very composedly adding, while contemptuously
regarding my imputed parsimony on his plate: “Mr. Macartney, it is
true, might have most claim to liberality, poor fellow!—for how, as
Tom Brangton shrewdly remarks, should he ever have known what a good
dinner was, if he had never come to England?”

Perceiving, I suppose—for it could not be very difficult to
discern—the commotion into which this explication put me; and the
stifled disposition to a contagious laugh, which was suppressed, not to
add to my embarrassment; he quickly, but quietly, went on to a general
discourse upon Scotland, descriptive and political; but without point
or satire—though I cannot, my dear Mr. Crisp, give you one word of
it: not because I have forgotten it—for there is no remembering what
we have never heard; but because I could only generally gather the
subject. I could not listen to it. I was so confused and perturbed
between pleasure and vexation—pleasure, indeed, in the approvance of
Dr. Johnson! but vexation, and great vexation to find, by the conscious
smirks of all around, that I was betrayed to the whole party! while I
had only consented to confiding in Mrs. Thrale; all, no doubt, from
a mistaken notion that I had merely meant to feel the pulse of the
public, and to avow, or to conceal myself, according to its beatings:
when heaven knows—and you, my dear Mr. Crisp, know, that I had not the
most distant purpose of braving publicity, under success, any more than
under failure.

From Scotland, the talk fell, but I cannot tell how, upon some friend
of Dr. Johnson’s, of whom I did not catch the name; so I will call
him Mr. Three Stars, * * *; of whom Mr. Seward related some burlesque
anecdotes, from which Mr. * * * was warmly vindicated by the Doctor.

“Better say no more, Mr. Seward,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “for Mr. * * * is
one of the persons that Mr. Johnson will suffer no one to abuse but
himself! Garrick is another: for if any creature but himself says a
word against Garrick—Mr. Johnson will brow-beat him in a moment.”

“Why, Madam, as to David,” answered the Doctor, very calmly, ‘it is
only because they do not know when to abuse and when to praise him;
and I will allow no man to speak any ill of David, that he does not
deserve. As to * * *,—why really I believe him to be an honest man,
too, at the bottom. But, to be sure, he is rather penurious; and he is
somewhat mean; and it must be owned he has some degree of brutality;
and is not without a tendency to savageness, that cannot well be
defended.’

We all laughed, as he could not help doing himself, at such a curious
mode of taking up his friend’s justification. And he then related
a trait of another friend who had belonged to some club[27] that
the Doctor frequented, who, after the first or second night of his
admission, desired, as he eat no supper, to be excused paying his share
for the collation.

“And was he excused, Sir?” cried my father.

“Yes, Sir; and very readily. No man is angry with another for being
inferior to himself. We all admitted his plea publicly—for the
gratification of scorning him privately! For my own part, I was fool
enough to constantly pay my share for the wine, which I never tasted.
But my poor friend Sir John, it cannot well be denied, was but an
unclubbable man.”

How delighted was I to hear this master of languages, this awful, this
dreaded lexiphanes, thus sportively and gaily coin burlesque words in
social comicality!

I don’t know whether he deigned to watch me, but I caught a glance of
his eye that seemed to shew pleasure in perceiving my surprise and
diversion, for with increased glee of manner he proceeded.—

“This reminds me of a gentleman and lady with whom I once travelled. I
suppose I must call them gentleman and lady, according to form, because
they travelled in their own coach and four horses. But, at the first
inn where we stopped to water the cattle, the lady called to a waiter
for—a pint of ale! And, when it came, she would not taste it, till
she had wrangled with the man for not bringing her fuller measure!
Now—Madame Duval could not have done a grosser thing!”

A sympathetic simper now ran from mouth to mouth, save to mine, and to
that of Dr. Johnson; who gravely pretended to pass off what he had
said as if it were a merely accidental reminiscence of some vulgar old
acquaintance of his own. And this, as undoubtedly, and most kindly, he
projected, prevented any sort of answer that might have made the book
a subject of general discourse. And presently afterwards, he started
some other topic, which he addressed chiefly to Mr. Thrale. But if
you expect me to tell you what it was, you think far more grandly of
my powers of attention without, when all within is in a whirl, than I
deserve!

Be it, however, what it might, the next time there was a pause, we
all observed a sudden play of the muscles in the countenance of the
Doctor, that shewed him to be secretly enjoying some ludicrous idea:
and accordingly, a minute or two after, he pursed up his mouth, and, in
an assumed pert, yet feminine accent, while he tossed up his head to
express wonder, he affectedly minced out, “La, Polly!—only think! Miss
has danced with a Lord!”

This was resistless to the whole set, and a general, though a gentle
laugh, became now infectious; in which, I must needs own to you, I
could not, with all my embarrassment, and all my shame, and all my
unwillingness to demonstrate my consciousness, help being caught—so
indescribably ludicrous and unexpected was a mimicry of Miss Biddy
Brangton from Dr. Johnson!

The Doctor, however, with a refinement of delicacy of which I have
the deepest sense, never once cast his eyes my way during these comic
traits; though those of every body else in the company had scarcely for
a moment any other direction.

But imagine my relief and my pleasure, in playfulness such as this
from the great literary Leviathan, whom I had dreaded almost as much
as I had honoured! How far was I from dreaming of such sportive
condescension! He clearly wished to draw the little snail from her
cell, and, when once she was out, not to frighten her back. He seems to
understand my _queeralities_—as some one has called my not liking to
be set up for a sign-post—with more leniency than any body else.”

       *       *       *       *       *

This long article of Evelina, will be closed by copying a brief one
upon the same subject, written from memory, by Dr. Burney, so late in
his life as the year 1808.


_Copied from a Memorandum-book of Dr. Burney’s, written in the year
1808, at Bath._

“The literary history of my second daughter, Fanny, now Madame
d’Arblay, is singular. She was wholly unnoticed in the nursery for any
talents, or quickness of study: indeed, at eight years old she did not
know her letters; and her brother, the tar, who in his boyhood had a
natural genius for hoaxing, used to pretend to teach her to read; and
gave her a book topsy-turvy, which he said she never found out! She
had, however, a great deal of invention and humour in her childish
sports; and used, after having seen a play in Mrs. Garrick’s box, to
take the actors off, and compose speeches for their characters; for
she could not read them. But in company, or before strangers, she
was silent, backward, and timid, even to sheepishness: and, from her
shyness, had such profound gravity and composure of features, that
those of my friends who came often to my house, and entered into the
different humours of the children, never called Fanny by any other
name, from the time she had reached her eleventh year, than The Old
Lady.

Her first work, Evelina, was written by stealth, in a closet up two
pair of stairs, that was appropriated to the younger children as a
play room. No one was let into the secret but my third daughter,
afterwards Mrs. Phillips; though even to her it was never read till
printed, from want of private opportunity. To me, nevertheless, she
confidentially owned that she was going, through her brother Charles,
to print a little work, but she besought me never to ask to see it. I
laughed at her plan, but promised silent acquiescence; and the book
had been six months published before I even heard its name; which I
learnt at last without her knowledge. But great, indeed, was then my
surprise, to find that it was in general reading, and commended in no
common manner in the several Reviews of the times. Of this she was
unacquainted herself, as she was then ill, and in the country. When
I knew its title, I commissioned one of her sisters to procure it
for me privately. I opened the first volume with fear and trembling;
not having the least idea that, without the use of the press, or any
practical knowledge of the world, she could write a book worth reading.
The dedication to myself, however, brought tears into my eyes; and
before I had read half the first volume I was much surprised, and,
I confess, delighted; and most especially with the letters of Mr.
Villars. She had always had a great affection for me; had an excellent
heart, and a natural simplicity and probity about her that wanted no
teaching. In her plays with her sisters, and some neighbour’s children,
this straightforward morality operated to an uncommon degree in one so
young. There lived next door to me, at that time, in Poland street, and
in a private house, a capital hair merchant, who furnished peruques to
the judges, and gentlemen of the law. The merchant’s female children
and mine, used to play together in the little garden behind the house;
and, unfortunately, one day, the door of the wig magazine being left
open, they each of them put on one of those dignified ornaments of the
head, and danced and jumped about in a thousand antics, laughing till
they screamed at their own ridiculous figures. Unfortunately, in their
vagaries, one of the flaxen wigs, said by the proprietor to be worth
upwards of ten guineas—in those days a price enormous—fell into a tub
of water, placed for the shrubs in the little garden, and lost all its
gorgon buckle, and was declared by the owner to be totally spoilt. He
was extremely angry, and chid very severely his own children; when my
little daughter, the old lady, then ten years of age, advancing to him,
as I was informed, with great gravity and composure, sedately says;
“What signifies talking so much about an accident? The wig is wet, to
be sure; and the wig was a good wig, to be sure; but its of no use to
speak of it any more; because what’s done can’t be undone.”

“Whether these stoical sentiments appeased the enraged peruquier, I
know not, but the younkers were stript of their honours, and my little
monkies were obliged to retreat without beat of drum, or colours
flying.”




STREATHAM.


From the very day of this happy inauguration of his daughter at
Streatham, the Doctor had the parental gratification of seeing her
as flatteringly greeted there as himself. So vivacious, indeed, was
the partiality towards her of its inhabitants, that they pressed him
to make over to them all the time he could spare her from her home;
and appropriated an apartment as sacredly for her use, when she could
occupy it, as another, far more deservedly, though not more cordially,
had, many years previously, been held sacred for Dr. Johnson.

The social kindness for both father and daughter, of Mrs. Thrale, was
of the most endearing nature; trusting, confidential, affectionate. She
had a sweetness of manner, and an activity of service for those she
loved, that could ill be appreciated by others; for though copiously
flattering in her ordinary address to strangers, because always
desirous of universal suffrage, she spoke of individuals in general
with sarcasm; and of the world at large with sovereign contempt.

Flighty, however, not malignant, was her sarcasm; and ludicrous more
frequently than scornful, her contempt. She wished no one ill. She
would have done any one good; but she could put no restraint upon wit
that led to a brilliant point, or that was productive of laughing
admiration: though her epigram once pronounced, she thought neither of
that nor of its object any more; and was just as willing to be friends
with a person whom she had held up to ridicule, as with one whom she
had laboured to elevate by panegyric.

Her spirits, in fact, rather ruled than exhilarated her; and were
rather her guides than her support. Not that she was a child of nature.
She knew the world, and gaily boasted that she had studied mankind
in what she called its most prominent school-electioneering. She was
rather, therefore, from her scoff of all consequences, a child of witty
irreflection.

The first name on the list of the Streatham coterie at this time, was
that which, after Dr. Johnson’s, was the first, also, in the nation,
Edmund Burke. But his visits now, from whatever cause, were so rare,
that Dr. Burney never saw him in the Streatham constellation, save as
making one amongst the worthies whom the pencil of Sir Joshua Reynolds
had caught from all mundane meanderings, to place there as a fixed star.

Next ranked Sir Joshua Reynolds himself, and Mr. Garrick.

Dr. Goldsmith, who had been a peculiar favourite in the set, as much,
perhaps, for his absurdities as for his genius, was already gone;
though still, and it may be from this double motive, continually
missed and regretted: for what, in a chosen coterie, could be more
amusing,—many as are the things that might be more edifying,—than
gathering knowledge and original ideas in one moment, from the man who
the next, by the simplicity of his egotism, expanded every mouth by the
merriment of ridicule?

Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Boscowen, Mrs. Crewe, Lord Loughborough, Mr.
Dunning,[28] Lord Mulgrave, Lord Westcote, Sir Lucas and Mr. Pepys[29]
Major Holroyd,[30] Mrs. Hinchcliffe, Mrs. Porteus, Miss Streatfield,
Miss Gregory,[31] Dr. Lort, the Bishops of London and Peterborough
(Porteus and Hinchcliffe), with a long _et cætera_ of visitors less
marked, filled up the brilliant catalogue of the spirited associates of
Streatham.




MR. MURPHY.


But the most intimate in the house, amongst the Wits, from being the
personal favourite of Mr. Thrale, was Mr. Murphy; who, for gaiety
of spirits, powers of dramatic effect, stories of strong humour and
resistless risibility, was nearly unequalled: and they were coupled
with politeness of address, gentleness of speech, and well bred, almost
courtly, demeanour.

He was a man of great erudition,[32] without one particle of pedantry;
and a stranger not only to spleen and malevolence, but the happiest
promoter of convivial hilarity.

With what pleasure, and what pride, does the editor copy, from an
ancient diary, the following words that passed between Dr. Johnson
and Mr. Murphy, relative to Dr. Burney, upon the first meeting of the
editor with Mr. Murphy at Streatham!

Mrs. Thrale was lamenting the sudden disappearance of Dr. Burney, who
was just gone to town _sans adieu_; declaring that he was the most
complete male-coquet she knew, for he only gave just enough of his
company to make more desired.

“Dr. Burney,” said Mr. Murphy, “is, indeed, a most extraordinary man. I
think I do not know such another. He is at home upon all subjects; and
upon all is so highly agreeable! I look upon him as a wonderful man.”

“I love Burney!” cried Dr. Johnson, emphatically: “my heart, as I told
him—goes out to meet Burney!”

“He is not ungrateful, Sir,” cried the Doctor’s bairne, “for heartily
indeed does he love you!”

“Does he, Madam?” said the Doctor, looking at her earnestly: “I am
surprised at that!”

“And why, Sir?—Why should you have doubted it?”

“Because, Madam,” answered he, gravely, “Dr. Burney is a man for every
body to love. It is but natural to love _him_!”

He paused, as if with an idea of a self-conceived contrast not
gaifying; but he soon cheerfully added, “I question if there be in
the world such another man, altogether, for mind, intelligence, and
manners, as Dr. Burney.”

Dr. Johnson, at this time, was engaged in writing his Lives of the
Poets; a work, to him, so light and easy, that it never robbed his
friends of one moment of the time that he would, otherwise, have spared
to their society. Lives, however, strictly speaking, they are not; he
merely employed in them such materials, with respect to biography,
as he had already at hand, without giving himself any trouble in
researches for what might be new, or unknown; though he gladly accepted
any that were offered to him, if well authenticated, The critical
investigations alone he considered as his business. He himself never
named them but as prefaces. No man held in nobler scorn, a promise that
out-went performance.

The ease and good-humour with which he fulfilled this engagement, made
the present a moment peculiarly propitious for the opening acquaintance
with him of the new, and by no means very hardened author; for whose
terrors of public notice he had a mercy the most indulgent. He quickly
saw that—whether wise or not—they were true; and soothed them without
raillery or reprehension; though in this he stood nearly alone! Her
fears of him, therefore, were soon softened off by his kindness; or
dispelled by her admiration.

The friendship with which so early he had honoured the father, was
gently and at once, with almost unparalleled partiality, extended to
the daughter: and, in truth, the whole current of his intercourse with
both was as unruffled by storm as it was enlightened by wisdom.

While this charming work was in its progress, when only the Thrale
family and its nearly adopted guests, the two Burneys, were assembled,
Dr. Johnson would frequently produce one of its proof sheets to
embellish the breakfast table, which was always in the library; and
was, certainly, the most sprightly and agreeable meeting of the day;
for then, as no strangers were present to stimulate exertion, or
provoke rivalry, argument was not urged on by the mere spirit of
victory; it was instigated only by such truisms as could best bring
forth that conflict of _pros_ and _cons_ which elucidates opposing
opinions. Wit was not flashed with the keen sting of satire; yet it
elicited not less gaiety from sparkling with an unwounding brilliancy,
which brightened without inflaming, every eye, and charmed without
tingling, every ear.

These proof sheets Mrs. Thrale was permitted to read aloud; and the
discussions to which they led were in the highest degree entertaining.
Dr. Burney wistfully desired to possess one of them; but left to his
daughter the risk of the petition. A hint, however, proved sufficient,
and was understood not alone with compliance, but vivacity. Boswell,
Dr. Johnson said, had engaged Frank Barber, his negro servant, to
collect and preserve all the proof sheets; but though it had not been
without the knowledge, it was without the order or the interference
of their author: to the present solicitor, therefore, willingly
and without scruple, he now offered an entire life; adding, with a
benignant smile, “Choose your poet!”

Without scruple, also, was the acceptance; and, without hesitation,
the choice was Pope. And that not merely because, next to Shakespeare
himself, Pope draws human characters the most veridically, perhaps,
of any poetic delineator; but for yet another reason. Dr. Johnson
composed with so ready an accuracy, that he sent his copy to the
press unread; reserving all his corrections for the proof sheets:[33]
and, consequently, as not even Dr. Johnson could read twice without
ameliorating some passages, his proof sheets were at times liberally
marked with changes; and, as the Museum copy of Pope’s Translation of
the Iliad, from which Dr. Johnson has given many examples, contains
abundant emendations by Pope, the Memorialist secured at once, on the
same page, the marginal alterations and second thoughts of that great
author, and of his great biographer.

When the book was published, Dr. Johnson brought to Streatham a complete
set, handsomely bound, of the Works of the Poets, as well as his own
Prefaces, to present to Mr. and Mrs. Thrale. And then, telling this
Memorialist that to the King, and to the chiefs of Streatham alone he
could offer so large a tribute, he most kindly placed before her a
bound copy of his own part of the work; in the title page of which he
gratified her earnest request by writing her name, and “From the Author.”

After which, at her particular solicitation, he gave her a small
engraving of his portrait from the picture of Sir Joshua Reynolds. And
while, some time afterwards, she was examining it at a distant table,
Dr. Johnson, in passing across the room, stopt to discover by what she
was occupied; which he no sooner discerned, than he began see-sawing
for a moment or two in silence; and then, with a ludicrous half laugh,
peeping over her shoulder, he called out: “Ah ha!—Sam Johnson!—I see
thee!—and an ugly dog thou art!”

He even extended his kindness to a remembrance of Mr. Bewley, the
receiver and preserver of the wisp of a Bolt Court hearth-broom, as
a relic of the Author of the Rambler; which anecdote Dr. Burney had
ventured to confess: and Dr. Johnson now, with his compliments, sent a
set of the Prefaces to St. Martin’s-street, directed,

  “_For the Broom Gentleman_:”

which Mr. Bewley received with rapturous gratitude.

Dr. Johnson wrote nothing that was so immediately popular as his
Lives of the Poets. Such a subject was of universal attraction, and he
treated it with a simplicity that made it of universal comprehension.
In all that belonged to classical criticism, he had a facility so
complete, that to speak or to write produced immediately the same clear
and sagacious effect. His pen was as luminous as his tongue, and his
tongue was as correct as his pen.

Yet those—and there are many—who estimate these Prefaces as the
best of his works, must surely so judge them from a species of
mental indolence, that prefers what is easiest of perusal to what
is most illuminating: for rich as are these Prefaces in ideas and
information, their subjects have so long been familiar to every English
reader, that they require no stretch of intellect, or exercise of
reflection, to lead him, without effort, to accompany the writer in
his annotations and criticisms. The Rambler, on the contrary, embodies
a course equally new of Thought and of Expression; the development
of which cannot always be foreseen, even by the deepest reasoner and
the keenest talents, because emanating from original genius. To make
acquaintance, therefore, with the Rambler, the general peruser must
pause, occasionally, to think as well as to read; and to clear away
sundry mists of prejudice, or ignorance, ere he can keep pace with the
sublime author, when the workings of his mind, his imagination, and his
knowledge, are thrown upon mankind.




MR. CRISP.


The warm and venerating attachment of Dr. Burney to Mr. Crisp, which
occasional discourse and allusions had frequently brought forward,
impressed the whole Thrale family with a high opinion of the character
and endowments of that excelling man. And when they found, also, that
Mr. Crisp had as animated a votary in so much younger a person as their
new guest; and that this enthusiasm was general throughout the Doctor’s
house, they earnestly desired to view and to know a man of such eminent
attraction; and gave to Dr. Burney a commission to bring on the
acquaintance.

It was given, however, in vain. Mr. Crisp had no longer either health
or spirit of enterprize for so formidable, however flattering, a new
connexion; and inexorably resisted every overture for a meeting.

But Mrs. Thrale, all alive for whatever was piquant and promising,
grew so bewitched by the delight with which her new young ally, to whom
she became daily more attached and more attaching, dilated on the rare
perfections of _Daddy Crisp_; and the native and innocent pleasures
of Liberty Hall, Chesington, that she started the plan of a little
excursion for taking the premises by surprise. And Dr. Burney, certain
that two such singularly accomplished persons could not meet but to
their mutual gratification; sanctioned the scheme; Mr. Thrale desired
to form his own judgment of so uncommon a Recluse; and the Doctor’s
pupil felt a juvenile curiosity to make one in the group.

The party took place; but its pleasure was nearly marred by the failure
of the chief spring which would have put into motion, and set to
harmony, the various persons who composed its drama.

Dr. Burney, from multiplicity of avocations, was forced, when the day
arrived, to relinquish his share in the little invasion; which cast
a damp upon the gaiety of the project, both to the besieged and the
besiegers. Yet Mr. Crisp and Mrs. Thrale met with mutual sentiments of
high esteem, though the genius of their talents was dissimilar; Mrs.
Thrale delighted in bursting forth with sudden flashes of wit, which,
carelessly, she left to their own consequences; while Mr. Crisp, though
awake to her talents, and sensible of their rarity and their splendour,
thought with Dr. Fordyce, that in woman the retiring graces are the
most attractive.[34]

Nevertheless, in understanding, acuteness, and parts, there was so
much in common between them, that sincere admiration grew out of the
interview; though with too little native congeniality to mellow into
confidence, or ripen into intimacy.

Praise, too, that dangerous herald of expectation, is often a friend
more perilous than any enemy; and both had involuntarily looked for a
something indefinable which neither of them found; yet both had too
much justness of comprehension to conclude that such a something did
not exist, because no opportunity for its development had offered in
the course of a few hours.

What most, in this visit, surprised Mrs. Thrale with pleasure, was the
elegance of Mr. Crisp in language and manners; because that, from the
Hermit of Chesington, she had not expected.

And what most to Mr. Crisp caused a similar pleasure, was the courteous
readiness, and unassuming good-humour, with which Mrs. Thrale received
the inartificial civilities of Kitty Cooke, and the old-fashioned but
cordial hospitality of Mrs. Hamilton; for these, from a celebrated wit,
moving in the sphere of high life, he also in his turn had not expected.

The Thrales, however, were all much entertained by the place itself,
which they prowled over with gay curiosity. Not a nook or corner; nor
a dark passage “leading to nothing;” nor a hanging tapestry of prim
demoiselles, and grim cavaliers; nor a tall canopied bed tied up to
the ceiling; nor japan cabinets of two or three hundred drawers of
different dimensions; nor an oaken corner cupboard, carved with heads,
thrown in every direction, save such as might let them fall on men’s
shoulders; nor a window stuck in some angle close to the ceiling of a
lofty slip of a room; nor a quarter of a staircase, leading to some
quaint unfrequented apartment; nor a wooden chimney-piece, cut in
diamonds, squares, and round nobs, surmounting another of blue and
white tiles, representing, _vis à vis_, a dog and a cat, as symbols of
married life and harmony—missed their scrutinizing eyes.

They even visited the attics, where they were much diverted by the
shapes as well as by the quantity of rooms, which, being of all sorts
of forms that could increase their count, were far too heterogeneous of
outline to enable the minutest mathematician to give them any technical
denomination.

They peeped, also, through little window casements, of which the panes
of glass were hardly so wide as their clumsy frames, to survey long
ridges of lead that entwined the motley spiral roofs of the multitude
of separate cells, rather than chambers, that composed the top of the
mansion; and afforded from it a view, sixteen miles in circumference,
of the adjacent country.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Crisp judged it fitting to return the received civility of a
visit from Mr. and Mrs. Thrale, whatever might be the inconvenience
to his health; or whatever his disinclination to such an exertion.
From habitual politeness he was of the old school in the forms of good
breeding; though perfectly equal to even the present march of intellect
in the new one, if to the present day he had lived,—and had deemed
it a march of improvement. He was the last man not to be aware that
nothing stands still. All nature in its living mass, all art in its
concentrated aggregate, advances or retrogrades.

He took the earliest day that one of his few gout intervals put at his
own disposal, to make his appearance at Streatham; having first written
a most earnest injunction to Dr. Burney to give him there the meeting.
The Memorialist was then at Chesington, and had the happiness to
accompany Mr. Crisp; by whom she was to be left at her new third home.

Dr. Johnson, in compliment to his friend Dr. Burney, and by no means
incurious himself to see the hermit of Chesington, immediately
descended to meet Mr. Crisp; and to aid Mrs. Thrale, who gave him a
vivacious reception, to do the honours of Streatham.

The meeting, nevertheless, to the great chagrin of Dr. Burney, produced
neither interest nor pleasure: for Dr. Johnson, though courteous in
demeanour and looks, with evident solicitude to shew respect to Mr.
Crisp, was grave and silent; and whenever Dr. Johnson did not make the
charm of conversation, he only marred it by his presence; from the
general fear he incited, that if he spoke not, he might listen; and
that if he listened—he might reprove.

Ease, therefore, was wanting; without which nothing in society can be
flowing or pleasing. The Chesingtonian conceived, that he had lived too
long away from the world to start any subject that might not, to the
Streathamites, be trite and out of date; and the Streathamites believed
that they had lived in it so much longer, that the current talk of the
day might, to the Chesingtonian, seem unintelligible jargon: while each
hoped that the sprightly Dr. Burney would find the golden mean by which
both parties might be brought into play.

