( PDF ) The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay Volume 1

Download PDF

ads:

The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay Volume 1

Madame D'Arblay

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay Volume 1

by Madame D'Arblay

this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project

Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the

header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the

eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is

important information about your specific rights and restrictions in

how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a

donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.

**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****

Title: The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay Volume 1

Author: Madame D'Arblay

Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5826]

[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]

[This file was first posted on September 10, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME

D'ARBLAY VOLUME 1 ***

This eBook was produced by Marjorie Fulton.

ads:

Livros Grátis

http://www.livrosgratis.com.br

Milhares de livros grátis para download.

THE CREAM OF THE DIARISTS AND MEMOIR WRITERS.

THE DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME D'ARBLAY

(FRANCES BURNEY.)

WITH NOTES BY W. C. WARD,

AND PREFACED BY LORD MACAULAY'S ESSAY.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. 1

(1778-1787.)

CONTENTS

PREFACE-- xi

MADAME D'ARBLAY, by Lord Macaulay -- Xiii

1. (1778) MISS BURNEY PUBLISHES HER FIRST

NOVEL AND FINDS HERSELF FAMOUS -- 59-110

Evelina'.' and the Mystery attending its Publication--A First

Visit to Mrs. Thrale and an Introduction to Dr. Johnson--Fanny

Burney Interviews her Publisher -- Conversation with Mrs. Thrale

and Dr. Johnson--Dr. Johnson on some "Ladies" of his

Acquaintance--A Learned Man on "Evelina"--Curiosity regarding the

Author of "Evelina"--The Members of Dr. Johnson's

Household--Anticipated Visit from Mrs. Montagu--Fanny Burney's

Introduction to a celebrated "Blue-Stocking"--Dr. Johnson's

Compliments and Gross Speeches--Suggested Husbands for Fanny

Burney--A Streatham Dinner Party.

2. (1779) THE AUTHOR OF "EVELINA" IN SOCIETY: VISITS BRIGHTON AND

TUNBRIDGE WELLS -- 111-164

A Queer Adventure--An Evening at Sir Joshua Reynolds's: a

Demonstrative "Evelina" Entbusiast--Fanny Burney's Introduction

to Sheridan--An Aristocratic Radical of the Last Century--Mr.

Murphy, the Dramatist--A Beauty Weeping at Will--Mr. Murphy's

concern regarding Fanny Burney's Comedy--A Scene on the Brighton

Parade--Mr. Murphy finds the Dialogue charming: a Censorious

Lady--A Militia Captain officiates as Barber--"Hearts have at ye

all"--Giddy Miss Brown--Sophy Streatfield weeps again to order0-

-"Everything a Bore"--Proposed Match between Mr. Seward and the

Weeper-atwill--The Fate of "The Witlings"-- "Quite what we call,"

and "Give me leave to tell you"--The Crying Beauty and her

Mother--A Bewitching Prodigy--At Brighton: A "Cure."-- The

jealous Cumberlands--An Amusing Character: His Views on many

Subjects, page viii

3. (1780) A SEASON AT BATH: MR. THRALE'S DEATH -- 165-201

A Youthful Prodigy--Lord Mulgrave on the "Services"--Sarah,

Duchess of Marlborough--The Byrons--"Mr. Henry will be so

Mortified"--All the best Families in the Navy--The Lady of Bath

Easton--A Fashionable Concert--A Bath Alderman's Raree Show--

Flighty Captain Bouchier--A Young and Agreeable Infidel-Ball-room

Flirtations--Further Flirtations--Bath Easton and Sceptical Miss

W....-- -Curiosity about the "Evelina" Set--Alarm at the No

Popery Riots--Hasty Departure from Batb--The Gordon Riots--A

ads:

Suggested Visit to Grub-street --Promotion of Fanny Burney's

Brother--The Death of Mr. Thrale.

4. (1781-2) MISS BURNEY EXTENDS THE CIRCLE OF HER ACQUAINTANCE --

202-235

Young Mr. Crutchley ruffles Miss Burney--Miss Burney Sulks on--

Too Much of Many Things--A "Poor Wretch of a Painter"--Dr.

Johnson in a Rage--The Miserable Host and Melancholy Guest--Two

Celebrated Duchesses discussed--Mr. Crutchley is bantered about

his Pride--Miss Sopby Streatfield is Commented on--Garrulous Mr.

Musgrave--A Parting Shot at Mr. Crutchley--Manager Heliogabalus--

Sister Authoresses--A Dinner at Sir joshua's, with Burke and

Gibbon--A Letter from Burke to Fanny Burney--Miss Burney sits for

her Portrait--General Paoli.

5. (1782-3-4) "CECILIA": A PAEAN OF PRAISE: LAMENTATIONS --

236-288

At Brighton again. "The Famous Miss Burney"--Dr. Johnson

Dogmatises--A Cunning Runaway Heiress--Dr. Johnson a Bore--Miss

Burney will not be Persuaded to Dance-Dr. Johnson held in general

Dread--Miss Monckton's Assembly: Sacques and Ruffles--At Miss

Monckton's: "Cecilia" extolled by the "Old Wits," and by Burke--A

Writer of Romances--Mrs. Walsingham--Mrs. Siddons--Dr. Johnson's

Inmates at Bolt-court--The two Mr. Cambridges Improve upon

Acquaintance--Mr. Soame jenyns's Eulogy on "Cecilia"--An Italian

Singer's Views of England--Raptures of the 11 Old Wits" over

"Cecilia"--Illness and Death of Mr. Crisp--Dr. Johnson attacked

by Paralysis--A Pleasant Day with the Cam-

Page ix

bridges--Dr. Johnson's Heroic Forbearance--"Sweet Bewitching Mrs.

Locke"--Mrs. Thrale's Second Marriage--A Happy Home--Lady F.'s

Anger at Mrs. Piozzi's Marriage--Dr. Johnson's Failing Health--

Dr. Johnson Dying. His Death.

6. (1785-6) MISS BURNEY IS FAVOURABLY NOTICED BY THE KING AND

QUEEN -- 289-332

Royal Generosity to Mrs. Delany--A Visit to Mrs. Delany--Royal

Curiosity about Miss Burney--An Anticipated Royal Interview--

Directions for a private encounter with the Royal Family--A

Panic--"The King! aunt, the King!"--The King categorically

questions Miss Burney--The Queen appears upon the Scene--"Miss

Burney plays--but not to acknowledge it"--A Drawing-room during a

Fog--Will Miss Burney write any more?--A Musician with a

Pioboscis--General Conversation: Royalty departs--The King again:

Tea Table Etiquette--George III. on Plays and Players--Literary

Talk with the Queen--The Queen on Roman Catholic Superstitions--

On being presented--Directions for coughing, sneezing, or moving

before the King and Queen--Dr. Burney is Disappointed of a

Place--A Visit to Warren Hastings and his Wife--A Proposal from

the Queen--Miss Burney accepts the Queen's Offer.

7. (1786) MISS BURNEY ENTERS UPON HER COURT DUTIES -- 333-372

The Queen's Summons--A Military Gourmand--A Succession of

Visitors--The Tea Table of the Keeper of the Robes--Evening

Ceremonial in the Queen's Dressing Room--The Queen's Toilettes--

Congratulatory Visits from Court Officials--Inopportune

Visitors--Major Price: Adieu Colonel Polier--Miss Burney's

routine at Windsor--The Princess Royal--The Court at Kew: A Three

Year old Princess--A Drawing-room at St. James's--Absence of

State at Kew--Mis Burneys First Evening Out--Casual Callers to be

kept off: A New Arrival--The Royal Princesses--Alarming News--The

Attempt against the King--Agitation of the Queen and Princesses--

A Privilege is Secured--The Queen continues Anxious--Snuff

Preparer-in-Chief--A Supper Mystery--Little Princess Amelia's

Birthday--The Cipher becomes a Number--Display of Loyalty at

little Kew--"Miss Bernar, the Queen will give you a Gown"--A

Crowded Drawing-room--The Keeper of the Robes is very much put

out.

Page x

8. (1786) ROYAL VISIT TO NUNEHAM, OXFORD, AND BLENHEIM ---

373-398

A A job's Comforter--The Journey to Nuneham: Ungracious

Reception--A HastyIntroduction to Lady Harcourt--Apparition of

the Princesses--From Pillar to Post--"The Equerries Want the

Ladies"--Summoned to the Queen--A Check for the Colonel--

Thanksgiving Service at Nuneham--Royal Visit to Oxford: Reception

by the University--The Royal Family are much Affected--The

Presentations: Retiring Backwards--The Colleges Visited: A

Stealthy Collation--Retreating from the Royal Presence--Surprised

by the Queen--At Nuneham again--A Lively Breakfast Incident.

9. (1786-7) COURT DUTIES AT WINDSOR AND KEW -- 399-447

The Mischief-Making Keeper of the Robes--A Terrace Party--A

Nervous Reader--Miss Burney Repines at her Position--Madame de

Genlis discussed--A Distinguished Astronomer--Effusive Madaine de

la Roche--A Dinner Difficulty--An Eccentric Lady--The Wrong Guest

Invited--The Princess Royal's Birthday--Arrival of a New

Equerry--Custodian of the Queen's Jewel Box--Tea Table

Difficulties--An Equerry's Duties and Discomforts--Royal Cautions

and Confidences--The Queen tired of Her Gewgaws--A Holiday at

last--Tea Room Gambols--A dreadful Mishap--"Is it Permitted?"--

The Plump Provost and his Lady--The Equerries Violate the

Rules--Mr. Turbulent on Court Routine--An Equerry on the Court

Concert--Dr, Herschel's Large Telescope--Illness, and some

Reflections it gave rise to.

PREFACE.

"The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay," edited by her niece,

Mrs. Barrett, were originally published in seven volumes, during

the years 1842-1846. The work comprised but a portion of the

diary and voluminous correspondence of its gifted writer, for the

selection of which Madame D'Arblay, herself in part, and in part

Mrs. Barrett, were responsible. From this selection the present

one has been made, which, it is believed, will be found to

include all the most valuable and interesting passages of the

original. We can at least claim for this, the first popular

edition of the Diary, that we have scrupulously fulfilled Madame

D'Arblay's injunction to her former editor, "that whatever might

be effaced or Omitted, nothing should in anywise be altered or

added to her records."

Of the Diary itself it is hardly necessary here to say anything

in praise. It has long been acknowledged a classic; it is

indubitably the most entertaining, in Some respects the most

valuable, work of its kind in the English language, Regarded as a

series of pictures of the society of the time, the Diary is

unsurpassed for vivid Colouring and truthful delineation. As

such alone it would possess a strong claim upon our attention,

but how largely is our interest increased, when we find that the

figures which fill the most prominent positions in the foreground

of these pictures, are those of the most noble, most gifted, and

Most distinguished men of the day! To mention but a few

Page xiii

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

BY LORD MACAULAY.

Frances Burney was descended from a family which bore the name of

Macburney, and which, though probably of Irish origin, had been

long settled in Shropshire and was possessed of considerable

estates in that county. Unhappily, many years before her birth,

the Macburneys began, as if of set purpose and in a spirit of

determined rivalry, to expose and ruin themselves. The heir

apparent, Mr. James Macburney offended his father by making a

runaway rnatch with an actress from Goodman's -fields - The old

gentleman could devise no more judicious mode of wreaking

vengeance on his undutiful boy than by marrying the cook. The

cook gave birth to a son, named Joseph, who succeeded to all the

lands of the family, while James was cut off with a shilling. The

favourite son, however, was so extravagant that he soon became as

poor as his disinherited brother. Both were forced to earn their

bread by their labour. Joseph turned dancing-master and settled

in Norfolk. James struck off the Mac from the beginning of his

name and set up as a portrait painter at Chester. Here he had a

son, named Charles, well known as the author of the "History of

Music" and as the father of two remarkable children, of a son

distinguished by learning and of a daughter still more honourably

distinguished by genius.

Charles early showed a taste for that art of which, at a later

period, he became the historian. He was apprenticed to a

celebrated musician(1) in London, and He applied himself to study

with vigour and success. He early found a kind and munificent

Patron in Fulk Greville, a highborn and highbred man, who seems

to have had in large measure all the accomplishments and all the

follies, all the virtues and all the vices, which, a hundred

years ago, were considered as making up the character of a fine

gentleman. Under such protection, the young artist had every

pros-

Page xiv

pect of a brilliant career in the capital. But -his health

failed. It became necessary for him to retreat from the smoke and

river fog of London to the pure air of the coast. He accepted the

place of organist at Lynn, and settled at that town with a young

lady who had recently become his wife.(2)

At Lynn, in June, 1752, Frances Burney was born.(3) Nothing in

her childhood indicated that she would, while still a young

woman, have secured for herself an honourable and permanent place

among English writers. She was shy and silent. Her brothers and

sisters called her a dunce, and not altogether without some show

of reason ; for at eight years old she did not know her letters.

In 1760, Mr. Burney quitted Lynn for London, and took a house in

Poland-street; a situation which had been fashionable in the

reign of Queen Anne, but which, since that time, had been

deserted by most of its wealthy and noble inhabitants. He

afterwards resided in St. Martin's- street, on the south side of

Leicestersquare. His house there is still well known, and will

continue to be well known as long as our island retains any trace

of civilisation ; for it was the dwelling of Newton, and the

square turret which distinguishes it from all the surrounding

buildings was Newton's observatory,

Mr. Burney at once obtained as many pupils of the most

respectable description as he had time to attend, and was thus

enabled to support his family, modestly indeed, and frugally, but

in comfort and independence. His professional merit obtained for

him the degree of Doctor of Music from the University of

Oxford;(4) and his works on subjects connected with art gained

for him a place, respectable, though certainly not eminent, among

men of letters.

The progress of the mind of Frances Burney, from her ninth to her

twenty-fifth year, well deserves to be recorded, When her

education had proceeded no further than the hornbook, she lost

her mother, and thenceforward she educated herself. Her father

appears to have been as bad a father as a very honest,

affectionate and sweet-tempered man can well be. He loved his

daughter dearly ; but it never seems to have occurred to him that

a parent has other duties to perform to children than that of

fondling them. It would indeed have been impossible for him to

superintend their education himself. His professional engagements

occupied him all day. At seven in the morning, he began to attend

his pupils, and, when London was full, was sometimes employed in

teaching

Page xv

till eleven at night. He was often forced to carry in his pocket

a tin box of sandwiches and a bottle of wine and water, on which

he dined in a hackney coach while hurrying from one scholar to

another. Two of his daughters he sent to a seminary at Paris; but

he imagined that Frances would run some risk of being perverted

from the Protestant faith if she were educated in a Catholic

country, and he therefore kept her at home. No governess, no

teacher of any art or of any language was provided for her. But

one of her sisters showed her how to write ; and, before she was

fourteen, she began to find pleasure in reading.

it was not, however, by reading that her intellect was formed.

Indeed, when her best novels were produced, her knowledge of

books was very small. When at the height of her fame, she was

unacquainted with the most celebrated works of Voltaire and

Moli6re ; and, what seems still more extraordinary, had never

heard or seen a line of Churchill, who, when she was a girl, was

the most popular of living poets. It is particularly

deserving of observation that she appears to have been by no

means a novel reader. Her father's library was large, and he had

admitted into it so many books which rigid moralists generally

exclude that he felt uneasy, as he afterwards owned, when Johnson

began to examine the shelves. But in the whole collection there

was only a single novel, Fielding's "Amelia."(5)

An education, however, which to most girls would have been

useless, but which suited Fanny's mind better than elaborate

culture, was in constant progress during her passage from

childhood to womanhood. The great book of human nature was

turned over before her. Her father's social position was very

peculiar. He belonged in fortune and station to the middle

class. His daughters seemed to have been suffered to mix freely

with those whom butlers and waiting-maids call vulgar. We are

told that they were in the habit of playing with the children of

a wigmaker who lived in the adjoining house. Yet few nobles

could assemble in the most stately mansions of Grosvenor-square

or St. James's-square a society so various and so brilliant as

was sometimes to be found in Dr. Burney's cabin. His mind,

though

Page xvi

not very powerful or capacious, was restlessly active ; and, in

the intervals of his professional pursuits, he had contrived to

lay up much miscellaneous information. His attainments, the

suavity of his temper and the general simplicity of his manners

had obtained for him ready admission to the first literary

circles. While he was still at Lynn, he had won Johnson's heart

by sounding with honest zeal the praises of the "English

Dictionary." In London, the two friends met frequently and

agreed most harmoniously. One tie, indeed, was wanting to their

mutual attachment. Burney loved his own art passionately, and

Johnson just knew the bell of St. Clement's church from the

organ. Theyhad, however, many topics in common; and on winter

nights their conversations were sometimes prolonged till the fire

had gone out and the candles had burned away to the wicks.

Burney'sadmiration of the powers which had produced "Rasselas"

and "The Rambler" bordered on idolatry. He gave a singular proof

of this at his first visit to Johnson's ill-furnished garret.

