THE RETURN.
A reluctant, however eagerly sought parting then abruptly took place in the faubourg, or suburbs of Paris; and, after various other, but minor difficulties, and a detention of six weeks at Dunkirk, the mother and the son reached the long-lost land of their desires.
It was at Deal they were disembarked, where their American vessel, the Marianne, was immediately captured; though they, as English, were of course set at liberty; and, to their first ecstacy in touching British ground, they had the added delight of being almost instantly recognized by the lady[90] of the commander of the port; and the honour of taking their first British repast at the hospitable table of the commander himself.[91]
After a separation so bordering upon banishment, from a parent so loved and so aged, some preparation seemed requisite, previous to a meeting, to avoid risking a surprise that might mar all its happiness. At Deal, therefore, and under this delectable protection, they remained three or four days, to give time for the passage of letters to Dr. Burney; first, to let him know their hopes of revisiting England, of which they had had no power to give him any intimation; and next, to announce their approach to his honoured presence.
Fully, therefore, they were expected, when, on the evening of the 20th of August, 1812, they alighted at the apartment of Dr. Burney, at Chelsea College, which they had quitted in the beginning of April, 1802.
The joy of this Memorialist at the arrival of this long sighed-for moment, was almost disorder; she knew none of the servants, though they were the same that she had left; she could not recollect whether the apartment to which she was hurrying was on the ground door or the attic, the Doctor having inhabited both; her head was confused; her feelings were intense; her heart almost swelled from her bosom.
And so well was her kind parent aware of the throbbing sensations with which an instant yearned for so eagerly, and despaired of so frequently, would fill her whole being—would take possession of all its faculties, that he almost feared the excess of her emotion; and, while repeatedly, in the course of the day, he exclaimed, in the hearing of his housekeeper: “Shall I live to see her honest face again?”[92] he had the precaution, kindly, almost comically, to give orders to his immediate attendants, Rebecca and George, to move all the chairs and tables close to the wall; and to see that nothing whatsoever should remain between the door and his sofa, which stood at the farther end of a large room, that could interfere with her rapid approach.
And, indeed, the ecstatic delight with which she sprang to his arms, was utterly indescribable. It was a rush that nothing could have checked; a joy quite speechless—an emotion almost overwhelming!
But, alas! the joy quickly abated, though the emotion long remained!—remained when bereft of its gay transport, to be worked upon only by grief.
The total dearth of familiar intercourse between Paris and London had kept all detailed family accounts so completely out of view, that she returned to her parental home without the smallest suspicion of the melancholy change she was to witness; and though she did not, and could not expect, that ten years should have passed by unmarked in his physiognomy—still there is nothing we so little paint to ourselves at a distance, as the phenomenon of the living metamorphoses that we are destined to exhibit, one to another, upon re-unions after long absences. When, therefore, she became calm enough to look at the honoured figure before which she stood, what a revulsion was produced in her mind!
She had left him, cheerful and cheering; communicating knowledge, imparting ideas; the delight of every house that he entered.
She had left him, with his elegantly formed person still unbroken by his years; his face still susceptible of manifesting the varying associations of his vivid character; his motions alert; his voice clear and pleasing; his spirits, when called forth by social enjoyment, gay, animating, and inspiring animation.
She found him—alas! how altered! in looks, strength, complexion, voice, and spirits!
But that which was most affecting was the change in his carriage and person: his revered head was not merely by age and weakness bowed down; it was completely bent, and hung helplessly upon his breast; his voice, though still distinct, sunk almost to a whisper: his feeble frame reclined upon a sofa; his air and look forlorn; and his whole appearance manifesting a species of self-desertion.
His eyes, indeed, still kept a considerable portion of their native spirit; they were large, and, from his thinness, looked more prominent than ever; and they exhibited a strong, nay, eloquent power of expression, which still could graduate from pathos to gaiety; and from investigating intelligence to playful archness; with energies truly wonderful, because beyond, rather than within, their original force; though every other feature marked the wither of decay! but, at this moment, from conscious alteration, their disturbed look depicted only dejection or inquiry; dejection, that mournfully said: “How am I changed since we parted!” or inquiry, anxiously demanding: “Do you not perceive it?”
This melancholy, though mute interrogatory with which his “asking eye explored her secret thoughts,” quickly impelled her to stifle her dismay under an apparent disorder of general perturbation: and, when his apprehension of the shock which he might cause, and the shock which the sight of its impression might bring back to him, was abated, a gentle smile began to find its way through the earnestness of his brow, and to restore to him his serene air of native benignity: while, on her part, the more severely she perceived his change, the more grateful she felt to the Providence that had propitiated her return, ere that change,—still changed on!—should have become, to her, invisible.