But Dr. Burney, who saw in the kind looks and complacency of Dr.
Johnson intentional goodwill to the meeting, flattered himself that
the great philologist was but waiting for an accidental excitement,
to fasten upon some topic of general use or importance, and then to
describe or discuss it, with the full powers of his great mind.

Dr. Johnson, however, either in health or in spirits was,
unfortunately, oppressed; and, for once, was more desirous to hear than
to be heard.

Mr. Crisp, therefore, lost, by so unexpected a taciturnity, this fair
and promising opportunity for developing and enjoying the celebrated
and extraordinary colloquial abilities of Dr. Johnson; and finished
the visit with much disappointment; lowered also, and always, in his
spirits by parting from his tenderly attached young companion.

Dr. Burney had afterwards, however, the consolation to find that Mr.
Crisp had impressed even Dr. Johnson with a strong admiration of his
knowledge and capacity; for in speaking of him in the evening to Mr.
Thrale, who had been absent, the Doctor emphatically said, “Sir, it is
a very singular thing to see a man with all his powers so much alive,
when he has so long shut himself up from the world. Such readiness of
conception, quickness of recollection, facility of following discourse
started by others, in a man who has long had only the past to feed
upon, are rarely to be met with. Now, for my part,” added he, laughing,
“that _I_ should be ready, or even universal, is no wonder; for my dear
little mistress here,” turning to Mrs. Thrale, “keeps all my faculties
in constant play.”

Mrs. Thrale then said that nothing, to her, was so striking, as that a
man who so long had retired from the world, should so delicately have
preserved its forms and courtesies, as to appear equally well bred with
any elegant member of society who had not quitted it for a week.

Inexpressibly gratifying to Dr. Burney was the award of such justice,
from such judges, to his best and dearest loved friend.

From this time forward, Dr. Burney could scarcely recover his daughter
from Streatham, even for a few days, without a friendly battle. A
sportively comic exaggeration of Dr. Johnson’s upon this flattering
hostility was current at Streatham, made in answer to Dr. Burney’s
saying, upon a resistance to her departure for St. Martin’s-street in
which Dr. Johnson had strongly joined, “I must really take her away,
Sir, I must indeed; she has been from home so long.”

“Long? no, Sir! I do not think it long,” cried the Doctor, see-sawing,
and seizing both her hands, as if purporting to detain her: “Sir! I
would have her Always come ... and Never go!—”

       *       *       *       *       *




MR. BOSWELL.


When next, after this adjuration, Dr. Burney took the Memorialist back
to Streatham, he found there, recently arrived from Scotland, Mr.
Boswell; whose sprightly Corsican tour, and heroic, almost Quixotic
pursuit of General Paoli, joined to the tour to the Hebrides with Dr.
Johnson, made him an object himself of considerable attention.

He spoke the Scotch accent strongly, though by no means so as to
affect, even slightly, his intelligibility to an English ear. He
had an odd mock solemnity of tone and manner, that he had acquired
imperceptibly from constantly thinking of and imitating Dr. Johnson;
whose own solemnity, nevertheless, far from mock, was the result of
pensive rumination. There was, also, something slouching in the gait
and dress of Mr. Boswell, that wore an air, ridiculously enough,
of purporting to personify the same model. His clothes were always
too large for him; his hair, or wig, was constantly in a state of
negligence; and he never for a moment sat still or upright upon
a chair. Every look and movement displayed either intentional or
involuntary imitation. Yet certainly it was not meant as caricature;
for his heart, almost even to idolatory, was in his reverence of Dr.
Johnson.

Dr. Burney was often surprised that this kind of farcical similitude
escaped the notice of the Doctor; but attributed his missing it
to a high superiority over any such suspicion, as much as to his
near-sightedness; for fully was Dr. Burney persuaded, that had any
detection of such imitation taken place, Dr. Johnson, who generally
treated Mr. Boswell as a school boy, whom, without the smallest
ceremony, he pardoned or rebuked, alternately, would so indignantly
have been provoked, as to have instantaneously inflicted upon him some
mark of his displeasure. And equally he was persuaded that Mr. Boswell,
however shocked and even inflamed in receiving it, would soon, from his
deep veneration, have thought it justly incurred; and, after a day or
two of pouting and sullenness, would have compromised the matter by one
of his customary simple apologies, of “Pray, Sir, forgive me!”

Dr. Johnson, though often irritated by the officious importunity of
Mr. Boswell, was really touched by his attachment. It was indeed
surprising, and even affecting, to remark the pleasure with which
this great man accepted personal kindness, even from the simplest of
mankind; and the grave formality with which he acknowledged it even
to the meanest. Possibly it was what he most prized, because what he
could least command; for personal partiality hangs upon lighter and
slighter qualities than those which earn solid approbation; but of
this, if he had least command, he had also least want: his towering
superiority of intellect elevating him above all competitors, and
regularly establishing him, wherever he appeared, as the first Being of
the society.

As Mr. Boswell was at Streatham only upon a morning visit, a collation
was ordered, to which all were assembled. Mr. Boswell was preparing to
take a seat that he seemed, by prescription, to consider as his own,
next to Dr. Johnson; but Mr. Seward, who was present, waived his hand
for Mr. Boswell to move further on, saying, with a smile, “Mr. Boswell,
that seat is Miss Burney’s.”

He stared, amazed: the asserted claimant was new and unknown to him,
and he appeared by no means pleased to resign his prior rights.
But, after looking round for a minute or two, with an important
air of demanding the meaning of this innovation, and receiving no
satisfaction, he reluctantly, almost resentfully, got another chair;
and placed it at the back of the shoulder of Dr. Johnson; while this
new and unheard of rival quietly seated herself as if not hearing what
was passing; for she shrunk from the explanation that she feared might
ensue, as she saw a smile stealing over every countenance, that of Dr.
Johnson himself not excepted, at the discomfiture and surprise of Mr.
Boswell.

Mr. Boswell, however, was so situated as not to remark it in the
Doctor; and of every one else, when in that presence, he was
unobservant, if not contemptuous. In truth, when he met with Dr.
Johnson, he commonly forbore even answering anything that was said,
or attending to any thing that went forward, lest he should miss the
smallest sound from that voice to which he paid such exclusive, though
merited homage. But the moment that voice burst forth, the attention
which it excited in Mr. Boswell amounted almost to pain. His eyes
goggled with eagerness; he leant his ear almost on the shoulder of the
Doctor; and his mouth dropt open to catch every syllable that might
be uttered: nay, he seemed not only to dread losing a word, but to be
anxious not to miss a breathing; as if hoping from it, latently, or
mystically, some information.

But when, in a few minutes, Dr. Johnson, whose eye did not follow him,
and who had concluded him to be at the other end of the table, said
something gaily and good-humouredly, by the appellation of Bozzy;
and discovered, by the sound of the reply, that Bozzy had planted
himself, as closely as he could, behind and between the elbows of the
new usurper and his own, the Doctor turned angrily round upon him,
and, clapping his hand rather loudly upon his knee, said, in a tone of
displeasure, “What do you do there, Sir?—Go to the table, Sir!”

Mr. Boswell instantly, and with an air of affright, obeyed: and there
was something so unusual in such humble submission to so imperious a
command, that another smile gleamed its way across every mouth, except
that of the Doctor and of Mr. Boswell; who now, very unwillingly, took
a distant seat.

But, ever restless when not at the side of Dr. Johnson, he presently
recollected something that he wished to exhibit, and, hastily rising,
was running away in its search; when the Doctor, calling after him,
authoritatively said: “What are you thinking of, Sir? Why do you get up
before the cloth is removed?—Come back to your place, Sir!”

Again, and with equal obsequiousness, Mr. Boswell did as he was bid;
when the Doctor, pursing his lips, not to betray rising risibility,
muttered half to himself: “Running about in the middle of meals!—One
would take you for a Brangton!—”

“A Brangton, Sir?” repeated Mr. Boswell, with earnestness; “What is a
Brangton, Sir?”

“Where have you lived, Sir,” cried the Doctor, laughing, “and what
company have you kept, not to know that?”

Mr. Boswell now, doubly curious, yet always apprehensive of falling
into some disgrace with Dr. Johnson, said, in a low tone, which he
knew the Doctor could not hear, to Mrs. Thrale: “Pray, Ma’am, what’s a
Brangton?—Do me the favour to tell me?—Is it some animal hereabouts?”

Mrs. Thrale only heartily laughed, but without answering: as she saw
one of her guests uneasily fearful of an explanation. But Mr. Seward
cried, “I’ll tell you, Boswell,—I’ll tell you!—if you will walk with
me into the paddock: only let us wait till the table is cleared; or I
shall be taken for a Brangton, too!”

They soon went off together; and Mr. Boswell, no doubt, was fully
informed of the road that had led to the usurpation by which he had
thus been annoyed. But the Brangton fabricator took care to mount to
her chamber ere they returned; and did not come down till Mr. Boswell
was gone.




ANNA WILLIAMS.


Dr. Burney had no greater enjoyment of the little leisure he could tear
from his work and his profession, than that which he could dedicate
to Dr. Johnson; and he now, at the Doctor’s most earnest invitation,
carried this Memorialist to Bolt Court, to pay a visit to the blind
poetess, Anna Williams.

They were received by Dr. Johnson with a kindness that irradiated
his austere and studious features into the most pleased and pleasing
benignity. Such, indeed, was the gentleness, as well as warmth, of his
partiality for this father and daughter, that their sight seemed to
give him a new physiognomy.[35]

It was in the apartment—a parlour—dedicated to Mrs. Williams, that the
Doctor was in this ready attendance to play the part of the master of
the ceremonies, in presenting his new guest to his ancient friend and
ally. Anna Williams had been a favourite of his wife, in whose life-time
she had frequently resided under his roof. The merit of her poetical
talents, and the misfortune of her blindness, are generally known; to
these were now super-added sickness, age, and infirmity: yet such was
the spirit of her character, that to make a new acquaintance thus rather
singularly circumstanced, seemed to her almost an event of moment; and
she had incessantly solicited the Doctor to bring it to bear.

Her look, air, voice, and extended hands of reception, evinced the most
eager, though by no means obtrusive curiosity. Her manner, indeed,
shewed her to be innately a gentlewoman; and her conversation always
disclosed a cultivated as well as thinking mind.

Dr. Johnson never appeared to more advantage than in the presence of
this blind poetess; for the obligations under which he had placed
her, were such as he sincerely wished her to feel with the pleasure
of light, not the oppression of weighty gratitude. All his best
sentiments, therefore, were strenuously her advocates, to curb what was
irritable in his temper by the generosity of his principles; and by
the congeniality, in such points, of their sensibility.

His attentions to soften the burthen of her existence, from the
various bodily diseases that aggravated the evil of her loss of sight,
were anxious and unceasing; and there was no way more prominent to
his favour than that of seeking to give any solace, or shewing any
consideration to Anna Williams.

Anna, in return, honouring his virtues and abilities, grateful for
his goodness, and intimately aware of his peculiarities, made it the
pride of her life to receive every moment he could bestow upon her,
with cordial affection; and exactly at his own time and convenience;
to soothe him when he was disposed to lament with her the loss of his
wife; and to procure for him whatever was in her power of entertainment
or comfort.

This introduction was afterwards followed, through Dr. Johnson’s
zealous intervention, by sundry other visits from the Memorialist; and
though minor circumstances made her compliance rather embarrassing, it
could not have been right, and it would hardly have been possible, to
resist an entreaty of Dr. Johnson. And every fresh interview at his own
home showed the steady humanity of his assiduity to enliven his poor
blind companion; as well as to confer the most essential services upon
two other distressed inmates of his charitable house, Mrs. Desmoulins,
the indigent daughter of Dr. Swinfen, a physician who had been
godfather to Dr. Johnson; and Mr. Levet, a poor old ruined apothecary,
both of whom he housed and supported with the most exemplary Christian
goodness.




HISTORY OF MUSIC.


Dr. Burney was daily more enchanted at the kindness with which his
daughter was honoured by Dr. Johnson; but neither parental exaltation,
nor the smiles of fortune; nor the enticing fragrance of those flowery
paths which so often allure from vigorous labour to wasting repose, the
votary of rising fame; could even for a day, or scarcely for an hour,
draw the ardent and indefatigable musical historian to any voluntary
relaxation from his self-appointed task; to which he constantly devoted
every moment that he could snatch from the multitudinous calls upon his
over-charged time.




MR. GARRICK.


But the year that followed this still rising tide of pleasure and
prosperity to Dr. Burney, 1779, opened to him with the personal loss
of a friend whom the world might vainly, perhaps, be challenged to
replace, for agreeability, delight, and conviviality, Garrick!—the
inimitable David Garrick! who left behind him all previous eminence in
his profession beyond reach of comparison; save the Roscius of Rome,
to whose Ciceronian celebrity we owe the adoption of an appropriate
nomenclature, which at no period could have been found in our own
dominions:—Garrick, so long the darling and unrivalled favourite of
the public; who possessed resistlessly, where he chose to exert it, the
power of pleasing, winning, and exhilarating all around him:—Garrick,
who, in the words of Dr. Johnson, seemed “Formed to gladden life,” was
taken from his resplendent worldly fame, and admiring worldly friends,
by “that stroke of death,” says Dr. Johnson, “which eclipsed the gaiety
of nations, and impoverished the stock of harmless pleasure.”

He had already retired from the stage, and retired without waiting for
failing powers to urge, or precipitate his retreat; for still his
unequalled animal spirits, gaily baffling the assaults of age, had such
extraordinary exuberance as to supply and support both body and mind at
once; still clear, varying, and penetrating, was his voice; still full
of intelligence or satire, of disdain, of rage, or of delight, was the
fire, the radiance, the eloquence of his eye; still made up at will, of
energy or grace, of command or supplication, was his form, and were his
attitudes; his face alone—ah! “There was the rub!—” his face alone was
the martyr of time: or rather, his forehead and cheeks; for his eyes
and his countenance were still beaming with recent, though retiring
beauty.

But the wear and tear of his forehead and cheeks, which, as Dr. Johnson
had said, made sixty years in Garrick seem seventy, had rendered them
so wrinkled, from an unremitting play of expression, off as well as
on the stage, that, when he found neither paint nor candle-light,
nor dress nor decoration, could conceal those lines, or smooth those
furrows which were ploughing his complexion; he preferred to triumph,
even in foregoing his triumphs, by plunging, through voluntary impulse,
from the dazzling summit to which he had mounted, and heroically
pronouncing his Farewell!—amidst the universal cry, echoed and
re-echoing all around him, of “Stop, Garrick, stop!—yet a little
longer stop!”

A brief account of the last sight of this admired and much loved friend
is thus given in a manuscript memoir of Dr. Burney.

  “I called at his door, with anxious inquiries, two days before
  he expired, and was admitted to his chamber; but though I
  saw him, he did not seem to see me,—or any earthly thing!
  His countenance that had never remained a moment the same in
  conversation, now appeared as fixed and as inanimate as a
  block of marble; and he had already so far relinquished the
  world, as I was afterwards told by Mr. Wallace, his executor,
  that nothing that was said or done that used to interest him
  the most keenly, had any effect upon his muscles; or could
  extort either a word or a look from him for several days
  previously to his becoming a corpse.”

Dr. Burney, in the same carriage with Whitehead, the poet laureate,
the erudite Mr. Beauclerk, and Mr. Wallace, the executor, attended the
last remains of this celebrated public character to their honourable
interment in Westminster Abbey.

Long, and almost universally felt was this loss: to Dr. Burney it was
a deprivation of lasting regret. In his doggrel chronology he has left
the following warm testimony of his admiration.




  1779.


    “This year joy and sorrow alike put on sable
    For losses sustained by the stage and the table,
    For Garrick, the master of passion, retired,
    And Nature and Shakespeare together expired.
    Thalia’s as well as Melpomene’s magic,
    With him at once vanished both comic and tragic.
    Long, long will it be, now by Death he is slain,
    Before we shall see his true likeness again.
    Such dignified beauties he threw in each part,
    Such resources of humour, of passion, and art;—
    Hilarity missed him, each Muse dropped a tear,
    And Genius and Feeling attended his bier.”

         *       *       *       *       *




YOUNG CROTCH.


Just as this great dramatic genius was descending to the tomb, young
Crotch, a rising musical genius, was brought forward into the world
with so strong a promise of eminence, that a very general desire was
expressed, that Dr. Burney would examine, counsel, and countenance him;
and at only three years and a half old, the child was brought to St.
Martin’s-street by his mother.

The Doctor, ever ready to nourish incipient talents submitted to his
investigation, saw the child repeatedly; and was so forcibly struck
by his uncommon faculties, that upon communicating his remarks to the
famous Dr. Hunter, who had been foremost in desiring the examination,
Dr. Hunter thought them sufficiently curious to be presented to the
Royal Society; where they were extremely well received, and printed in
the Philosophical Transactions of the year 1779.

For some time after this, the Doctor was frequently called upon, by
the relations and admirers of this wonderful boy, for assistance and
advice; both which he cheerfully accorded to the best of his ability:
till the happy star of the young prodigy fixed him at the University of
Oxford, where he met with every aid, professional or personal, that his
genius claimed; and where, while his education was still in progress,
he was nominated, when only fourteen years of age, organist of Christ
Church.

This event he communicated to Dr. Burney in a modest and grateful
letter, that the Doctor received and preserved with sincere
satisfaction; and kindly answered with instructive professional counsel.

In his chronological lines, the Doctor says—

    “Little Crotch, a phenomenon, now first appeared,
     And each minstrel surprised, howe’er gray was his beard:
     To my learned associates who write F. R. S.
     Both the why and the wherefore I humbly address;
     And endeavour to shew them, without diminution,
     What truly is strange in this bard Lilliputian:
     What common, what wanting, to make him surpass
     The composers and players of every class.

         *       *       *       *       *




MR. THRALE.


The event next narrated in the Memoirs of Dr. Burney, proved deeply
affecting to the happiness and gaiety of his social circles; for now
a catastrophe, which for some time had seemed impending, and which,
though variously fluctuating, had often struck with terror, or damped
with sorrow, the liveliest spirits and gayest scenes of Streatham,
suddenly took place; and cut short for ever the honours and the peace
of that erst illustrious dwelling.

Mr. Thrale, for many years, in utter ignorance what its symptoms were
foreboding, had been harbouring, through an undermining indulgence
of immoderate sleep after meals, a propensity to paralysis. The
prognostics of distemper were then little observed but by men of
science; and those were rarely called in till something fatal was
apprehended. It is, probably, only since the time that medical and
surgical lectures have been published as well as delivered; and
simplified from technical difficulties, so as to meet and to enlighten
the unscientific intellect of the herd of mankind, that the world at
large seems to have learned the value of early attention to incipient
malady.

Even Dr. Johnson was so little aware of the insalubrity of Mr. Thrale’s
course of life, that, without interposing his powerful and never
disregarded exhortations, he often laughingly said, “Mr. Thrale will
out-sleep the seven sleepers!”

Strange it may seem, at this present so far more enlightened day upon
these subjects, that Dr. Johnson, at least, should not have been
alarmed at this lethargic tendency; as the art of medicine, which, for
all that belongs to this world, stands the highest in utility, was,
abstractedly, a study upon which he loved to ruminate, and a subject
he was addicted to discuss. But this instance of complete vacuity of
practical information upon diseases and remedies in Dr. Johnson, will
cease to give surprise, when it is known that, near the middle of his
life, and in the fullest force of his noble faculties, upon finding
himself assailed by a severe fit of the gout in his ancle, he sent
for a pail of cold water, into which he plunged his leg during the
worst of the paroxysm—a feat of intrepid ignorance—incongruous as
sounds the word ignorance in speaking of Dr. Johnson—that probably he
had cause to rue during his whole after-life; for the gout, of which
he chose to get rid in so succinct a manner—a feat in which he often
exulted—might have carried off many of the direful obstructions, and
asthmatic seizures and sufferings, of which his latter years were
wretchedly the martyrs.

Thus, most unfortunately, without representation, opposition, or
consciousness, Mr. Thrale went on in a self-destroying mode of conduct,
till,

  “Uncall’d—unheeded—unawares—”

he was struck with a fit of apoplexy.

Yet even this stroke, by the knowledge and experience of his medical
advisers,[36] might perhaps have been parried, had Mr. Thrale been
imbued with earlier reverence for the arts of recovery. But he slighted
them all; and fearless, or, rather, incredulous of danger, he attended
to no prescription. He simply essayed the waters of Tunbridge; and made
a long sojourn at Bath. All in vain! The last and fatal seizure was
inflicted at his own town house, in Grosvenor Square, in the spring of
1781: and at an instant when such a blow was so little expected, that
all London, amongst persons of fashion, talents, or celebrity, had been
invited to a splendid entertainment, meant for the night of that very
dawn which rose upon the sudden earthly extinction of the lamented and
respected chief of the mansion.




STREATHAM.


Changed now was Streatham! the value of its chief seemed first made
known by his loss; which was long felt; though not, perhaps, with the
immediate acuteness that would have been demonstrated, if, at that
period, the deprivation of the female chieftain had preceded that of
the male. Still Mr. Thrale, by every friend of his house and family;
and by every true adherent to his wife, her interest, her fame, and her
happiness, was day by day, and week by week, more and more missed and
regretted.

Dr. Burney was one of the first and most earnest to hasten to the
widowed lady, with the truest sympathy in her grief. His daughter, who,
for some previous months, had been wholly restored to the paternal
roof,—the Thrales themselves having been fixed, for the last winter
season, in Grosvenor Square,—flew, in trembling haste, the instant she
could be received, to the beloved friend who was now tenderly enchained
to her heart; and at this moment was doubly endeared by misfortune; and
voluntarily quitting all else, eagerly established herself at Streatham.

Dr. Johnson, who was one of Mr. Thrale’s executors, immediately resumed
his apartment; cordially and gratefully bestowing on the remaining
hostess every minute that she could desire or require of his time and
his services. And nothing could be wiser in counsel, more zealous in
good offices, or kinder of intention, than the whole of his conduct in
performing the duties that he deemed to devolve upon him by the will of
his late friend.

But Dr. Burney, as he could only upon his stated day and hour make one
in this retirement, devoted himself now almost exclusively to his




HISTORY OF MUSIC.


So many years had elapsed since the appearance of the first volume,
and the murmurs of the subscribers were so general for the publication
of the second, that the earnestness of the Doctor to fulfil his
engagement, became such as to sicken him of almost every occupation
that turned him from its pursuit. Yet uninterrupted attention grew more
than ever difficult; for as his leisure, through the double claims of
his profession and his work, diminished, his celebrity increased; and
the calls upon it, as usual, from the wayward taste of public fashion
for what is hard to obtain, were perpetual, were even clamorous; and he
had constantly a long list of petitioning parents, awaiting a vacant
hour, upon any terms that he could name, and at any part of the day.

He had always some early pupil who accepted his attendance at eight
o’clock in the morning; and a strong instance has been given of its
being seized upon even at seven;[37] and, during the height of the
season for fashionable London residence, his tour from house to house
was scarcely ever finished sooner than eleven o’clock at night.

But so urgent grew now the spirit of his diligence for the progress of
his work, that he not only declined all invitations to the hospitable
boards of his friends, he even resisted the social hour of repast at
his own table; and took his solitary meal in his coach, while passing
from scholar to scholar; for which purpose he had sandwiches prepared
in a flat tin box; and wine and water ready mixed, in a wickered pint
bottle, put constantly into the pockets of his carriage.

If, at this period, Dr. Burney had been as intent and as skilful in the
arrangement and the augmentation of his income, as he was industrious
to procure, and assiduous to merit, its increase, he might have retired
from business, its toils and its cares, while yet in the meridian of
life; with a comfortable competence for its decline, and adequate
portions for his daughters. With regard to his sons, it was always his
intention to bestow upon them good educations, and to bring them up to
honourable professions; and then to leave them to form, as he had done
himself, a dynasty of their own. But, unfortunately for all parties,
he had as little turn as time for that species of speculation which
leads to financial prosperity; and he lived chiefly upon the principal
of the sums which he amassed; and which he merely, as soon as they were
received, locked up in his bureau for facility of usage; or stored
largely at his bankers as an asylum of safety: while the cash which he
laid out in any sort of interest, was so little, as to make his current
revenue almost incredibly below what might have been expected from the
remuneration of his labours; or what seemed due to his situation in the
world.

But, with all his honourable toil, his philosophic privations, and his
heroic self-denials,

  THE SECOND VOLUME OF THE HISTORY OF MUSIC,

from a continually enlarging view of its capability of improvement, did
not see the light till the year 1782.

Then, however, it was received with the same favour and the same
honours that had graced the entrance into public notice of its
predecessor. The literary world seemed filled with its praise;
the booksellers demanded ample impressions; and her Majesty Queen
Charlotte, with even augmented graciousness, accepted its homage at
court.

       *       *       *       *       *

Relieved, by this publication, from a weight upon his spirits and his
delicacy, which, for more than six years had burthened and disturbed
them, he prudently resolved against working any longer under the
self-reproachful annoyance of a promised punctuality which his position
in life disabled him from observing, by fettering himself with any
further tie of time to his subscribers for the remaining volumes.

