To General d’Arblay.

“Not a week before the last fatal seizure, my dear father had cheerfully said to me: ‘I have gone through so rough a winter, and such severity of bodily pain; and I have held up against such intensity of cold, that I think now, I can stand any thing!’

“Joyfully I had joined in this belief, which enabled me—most acutely to my since regret!—to occupy myself in the business I have mentioned to you; which detained me three or four days from the College. But I bore the unusual separation the less unwillingly, as public affairs were just then taking that happy turn in favour of England and her allies, that I could not but hope would once more, at least for a while, reanimate his elastic spirits to almost their pristine vivacity.

“When I was nearly at liberty, I sent Alexander to the College, to pay his duty to his grandfather; with a promise that I would pay mine before night, to participate in his joy at the auspicious news from the Continent.

“I was surprised by the early return of my messenger; his air of pensive absorption, and the disturbance, or rather taciturnity with which he heard my interrogatories. Too soon, however, I gathered that his grandfather had passed an alarming night; that both my brothers had been sent for, and that Dr. Mosely had been summoned.

“I need not, I am sure, tell you that I was in the sick room the next instant.

“I found the beloved invalid seated, in his customary manner, on his sofa. My sister Sarah was with him, and his two faithful and favourite attendants, George and Rebecca. In the same customary manner, also, a small table before him was covered with books. But he was not reading. His revered head, as usual, hung upon his breast—and I, as usual, knelt before him, to catch a view of his face, while I inquired after his health.

“But alas!—no longer as usual was my reception! He made no sort of answer; his look was fixed; his posture immoveable; and not a muscle of his face gave any indication that I was either heard or perceived!

“Struck with awe, I had not courage to press for his notice, and hurried into the next room not to startle him with my alarm.

“But when I was informed that he had changed his so fearfully fixed posture, I hastened back; reviving to the happy hope that again I might experience the balm of his benediction.

“He was now standing, and unusually upright; and, apparently, with unusual muscular firmness. I was advancing to embrace him, but his air spoke a rooted concentration of solemn ideas that repelled intrusion.

“Whether or not he recognized, or distinguished me, I know not! I had no command of voice to attempt any inquiry, and would not risk betraying my emotion at this great change since my last and happier admittance to his presence.

“His eyes were intently bent on a window that faced the College burial-ground, where reposed the ashes of my mother-in-law, and where, he had more than once said, would repose his own.

“He bestowed at least five or six minutes on this absorbed and melancholy contemplation of the upper regions of that sacred spot, that so soon were to enclose for ever his mortal clay.

“No one presumed to interrupt his reverie.

“He next opened his arms wide, extending them with a waving motion, that seemed indicative of an internally pronounced farewell! to all he looked at; and shortly afterwards, he uttered to himself, distinctly, though in a low, but deeply-impressive voice, “All this will soon pass away as a dream!”[97]

“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! 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 breathings, 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:

Sacred to the Memory
OF
CHARLES BURNEY, MUS. D.
WHO, FULL OF DAYS, AND FULL OF VIRTUES;
THE PRIDE OF HIS FAMILY; THE DELIGHT OF SOCIETY;
THE UNRIVALLED CHIEF AND SCIENTIFIC
HISTORIAN
OF HIS TUNEFUL ART,
BELOVED, REVERED, REGRETTED,
IN HIS 87th YEAR, APRIL 12th, 1814,
BREATHED, IN CHELSEA COLLEGE, HIS LAST SIGH;
LEAVING TO POSTERITY A FAME UNBLEMISHED,
BUILT ON THE NOBLE FABRIC OF SELF-ACQUIRED ACCOMPLISHMENTS,
HIGH PRINCIPLES, AND PURE BENEVOLENCE;
GOODNESS WITH TALENTS; GAIETY WITH TASTE,
WERE OF HIS GIFTED MIND THE BLENDED ATTRIBUTES:
WHILE THE GENIAL HILARITY OF HIS AIRY SPIRITS,
FLOWING FROM A CONSCIENCE WITHOUT REPROACH,
PREPARED, THROUGH THE WHOLE TENOR OF HIS EARTHLY LIFE,
WITH THE MEDIATION OF OUR BLESSED SAVIOUR,
HIS SOUL FOR HEAVEN.—AMEN!