The master of the apartment was not at home. The enthusiastic

visitor looked about for some relic which he could carry away,

but he could see nothing lighter than the chairs and the

fireirons. At last he discovered an old broom, tore some

bristles from the stump, wrapped them in silver paper, and

departed as happy as Louis IX. when the holy nail of St. Denis

was found.(6) Johnson, on the other hand, condescended to growl

out that Burney was an honest fellow, a man whom it was

impossible not to like.

Garrick, too, was a frequent visitor in Poland-street and St.

Martin's-street. That wonderful actor loved the society of

children, partly from good nature and partly from vanity. The

ecstasies of mirth and terror, which his gestures and play of

countenance never failed to produce in a nursery, flattered him

quite as much as the applause of mature critics. He often

exhibited all his powers of mimicry for the amusement of the

little Burneys, awed them by shuddering and crouching as if he

saw a ghost, scared them by raving like a maniac in St. Luke's,

and then at once became an auctioneer, a chimney-sweeper or an

old woman, and made them laugh till the tears ran down their

cheeks.

But it would be tedious to recount the names of all the men of

letters and artists whom Frances Burney had an opportunity of

seeing and hearing. Colman, Twining, Harris, Baretti,

Hawkesworth, Reynolds, Barry, were among those who occasionally

surrounded the tea table and supper tray at her father's modest

Page xvii

dwelling. This was not all. The distinction which Dr. Burney had

acquired as a musician and as the historian of music, attracted

to his house the most eminent musical performers of that age.

The greatest Italian singers who visited England regarded him as

the dispenser of fame in their art, and exerted themselves to

obtain his suffrage. Pacchierotti became his intimate friend.

The rapacious Agujari, who sang for nobody else under fifty

pounds an air, sang her best for Dr. Burney without a fee; and in

the company of Dr. Burney even the haughty and eccentric

Gabrielli constrained herself to behave with civility. It was

thus in his power to give, with scarcely any expense, concerts

equal to those of the aristocracy. On such occasions, the quiet

street in which he lived was blocked up by coroneted chariots,

and his little drawing-room was crowded with peers, peeresses,

ministers and ambassadors. On one evening, of which we happen to

have a full account, there were present Lord Mulgrave, Lord

Bruce, Lord and Lady Edgecumbe, Lord Barrington from the War

office, Lord Sandwich from the Admiralty, Lord Ashburnham, with

his gold key dangling from his pocket, and the French ambassador,

M. De Guignes, renowned for his fine person and for his success

in gallantry. But the great show of the night was the Russian

ambassador, Count Orloff, whose gigantic figure was all in a

blaze with jewels, and in whose demeanour the untamed ferocity of

the Scythian might be discerned through a thin varnish of French

Politeness. As he stalked about the small parlour, brushing the

ceiling with his toupee, the girls whispered to each other, with

mingled admiration and borror, that he was the favoured lover of

his august mistress; that be had borne the chief part in the

revolution to which she owed her throne; and that his huge hands,

now glittering with diamond rings, had given the last squeeze to

the windpipe of her unfortunate husband.

With such illustrious guests as these were mingled all the most

remarkable specimens of the race of lions, a kind of game which

is hunted in London every spring with more than Meltonian ardour

and perseverance. Bruce, who had washed down steaks cut from

living oxen with water from the fountains of the Nile, came to

swagger and talk about his travels. Ornai lisped broken English,

and made all the assembled musicians hold their ears by howling

Otaheitean love-songs, such as those with which Oberea charmed

her Opano.

With the literary and fashionable society which occasionally met

under Dr. Burney's roof, Frances can scarcely be said to have

mingled.(7) She was not a musician, and could therefore bear no

part in the concerts. She was shy almost to awkward-

Page xviii

ness, and she scarcely ever joined in the conversation. The

slightest remark from a stranger disconcerted her, and even the

old friends of her father who tried to draw her out could seldom

extract more than a Yes or a No. Her figure was small, her face

not distinguished by beauty. She was therefore suffered to

withdraw quietly to the background, and, unobserved herself, to

observe all that passed. Her nearest relations were aware that

she had good sense, but seem not to have suspected that under her

demure and bashful deportment were concealed a fertile invention

and a keen sense of the ridiculous. She had not, it is true, an

eye for the fine shades of character. But every marked

peculiarity instantly caught her notice and remained engraven on

her imagination. Thus while still a girl she had laid up such a

store of materials for fiction as few of those who mix much in

the world are able to accumulate during a long life. She had

watched and listened to people of every class, from princes and

great officers of state down to artists living in garrets and

poets familiar with subterranean cookshops. Hundreds of

remarkable persons had passed in review before her, English,

French, German, Italian, lords and fiddlers, deans of cathedrals

and managers of theatres, travellers leading about newly caught

savages, and singing women escorted by deputy husbands.

So strong was the impression made on the mind of Frances by the

society which she was in the habit of seeing and hearing, that

she began to write little fictitious narratives as soon as she

could use her pen with ease, which, as we have said, was not very

early. Her sisters were amused by her stories. But Dr. Burney

knew nothing of their existence ; and in another quarter her

literary propensities met with serious discouragement. When she

was fifteen, her father took a second wife.(8) The new Mrs.

Burney soon found out that her daughter-in-law was fond of

scribbling, and delivered several good-natured lectures on the

subject. The advice no doubt was well meant, and might have been

given by the most judicious friend ; for at that time, from

causes to which we may hereafter advert, nothing could be more

disadvantageous to a young lady than to be known as a novel

writer. Frances yielded, relinquished her favourite pursuit, and

made a bonfire of all her manuscripts.(9) Page xix -MAD

She now hemmed and stitched from breakfast to dinner with

scrupulous regularity. But the dinners of that time were early ;

and the afternoon was her own. Though she had given up

novelwriting, she was still fond of using her pen. She began to

keep a diary, and she corresponded largely with a person who

seems to have had the chief share in the formation of her mind.

This was Samuel Crisp, an old friend of her father. His name,

well known, near a century ago, in the most splendid circles of

London, has long been forgotten. His history is, however, so

interesting and instructive, that it tempts us to venture on a

digression. Long before Frances Burney was born, Mr. Crisp had

made his entrance into the world, with every advantage.

He was well connected and well educated. His face and figure were

conspicuously handsome; his manners were polished; his fortune

was easy; his character was without stain ; he lived in the best

society; he had read much ; he talked well; his taste in

literature, music, painting, architecture, sculpture, was held in

high esteem. Nothing that the world can give seemed to be wanting

to his happiness and respectability, except that he should

understand the limits of his powers, and should not throw away

distinctions which were within his reach in the pursuit of

distinctions which were unattainable. " It is an uncontrolled

truth," says Swift, "that no man ever made an ill figure who

understood his own talents, nor a good one who mistook them."

Every day brings with it fresh illustrations of this weighty

saying ; but the best commentary that we remember is the history

of Samuel Crisp. Men like him have their proper place, and it is

a most important one, in the Commonwealth of Letters. It is by

the judgment of such men that the rank of authors is finally

determined. It is neither to the multitude, nor to the few who

are gifted with great creative genius, that we are to look for

sound critical decisions. The multitude, unacquainted with the

best models, are captivated by whatever stuns and dazzles them.

They deserted Mrs. Siddons to run after Master Betty; and they

now prefer, we have no doubt, Jack Sheppard to Van Artevelde. A

man of great original genius, on the other hand, a man who has

attained to mastery in some high walk of art, is by no means to

be implicitly trusted as a judge of the performances of others.

The erroneous decisions pronounced by such men are without

number. It is commonly supposed that jealousy makes them unjust.

But a more creditable explanation may easily be found. The very

excellence of a work shows that some of the faculties of the

author have been developed at the expense of the rest - for it is

not given to the human intellect to expand itself widely in all

directions at once and to be at the same time gigantic and

well-proportioned. Whoever becomes pre-eminent in any art, nay,

in any style of art, generally does so by devoting himself with

intense and exclusive enthusiasm to the pursuit of one kind of

excellence. His perception of other

Page xx

kinds of excellence is too often impaired. Out of his own

department, he blames at random, and is far less to be trusted

than the mere connoisseur, who produces nothing, and whose

business is only to judge and enjoy. One painter is

distinguished by his exquisite finishing. He toils day after day

to bring the veins of a cabbage leaf, the folds of a lace veil,

the wrinkles of an old woman's face, nearer and nearer to

perfection. In the time which he employs on a square foot of

canvas, a master of a different order covers the walls of a

palace with gods burying giants under mountains, or makes the

cupola of a church alive with seraphim and martyrs. The more

fervent the passion of each of these artists for his art, the

higher the !merit of each in his own line, the more unlikely it

is that they will justly appreciate each other. Many persons,

who never handled a pencil, probably do far more justice to

Michael Angelo than would have been done by Gerard Douw, and far

more justice to Gerard Douw than would have been done by Michael

Angelo.

It is the same with literature. Thousands, who have no spark of

the genius of Dryden or Wordsworth, do to Dryden the justice

which has never been done by Wordsworth, and to Wordsworth the

justice which, we suspect, would never have been done by Dryden.

Gray, Johnson, Richardson, Fielding, are all highly esteemed by

the great body of intelligent and well informed men. But Gray

could see no merit in "Rasselas," and Johnson could see no merit

in "The Bard." Fielding thought Richardson a solemn prig, and

Richardson perpetually expressed contempt and disgust for

Fielding's lowness.

Mr. Crisp seems, as far as we can judge, to have been a man

eminently qualified for the useful office of a connoisseur. His

talents and knowledge fitted him to appreciate justly almost

every species of intellectual superiority. As an adviser he was

inestimable. Nay, he might probably have held a respectable rank

as a writer if he would have confined himself to some department

of literature in which nothing more than sense, taste, and

reading was required. Unhappily, he set his heart on being a

great poet, wrote a tragedy in five acts on the death of

Virginia, and offered it to Garrick, who was his personal friend.

Garrick read, shook his head, and expressed a doubt whether it

would be wise in Mr. Crisp to stake a reputation, which stood

high, on the success of such a piece. But the author, blinded by

self-love, set in motion a machinery such as none could long

resist. His intercessors were the most eloquent man and the most

lovely woman of that generation. Pitt was induced to read

"Virginia" and to pronounce it excellent. Lady Coventry, with

fingers which might have furnished a model to sculptors, forced

the manuscript into the reluctant hand of the manager; and, in

the year 1754, the play was brought forward.

Nothing that skill or friendship could do was omitted. Garrick

wrote both prologue and epilogue. The zealous friends of the

Page xxi

author filled every box ; and, by their strenuous exertions, the

life of the play was prolonged during ten nights. But though

there was no clamorous reprobation, it was universally felt that

the attempt had failed. When "Virginia" was printed, the pub lic

disappointment was even greater than at the representation. The

critics, the Monthly Reviewers in particular, fell on plot

,characters, and diction without mercy, but, we fear, not without

justice. We have never met with a copy of the play; but if we

mayjudge from the lines which are extracted in the "Gentleman's

Magazine," and which do not appear to have been malevolently

selected, we should say that nothing but the acting of Garrick

and the partiality of the audience could have saved so feeble and

unnatural a drama from instant damnation. The ambition of the

poet was still unsubdued.. When the London season closed, he

applied himself vigorously to the work of removing blemishes. He

does not seem to have suspected, what we are strongly inclined to

suspect, that the whole piece was one blemish, and that the

passages which were meant to be fine were, in truth, bursts of

that tame extravagance into which writers fall when they set

themselves to be sublime and pathetic in spite of nature. He

omitted, added, retouched, and flattered himself with hopes of a

complete success in the following year; but, in the following

year, Garrick showed no disposition to bring the amended tragedy

on the stage. Solicitation and remonstrance were tried in vain.

Lady Coventry, drooping under that malady which seems ever to

select what is loveliest for its prey, could render no

assistance. The manager's language was civilly evasive; but his

resolution was inflexible. Crisp had committed a great error ;

but he had escaped with a very slight penance. His play had not

been hooted from the boards. It had, on the contrary, been

better received than many very estimable performances have

been-than Johnson's "Irene," for example, or Goldsmith's

"Good-natured Man." Had Crisp been wise, he would have thought

himself happy in having purchased self-knowledge so cheap. He

would have relinquished, without vain repinings, the hope of

poetical distinction, and would have turned to the many sources

of happiness which he still possessed. Had he been, on the other

hand, an unfeeling and unblushing dunce, he would have gone on

writing scores of bad tragedies in defiance of censure and

derision. But he had too much sense to risk a second defeat, yet

too little to bear his first defeat like a man. The fatal

delusion that he was a great dramatist had taken firm possession

of his mind. His failure he attributed to every cause except the

true one. He complained of the ill-will of Garrick, who appears

to have done everything that ability and zeal could do, and who,

from selfish motives, would, of course, have been well pleased if

"Virginia" had been as successful as "The Beggar's Opera." Nay,

Crisp complained of the languor of the friends whose partiality

had given him three

Page xxii

benefit nights to which he had no claim. He complained of the

injustice of the spectators, when, in truth, he ought to have

been grateful for their unexampled patience. He lost his temper

and spirits, and became a cynic and a hater of mankind. From

London be retired to Hampton, and from Hampton to a solitary and

long-deserted mansion, built on a common in one of the wildest

tracts of Surrey.(10) No road, not even a sheepwalk, connected

his lonely dwelling with the abodes of men. The place of his

retreat was strictly concealed from his old associates. In the

spring, he sometimes emerged, and was seen at exhibitions and

concerts in London. But he soon disappeared and hid himself,

with no society but his books, in his dreary hermitage. He

survived his failure about thirty years. A new generation sprang

up around him. No memory of his bad verses remained among men.

His very name was forgotten. How completely the world had lost

sight of him will appear from a single circumstance. We looked

for his name in a copious Dictionary of Dramatic Authors

published while he was still alive, and we found only that Mr.

Samuel Crisp, of the Custom-house, had written a play called

"Virginia," acted in 1754. To the last, however, the unhappy man

continued to brood over the injustice of the manager and the pit,

and tried to convince himself and others that he had missed the

highest literary honours only because he had omitted some fine

passages in compliance with Garrick's judgment. Alas for human

nature, that the wounds of vanity should smart and bleed so much

longer than the wounds of affection! Few people, we believe,

whose nearest friends and relations died in 1754, had any acute

feeling of the loss in 1782. Dear sisters, and favourite

daughters, and brides snatched away before the honeymoon was

passed, had been forgotten, or were remembered only with a

tranquil regret. But Samuel Crisp was still mourning for his

tragedy, like Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be

comforted. "Never," such was his language twenty-eight years

after his disaster, "never give up or alter a tittle unless it

perfectly coincides with your inward feelings. I can say this to

my sorrow and my cost. But mum!" Soon after these words were

written, his life--a life which might have been eminently useful

and happy--ended in the same gloom in which, during more than a

quarter of a century, it had been passed. We have thought it

worth while to rescue from oblivion this curious fragment of

literary history. It seems to us at once ludicrous, melancholy,

and full of instruction.(11)

Page xxiii

Crisp was an old and very intimate friend of the Burneys.

To them alone was confided the name of the desolate old hall in

which he hid himself like a wild beast in a den. For them were

reserved such remains of his humanity as had survived the failure

of his play. Frances Burney he regarded as his daughter. He

called her his Fannikin; and she in return called him her dear

Daddy. In truth, he seems to have done much more than her real

father for the development of her intellect ; for though he was a

bad poet, he was a scholar, a thinker, and an excellent

counsellor. He was particularly fond of Dr. Burney's concerts.

They had indeed, been commenced at his suggestion, and when he

visited London he constantly attended them. But when he grew

old, and when gout, brought on partly by mental irritation,

confined him to his retreat, he was desirous of having a glimpse

of that gay and brilliant world from which he was exiled, and he

pressed Fannikin to send him full accounts of her father's

evening parties. A few of her letters to him have been

published; and it is impossible to read them without discerning

in them all the powers which afterwards produced "Evelina" and

"Cecilia"; the quickness in catching every odd peculiarity of

character and manner; the skill in grouping; the humour, often

richly comic, sometimes even farcical.

Fanny's propensity to novel-writing had for a time been kept

down. It now rose up stronger than ever. The heroes and

heroines of the tales which had perished in the flames were still

present to the eye of her mind. One favourite story, in

particular, haunted her imagination. It was about a certain

Caroline Evelyn, a beautiful damsel who made an unfortunate love

match and died, leaving an infant daughter. Frances began to

image to herself the various scenes, tragic and comic, through

which the poor motherless girl, highly connected on one side,

meanly connected on the other, might have to pass. A crowd of

unreal beings, good and bad, grave and ludicrous, surrounded the

pretty, timid young orphan ; a coarse sea captain ; an ugly,

insolent fop, blazing in a superb court dress ; another fop, as

ugly and as insolent, but lodged on Snow-hill and tricked out in

second-hand finery for the Hampstead ball; an old woman,

Page Xxiv

wrinkles and rouge, flirting her fan with the air of a miss of

seventeen and screaming in a dialect made up of vulgar French and

vulgar English; a poet, lean and ragged, with a broad Scotch

accent. By degrees these shadows acquired stronger and stronger

consistence ; the impulse which urged Frances to write became

irresistible; and the result was the "History of Evelina."