He renounced, therefore, the excess of studious labour with which,
hitherto,

                his toil
  O’er books consum’d the midnight oil;

and restored himself, in a certain degree, to his family, his friends,
and a general and genial enjoyment of his existence. And hailed was the
design, by all who knew him, with an energetic welcome.

And yet, in breathing thus a little from so unremitting an ardour;
and allowing himself to bask awhile in that healing sunshine of
applause which administers more relief to the brain-shattered,
and mind-exhausted patient, than all the _materia medica_ of the
Apothecaries’ Hall; so small still, and so fugitive, were his intervals
of relaxation, that the diminished exertion which to him was gentle
rest, would, to almost any other, have still seemed overstrained
occupation, and a life of drudgery.

With no small pleasure, now, he resumed his wonted place at the opera,
at concerts, and in circles of musical excellence; which then were at
their height of superiority, because presided over by the royal and
accomplished legislator of taste, fashion, and elegance, the Prince
of Wales;[38] who frequently deigned to call upon Dr. Burney for his
opinion upon subjects of harmony: and even condescended to summon him
to his royal vicinity, both at the opera and at concerts, that they
might “compare notes,” in his own gracious expression, upon what was
performing.

Not, however, to his daughter did the Doctor recommend any similar
remission of penmanship. The extraordinary favour with which her little
work had been received in the world; and which may chiefly, perhaps,
be attributed to the unpretending and unexpecting mode in which, not
skilfully, but involuntarily, it had glided into public life; being now
sanctioned by the _eclât_ of encouragement from Dr. Johnson and from
Mr. Burke, gave a zest to his paternal pleasure and hopes, that made
it impossible, nay, that even led him to think it would be unfatherly,
to listen to her affrighted wishes of retreat, from her fearful
apprehensions of some reverse; or suffer her to shrink back to her
original obscurity, from the light into which she had been surprised.

And, indeed, though he made the kindest allowance for her tremors and
reluctance, he was urged so tumultuously by others, that it was hardly
possible for him to be passive: and Mr. Crisp, whose voice, in whatever
was submitted to his judgment, had the effect of a casting vote, called
out aloud: “More! More! More!—another production!”

The wishes of two such personages were, of course, resistless; and
a new mental speculation, which already, though secretly, had taken
a rambling possession of her ideas, upon the evils annexed to that
species of family pride which, from generation to generation, seeks, by
mortal wills, to arrest the changeful range of succession enacted by
the immutable laws of death, became the basis of a composition which
she denominated Memoirs of an Heiress.[39]

No sooner was her consent obtained, than Dr. Burney, who had long with
regret, though with pride, perceived that, at Streatham, she had no
time that was her own, earnestly called her thence.

He called, however, in vain, from the acuter, though fonder cry of Mrs.
Thrale for her detention; and, kind and flexible, he was yielding up
his demand, when Mr. Crisp, emphatically exclaiming:

  “There is a tide in the affairs of men”— — —

“and—” comically adding—“and of girls, too!” charged him not to risk
that turn for his daughter, through a false delicacy from which, should
she become its victim, he would have the laugh against,—and nothing
for him.

The Doctor then frankly revealed to Mrs. Thrale, the tide-fearing alarm
of Mr. Crisp.

Startled, she heard him. Unwelcome was the sound to her affection,
to her affliction—and, it may be, to her already growing
perplexities!—but justice and kindness united to forbid any
conflict:—though struck was the Doctor, and still more struck was the
Memorialist, by the miserable “Adieu!” which she uttered at parting.

Mr. Crisp himself hastened in person to Streatham, to convey his
young friend alike from that now monopolizing seclusion, and from
her endlessly increasing expansion of visits and acquaintance in
London;—all which he vehemently denounced as flattering idleness,—to
the quiet and exclusive possession of what he had denominated The
Doctor’s Conjuring Closet, at Chesington.

And there, with that paternal and excellent friend, and his worthy
associates, Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Cooke, in lively sociality, gay
good-humour, and unbounded confidence, she consigned some months to
what he called her new conjuring. And there she proposed to remain
till her work should be finished: but, ere that time arrived, and ere
she could read any part of it with Mr. Crisp, a tender call from home
brought her to the parental roof, to be present at the marriage of a
darling sister:[40] after which, the Doctor kept her stationary in St.
Martin’s-street, till she had written the word Finis, which ushered her
“Heiress” into the world.




MR. BURKE.


The time is now come for commemorating the connection which, next alone
to that of Dr. Johnson, stands highest in the literary honours of Dr.
Burney, namely, that which he formed with Edmund Burke.

Their first meetings had been merely accidental and public, and wholly
unaccompanied by any private intimacy or intercourse; though, from
the time that the author of Evelina had been discovered, there had
passed between them, on such occasional junctions, what Dr. Burney
playfully called _an amiable coquetry_ of smiles, and other symbols,
that showed each to be thinking of the same thing: for Mr. Burke, with
that generous energy which, when he escaped the feuds of party, was
the distinction of his character, and made the charm of his oratory,
had blazed around his approbation of that happy little work, from the
moment that it had fallen, incidentally, into his hands: and when
he heard that the author, from her acquaintance with the lovely and
accomplished nieces of Sir Joshua Reynolds, was a visitor at the house
of that English Raphael, he flatteringly desired of the Knight an
appointed interview.

But from that, though enchanted as much as astonished at such
a proposal from Mr. Burke, she fearfully, and with conscious
insufficiency, hung back; hoping to owe to chance a less ostentatious
meeting.

Various parties, during two or three years, had been planned, but
proved abortive; when in June, 1782, Sir Joshua Reynolds invited Dr.
Burney and the Memorialist to a dinner upon Richmond Hill, to meet the
Bishop of St. Asaph, Miss Shipley, and some others.

This was gladly accepted by the Doctor; who now, upon his new system,
was writing more at his ease; and by his daughter, who was still
detained from Streatham, as her second work, though finished, was yet
in the press.

Sir Joshua, and his eldest niece,[41] accompanied by Lord Cork, called
for them in St. Martin’s-street; and the drive was as lively, from
the discourse within the carriage, as it was pleasant from the views
without.

Here the editor, as no traits of Mr. Burke in conversation can be
wholly uninteresting to an English reader, will venture to copy an
account of this meeting, which was written while it was yet new, and
consequently warm in her memory, as an offering to her second father,

  SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.

  _Chesington._

       *       *       *       *       *

“My dear Mr. Crisp.

“At the Knight of Plympton’s house, on Richmond Hill, next to the Star
and Garter, we were met by the Bishop of St. Asaph, who stands as high
in general esteem for agreeability as for worth and learning; and by
his accomplished and spirited daughter, Miss Shipley. My father was
already acquainted with both; and to both I was introduced by Miss
Palmer.

“No other company was mentioned; but some smiling whispers passed
between Sir Joshua, Miss Palmer, and my father, that awakened in me a
notion that the party was not yet complete; and with that notion an
idea that Mr. Burke might be the awaited chief of the assemblage; for as
they knew I had long had as much eagerness to see Mr. Burke as I had
fears of meeting his expectations, I thought they might forbear naming
him to save me a fit of fright.

“Sir Joshua who, though full of kindness, dearly loves a little
innocent malice, drew me soon afterwards to a window, to look at the
beautiful prospect below; the soft meandering of the Thames, and the
brightly picturesque situation of the elegant white house which Horace
Walpole had made the habitation of Lady Diana Beauclerk and her fair
progeny; in order to gather, as he afterwards laughingly acknowledged,
my sentiments of the view, that he might compare them with those of Mr.
Burke on the same scene! However, I escaped, luckily, falling, through
ignorance, into such a competition, by the entrance of a large, though
unannounced party, in a mass. For as this was only a visit of a day,
there were very few servants; and those few, I suppose, were preparing
the dinner apartment; for this group appeared to have found its own way
up to the drawing-room, with an easiness as well suited to its humour,
by the gay air of its approach, as to that of Sir Joshua; who holds
ceremony almost in horror, and who received them without any form or
apology.

“He quitted me, however, to go forward, and greet with distinction a
lady who was in the set. They were all familiarly recognized by the
Bishop and Miss Shipley, as well as by Miss Palmer; and some of them by
my father, whose own face wore an expression, of pleasure, that helped
to fix a conjecture in my mind that one amongst them, whom I peculiarly
signalised, tall, and of fine deportment, with an air at once of
Courtesy and Command, might be Edmund Burke.

“Excited as I felt by this idea, I continued at my picturesque window,
as all the company were strangers to me, till Miss Palmer gave her
hand to the tall, suspected, but unknown personage, saying, in a half
whisper, “Have I kept my promise at last?” and then, but in a lower
tone still, and pointing to the window, she pronounced “Miss Burney.”

As this seemed intended for private information, previously to an
introduction, be the person whom he might, though accidentally it
was overheard, I instantly bent my head out of the window, as if not
attending to them: yet I caught, unavoidably, the answer, which was
uttered in a voice the most emphatic, though low, “Why did you tell me
it was Miss Burney? Did you think I should not have known it?”

“An awkward feel, now, from having still no certainty of my surmise, or
of what it might produce, made me seize a spying glass, and set about
re-examining the prospect; till a pat on the arm, soon after, by Miss
Palmer, turned me round to the company, just as the still unknown, to
my great regret, was going out of the room with a footman, who seemed
to call him away upon some sudden summons of business. But my father,
who was at Miss Palmer’s elbow, said, “Fanny—Mr. Gibbon!”

This, too, was a great name; but of how different a figure and
presentation! Fat and ill-constructed, Mr. Gibbon has cheeks of such
prodigious chubbyness, that they envelope his nose so completely, as to
render it, in profile, absolutely invisible. His look and manner are
placidly mild, but rather effeminate; his voice,—for he was speaking
to Sir Joshua at a little distance—is gentle, but of studied precision
of accent. Yet, with these Brobdignatious cheeks, his neat little feet
are of a miniature description; and with these, as soon as I turned
round, he hastily described a quaint sort of circle, with small quick
steps, and a dapper gait, as if to mark the alacrity of his approach,
and then, stopping short when full face to me, he made so singularly
profound a bow, that—though hardly able to keep my gravity—I felt
myself blush deeply at its undue, but palpably intended obsequiousness.

This demonstration, however, over, his sense of politeness, or project
of flattery, was satisfied; for he spoke not a word, though his gallant
advance seemed to indicate a design of bestowing upon me a little
rhetorical touch of a compliment. But, as all eyes in the room were
suddenly cast upon us both, it is possible he partook a little himself
of the embarrassment he could not but see that he occasioned; and was
therefore unwilling, or unprepared, to hold forth so publicly upon—he
scarcely, perhaps, knew what!—for, unless my partial Sir Joshua should
just then have poured it into his ears, how little is it likely Mr.
Gibbon should have heard of Evelina!

But at this moment, to my great relief, the Unknown again appeared; and
with a spirit, an air, a deportment that seemed to spread around him
the glow of pleasure with which he himself was visibly exhilarated. But
speech was there none; for dinner, which I suppose had awaited him, was
at the same instant proclaimed; and all the company, in a mixed, quite
irregular, and even confused manner, descended, _sans ceremonie_, to
the eating parlour.

The Unknown, however, catching the arm and the trumpet of Sir Joshua,
as they were coming down stairs, murmured something, in a rather
reproachful tone, in the knight’s ear; to which Sir Joshua made no
audible answer. But when he had placed himself at his table, he
called out, smilingly, “Come, Miss Burney!—will you take a seat
next mine?”—adding, as if to reward my very alert compliance, “and
then—Mr. Burke shall sit on your other side.”

“O no, indeed!” cried the sprightly Miss Shipley, who was also next to
Sir Joshua, “I sha’n’t agree to that! Mr. Burke must sit next me! I
won’t consent to part with him. So pray come, and sit down quiet, Mr.
Burke.”

Mr. Burke—for Mr. Burke, Edmund Burke, it was!—smiled, and obeyed.

“I only proposed it to make my peace with Mr. Burke,” said Sir Joshua,
passively, “by giving him that place; for he has been scolding me all
the way down stairs for not having introduced him to Miss Burney;
however, I must do it now—Mr. Burke!—Miss Burney!”

We both half rose, to reciprocate a little salutation; and Mr. Burke
said: “I have been complaining to Sir Joshua that he left me wholly to
my own sagacity,—which, however, did not here deceive me!”

Delightedly as my dear father, who had never before seen Mr. Burke in
private society, enjoyed this encounter, I, my dear Mr. Crisp, had a
delight in it that transcended all comparison. No expectation that
I had formed of Mr. Burke, either from his works, his speeches, his
character, or his fame, had anticipated to me such a man as I now
met. He appeared, perhaps, at this moment, to the highest possible
advantage in health, vivacity, and spirits. Removed from the impetuous
aggravations of party contentions, that, at times, by inflaming his
passions, seem, momentarily at least, to disorder his character, he
was lulled into gentleness by the grateful feelings of prosperity;
exhilarated, but not intoxicated, by sudden success; and just risen,
after toiling years of failures, disappointments, fire, and fury, to
place, affluence, and honours; which were brightly smiling on the
zenith of his powers. He looked, indeed, as if he had no wish but to
diffuse philanthropy, pleasure, and genial gaiety all around.

His figure, when he is not negligent in his carriage, is noble; his
air, commanding; his address, graceful; his voice clear, penetrating,
sonorous, and powerful; his language, copious, eloquent, and
changefully impressive; his manners are attractive; his conversation is
past all praise!

You will call me mad, I know;—but if I wait till I see another Mr.
Burke for such another fit of ecstacy—I may be long enough in my very
sober good senses!

Sir Joshua next made Mrs. Burke greet the new comer into this select
circle; which she did with marked distinction. She appears to be
pleasing and sensible, but silent and reserved.

Sir Joshua then went through the same introductory etiquette with Mr.
Richard Burke, the brother; Mr. William Burke, the cousin; and young
Burke, the son of THE Burke. They all, in different ways, seem lively
and agreeable; but at miles, and myriads of miles, from the towering
chief.

How proud should I be to give you a sample of the conversation of Mr.
Burke! But the subjects were, in general, so fleeting, his ideas so
full of variety, of gaiety, and of matter; and he darted from one of
them to another with such rapidity, that the manner, the eye, the air
with which all was pronounced, ought to be separately delineated to do
any justice to the effect that every sentence, nay, that every word
produced upon his admiring hearers and beholders.

Mad again! says my Mr. Crisp; stark, staring mad!

Well, all the better; for “There is a pleasure in being mad,” as I have
heard you quote from Nat Lee, or some other old play-wright, “that none
but madmen know.”

I must not, however, fail to particularize one point of his discourse,
because ’tis upon your own favourite hobby, politics: and my father
very much admired its candour and frankness.

In speaking of the great Lord Chatham while he was yet Mr. Pitt, Mr.
Burke confessed his Lordship to have been the only person whom he, Mr.
Burke, did not name in parliament without caution. But Lord Chatham,
he said, had obtained so preponderating a height of public favour,
that though, occasionally, he could not concur in its enthusiasm, he
would not attempt to oppose its cry. He then, however, positively, nay
solemnly, protested, that this was the only subject upon which he did
not talk with exactly the same openness and sincerity in the house as
at the table.

He bestowed the most liberal praise upon Lord Chatham’s second son, the
_now_ young William Pitt, with whom he is acting; and who had not only,
he said, the most truly extraordinary talents, but who appeared to be
immediately gifted by nature with the judgment which others acquire by
experience.

“Though judgment,” he presently added, “is not so rare in youth as is
generally supposed. I have commonly observed, that those who do not
possess it early are apt to miss it late.”

But the subject on which he most enlarged, and most brightened, was
Cardinal Ximenes, which was brought forward, accidentally, by Miss
Shipley.

That young lady, with the pleasure of youthful exultation in a literary
honour, proclaimed that she had just received a letter from the famous
Doctor Franklin.

Mr. Burke then, to Miss Shipley’s great delight, burst forth into
an eulogy of the abilities and character of Dr. Franklin, which he
mingled with a history the most striking, yet simple, of his life; and
a veneration the most profound for his eminence in science, and his
liberal sentiments and skill in politics.

This led him, imperceptibly, to a dissertation upon the beauty, but
rarity, of great minds sustaining great powers to great old age;
illustrating his remarks by historical proofs, and biographical
anecdotes of antique worthies;—till he came to Cardinal Ximenes, who
lived to his ninetieth year. And here he made a pause. He could go, he
said, no further. Perfection rested there!

His pause, however, producing only a general silence, that indicated no
wish of speech but from himself, he suddenly burst forth again into an
oration so glowing, so flowing, so noble, so divinely eloquent, upon
the life, conduct, and endowments of this Cardinal, that I felt as if I
had never before known what it was to listen! I saw Mr. Burke, and Mr.
Burke only! Nothing, no one else was visible any more than audible. I
seemed suddenly organized into a new intellectual existence, that was
wholly engrossed by one single use of the senses of seeing and hearing,
to the total exclusion of every object but of the figure of Mr. Burke;
and of every sound but of that of his voice. All else—my dear father
alone excepted—appeared but amalgamations of the chairs on which they
were seated; and seemed placed round the table merely as furniture.

I cannot pretend to write you such a speech—but such sentences as I
can recollect with exactitude, I cannot let pass.

The Cardinal, he said, gave counsel and admonition to princes and
sovereigns with the calm courage and dauntless authority with which he
might have given them to his own children: yet, to such noble courage,
he joined a humility still more magnanimous, in never desiring to
disprove, or to disguise his own lowly origin; but confessing, at
times, with openness and simplicity, his surprise at the height of the
mountain to which, from so deep a valley, he had ascended. And, in the
midst of all his greatness, he personally visited the village in which
he was born, where he touchingly recognised what remained of his kith
and kin.

Next, he descanted upon the erudition of this exemplary prelate; his
scarce collection of bibles; his unequalled mass of rare manuscripts;
his charitable institutions; his learned seminaries; and his stupendous
University at Alcala. “Yet so untinged,” he continued, “was his
scholastic lore with the bigotry of the times; and so untainted with
its despotism, that, even in his most forcible acts for securing the
press from licentiousness, he had the enlargement of mind to permit
the merely ignorant, or merely needy instruments of its abuse,
when detected in promulgating profane works, from being involved
in their destruction; for though, on such occasions, he caused the
culprits’ shops, or warehouses, to be strictly searched, he let
previous notice of his orders be given to the owners, who then privily
executed judgment themselves upon the peccant property; while they
preserved what was sane, as well as their personal liberty: but—if
the misdemeanour were committed a second time, he manfully left the
offenders, unaided and unpitied, to its forfeiture.

“To a vigour,” Mr. Burke went on, “that seemed never to calculate upon
danger, he joined a prudence that seemed never to run a risk. Though
often the object of aspersion—as who, conspicuous in the political
world, is not?—he always refused to prosecute; he would not even
answer his calumniators. He held that all classes had a right to stand
for something in public life! “We,” he said, “who are at the head,
Act;—in God’s name let those who are at the other end, Talk! If we are
Wrong, ’tis our duty to hearken, and to mend! If we are Right, we may
be content enough with our superiority, to teach unprovoked malice its
impotence, by leaving it to its own fester.”

“So elevated, indeed,” Mr. Burke continued, “was his disdain of
detraction, that instead of suffering it to blight his tranquillity, he
taught it to become the spur to his virtues!”

Mr. Burke again paused; paused as if overcome by the warmth of his
own emotion of admiration; and presently he gravely protested, that
the multifarious perfections of Cardinal Ximenes were beyond human
delineation.

Soon, however, afterwards, as if fearing he had become too serious,
he rose to help himself to some distant fruit—for all this had
passed during the dessert; and then, while standing in the noblest
attitude, and with a sudden smile full of radiant ideas, he vivaciously
exclaimed, “No imagination—not even the imagination of Miss
Burney!—could have invented a character so extraordinary as that of
Cardinal Ximenes; no pen—not even the pen of Miss Burney!—could have
described it adequately!”

Think of me, my dear Mr. Crisp, at a climax so unexpected! my eyes, at
the moment, being openly rivetted upon him; my head bent forward with
excess of eagerness; my attention exclusively his own!—but now, by
this sudden turn, I myself became the universally absorbing object! for
instantaneously, I felt every eye upon my face; and my cheeks tingled
as if they were the heated focus of stares that almost burnt them alive!

And yet, you will laugh when I tell you, that though thus struck I
had not time to be disconcerted. The whole was momentary; ’twas like
a flash of lightning in the evening, which makes every object of a
dazzling brightness for a quarter of an instant, and then leaves all
again to twilight obscurity.

Mr. Burke, by his delicacy, as much as by his kindness, reminding me
of my opening encouragement from Dr. Johnson, looked now everywhere
rather than at me; as if he had made the allusion by mere chance; and
flew from it with a velocity that quickly drew back again to himself
the eyes which he had transitorily employed to see how his superb
compliment was taken: though not before I had caught from my kind Sir
Joshua, a look of congratulatory sportiveness, conveyed by a comic nod.

My dear Mr. Crisp will be the last to want to be told that I received
this speech as the mere effervescence of chivalrous gallantry in Mr.
Burke:—yet, to be its object, even in pleasantry,—O, my dear Mr.
Crisp, how could I have foreseen such a distinction? My dear father’s
eyes glistened—I wish you could have had a glimpse of him!

“There has been,” Mr. Burke then, smilingly, resumed, “an age for all
excellence; we have had an age for statesmen; an age for heroes; an age
for poets; an age for artists;—but This,” bowing down, with an air of
obsequious gallantry, his head almost upon the table cloth, “This is
the age for women!”

“A very happy modern improvement!” cried Sir Joshua, laughing; “don’t
you think so, Miss Burney?—but that’s not a fair question to put to
you; so we won’t make a point of your answering it. However,” continued
the dear natural knight, “what Mr. Burke says is very true, now. The
women begin to make a figure in every thing. Though I remember, when I
first came into the world, it was thought but a poor compliment to say
a person did a thing like a lady!”

“Ay, Sir Joshua,” cried my father, “but, like Moliere’s physician,
_nous avons changé tout cela!_”

“Very true, Dr. Burney,” replied the Knight; “but I remember the
time—and so, I dare say, do you—when it was thought a slight, if not
a sneer, to speak any thing of a lady’s performance: it was only in
mockery to talk of painting like a lady; singing like a lady; playing
like a lady—”

“But now,” interrupted Mr. Burke, warmly, “to talk of writing like a
lady, is the greatest compliment that need be wished for by a man!”

Would you believe it, my daddy—every body now, himself and my father
excepted, turned about, Sir Joshua leading the way—to make a little
playful bow to ... can you ever guess to whom?

Mr. Burke, then, archly shrugging his shoulders, added, “What is left
now, exclusively, for US; and what we are to devise in our own defence,
I know not! We seem to have nothing for it but assuming a sovereign
contempt! for the next most dignified thing to possessing merit, is an
heroic barbarism in despising it!”

I can recollect nothing else—so adieu!

One word, however, more, by way of my last speech and confession on
this subject. Should you demand, now that I have seen, in their own
social circles, the two first men of letters of our day, how, in one
word, I should discriminate them; I answer, that I think Dr. Johnson
the first Discourser, and Mr. Burke the first Converser, of the
British empire.




MR. GIBBON.


It may seem strange, in giving an account of this meeting, not to have
recited even one speech from so celebrated an author as Mr. Gibbon. But
not one is recollected. His countenance looked always serene; yet he
did not appear to be at his ease. His name and future fame seemed to
be more in his thoughts than the present society, or than any present
enjoyment: and the exalted spirits of Mr. Burke, at this period, might
rather alarm than allure a man whose sole care in existence seemed
that of paying his court to posterity; and induce him, therefore, to
evade coming into collision with so dauntless a compeer; from the sage
apprehension of making a less splendid figure, at this moment, as a
colloquial competitor, than he had reason to expect making, hereafter,
as a Roman historian.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, however, gave, sportively, and with much
self-amusement, another turn to his silence; for after significantly,
in a whisper, asking the Memorialist, whether she had remarked the
taciturnity of Mr. Gibbon?—he laughingly demanded also, whether she
had discovered its cause?

“No,” she answered; “nor guessed it.”

“Why, he’s terribly afraid you’ll snatch at him for a character in your
next book!”

       *       *       *       *       *


It may easily be imagined that the few words, but highly distinguishing
manner in which Mr. Burke had so courteously marked his kindness
towards _Evelina; or, A Young Lady’s Entrance into the World_, awakened
in the mind of Dr. Burney no small impatience to develop what might be
his opinion of _Cecilia; or, the Memoirs of an Heiress_, just then on
the eve of publication.

And not long was his parental anxiety kept in suspense. That generous
orator had no sooner given an eager perusal to the work, than he
condescended to write a letter of the most indulgent, nay eloquent
approvance to its highly honoured author; for whom he vivaciously
displayed a flattering partiality, to which he inviolably adhered
through every change, either in his own affairs, or in hers, to the end
of his life.

