“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 eloge 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.
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 th
e 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 AEsculapian 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 controul 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 eclat 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 but 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 boose of his friend, Dr. Barney, 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 sc
ience, to whom his great abilities, particularly in anatomy, electricity, and chemistry, bad 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.”
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.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 415