Then came, naturally enough, a wish, mingled with many fears, to

appear before the public ; for, timid as Frances was, and

bashful, and altogether unaccustomed to hear her own praises, it

is clear that she wanted neither a strong passion for

distinction, nor a just confidence in her own powers. Her scheme

was to become, if possible, a candidate for fame without running

any risk of disgrace. She had not money to bear the expense of

printing. It was therefore necessary that some bookseller should

be induced to take the risk; and such a bookseller was not

readily found. Dodsley refused even to look at the manuscript

unless he were intrusted with the name of the author. A

publisher in Fleet-street, named Lowndes, was more complaisant.

Some correspondence took place between this person and Miss

Burney, who took the name of Grafton, and desired that the

letters addressed to her might be left at the Orange

Coffee-house. But, before the bargain was finally struck, Fanny

thought it her duty to obtain her father's consent. She told him

that she had written a book, that she wished to have his

permission to publish it anonymously, but that she hoped that he

would not insist upon seeing it. What followed may serve to

illustrate what we meant when we said that Dr. Burney was as bad

a father as so goodhearted a man could possibly be. It never

seems to have crossed his mind that Fanny was about to take a

step on which the whole happiness of her life might depend, a

step which might raise her to an honourable eminence or cover her

with ridicule and contempt. Several people had already been

trusted, and strict concealment was therefore not to be expected.

On so grave an occasion, it was surely his duty to give his best

counsel to his daughter, to win her confidence, to prevent her

from exposing herself if her book were a bad one, and, if it were

a good one, to see that the terms which she made with the

publisher were likely to be beneficial to her. Instead of this,

he only stared, burst out a-laughing, kissed her, gave her leave

to do as she liked, and never even asked the name of her work.

The contract with Lowndes was speedily concluded. Twenty pounds

were given for the copyright, and were accepted by Fanny with

delight. Her father's inexcusable neglect of his duty happily

caused her no worse evil than the loss of twelve or fifteen

hundred pounds.(12)

After many delays, "Evelina" appeared in January, 1778.

Page xxv

Poor Fanny was sick with terror, and durst hardly stir out of

doors. Some days passed before anything was heard of the book.

It had, indeed, nothing but its own merits to push it into public

favour. Its author was unknown. The house by which it was

published, was not, we believe, held high in estimation. No body

of partisans had been engaged to applaud. The better class of

readers expected little from a novel about a young lady's

entrance into the world. There was, indeed, at that time a

disposition among the most respectable people to condemn novels

generally: nor was this disposition by any means without excuse;

for works of that sort were then almost always silly and very

frequently wicked.

Soon, however, the first faint accents of praise began to be

heard: The keepers of the circulating libraries reported that

everybody was asking for "Evelina," and that some person had

guessed Anstey(13) to be the author. Then came a favourable

notice in the "London Review"; then another still more favourable

in the "Monthly." And now the book found its way to tables which

had seldom been polluted by marble-covered volumes. Scholars and

statesmen, who contemptuously abandoned the crowd of romances to

Miss Lydia Languish and Miss Sukey Saunter, were not ashamed to

own that they could not tear themselves away from "Evelina."

Fine carriages and rich liveries, not often seen east of

Temple-bar, were attracted to the publisher's shop in

Fleet-street. Lowndes was daily questioned about the author, but

was himself as much in the dark as any of the questioners. The

mystery, however, could not remain a mystery long. It was known

to brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins: and they were far too

proud and too happy to be discreet. Dr. Burney wept over the

book in rapture. Daddy Crisp shook his fist at his Fannikin in

affectionate anger at not having been admitted to her confidence.

The truth was whispered to Mrs. Thrale: and then it began to

spread fast.

The book had been admired while it had been ascribed to men of

letters long conversant with the world and accustomed to

composition. But when it was known that a reserved, silent young

woman had produced the best work of fiction that had appeared

since' the death of Smollett, the acclamations were redoubled.

What she had done was, indeed, extraordinary. But, as usual,

various reports improved the story till it became miraculous.

"Evelina," it was said, was the work of a girl of seventeen.

Incredible as this tale was, it continued to be repeated down to

our own time. Frances was too honest to confirm it. Probably

she Was too much a woman to contradict it; and it was long before

any of her detractors thought of this mode of annoyance. Yet

there was no want of low minds and bad hearts in the generation

Page Xxvi

which witnessed her first appearance. There was the envious

Kenrick and the savage Wolcot, the asp George Steevens and the

polecat John Williams. It did not, however, occur to them to

search the parish register of Lynn, in order that they might be

able to twit a lady with having concealed her age. That truly

chivalrous exploit was reserved for a bad writer(14) of our own

time, whose spite she had provoked by not furnishing him with

materials for a worthless edition of Boswell's "Life of Johnson,"

some sheets of which our readers have doubtless seen round

parcels of better books.

But we must return to our story. The triumph was complete. The

timid and obscure girl found herself on the highest pinnacle of

fame. Great men, on whom she had gazed at a distance with humble

reverence, addressed her with admiration, tempered by the

tenderness due to her sex and age. Burke, Windham, Gibbon,

Reynolds, Sheridan, were among her most ardent eulogists.

Cumberland(15) acknowledged her merit, after his fashion, by

biting his lips and wriggling in his chair whenever her name was

mentioned. But it was at Streatham that she tasted, in the

highest perfection, the sweets of flattery mingled with the

sweets of friendship. Mrs. Thrale, then at the height of

prosperity and popularity-with gay spirits, quick wit, showy,

though superficial, acquirements, pleasing, though not refined,

manners, a singularly amiable temper and a loving heart-felt

towards Fanny as towards a younger sister. With the Thrales,

Johnson was domesticated. He was an old friend of Dr. Burney;

but he had probably taken little notice of Dr. Burney's daughters

; and Fanny, we imagine, had never in her life dared to speak to

him, unless to ask whether he wanted a nineteenth or a twentieth

cup of tea. He was charmed by her tale, and preferred it to the

novels of Fielding, to whom, indeed, he had always been grossly

unjust. He did not, indeed, carry his partiality so far as to

place "Evelina" by the side of "Clarissa" and "Sir Charles

Grandison"; yet he said that his little favourite had done enough

to have made even Richardson feel uneasy. With Johnson's cordial

approbation of the book was mingled a fondness, half gallant,

half paternal, for the writer; and this fondness his age and

character entitled him to show without restraint. He began by

putting her hand to his lips. But he soon clasped her in his

huge arms, and immediately implored her to be a good girl. She

was his pet, his dear love, his dear little Burney, his little

character-monger. At one time, he broke forth in praise of the

good taste of her caps. At another time, he insisted on teaching

her Latin. That, with all his coarseness and

Page xxvii

irritability, he was a man of sterling benevolence, has long been

acknowledged. But how gentle and endearing his deportment could

be, was not known till the recollections of Madame.D'Arblay were

published.

We have mentioned a few of the most eminent of those who paid

their homage to the author of " Evelina." The crowd of inferior

admirers would require a catalogue as long as that in the second

book of the " Iliad." In that catalogue would be Mrs.

Cholmondeley, the sayer of odd things; and Seward, much given to

yawning; and Baretti, who slew the man in the Haymarket ; and

Paoli, talking broken English; and Langton, taller by the head

than any other member of the club; and Lady Millar, who kept a

vase wherein fools were wont to put bad verses ; and Jerningham,

who wrote verses fit to be put into the vase of Lady Millar; and

Dr. Franklin-not, as some have dreamed, the great Pennsylvanian

Dr. Franklin, who could not then have paid his respects to Miss

Burney without much risk of being hanged, drawn, and quartered,

but Dr. Franklin the less.

A'tag ,uEiwv, ort r6aroC yE 6aoc TEXap6vtoC Atag, i1XX,i rOV

JLEi&)V.

It would not have been surprising if such success had turned even

a strong head and corrupted even a generous and affectionate

nature. But in the "Diary," we can find no trace of any feeling

inconsistent with a truly modest and amiable disposition. There

is, indeed, abundant proof that Frances enjoyed with an intense,

though a troubled, joy, the honours which her genius had won ;

but it is equally clear that her happiness sprang from the

happiness of her father, her sister, and her dear Daddy Crisp.

While flattered by the great, the opulent and the learned, while

followed along the Steyne at Brighton and the Pantiles at

Tunbridge Wells by the gaze of admiring crowds, her heart seems

to have been still with the little domestic circle in St.

Martin'sstreet. If she recorded with minute diligence all the

compliments, delicate and coarse, which she heard wherever she

turned, she recorded them for the eyes of two or three persons

who had loved her from infancy, who had loved her in obscurity,

and to whom her fame gave the purest and most exquisite delight.

Nothing can be more unjust than to confound these outpourings of

a kind heart, sure of perfect sympathy, with the egotism of a

bluestocking who prates to all who come near her about her own

novel or her own volume of sonnets.

It was natural that the triumphant issue of Miss Burney's first

venture should tempt her to try a second. "Evelina," though it

had raised her fame, had added nothing to her fortune. Some of

her friends urged her to write for the stage. Johnson promised

to give her his advice as to the composition. Murphy, who was

supposed to understand the temper of the pit as well as any man

Page xxviii

of his time, undertook to instruct her as to stage effect.

Sheridan declared that he would accept a play from her without

even reading it. Thus encouraged, she wrote a comedy named "The

Witlings." Fortunately, it was never acted or printed. We can,

we think, easily perceive, from the little which is said on the

subject in the "Diary," that "The Witlings" would have been

damned, and that Murpby and Sheridan thought so, though they were

too polite to say so. Happily Frances had a friend who was not

afraid to give her pain. Crisp, wiser for her than he had been

for himself, read the manuscript in his lonely retreat and

manfully told her that she had failed, and that to remove

blemishes here and there would be useless; that the piece had

abundance of wit but no interest, that it was bad as a whole ;

that it would remind every reader of the "Femmes Savantes,"

which, strange to say, she had never read, and that she could not

sustain so close a comparison with Moli6re. This opinion, in

which Dr. Burney concurred, was sent to Frances in what she

called "a hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle." But she had too

much sense not to know that it was better to be hissed and

catcalled by her Daddy than by a whole sea of heads in the pit of

Drury-lane theatre ; and she had too good a heart not to be

grateful for so rare an act of friendship. She returned an

answer which shows how well she deserved to have a judicious,

faithful, and affectionate adviser. "I intend," she wrote, "to

console myself for your censure by this greatest proof I have

received of the sincerity, candour, and, let me add, esteem of my

dear daddy. And, as I happen to love myself more than my play,

this consolation is not a very trifling one. This, however,

seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put their heads

together to concert that hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle

they sent me, they felt as sorry for poor little Miss Bayes as

she could possibly do for herself. You see I do not attempt to

repay your frankness with an air of pretended carelessness. But,

though somewhat disconcerted just now, I will promise not to let

my vexation live out another day. Adieu, my dear daddy; I won't

be mortified and I won't be downed; but I will be proud to find I

have, out of my own family, as well as in it, a friend who loves

me well enough to speak plain truth to me."

Frances now turned from her dramatic schemes to an undertaking

far better suited to her talents. She determined to write a new

tale on a plan excellently contrived for the display of the

powers in which her superiority to other writers lay. It was, in

truth, a grand and various picture gallery, which presented to

the eye a long series of men and women, each marked by some

strong peculiar feature. There were avarice and prodigality, the

pride of blood and the pride of money, morbid restlessness and

morbid apathy, frivolous garrulity, supercilious silence, a

Democritus to laugh at everything and a Heraclitus to lament over

everything. The work proceeded fast, and in twelve months was

completed,

Page xxix

It wanted something of the simplicity which had been among the

most attractive charms of "Evelina"; but it furnished ample proof

that the four years, which had elapsed since "Evelina" appeared,

had not been unprofitably spent. Those who saw "Cecilia" in

manuscript pronounced it the best novel of the age. Mrs. Thrale

laughed and wept over it. Crisp was even vehement in applause,

and offered to insure the rapid and complete success of the book

for half-a-crown. What Miss Burney received for the copyright is

not mentioned in the " Diary "; but we have observed several

expressions from which we infer that the sum was considerable.

That the sale would be great, nobody could doubt; and Frances now

had shrewd and experienced advisers, who would not suffer her to

wrong herself. We have been told that the publishers gave her

two thousand pounds, and we have no doubt that they might have

given a still larger sum without being losers.(16)

"Cecilia" was published in the summer of 1782. The curiosity of

the town was intense. We have been informed by persons who

remember those days, that no romance of Sir Walter Scott was more

impatiently awaited or more eagerly snatched from the counters of

the booksellers. High as public expectation was, it was amply

satisfied; and "Cecilia" was placed, by general acclamation,

among the classical novels of England.

Miss Burney was now thirty. Her youth had been singularly

prosperous; but clouds soon began to gather over that clear and

radiant dawn. Events deeply painful to a heart so kind as that

of Frances followed each other in rapid succession. She was

first called upon to attend the deathbed of her best friend,

Samuel Crisp. When she returned to St. Martin's-street after

performing this melancholy duty, she was appalled by hearing that

Johnson had been struck with paralysis, and, not many months

Later, she parted from him for the last time with solemn

tenderness. He wished to look on her once more; and on the day

before his death she long remained in tears on the stairs leading

to his bedroom, in the hope that she might be called in to

receive his blessing. But he was then sinking fast, and, though

he sent her an affectionate message, was unable to see her. But

this was not the worst. There are separations far more cruel

than those which are made by death. Frances might weep with

proud affection for Crisp and Johnson. She had to blush as well

as to weep for Mrs. Thrale.

Life, however, still smiled upon her. Domestic happiness,

friendship, independence, leisure, letters, all these things were

hers; and she flung them all away.

Among the distinguished persons to whom Miss Burney had been

introduced, none appears to have stood higher in her regard than

Mrs. Delany. This lady was an interesting and venerable

Page xxx

relic of a past age. She was the niece of George Granville, Lord

Lansdowne, who, in his youth, exchanged verses and compliments

with Edmun Waller, and who was among the first to applaud the

opening talents of Pope. She had married Dr. Delany, a man known

to his contemporaries as a profound scholar and eloquent

preacher, but remembered in our time chiefly as one of that small

circle in which the fierce spirit of Swift, tortured by

disappointed ambition, by remorse, and by the approaches of

madness, sought for amusement and repose. Dr. Delany had long

been dead. His widow, nobly descended, eminently accomplished,

and retaining, in spite of the infirmities of advanced age, the

vigour of her faculties, and the serenity of her temper, enjoyed

and deserved the favour of the royal family. She had a pension

of three hundred a-year; and a house at Windsor, belonging to the

crown, had been fitted up for her accommodation. At this house,

the king and queen sometimes called, and found a very natural

pleasure in thus catching an occasional glimpse of the private

life of English families.

In December, 1785, Miss Burney was on a visit to Mrs. Delany at

Windsor. The dinner was over. The old lady was taking a nap. Her

grandniece, a little girl of seven, was playing at some Christmas

game with the visitors, when the door opened, and a stout

gentleman entered unannounced, with a star on his breast, and

"What? what? what?" in his mouth. A cry of "The king!" was set

up. A general scampering followed. Miss Burney owns that she

could not have been more terrified if she had seen a ghost. But

Mrs. Delany came forward to pay her duty to her royal friend, and

the disturbance was quieted. Frances was then presented, and

underwent a long examination and crossexamination about all that

she had written, and all that she meant to write. The queen soon

made her appearance, and his majesty repeated, for the benefit of

his consort, the information which he had extracted from Miss

Burney. The good nature of the royal pair might have softened

even the authors of the "Probationary Odes,"(17) and could not

but be delightful to a young lady who had been brought up a Tory.

In a few days the visit was repeated. Miss Burney was more at

ease than before. His majesty, instead of seeking for

information, condescended to impart it, and passed sentence on

many great writers, English and foreign. Voltairehe pronounced a

monster. Rousseau he liked rather better. "But was there ever,"

he cried, " such stuff as great part of Shakspeare? Only one must

not say so. But what think you? What? Is there not sad stuff?

What? What?"

The next day Frances enjoyed the privilege of listening to some

equally valuable criticism uttered by the queen touching Goethe ,

Page xxxi

And Klopstock, and might have learned an important lesson of

economy from the mode in which her majesty's library had been

formed. "1 picked the book up on a stall," said the queen. "Oh,

it is amazing what good books there are on stalls!" Mrs. Delany,

who seems to have understood from these words that her majesty

was in the habit of exploring the booths of Moorfields and

Holywell-street in person, could not suppress an exclamation of

surprise. "Why," said the queen, "I don't pick them up myself.

I have a servant very clever; and if they are not to be had at

the booksellers, they are not for me more than for another." Miss

Burney describes this conversation as delightful; and, indeed, we

cannot wonder that, with her literary tastes, she should be

delighted at hearing in how magnificent a manner the greatest

lady in the land encouraged literature.

The truth is, that Frances was fascinated by the condescending

kindness of the two great personages to whom she had been

presented. Her father was even more infatuated than herself.

The result was a step of which we cannot think with patience, but

recorded as it is with all its consequences in these volumes

deserves at least this praise, that it has furnished a most

impressive warning.