       *       *       *       *       *

All the manuscript memorandums that remain of the year 1782, in the
hand-writing of Dr. Burney, are teeming with kind exultation at the
progress of this second publication; though the anecdote that most
amused him, and that he wrote triumphantly to the author, was one
that had been recounted to him personally at Buxton, whence the then
Lord Chancellor, Thurlow, went on a visit to Lord Gower,[42] at
Trentham Hall; where, on being conducted to a splendid library, he
took a volume of Cecilia out of his pocket, exclaiming, “What signify
all your fine and flourishing works here? See! I have brought you a
little book that’s worth them all!” and he threw it upon the table,
open, comically, at the passage where Hobson talks of “_my Lord High
Chancellor, and the like of that_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

From the time of the Richmond Hill assemblage, the acquaintance of Dr.
Burney with Mr. Burke ripened into a regard that was soon mellowed
into true and genial friendship, such as well suited the primitive
characters, however it might clash, occasionally, with the current
politics, of both.

Influenced by such a chief, the whole of the family of Mr. Burke
followed his example; and the son, brother, and cousin, always joined
the Doctor and his daughter upon every accidental opportunity: while
Mrs. Burke called in St. Martin’s-street to fix the acquaintance, by
a pressing invitation to both father and daughter, to pass a week at
Beaconsfield.

Not to have done this at so favourable a juncture in the spirits, the
powers, and the happiness of Mr. Burke, always rested on both their
minds with considerable regret; and on one of them it rests still!
for an hour with Mr. Burke, in that bright halcyon season of his
glory, concentrated in matter, and embellished in manner, as much wit,
wisdom, and information, as might have demanded weeks, months,—perhaps
more—to elicit from any other person:—and even, perhaps, at any other
period, from himself:—Dr. Johnson always excepted.

But the engagements of Dr. Burney tied him to the capital; and no
suspicion occurred that the same resplendent sunshine which then
illuminated the fortune, the faculties, and the character of Mr. Burke,
would not equally vivify a future invitation. Not one foreboding
cloud lowered in the air with misty menace of the deadly tempests,
public and domestic, that were hurtling over the head of that exalted
but passion-swayed orator; though such were so soon to darken the
refulgence, now so vivid, of his felicity and his fame; the public, by
warping his judgment—the domestic, by breaking his heart!

       *       *       *       *       *




MRS. THRALE.


Dr. Burney, when the Cecilian business was arranged, again conveyed
the Memorialist to Streatham. No further reluctance on his part, nor
exhortations on that of Mr. Crisp, sought to withdraw her from that
spot, where, while it was in its glory, they had so recently, and with
pride, seen her distinguished. And truly eager was her own haste, when
mistress of her time, to try once more to soothe those sorrows and
chagrins in which she had most largely participated, by answering to
the call, which had never ceased tenderly to pursue her, of return.

With alacrity, therefore, though not with gaiety, they re-entered the
Streatham gates—but they soon perceived that they found not what they
had left!

Changed, indeed, was Streatham! Gone its chief, and changed his
relict! unaccountably, incomprehensibly, indefinably changed! She was
absent and agitated; not two minutes could she remain in a place; she
scarcely seemed to know whom she saw; her speech was so hurried it was
hardly intelligible; her eyes were assiduously averted from those who
sought them; and her smiles were faint and forced.

The Doctor, who had no opportunity to communicate his remarks, went
back, as usual, to town; where soon also, with his tendency, as usual,
to view every thing cheerfully, he revolved in his mind the new cares
and avocations by which Mrs. Thrale was perplexed; and persuaded
himself that the alteration which had struck him, was simply the effect
of her new position.

Too near, however, were the observations of the Memorialist for so easy
a solution. The change in her friend was equally dark and melancholy:
yet not personal to the Memorialist was any alteration. No affection
there was lessened; no kindness cooled; on the contrary, Mrs. Thrale
was more fervent in both; more touchingly tender; and softened in
disposition beyond all expression, all description: but in every
thing else,—in health, spirits, comfort, general looks, and manner,
the change was at once universal and deplorable. All was misery and
mystery: misery the most restless; mystery the most unfathomable.

The mystery, however, soon ceased; the solicitations of the most
affectionate sympathy could not long be urged in vain;—the mystery
passed away—not so the misery! That, when revealed, was but to both
parties doubled, from the different feelings set in movement by its
disclosure.

The astonishing history of the enigmatical attachment which impelled
Mrs. Thrale to her second marriage, is now as well known as her name:
but its details belong not to the history of Dr. Burney; though the
fact too deeply interested him, and was too intimately felt in his
social habits, to be passed over in silence in any memoirs of his life.

But while ignorant yet of its cause, more and more struck he became
at every meeting, by a species of general alienation which pervaded
all around at Streatham. His visits, which, heretofore, had seemed
galas to Mrs. Thrale, were now begun and ended almost without notice:
and all others,—Dr. Johnson not excepted,—were cast into the same
gulph of general neglect, or forgetfulness;—all,—save singly this
Memorialist!—to whom, the fatal secret once acknowledged, Mrs. Thrale
clung for comfort; though she saw, and generously pardoned, how wide
she was from meeting approbation.

In this retired, though far from tranquil manner, passed many months;
during which, with the acquiescent consent of the Doctor, his daughter,
wholly devoted to her unhappy friend, remained uninterruptedly at
sad and altered Streatham; sedulously avoiding, what at other times
she most wished, a _tête à tête_ with her father. Bound by ties
indissoluble of honour not to betray a trust that, in the ignorance of
her pity, she had herself unwittingly sought, even to him she was as
immutably silent, on this subject, as to all others—save, singly, to
the eldest daughter[43] of the house; whose conduct, through scenes
of dreadful difficulty, notwithstanding her extreme youth, was even
exemplary; and to whom the self-beguiled, yet generous mother, gave
full and free permission to confide every thought and feeling to the
Memorialist.

And here let a tribute of friendship be offered up to the shrine of
remembrance, due from a thousand ineffaceably tender recollections.
Not wildly, and with male and headstrong passions, as has currently
been asserted, was this connexion brought to bear on the part of Mrs.
Thrale. It was struggled against at times with even agonizing energy;
and with efforts so vehement, as nearly to destroy the poor machine they
were exerted to save. But the subtle poison had glided into her veins
so unsuspectedly, and, at first, so unopposedly, that the whole fabric
was infected with its venom; which seemed to become a part, never to be
dislodged, of its system.

It was, indeed, the positive opinion of her physician and friend, Sir
Lucas Pepys, that so excited were her feelings, and so shattered, by
their early indulgence, was her frame, that the crisis which might be
produced through the medium of decided resistance, offered no other
alternative but death or madness!

       *       *       *       *       *

Various incidental circumstances began, at length, to open the
reluctant eyes of Dr. Burney to an impelled, though clouded foresight,
of the portentous event which might latently be the cause of the
alteration of all around at Streatham. He then naturally wished for
some explanation with his daughter, though he never forced, or even
claimed her confidence; well knowing, that voluntarily to give it him
had been her earliest delight.

But in taking her home with him one morning, to pass a day in St.
Martin’s-Street, he almost involuntarily, in driving from the paddock,
turned back his head towards the house, and, in a tone the most
impressive, sighed out: “Adieu, Streatham!—Adieu!”

His daughter perceived his eyes were glistening; though he presently
dropt them, and bowed down his head, as if not to distress her by any
look of examination; and said no more.

Her tears, which had long been with difficulty restrained from
overflowing in his presence, through grief at the unhappiness, and
even more at what she thought the infatuation of her friend, now burst
forth, from emotions that surprised away forbearance.

Dr. Burney sat silent and quiet, to give her time for recollection;
though fully expecting a trusting communication.

She gave, however, none: his commands alone could have forced a
disclosure; but he soon felt convinced, by her taciturnity, that
she must have been bound to concealment. He pitied, therefore, but
respected her secrecy; and, clearing his brow, finished the little
journey in conversing upon their own affairs.

This delicacy of kindness, which the Memorialist cannot recollect and
not record, filled her with ever living gratitude.

       *       *       *       *       *




DR. JOHNSON.


A few weeks earlier, the Memorialist had passed a nearly similar scene
with Dr. Johnson. Not, however, she believes, from the same formidable
species of surmise; but from the wounds inflicted upon his injured
sensibility, through the palpably altered looks, tone, and deportment,
of the bewildered lady of the mansion; who, cruelly aware what would be
his wrath, and how overwhelming his reproaches against her projected
union, wished to break up their residing under the same roof before it
should be proclaimed.

This gave to her whole behaviour towards Dr. Johnson, a sort of
restless petulancy, of which she was sometimes hardly conscious; at
others, nearly reckless; but which hurt him far more than she purposed,
though short of the point at which she aimed, of precipitating a change
of dwelling that would elude its being cast, either by himself or the
world, upon a passion that her understanding blushed to own; even
while she was sacrificing to it all of inborn dignity that she had been
bred to hold most sacred.

Dr. Johnson, while still uninformed of an entanglement it was
impossible he should conjecture, attributed her varying humours to the
effect of wayward health meeting a sort of sudden wayward power: and
imagined that caprices, which he judged to be partly feminine, and
partly wealthy, would soberize themselves away in being unnoticed.
He adhered, therefore, to what he thought his post, in being the
ostensible guardian protector of the relict and progeny of the late
chief of the house; taking no open or visible notice of the alteration
in the successor—save only at times, and when they were _tête à
tête_, to this Memorialist; to whom he frequently murmured portentous
observations on the woeful, nay alarming deterioration in health and
disposition of her whom, so lately, he had signalized as the gay
mistress of Streatham.

But at length, as she became more and more dissatisfied with her
own situation, and impatient for its relief, she grew less and less
scrupulous with regard to her celebrated guest: she slighted his
counsel; did not heed his remonstrances; avoided his society; was
ready at a moment’s hint to lend him her carriage when he wished to
return to Bolt Court; but awaited a formal request to accord it for
bringing him back.

The Doctor then began to be stung; his own aspect became altered; and
depression, with indignant uneasiness, sat upon his venerable front.

It was at this moment that, finding the Memorialist was going one
morning to St. Martin’s-Street, he desired a cast thither in the
carriage, and then to be set down at Bolt Court.

Aware of his disturbance, and far too well aware how short it was
of what it would become when the cause of all that passed should be
detected, it was in trembling that the Memorialist accompanied him
to the coach, filled with dread of offending him by any reserve,
should he force upon her any inquiry; and yet impressed with the utter
impossibility of betraying a trusted secret.

His look was stern, though dejected, as he followed her into the
vehicle; but when his eye, which, however short sighted, was quick to
mental perception, saw how ill at ease appeared his companion, all
sternness subsided into an undisguised expression of the strongest
emotion, that seemed to claim her sympathy, though to revolt from
her compassion; while, with a shaking hand, and pointing finger, he
directed her looks to the mansion from which they were driving; and,
when they faced it from the coach window, as they turned into Streatham
Common, tremulously exclaiming: “That house ... is lost to _me_—for
ever!”

During a moment he then fixed upon her an interrogative eye,
that impetuously demanded: “Do you not perceive the change I am
experiencing?”

A sorrowing sigh was her only answer.

Pride and delicacy then united to make him leave her to her taciturnity.

He was too deeply, however, disturbed to start or to bear any other
subject; and neither of them uttered a single word till the coach stopt
in St. Martin’s-street, and the house and the carriage door were opened
for their separation! He then suddenly and expressively looked at her,
abruptly grasped her hand, and, with an air of affection, though in a
low, husky voice, murmured rather than said: “Good morning, dear lady!”
but turned his head quickly away, to avoid any species of answer.

She was deeply touched by so gentle an acquiescence in her declining
the confidential discourse upon which he had indubitably meant to
open, relative to this mysterious alienation. But she had the comfort
to be satisfied, that he saw and believed in her sincere participation
in his feelings; while he allowed for the grateful attachment that
bound her to a friend so loved; who, to her at least, still manifested
a fervour of regard that resisted all change; alike from this new
partiality, and from the undisguised, and even strenuous opposition of
the Memorialist to its indulgence.

The “Adieu, Streatham!” that had been uttered figuratively by Dr.
Burney, without any knowledge of its nearness to reality, was now fast
approaching to becoming a mere matter of fact; for, to the almost equal
grief, however far from equal loss, of Dr. Johnson and Dr. Burney,
Streatham, a short time afterwards, though not publicly relinquished,
was quitted by Mrs. Thrale and her family.

Both friends rejoiced, however, that the library and the pictures,
at least, on this first breaking up, fell into the hands of so
able an appreciator of literature and of painting, as the Earl of
Shelburne.[44]

Mrs. Thrale removed first to Brighton, and next repaired to pass a
winter in Argyll Street, previously to fixing her ultimate proceedings.




GENERAL PAOLI.


The last little narration that was written to Mr. Crisp of any party
at Streatham, as it contains a description of the celebrated Corsican
General, Paoli, with whom Dr. Burney had there been invited to dine;
and whom Mr. Crisp, also, had been pressed, though unavailingly, to
meet; will here be copied, in the hope that the reader, like Dr.
Burney, will learn with pleasure General Paoli’s own history of his
opening intercourse with Mr. Boswell.


  TO SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.,

  _Chesington_.

How sorry am I, my dear Mr. Crisp, that you could not come to Streatham
at the time Mrs. Thrale hoped to see you; for when are we likely to
meet at Streatham again? And you would have been much pleased, I am
sure, with the famous Corsican General, Paoli, who spent the day
there, and was extremely communicative and agreeable.

He is a very pleasing man; tall and genteel in his person, remarkably
attentive, obliging, and polite; and as soft and mild in his speech,
as if he came from feeding sheep in Corsica, like a shepherd; rather
than as if he had left the warlike field where he had led his armies to
battle.

I will give you a little specimen of his language and discourse, as
they are now fresh in my ears.

When Mrs. Thrale named me, he started back, though smilingly, and said:
‘I am very glad enough to see you in the face, Miss Evelina, which I
have wished for long enough. O charming book! I give it you my word I
have read it often enough. It is my favourite studioso for apprehending
the English language; which is difficult often. I pray you, Miss
Evelina, write some more little volumes of the quickest.’

I disclaimed the name, and was walking away; but he followed me with an
apology. ‘I pray your pardon, Mademoiselle. My ideas got in a blunder
often. It is Miss Borni what name I meant to accentuate, I pray your
pardon, Miss Evelina. I make very much error in my English many times
enough.’

My father then lead him to speak of Mr. Boswell, by inquiring into the
commencement of their connexion.

“He came,” answered the General, “to my country sudden, and he fetched
me some letters of recommending him. But I was of the belief he might,
in the verity, be no other person but one imposter. And I supposed,
in my mente, he was in the privacy one espy; for I look away from him
to my other companies, and, in one moment, when I look back to him, I
behold it in his hands his tablet, and one pencil! O, he was at the
work, I give it you my honour, of writing down all what I say to some
persons whatsoever in the room! Indeed I was angry enough. Pretty
much so, I give it you my word. But soon after, I discern he was no
impostor, and besides, no espy; for soon I find it out I was myself
only the monster he came to observe, and to describe with one pencil
in his tablet! O, is a very good man, Mr. Boswell, in the bottom! so
cheerful, so witty, so gentle, so talkable. But, at the first, O, I was
indeed _faché_ of the sufficient. I was in one passion, in my mente,
very well.”

He had brought with him to Streatham a dog, of which he is exceeding
fond; but he apologised for being so accompanied, from the safety which
he owed to that faithful animal, as a guard from robbers. “I walk
out,” he cried, “when I will one night, and I lose myself. The dark it
comes on of a blackish colour. I don’t know where I put my foot! In a
moment comes behind me one hard step. I go on. The hard step he follow.
Sudden I turn round; a little fierce, it may be. I meeted one man: an
ogly one. He had not sleeped in the night! He was so big whatsoever;
with one clob stick, so thick to my arm. He lifted it up. I had no
pistollettos; I call my dog. I open his mouth, for the survey to his
teeth. My friend, I say, look to the muzzle! Give me your clob stick at
the moment, or he shall destroy you when you are ten! The man kept his
clob stick; but he took up his heels, and he ran away from that time to
this moment!”

After this, talking of the Irish giant who is now shewn in town, he
said, “He is so large, I am as a baby! I look at him, and I feel so
little as a child! Indeed my indignation it rises when I see him hold
up one arm, spread out to the full, to make me walk under it for my
canopy! I am as nothing! and it turns my bile more than whatsoever to
find myself in the power of one man, who fetches from me half a crown
for looking at his seven feet!”

All this comic English he pronounces in a manner the most comically
pompous. Nevertheless, my father thinks he will soon speak better,
and that he seems less to want language than patience to assort
it; hurrying on impetuously, and any how, rather than stopping for
recollection.

He diverted us all very much after dinner, by begging leave of
Mrs. Thrale to give “one toast;” and then, with smiling pomposity,
pronouncing “The great Vagabond!” meaning to designate Dr. Johnson as
“The Rambler.”

This is the last visit remembered, or, at least, narrated, of
Streatham.




HISTORY OF MUSIC.


Streatham thus gone, though the intercourse with Mrs. Thrale, who now
resided in Argyle-street, London, was as fondly, if not as happily,
sustained as ever, Dr. Burney had again his first amanuensis and
librarian wholly under his roof; and the pleasure of his parental
feelings doubled those of his renown; for the new author was included,
with the most flattering distinction, in almost every invitation that
he received, or acquaintance that he made, where a female presided in
the society.

Never was practical proof more conspicuous of the power of surmounting
every difficulty that rises against our progress to an appointed end,
when Inclination and Business take each other by the hand in its
pursuit, than was now evinced by the conduct and success of Dr. Burney
in his musical enterprize.

He vigilantly visited both the Universities, leaving nothing
uninvestigated that assiduity or address could ferret out to his
purpose. The following account of these visits is copied from his own
memorials:

  “I went three several years to the Bodleian and other
  libraries in that most admirable seminary of learning and
  science, the Oxford University. I had previously spent a week
  at Cambridge; and, at both those Universities, I had, in my
  researches, discovered curious and rare manuscript tracts on
  Music of the middle ages, before the invention of the press,
  not mentioned in any of the printed or manuscript catalogues;
  and which the most learned librarians did not know were in
  existence, from the several different Treatises in Latin,
  French, and obsolete English, being bound up in odd volumes,
  and only the first of them mentioned in the lettering, or
  title of the volume. At Christ Church, to which Dr. Aldrich
  had bequeathed his musical library, I met with innumerable
  compositions by the best Masters of Italy, as well as of our
  own country, that were then extant; such as Carissimi, Luigi,
  Cesti, Stradella, Tye, Tallis, Bird, Morley, and Purcel. I
  made a catalogue of this admirable collection, including the
  tracts and musical compositions of the learned and ingenious
  Dean, its founder; a copy of which I had the honour to present
  to the college.”

The British Museum Library he ransacked, pen in hand, repeatedly:
that of Sir Joseph Bankes was as open to him as his own: Mr. Garrick
conducted him, by appointment, to that of the Earl of Shelburne,
afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne; which was personally shewn to him,
with distinguished consideration, by that literary nobleman. To name
every other to which he had access would be prolixity; but to omit that
of his Majesty, George the Third, would be insensibility. Dr. Burney
was permitted to make a full examination of its noble contents; and
to take thence whatever extracts he thought conducive to his design,
by his Majesty’s own gracious orders, delivered through the then
librarian, Mr. Barnard.

But for bringing these accumulating materials into play, time still,
with all the vigilance of his grasp upon its fragments, was wanting;
and to counteract the relentless calls of his professional business,
he was forced to superadd an unsparing requisition upon his sleep—the
only creditor that he never paid.




SAM’S CLUB.


Immediately after vacating Streatham, Dr. Burney was called upon, by
his great and good friend of Bolt Court, to become a member of a club
which he was then instituting for the emolument of Samuel, a footman of
the late Mr. Thrale. This man, who was no longer wanted for the broken
establishment of Streatham, had saved sufficient money for setting
up a humble species of hotel, to which this club would be a manifest
advantage. It was called, from the name of the honest domestic whom Dr.
Johnson wished to serve, Sam’s Club. It was held in Essex-street, in
the Strand. Its rules, &c. are printed by Mr. Boswell.

To enumerate all the coteries to which the Doctor, with his new
associate, now resorted, would be uninteresting, for almost all are
passed away! and nearly all are forgotten; though there was scarcely
a name in their several sets that did not, at that time, carry some
weight of public opinion. Such of them, nevertheless, that have left
lasting memorials of their character, their wit, or their abilities,
may not unacceptably be selected for some passing observations.




BAS BLEU SOCIETIES.


To begin with what still is famous in the annals of conversation, the
_Bas Bleu_ Societies.

The first of these was then in the meridian of its lustre, but had
been instituted many years previously at Bath. It owed its name to an
apology made by Mr. Stillingfleet, in declining to accept an invitation
to a literary meeting at Mrs. Vesey’s, from not being, he said, in the
habit of displaying a proper equipment for an evening assembly. “Pho,
pho,” cried she, with her well known, yet always original simplicity,
while she looked, inquisitively, at him and his accoutrements; “don’t
mind dress! Come in your blue stockings!” With which words, humourously
repeating them as he entered the apartment of the chosen coterie, Mr.
Stillingfleet claimed permission for appearing, according to order.
And those words, ever after, were fixed, in playful stigma, upon Mrs.
Vesey’s associations.[45]

This original coterie was still headed by Mrs. Vesey, though it was
transferred from Bath to London. Dr. Burney and this Memorialist were
now initiated into the midst of it. And however ridicule, in public,
from those who had no taste for this bluism; or envy, in secret, from
those who had no admission to it, might seek to depreciate its merit,
it afforded to all lovers of intellectual entertainment a variety of
amusement, an exemption from form, and a _carte blanche_ certainty of
good-humour from the amiable and artless hostess, that rendered it as
agreeable as it was singular: for Mrs. Vesey was as mirth-provoking
from her oddities and mistakes, as Falstaff was wit-inspiring from his
vaunting cowardice and sportive epicurism.

There was something so like the manoeuvres of a character in a comedy
in the manners and movements of Mrs. Vesey, that the company seemed
rather to feel themselves assembled, at their own cost and pleasure,
in some public apartment, to saunter or to repose; to talk or to hold
their tongues; to gaze around, or to drop asleep, as best might suit
their humours; than drawn together to receive and to bestow, the
civilities of given and accepted invitations.

Her fears were so great of the horror, as it was styled, of a circle,
from the ceremony and awe which it produced, that she pushed all the
small sofas, as well as chairs, pell-mell about the apartments, so as
not to leave even a zig-zag path of communication free from impediment:
and her greatest delight was to place the seats back to back, so
that those who occupied them could perceive no more of their nearest
neighbour than if the parties had been sent into different rooms: an
arrangement that could only be eluded by such a twisting of the neck as
to threaten the interlocutors with a spasmodic affection.

But there was never any distress beyond risibility: and the company
that was collected was so generally of a superior cast, that talents
and conversation soon found—as when do they miss it?—their own
level: and all these extraneous whims merely served to give zest and
originality to the assemblage.

Mrs. Vesey was of a character to which it is hardly possible to find a
parallel, so untrue would it be to brand it with positive folly; yet so
glaringly was it marked by almost incredible simplicity.

With really lively parts, a fertile imagination, and a pleasant
quickness of remark, she had the unguardedness of childhood, joined to
an Hibernian bewilderment of ideas that cast her incessantly into some
burlesque situation; and incited even the most partial, and even the
most sensitive of her own countrymen, to relate stories, speeches, and
anecdotes of her astonishing self-perplexities, her confusion about
times and circumstances, and her inconceivable jumble of recollections
between what had happened, or what might have happened; and what had
befallen others that she imagined had befallen herself; that made her
name, though it could never be pronounced without personal regard, be
constantly coupled with something grotesque.

But what most contributed to render the scenes of her social circle
nearly dramatic in comic effect, was her deafness; for with all the
pity due to that socialless infirmity; and all the pity doubly due to
one who still sought conversation as the first of human delights, it
was impossible, with a grave face, to behold her manner of constantly
marring the pleasure of which she was in pursuit.

She had commonly two or three, or more, eartrumpets hanging to her
wrists, or slung about her neck; or tost upon the chimney-piece or
table; with intention to try them, severally and alternately, upon
different speakers, as occasion might arise; and the instant that any
earnestness of countenance, or animation of gesture, struck her eye,
she darted forward, trumpet in hand, to inquire what was going on;
but almost always arrived at the speaker at the moment that he was
become, in his turn, the hearer; and eagerly held her brazen instrument
to his mouth to catch sounds that were already past and gone. And,
after quietly listening some minutes, she would gently utter her
disappointment, by crying: “Well! I really thought you were talking of
something?”

And then, though a whole group would hold it fitting to flock around
her, and recount what had been said; if a smile caught her roving
eye from any opposite direction, the fear of losing something more
entertaining, would make her beg not to trouble them, and again rush
on to the gayer talkers. But as a laugh is excited more commonly by
sportive nonsense than by wit, she usually gleaned nothing from her
change of place, and hastened therefore back to ask for the rest of
what she had interrupted. But generally finding that set dispersing, or
dispersed, she would look around her with a forlorn surprise, and cry:
“I can’t conceive why it is that nobody talks tonight? I can’t catch a
word!”