In consequence of her letters from Deal, he had prepared for her and his Grandson, whose sight he most kindly hailed, apartments near his own: and he had charged all his family to abstain from breaking in upon this their first interview.
The turbulence of this trying scene once past, the rest of the evening glided on so smoothly, yet so rapidly, that when the closing night forced their reluctant separation, they almost felt as if they had but recognized one another in a dream.
The next morning, the next, and the next, as soon as he could be visible, they met again; and for some short and happy, though, from another absence, most anxious weeks, she delightedly devoted to him every moment he could accept.
The obscurity of the brief and ambiguous letters that rarely and irregularly had passed between them, had left subjects for discussion so innumerable, and so entangled, that they almost seemed to demand a new life for reciprocating.
Endless, indeed, were the histories they had to unfold; the projects to announce or develop; the domestic tales to hear and to relate; and the tombs of departed friends to mourn over.
Amongst these last, the most deeply-lamented by the Doctor was Mr. Twining, whose name he could not yet pronounce, nor could his daughter hear, without a sigh of lamenting regret: though to her, far more keenly still, more profoundly, more piercingly irreparable, was the privation of Mr. Locke! the matchless Mr. Locke! in mind, in manners, in heart, in understanding, matchless! matchless!
Gone, too, was Mr. Windham, that pride, as well as delight of the Doctor’s chosen friendship.
And gone was the “elegant, high-bred Boscawen,” whom he honoured and esteemed as one of the first of her sex.
Mr. Courtney he missed alike for his wit, his intelligence, and his flattering personal partiality.
Lord Cardigan, though with none of these to be named in an intellectual point of view, was yet, from frequency of intercourse, and his Lordship’s almost ardent regard for the Doctor, a substantial loss in colloquial cheerfulness without effort; such as, after having passed the meridian of life, it is not facile in its wane to replace, however commonly, while possessed, it may be under-rated; the value of easy commerce being seldom duly appreciated till we are fit for no other.
But the loss the most prejudicial to the Doctor’s commixture with the world of letters, was that which robbed him of Mr. Malone, with whom he had now for many years been upon terms of literary intimacy; the Doctor still, though no longer a principal in any work, retaining a lively pleasure in promoting, as an agent or coadjutor, the works of others; for gaily as he had enjoyed, and skilfully as he had earned his personal reputation, his exertions had always had a nobler stimulus than vanity. For its own sake he prized whatever was intellectual; and had he lived
“—in deserts, where no men abide,”
he would have explored whatever his eye could have surveyed, his understanding have developed, or his activity have pursued, even in so lone a position of nature in her most savage state, from his integral love of information.
Nevertheless, the deprivation that, in these last years, had most sorrowingly touched his feelings, was that of Lady Clarges; whose exhilarating spirits and lively eccentricities, during her youth and health, had long been delightful sources to him of entertainment and agreeability; while her musical excellencies, and her affecting resemblance to his Susanna, had established her in his mind with a yet more endearing influence. And so sensible was she to his tender partiality, that he was amongst the last, as well as the most select, who obtained almost constant admission to her apartment during her suffering and lingering premature decline.
His utter retirement from the world had made him gradually, but wholly lose sight of his favouring and favourite Mrs. Garrick, La Violetta; of Sir George and Lady Beaumont, Mr. Batt, and Mr. Rogers; though they were all exhilaratingly alive to the world which they helped to exhilarate.
Happily, however, most happily, he still preserved his first, who was now become his oldest cherished friend, Lady Crewe, who constantly kept her place at the head of all, save of born affinity, who were most consoling to his sympathies: and though she approved the timely wisdom of his retreat from full and great societies, she exerted her most zealous powers to personally enliven his voluntary seclusion.
Amongst those of yet flourishing friends who, after Lady Crewe, were of the greatest weight to him for comfort, support, and pleasure, foremost he still reckoned two noblemen of just reputation for goodness, honour, and benevolence,—the Marquis of Aylesbury and the Earl of Lonsdale, who, with their exemplary ladies, and their singularly amiable families, never thought they saw enough of Dr. Burney; and repaired every breach of verbal intercourse, by an unremitting assiduity through that of the pen.
Lady Charlotte Greville, Lady Mary Bentinck, Lady Manvers, Lady Rushont, and several others, might still, also, be named; but imprimis in this second list must be placed the sprightly Marchioness of Thomond: and the Dowager Lady Templeton, whom he particularly admired, and who honoured him with never-varying regard and esteem.
And with the animated and engaging Miss Hayman, and the erudite and accomplished Miss Knight, some few occasional letters were still exchanged.