A German lady of the name of Haggerdorn, one of the keepers of

the queen's robes, retired about this time, and her majesty

offered the vacant post to Miss Burney. When we consider that

Miss Burney was decidedly the most popular writer of fictitious

narrative then living, that competence, if not opulence, was

within her reach, and that she was more than usually happy in her

domestic circle, and when we compare the sacrifice which she was

invited to make with the remuneration which was held out to her,

we are divided between laughter and indignation.

What was demanded of her was that she should consent to be almost

as completely separated from her family and friends as if she had

gone to Calcutta, and almost as close a prisoner as if she had

been sent to gaol for a libel; that with talents which had

instructed and delighted the highest living minds, she should now

be employed only in mixing snuff and sticking pins; that she

should be summoned by a waiting-woman's bell to a waiting-woman's

duties; that she should pass her whole life under the restraints

of a paltry etiquette, should sometimes fast till she was ready

to swoon with hunger, should sometimes stand till her knees have

way with fatigue; that she should not dare to speak or move

without considering how her mistress might like her words and

gestures. Instead of those distinguished men and women, the

flower of all political parties, with whom she had been in the

habit of mixing on terms of equal friendship, she was to have for

her perpetual companion the chief keeper of the robes, an old hag

from Germany, of mean understanding, of insolent manners, and of

temper which, naturally savage, had now been exasperated by

disease. Now and then, indeed, poor Frances might console her-

Page xxxii

self for the loss of Burke's and Windham's society by joining in

the "celestial colloquy sublime" of his majesty's equerries.

And what was the consideration for which she was to sell herself

to this slavery? A peerage in her own right? A pension of two

thousand a-year for life? A seventy-four for her brother in the

navy? A deanery for her brother in the church? Not so. The

price at which she was valued was her board, her lodging, the

attendance of a man-servant, and two hundred pounds a-year.

The man who, even when hard pressed by hunger, sells his

birthright for a mess of pottage, is unwise. But what shall we

say of him who parts with his birthright and does not get even

the pottage in return ? It is not necessary to inquire whether

opulence be an adequate compensation for the sacrifice of bodily

and mental freedom ; for Frances Burney paid for leave to be a

prisoner and a menial. It was evidently understood as one of the

terms of her engagement, that, while she was a member of the

royal household, she was not to appear before the public as an

author; and, even had there been no such understanding, her

avocations were such as left her no leisure for any considerable

intellectual effort. That her place was incompatible with her

literary pursuits was indeed frankly acknowledged by the king

when she resigned. "She had given up," he said, "five years of

her pen." That during those five years she might, without

painful exertion, without any exertion that would not have been a

pleasure, have earned enough to buy an annuity for life much

larger than the precarious salary which she received at Court, is

quite certain. The same income, too, which in St. Martin'sstreet

would have afforded her every comfort, must have been found

scanty at St. James's. We cannot venture to speak confidently of

the price of millinery and jewellery; but we are greatly deceived

if a lady, who had to attend Queen Charlotte on many public

occasions, could possibly save a farthing out of a salary of two

hundred a-year. The principle of the arrangement was, in short,

simply this, that Frances Burney should become a slave, and

should be rewarded by being made a beggar.

With what object their majesties brought her to their palace, we

must own ourselves unable to conceive. Their object could not be

to encourage her literary exertions; for they took her from a

situation in which it was almost certain that she would write and

put her into a situation in which it was impossible for her to

write. Their object could not be to promote her pecuniary

interest for they took her from a situation where she was likely

to becom rich, and put her into a situation in which she could

not but continue poor. Their object could not be to obtain an

eminentl useful waiting-maid; for it is clear that, though Miss

Burney was the only woman of her time who could have described

the death of Harrel,(18) thousands might have been found more

expert in tying

Page xxxiii

ribbons and filling snuff-boxes. To grant her a pension on the

civil list would have been an act of judicious liberality

honourable to the Court. If this was impracticable, the next

best thing was to let her alone. That the king and queen meant

her nothing but kindness, we do not in the least doubt. But

their kindness was the kindness of persons raised high above the

mass of mankind, accustomed to be addressed with profound

deference, accustomed to see all who approach them mortified by

their coldness and elated by their smiles. They fancied that to

be noticed by them, to be near them, to serve them, was in itself

a kind of happiness ; and that Frances Burney ought to be full of

gratitude for being permitted to purchase, by the surrender of

health, wealth, freedom, domestic affection and literary fame,

the privilege of standing behind a royal chair and holding a pair

of royal gloves.

And who can blame them ? Who can wonder that princes should be

under such a delusion when they are encouraged in it by the very

persons who suffer from it most cruelly ? Was it to be expected

that George III. and Queen Charlotte should understand the

interest of Frances Burney better, or promote it with more zeal,

than herself and her father ? No deception was practised. The

conditions of the house of bondage were set forth with all

simplicity. The hook was presented without a bait ; the net was

spread in sight of the bird, and the naked hook was greedily

swallowed, and the silly bird made haste to entangle herself in

the net.

It is not strange indeed that an invitation to Court should have

caused a fluttering in the bosom of an inexperienced woman. But

it was the duty of the parent to watch over the child, and to

show her, that on one side were only infantine vanities and

chimerical hopes, on the other, liberty, peace of mind,

affluence, social enjoyments, honourable distinctions. Strange

to say, the only hesitation was on the part of Frances. Dr.

Burney was transported out of himself with delight. Not such are

the raptures of a Circassian father who has sold his pretty

daughter well to a Turkish slave merchant. Yet Dr. Burney was an

amiable man a man of good abilities, a man who had seen much of

the world. But he seems to have thought that going to Court was

like going to heaven ; that to see princes and princesses was a

kind of beatific vision ; that the exquisite felicity enjoyed by

royal persons Was not confined to themselves, but was

communicated by some mysterious efflux or reflection to all who

were suffered to stand at their toilettes or to bear their

trains. He overruled all his daughter's objections, and himself

escorted her to prison. The door closed. The key was turned.

She, looking back with tender regret on all she had left, and

forward with anxiety and terror to the new life On which she was

entering, was unable to speak or stand; and he went on his way

homeward rejoicing in her marvellous prosperity.

And now began a slavery of five years, of five years taken from

the best part of life, and wasted in menial drudgery or in

recrea-

Page XXXiV

tions duller than menial drudgery, under galling restraints and

amidst unfriendly or uninteresting companions. The history of an

ordinary day was this: Miss Burney had to rise and dress herself

early, that she might be ready to answer the royal bell, which

rang at half after seven. Till about eight she attended in the

queen's dressing-room, and had the honour of lacing her august

mistress's stays, and of putting on the hoop, gown, and

neckhandkerchief. The morning was chiefly spent in rummaging

drawers, and laying fine clothes in their proper places. Then

the queen was to be powdered and dressed for the day. Twice a

week her majesty's hair was curled and craped; and this operation

appears to have added a full hour to the business of the

toilette. It was generally three before Miss Burney was at

liberty. Then she had two hours at her own disposal. To these

hours we owe great Part of her "Diary." At five she had to attend

her colleague, Madame Schwellenberg, a hateful old toadeater, as

illiterate as a chambermaid, as proud as a Whole German Chapter,

rude, peevish, unable to bear solitude, unable to conduct herself

with common decency in society. With this delightful associate,

Frances Burney had to dine and pass the evening. The pair

generally remained together from five to eleven, and often had no

other company the whole time, except during the hour from eight

to nine, when the equerries came to tea. If poor Frances

attempted to escape to her own apartment, and to forget her

wretchedness over a book, the execrable old woman railed and

stormed, and complained that she was neglected. Yet, When

Frances stayed, she was constantly assailed with insolent

reproaches. Literary fame was, in the eyes of the German crone,

a blemish, a proof that the person -who enjoyed it was meanly

born, and out of the pale of good society. All her scanty stock

of broken English was employed to express the contempt with

'which she regarded the author of "Evelina" and "Cecilia."

Frances detested cards, and indeed knew nothing about them; but

she soon found that the least miserable Way of passing an evening

with Madame Schwellenberg Was at the card-table, and consented,

with patient sadness, to give hours which might have called forth

the laughter and tears of many generations to the king of clubs

and the knave of spades. Between eleven and twelve, the bell

rang again. Miss Burney had to pass twenty minutes or half an

hour in undressing the queen, and was then at liberty to retire

and to dream that she was chatting with her brother by the quiet

hearth in St, Martin's- street, that she was the centre of an

admiring assembly at Mrs. Crewe's, that Burke was calling her

the first woman of the age, or that Dilly was giving her a cheque

for two thousand guineas.

Men, we must suppose, are less patient than women ; for we are

utterly at a loss to conceive how any human being could endure

such a life while there remained a vacant garret in Grub-street,

a crossing in want of a sweeper, a parish workhouse or a parish

Page xxxv

vault. And it was for such a life that Frances Burney had given

up liberty and peace, a happy fireside, attached friends, a -wide

and splendid circle of acquaintance, intellectual pursuits, in

which she was qualified to excel, and the sure hope of what to

her would have been affluence.

There is nothing new under the sun. The last great master of

Attic eloquence and Attic wit has left us a forcible and touching

description of the misery of a man of letters, who, lulled by

hopes similar to those of Frances, had entered the service of one

of the magnates of Rome. "Unhappy that I am," cries the victim

of his own childish ambition: "would nothing content me but that

I must leave mine old pursuits and mine old companions, and the

life which was without care, and the sleep which had no limit

save mine own pleasure, and the walks which I was free to take

where I listed, and fling myself into the lowest pit of a dungeon

like this? And, O God! for what? Is this the bait which enticed

me? Was there no way by which I might have enjoyed in freedom

comforts even greater than those which I now earn by servitude?

Like a lion which has been made so tame that men may lead him

about by a thread, I am dragged up and down, with broken and

humbled spirit, at the beels of those to whom, in my own domain,

I should have been an object of awe and wonder. And, worst of

all, I feel that here I gain no credit, that here I give no

pleasure. The talents and accomplishments, which charmed a far

different circle, are here out of place. I am rude in the arts

of palaces, and can ill bear comparison with those whose calling

from their youth up has been to flatter and to sue. Have I,

then, two lives, that, after I have wasted one in the service of

others, there may yet remain to me a second, which I may live

unto myself?"

Now and then, indeed, events occurred which disturbed the

,wretched monotony of Francis Burney's life. The Court moved

from Kew to Windsor, and from Windsor back to Kew. One dull

colonel went out of waiting, and another dull colonel came into

waiting. An impertinent servant made a blunder about tea, and

caused a misunderstanding between the gentlemen and the ladies.

A half-witted French Protestant minister talked oddly about

conjugal fidelity. An unlucky member of the household mentioned

a passage in the " Morning Herald " reflecting on the queen ; and

forthwith Madame Schwellenberg, began to storm in bad English,

and told him that he had made her "what you call perspire!"

A more important occurrence was the royal visit to Oxford. Miss

Burney went in the queen's train to Nuneham, was utterly

neglected there in the crowd, and could with difficulty find a

,servant to show the way to her bedroom or a hairdresser to

arrange her curls. She had the honour of entering Oxford in the

last of a long string of carriages which formed the royal

procession, of walking after the queen all day through

refectories and chapels and of standing, half dead with fatigue

and hunqer,

Page xxxvi

while her august mistress was seated at an excellent cold

collation. At Magdalene college, Frances was left for a moment

in a parlour, where she sank down on a chair. A good-natured

equerry saw that she was exhausted, and shared with her some

apricots and bread which he had wisely put into his pockets. At

that moment the door opened; the queen entered; the wearied

attendants sprang up ; the bread and fruit were hastily

concealed. "I found," says poor Miss Burney, "that our appetites

were to be supposed annihilated at the same moment that our

strength was to be invincible."

Yet Oxford, seen even under such disadvantages, " revived in

her," to use her own words, a "consciousness to pleasure which

had long lain nearly dormant." She forgot, during one moment,

that she was a waiting-maid, and felt as a woman of true genius

might be expected to feel amidst venerable remains of antiquity,

beautiful works of art, vast repositories of knowledge, and

memorials of the illustrious dead. Had she still been what she

was before her father induced her to take the most fatal step of

her life, we can easily imagine what pleasure she would have

derived from a visit to the noblest of English cities. She

might, indeed, have been forced to ride in a hack chaise, and

might not have worn so fine a gown of Chambery gauze as that in

which she tottered after the royal party; but with what delight

would she have then paced the cloisters of Magdalene, compared

the antique gloom of Merton with the splendour of Christchurch,

and looked down from the dome of the Radcliffe library on the

magnificent sea of turrets and battlements below! How gladly

should learned men have laid aside for a few hours Pindar's

"Odes" and Aristotle's "Ethics," to escort the author of

"Cecilia" from college to college! What neat little banquets

would she have found set out in their monastic cells! With what

eagerness would pictures, medals, and illuminated missals have

been brought forth from the most mysterious cabinets for her

amusement! How much she would have had to hear and to tell about

Johnson, as she walked over Pembroke, and about Reynolds, in the

antechapel of New college. But these indulgences were not for

one who had sold herself into bondage.

About eighteen months after the visit to Oxford, another event

diversified the wearisome life which Frances led at Court.

Warren Hastings was brought to the bar of the House of Peers.

The queen and princesses were present when the trial commenced,

and Miss Burney was permitted to attend. During the subsequent

proceedings, a day rule for the same purpose was occasionally

granted to her; for the queen took the strongest interest in the

trial, and, when she could not go herself to Westminster-hall,

liked to receive a report of what passed from a person who had

singular powers of observation, and who was, moreover, personally

acquainted with some of the most distinguished managers. The

portion of the "Diary" which relates to this celebrated proceed-

Page xxxvii

ing is lively and Picturesque. Yet we read it, we own, with

pain; for it seems to us to prove that the fine understanding of

Frances Burney was beginning to feel the pernicious influence of

a mode of life which is as incompatible with health of mind as

the air of the Pomptine marshes with health of body. From the

first day, she espouses the cause of Hastings with a presumptuous

vehemence and acrimony quite inconsistent with the modesty and

suavity of her ordinary deportment. She shudders when Burke

enters the Hall at the head of the Commons. She pronounces him

the cruel oppressor of an innocent man. She is at a loss to

conceive how the managers can look at the defendant and not

blush. Windham comes to her from the managers' box, to offer her

refreshment. "But," says she, "I could not break bread with

him." Then again, she exclaims, "Ah, Mr. Windham, how come you

ever engaged in so cruel, so unjust a cause?" "Mr. Burke saw

me," she says, "and he bowed with the most marked civility of

manner." This, be it observed, was just after his opening

speech, a speech which had produced a mighty effect, and which

certainly, no other orator that ever lived could have made. "My

curtsy," she continues, "was the most ungrateful, distant and

cold; I could not do otherwise; so hurt I felt to see him the

head of such a cause." Now, not only had Burke treated her with

constant kindness, but the very last act which he performed on

the day on which he was turned out of the Pay office, about four

years before this trial, was to make Dr. Burney organist of

Chelsea hospital. When, at the Westminster election, Dr. Burney

was divided between his gratitude for this favour and his Tory

opinions, Burke in the noblest manner disclaimed all right to

exact a sacrifice of principle. "You have little or no

obligations to me," he wrote; "but if you had as many as I really

wish it were in my power, as it is certainly in my desire, to lay

on you, I hope you do not think me capable of conferring them in

order to subject your mind or your affairs to a painful and

mischievous servitude." Was this a man to be uncivilly treated

by a daughter of Dr. Burney because she chose to differ from him

respecting a vast and most complicated question which he had

studied deeply guring many years and which she had never studied

at all? It Is clear, from Miss Burney's own statement, that when

she behaved so unkindly to Mr. Burke, she did not even know of

what Hastings was accused. One thing, however, she must have

known, that Burke had been able to convince a House of Commons,

bitterly prejudiced against him, that the charges were well

founded, and that Pitt and Dundas had concurred with Fox and

Sheridan in supporting the impeachment. Surely a woman Of far

inferior abilities to Miss Burney might have been expected to see

that this never could have happened unless there had been a

strong case against the late Governor-general. And there was, as

all reasonable men now admit, a strong case against him. That

there were great public services to be set off against his great

Page xxxviii

crimes is perfectly true. But his services and his crimes were

equally unknown to the lady who so confidently asserted his

perfect innocence, and imputed to his accusers--that is to say,

to all the greatest men of all parties in the state-not merely

error, but gross injustice and barbarity.

She had, it is true, occasionally seen Mr. Hastings, and had

found his manners and conversation agreeable. But surely she

could not be so weak as to infer from the gentleness of his

deportment in a drawing-room that he was incapable of committing

a great state crime under the influence of ambition and revenge.

A silly Miss, fresh from a boarding- school, might fall into such

a mistake ; but the woman who had drawn the character of Mr.

Monckton(19) should have known better.