Or, if some one of peculiar note were engaging attention; if Sir
William Hamilton, for example, were describing Herculaneum or Pompeii;
or Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Hannah More were discussing some new author,
or favourite work; or if the then still beautiful, though old, Duchess
of Leinster, was encountering the beautiful and young Duchess of
Devonshire; or, if Mr. Burke, having stept in, and, marking no one
with whom he wished to exchange ideas, had seized upon the first
book or pamphlet he could catch, to soothe his harassed mind by
reading—which he not seldom did, and most incomparably, a passage or
two aloud; circumstances of such a sort would arouse in her so great
an earnestness for participation, that she would hasten from one spot
to another, in constant hope of better fare; frequently clapping, in
her hurry, the broad part of the brazen ear to her temple: but after
waiting, with anxious impatience, for the development she expected,
but waiting in vain, she would drop her trumpet, and almost dolorously
exclaim: “I hope nobody has had any bad news to night? but as soon as I
come near any body, nobody speaks!”

Yet, with all these peculiarities, Mrs. Vesey was eminently amiable,
candid, gentle, and even sensible; but she had an ardour to know
whatever was going forward, and to see whoever was named, that kept her
curiosity constantly in a panic; and almost dangerously increased the
singular wanderings of her imagination.

Here, amongst the few remaining men of letters of the preceding
literary era, Dr. Burney met Horace Walpole, Owen Cambridge, and Soame
Jenyns, who were commonly, then, denominated the old wits; but who
rarely, indeed, were surrounded by any new ones who stood much chance
of vying with them in readiness of repartee, pith of matter, terseness
of expression, or pleasantry in expanding gay ideas.




MRS. MONTAGU.


“Yet, while to Mrs. Vesey, the _Bas Bleu_ society owed its origin and
its epithet, the meetings that took place at Mrs. Montagu’s were soon
more popularly known by that denomination; for though they could not be
more fashionable, they were far more splendid.

Mrs. Montagu had built a superb new house, which was magnificently
fitted up, and appeared to be rather appropriate for princes, nobles,
and courtiers, than for poets, philosophers, and blue stocking
votaries. And here, in fact, rank and talents were so frequently
brought together, that what the satirist uttered scoffingly, the author
pronounced proudly, in setting aside the original claimant, to dub Mrs.
Montagu Queen of the Blues.

This majestic title was hers, in fact, from more flattering rights
than hang upon mere pre-eminence of riches or station. Her Essay on
the Learning and Genius of Shakespeare; and the literary zeal which
made her the voluntary champion of our immortal bard, had so national
a claim to support and to praise, that her book, on its first coming
out, had gained the almost general plaudits that mounted her,
thenceforward, to the Parnassian heights of female British literature.

But, while the same _bas bleu_ appellation was given to these two
houses of rendezvous, neither that, nor even the same associates,
could render them similar. Their grandeur, or their simplicity, their
magnitude, or their diminutiveness, were by no means the principal
cause of this difference: it was far more attributable to the Lady
Presidents than to their abodes: for though they instilled not their
characters into their visitors, their characters bore so large a
share in their visitors’ reception and accommodation, as to influence
materially the turn of the discourse, and the humour of the parties, at
their houses.

At Mrs. Montagu’s, the semi-circle that faced the fire retained during
the whole evening its unbroken form, with a precision that made it seem
described by a Brobdignagian compass. The lady of the castle commonly
placed herself at the upper end of the room, near the commencement of
the curve, so as to be courteously visible to all her guests; having
the person of the highest rank, or consequence, properly, on one side,
and the person the most eminent for talents, sagaciously, on the other;
or as near to her chair, and her converse, as her favouring eye, and a
complacent bow of the head, could invite him to that distinction.[46]

Her conversational powers were of a truly superior order; strong, just,
clear, and often eloquent. Her process in argument, notwithstanding an
earnest solicitude for pre-eminence, was uniformly polite and candid.
But her reputation for wit seemed always in her thoughts, marring their
natural flow, and untutored expression. No sudden start of talent urged
forth any precarious opinion; no vivacious new idea varied her logical
course of ratiocination. Her smile, though most generally benignant,
was rarely gay; and her liveliest sallies had a something of anxiety
rather than of hilarity—till their success was ascertained by applause.

Her form was stately, and her manners were dignified. Her face retained
strong remains of beauty throughout life; and though its native cast
was evidently that of severity, its expression was softened off in
discourse by an almost constant desire to please.

If beneficence be judged by the happiness which it diffuses, whose
claim, by that proof, shall stand higher than that of Mrs. Montagu,
from the munificence with which she celebrated her annual festival
for those hapless artificers, who perform the most abject offices of
any authorized calling, in being the active guardians of our blazing
hearths?[47]

Not to vain glory, then, but to kindness of heart, should be adjudged
the publicity of that superb charity, which made its jetty objects, for
one bright morning, cease to consider themselves as degraded outcasts
from society.

Not all the lyrics of all the rhymsters, nor all the warblings of all
the spring-feathered choristers, could hail the opening smiles of May,
like the fragrance of that roasted beef, and the pulpy softness of
those puddings of plums, with which Mrs. Montagu yearly renovated those
sooty little agents to the safety of our most blessing luxury.

Taken for all in all, Mrs. Montagu was rare in her attainments; splendid
in her conduct; open to the calls of charity; forward to precede those
of indigent genius; and unchangeably just and firm in the application of
her interest, her principles, and her fortune, to the encouragement of
loyalty, and the support of virtue.

In this house, amongst innumerable high personages and renowned
conversers, Dr. Burney met the famous Hervey, Bishop of Derry, late
Earl of Bristol; who then stood foremost in sustaining the character
for wit and originality that had signalised his race, in the preceding
century, by the current phrase of the day, that the world was peopled
with men, women, and Herveys.

Here, also, the Honourable Horace Walpole, afterwards Lord Orford,
sometimes put forth his quaint, singular, often original, generally
sarcastic, and always entertaining powers.

And here the Doctor met the antique General Oglethorpe, who was pointed
out to him by Mr. Walpole for a man nearly in his hundredth year; an
assertion that, though exaggerated, easily gained credit, from his
gaunt figure and appearance. The General was pleasing, well bred, and
gentle.

Horace Walpole, sportively desirous, as he whispered to Dr. Burney,
that the Doctor’s daughter should see the humours of a man so near to
counting his age by a century, insisted, one night at this house, upon
forming a little group for that purpose; to which he invited, also, Mr.
and Mrs. Locke: exhibiting thus the two principal points of his own
character, from which he rarely deviated: a thirst of amusement from
what was singular; with a taste yet more forcible for elegance from
what was excellent.

At the side of General Oglethorpe, Mr. Walpole, though much past
seventy, had almost the look, and had quite the air of enjoyment
of a man who was yet almost young: and so skeleton-like was the
General’s meagre form, that, by the same species of comparison, Mr.
Walpole almost appeared, and, again, almost seemed to think himself,
if not absolutely fat, at least not despoiled of his _embonpoint_;
though so lank was his thinness, that every other person who stood
in his vicinity, might pass as if accoutred and stuffed for a stage
representation of Falstaff.[48]




MRS. THRALE.


But—previously to the late Streatham catastrophe—blither, more bland,
and more gleeful still, was the personal celebrity of Mrs. Thrale,
than that of either Mrs. Montagu or Mrs. Vesey. Mrs. Vesey, indeed,
gentle and diffident, dreamed not of any competition: but Mrs. Montagu
and Mrs. Thrale had long been set up as fair rival candidates for
colloquial eminence; and each of them thought the other alone worthy
to be her peer. Openly, therefore, when they met, they combatted
for precedence of admiration; with placid, though high-strained
intellectual exertion on one side, and an exuberant pleasantry of
classical allusion or quotation on the other, without the smallest
malice in either; for so different were their tastes as well as
attributes, that neither of them envied, while each did justice to the
powers of her opponent.

The blue parties at Mrs. Thrale’s, though neither marked with as much
splendour as those of Mrs. Montagu, nor with so curious a selection
of distinguished individuals as those of Mrs. Vesey, were yet held
of equal height with either in general estimation, as Dr. Johnson,
“himself a host,” was usually at Mrs. Thrale’s; or was always, by her
company, expected: and as she herself possessed powers of entertainment
more vivifying in gaiety than any of her competitors.

       *       *       *       *       *

Various other meetings were formed in imitation of the same plan of
dispensing with cards, music, dice, dancing, or the regales of the
festive board, to concentrate in intellectual entertainment all the
hopes of the guest, and the efforts of the host and hostess. And, with
respect to colloquial elegance, such a plan certainly is of the first
order for bringing into play the highest energies of our nature; and
stimulating their fairest exercise in discussions upon the several
subjects that rise with every rising day; and that take and give a
fresh colour to Thought as well as to Expression, from the mind of
every fresh discriminator.

And such meetings, when the parties were well assorted, and in
good-humour, formed, at that time, a coalition of talents, and a
brilliancy of exertion, that produced the most informing dissertations,
or the happiest sallies of wit and pleasantry, that could emanate from
social intercourse.




HON. MISS MONCTON.[49]


One of the most striking parties of this description, after the three
chiefs, was at the residence of the Hon. Miss Moncton; where there
was a still more resplendent circle of rank, and a more distinguished
assemblage of foreigners, than at any other; with always, in addition,
somebody or something uncommon and unexpected, to cause, or to gratify
curiosity.

Not merely as fearful of form as Mrs. Vesey was Miss Moncton; she went
farther; she frequently left her general guests wholly to themselves.
There was always, she knew, good fare for intellectual entertainment;
and those who had courage to seek might partake of its advantages;
while those who had not that quality, might amuse themselves as lookers
on. And though some might be disconcerted, no one who had candour
could be offended, when they saw, from the sprightly good-humour of
their hostess, that this reception was instigated by gay, not studied
singularity.

Miss Moncton usually sat about the middle of the room, lounging on one
chair, while bending over the back of another, in a thin fine muslin
dress, even at Christmas; while all around her were in satins, or
tissues; and without advancing to meet any one, or rising, or placing,
or troubling herself to see whether there were any seats left for them,
she would turn round her head to the announcement of a name, give a nod,
a smile, and a short “How do you do?—” and then, chatting on with her
own set, leave them to seek their fortune.

To these splendid, and truly uncommon assemblages, Dr. Burney and his
daughter accepted, occasionally, some of the frequent invitations with
which they were honoured.

And here they had sometimes the happiness to meet, amidst the nobles
and dames of the land, with all the towering height of his almost
universal superiority, Mr. Burke; who, sure, from the connexions of
the lady president, to find many chosen friends with whom he could
coalesce or combat upon literary or general topics, commonly entered
the grand saloon with a spirited yet gentle air, that shewed him full
fraught with the generous purpose to receive as well as to dispense
social pleasure; untinged with one bitter drop of political rancour;
and clarified from all acidity of party sarcasm.

And here, too, though only latterly, and very rarely, appeared the sole
star that rose still higher in the gaze of the world, Dr. Johnson. Miss
Moncton had met with the Doctor at Brighton, where that animated lady
eagerly sought him as a gem to crown her coteries; persevering in her
attacks for conquest, with an enthusiasm that did honour to her taste;
till the Doctor, surprised and pleased, rewarded her exertions by a
good-humoured compliance with her invitations.

       *       *       *       *       *



SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

But of these coteries, none surpassed, if they equalled, in easy
pleasantry, unaffected intelligence, and information free from pedantry
or formality, those of the Knight of Plympton. Sir Joshua Reynolds
was singularly simple, though never inelegant in his language; and
his classical style of painting could not be more pleasing, however
more sublimely it might elevate and surprise, than his manners and
conversation.

There was little or no play of countenance, beyond cheerfulness or
sadness, in the features of Sir Joshua; but in his eyes there was
a searching look, that seemed, upon his introduction to any person
of whom he had thought before he had seen, to fix, in his painter’s
mind, the attitude, if it may be so called, of face that would
be most striking for a picture. But this was rarely obvious, and
never disconcerting; he was eminently unassuming, unpretending, and
natural.[50]

Dr. Burney has left amongst his papers a note of an harangue which he
had heard from Sir Joshua Reynolds, at the house of Dudley Long, when
the Duke of Devonshire, and various other peers, were present, and when
happiness was the topic of discussion. Sir Joshua for some time had
listened in silence to their several opinions; and then impressively
said: “You none of you, my lords, if you will forgive my telling you
so, can speak upon this subject with as much knowledge of it as I can.
Dr. Burney perhaps might; but it is not the man who looks around him
from the top of a high mountain at a beautiful prospect on the first
moment of opening his eyes, who has the true enjoyment of that noble
sight: it is he who ascends the mountain from a miry meadow, or a
ploughed field, or a barren waste; and who works his way up to it
step by step; scratched and harassed by thorns and briars; with here
a hollow, that catches his foot; and there a clump that forces him
all the way back to find out a new path;—it is he who attains to it
through all that toil and danger; and with the strong contrast on his
mind of the miry meadow, or ploughed field, or barren waste, for which
it was exchanged,—it is he, my lords, who enjoys the beauties that
suddenly blaze upon him. They cause an expansion of ideas in harmony
with the expansion of the view. He glories in its glory; and his mind
opens to conscious exaltation; such as the man who was born and bred
upon that commanding height, with all the loveliness of prospect, and
fragrance, and variety, and plenty, and luxury of every sort, around,
above, beneath, can never know; can have no idea of;—at least, not
till he come near some precipice, in a boisterous wind, that hurls him
from the top to the bottom, and gives him some taste of what he had
possessed, by its loss; and some pleasure in its recovery, by the pain
and difficulty of scrambling back to it.”




MRS. REYNOLDS.


Mrs. Reynolds also had her coteries, which were occasionally attended
by most of the persons who have been named; equally from consideration
to her brother, and personal respect to herself.

Mrs. Reynolds wrote an essay on Taste, which she submitted, in the year
1781, to the private criticism of her sincere friend, Dr. Johnson.

But it should seem that the work, though full of intrinsic merit, was
warpt in its execution by that perplexity of ideas in which perpetual
ponderings, and endless recurrence to first notions, so subversive
of all progression, cloudily involved the thoughts, as well as the
expressions, of this ingenious lady; for the award of Dr. Johnson,
notwithstanding it contained high praise and encouragement for the
revision of the treatise, frankly avows, “that her notions, though
manifesting a depth of penetration, and a nicety of remark, such
as Locke or Pascal might be proud of, must everywhere be rendered
smoother and plainer; and he doubts whether many of them are very clear
even to her own mind.”

Probably the task which he thus pointed out to her of development and
explanation, was beyond the boundary of her powers; for though she
lived twenty years after the receipt of this counsel, the work never
was published.




MRS. CHAPONE.


Mrs. Chapone, too, had her own coteries, which, though not sought
by the young, and, perhaps, fled from by the gay, were rational,
instructive, and social; and it was not with self-approbation that they
could ever be deserted. But the search of greater gaiety, and higher
fashion, rarely awaits that award.

The meetings, in truth, at her dwelling, from her palpable and organic
deficiency in health and strength for their sustenance, though they
never lacked of sense or taste, always wanted spirit; a want which
cast over them a damp that made the same interlocutors, who elsewhere
grouped audiences around them from their fame as discoursers, appear
to be assembled here merely for the grave purpose of performing a duty.

Yet here were to be seen Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Carter, Hannah More, the
clever family of the Burroughs, the classically lively Sir William
Pepys, and the ingenious and virtuous Mrs. Barbauld.

But though the dignity of her mind demanded, as it deserved, the
respect of some return to the visits which her love of society induced
her to pay, it was a _tête à tête_ alone that gave pleasure to the
intercourse with Mrs. Chapone: her sound understanding, her sagacious
observations, her turn to humour, and the candour of her affectionate
nature, all then came into play without effort: and her ease of mind,
when freed from the trammels of doing the honours of reception, seemed
to soften off, even to herself, her corporeal infirmities. It was thus
that she struck Dr. Burney with the sense of her worth; and seemed
portraying in herself the original example whence the precepts had
been drawn, for forming the unsophisticated female character that are
displayed in the author’s Letters on the improvement of the mind.




SIR WILLIAM WELLER PEPYS.


But the meetings of this sort, to which sarcasm, sport, or envy have
given the epithet of blueism, that Dr. Burney most frequently and the
latest attended, were those at the house of Mr., since Sir William
Weller Pepys.

The passion of Sir William for literature, his admiration of talents,
and his rapturous zeal for genius, made him receive whoever could
gratify any of those propensities, with an enchantment of pleasure
that seemed to carry him into higher regions. The parties at his house
formed into little, separate, and chosen groups, less awful than at
Mrs. Montagu’s, and less awkward than at Mrs. Vesey’s: and he glided
adroitly from one of these groups to another, till, after making
the round of politeness necessary for the master of the house, his
hospitality felt acquitted of its devoirs; and he indulged, without
further restraint, in the ardent delight of fixing his standard for the
evening in the circle the most to his taste: leaving to his serenely
acquiescent wife the more forbearing task of equalizing attention.
To do that, indeed, beyond what was exacted by good breeding for the
high, and by kindness for the insignificant part of his guests, would
have been a discipline to all his feelings, that would have converted
those parties, that were his pride and his joy, into exercises of the
severest penitence.

But while an animated reciprocation of ideas in conversation, a lively
memory of early anecdotes, and a boundless readiness at recital of
the whole mass of English poets, formed the gayest enjoyment of his
chosen and happiest hours, the voice of justice must raise him still
higher for solid worth. His urbanity was universal. He never looked so
charmed as when engaged in some good office: and his charities were as
expansive as the bounty of those who possessed more than double his
income. So sincere, indeed, was his benevolence, that it seemed as much
a part of himself as his limbs, and could have been torn from him with
little less difficulty.[51]




SOAME JENYNS.


Amongst the _Bouquets_, as Dr. Burney denominated the fragrant
flatteries courteously lavished, in its day, on the Memoirs of an
Heiress, few were more odorous to him than those offered by the famous
old Wits, Soame Jenyns and Owen Cambridge.

Soame Jenyns, at the age of seventy-eight, condescended to make
interest with Mrs. Ord to arrange an acquaintance for him, at her house
in Queen Ann-street, with the father and the daughter.

Soame Jenyns is so well known as an author, and was in his time so
eminent as a wit; and his praise gave such pleasure to Dr. Burney, that
another genuine letter, written for Mr. Crisp at the moment, with an
account of the meeting, will be here abridged, as characteristically
marking the parental gratification of the Doctor.


  TO SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.

  _Chesington._

My dear Mr. Crisp will be impatient, I know, for a history of the
long-planned re-encounter with the famed Soame Jenyns.

My father was quite enchanted at his request; and no wonder! for who
could have expected such civil curiosity from so renowned an old wit?

We were late; my father could not be early: but I was not a little
disconcerted to find, instead of Mr. Soame Jenyns _all alone by
himself_, a room full of company; not in groups, nor yet in a circle,
but seated square; _i.e._ close to the wainscot, leaving a vacancy
in the middle of the apartment sufficient for dancing three or four
cotillons.

Mrs. Ord almost ran to the door to receive us, crying out,
“Why have you been so late, Dr. Burney? We have been waiting for you
this hour. I was afraid there was some mistake. Mr. Soame Jenyns has
been dying with impatience for the arrival of Miss Burney. Some of us
thought she was naughty, and would not come; others thought it was only
coquetry. But, however, my dear Miss Burney, let us repair the lost
time as quickly as we can, and introduce you to one another without
further delay.”

You may believe how happy I was at this “some thought,” and “others
thought,” which instantly betrayed that every body was apprised they
were to witness this grand encounter: And, to mark it still more
strongly, every one, contrary to all present custom, stood up,—as if
to see the sight!

I really felt so abashed at meeting so famous an author with such
publicity; and so much ashamed of the almost ridiculously undue
ceremony of the rising, that I knew not what to do, nor how to
_comport_ myself. But they all still kept staringly upright, till Mr.
Jenyns, who was full dressed in a court suit, of apricot-coloured silk,
lined with white satin, made all the slow speed in his power, from the
less thus urged?—began an harangue the most elegantly complimentary,
upon the pleasure, and the honour, and the what not? of seeing, my dear
daddy, your very obedient and obsequious humble servant, and spinster,

  F. B.

I made all possible reverences, and endeavoured to get to a seat; but
Mrs. Ord, when I turned from him, took my hand, and led me, in solemn
form, to what seemed to be the group of honour, to present me to Mrs.
Soame Jenyns, who, with all the rest, was still immovably standing! The
reverences were repeated here, and returned; but in silence, however,
on both sides; so they did very well—that is, they were only dull.

I then hoped to escape to my dear Mrs. Thrale, who most invitingly held
out her hand to me, and said, pointing to a chair by her own, “Must I,
too, make interest to be introduced to Miss Burney?”

This, however, was not allowed; for my dear Lady Clement Cotterel, Mrs.
Ord, again taking my hand, and parading me to a sofa, said, “Come, Miss
Burney, and let me place you by Mrs. Buller.”

I was glad by this time to be placed any where; for not till I was thus
accommodated, did the company, _en masse_, re-seat themselves!

Mr. Cambridge, senior, then advanced to speak to me; but before I could
answer, or, rather, hear him, Mrs. Ord again summoned poor Mr. Jenyns,
and made him my right hand neighbour on the sofa, saying, “There, Mr.
Jenyns! and there, Miss Burney! now I have put you fairly together, I
have done with you!”

This dear, good Mrs. Ord! what a mistaken road was this for bring
us into acquaintance! I verily think Mr. Jenyns was almost out of
countenance himself; for he had probably said all his say; and would
have been as glad of a new subject, and a new companion, as I could
have been myself.

To my left hand neighbour I had never before been presented. Mrs.
Buller is tall and elegant in her person, genteel and ugly in her face,
and abrupt and singular in her manners. She is, however, very clever,
sprightly, and witty, and much in vogue. She is, also, a Greek scholar,
a celebrated traveller in search of foreign customs and persons, and
every way original, in her knowledge and her enterprising way of life.
And she has had the maternal heroism—which with me is her first
quality—of being the guide of her young son in making the grand tour.

Mr. Soame Jenyns, thus again called upon, resolved, after a pause,
not to be called upon in vain; and therefore, with the chivalrous
courtesy that he seemed to think the call demanded, began an eulogy
unrivalled, I think, in exuberance and variety of animated phraseology.
All creation in praise seemed to open to his fancy! No human being had
ever begun Cecilia, or Evelina, who had power to lay them down unread:
pathos, humour, interest, moral, contrast of character, of manners, of
language—O! such _mille jolis choses_!

I heard, however, but the leading words—which—for I see your arch
smile!—you will say I have not failed to retain!—though every body
else, the whole room being attentively dumb, probably heard how they
were strung together. And indeed, my dear father, who was quite
delighted, says the panegyric was as witty as it was flattering. But
for myself, had I been carried to a theatre, and perched upon a stool,
to hear a public oration upon my simple penmanship, I could hardly have
been more confounded. I bowed my head, after the first three or
four sentences, by way of marking that I thought he had done: but done
he had not the more! I then turned away to the other side, hoping to
relieve him as well as myself; for I am sure he must have been full as
much worried; but I only came upon Mrs. Buller, who took up the _éloge_
just where Mr. Jenyns, for want of breath, let it drop; splendidly
saying, how astonishing it was, that in a nation the most divided of
any in the known world, alike in literature and in politics, any living
pen could be found to bring about a universal harmony of opinion.

You will only, as usual, laugh, I know, my dear Mr. Crisp, and rather
exult than be sorry for my poor embarrassed _phiz_ during this playful
duet. So also do I, too, now it is over; and feel grateful to the
inflictors: but, for all that, I was tempted to wish either them or
myself in the Elysian fields—for I won’t say at Jericho—during the
infliction. And indeed, as to this present evening, the extraordinary
things that were sported by Mr. Jenyns, and seconded by Mrs. Buller,
would have brought blushes into the practised cheeks of Agujari or of
Garrick. I changed so often from hot to cold, between the shame of
insufficiency, and the consciousness that while they engaged
every ear themselves, they put me forward to engage every eye, that
I felt now in a fever, and now in an ague, from the awkwardness of
appearing thus expressly summoned to

  “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 to _naturalize_ me 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, as _all the world_[52]
knows, is an intimate friend of Soame 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!”—for I 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 of _tact_.

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, by wafting 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 the spirit 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 this commencement
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!

       *       *       *       *       *




MRS. THRALE.


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,
as to 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.




MRS. DELANY.


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, with _the 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 had
formerly 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 must pardon 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 were ample 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 in the 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 as diverted 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 good taste 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, a sacred 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.




MR. CRISP.


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 Chesington at 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, nearly the 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
mitigation to 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 the _living_—there is, perhaps, a boundary at which it
  is right to _endeavour_ to stop in lamenting the _dead_. It
  is very difficult,—as 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 least
with 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 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 MEMORY

  OF

  SAMUEL CRISP, ESQ.,

  _Who died April 24, 1783, aged 76_.

  May Heaven—through our merciful REDEEMER—receive his soul!

    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 long
retired 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!




HISTORY OF MUSIC.


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 even
annual 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.




BACH OF BERLIN.


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.




HAYDN.


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.”




EBELING.


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 to
the 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]




PADRE MARTINI.


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.




METASTASIO.


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.




M. BERQUIN.


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 the _Hôtel 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:


“TO MRS. PHILLIPS.

