“This extension of his arms offered to his attendants an opportunity, which they immediately seized, of taking off his wrapping gown.
“He made no resistance: I again retreated; and he was put to bed. My sister Sarah watched, with his housekeeper, by his side all night; and, at an early hour in the morning, I took her place.
“My other sisters were also summoned; and my brothers came continually. But he spoke to no one! and seldom opened his eyes: yet his looks, though altered, invariably manifested his possession of his faculties and senses. Deep seemed his ruminations; deep and religious, though silent and concentrated.
“I would fain have passed this night in the sick room; but my dear father, perceiving my design, and remembering, probably, how recently I was recovered from a dangerous malady, strenuously, though by look and gesture, not words, opposed what he thought, too kindly, might be an exertion beyond my strength. Grieved and reluctant was my retreat; but this was no epoch for expostulation, nor even for entreaty.
“The next morning, I found him so palpably weaker, and more emaciated, that, secretly, I resolved I would quit him no more.
“What a moment was this for so great an affliction I a moment almost throbbing with the promise of that re-union which he has sighed for, almost — mon ami, as I have sighed for it myself! This very day, this eleventh of April, opened by public announcement, that a general illumination would take place in the evening, to blazon the glorious victory of England and her allies, in wresting the dominion of the whole of Europe — save our own invulnerable island, from the grasp and the power of the Emperor Napoleon!
“This great catastrophe, which filled my mind, as you can well conceive! with the most buoyant emotion; and which, at any less inauspicious period, would have enchanted me almost to rapture in being the first to reveal it to my ardent and patriotic father, whose love of his country was nearly his predominant feeling, hung now trembling, gasping on my lips — but there was icicled, and could not pass them! — for where now was the vivacious eagerness that would have caught the tale? where the enraptured intelligence that would have developed its circumstances? where the ecstatic enthusiasm that would have hailed it with songs of triumph?
“The whole day was spent in monotonous watchfulness and humble prayers. At night he grew worse — how grievous was that night; I could offer him no comfort; I durst not even make known my stay. The long habits of obedience of olden times robbed me of any courage for trying so dangerous an experiment as acting contrary to orders. I remained but to share, or to spare, some fatigue to others; and personally to watch and pray by his honoured side.
“Yet sometimes, when the brilliancy of mounting rockets and distant fire-works caught my eyes, to perceive, from the window, the whole apparent sky illuminated to commemorate our splendid success, you will easily imagine what opposing sensations of joy and sorrow struggled for ascendance! While all I beheld WITHOUT shone thus refulgent with the promise of peace, prosperity, and — your return! I could only contemplate all WITHIN to mourn over the wreck of lost filial happiness! the extinction of all the earliest sweet incitements to pleasure, hope, tenderness, and reverence, in the fast approaching dissolution of the most revered of parents!
“When I was liberated by day-light from the fear of being recognised, I earnestly coveted the cordial of some notice; and fixed myself by the side of his bed, where most frequently I could press his paternal hand, or fasten upon it my lips.
“I languished, also, to bring you, mon ami! back to his remembrance. It is not, it cannot — I humbly trust! be impious to covet to the last breath ngs, the gentle sympathies of those who are most dear to our hearts, when they are visibly preceding us to the regions of eternity! We are nowhere bidden to concentrate our feelings and our aspirations in ourselves! to forget, or to beg to be forgotten by our friends. Even our Redeemer in quitting mortal life, pityingly takes worldly care of his worldly mother; and, consigning her to his favourite disciple, says: “Woman, behold thy Son!”
“Intensely, therefore, I watched to catch a moment for addressing him: and, at last, it came, for, at last, I had the joy to feel his loved hand return a pressure from mine. I ventured then, in a low, but distinct whisper, to utter a brief account of the recent events; thankfully adding, when I saw by his countenance and the air of his head, that his attention was undoubtedly engaged, that they would bring over again to England his long-lost son-in-law.
“At these words, he turned towards me, with a quickness, and a look of vivacious and kind surprise, such as, with closed eyes, I should have thought impossible to have been expressed, had I not been its grateful witness.
“My delight at such a mark of sensibility at the sound of your name, succeeding to so many hours, or rather days, of taciturn immoveability, gave me courage to continue my recital, which I could perceive more and more palpably make the most vivid impression. But when I entered into the marvellous details of the Wellington victories, by which the immortal contest had been brought to its crisis; and told him that Buonaparte was dethroned, was in captivity, and was a personal prisoner on board an English man-of-war; a raised motion of his under lip displayed incredulity; and he turned away his head with an air that shewed him persuaded that I was the simple and sanguine dupe of some delusive exaggeration. I did not dare risk the excitement of convincing him of his mistake!
“And nothing more of converse passed between us then — or, alas! — ever! — Though still I have the consolation to know that he frequently, and with tender kindness, felt my lips upon his hand, from soft undulation that, from time to time, acknowledged their pressure.
“But alas! I have nothing — nothing more that is personal to relate.
“The direction of all spiritual matters fell, of course, as I have mentioned, to my brother, Dr. Charles.