The truth is that she had been too long at Court. She was

sinking into a slavery worse than that of the body. The iron was

beginning to enter into the soul. Accustomed during many months

to watch the eye of a mistress, to receive with boundless

gratitude the slightest mark of royal condescension, to feel

wretched at every symptom of royal displeasure, to associate only

with spirits long tamed and broken in, she was degeneratin- into

something fit for her place. Queen Charlotte was a violent

partisan of Hastings, had received presents from him, and had so

far departed from the severity of her virtue as to lend her

countenance to his wife, whose conduct had certainly been as

reprehensible as that of any of the frail beauties who were then

rigidly excluded from the English Court. The king, it was well

known, took the same side. To the king and queen, all the

members of the household looked submissively for guidance. The

impeachment, therefore, was an atrocious persecution ; the

managers were rascals ; the defendant was the most deserving and

the worst used man in the kingdom. This was the cant of the

whole palace, from gold stick in waiting down to the tabledeckers

and yeomen of the silver scullery; and Miss Burney canted like

the rest, though in livelier tones and with less bitter feelings.

The account which she has given of the king's illness contains

much excellent narrative and description, and will, we think, be

more valued by the historians of a future age than any equal

portion of Pepys' or Evelyn's " Diaries." That account shows also

how affectionate and compassionate her nature was, But it shows

also, we must say, that her way of life was rapidly impairing her

powers of reasoning and her sense of justice. We do not mean to

discuss, in this place, the question whether the views of Mr.

Pitt or those of 'Mr. Fox respecting the regency were the more

correct. It is, indeed, quite needless to discuss that question

; for the censure of Miss Burney falls alike on Pitt and Fox, on

majority and minority. She is angry with the House of Commons

for presuming to inquire whether the king was mad or

Page xxxix

not and whether there was a chance of his recovering his senses.

"melancholy day," she writes; "news bad both at home and abroad.

At home the dear unhappy king still worse ; abroad new

examinations voted of the physicians. Good heavens! what an

insult does this seem from Parliamentary power, to investigate

and bring forth to the world every circumstance of such a malady

as is ever held sacred to secrecy in the most private families!

How indignant we all feel here, no words can say." It is proper

to observe that the motion which roused the indignation at Kew

was made by Mr. Pitt himself, and that if withstood by Mr. Pitt,

it would certainly have been rejected. We see therefore, that

the loyalty of the minister, who was then generally regarded as

the most heroic champion of his prince, was lukewarm indeed when

compared with the boiling zeal which filled the pages of the

backstairs and the women of the bedchamber. Of the Regency bill,

Pitt's own bill, Miss Burney speaks with horror. "I shuddered,"

she says, "to hear it named." And again, "Oh, how dreadful will

be the day when that unhappy bill takes place ! I cannot approve

the plan of it." The truth is that Mr. Pitt, whether a wise and

upright statesman or not, was a statesman, and, whatever motives

he might have for imposing restrictions on the regent, felt that

in some way or other there must be some provision made for the

execution of some part of the kingly office, or that no

government would be left in the country. But this was a matter

of which the household never thought. It never occurred, as far

as we can see, to the exons and keepers of the robes that it was

necessary that there should be somewhere or other a power in the

state to pass laws, to observe order, to pardon criminals, to

fill up offices, to negotiate with foreign governments, to

command the army and navy. Nay, these enlightened politicians,

and Miss Burney among the rest, seem to have thought that any

person who considered the subject with reference to the public

interest showed himself to be a bad-hearted man. Nobody wonders

at this in a gentleman usher, but it is melancholy to see genius

sinking into such debasement.

During more than two years after the king's recovery, Frances

dragged on a miserable existence at the palace. The consolations

which had for a time mitigated the wretchedness of servitude were

one by one withdrawn. Mrs. Delany, whose society had been a

great resource when the Court was at Windsor, was now dead. One

of the gentlemen of the royal establishment, Colonel Digby,(20)

appears to have been a man of sense, of taste, of some reading,

and of prepossessing manners. Agreeable associates were scarce

in the prison house, and he and Miss Burney therefore naturally

were attached to each other. She owns that she valued him as a

friend, and it would not have been strange if his attentions had

led her to entertain for him a sentiment warmer

Page xl

than friendship. He quitted the Court, and married in a way

which astonished Miss Burney greatly, and which evidently wounded

her feelings and lowered him in her esteem. The palace grew

duller and duller; Madame Schwellenberg became more and more

savage and insolent; and now the health of poor Frances began to

give way; and all who saw her pale face, and emaciated figure and

herfeeble walk predicted that her sufferings would soon be over.

Frances uniformly speaks of her royal mistress and of the

princesses with respect and affection. The princesses seem to

have well'deserved all the praise which is bestowed on them in

the "Diary." They were, we doubt not, most amiable women. But

"the sweet queen," as she is constantly called in these volumes,

is not by any means an object of admiration to us. She had,

undoubtedly, sense enough to know what kind of deportment suited

her high station, and self-command enough to maintain that

deportment invariably. She was, in her intercourse. with Miss

Burney, generally gracious and affable, sometimes, when

displeased, cold and reserved, but never, under any

circumstances, rude, peevish or violent. She knew how to

dispense, gracefully and skilfully, those little civilities

which, when paid by a sovereign, are prized at many times their

intrinsic value; how to pay a compliment; how to lend a book; how

to ask after a relation. But she seems to have been utterly

regardless of the comfort, the health, the life of her

attendants, when her own convenience was concerned. Weak,

feverish, hardly able to stand, Frances had still to rise before

seven, in order to dress "the sweet queen," and to sit up till

midnight, in order to undress "the sweet queen." The

indisposition of the handmaid could not, and did not, escape the

notice of her royal mistress. But the established doctrine of

the Court was that all sickness was to be considered as a

pretence until it proved fatal. The only way in which the

invalid could clear herself from the suspicion of malingering, as

it is called in the army, was to go on lacing and unlacing, till

she fell down dead at the royal feet. "This," Miss Burney wrote,

when she was suffering cruelly from sickness, watching and

labour, "is by no means from hardness of heart; far otherwise.

There is no hardness of heart in any one of them but it is

prejudice and want of personal experience."

Many strangers sympathised with the bodily and mental sufferings

of this distinguished woman. All who saw her saw that her frame

was sinking, that her heart was breaking. The last, it should

seem, to observe the change was her father. At length, in spite

of himself, his eyes were opened. In May, 1790, his daughter had

an interview of three hours with him, the only long interview

which they had had since he took her to Windsor in 1786. She

told him that she was miserable, that she was worn with

attendance and want of sleep, that she had no comfort in life,

nothing to love, nothing to hope, that her family and friends

were to her as though they were not, and were remembered by her

Page xli

men remember the dead. From daybreak to midnight the same

killing labour, the same recreations, more hateful than labour

itself, followed each other without variety, without any interval

of liberty and repose.

The doctor was greatly dejected by this news; but was too good-

natured a man not to say that, if she wished to resign, his house

and arms were open to her. Still, however, he could not bear to

remove her from the Court. His veneration for royalty amounted

in truth to idolatry. It can be compared only to the grovelling

superstition of those Syrian devotees who made their children

pass through the fire to Moloch. When he induced his daughter to

accept the place of keeper of the robes, he entertained, as she

tells us, a hope that some worldly advantage or other, not set

down in the contract of service, would be the result of her

connection with the Court. What advantage he expected we do not

know, nor did he probably know himself. But, whatever he

expected, he certainly got nothing. Miss Burney had been hired

for board, lodging and two hundred a-year. Board, lodging and

two hundred a-year she had duly received. We have looked

carefully through the " Diary" in the hope of finding some trace

of those extraordinary benefactions on which the doctor reckoned.

But we can discover only a promise, never performed, of a

gown:(21) and for this promise Miss Burney was expected to return

thanks, such as might have suited the beggar with whom Saint

Martin, in the legend, divided his cloak. The experience of four

years was, however, insufficient to dispel the illusion which had

taken possession of the doctor's mind ; and between the dear

father and "the sweet queen" there seemed to be little doubt that

some day or other Frances would drop down a corpse. Six months

had elapsed since the interview between the parent and the

daughter. The resignation was not sent in. The sufferer grew

worse and worse. She took bark, but it soon ceased to produce a

beneficial effect. She was stimulated with wine ; she was

soothed with opium; but in vain. Her breath began to fail. The

whisper that she was in a decline spread through the Court. The

pains in her side became so severe that she was forced to crawl

from the card-table of the old Fury to whom she was tethered

three or four times in an evening for the purpose of taking

hartshorn. Had she been a negrQslave, a humane planter would

have excused her fromwork. But her majesty showed no mercy.

Thrice a day the accursed bell still rang ; the queen was still

to be dressed for the morning at seven, and to be dressed for the

day at noon, and to be undressed at eleven at night.

But there had arisen, in literary and fashionable society, a

general feeling of compassion for Miss Burney, and of indignation

against both her father and the queen. "Is it possible," said a

Page xlii

great French lady to the doctor "that your daughter is in A

situation where she is never allowed a holiday?" HoraceWalpole

wrote to Frances to express his sympathy. Boswell, boiling over

with good-natured rage, almost forced an entrance into the palace

to see her. "My dear ma'am, why do you stay? It won't do, ma'am

- you must resign. We can put up with it no longer. Some very

violent measures, I assure you, will be taken. We shall address

Dr. Burney in a body." Burke and Reynolds, though less noisy,

were zealous in the same cause. Windham spoke to Dr. Burney, but

found him still irresolute. "I will set the club upon him,"

cried Windham; "Miss Burney has some very true admirers there,

and I am sure they will eagerly assist." Indeed, the Burney

family seem to have been apprehensive that some public affront,

such as the doctor's unpardonable folly, to use the mildest term

had richly deserved, would be put upon'him. The medical men

spoke out, and plainly told him that his daughter must resign or

die.

At last paternal affection, medical authority, and the voice of

all London crying shame, triumphed over Dr. Burney's love of

courts. He determined that Frances should write a letter of

resignation. It was with difficulty that, though her life was at

stake, she mustered spirit to put the paper into the queen's

hands. "I could not," so runs the "Diary "summon courage to

present my memorial-my heart always failed me from seeing the

queen's entire freedom from such an expectation. For though I

was frequently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand,

I saw she concluded me, while life remained, inevitably hers."

At last, with a trembling hand, the paper was delivered. Then

came the storm. Juno, as in the A_neid, delegated the work of

vengeance to Alecto. The queen was calm and gentle, but Madame

Schwellenberg raved like a maniac in the incurable ward of Bedlam

! Such insolence! Such ingratitude! Such folly ! Would Miss

Burneybring utter destruction on herself and her family ? Would

she throw away the inestimable advantages of royal protection ?

Would she part with privileges which, once relinquished, could

never be regained " It was idle to talk of health and life. If

people could not live in the palace, the best thing that could

befall them was to die in it. The resignation was not accepted.

The language of the medical men became stronger and stronger.

Dr. Burney's parental fears were fully roused; and he explicitly

declared, in a letter meant to be shown to the queen, that his

daughter must retire. The Schwellenberg raged like a wild cat.

"A scene almost horrible ensued," says Miss Burney. "She was too

much enraged for disguise, and uttered the most furious

expressions of indignant contempt at our proceedings. I am sure

she would gladly have confined us both in the Bastille, had

England such a misery, as a fit place to bring us to ourselves,

from a daring so outrageous against imperial wishes." This

passage deserves notice, as being the only one in

Page xliii

in her "Diary," as far as we have observed, which shows

Miss Burney to have been aware that she was a native of a free

country, and she could not be pressed for a waiting-maid against

her will, that she had just as good a right to live, if she

chose, in St.-Martin's-street as Queen Charlotte had to live at

St. James's.

The queen promised that, after the next birthday, Miss Burney

would be set at liberty. But the promise was ill kept; and her

Majesty showed displeasure at being reminded of it. At length

Frances was informed that in a fortnight her attendance should

Cease. "I heard this," she says, "with a fearful presentiment I

should surely never go through another fortnight in so weak and

languishing and painful a state of health. . . . As the time of

separation approached, the queen's cordiality rather diminished,

and traces of internal displeasure appeared sometimes, arising

from an opinion I ought rather to have struggled on, live or die,

than to quit her. Yet I am sure she saw how poor was my own

chance, except by a change in the mode of life, and at least

ceased to wonder, though she could not approve." Sweetqueen!

What noble candour, to admit that the undutifulness of people who

did not think the honour of adjusting her tuckers worth the

sacrifice of their own lives, was, though highly criminal, not

altogether unnatural!

We perfectly understand her majesty's contempt for the lives of

others where her own pleasure was concerned. But what pleasure

she can have found in having Miss Burney about her, it is not so

easy to comprehend. That Miss Burney was an eminently skilful

keeper of the robes is not very probable. Few women, indeed, had

paid less attention to dress. Now and then, in the course of

five years, she had been asked to read aloud or to write a copy

of verses. But better readers might easily have been found: and

her verses were worse than even the Poet Laureate's Birthday

odes. Perhaps that economy, which was among her majesty's most

conspicuous virtues, had something to do with her conduct on this

occasion. Miss Burney had never hinted that she expected a

retiring pension ; and, indeed, would gladly have given the

little that she had for freedom. But her majesty knew what the

public thought, and what became her own dignity. She could not

for very shame suffer a woman of distinguished genius, who had

quitted a lucrative career to wait on her, who had served her

faithfully for a pittance during five years, and whose

constitution had been impaired by labour and watching, to leave

the Court without some mark of royal liberality. George III.,

Who, on all occasions where Miss Burney was concerned, seems to

have behaved like an honest, good-natured gentleman, felt this,

and said plainly that she was entitled to a provision. At

length, in return for all the miserywhich she had undergone, and

for the health which she had sacrificed, an annuity of one

hundred Pounds was granted to her, dependent on the queen's

pleasure.

Then the prison was opened, and Frances was free once more.

Page xliv

Johnson, as Burke observed, might have added a striking page to

his "the Vanity of Human Wishes, if he had lived to see his

little Burney as she went into the palace andas she came out of

it.

The pleasures, so long untasted, of liberty, of friendship, of

domestic affection, were almost too acute forher shattered frame.

But happy days and tranquil nights soon restored the health which

the queen's toilette and Madame Schwellenberg's cardtable had

impaired. Kind and anxious faces surrounded the invalid.

Conversation the most polished and brilliant revived her spirits.

Travelling was recommended to her; and she rambled by easy

journeys from cathedral to cathedral, and from watering place to

watering place. She crossed the New forest, and visited

Stonehenge and Wilton, the cliffs of Lyme, and the beautiful

valley of Sidmouth. Thence she journeyed by Powderham castle,

and by the ruins of Glastonbury abbey to Bath, and from Bath,

when the winter was approaching, returned well and cheerful to

London. There she visited her old dungeon, and found her

successor already far on the way to the grave, and kept to strict

duty, from morning till midnight, with a sprained ankle and a

nervous fever.

At this time England swarmed with French exiles, driven from

their country by the Revolution. A colony of these refugees

settled at juniper hall, in Surrey, not far from Norbury park,

where Mr. Locke, an intimate friend of the Burney family,

resided. Frances visited Norbury, and was introduced to the

strangers. She had strong prejudices against them ; for her

Toryism was far beyond, we do not say that of Mr. Pitt, but that

of Mr. Reeves ; and the inmates of juniper hall were all

attached to the constitution of 1791, and were, therefore, more

detested by the royalists of the first emigration than Petion or

Marat. But such a woman as Miss Burney could not long resist the

fascination of that remarkable society. She had lived with

Johnson and Windham, with Mrs. Montague and Mrs. Thrale. Yet she

was forced to own that she had never heard conversation before.

The most animated eloquence, the keenest observation, the most

sparkling wit, the most courtly grace, were united to charm her.

For Madame de Stal was there, and M. de Talleyrand. There, too,

was M. de Narbonne, a noble representative of French aristocracy

; and with M.de Narbonne was his friend and follower General

D'Arblay, an honourable and amiable man, with a handsome person,

frank soldierlike manners, and some taste for letters.

The prejudices which Frances had conceived against the

constitutional royalists of France rapidly vanished. She

listened with rapture to Talleyrand and Madame de Stal, joined

with M. D'Arblay in execrating the Jacobins and in weeping for

the unhappy Bourbons, took French lessons from him, fell in love

with him, and married him on no better provision than a

precarious annuity of one hundred pounds.

Page xlv

Here the "Diary" stops for the present.(22) We will, therefore,

bring our narrative to a speedy close, by rapidly recounting the

most important events which we know to have befallen Madame

d'Arblay during the latter part of her life.

M. D'Arblay's fortune had perished in the general wreck of the

French Revolution ; -and in a foreign country his talents,

whatever they may have been, could scarcely make him rich. The

task of providing for the family devolved on his wife. In the

year 1796, she published by subscription her third novel,

"Camilla." It was impatiently expected by the public; and the

sum which she obtained for it was, we believe, greater than had

ever at that time been received for a novel.

We have heard that she had cleared more than three thousand

guineas. But we give this merely as a rumour.(23) "Camilla,"

however, never attained popularity like that which "Evelina" and

"Cecilia" had enjoyed; and it must be allowed that there was a

perceptible falling off, not, indeed, in humour or in power of

portraying character, but in grace and in purity of style.

We have heard that, about this time, a tragedy by Madame D'Arblay

was performed without success. We do not know whether it was ever

printed ; nor, indeed, have we had time to make any researches

into its history or merits.(24)

During the short truce which followed the treaty of Amiens, M.