“We have a new man, now, almost always at the house, who has brought
letters to my father from some of his best French correspondents, M.
Berquin; author of the far most interesting lessons of moral conduct
for adolescence or for what Mr. Walpole would call the _betweenity_
time that intervals the boy or girl from the man or woman, that ever
sprang from a vivid imagination, under the strictest guidance of right
and reason. But to all this that is so proper, or rather, so excellent,
M. Berquin joins an exuberance of devotion towards _l’Hôtel du Grand
Newton_, and its present owner, and, above all, that owner’s second
bairne, that seems with difficulty held back from mounting into an
ecstacy really comic. He brought a set of his charming little volumes
with him, and begged my mother to present them to _Mademoiselle
Beurnie_; with compliments upon the occasion too florid for writing
even, my Susan, to you. And though I was in the room the whole time,
quietly scollopping a muslin border, and making entreating signs to
my mother not to betray me, he never once suspected I might be the
demoiselle myself, because—I am much afraid!—he saw nothing about me
to answer to the splendour of his expectations! However, he has since
made the discovery, and had the gallantry to comport himself as if
he had made it—poor man!—without disappointment. Since then I have
begun some acquaintance with him; but his rapture every time I speak
is too great to be excited often! therefore, I am chary of my words.
You would laugh irresistibly to see how _enchanté_ he deems it fit to
appear every time I open my mouth! holding up one hand aloft, as if in
sign to all others present to keep the peace! And yet, save for this
complimentary extravagance, his manners and appearance are the most
simple, candid, and unpretending.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Burney himself was seriously of opinion that all the superfluity
of civility here described, was the mere effervescence of a romantic
imagination; not of artifice, or studied adulation.[65]




MM. LES COMTES DE LA ROCHEFAUCAULT.


Messieurs les Comtes de la Rochefaucault, sons of the Duc de Liancourt,
when quite youths, were brought, at the desire of their father, to a
morning visit in St. Martin’s-street, with their English tutor, Mr.
Symonds, by Arthur Young; to whose superintending care and friendship
they had been committed, for the study of agriculture according to the
English mode.

The Duke had a passion for farming, for England, for improvement; and
above all, for liberty,—which was then rising in glowing ferment in
his nation; with little consciousness, and no foresight, of the bloody
scenes in which it was to set!




THE DUC DE LIANCOURT.


The Duc de Liancourt himself, not long afterwards, came over to
England, and, through the medium of Mr. Young, addressed letters of the
most flattering politeness to Dr. Burney; soliciting his acquaintance,
and, through his influence, an interview with _Mademoiselle Berney_.
The latter, however, had so invincible a repugnance to being singled
out with such undue distinction by strangers, that she prevailed,
though with much difficulty, upon her father, to consent to her
non-appearance when this visit took place. The Duke was too well
bred not to pardon, though, no doubt, he more than marvelled at this
_mauvaise honte Anglaise_.

He made his visit, however, very agreeable to the Doctor, who found
him of lofty manners, person, and demeanour; of liberal and enlightened
sentiments and opinions; and ardent to acquire new, but practical
notions of national liberty; with the noble intention of propagating
them amongst his countrymen: an intention which the turbulent humour
of the times warpt and perverted into results the most opposed to his
genuine views and wishes.




BRISSOT DE WARVILLE.


Brissot de Warville had begun an acquaintance with Dr. Burney upon
meeting with him at the apartment of the famous Linguet, during the
residence in England of that eloquent, powerful, unfortunate victim of
parts too strong for his judgment, and of impulses too imperious for
his safety.

At this time, 1783, Brissot de Warville announced himself as a member
of a French committee employed to select subjects in foreign countries,
for adding to the national stock of worthies of his own soil, who were
destined to immortality, by having their portraits, busts, or statues,
elevated in the Paris Pantheon. And, as such, he addressed a letter to
Dr. Burney. He had been directed, he said, to choose, in England, a
female for this high honour; and he wrote to Dr. Burney to say, that
the gentlewoman upon whom it had pleased him to fix—was no other than
a daughter of the Doctor’s![66]

At that astonished daughter’s earnest supplication, the Doctor, with
proper acknowledgments, declined accepting this towering compliment.

M. Brissot employed his highest pains of flattery to conquer this
repugnance; but head, heart, and taste were in opposition to his
pleadings, and he had no chance of success.

Speedily after, M. Brissot earnestly besought permission to introduce
to _l’Hôtel du Grand Newton_ his newly-married wife; and a day was
appointed on which he brought thither his blooming young bride, who
had been English Reader, he said, to her Serene Highness Mademoiselle
d’Orleans,[67] under the auspices of the celebrated Comtesse de
Genlis.[68]

Madame Brissot was pretty, and gentle, and had a striking air of
youthful innocence. They seemed to live together in tender amity,
perfectly satisfied in following literary pursuits. But it has since
appeared that Brissot was here upon some deep political projects, of
which he afterwards extended the practice to America. He had by no
means, at that time, assumed the dogmatizing dialect, or betrayed the
revolutionary principles, which, afterwards, contributed to hurl the
monarchy, the religion, and the happiness of France into that murderous
abyss of anarchy into which, ill-foreseen! he was himself amongst the
earliest to be precipitated.

This single visit began and ended the Brissot commerce with St.
Martin’s-street. M. Brissot had a certain low-bred fullness and
forwardness of look, even in the midst of professions of humility and
respect, that were by no means attractive to Dr. Burney; by whom this
latent demagogue, who made sundry attempts to enter into a bookish
intimacy in St. Martin’s-street, was so completely shirked, that
nothing more was there seen or known of him, till his jacobinical
harangues and proceedings, five years later, were blazoned to the world
by the republican gazettes.

What became of his pretty wife in aftertimes; whether she were involved
in his destruction, or sunk his name to save her life, has not been
recorded. Dr. Burney heard of her no more; and always regretted that
he had been deluded into shewing even the smallest token of hospitality
to her intriguing husband: yet great was his thankfulness, that the
delusion had not been of such strength, as to induce him to enrol
a representation of his daughter in a selection made by a man of
principles and conduct so opposite to his own; however, individually,
the collection might have been as flattering to his parental pride,
as her undue entrance into such a circle would have been painfully
ostentatious to the insufficient and unambitious object of M. Brissot’s
choice.




LE DUC DE CHAULNES.


Of the Duc de Chaulnes, the following account is copied from Dr.
Burney’s memorandums:—

  “In 1783, I dined at the Adelphi with Dr. Johnson and the
  Duc de Chaulnes. This extraordinary personage, a great
  traveller, and curious inquirer into the productions of art
  and of nature, had recently been to China; and, amongst many
  other discoveries that he had made in that immense and remote
  region, of which he had brought specimens to Europe, being
  a great chemist, he had particularly applied himself to the
  disclosure of the means by which the Chinese obtain that
  extraordinary brilliancy and permanence in the prismatic
  colours, which is so much admired and envied by other nations.

  “I knew nothing of his being in England till, late one night,
  I heard a bustle and different voices in the passage, or
  little hall, in my house in St. Martin’s-street, commonly,
  from its former great owner, called Newton House; when, on
  inquiry, I was informed that there was a foreign gentleman,
  with a guide and an interpreter, who was come to beg
  permission to see the observatory of the _grand_ Newton.

  “I went out of the parlour to speak to this stranger, and to
  invite him in. He accepted the offer with readiness, and I
  promised to shew him the observatory the next morning; and
  we soon became so well acquainted, that, two or three days
  afterwards, he honoured me with the following note in English;
  which I shall copy literally, for its foreign originality.

  “‘The Duke of Chaulnes’ best compliments to Doctor Burney:
  he desires the favour of his company to dinner with Doctor
  Johnson on Sunday next, between about three and four o’clock,
  which is the hour convenient to the excellent old Doctor, the
  best piece of man, indeed, that the Duke ever saw.’”

  This dinner took place, but was only productive of
  disappointment; Dr. Johnson, unfortunately, was in a state of
  bodily uneasiness and pain that unfitted him for exertion;
  and well as his mind was disposed to do honour to the
  civilities of a distinguished foreigner, his physical force
  refused consent to his efforts. The Duke, however, was too
  enlightened and too rational a man, to permit this failure
  of his expectations to interfere with his previously formed
  belief in the genius and powers of Dr. Johnson, when they were
  unshackled by disease.

  Another note in English, which much amused Dr. Burney,
  was written by the Duke in answer to an invitation to St.
  Martin’s-street.

  “The Duke of Chaulnes’ best compliments to Doctor Burney.
  He shall certainly do himself the honour of waiting on him
  on Thursday evening at the English hour of tea. He begs him
  a thousand pardons for the delay of his answer, but he was
  himself waiting another answer which he was depending of.”

Dr. Burney received the Duke in his study, which the Duke entered with
reverence, from a knowledge that he was treading boards that had been
trodden by the great Newton. He then developed at full length his
Chinese researches, discoveries, and opinions: after which, and having
examined and discoursed upon the Doctor’s library, he made an earnest
request to be brought to the acquaintance of _Mademoiselle Beurni_.

The Doctor, who was never averse to what he thought expressive of
approbation, with quite as much pleasure, and almost as much eagerness
as the Duke, ushered his noble guest to the family tea-table; where
an introduction took place, so pompous on the part of the Duke, and so
embarrassed on that of its receiver, that finding, when it was over,
she simply bowed, and turned about to make the tea, without attempting
any conversational reply, he conceived that his eloquent _éloge_ had
not been understood; and, after a little general talk with Mr. Hoole
and his son, who were of the evening party, he approached her again,
with a grave desire to the Doctor of a second presentation.

This, though unavoidably granted, produced nothing more brilliant to
satisfy his expectations; which then, in all probability, were changed
into pity, if not contempt, at so egregious a mark of that uncouth
malady of which her country stands arraigned, bashful shyness.[69]




BARRY.


Amongst the many cotemporary tributes paid to the merits of Dr. Burney,
there was one from a celebrated and estimable artist, that caused no
small diversion to the friends of the Doctor; and, perhaps, to the
public at large; from the Hibernian tale which it seemed instinctively
to unfold of the birth-place of its designer.

The famous painter, Mr. Barry, after a formal declaration that his
picture of The Triumph of the Thames, which was painted for the Society
of Arts, should be devoted exclusively to immortalizing the eminent
dead, placed, in the watery groupes of the renowned departed, Dr.
Burney, then full of life and vigour.

This whimsical incident produced from the still playful imagination
of Mr. Owen Cambridge the following _jeu d’esprit_; to which he was
incited by an accident that had just occurred to the celebrated Gibbon;
who, in stepping too lightly from, or to a boat of Mr. Cambridge’s,
had slipt into the Thames; whence, however, he was intrepidly and
immediately rescued, with no other mischief than a wet jacket, by one
of that fearless, water-proof race, denominated, by Mr. Gibbon, the
amphibious family of the Cambridges.

  “When Chloe’s picture was to Venus shown,” &c.

  PRIOR.

    “When Burney’s picture was to Gibbon shown,
  The pleased historian took it for his own;
  ‘For who, with shoulders dry, and powder’d locks,
  E’er bath’d but I?’ He said, and rapt his box.
    “Barry replied, ‘My lasting colours show
  What gifts the painter’s pencil can bestow;
  With nymphs of Thames, those amiable creatures,
  I placed the charming minstrel’s smiling features:
  But let not, then, his _bonne fortune_ concern ye,
  For there are nymphs enough for you—and Burney.’”




DR. JOHNSON.


But all that Dr. Burney possessed, either of spirited resistance or
acquiescent submission to misfortune, was again to be severely tried
in the summer that followed the spring of this unkindly year; for the
health of his venerated Dr. Johnson received a blow from which it never
wholly recovered; though frequent rays of hope intervened from danger
to danger; and though more than a year and a half were still allowed to
his honoured existence upon earth.

Mr. Seward first brought to Dr. Burney the alarming tidings, that this
great and good man had been afflicted by a paralytic stroke. The
Doctor hastened to Bolt Court, taking with him this Memorialist, who
had frequently and urgently been desired by Dr. Johnson himself, during
the time that they lived so much together at Streatham, to see him
often if he should be ill. But he was surrounded by medical people, and
could only admit the Doctor. He sent down, nevertheless, the kindest
message of thanks to the truly-sorrowing daughter, for calling upon
him; and a request that, “when he should be better, she would come to
him again and again.”

From Mrs. Williams, with whom she remained, she then received the
comfort of an assurance that the physicians had pronounced him not to
be in danger; and even that they expected the illness would be speedily
overcome. The stroke had been confined to the tongue.

Mrs. Williams related a very touching circumstance that had attended
the attack. It had happened about four o’clock in the morning, when,
though she knew not how, he had been sensible to the seizure of a
paralytic affection. He arose, and composed, in his mind, a prayer
in Latin to the Almighty, That however acute might be the pains for
which he must befit himself, it would please him, through the grace and
mediation of our Saviour, to spare his intellects, and to let all his
sufferings fall upon his body.

When he had internally conceived this petition, he endeavoured to
pronounce it, according to his pious practice, aloud—but his voice was
gone!—He was greatly struck, though humbly and resignedly. It was not,
however, long, before it returned; but at first with very imperfect
articulation.

Dr. Burney, with the zeal of true affection, made time unceasingly
for inquiring visits: and no sooner was the invalid restored to the
power of reinstating himself in his drawing-room, than the Memorialist
received from him a summons, which she obeyed the following morning.

She was welcomed with the kindest pleasure; though it was with
difficulty that he endeavoured to rise, and to mark, with wide extended
arms, his cordial gladness at her sight; and he was forced to lean back
against the wainscot as impressively he uttered, “Ah!—dearest of all
dear ladies!—”

He soon, however, recovered more strength, and assumed the force to
conduct her himself, and with no small ceremony, to his best chair.

“Can you forgive me, Sir,” she cried, when she saw that he had not
breakfasted, “for coming so soon?”

“I can less forgive your not coming sooner!” he answered, with a smile.

She asked whether she might make his tea, which she had not done since
they had left poor Streatham; where it had been her constant and
gratifying business to give him that regale, Miss Thrale being yet too
young for the office.

He readily, and with pleasure consented.

“But, Sir,” quoth she, “I am in the wrong chair.” For it was on his own
sick large arm chair, which was too heavy for her to move, that he had
formally seated her; and it was away from the table.

“It is so difficult,” cried he, with quickness, “for any thing to be
wrong that belongs to you, that it can only be I that am in the wrong
chair to keep you from the right one!”

This playful good-humour was so reviving in shewing his recovery, that
though Dr. Burney could not remain above ten minutes, his daughter,
for whom he sent back his carriage, could with difficulty retire at
the end of two hours. Dr. Johnson endeavoured most earnestly to engage
her to stay and dine with him and Mrs. Williams; but that was not in
her power; though so kindly was his heart opened by her true joy at
his re-establishment, that he parted from her with a reluctance that
was even, and to both, painful. Warm in its affections was the heart
of this great and good man; his temper alone was in fault where it
appeared to be otherwise.

When his recovery was confirmed, he accepted some few of the many
invitations that were made to him, by various friends, to try at
their dwellings, the air of the country. Dr. Burney mentioned to him,
one evening, that he had heard that the first of these essays was to
be made at the house of Mr. Bowles; and the Memorialist added, that
she was extremely glad of that news, because, though she knew not
Mr. Bowles, she had been informed that he had a true sense of this
distinction, and was delighted by it beyond measure.

“He is so delighted,” said the Doctor, gravely, and almost with a sigh,
“that it is really—shocking!”

“And why so, Sir?”

“Why?” he repeated, “because, necessarily, he must be disappointed! For
if a man be expected to leap twenty yards, and should really leap ten,
which would be so many more than ever were leapt before, still they
would not be twenty; and consequently, Mr. Bowles, and Mr. every body
else would be disappointed.”




MR. BEWLEY.


The grievous blight by the loss of Mrs. Thrale; and the irreparable
blast by the death of Mr. Crisp, in the spring of 1783; followed, in
the ensuing summer, by this alarming shake to the constitution and
strength of Dr. Johnson; were now to be succeeded, in this same unhappy
year, by a fearful and calamitous event, that made the falling leaves
of its autumn corrosively sepulchral to Dr. Burney.

His erudite, witty, scientific, and truly dear friend, Mr. Bewley of
Massingham, though now in the wane of life, had never visited the
metropolis, except to pass through it upon business; his narrow income,
and confined country practice, having hitherto stood in the way of
such an excursion. Yet he had long desired to make the journey, not
only for seeing the capital, its curiosities, its men of letters, and
his own most highly prized friend, Dr. Burney, but, also, for calling
a consultation amongst the wisest of his brethren of the Æsculapian
tribe, upon the subject of his own health, which was now in a state of
alarming deterioration.

Continual letters, upon the lighter and pleasanter part of this
project, passed between Massingham and St. Martin’s-street, in
preparatory schemes on one side, and hurrying persuasion on the
other, before it could take place; though it was never-ceasingly
the goal at which the hopes and wishes of Mr. Bewley aimed, when
he permitted them to turn their course from business or science:
but now, suddenly, an occult disease, which for many years had been
preying upon the constitution of the too patient philosopher, began
more roughly to ravage his debilitating frame: and the excess of his
pains, with whatever fortitude they were borne, forced him from his
Stoic endurance, by dismembering it, through bodily torture, from the
palliations of intellectual occupation.

Irresolution, therefore, was over; and he hastily prepared to quit
his resident village, and consult personally with two surgeons and
two physicians of eminence, Messrs. Hunter and Potts, and Doctors
Warren and John Jebb, with whom he had long been incidentally and
professionally in correspondence.

There is, probably, no disease, save of that malignantly fatal nature
that joins, at once, the malady with the grave, that may not, for a
while, be parried, or, at least, diverted from its strait-forward
progress, by the indefinable power of those inward impellers of the
human machine, called the animal spirits; for no sooner was the invalid
decided upon this long-delayed journey, than a wish occurred to soften
off its vital solemnity, by rendering it mental and amical, as well
as medicinal: and from this wish emanated a glow of courage, that
enabled him to baffle his infirmities, and to begin his excursion by a
tour to Birmingham; where he had long promised a visit to a renowned
fellow-labourer in the walks of science, Dr. Priestley. And this he
accomplished, though with not more satisfaction than difficulty.

From the high gratification of this expedition, he proceeded to one
warmer, kindlier, and closer still to his breast, for he came on to
his first favourite upon earth, Dr. Burney; with whom he spent about
a week, under an influence of congenial feelings, and enlivening
pursuits, that charmed away pains that had seemed insupportable,
through the magic control of a delighted imagination, and an expanded
heart.

His eagerness, from the vigour of his fancy, was yet young,
notwithstanding his years, for every thing that was new to him, and,
of its sort, ingenious. Dr. Burney accompanied him in taking a general
view of the most celebrated literary and scientific institutions,
buildings, and public places; and presented him to the Duke de
Chaulnes, with whom a whole morning was spent in viewing specimens
of Chinese arts and discoveries. And they passed several hours in
examining the extensive paintings of Barry, which that extraordinary
artist elucidated to them himself: while every evening was devoted to
studying and hearing favourite old musical composers of Mr. Bewley;
or favourite new ones of Dr. Burney, now first brought forward to his
friend’s enraptured ears.

But that which most flattered, and exhilarated the Massingham
philosopher, was an interview accorded to him by Dr. Johnson; to whom
he was presented as the humble, but devoted preserver of the bristly
tuft of the Bolt Court Hearth-Broom.

He then left St. Martin’s-street, to visit Mr. Griffith, Editor of the
Monthly Review, who received him at Turnham Green.

Here, from the flitting and stimulating, though willing hurries of
pleasure, he meant to dedicate a short space to repose.——But repose,
here, was to be his no more! The visionary illusions of a fevered
imagination, and the eclât of novelty to all his sensations, were
passed away; and sober, severe reality, with all the acute pangs of
latent, but excruciating disease, resumed, unbridled, their sway. He
grew suddenly altered, and radically worse; and abruptly came back,
thus fatally changed, to St. Martin’s-street; where Dr. Burney, who had
returned to his work at Chesington, was recalled by an express to join
him; and where the long procrastinated consultation at length was held.

But nor Hunter, nor Potts, nor Warren, nor Jebb could cure, could
even alleviate pains, of which they could not discern the source,
nor ascertain the cause. Nevertheless, from commiseration for his
sufferings, respect to his genius, and admiration of his patience,
they all attended him with as much zeal and assiduity as if they had
grasped at every fee which, generously, they declined: though they had
the mortification to observe that they were applied to so tardily,
and that so desperate was the case, that they seemed hut summoned to
acknowledge it to be beyond their reach, and to prognosticate its
quick-approaching fatality. And, a very short time afterwards, Dr.
Burney had the deep disappointment of finding all his joy at this so
long desired meeting, reversed into the heartfelt affliction of seeing
this valued friend expire under his roof!

Mrs. Bewley, the excellent wife of this man of science, philosophy, and
virtue, was fortunately, however unhappily, the companion of his tour;
and his constant and affectionate nurse to his last moment.

It was afterwards known, that his pains, and their incurability, were
produced by an occult and dreadful cancer.

He was buried in St. Martin’s church.

The following account of him was written for the Norwich newspaper by
Dr. Burney.

  “_September 15, 1783._

  “On Friday last died, at the house of his friend, Dr. Burney,
  in St. Martin’s-street, where he had been on a visit, Mr.
  William Bewley, of Massingham, in Norfolk; whose death will
  be sincerely lamented by all men of science, to whom his
  great abilities, particularly in anatomy, electricity, and
  chemistry, had penetrated through the obscurity of his abode,
  and the natural modesty and diffidence of his disposition.
  Indeed, the depth and extent of his knowledge on every useful
  branch of science and literature, could only be equalled by
  the goodness of his heart, simplicity of his character, and
  innocency of his life; seasoned with a natural, unsought
  wit and humour, of a cast the most original, pleasant, and
  inoffensive.

  “Hobbes, in the last century, whose chief writings were
  levelled against the religion of his country, was called, from
  the place of his residence, the Philosopher of Malmsbury; but
  with how much more truth and propriety has Mr. Bewley, whose
  life was spent in the laborious search of the most hidden and
  useful discoveries in art and nature, in exposing sophistry,
  and displaying talents, been distinguished in Norfolk by the
  respectable title of the Philosopher of Massingham.”[70]




HISTORY OF MUSIC.


After this harrowing loss, Dr. Burney again returned to melancholy
Chesington; but—still its inmate—to his soothingly reviving Susanna.

These two admirable and bosom friends, the one of early youth, the
other of early manhood, Mr.

Crisp and Mr. Bewley, both thus gone; both, in the same year, departed;
Mr. Twining only now, for the union of musical with mental friendship,
remained: but Mr. Twining, though capable to exhilarate as well
as console almost every evil—except his own absence, was utterly
unattainable, save during the few weeks of his short annual visit to
London; or the few days of the Doctor’s yet shorter visits to the
vicarage of Fordham.

Alone, therefore, and unassisted, except by the slow mode of
correspondence, Dr. Burney prosecuted his work. This labour,
nevertheless, however fatiguing to his nerves, and harassing to his
health, upon missing the triple participation that had lightened his
toil, gradually became, what literary pursuits will ever become to
minds capable of their development, when not clogged by the heavy
weight of recent grief; first a check to morbid sadness, next a
renovator of wearied faculties, and lastly, through their oblivious
influence over all objects foreign to their purposes, a source of
enjoyment.

To this occupation he owed the re-invigoration of courage that,
ere long, was followed by a return to the native temperature of
tranquillity, that had early and intuitively taught him not to sully
what yet he possessed of happiness, by inconsolably bemoaning what was
withdrawn! and he resolved, in aid at once of his spirits and of his
work, to cultivate more assiduously than ever his connexions with Dr.
Johnson, Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Mrs. Delany.




DR. JOHNSON.


When at the end, therefore, of the ensuing autumn, he re-entered Newton
House, his first voluntary egress thence was to Bolt Court; where
he had the heartfelt satisfaction of finding Dr. Johnson recovered
from his paralytic stroke, and not more than usually afflicted by his
other complaints; for free from complaint Dr. Burney had never had the
happiness to know that long and illustrious sufferer; whose pains and
infirmities, however, seemed rather to strengthen than to deaden his
urbanity towards Dr. Burney and this Memorialist.

It had happened, through vexatious circumstances, after the return from
Chesington, that Dr. Burney, in his visits to Bolt Court, had not been
able to take thither his daughter; nor yet to spare her his carriage
for a separate inquiry; and incessant bad weather had made walking
impracticable. After a week or two of this omission, Dr. Johnson, in a
letter to Dr. Burney, enclosed the following billet.

  “TO MISS BURNEY.

  “Madam,

“You have now been at home this long time, and yet I have neither seen
nor heard from you. Have we quarrelled?

“I have met with a volume of the Philosophical Transactions, which I
imagine to belong to Dr. Burney. Miss Charlotte[71] will please to
examine.

“Pray send me a direction where Mrs. Chapone lives; and pray, some
time, let me have the honour of telling you how much I am, Madam, your
most humble servant,

  “SAM. JOHNSON.”

  “_Bolt Court, Nov. 19, 1783._”

Inexpressibly shocked to have hurt or displeased her honoured friend,
yet conscious from all within of unalterable and affectionate reverence,
she took courage to answer him without offering any serious defence.

  “TO DR. JOHNSON.

  “Dear Sir,

“May I not say dear?—for quarrelled I am sure we have not. The bad
weather alone has kept me from waiting upon you: but now, that you have
condescended to give me a summons, no ‘Lion shall stand in the way’ of
my making your tea this afternoon—unless I receive a prohibition from
yourself, and then—I must submit! for what, as you said of a certain
great lady,[72] signifies the barking of a lap-dog, if once the lion
puts out his paw?