“From about three o’clock in the afternoon he seemed to become quite easy; and his looks were perfectly tranquil: but, as the evening advanced, this quietness subsided into sleep — a sleep so composed that, by tacit consent, every one was silent and motionless, from the fear of giving him disturbance.
“An awful stillness thence pervaded the apartment, and so soft became his breathing, that I dropped my head by the side of his pillow, to be sure that he breathed at all! There, anxiously, I remained, and such was my position, when his faithful man-servant, George, after watchfully looking at him from the foot of his bed, suddenly burst into an audible sob, crying out, “My master! — my dear master!”
“I started and rose, making agitated signs for forbearance, lest the precious rest, from which I still hoped he might awake recruited, should prematurely be broken.
“The poor young man hid his face, and all again was still.
For a moment, however, only; an alarm from his outcry had been raised, and the servants, full of sorrow, hurried into the chamber, which none of the family, that could assemble, ever quitted, and a general lamentation broke forth.
Yet could I not believe that all had ceased thus suddenly, without a movement — without even a sigh! and, conjuring that no one would speak or interfere, I solemnly and steadily persisted in passing a full hour, or more, in listening to catch again a breath I could so reluctantly lose: but all of life — of earthly life, was gone for ever! — And here, mon ami, I drop the curtain! —
* * * *
On the 20th of the month of April, 1814, the solemn final marks of religious respect were paid to the remains of DOCTOR BURNEY; which were then committed to the spot on which his eye had last been fixed, in the burying ground of Chelsea College, immediately next to the ashes of his second wife.
The funeral, according to his own direction, was plain and simple.
His sons, Captain James Burney, and Doctor Charles Burney, walked as chief mourners; and every male part of his family, that illness or distance did not impede from attendance, reverentially accompanied the procession to the grave: while foremost among the pall-bearers walked that distinguished lover of merit, the Hon. Frederic North
, since Earl of Guildford; and Mr. Salomon, the first professional votary of the Doctor’s art then within call.
A tablet was soon afterwards erected to his memory, in WESTMINSTER ABBEY, by a part of his family; the inscription for which was drawn up by his present inadequate, but faithful Biographer.
* * * *
When a narratory account is concluded, to delineate the character of him whom it has brought to view, with its FAILINGS as well as its EXCELLENCIES, is the proper, and therefore the common task for the finishing pencil of the Biographer. Impartiality demands this contrast; and the mind will not accompany a narrative of real life of which Truth, frank and unequivocal, is not the dictator.
And here, to give that contrast, Truth is not wanting, but, strange to say, vice and frailty! The Editor, however, trusts that she shall find pardon from all lovers of veracity, if she seek not to bestow piquancy upon her portrait through artificial light and shade.
The events and circumstances, with their commentary, that are there presented to the reader, are conscientiously derived from sources of indisputable authenticity; aided by a well-stored memory of the minutest points of the character, conduct, disposition, and opinions of Dr. Burney. And in the picture, which is here endeavoured to be portrayed, the virtues are so simple, that they cannot excite disgust from their exaggeration; though no conflicting qualities give relief to their panegyric.
But with regard to the monumental lines, unmixed praise, there, is universally practised, and calls for no apology. Its object is withdrawn, alike from friends and from foes, from partiality and from envy; and mankind at large, through all nations and all times, seems instinctively agreed, that the funereal record of departed virtue is most stimulating to posterity, when unencumbered by the levelling weight of human defects. — Not from any belief so impossible as that he who had been mortal could have been perfect; but from the consciousness that no accusation can darken the marble of death, ere He whom it consigns to the tomb, is not already condemned — or acquitted.
The Biographer, therefore, ventures to close these Memoirs with the following Sepulchral Character:
The Diaries and Letters
In 1774 the Burney family moved into 35 St. Martin’s Street — Isaac Newton’s former home.
THE EARLY DIARY OF FRANCES BURNEY 1768–1778
CONTENTS
VOLUME I.
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
A PREFACE BY THE EDITOR
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA
1768.
JUVENILE JOURNAL: ADDRESSED TO A CERTAIN MISS NOBODY
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
TINGMOUTH JOURNAL.
1774
VOLUME II.
1775
1776.
SOME LETTERS AND FRAGMENTS OF THE JOURNAL OF CHARLOTTE ANN BURNEY. 1777 — 1787.
APPENDIX.
VOLUME I.
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
THESE volumes are substantially a reprint of Mrs. Raine Ellis’s edition of Fanny Burney’s “Early Diary,” first published in 1889. The Preface and the Notes, with few exceptions, have been left unchanged, and the reader should remember the date at which they were written.
A number of small but not unimportant alterations and additions have, however, been made to the text, with the object of restoring it, so far as possible, to its original state. Mrs. Ellis printed the Diaries with all the omissions and alterations made by Mme. D’Arblay in her old age, and probably some made by her niece, Mrs. Barrett, when its publication was first contemplated. In the present edition the original form of the manuscript has been followed so far as it can be deciphered, on the supposition that the spontaneous expressions and opinions of Fanny Burney as a young girl are of more interest, and give a truer picture of the manners of the time, than when edited by herself fifty years later.