D'Arblay visited France. Lauriston and La Fayette represented

his claims to the French government, and obtained a 'Promise that

he should be reinstated in his military rank. M. D'Arblay,

however, insisted that he should never be 'required to serve

against the countrymen of his wife. The First Consul, of course,

would not hear of such a condition, and ordered the general's

commission to be instantly revoked.

Madame D'Arblayjoined her husband at Paris, a short time before

the war of 1803 broke out, and remained in France ten years, cut

off from almost all intercourse with the land of her

Page xlvi

birth. At length, when Napoleon was on his march to Moscow, she

with great difficulty obtained from his ministers permission to

visit her own country, in company with her son, who was a native

of England. She returned in time to receive the last blessing of

her father, who died in his eighty-seventh year. In 1814 she

published her last novel, "The Wanderer," a book which no

judicious friend to her memory will attempt to draw from the

oblivion into which it has justly fallen.(25) In the same year

her son Alexander was sent to Cambridge. He obtained an

honourable place among the wranglers of his year, and was elected

a fellow of Christ's college. But his reputation at the

University was higher than might be inferred from his success in

academical contests. His French education had not fitted him for

the examinations of the Senate house; but, in pure mathematics,

we have been assured by some of his competitors that he had very

few equals. He went into the Church, and it was thought likely

that he would attain high eminence as a preacher; but he died

before his mother, All that we have heard of him leads us to

believe that he was such a son as such a mother deserved to

have.' In 1831, Madame D'Arblay published the memoirs of her

father; and on the sixth of January, 1840, she died in her

eighty-eighth year.

We now turn from the life of Madame D'Arblay to her writings.

There can, we apprehend, be little difference of opinion as to

the nature of her merit, whatever differences may exist as to its

degree. She was emphatically what Johnson called her, a

character-monger. It was in the exhibition of human passions and

whims that her strength lay; and in this department of art she

had, we think-, very distinguished skill. But, in order that we

may, according to our duty as kings at arms, versed inthe laws of

literary precedence, marshal her to the exact seat to which she

is entitled, we must carry our examination somewhat further.

Page xlvii

There is, in one respect, a remarkable analogy between the faces

and the minds of men. No two faces are alike ; and yet very few

faces deviate very widely from the common standard. Among the

eighteen hundred thousand human beings who inhabit London, there

is not one who could be taken by his acquaintance for another;

yet we may walk from Paddington to Mile-end without seeing one

person in whom any feature is so overcharged that we turn round

to stare at it. An infinite number of varieties lies between

limits which are not very far asunder. The specimens which pass

those limits on either side, form a very small minority.

It is the same with the characters of men. Here, too, the

variety passes all enumeration. But the cases in which the

deviation from the common standard is striking and grotesque, are

very few. In one mind avarice predominates ; in another pride ;

in a third, love of pleasure-just as in one countenance the nose

is the most marked feature, while in others the chief expression

lies in the brow, or in the lines of the mouth. But there are

very few countenances in which nose, brow, and mouth do not

contri. bute, though in unequal degrees, to the general effect ;

and so there are very few characters in which one overgrown

propensity makes all others utterly insignificant.

It is evident that a portrait painter, who was able only to

represent faces and figures such as those -which we pay money to

see at fairs, would not, however spirited his execution might be,

take rank among the highest artists. He must always be placed

below those who have skill to seize peculiarities which do not

amount to deformity. The slighter those peculiarities, the

greater is the merit of the limner who can catch them and

transfer them to his canvas. To paint Daniel Lambert or the

living skeleton, the pig-faced lady or the Siamese twins, so that

nobody can mistake them, is an exploit within the reach of a sign

painter. A thirdrate artist might give us the squint of Wilkes,

and the depressed nose and protuberant cheeks of Gibbon. It

would require a much higher degree of skill to paint two such men

as Mr. Canning and Sir Thomas Lawrence, so that nobody who had

ever seen them could for a moment hesitate to assign each picture

to its original. Here the mere caricaturist would be quite at

fault. He would find in neither face anything on which he could

lay hold for the Purpose of making a distinction. Two ample bald

foreheads, two reg ular profiles, two full faces of the same oval

form, would baffle his art ; and he would be reduced to the

miserable shift of writing their names at the foot of his

picture. Yet there was a great difference ; and a person who had

seen them once would no more have mistaken one of them for the

other than he would have mistaken Mr. Pitt for Mr. Fox. But the

difference lay in delicate lineaments and shades, reserved for

pencils of a rare order,

This distinction runs through all the imitative arts. Foote's

mimicry was exquisitely ludicrous, but it was all caricature. He

Page xlviii

could take off only some strange peculiarity, a stammer or a

lisp, a Northumbrian burr or an Irish brogue, a stoop or a

shuffle. "If a man," said Johnson, "hops on one leg, Foote can

hop on one leg." Garrick, on the other hand, could seize those

differences of manner and pronunciation, which, though highly

characteristic, are yet too slight to be described, Foote, we

have no doubt, could have made the Haymarket theatre shake with

laughter by imitating a conversation between a Scotchman and a

Somersetshire man. But Garrick could have imitated a dialogue

between two fashionable men both models of the best breeding,

Lord Chesterfield, for example, and Lord Albemarle, so that no

person could doubt which was which, although no person could say

that, in any point, either Lord Chesterfield or Lord Albemarle

spoke or moved otherwise than in conformity with the usages of

the best society.

The same distinction is found in the drama, and in fictitious

narrative. Highest among those who have exhibited human nature

by means of dialogue, stands Shakspeare. His variety is like the

variety of nature, endless diversity, scarcely any monstrosity.

The characters of which he has given us an impression as vivid as

that which we receive from the characters of our own associates,

are to be reckoned by scores. Yet in all these scores hardly one

character is to be found which deviates widely from the common

standard, and which we should call very eccentric if we met it in

real life. The silly notion that every man has one ruling

passion, and that this clue, once known, unravels all the

mysteries of his conduct, finds no countenance in the plays of

Shakspeare. There man appears as he is, made up of a crowd of

passions, which contend for the mastery over him, and govern him

in turn. What is Hamlet's ruling passion? Or Othello's? Or

Harry the Fifth's? Or Wolsey's? Or Lear's? Or Shylock's? Or

Benedick's? Or Macbeth's? Or that of Cassius? Or that of

Falconbridge? But we might go on for ever. Take a single

example-Shylock. Is he so eager for money as to be indifferent

to revenge? Or so eager for revenge as to be indifferent to

money? Or so bent on both together as to be indifferent to the

honour of his nation and the law of Moses? All his propensities

are mingled with each other, so that, in trying to apportion to

each its proper part, we find the same difficulty which

constantly meets us in real life. A superficial critic may say

that hatred is Shylock's ruling passion. But how many passions

have amalgamated to form that hatred? It is partly the result of

wounded pride: Antonio has called him dog. It is partly the

result of covetousness: Antonio has hindered him of half a

million; and when Antonio is gone, there will be no limit to the

gains of usury. It is partly the result of national and

religious feeling: Antonio has spit on the Jewish gaberdine; and

the oath of revenge has been sworn by the Jewish Sabbath. We

might go through all the characters which we have mentioned, and

through fifty more in the same way; for it is the constant manner

of Shakspeare to

Page xlix

represent the human mind as lying, not under the absolute

dominion of one despotic propensity, but under a mixed government

in which a hundred powers balance each other. Admirable as he

was in all parts of his art, we most admire him for this, that

while he has left us a greater number of striking portraits than

all other dramatists Put together, he has scarcely left us a

single caricature.

Shakspeare has had neither equal nor second. But among the

writers who, in the point which we have noticed, have approached

nearest to the manner of the great master, we have no hesitation

in placing Jane Austen, a woman of whom England is justly proud.

She has given us a multitude of characters, all, in a certain

sense, common-place, all such as we meet every day. yet they are

all as perfectly discriminated from each other as if they were

the most eccentric of human beings. There are, for example, four

clergymen, none of whom we should be surprised to find in any

parsonage in the kingdom--Mr. Edward Ferrers, Mr. Henry Tilney,

Mr. Edmund Bertram, and Mr. Elton. They are all specimens of the

upper part of the middle class. They have been liberally

educated. They all lie under the restraints of the same sacred

profession. They are all young. They are all in love. Not one

of them has any hobbyhorse, to use the phrase of Sterne. Not one

has a ruling passion, such as we read of in Pope. Who would not

have expected them to be insipid likenesses of each other? No

such thing. Harpagon is not more unlike to Jourdain, Joseph

Surface is not more unlike to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, than every

one of Miss Austen's young divines to all his reverend -brethren.

And almost all this is done by touches so delicate that they

elude analysis, that they defy the powers of description, and

that we know them to exist only by the general effect to which

they have contributed.

A line must be drawn, we conceive, between artists of this class

-and those poets and novelists whose skill lies in the exhibiting

of what Ben Jonson called humours. The words of Ben are so much

to the purpose that we will quote them :-

"When some one peculiar quality

Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw All his affects, his

spirits and his powers, In their confluxions all to run one way,

This may be truly said to be a humour."

There are undoubtedly persons in whom humours such as Ben

describes have attained a complete ascendancy. The avarice of

Elwes, the insane desire of Sir Egerton Brydges for a barony, to

which he had no more right than to the crown of Spain, the

malevolence which long meditation on imaginary wrongs generated

in the gloomy mind of Bellingham, are instances. The feeling

which animated Clarkson and other virtuous men against the slave

trade and slavery, is an instance of a more honourable kind.

Page l

Seeing that such humours exist, we cannot deny that they are

proper subjects for the imitations of art. But we conceive that

the imitation of such humours, however skilful and amusing, is

not an achievement of the highest order ; and, as such humours

are rare in real life, they ought, we conceive, to be sparingly

introduced into works which profess to be pictures of real life.

Nevertheless, a writer may show so much genius in the exhibition

of these humours as to be fairly entitled to a distinguished and

permanent rank among classics. The chief seats of all, however,

the places on the dais and under the canopy, are reserved for the

few who have excelled in the difficult art of portraying

characters in which no single feature is extravagantly

over-charged.

If we have expounded the law soundly, we can have no difficulty

in applying it to the particular case before us. Madame D'Arblay

has left us scarcely anything but humours. Almost every one of

her men and women has some one propensity developed to a morbid

degree. In "Cecilia," for example, Mr. Delville never opens his

lips without some allusion to his own birth and station ; or Mr.

Briggs, without some allusion to the hoarding of money; or Mr.

Hobson, without betraying the self-indulgence and self-importance

of a purseproud upstart; or Mr. Simkins, without uttering some

sneaking remark for the purpose of currying favour with his

customers; or Mr. Meadows, without expressing apathy and

weariness of life; or Mr. Albany, without declaiming about the

vices of the rich and the misery of the poor; or Mrs. Belfield,

without some-indelicate eulogy on her son ; or Lady Margaret,

without indicating jealousy of her husband. Morrice is all

skipping, officious impertinence, Mr. Gosport all sarcasm, Lady

Honoria all lively prattle, Miss Larolles all silly prattle. If

ever Madame D'Arblay aimed at more, as in the character of

Monckton, we do not think that she succeeded well.(26) We are,

therefore, forced to refuse to Madame D'Arblay a place in the

highest rank of art; but we cannot deny that, in the rank to

which she belonged, she had few equals and scarcely any superior.

The variety of humours which is to be found in her novels is

immense ; and though the talk of each person separately is

monotonous, the general effect is not monotony, but a very lively

and agreeable diversity. Her plots are rudely constructed and

improbable, if we consider them in themselves. But they are

admirably framed for the purpose of exhibiting striking groups of

Page li

eccentric characters, each governed by his own peculiar whim,

each talking his own peculiar jargon, and each bringing out by

opposition the oddities of all the rest. We will give one

example out of many which occur to us. All probability is

violated in order to bring Mr. Delville, Mr. Briggs, Mr. Hobson,

and Mr. Albany into a room together. But when we have them

there, we soon forget probability in the exquisitely ludicrous

effect which is produced by the conflict of four old fools, each

raging with a monomania of his own, each talking a dialect of his

own, and each inflaming all the others anew every time he opens

his mouth. Madame D'Arblay was most successful in comedy, and,

indeed, in comedy which bordered on farce. But we are inclined

to infer from some passages, both in "Cecilia" and "Camilla,"

that she might have attained equal distinction in the pathetic.

We have formed this judgment less from those ambitious'scenes of

distress which lie near the catastrophe of each of those novels,

than from some exquisite strokes of natural tenderness which take

us, here and there, by surprise. We would mention as examples,

Mrs. Hill's account of her little boy's death in "Cecilia," and

the parting of Sir Hugh Tyrold and Camilla, when the honest

baronet thinks himself dying.

It is melancholy to think that the whole fame of Madame D'Arblay

rests on what she did during the earlier part of her life, and

that everything which she published during the forty-three years

which preceded her death lowered her reputation. Yet we have no

reason to think that at the time when her faculties ought to have

been in their maturity, they were smitten with any blight. In

"The Wanderer," we catch now and then a gleam of her genius.

Even in the memoirs of her father, there is no trace of dotage.

They are very bad; but they are so, as it seems to us, not from a

decay of power, but from a total perversion of power. The truth

is, that Madame D'Arblay's style underwent a gradual and most

pernicious change-a change which, in degree at least, we believe

to be unexampled in literary history, and of which it may be

useful to trace the progress. When she wrote her letters to Mr.

Crisp, her early journals and her'first novel, her style was not,

indeed, brilliant or energetic ; but it was easy, clear, and free

from all offensive thoughts. When she wrote "Cecilia" she aimed

higher. She had then lived much in a circle of which Johnson was

the centre; and she was herself one of his most submissive

worshippers. It seems never to have crossed her mind that the

style even of his best writings was by no means faultless and

that even had it been faultless, it might not be wise in her to

imitate it. Phraseology which is proper in a disguisition on the

Unities or in a preface to a dictionary, may be quite out of

place in a tale of fashionable life. Old gentlemen do not

criticise the reigning modes, nor do

Page lii

young gentlemen make love, with the balanced epithets and

sonorous cadences which, on occasions of great dignity, a skilful

writer may use with happy effect.

In an evil hour the author of "Evelina," took "The Rambler" for

her model. This would not have been wise even if she could have

imitated her pattern as well as Hawkesworth did. But such

imitation was beyond her power. She had her own style. It was a

tolerably good one; and might, without any violent change, have

been improved into a very good one. She determined to throw it

away, and to adopt a style in which she could attain excellence

only by achieving an almost miraculous victory over nature and

over habit. She could cease to be Fanny Burney; it was not so

easy to become Samuel Johnson.

In "Cecilia" the change of manner began to appear. But in

"Cecilia" the imitation of Johnson, though not always in the best

taste, is sometimes eminently happy; and the passages which are

so verbose as to be positively offensive, are few. There were

people who whispered that Johnson had assisted his young friend,

and that the novel owed all its finest passages to his hand.

This was merely the fabrication of envy. Miss Burney's real

excellences were as much beyond the reach of Johnson as his real

excellences were beyond her reach, He could no more have written

the Masquerade scene or the Vauxhall scene, than she could have

written the life of Cowley or the review of Soame jenyns. But we

have not the smallest doubt that he revised "Cecilia," and that

he re-touched the style of many passages.(27) We know that he

was in the habit of giving assistance of this kind most freely.

Goldsmith, Hawkesworth, Boswell, Lord Hailes, Mrs. Williams, were

among those who obtained his help. Nay, he even corrected the

poetry of Mr. Crabbe, whom, we believe, he had never seen. When

Miss Burney thought of writing a comedy, he promised to give her

his best counsel, though he owned that he was not particularly

well qualified to advise on matters relating to the stage, We

therefore think it in the highest degree improbable that his

little Fanny, when living in habits of the most affectionate

intercourse with him, would have brought out an important work

without consulting him; and, when we look into "Cecilia," we see

such traces of his hand in the grave and elevated passages as it

is impossible to mistake. Before we conclude this article, we

will give two or three examples.

When next Madame D'Arblay appeared before the world as a writer,

she was in a very different situation. She would not content

herself with the simple English in which "Evelina" had been

written. She had no longer the friend who, we are confident, had

polished and strengthened the style of "Cecilia." She

page liii

had to write in Johnson's manner without Johnson's aid. The

consequence was, that in "Camilla" every passage which she meant

to be fine is detestable; and that the book has been saved from

condemnation only by the admirable spirit and force of those

scenes in which she was content to be familiar.

But there was to be a still deeper descent. After the

publication of "Camilla" Madame D'Arblay resided ten years at

Paris. During these years there was scarcely any intercourse

between France and England. It was with difficulty that a short

letter could occasionally be transmitted. All Madame D'Arblay's

companions were French. She must have written spoken, thought in

French. Ovid expressed his fear that a shorter exile might have

affected the purity of his Latin. During a shorter exile Gibbon

unlearned his native English. Madame D'Arblay had carried a bad

style to France. She brought back a style which we are really at

a loss to describe. It is a sort of broken Johnsonese, a

barbarous, patois, bearing the same relation to the language of

"Rasselas" which the gibberish of the negroes of Jamaica bears to

the English of the House of Lords. Sometimes it reminds us of

the finest, that is to say the vilest, parts of Mr. Galt's

novels; sometimes of the perorations of Exeter hall; sometimes of

the leading articles of the "Morning Post." But it most

resembles the puffs of Mr. Rowland and Dr. Goss. It matters not

what ideas are clothed in such a style. The genius of Shakspeare

and Bacon united would not save a work so written from general

derision.