“The book was right.

“Mrs. Chapone lives in Dean-street, Soho.

“I beg you, Sir, to forgive a delay for which I can ‘tax the elements
only with unkindness,’ and to receive with your usual goodness and
indulgence,

  “Your ever most obliged,

  “And most faithful humble servant,
  “F. BURNEY.”

  “_19th Nov. 1783, St. Martin’s-Street._”

A latent, but most potent reason, had, in fact, some share in abetting
the elements in the failure of the Memorialist of paying her respects
in Bolt Court at this period; except when attending thither her father.
Dr. Burney feared her seeing Dr. Johnson alone; dreading, for both their
sakes, the subject to which the Doctor might revert, if they should
chance to be _tête à tête_. Hitherto, in the many meetings of the two
Doctors and herself that had taken place after the paralytic stroke
of Dr. Johnson, as well as during the many that had more immediately
followed the retreat of Mrs. Thrale to Bath, the name of that lady had
never once been mentioned by any of the three.

Not from difference of opinion was the silence; it was rather from
a painful certainty that their opinions must be in unison, and,
consequently, that in unison must be their regrets. Each of them,
therefore, having so warmly esteemed one whom each of them, now, so
afflictingly blamed, they tacitly concurred that, for the immediate
moment, to cast a veil over her name, actions, and remembrance, seemed
what was most respectful to their past feelings, and to her present
situation.

But, after the impressive reproach of Dr. Johnson to the Memorialist
relative to her absence; and after a seizure which caused a constant
anxiety for his health, she could no longer consult her discretion
at the expense of her regard; and, upon ceasing to observe her
precautions, she was unavoidably left with him, one morning, by Dr.
Burney, who had indispensable business further on in the city, and was
to call for her on his return.

Nothing yet had publicly transpired, with certainty or authority,
relative to the projects of Mrs. Thrale, who had now been nearly a
year at Bath; though nothing was left unreported, or unasserted, with
respect to her proceedings. Nevertheless, how far Dr. Johnson was
himself informed, or was ignorant on the subject, neither Dr. Burney
nor his daughter could tell; and each equally feared to learn.

Scarcely an instant, however, was the latter left alone in Bolt Court,
ere she saw the justice of her long apprehensions; for while she
planned speaking upon some topic that might have a chance to catch the
attention of the Doctor, a sudden change from kind tranquillity to
strong austerity took place in his altered countenance; and, startled
and affrighted, she held her peace.

A silence almost awful succeeded, though, previously to Dr. Burney’s
absence, the gayest discourse had been reciprocated.

The Doctor, then, see-sawing violently in his chair, as usual when
he was big with any powerful emotion whether of pleasure or of pain,
seemed deeply moved; but without looking at her, or speaking, he
intently fixed his eyes upon the fire: while his panic-struck visitor,
filled with dismay at the storm which she saw gathering; over the
character and conduct of one still dear to her very heart, from the
furrowed front, the laborious heaving of the ponderous chest, and the
roll of the large, penetrating, wrathful eye of her honoured, but,
just then, terrific host, sate mute, motionless, and sad; tremblingly
awaiting a mentally demolishing thunderbolt.

Thus passed a few minutes, in which she scarcely dared breathe; while
the respiration of the Doctor, on the contrary, was of asthmatic force
and loudness; then, suddenly turning to her, with an air of mingled
wrath and woe, he hoarsely ejaculated: “Piozzi!”

He evidently meant to say more; but the effort with which he
articulated that name robbed him of any voice for amplification, and
his whole frame grew tremulously convulsed.

His guest, appalled, could not speak; but he soon discerned that it was
grief from coincidence, not distrust from opposition of sentiment, that
caused her taciturnity.

This perception calmed him, and he then exhibited a face “in sorrow
more than anger.” His see-sawing abated of its velocity, and, again
fixing his looks upon the fire, he fell into pensive rumination.

From time to time, nevertheless, he impressively glanced upon her his
full fraught eye, that told, had its expression been developed, whole
volumes of his regret, his disappointment, his astonished indignancy:
but, now and then, it also spoke so clearly and so kindly, that he
found her sight and her stay soothing to his disturbance, that she felt
as if confidentially communing with him, although they exchanged not a
word.

At length, and with great agitation, he broke forthwith: “She cares
for no one! You, only—You, she loves still!—but no one—and nothing
else!—You she still loves—”

A half smile now, though of no very gay character, softened a
little the severity of his features, while he tried to resume some
cheerfulness in adding: “As .... she loves her little finger!”

It was plain by this burlesque, or, perhaps, playfully literal
comparison, that he meant now, and tried, to dissipate the solemnity of
his concern.

The hint was taken; his guest started another subject; and this he
resumed no more. He saw how distressing was the theme to a hearer whom
he ever wished to please, not distress; and he named Mrs. Thrale no
more! Common topics took place, till they were rejoined by Dr. Burney,
whom then, and indeed always, he likewise spared upon this subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

Very ill again Dr. Johnson grew on the approach of winter; and with
equal fear and affection, both father and daughter sought him as often
as it was in their power; though by no means as frequently as their
zealous attachment, or as his own kind wishes might have prompted.
But fullness of affairs, and the distance of his dwelling, impeded
such continual intercourse as their mutual regard would otherwise have
instigated.

This new failure of health was accompanied by a sorrowing depression of
spirits; though unmixt with the smallest deterioration of intellect.

One evening,—the last but one of the sad year 1783,—when Dr. Burney
and the Memorialist were with him, and some other not remembered
visitors, he took an opportunity during a general discourse in which
he did not join, to turn suddenly to the ever-favoured daughter, and,
fervently grasping her hand, to say: “The blister I have tried for
my breath has betrayed some very bad tokens!—but I will not terrify
myself by talking of them.—Ah!—_priez Dieu pour moi!_”

Her promise was as solemn as it was sorrowful; but more humble, if
possible, than either. That such a man should condescend to make her
such a request, amazed, and almost bewildered her: yet, to a mind so
devout as that of Dr. Johnson, prayer, even from the most lowly, never
seemed presumptuous; and even—where he believed in its sincerity,
soothed him—for a passing moment—with an idea that it might be
propitious.

This was the only instance in which Dr. Johnson ever addressed her in
French. He did not wish so serious an injunction to reach other ears
than her own.

But those who imagine that the fear of death, which, at this period,
was the prominent feature of the mind of Dr. Johnson; and which excited
not more commiseration than wonder in the observers and commentators
of the day; was the effect of conscious criminality; or produced by a
latent belief that he had sinned more than his fellow sinners, knew
not Dr. Johnson! He thought not ill of himself as compared with his
human brethren: but he weighed, in the rigid scales of his calculating
justice, the great talent which he had received, against the uses of
it which he had made — —

And found himself wanting!

Could it be otherwise, to one who had a conscience poignantly alive
to a sense of duty, and religiously submissive to the awards of
retributive responsibility?

If those, therefore, who ignorantly have marvelled, or who maliciously
would triumph at the terror of death in the pious, would sincerely
and severely bow down to a similar self-examination, the marvel
would subside, and the triumph might perhaps turn to blushes! in
considering—not the trembling inferiority, but the sublime humility of
this ablest and most dauntless of Men, but humblest and most orthodox
of Christians.




SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.


While thus with Dr. Johnson, the most reverenced of Dr. Burney’s
connexions, all intercourse was shaken in gaiety and happiness, with
Sir Joshua Reynolds, save from grief for Dr. Johnson, gaiety and
happiness still seemed almost stationary.

Sir Joshua Reynolds had a suavity of disposition that set every
body at their ease in his society; though neither that, nor what Dr.
Johnson called his “_inoffensiveness_,” bore the character of a tame
insipidity that never differed from a neighbour; or that knew not how
to support an opposing opinion with firmness and independence. On the
contrary, Sir Joshua was even peculiar in thinking for himself: and
frequently, after a silent rumination, to which he was unavoidably
led by not following up, from his deafness, the various stages of any
given question, he would surprise the whole company by starting some
new and unexpected idea on the subject in discussion, in a manner so
imaginative and so original, that it either drew the attention of the
interlocutors into a quite different mode of argument to that with
which they had set out; or it incited them to come forth, in battle
array, against the novelty of his assertions. In the first case, he was
frankly gratified, but never moved to triumph; in the second, he met
the opposition with candour; but was never brow-beaten from defending
his cause with courage, even by the most eminent antagonist.

Both father and daughter shared his favour alike; and both returned it
with an always augmenting attachment.




MRS. DELANY.


The setting, but with glory setting, sun of Mrs. Delany, was
still glowing with all the warmth of generous friendship, all the
capabilities of mental exertion, and all the ingenuous readiness for
enjoyment of innocent pleasure,—or nearly all—that had irradiated its
brilliant rise.

She was venerated by Dr. Burney, whom most sincerely, in return, she
admired, esteemed, and liked. She has left, indeed, a lasting proof of
her kind disposition to him in her narrative of Anastasia Robinson,
Countess of Peterborough; which, at the request of Dr. Burney, she
dictated, in her eighty-seventh year, to her much-attached and faithful
amanuensis, Anna Astley; and which the Doctor has printed in the fourth
volume of his History.

Mrs. Delany had known and loved Anastasia Robinson while she was a
public concert and opera singer. The uncommon musical talents of that
songstress were seconded by such faultless and sweet manners, and a
life so irreproachable, that she was received by ladies of the first
rank and character upon terms nearly of equality; though so modest
was her demeanour, that the born distance between them was never by
herself forgotten. She was peculiarly a favourite with the bosom friend
of Mrs. Delany, the Duchess of Portland, whose mother, the Countess of
Oxford, had been the first patroness of Anastasia, and had consented
to be present, as a witness, as well as a support, at the private and
concealed marriage of that syren of her day with the famous and martial
Earl of Peterborough.

A narrative such as this, and so well authenticated, could not but
cause great satisfaction to Dr. Burney, in holding to view such
splendid success to the power of harmony, when accompanied by virtue.

This increase of intercourse with Mrs. Delany, was a source of gentle
pleasure in perfect concord with the Doctor’s present turn of mind;
and trebly welcome on account of his daughter, to whose poignant grief
for the loss of Mr. Crisp it was a solace the most seasonable. Her
description of its soothing effect, which is gratefully recorded in her
diary to her sister at Boulogne, may here, perhaps, not unacceptably be
copied for the reader, as a further picture of this venerable widow of
one of the most favourite friends of Dean Swift.

“_July 18, 1783._—I called again, my dear Susan, upon the sweet Mrs.
Delany, whom every time I see I feel myself to love even more than I
admire. And how dear, how consolatory is it to me to be honoured with
so much of her favour, as to find her always eager, upon every meeting,
to fix a time for another and another visit! How truly desirable
are added years, where the spirit of life evaporates not before its
extinction! She is as generously awake to the interests of those she
loves, as if her own life still claimed their responsive sympathies.
There is something in her quite angelic. I feel no cares when with
her. I think myself with the true image and representative of our so
loved maternal Grandmother, in whose presence not only all committal
of evil, even in thought, was impossible, but its sufferance, also,
seemed immaterial, from the higher views that the very air she breathed
imparted. This composure, and these thoughts, are not for lasting
endurance! Yet it is salubrious to feel them even for a few hours. I
wish my Susan knew her. I would not give up my knowledge of her for
the universe. I spend with her all the time I have at my own disposal;
and nothing has so sensibly calmed my mind, since our fatal Chesington
deprivation, as her society. The religious turn which kindness,
united to wisdom, in old age, gives, involuntarily, to all commerce
with it, beguiles us out of anxiety and misery a thousand times more
successfully than all the forced exertions of gaiety from dissipation.”

If such was the benefit reaped by the daughter from this animated and
very uncommon friendship, the great age of one of the parties at its
formation considered, who can wonder at the glad as well as proud
encouragement which it met with from Dr. Burney?




MR. BURKE.


But the cordial the most potent to the feelings and the spirits of
the Doctor, in this hard-trying year, was the exhilarating partiality
displayed towards him by Mr. Burke; and which was doubly soothing by
warmly and constantly including the Memorialist in its urbanity. From
the time of the party at Sir Joshua Reynolds’ upon Richmond Hill, their
intercourse had gone on with increase of regard. They met, and not
unfrequently, at various places; but chiefly at Sir Joshua Reynolds’,
Miss Moncton’s, and Mrs. Vesey’s. Mr. Burke delighted in society as
much as of society he was the supreme delight: and perhaps to this
social disposition he owed that part of his oratorical excellence that
made it so entertainingly varying, and so frequently interspersed with
penetrating reflections on human life.

But to the political circle to which Mr. Burke and his powers were
principally devoted, Dr. Burney was, accidentally, a stranger.
Accidentally may be said, for it was by no means deliberately, as he
was not of any public station or rank that demanded any restrictions to
his mental connexions. He was excursive, therefore, in his intercourse,
though fixed in his principles.

But besides the three places above named, Mr. Burke himself, from the
period of the assembly at Miss Moncton’s, had the grace and amiability
to drop in occasionally, uninvited and unexpectedly, to the little
tea-table of St. Martin’s-street; where his bright welcome from the
enchanted Memorialist, for whom he constantly inquired when the Doctor
was abroad, repaid him—in some measure, perhaps—for almost always
missing the chief of whom he came in search.

The Doctor, also, when he had half an hour to spare, took the new
votary of Mr. Burke to visit him and his pleasing wife, at their
apartments at the Treasury, where now was their official residence. And
here they saw, with wonder and admiration, amidst the whirl of politics
and the perplexities of ministerial arrangements, in which Mr. Burke,
then in the administration, was incessantly involved, how cheerfully,
how agreeably, how vivaciously, he could still be the most winning of
domestic men, the kindest of husbands, the fondest of fathers, and the
most delightful of friends.

During one of these visits to the Treasury, Mr. Burke presented to Miss
Palmer a beautiful inkstand, with a joined portfolio, upon some new
construction, and finished up with various contrivances, equally useful
and embellishing. Miss Palmer accepted it with great pleasure, but not
without many conscious glances towards the Memorialist, which, at last,
broke out into an exclamation: “I am ashamed to take it, Mr. Burke! how
much more Miss Burney deserves a writing present!”

“Miss Burney?” repeated he, with energy; “Fine writing tackle for Miss
Burney? No, no; she can bestow value on the most ordinary. A morsel of
white tea-paper, and a little blacking from her friend Mr. Briggs, in
a broken gallipot, would be converted by Miss Burney into more worth
than all the stationery of all the Treasury.”

This gay and ingenious turn, which made the compliment as gratifying to
one, as the present could be to the other, raised a smile of general
archness at its address in the company; and of comprehensive delight in
Dr. Burney.

The year 1783 was now on its wane; so was the administration in which
Mr. Burke was a minister; when one day, after a dinner at Sir Joshua
Reynolds’, Mr. Burke drew Dr. Burney aside, and, with great delicacy,
and feeling his way, by the most investigating looks, as he proceeded,
said that the organist’s place at Chelsea College was then vacant: that
it was but twenty pounds a year, but that, to a man of Dr. Burney’s
eminence, if it should be worth acceptance, it might be raised to
fifty. He then lamented that, during the short time in which he had
been Paymaster General, nothing better, and, indeed, nothing else had
occurred more worthy of offering.

Trifling as this was in a pecuniary light, and certainly far beneath
the age or the rank in his profession of Dr. Burney, to possess any
thing through the influence, or rather the friendship of Mr. Burke,
had a charm irresistible. The Doctor wished, also, for some retreat
from, yet near London; and he had reason to hope for apartments, ere
long, in the capacious Chelsea College. He therefore warmly returned
his acknowledgments for the proposal, to which he frankly acceded.

And two days after, just as the news was published of a total change of
administration, Dr. Burney received from Mr. Burke the following notice
of his vigilant kindness:—

  “TO DR. BURNEY.

  “I had yesterday the pleasure of voting you, my dear Sir,
  a salary of fifty pounds a year, as organist to Chelsea
  Hospital. But as every increase of salary made at our Board is
  subject to the approbation of the Lords of the Treasury, what
  effect the change now made may have I know not;—but I do not
  think any Treasury will rescind it.

  “This was _pour faire la bonne bouche_ at parting with office;
  and I am only sorry that it did not fall in my way to shew you
  a more substantial mark of my high respect for you and Miss
  Burney.

  “I have the honour to be, &c. “EDM. BURKE.”

  “_Horse Guards, Dec. 9, 1783._”

  “I really could not do this business at a more early period,
  else it would have been done infallibly.”

The pleasure of Dr. Burney at this event was sensibly dampt when
he found that _la bonne bouche_ so kindly made for himself, and so
flatteringly uniting his daughter in its intentions, was unallied to
any species of remuneration, or even of consideration, to Mr. Burke
himself, for all his own long willing services, his patriotic exertions
for the general good, and his noble, even where erroneous, efforts to
stimulate public virtue.

A short time afterwards, Mr. Burke called himself in St.
Martin’s-street, and,—for the Doctor, as usual, was not at home,—Mr.
Burke, as usual, had the condescension to inquire for this Memorialist;
whom he found alone.

He entered the room with that penetrating look, yet open air, that
marked his demeanour where his object in giving was, also, to receive
pleasure; and in uttering apologies of as much elegance for breaking
into her time, as if he could possibly be ignorant of the honour he did
her; or blind to the delight with which it was felt.

He was anxious, he said, to make known in person that the business of
the Chelsea Organ was finally settled at the Treasury.

Difficult would it be, from the charm of his manner as well as of
his words, to decide whether he conveyed this communication with most
friendliness or most politeness: but, having delivered for Dr. Burney
all that officially belonged to the business, he thoughtfully, a
moment, paused; and then impressively said: “This is my last act of
office!”

He pronounced these words with a look that almost affectionately
displayed his satisfaction that it should so be bestowed; and with such
manly self-command of cheerfulness in the midst of frankly undisguised
regret that all his official functions were over, that his hearer was
sensibly, though silently touched, by such distinguishing partiality.
Her looks, however, she hopes, were not so mute as her voice, for
those of Mr. Burke seemed responsively to accept their gratitude. He
reiterated, then, his kind messages to the Doctor, and took leave.




1784.


The reviving ray of pleasure that gleamed from the kindness of Mr.
Burke at the close of the fatal year 1783, still spread its genial
warmth over Dr. Burney at the beginning of 1784, by brightening a hope
of recovery for Dr. Johnson; a hope which, though frequently dimmed,
cast forth, from time to time, a transitory lustre nearly to this
year’s conclusion.




DR. JOHNSON’S CLUB.


Dr. Burney now was become a member of the Literary Club; in which he
found an association so select, yet so various, that there were few
things, either of business or pleasure, that he ever permitted to
interfere with his attendance. Where, indeed, could taste point out,
or genius furnish, a society to meet his wishes, if that could fail
which had the decided national superiority of Johnson and Burke at its
head? while Banks, Beauclerk, Boswell, Colman, Courtney, Eliot (Earl,)
Fox, Gibbon, Hamilton (Sir William,) Hinchcliffe, Jones, Macartney
(Earl,) Malone, Percy, Reynolds, Scott (Lord Sewel,) Sheridan, Spencer
(Earl,) Windham, and many others of high and acknowledged abilities,
successively entering, marked this assemblage as the pride—not of this
meeting alone, but of the Classical British Empire of the day.

It had been the original intention of Dr. Johnson, when this club,
of which the idea was conceived by Sir Joshua Reynolds, was in
contemplation, to elect amongst its members some one of noted
reputation in every art, science, and profession; to the end that solid
information might elucidate every subject that should be started. This
profound suggestion, nevertheless, was either passed over, or overruled.

It is probable that those, so much the larger portion of mankind, who
love light and desultory discourse, were persuaded they should find
more amusement in wandering about the wilds of fanciful conjecture,
than in submitting to be disciplined by the barriers of systemized
conviction.

Brightly forward at this club came Mr. Windham, of Felbrig, amongst
those whose penetration had long since preceded the public voice in
ranking Dr. Burney as a distinguished Man of Letters. And from the date
of these meetings, their early esteem was augmented into partial, yet
steady regard.

Mr. Windham was a true and first rate gentleman; polite, cultivated,
learned, upright, and noble-minded. To an imagination the most ardent
for whatever could issue from native genius in others, he joined a
charm of manner that gave an interest to whatever he uttered himself;
no matter how light, how slight, how unimportant; that invested it
with weight and pleasure to his auditor: while in his smile there
was a gentleness that singularly qualified an almost fiery animation
in his words. To speak, however, of his instantaneous powers of
pleasing,—though it be conferring on him one of the least common of
Nature’s gifts, as well as one of the fairest,—is insufficient to
characterize the peculiar charm of his address; for it was not simply
the power of pleasing that he possessed—it was rather that of winning.




HANDEL’S COMMEMORATION.


In the ensuing spring and summer, a new and brilliant professional
occupation fell, fortunately, to the task of Dr. Burney, drawing
him from his cares, and beguiling him from his sorrows, by notes of
sweetest melody, and combinations of the most intricate, yet sound
harmony; for this year, which completed a century from the birth of
Handel, was allotted for a public Commemoration of that great musician
and his works.

Dr. Burney, justly proud of the honour paid to the chief of that art
of which he was a professor, was soon, and instinctively wound up to
his native spirits, by the exertions which were called forth in aid
of this noble enterprise. He suggested fresh ideas to the Conductors;
he was consulted by all the Directors; and his advice and experience
enlightened every member of the business in whatever walk he moved.

Not content, however, to be merely a counsellor to a celebration
of such eclât in his own career, he resolved upon becoming the
Historian of the transaction; and upon devoting to it his best labours
gratuitously, by presenting them to the fund for the benefit of decayed
musicians and their families.

This offer, accordingly, he made to the honourable Directors; by whom
it was accepted with pleasure and gratitude.

He now delegated all his powers to the furtherance of this grand
scheme; and drew up a narrative of the festival, with so much delight
in recording the disinterestedness of its voluntary performers; its
services to the superannuated or helpless old labourers of his caste;
and the splendid success of the undertaking; that his history of the
performances in Commemoration of Handel, presents a picture so vivid
of that superb entertainment, that those who still live to remember
it, must seem to witness its stupendous effects anew: and those of
later days, who can know of it but by tradition, must bewail their
little chance of ever personally hearing such magnificent harmony;
or beholding a scene so glorious of royal magnificence and national
enthusiasm.

Dr. Johnson was wont to say, with a candour that, though admirable, was
irresistibly comic, “I always talk my best!” and, with equal singleness
of truth it might be said of Dr. Burney, that, undertake what he would,
he always did his best.

In writing, therefore, this account, he conceived he should make it
more interesting by preceding it with the Memoirs of Handel. And for
this purpose, he applied to all his German correspondents, to acquire
materials concerning the early life of his hero; and to all to whom
Handel had been known, either personally or traditionally, in England
and Ireland, for anecdotes of his character and conduct in the British
empire. Mrs. Delany here, and by the desire of the King himself,
supplied sundry particulars; her brother, Mr. Granville, having been
one of the patrons of this immortal composer.

And next, to render the work useful, he inserted a statement of the
cash received in consequence of the five musical performances, with the
disbursement of the sums to their charitable purposes; and an abstract
of the general laws and resolutions of the fund for the support of
decayed musicians and their families.

And lastly, he embellished it with several plates, representing Handel,
or in honour of Handel; and with two views, from original designs,[73]
of the interior of Westminster Abbey during the Commemoration: the
first representing the galleries prepared for the reception of their
Majesties, of the Royal Family, of the Directors, Archbishops, Bishops,
Dean and Chapter of Westminster, heads of the law, &c. &c.

The second view displaying the orchestra and performers, in the costume
of the day.

Not small in the scales of justice must be reckoned this gift of the
biographical and professional talents of Dr. Burney to the musical fund.
A man who held his elevation in his class of life wholly from himself;
a father of eight children, who all looked up to him as their prop; a
professor who, at fifty-eight years of age, laboured at his calling with
the indefatigable diligence of youth; and who had no time, even for his
promised History, but what he spared from his repasts or his repose; to
make any offering, gratuitously, of a work which, though it might have
no chance of sale when its eclât of novelty was passed, must yet, while
that short eclât shone forth, have a sale of high emolument; manifested,
perhaps, as generous a spirit of charity, and as ardent a love of the
lyre, as could well, by a person in so private a line of life, be
exhibited.

Dr. Burney was, of course, so entirely at home on a subject such as
this, that he could only have to wait the arrival of his foreign
materials to go to work; and only begin working to be in sight of his
book’s completion: but the business of the plates could not be executed
quite so rapidly; on the contrary, though the composition was finished
in a few weeks, it was not till the following year that the engravings
were ready for publication.

This was a laxity of progress that by no means kept pace with the
eagerness of the Directors, or the expectations of the public: and
the former frequently made known their disappointment through the
channel of the Earl of Sandwich; who, at the same time, entered into
correspondence with the Doctor, relative to future anniversary concerts
upon a similar plan, though upon a considerably lessened scale to that
which had been adopted for the Commemoration.

The inconveniences, however, of this new labour, though by no means
trifling, because absorbing all the literary time of the Doctor,
to the great loss and procrastination of his musical history, had
compensations, that would have mitigated much superior evil.