Wherever the manuscript has been added to, or so altered that the original is indecipherable, the additions and alterations are inclosed in square brackets. Points and asterisks denote shorter or longer omissions which cannot be restored. In the footnotes, square brackets indicate additions to Mrs. Ellis’s annotations.
The publishers wish to acknowledge their obligation to the Rev. David Wauchope, the owner of Mme. D’Arblay’s manuscripts, for his kind permission to make these alterations.
January, 1907.
A PREFACE BY THE EDITOR
THIS is believed to be the only published, perhaps the only existing, record of the life of an English girl, written by herself, in a century before that which is now in its wane. Such a portrayal of a young Englishwoman, and her times, would be interesting even if the girl had not been (as was this one) a born author, who lived among men and women more or less distinguished, herself became famous, and was admired by the admired, as well as praised by the common voice; whose brilliant reputation as a novelist was revived, some fifty years ago, by her fresh and still greater renown as a chronicler of English social and court-life, during many and marked years of the long reign of George the Third.
The novelist and the chronicler are shown in these still earlier diaries which are now for the first time published, as developing from year to year. Sketches revealing the future “character-monger” alternate here with innocent, tender, and generous thoughts, and feelings of affection to kinsfolk and friends, more than commonly lasting, as well as warm; with traits of a disposition very mobile, but singularly steady; very lively, but very sweet; discreet, and considerate almost to moral precocity. The character of Frances Burney shows itself on every leaf of these journals, even as the story of her first youth tells itself as we turn them. They were the offspring of that real pleasure in writing, even in the mechanical part of it, which Richardson attributes to his heroine, “Clarissa,” which he had felt himself; for it is not to be divined, but known. These journals gave Frances in old age, the delight which she had looked forward to receiving from them in her youth. No stronger proof of a clear conscience and a healthy mind could well be shown. In them there are erasures, there are long passages removed, and destroyed, but the context shows that the feelings of others, not her own, were to be considered and spared.
Two there were whose names prevail in these pages — her father, and her adopted father, Mr. Crisp, concerning whom she has left all standing which she wrote, early or late; nay, has added little ejaculations in their praise and honour.
It is following her, when we write first of them who were first with her; of whom when she began to write she could not dream that one would live wholly, and the other mainly, through her writings.
“I love Burney: my heart goes out to meet him —
Dr. Burney is a man for all the world to love.... It is but natural to love him.... I much question if there is, in the world, such another man as Dr. Burney.” When Dr. Burney is named, such words as these of Dr. Johnson recur to us rather than the music which he composed, or the books that he wrote. We recall, too, the names of Admiral Burney, of the second Dr. Charles, and, above all, of Frances. If his reputation once gave lustre to theirs, his celebrity now ascends from that of his children. No list of his musical compositions is known to exist. His daughter admits that they were out of date even in her own day. No list of his many articles in the “Monthly Review,” and the Cyclopaedia of Abraham Rees, has ever been compiled; his “Tours” are less read than they might well be, and his “History of Music” has, in the very course and progress of Music, been superseded. The repute of his reputation survives. The concurrence of his contemporaries is on record that he was, “indeed, a most extraordinary man,... at home upon all subjects, and upon all so agreeable! — a wonderful man!” His place in social life was unique, being due to what Dr. Johnson implied to be an almost unique blending of a happy temper of mind, an affectionate disposition, gentle and attractive manners (having dignity in reserve should it be needed), with a very active and versatile intellect, and considerable acquirements. The charm of character and of mann
ers, the “vivacity and readiness of wit,” which made him the man of the eighteenth century who gained and kept the greatest number of friends, can now be brought before us only by the warmth of the praise of those friends; and of the love (rising to enthusiasm) of his children, to which the diaries that follow bear continuous testimony. It is possible that his Memoirs of his own life and times would have interested many who would not even open one of the four quarto volumes of his “History of Music,” or who would shun the technical (which is much the greater) part of his Tours of inquiry into the state of Music in the France, Italy, and Germany of 1770 and 1772.
It was his full purpose to leave such an account of his own long and varied life as might give a picture of nearly a century. He justly thought himself well fitted to write a book which might (as he said) “be read with avidity at the distance of some centuries, by antiquaries and lovers of anecdotes,” although it would then have lost the poignancy of personality, which might “mortify and offend a few persons” of his own time. He justly wrote that “perhaps few have been better enabled to describe, from an actual survey, the manners and customs of the age in which they lived than myself; ascending from those of the most humble cottagers and lowest mechanics, to the first nobility and most elevated personages, with whom circumstances, situation, and accident, at different periods of my life, have rendered me familiar. Oppressed and laborious husbandmen; insolent and illiberal yeomanry; overgrown farmers; generous and hospitable merchants; men of business and men of pleasure; men of letters; men of science; artists; sportsmen and country ‘squires; dissipated and extravagant voluptuaries; gamesters; ambassadors, statesmen, and even sovereign princes, I have had opportunities of examining in almost every point of view: all these it is my intention to display in their respective situations; and to delineate their virtues, vices, and apparent degrees of happiness and misery.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 443