It is only by means of specimens that we can enable our readers

to judge how widely Madame D'Arblay's three styles differed from

each other.

The following passage was written before she became intimate with

Johnson. It is from "Evelina."

"His son seems weaker in his understanding and more gay in his

temper; but his gaiety is that of a foolish, overgrown schoolboy,

whose mirth consists in noise and disturbance. He disdains his

father for his close attention to business and love of money,

though he seems himself to have no talents, spirit or generosity

to make him superior to either. His chief delight appears to be

in tormenting and ridiculing his sisters, who in return most

cordially despise him. Miss Branghton, the eldest daughter, is

by no means ugly; but looks proud, ill-tempered and conceited.

She hates the city, though without knowing why; for it is easy to

discover she has lived nowhere else. Miss Poly Branghton is

rather pretty, very foolish, very ignorant, very giddy and, I

believe, very good natured."

This is not a fine style, but simple, perspicuous, and

agreeable. We now come to "Cecilia," written during Miss

Burney's intimacy with Johnson - and we leave it to our readers

to judge whether the following passage was not at least corrected

by his hand.

"It is rather an imaginary than an actual evil and, though a deep

wound

Page liv

to pride, no offence to morality. Thus have I laid open to you

my whole heart, confessed my perplexities, acknowledged my vain

glory and exposed, with equal sincerity, the sources of my doubts

and the motives of my decision. But now, indeed, how to proceed

I know not. The difficulties which are yet to encounter I fear

to enumerate, and the petition I have to urge I have scarce

courage to mention. My family, mistaking ambition for honour and

rank for dignity, have long planned a splendid connection for me,

to which, though my invariable repugnance has stopped any

advances, their wishes and their views immoveably adhere. I am

but too certain they will now listen to no other. I dread,

therefore, to make a trial where I despair of success. I know

not how to risk a prayer with those who may silence me by a

command."

Take now a specimen of Madame D'Arblay's later style. This is

the way in which she tells us that her father, on his journey

back from the Continent, caught the rheumatism.

"He was assaulted, during his precipitated return, by the rudest

fierceness of wintry elemental strife; through which, with bad

accommodations and innumerable accidents, he became a prey to the

merciless pangs of the acutest spasmodic rheumatism, which barely

suffered him to reach his home ere, long and piteously, it

confined him, a tortured prisoner, to his bed. Such was the

check that almost instantly curbed, though it could not subdue,

the rising pleasure of his hopes of entering upon a new species

of existence-that of an approved man of letters ; for it was on

the bed of sickness, exchanging the light wines of France, Italy

and Germany, for the black and loathsome potions of the

Apothecaries' hall, writhed by darting stitches and burning with

fiery fever, that he felt the full force of that sublunary

equipoise that seems evermore to hang suspended over the

attainment of long-sought and uncommon felicity, just as it is

ripening to burst forth with enjoyment!"

Here is a second passage from "Evelina."

"Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me. She is extremely

clever. Her understanding, indeed, may be called masculine; but

unfortunately her manners deserve the same epithet, for, in

studying to acquire the knowledge of the other sex, she has lost

all the softness of her own. In regard to myself, however, as I

have neither courage nor inclination to argue with her, I have

never been personally hurt at her want of gentleness -a virtue

which nevertheless seems so essential a part of the female

character, that I find myselfmore awkward and less at ease with a

woman who wants it than I do with a man."

This is a good style of its kind, and the following passage from

"Cecilia" is also in a good style, though not in a faultless one.

We say with confidence-either Sam Johnson or the devil.

"Even the imperious Mr. Delville was more supportable here than

in London. Secure in his own castle, he looked round him with a

pride of power and possession which softened while it swelled

him. Hissuperiority was undisputed: his will was without

control. He was not, as inthe the great capital of the kingdom,

surrounded by competitors. No rivalry disturbed his peace; no

equality mortified his greatness. All he saw were either vassals

of his power, or guests bending to his pleasure. He abated,

there-

Page lv

fore, considerably the stern gloom of his haughtiness and soothed

his proud mind by the courtesy of condescension."

We will stake our reputation for critical sagacity on this, that

no such paragraph as that which we have last quoted can be found

in any of Madame D'Arblay's works except "Cecilia." Compare with

it the following sample of her later style.

"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 authorised calling in being the active

guardians of our blazing hearths? Not to vain glory 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

all society."

We add one or two short samples. Sheridan refused to permit his

lovely wife to sing in.public, and was warmly praised on this

account by Johnson.

"The last of men," says Madame D'Arblay "was Dr. Johnson to have

abetted squandering the delicacy of integrity by nullifying the

labours of talents."

The Club, Johnson's Club, did itself no honour by rejecting, on

political grounds, two distinguished men-one a Tory, the other a

Whig. Madame D'Arblay tells the story thus:--"A similar

ebullition of political rancour with that which so difficultly

had been conquered for Mr. Canning foamed over the ballot box to

the exclusion of Mr. Rogers." .

An offence punishable with imprisonment is, in this language, an

offence "which produces incarceration." To be starved to death is

"to sink from inanition into nonentity." Sir Isaac Newton is

"the developer of the skies in their embodied movements;" and

Mrs. Thrale, when a party of clever people sat silent, is said to

have been "provoked by the dullness of a Witurnity 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

all human faculties."

In truth it is impossible to look at any page of Madame

D'Arblay's later works without finding flowers of rhetoric like

these Nothing in the language of those jargonists at whom Mr.

Gosport laughed, nothing in the language of Sir Sedley Clarendel,

approaches this new Euphuism.(28)

Page lvi

It is from no unfriendly feeling to Madame D'Arblay's memory

that we have expressed ourselves, so strongly on the subject of

her style. On the contrary, we conceive that we have really

rendered a service to her reputation. That her later works were

complete failures is a fact too notorious to be dissembled, and

some persons, we believe, have consequently taken up a notion

that she was from the first an overrated writer, and that she had

not the powers which were necessary to maintain her on the

eminence on which good luck and fashion had placed her. We

believe, on the contrary, that her early popularity was no more

than the just reward of distinguished merit, and would never have

undergone an eclipse if she had only been content to go on

writing in her mother tongue. If she failed when she quitted her

own province and attempted to occupy one in which she had neither

part nor lot, this reproach is common to her with a crowd of

distinguished men. Newton failed when he turned from the courses

of the stars and the ebb and flow of the ocean to apocalyptic

seals and vials. Bentley failed when he turned from Homer and

Aristophanes to edit the "Paradise Lost." Enigo failed when he

attempted to rival the Gothic churches of the fourteenth century.

Wilkie failed when he took it into his head that the "Blind

Fiddler" and the "Rent Day" were unworthy of his powers, and

challenged competition with Lawrence as a portrait painter. Such

failures should be noted for the instruction of posterity, but

they detract little from the permanent reputation of those who

have really done great things.

Yet one word more. It is not only on account of the intrinsic

merit of Madame D'Arblay's early works that she is entitled to

honourable mention. Her appearance is an important epoch in our

literary history. "Evelina" was the first tale written by a

woman, and purporting to be a picture of life and manners, that

lived or deserved to live. "The Female Quixote" is no exception.

That work has undoubtedly great merit, when considered as a

wild, satirical harlequinade; but if we consider it as a picture

of life and manners, we must pronounce it more absurd than any of

the romances which it was designed to ridicule.(29)

Indeed, most of the popular novels which preceded "Evelina" were

such as no lady would have written; and many of them were such as

no lady could without confusion own that she had read. The very

name of novel was held in horror among religious people. In

decent families, which did not profess extraordinary sanctity,

there was a strong feeling against all such works. Sir

Page lvii

Anthony Absolute, two or three years before "Evelina" appeared,

spoke the sense of the great body of fathers and husbands when he

pronounced the circulating library an evergreen tree of

diabolical knowledge. This feeling on the part of the grave and

reflecting increased the evil from which it had sprung. The

novelist having little character to lose, and having few readers

among serious people, took without scruple liberties which in our

generation seem almost incredible.

Miss Burney did for the English novel what Jeremy Collier(30) did

for the English drama; and she did it in a better way. She first

showed that a tale might be written in which both the fashionable

and the vulgar life of London might be exhibited with great force

and with broad comic humour, and which yet should not contain a

single line inconsistent with rigid morality or even with virgin

delicacy. She took away the reproach which lay on a most useful

and delightful species of composition. She vindicated the right

of her sex to an equal share in a fair and noble province of

letters. Several accomplished women have followed in her track.

At present, the novels which we owe to English ladies form no

small part of the literary glory of our Country. No class of

works is more honourably distinguished by fine observation, by

grace, by delicate wit, by pure moral feeling. Several among the

successors of Madame D'Arblay have equalled her; two, we think,

have surpassed her. But the fact that she has been surpassed

gives her an additional claim to our respect and gratitude; for,

in truth, we owe to her not only "Evelina," "Cecilia," and

"Camilla," but also "Mansfield Park" and "The Absentee."

(1) Dr. Arne.-ED.

(2) The lady's maiden name was Esther Sheepe. She was, by the

mother's side, of French extraction, from a family of the name of

Dubois--a name which will be remembered as that of one of the

characters in her daughter Fanny's first novel, "Evelina."-ED.

(3) She was born on the 13th of June, 1752-ED.

(4) This degree was conferred upon him on Friday, the 23rd of

June, 1769.-ED.

(5) The "Early Diary of Frances Burney, from 1768 to 1778,"

recently published, throws some new light upon her education. It

is her own statement that her father's library contained but one

novel-', Amelia " ; yet as a girl we find her acquainted with the

works of Richardson and Sterne, of Marivaux and Pr6vost, with

"Rasselas" and the "Vicar of Wakefield." in history and poetry,

moreover, she appears to have been fairly well read, and she

found constant literary employment as her father's amanuensis.

As to Voltaire, she notes, on her twenty-first birthday, that she

has just finished the "Heoriade"; but her remarks upon the book

prove how little she was acquainted with the author. She thinks

he "has made too free with religion in giving words to the

Almighty. But M. Voltaire, I understand, is not a man of very

rigid principles at least not in religion" (!).-ED.

(6) This is not quite accurate. Burney secured the relic in the

manner described, not, however, to gratify his own enthusiasm,

but to comply with the request of his friend Mr. Bewley, of

Massingham, Norfolk, that he would procure for him some memento

of the great Dr. Johnson. The tuft of the Doctor's hearth-broom,

which Burney sent him, half in jest, was preserved with the

greatest care by its delighted recipient. "He thinks it more

precious than pearls," wrote Fanny. ("Early Diary," vol. i, p.

169.) This incident occurred in 1760.-ED.

(7) The "Early Diary," however, proves that, in spite of her

shyness, Fanny was very much at home in the brilliant society

which congregated at her father's house, and occasionally took

her full share in the conversation. Nor do we find her by any

means avoiding the diversions common to young ladies of her age

and station. She goes to dances, to the play, to the Opera, to

Ranelagh, and even, on one memorable occasion, to a masquerade-

-"a very private one," however."-ED.

(8) Mrs. . Stephen Allen, a widow, of Lynn. She was married to

Dr. Burney (not yet Doctor, however) in October, 1767. His first

wife died on the 28th of September, 1761.-ED.

(9) There is some difficulty here as to the chronology. "This

sacrifice," says the editor of "The Diary," "was made in the

young authoress's fifteenth year." This could not be; for the

sacrifice was the effect, according to the editor's own showing

of the remonstrances of the second Mrs. Burney; and Frances was

in her sixteenth year when her father's second marriage took

place.

(10) Chesington, lying between Kingston and Epsom.-ED.

(11) The picture drawn by Macaulay of Mr. Crisp's wounded vanity

and consequent misanthropy is absurdly overcharged. In the first

place, bis play of "Virginia," which was first produced at Drury

Lane on the 25th of February, 1754, actually achieved something

like a suc`es d'estime. It ran eleven nights, no contemptible

run for those days ; was revived both at Drury Lane and at Covent

Garden; was printed and reprinted; and all this all in his own

lifetime. It had, in fact, at least as much success as it

deserved, though, doubtless, too little to satisfy the ambition

of its author. In the second place, there is absolutely no

evidence whatever that his life was long embittered by

disappointment connected with his tragedy. It is clear, from

Madame D'Arblay's "Memoirs of Dr. Burney," that Mr. Crisp's

retirement to Chesington, many years after the production of

"Virginia," was mainly due to a straitened income and the gout.

Nor was his seclusion unenlivened by friendship. The Burneys, in

particular, visited him from time to time; and Fanny has left us

descriptions of scenes of almost uproarious gaiety, enacted at

Chesington by this gloomy recluse and his young friends. But we

shall hear more of Chesington and its inmates hereafter-ED.

(12) Scarcely, we think; when her fame was at its height, Fanny

Burney received no more than 250 pounds for her second novel,

"Cecilia." See the "Early Diary," vol. ii. p. 307.-ED,

(13) Christopher Anstey, the author of that amusing and witty

poetical satire, the "New Bath Guide."-ED.

(14) John Wilson Croker.-ED.

(15) Richard Cumberland's fame as playwright and novelist can

hardly be said to have survived to the present day. Sheridan

caricatured him as Sir Fretful Plagiary, in the "Critic." We

shall meet with him hereafter in "The Diary."-ED.

(16) See note ante, p. xxiv.

(17) "Probationary Odes for the Laureateship," a volume of lively

satirical verse published after the appointment of Sir Thomas

Warton to that office on the death of William Whitehead, in

1785.-ED.

(18) See "Cecilia," Book V. chap. 6.-ED.

(19) In "Cecilia."-ED.

(20) The "Mr. Fairly" of "The Diary."-ED.

(21) Macaulay is mistaken. Fanny did receive the gown, a "lilac

tabby," and wore it on the princess royal's birthday, September

29, 1786.-ED.

(22) The fifth volume of " The "Diary" concludes with Fanny's

marriage to M. d'Arblay. The seven volumes of the original

edition were published at intervals, from 1842 to 1846. -ED.

(23) The rumour was probably not far from correct. "Camilla" was

published by subscription, at one guinea the set, and the

subscribers numbered over eleven hundred. Four thousand copies

were printed, and three thousand five hundred were sold in three

months. Within six weeks of its pEublication, Dr. Burney told

Lord Orford that about two thousand pounds had already been

realized.-ED.

(24) Fanny's tragedy of "Edwy and Elgiva", written during the

period of her slavery at court, was produced by Sheridan at

Drury-lane in March, 1795. It proved a failure, although the

leading parts were plaved by Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. This

tragedy, which was never published, is occasionally referred to

in her letters of that year. See also an article by Mr. E. S.

Shuckburgh, in "Macmillan's Magazine" for February, 1896. -ED.

(25) We find it difficult to understand Macaulay's estimate of

"The Wanderer." Later critics appear, in general, to have echoed

Macaulay without being at the pains of reading the book. If it

has not the naive freshness of "Evelina," nor the sustained

excellence of style of "Cecilia," "The Wanderer" is inferior to

neither in the "exhibition of human passions and whims." The

story is interesting and full of variety; the characters live, as

none but the greatest novelists have known how to make them. In

Juliet, Fanny has given us one of her most fascinating heroines,

while her pictures of the fashionable society of Brighthelmstone

are distinguished by a force and vivacity of satire which she has

rarely surpassed. it is true that in both "The Wanderer" and

"Camilla" we meet with occasional touches of that peculiar

extravagance of style which disfigure, the "Memoirs of Dr.

Burney," but these passages, in the novels, are SO comparatively

inoffensive, and so nearly forgotten in the general power and

charm of the story that we scarcely care to instance them as

serious blemishes-ED.

(26) This criticism of Madame D'Arblay appears to us somewhat too

sweeping. It must be remembered that the persons of "one

propensity," instanced by Macaulay, are all to be found among the

minor characters in her novels. The circumstances, moreover,

under which they are introduced, are frequently such as to render

the display of their particular humours not only excusable, but

natural. But surely in others of her creations, in her heroines

especially, she is justly entitled to the praise of having

portrayed "characters in which no single feature is extravagantly

overcharged."-ED.

(27) this conjecture may be considered as finally disposed of by

Dr. Johnson's explicit declaration that he never saw one word

of"Cecilia" before it was printed.-ED.

(28) The above "flowers of rhetoric" are taken from the "Memoirs

of Dr. Burney," published in 1832; but it is scarcely just-

-indeed, it is wholly unjust--to include "Camilla" and "The

Wanderer" under the same censure with that book. The literary

style of the "Memoirs" is the more amazing, since we find Madame

D'Arblay, in 1815, correcting in her son the very fault which is

there indulged to so unfortunate an extent. She writes to him -

"I beg you, when you write to me, to let your pen paint Your

thoughts as they rise, not as you seek or labour to embellish

them. I remember you once wrote me a letter so very fine from

Cambridge, that, if it had not made me laugh, it would have made

me sick."-ED.