The King himself deigned to make frequent inquiry into the state of the
business; and when his Majesty knew that the publication was retarded
only by the engravers, he desired to see the loose and unbound sheets
of the work, which he perused with so strong an interest in their
contents, that he drew up two critical notes upon them, with so much
perspicuity and justness, that Dr. Burney, unwilling to lose their
purport, yet not daring to presume to insert them with the King’s name
in any appendix, cancelled the two sheets to which they had reference,
and embodied their meaning in his own text. At this he was certain the
King could not be displeased, as it was with his Majesty’s consent that
they had been communicated to the doctor, by Mr. Nicolai, a page of the
Queen’s.

Now, however, there seems to be no possible objection to giving to the
public these two notes from the original royal text, as the unassuming
tone of their advice cannot but afford a pleasing reminiscence to
those by whom that benevolent monarch was known; while to those who
are too young to recollect him, they may still be a matter of laudable
curiosity. And they will obviate, also, any ignorant imputation of
flattery, in the praise which is inserted in the dedication of the Work
to the King; and which will be subjoined to these original notes.


_From the hand-writing of his Majesty George III._

“It seems but just, as well as natural, in mentioning the 4th Hautbois
Concerto, on the 4th day’s performance of Handel’s Commemoration, to
take notice of the exquisite taste and propriety Mr. Fischer exhibited
in the solo parts; which must convince his hearers that his excellence
does not exist alone in performing his own composition; and that his
tone perfectly filled the stupendous building where this excellent
concerto was performed.”


_From the same._

“The performance of the Messiah.

“Dr. Burney seems to forget the great merit of the choral fugue, ‘He
trusteth in God,’ by asserting that the words would admit of no stroke
of passion. Now the real truth is, that the words contain a manifest
presumption and impertinence, which Handel has, in the most masterly
manner, taken advantage of. And he was so conscious of the moral merit
of that movement, that, whenever he was desired to sit down to the
harpsichord, if not instantly inclined to play, he used to take this
subject; which ever set his imagination at work, and made him produce
wonderful capriccios.”


_From Dr. Burney’s Dedication._

“That pleasure in music should be complete, science and nature
must assist each other. A quick sensibility of melody and harmony
is not often originally bestowed; and those who are born with this
susceptibility of modulated sounds are often ignorant of its
principles, and must, therefore, in a great degree be delighted by
chance. But when your Majesty is present, the artists may congratulate
themselves upon the attention of a judge, in whom all requisites
concur, who hears them not merely with instinctive emotion, but with
rational approbation; and whose praise of Handel is not the effusion of
credulity, but the emanation of science.”

       *       *       *       *       *

With feelings the most poignant, and a pen the most reluctant, the
Memorialist must now relate an event which gave peculiar and lasting
concern to Dr. Burney; and which, though long foreseen, had lost
nothing, either from expectation or by preparation, of its inherent
unfitness.




MRS. THRALE.


About the middle of this year, Mrs. Thrale put an end to the alternate
hopes and fears of her family and friends, and to her own torturing
conflicts, by a change of name that, for the rest of her life, produced
nearly a change of existence.

Her station in society, her fortune, her distinguished education,
and her conscious sense of its distinction; and yet more, her high
origin[74]—a native honour, which had always seemed the glory of her
self-appreciation; all had contributed to lift her so eminently above
the witlessly impetuous tribe, who immolate fame, interest, and duty
to the shrine of passion, that the outcry of surprise and censure
raised throughout the metropolis by these unexpected nuptials, was
almost stunning in its jarring noise of general reprobation; resounding
through madrigals, parodies, declamation, epigrams, and irony.

And yet more deeply wounding was the concentrated silence of those
faithful friends who, at the period of her bright display of talents,
virtues, and hospitality, had attached themselves to her person with
sincerity and affection.

Dr. Johnson excepted, none amongst the latter were more painfully
impressed than Dr. Burney; for none with more true grief had foreseen
the mischief in its menace, or dreaded its deteriorating effect on her
maternal devoirs. Nevertheless, conscious that if he had no weight,
he had also no right over her actions, he hardened not his heart,
when called upon by an appeal, from her own hand, to give her his
congratulations; but, the deed once irreversible, civilly addressed
himself to both parties at once, with all of conciliatory kindness in
good wishes and regard, that did least violence to his sentiments and
principles.

Far harder was the task of his daughter, on receiving from the
new bride a still more ardent appeal, written at the very instant
of quitting the altar: she had been trusted while the conflict
still endured; and her opinions and feelings had unreservedly been
acknowledged in all their grief of opposition: and their avowal had
been borne, nay, almost bowed down to, with a liberality of mind, a
softness of affection, a nearly angelic sweetness of temper, that won
more fondly than ever the heart that they rived with pitying anguish,—
—till the very epoch of the second marriage.

Yet, strange to tell! all this contest of opinion, and dissonance
of feeling, seemed, at the altar, to be suddenly, but in totality
forgotten! and the bride wrote to demand not alone kind wishes for her
peace and welfare—those she had no possibility of doubting—but joy,
wishing joy; but cordial felicitations upon her marriage!

These, and so abruptly, to have accorded, must, even in their pleader’s
eyes, have had the semblance, and more than the semblance, of the most
glaring hypocrisy.

A compliance of such inconsistency—such falsehood—the Memorialist
could not bestow; her answer, therefore, written in deep distress, and
with regrets unspeakable, was necessarily disappointing; disappointment
is inevitably chilling; and, after a painful letter or two, involving
mistake and misapprehension, the correspondence—though not on the side
of the Memorialist—abruptly dropt.

The minuter circumstances of this grievous catastrophe to a connexion
begun with the most brilliant delight, and broken up with the acutest
sorrow, might seem superfluous in the Memoirs of Dr. Burney: yet,
in speaking of him Biographically, in his Fatherly capacity, it is
necessarily alluded to, for the purpose of stating that the conduct
of his daughter, throughout the whole of this afflicting and complex
transaction, from the time he was acquainted with its difficulties, had
his uniform, nay, warmest sanction.

And not more complete in concurrence upon this subject were their
opinions than was their unhappiness; and the Doctor always waited, and
his daughter always panted, for any opportunity that might re-open
so dear a friendship, without warring against their principles, or
disturbing their reverence for truth.




THE LOCKES.

Fortunately, and most seasonably, just about the time that these
extraordinary nuptials were in agitating approach, an intercourse the
most benign was opened between the family of Dr. Burney and that of Mr.
Locke, of Norbury Park.

The value of such an intercourse was warmly appreciated by Dr. Burney,
to whose taste it was sympathy, and to whose feelings it was animation:
while the period at which it took place, that of a blight the most
baneful to himself and his second daughter, gave to it a character of
salubrity as restorative to their nerves as it was soothing to their
hearts.

What, indeed, of blight, of baleful, could adhere to, could commix
with the Lockes of Norbury Park? All that could be devised, rather
than described, of virtue with hilarity, of imagination with wisdom,
appeared there to make their stand. A mansion of classical elegance;
a situation bright, varied, bewitching in picturesque attraction; a
chief in whom every high quality under heaven seemed concentrated;
a partner to that chief uniting the closest mental resemblance
to the embellishment of the most captivating beauty; a progeny
blithe, blooming, and intelligent, encircling them like grouping
angels—exhibited, all together, a picture of happiness so sanctified
by virtue; of talents so ennobled by character; of religion so always
manifested by good works; that Norbury Park presented a scene of
perfection that seemed passing reality! and even while viewed and
enjoyed, to wear the air of a living vision of ideal felicity.

The first visit that Dr. Burney paid to this incomparable spot was in
company with Sir Joshua Reynolds.

No place would be more worthy the painter’s eye, and painter’s mind
of the knight of Plympton than this; and he entered into all the
merits of the mansion, its dwellers, and its scenery, with a vivacity
of approvance, as gratifying to his elegant host and hostess, as to
himself were the objects of taste, fancy, and fine workmanship, with
which he was encircled in that school, or assemblage of the fine arts,
which seemed in Mr. Locke to exhibit a living Apollo at their head:
while the delicacy, the feeling, the witching softness of his fair
partner, expanded a genial cheerfulness that seemed to bloom around her
wherever she looked or moved.

The conversation of Mr. Locke was a source inexhaustible of
instruction, conveyed in language at once so sensitive and so pointed;
with a tone, a manner, a look so impressively in harmony with every
word that he uttered; that observations of a depth and a novelty
that seemed to demand the most lengthened discussion, obtained
immediate comprehension, if his hearer examined the penetration of his
countenance while he listened to that of his voice.

His taste, alike in works of nature and of art, was profound in itself
and illuminating to others: yet, from his habitual silence in mixt
companies, the most strikingly amiable parts of his character could be
developed only on his own domain, amidst his family, his friends, his
neighbours, and the poor: where the refinement of his converse, and the
melting humanity of his disposition, reflected genial lustre on each
other.[75]

Here, too, the knight of Plympton made a leisurely survey of the
extraordinary early sketches of the eldest son of the mansion’s Apollo;
who, for boundless invention, exquisite taste, and masterly sketches
of original execution, was gifted with a genius that mocked all
contemporary rivalry.[76]

Dr. Burney himself, at home in all the arts, partook of this
entertainment with his usual animated pleasure in excellence; while in
all that accompanied it of literary or social description, he as often
led as followed these distinguished conversers.

       *       *       *       *       *

But the exhilaration of this almost heavenly sojourn—for such, to its
guests, it had appeared—was succeeded by an alarm to the heart of Dr.
Burney the most intense, perhaps, by which it could be attacked; an
alarm deeply affecting his comforts, his wishes, and the happiness of
his whole house, from a menace of consumption to his daughter Susanna,
which demanded a rapid change of air, and forced a hasty and immediate
trial of that of Boulogne sur Mer.

The motive, however, of the little voyage, with its hope, made Dr.
Burney submit to it with his accustomed rational resignation; though
severe, nearly lacerating, was every separation from that beloved
child; and though suspense and fear hovered over him unremittingly
during the whole of the ensuing winter.

Doubly, therefore, now, was felt the acquisition of the Lockes, the
charm of whose intercourse was endowed with powers the most balsamic
for alleviating, though it could not heal, the pain of this fearful
wound, through their sympathizing knowledge of the virtues of the
invalid; their appreciation of her sweetness of disposition, their
taste for her society, their enjoyment of her talents, and their
admiration of her conduct and character; of her patience in suffering,
her fortitude in adversity; her mild submission to every inevitable
evil, with her noble struggles against every calamity that firmness,
vigour, or toil, might prevent, or might distance. They loved her as
she merited to be loved! and almost as she loved them in return; for
their souls were in unison of excellence.




MRS. DELANY.


But while the Lockes thus afforded a gentle and genial aid towards
sustaining the illness and absence of Mrs. Phillips, it was not by
superseding, but by blending in sweet harmony with the support afforded
by Mrs. Delany: and if the narration given of that lady has, in any
degree, drawn the reader to join in the admiration with which she
inspired Dr. Burney, he will not be sorry to see a further account of
her, taken again from the Diary addressed to Mrs. Phillips.

  “TO MRS. PHILLIPS.

“I have just passed a delicious day, my Susanna, with Mrs. Delany;
the most pleasing I have spent with her yet. She entrusted to me her
collection of letters from Dean Swift and Dr. Young; and told me all
the anecdotes that occurred to her of both, and of her acquaintance
with them. How grievous that her sight continues enfeebling! all her
other senses, and all her faculties are perfect—though she thinks
otherwise. ‘My friends,’ she said, ‘will last me, I believe, as long as
I last, because they are very good; but the pleasure of our friendship
is now all to be received by me! for I have lost the power of returning
any!’

       *       *       *       *       *

“If she spoke on any other subject such untruths, I should not revere
her, as I now do, to my heart’s core. She had been in great affliction
at the death of Lady Mansfield; for whom the Duchess Dowager of
Portland had grieved, she said, yet more deeply: and they had shut
themselves up together from all other company. ‘But to-day,’ she added,
with a most soft smile, ‘her Grace could not come; and I felt I quite
required a cordial,—so I sent to beg for Miss Burney.’

“‘I have been told,’ she afterwards said, ‘that when I grew older, I
should feel less; but I do not find it so! I am sooner, I think, hurt
and affected than ever. I suppose it is with very old age as with
extreme youth, the effect of weakness; neither of those stages of life
have firmness for bearing misfortune with equanimity.’

“She keeps her good looks, however, unimpaired, except in becoming
thinner; and, when not under the pressure of recent grief, she is as
lively, gay, pleasant, and good-humouredly arch and playful, as she
could have been at eighteen.

“‘I see, indeed,’ she said, ‘worse and worse, but I am thankful that,
at my age, eighty-four, I can see at all. My chief loss is from not
more quickly discerning the changes of countenance in my friends.
However, to distinguish even the light is a great blessing!’

“She had no company whatever, but her beautiful great niece.[77] The
Duchess was confined to her home by a bad cold.

“She was so good as to shew me a most gracious letter from her Majesty,
which she had just received, and which finished thus condescendingly:

  “Believe me, my dear Mrs. Delany,
  “Your affectionate Queen,
  “CHARLOTTE.”




MR. SMELT.


Fortunately, also, now, Dr. Burney increased the intimacy of his
acquaintance with Mr. Smelt, formerly sub-governor to the Prince of
Wales;[78] a man who, for displaying human excellence in the three
essential points of Understanding, Character, and Conduct, stood upon
the same line of acknowledged perfection with Mr. Locke of Norbury
Park. And had that virtuous and anxious parent of his people, George
III., known them both at the critical instant when he was seeking a
model of a true fine gentleman, for the official situation of preceptor
to the heir of his sovereignty; he might have had to cope with the most
surprising of difficulties, that of seeing before his choice two men,
in neither of whom he could espy a blemish that could cast a preference
upon the other.

The worth of both these gentlemen was known upon proof: their talents,
accomplishments, and taste in the arts and in literature, were
singularly similar. Each was soft and winning of speech, but firm and
intrepid of conduct; and their manners, their refined high breeding,
were unrivalled, save each by the other. And while the same, also,
was their reputation for integrity and honour, as for learning and
philosophy, the first personal delight of both was in the promotion and
exercise of those gentle charities of human life, which teach us to
solace and to aid our fellow-creatures.


END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.


BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, BOUVERIE STREET.




FOOTNOTES.

[Footnote 1: By the second marriage.]

[Footnote 2: Now the Honourable Mrs. Robinson.]

[Footnote 3: The Doctor’s eldest daughter.]

[Footnote 4: This early celebrated performer, now in the decline of
life, after losing her health, and nearly out-living her friends,
is reduced, not by faults but misfortunes, to a state of pecuniary
difficulties, through which she must long since have sunk, but for
the generous succour of some personages as high in benevolence as in
rank.[5] Should this appeal awaken some new commiserators of talents
and integrity, bowed down by years and distress, they will find, in a
small apartment, No. 58, in Great Portland-street, a feeble, but most
interesting person, who is truly deserving of every kind impulse she
may excite.]

[Footnote 5: She is assisted, occasionally, by many noble ladies; but
the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe is her most active patron.]

[Footnote 6: Pacchiorotti had not yet visited England.]

[Footnote 7: Afterwards Lord Cardigan.]

[Footnote 8: Afterwards Lord Malmsbury.]

[Footnote 9: Afterwards Bishop of Durham.]

[Footnote 10: Now Viscountess Keith.]

[Footnote 11: See Correspondence.]

[Footnote 12: This has reference wholly to Bolt Court, where he
constantly retained his home: at Streatham, continually as he there
resided, it was always as a guest.]

[Footnote 13: Afterwards Mrs. Phillips.]

[Footnote 14: The present Mrs. Broome.]

[Footnote 15: Mrs. Burney, of Bath.]

[Footnote 16: Now Viscountess Keith.]

[Footnote 17: Afterwards Author of Biographiana.]

[Footnote 18: His fifth daughter, Sarah Harriet, was then a child.]

[Footnote 19: His nephew and heir, he sent over to London to be
educated.]

[Footnote 20: See Correspondence.]

[Footnote 21: This was written in the year 1828.]

[Footnote 22: The first volume of this work was nearly printed, when
the Editor had the grief of hearing that Sir Walter Scott was no
more. In the general sorrow that his loss has spread throughout the
British Empire, she presumes not to speak of her own: but she cannot
persuade herself to annul the little tribute, by which she had meant to
demonstrate to him her sense of the vivacity with which he had sought
out her dwelling; invited her to the hospitality of his daughters at
Abbotsford; and courteously, nay, eagerly, offered to do the honours of
Scotland to her himself, from that celebrated abode.

In a subsequent visit with which he honoured and delighted her in
the following year, she produced to him the scraps of documents and
fragments which she had collected from ancient diaries and letters, in
consequence of his inquiries. Pleased he looked; but told her that what
already she had related, already—to use his own word—he had “noted;”
adding, “And most particularly, I have not forgotten your mulberry
tree!”

This little history, however, was so appropriately his own, and was
written so expressly with a view to its dedication, that still, with
veneration—though with sadness instead of gladness—she leaves the
brief exordium of her intended homage in its original state.—And
the less reluctantly, as the companion of his kindness and his
interrogatories will still—she hopes—accept, and not unwillingly, his
own share in the small offering.]

[Footnote 23: Edward Burney, Esq., of Clipstone-street.]

[Footnote 24: See Correspondence.]

[Footnote 25: Sir Walter Scott was then a child.]

[Footnote 26: Now Viscountess Keith.]

[Footnote 27: The Editor, at the date of this letter, knew not that the
club to which Dr. Johnson alluded, was that which was denominated his
own,—or The Literary Club.]

[Footnote 28: Afterwards Lord Ashburton.]

[Footnote 29: Afterwards Sir William Weller Pepys.]

[Footnote 30: Afterwards Lord Sheffield.]

[Footnote 31: Now Mrs. Alison, of Edinburgh.]

[Footnote 32: Translator of Tacitus.]

[Footnote 33: Dr. Johnson told this to the Editor.]

[Footnote 34: Dr. Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women.]

[Footnote 35: This was so strongly observed by Mrs. Maling, mother to
the Dowager Countess of Mulgrave, that she has often exclaimed to this
Memorialist, “Why did not Sir Joshua Reynolds paint Dr. Johnson when he
was speaking to Dr. Burney or to you?”]

[Footnote 36: Dr. Lawrence, Sir Richard Jebb, Dr. Warren, Sir Lucas
Pepys.]

[Footnote 37: By the Countess of Tankerville.]

[Footnote 38: Afterwards George the Fourth.]

[Footnote 39: Cecilia.]

[Footnote 40: Miss Susanna Burney, afterwards Mrs. Phillips.]

[Footnote 41: Miss Palmer.]

[Footnote 42: Now Marquis of Stafford.]

[Footnote 43: Now Viscountess Keith.]

[Footnote 44: Afterward Marquis of Lansdowne, who first rented Mrs.
Thrale’s house at Streatham.]

[Footnote 45: Sir William Weller Pepys, when he was eighty-four years
of age, told this Memorialist that he was the only male member then
remaining of the original set; and that Mrs. Hannah More was the only
remaining female.]

[Footnote 46: This only treats of the Blue Meetings; not of the general
assemblies of Montagu House, which were conducted like all others in
the circles of high life.]

[Footnote 47: Every May-day, Mrs. Montagu gave an annual breakfast in
the front of her new mansion, of roast beef and plum pudding, to all
the chimney sweepers of the Metropolis.]

[Footnote 48: It was here, at Mrs. Montagu’s, that Doctor Burney had
the happiness to see open to this Memorialist an acquaintance with Mr.
and Mrs. Locke, which led, almost magically, to an intercourse that
formed,—and still forms, one of the first felicities of her life.]

[Footnote 49: Now Countess of Cork.]

[Footnote 50: The present Memorialist surprised him, one day, so
palpably employed in such an investigation, that, seeing her startled,
he looked almost ashamed; but, frankly laughing at the silent
detection, he cried: “When do you come to sit to me? I am quite ready!”
making a motion with his hand as if advancing it with a pencil to a
canvass: “All prepared!” intimating that he had settled in his thoughts
the disposition of her portrait.]

[Footnote 51: The means for charitable contributions upon so liberal
a scale as those of Sir W. W. Pepys, may, perhaps, be deduced, by
analogy, from his wise and rare spirit of calculation: how to live
with the Greater and the Richer, and yet escape either the risk of
ruin, or the charge of meanness. “When I think it right,” said he, in
a visit which he made to this Memorialist, after walking, and alone,
at eighty-five, from Gloucester-place to Bolton-street, about three
weeks before his death, “When I think it right, whether for the good
of my excellent children, or for my own pleasure,—or for my little
personal dignity, to invite some wealthy Noble to dine with me, I make
it a point not to starve my family, or my poor pensioners, for a year
afterwards, by emulating his lordship’s, or his grace’s, table-fare.
I give, therefore, but a few dishes, and two small courses; all my
care is, that every thing shall be well served, and the best of its
kind. And when we sit down, I frankly tell them my plan; upon which
my guests, more flattered by that implied acknowledgment of their
superior rank and rent-roll, than they could possibly be by any attempt
at emulation; and happy to find that they shall make no breach in my
domestic economy and comfort, immediately fall to, with an appetite
that would surprise you! and that gives me the greatest gratification.
I do not suppose that they anywhere make a more hearty meal.”]

[Footnote 52: Mr. Cambridge was a potent contributor to the periodical
paper called The World; for which Mr. Jenyns, also, occasionally wrote.]

[Footnote 53: Swift’s Long-Eared Letter.]

[Footnote 54: Now Mrs. Alison, of Edinburgh.]

[Footnote 55: Daughter of John Granville, Esq., and niece of Pope’s
Granville, the then Lord Lansdowne, “of every Muse the Friend.”]

[Footnote 56: See Sir Walter Scott’s Life of Swift.]

[Footnote 57: This invaluable _unique_ work has lately been purchased
by —— Hall, Esq.; a son-in-law of Mrs. Delany’s favourite niece, Mrs.
Waddington.]

[Footnote 58: Since Lord Rokeby.]

[Footnote 59: Mrs. Montagu.]

[Footnote 60: Now Mrs. Agnew, the amanuensis and attendant of Mrs.
Delany.]

[Footnote 61: Miss Larolles, now, would say eleven or twelve.]

[Footnote 62: Mrs. Burney, of Bath.]

[Footnote 63: Charlotte, now Mrs. Broome; the young_est_ daughter,
Sarah Harriet, was still a child.]

[Footnote 64: See Correspondence.]

[Footnote 65: M. Berquin, some years later, was nominated preceptor
to the unfortunate Louis XVII., but was soon dismissed by the inhuman
monsters who possessed themselves of the person of that crownless
orphan King.]

[Footnote 66: See Correspondence.]

[Footnote 67: Now Madame Adelaide, sister to Louis Philippe.]

[Footnote 68: Madame de Genlis, in her Memoirs, mentions this
appointment in terms of less dignity.]

[Footnote 69: This _maladie du pays_ has pursued and annoyed her
through life; except when incidentally surprised away by peculiar
persons, or circumstances.]

[Footnote 70: “Mr. Bewley, for more than twenty years, supplied the
editor of the Monthly Review with an examination of innumerable works
in science, and articles of foreign literature, written with a force,
spirit, candour, and, when the subject afforded opportunity, humour,
not often found in critical discussions.”]

[Footnote 71: Now Mrs. Broome.]

[Footnote 72: This bore reference to an expression of Dr. Johnson’s,
upon hearing that Mrs. Montagu resented his Life of Lord Lyttleton.

The Diary Letter to Susannah, whence these two billets are copied,
finishes with this paragraph.

“Our dear father, as eager as myself that our most reverenced Dr.
Johnson should not be hurt or offended, spared me the coach, and to
Bolt Court I went in the evening: and with outspread arms of parental
greeting to mark my welcome, was I received. Nobody was there but our
brother Charles and Mr. Sastres: and Dr. Johnson, repeatedly thanking
me for coming, was, if possible, more instructive, entertaining, and
exquisitely fertile than ever; and so full of amenity, and talked so
affectionately of our father, that neither Charles nor I could tell
how to come away. While he, in return, soothed by exercising his noble
faculties with natural, unexcited good-humour and pleasantry, would
have kept us, I believe, to this moment—

“You have no objection, I think, my Susan, to a small touch of
hyperbole?——

if the coachman and the horses had been as well entertained as
ourselves.”]

[Footnote 73: By Edward Burney, Esq., of Clipstone-street.]

[Footnote 74: Hester Lynch Salusbury, Mrs. Thrale, was lineally
descended from Adam of Saltsburg, who came over to England with the
Conqueror.]

[Footnote 75: The late Sir Thomas Lawrence, in speaking of Norbury Park
to this editor, while he was painting his matchless picture of Mrs.
Locke, senior, in 1826, said “I have seen much of the world since I
was first admitted to Norbury Park,—but I have never seen another Mr.
Locke!”]

[Footnote 76: This, also, was the opinion of Sir Thomas Lawrence.]

[Footnote 77: Miss Port, now Mrs. Waddington of Llanover House.]

[Footnote 78: Afterwards George IV.]




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

1. Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.

2. Typographical errors were silently corrected.

3. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when
a predominant form was found in this book.

4. Table of Contents created by the Transcriber.





End of Project Gutenberg's Memoirs of Doctor Burney, by Fanny Burney

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