(29) "The Female Quixote" is the title of a novel by Charlotte

Lenox, published in 1752. It was written as a satire upon the

Heroic Romances, so popular in England during the seventeenth

century, and the early part of the eighteenth; and scarcely

claims to be considered as a picture of life and manners. It is

a delightful book however, and the character of the heroine,

Arabella, is invested with a charm which never, even in the midst

of her wildest extravagancies, fails to make itself felt.-ED.

(30) Author of the famous "Short View of the Immorality and the

Profaneness of the English Stage," published in 1698; a book

which, no doubt, struck at a real evil, but which is written in a

spirit of violence and bigotry productive rather of amusement

than of conviction. It caused, however, a tremendous sensation

at the time, and its effect upon the English drama was very

considerable; not an unmixed blessing either.-ED.

DIARY AND LETTERS

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

SECTION 1

(1778.)

MISS BURNEY PUBLISHES HER FIRST NOVEL AND FINDS HERSELF FAMOUS.

[Miss Burney's first novel, " Evelina," had been submitted in

manuscript to the great publisher, Dodsley, who refused to look

at an anonymous work. It was then offered to Lowndes, who

published it. The negotiations with the publisher were carried

on by Fanny's brother Charles, and her cousin, Edward Burney.

These two, with her sisters, and her aunts Anne and Rebecca (Dr.

Burney's sisters), appear to have been the only persons entrusted

with the secret. It will be most convenient here, at the

commencement of - The Diary," to give a few necessary details

respecting the Burney family. By his first*wife, Esther Sleepe,

Dr. Burney became the father of seven children:--

1. Esther ("Hetty"), born 1749; married, in 1770, her cousin

Charles Rousseau Burney, eldest son of Dr. Burney's elder

brother, Richard Burney, of Worcester. Hetty's husband is always

called "Mr. Burney" in the "Diary". He was a musician.

2. James, the sailor, afterwards Admiral Burney, known to readers

of "Elia." He was born June 5, 1750; accompanied the great

discoverer, Captain Cook, on his second and third voyages; served

in the East Indies in 1783, after which he retired from active

service. In 1785 he married Miss Sally Payne, and the rest of

his life was devoted to literature and whist. His "History of

the Discoveries in the South Sea or Pacific Ocean" is still a

standard work. James died November 17, 1821.

3. Charles born June, 1751 ; died young.

4- Frances" our "Fanny," born June 13, 1752.

5. Susanna Elizabeth, the "peculiar darling of the whole house of

Dr. Burney, as well as of his heart"--so Fanny writes of her

favourite sister. She was born about 1755, and married, in the

beginning Of 1781, Captain Molesworth Phillips, who, as Cook's

lieutenant of marines, had seen the discoverer murdered by

savages, in February, 1779, and narrowly escaped with his own

life on that occasion. Susan died January 6, 1800.

6. Charles, afterwards Dr. Charles, the distinguished Greek

scholar; born December 4, 1757. After his death, in 1817, his

magnificent library was purchased for the British Museum, at a

cost Of 13,500 pounds.

7. Charlotte Ann, born about 1759. She married Clement Francis,

in February, 1786. He died in 1792, and she married again in

1798, Mrs. Barrett, the editress of the "Diary and Letters of

Madame d'Arblay," was Charlotte's daughter by her first marriage.

By his second wife, Elizabeth Allen, whom he married in 1767, Dr.

Burney had two children--a son, Richard Thomas, and a daughter,

Sarah Harriet. The latter followed the career of her famous

half-sister, and acquired some distinction as a novelist.

Cousins Richard and Edward were younger sons of Uncle Richard

Burney, of Worcester. Edward was successful as an artist,

especially as a book-illustrator. He painted the portrait of

Fanny Burney, a reproduction of which forms the frontispiece to

the present volume. Some of his work may be seen in the South

Kensington Museum.

Chesington, where we shall presently find Fanny on a visit to Mr.

Crisp, was an old roomy mansion, standing in the midst of a

lonely common in Surrey, between Kingston and Epsom. It had

belonged to Mr. Crisp's friend, Christopher Hamilton, and on his

death became the property of his unmarried sister, Mrs. Sarah

Hamilton, who, being in poor circumstances, let part of the house

to a farmer, and took boarders. Of the latter, Mr. Crisp was the

most constant, boarding at Chesington for nearly twenty years,

and dying there in 1783. Kitty Cooke, whose name occurs in the

"Diary," was the niece of Mrs. Hamilton, and resided with her at

Chesington. Mrs. Sophia Gast, whom we find a frequent visitor

there, was the sister of Mr. Crisp, and resided at Burford, in

Oxfordshire.

Chesington Hall, the name the old manor house goes by in the

locality, is still standing, and is a plain brick building with a

small bell turret in the roof, but in other respects it has been

somewhat modernized since the days of Fanny Burney. The common

has been parcelled out into fields, and a picturesque country

road now gives access to the front entrance to the house. From

the lawn at the back a narrow avenue of venerable trees, which

throw out their long arms in strange grotesque fashion, leads

directly to the little village church where Mr. Crisp is buried.

-ED.]

"EVELINA" AND THE MYSTERY ATTENDING ITS PUBLICATION.

This year was ushered in by a grand and most important event! At

the latter end of January, the literaryworld was favoured with

the first publication of the ingenious, learned, and most

profound Fanny Burney! I doubt not but this memorable affair

will, in future times, mark the period whence chronologers will

date the zenith of the polite arts in this island!

This admirable authoress has named her most elaborate

performance, "Evelina; or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the

World."

Perhaps this may seem a rather bold attempt and title, for a

female whose knowledge of the world is very confined, and whose

inclinations, as well as situation, incline her to a private and

domestic life. All I can urge is, that I have only presumed to

trace the accidents and adventures to which a "young woman" is

liable; I have not pretended to show the world what it actually

is, but what it appears to a girl of seventeen, and so far as

that, surely any girl who is past seventeen may safely do? The

motto of my excuse shall be taken from Pope's "Temple of Fame ":

In every work regard the writer's end

None e'er can compass more than they intend.

About the middle of January, my cousin Edward brought me a

parcel, under the name of Grafton. I had, some little time

before, acquainted both my aunts of my frolic. They will, I am

sure, be discreet ; indeed, I exacted a vow from them Of strict

secrecy ; and they love me with such partial kindness, that I

have a pleasure in reposing much confidence in them. I

immediately conjectured what the parcel was, and found the

following letter.

Fleet-street, Jan. 7, 1778.

Sir,

I take the liberty to send you a novel, which a gentleman, your

acquaintance, said you would hand to him. I beg with expedition,

as 'tis time it should be published, and 'tis requisite he first

revise it, or the reviewers may find a flaw.--I am, sir, your

obedient servant, Thomas Lowndes.

To Mr. Grafton, To be left at the Orange Coffee-house.

My aunts, now, would take no denial to my reading it to them, in

order to mark errata; and to cut the matter short, I was

compelled to communicate the affair to my cousin Edward, and then

to obey their commands.

Of course, they were all prodigiously charmed with it. My cousin

now became my agent, as deputy to Charles, with Mr. Lowndes, and

when I had made the errata, carried it to him.

The book, however, was not published till the latter end of the

month. A thousand little odd incidents happened about this time,

but I am not in a humour to recollect them; however, they were

none of them productive of a discovery either to my father or

mother.

My little book, I am told, is now at all the circulating

libraries. I have an exceeding odd sensation,,when I consider

that it is now in the power of any and every body to read what I

so carefully hoarded even from my best friends, till this last

month or two; and that a work which was so lately lodged, in all

privacy, in my bureau, may now be seen by every butcher and

baker, cobbler and tinker, throughout the three kingdoms, for the

small tribute of threepence.

My aunt Anne and Miss Humphries being settled at this time at

Brompton, I was going thither with Susan to tea, when Charlotte

acquainted me that they were then employed in reading "Evelina"

to the invalid, my cousin Richard. My sister had recommended it

to Miss Humphries, and my aunts and Edward agreed that they would

read it, but without mentioning anything of the author.

This intelligence gave me the utmost uneasiness-I foresaw a

thousand dangers of a discovery-I dreaded the indiscreet warmth

of all my confidants. In truth, I was quite sick with

apprehension, and was too uncomfortable to go to Brompton, and

Susan carried my excuses.

Upon her return, I was somewhat tranquillised, for she assured me

that there was not the smallest suspicion of the author, and that

they had concluded it to be the work of a man ! and Miss

Humphries, who read it aloud to Richard said several things in

its commendation, and concluded them by exclaiming, "It's a

thousand pities the author should lie concealed!"

Finding myself more safe than I had apprehended, I ventured to go

to Brompton next day. In my way up-stairs,[ I heard Miss

Humphries in the midst of Mr. Villars' letter of

consolation upon Sir John Belmont's rejection of his daughter;

and just as I entered the room, she cried out, "How pretty that

is!"

How much in luck would she have thought herself, had she known

who heard her!

in a private confabulation which I had with my aunt Anne, she

told me a thousand things that had been said in its praise, and

assured me they had not for a moment doubted that the work was a

man's.

Comforted and made easy by these assurances, I longed for the

diversion of hearing their observations, and therefore (though

rather mal `a propos) after I had been near two hours in the

room, I told Miss Humphries that I was afraid I had interrupted

her, and begged she would go on with what she was reading.

"Why," cried she, taking up the book, "we have been prodigiously

entertained;" and very readily she continued.

I must own I suffered great difficulty in refraining from

laughing upon several occasions,-and several times, when they

praised what they read, I was upon the point of saying, "You'are

very good!" and so forth, and I could scarcely keep myself from

making acknowledgments, and bowing my head involuntarily.

However, I got off perfectly safe.

Monday.--Susan and I went to tea at Brompton, We met Miss

Humphries coming to town. She told us she had just finished

"Evelina," and gave us to understand that she could not get away

till she had done it. We heard afterwards from my aunt the most

flattering praises; and Richard could talk Of nothing else. His

encomiums gave me double pleasure, from being wholly unexpected:

for I had prepared myself to hear that he held it extremely

cheap.

It Seems, to my utter amazement, Miss Humphries has guessed the

author to be Anstey, who wrote the "Bath Guide"! How improbable

and how extraordinary a supposition! But they have both of them

done it so much honour that, but for Richard's anger at Evelina's

bashfulness, I never Could believe they did not suspect me. I

never went to Brompton without finding the third volume in

Richard's hands; he speaks of all the characters as if they were

his acquaintance, and Praises different parts perpetually: both

he and Miss Humphries seem to have it by heart, for it is always

`a propos to Whatever is the subject of discourse, and their

whole conversation almost consists of quotations from it.

Chesington, June 18.--I came hither the first week in May. My

recovery from that time to this, has been slow and sure ; but as

I could walk hardly three yards in a day at first, I found so

much time to spare, that I could not resist treating myself with

a little private sport with "Evelina," a young lady whom I think

I have some right to make free with. I had promised Hetty that

she should read it to Mr. Crisp, at her own particular request ;

but I wrote my excuses, and introduced it myself.

I told him it was a book which Hetty had taken to Brompton, to

divert my cousin Richard during his confinement. He was so

indifferent about it, that I thought he would not give himself

the trouble to read it, and often embarrassed me by unlucky

questions, such as, "If it was reckoned clever?" and "What I

thought of it?" and "Whether folks laughed at it?" I always

evaded any direct or satisfactory answer; but he was so totally

free from any idea of suspicion, that my perplexity escaped his

notice.

At length, he desired me to begin reading to him. I dared not

trust my voice with the little introductory ode, for as that is

no romance, but the sincere effusion of my heart, I could as soon

read aloud my own letters, written in my own name and character :

I therefore skipped it, and have so kept the book out of his

sight, that, to this day, he knows not it is there. Indeed, I

have, since, heartily repented that I read any of the book to

him, for I found it a much more awkward thing than I had expected

: my voice quite faltered when I began it, which, however, I

passed off for the effect of remaining weakness of lungs; and, in

short, from an invincible embarrassment, which I could not for a

page together repress, the book, by my reading, lost all manner

of spirit.

Nevertheless, though he has by no means treated it with the

praise so lavishly bestowed upon it from other quarters, I had

the satisfaction to observe that he was even greedily eager to go

on with it ; so that I flatter myself the story caught his

attention: and, indeed, allowing for my mauling reading, he gave

it quite as much credit as I had any reason to expect. But, now

that I was sensible of my error in being 'my own mistress of the

ceremonies, I determined to leave to Hetty the third volume, and

therefore pretended I had not brought it. He was in a delightful

ill humour about it, and I enjoyed his impatience far more than I

should have done his forbearance. Hetty, therefore, when she

comes, has undertaken to bring it,

I have had a visit from my beloved Susy, who, with my mother(31)

and little Sally,(32) spent a day here, to my no small

satisfaction; and yet I was put into an embarrassment, of which I

even yet know not what will be the end, during their short stay:

for Mr. Crisp, before my mother, very innocently said, "O! Susan,

pray Susette, do send me the third volume of "Evelina;" Fanny

brought me the two first on purpose, I believe, to tantalize me."

I felt 'myself in a ferment ; and Susan, too, looked foolish, and

knew.not what to answer. As I sat on the same sofa with him, I

gave him a gentle shove, as a token, which he could not but

understand, that he had said something wrong--though I believe he

could not imagine what. Indeed, how should he?

My mother instantly darted forward, and repeated "Evelina,--

what's that, pray?"

Again I jolted Mr. Crisp, who, very much perplexed, said, in a

boggling manner, that it was a novel-he supposed from the

circulating library--only a trumpery novel."

Ah, my dear daddy! thought I, you would have devised some other

sort of speech, if you knew all! But he was really, as he well

might be, quite at a loss for what I wanted him to say.

"You have had it here, then, have you?" continued my mother.

"Yes-two of the volumes," said Mr. Crisp.

"What, had you them from the library?" asked my mother.

"No, ma'am," answered I, horribly frightened, "from my sister."

The truth is, the books are Susan's, who bought them the first

day of publication; but I did not dare own that, as it would have

been almost an acknowledgment of all the rest.

She asked some further questions, to which we made the same sort

of answers, and then the matter dropped. Whether itrests upon

her mind, or not, I cannot tell.

Two days after, I received from Charlotte a letter the most

intereiting that could be written to me, for it acquainted me

that My dear father was, at length, reading my book, which has

now been published six months.

How this has come to pass, I am yet in the dark; but, it seems,

that the very Moment almost that my mother and Susan and

Sally left the house, he desired Charlotte to bring him the

"Monthly Review;" she contrived to look over his shoulder as he

opened it, which he did at the account of "Evelina; Or, a Young

Lady's Entrance into the World." He read it with great

earnestness, then put it down ; and presently after snatched it

up, and read it again. Doubtless, his paternal heart felt some

agitation for his girl, in reading a review of her

publication!(33)--how he got at the name, I cannot imagine.

Soon after he turned to Charlotte, and bidding her come close to

him, he put his finger on the word " Evelina," and saying, she

knew what it was, bade her -write down the name, and send the man

to Lowndes, as if for herself. This she did, and away went

William.

He then told Charlotte, that he had never known the name of it

till the day before. 'Tis strange how he got at it! He added

that I had come off vastly well in this review, except for "the

Captain." Charlotte told him it had also been in "Kenrick's

review,(34) and he desired her to copy out for him what was said

in both of them. He asked her, too, whether I had mentioned the

work was by a lady?

When William returned, he took the books from him, and the moment

he was gone, opened the first volume-and opened it upon the Ode!

How great must have been his astonishment, at seeing himself so

addressed!(35) Indeed, Charlotte says he looked all

amazement, read a line or two with great eagerness, and their,

stopping short, he seemed quite affected, and the tears started

into his eyes: dear soul! I am sure they did into mine, nay, I

even sobbed, as I read the account.

I believe he was obliged to go out before he advanced much

further. But the next day I had a letter from Susan, in which I

heard that he had begun reading it with Lady Hales, and Miss

Coussmaker, and that they liked it vastly!(36) "Lady Hales spoke

of it very innocently, in the highest terms, declaring she was

sure it was written by somebody in high life, And that it had all

the marks of real genius! She added, "he must be a man of great

abilities!"

How ridiculous! but Miss Coussmaker was a little nearer the

truth, for she gave it as her opinion, that the writer was a

woman, for she said there was such a remarkable delicacy in the

conversations and descriptions, notwithstanding the grossness and

vulgarity of some of the characters, and that all oaths and

indelicate words were so carefully, yet naturally avoided, that

she could not but suspect the writer was a female ; but, she

added, notwithstanding the preface declared that the writer never

would be known, she hoped, if the book circulated as she expected

it would, he or she would be tempted to make a discovery.

Ha! ha! ha!-that's my answer. They little think how well they

are already acquainted with the writer they so much honour!

Susan begged to have, then, my father's real and

final opinion;--and it is such that I almost blush to write, even

for my own private reading ; but yet is such as I can by no means

suffer to pass unrecorded, as my whole journal contains nothing

so grateful to me. I will copy his own words, according to

Susan's solemn declaration of their authenticity.

"Upon my word I think it the best novel I know, except

Fielding's, and, in some respects, better than his! I have been

excessively pleased with it; there are, perhaps a few things that

might have been otherwise. Mirvan's trick upon Lovel is, I

think, carried too far,-there is something even disgusting in it:

however, this instance excepted, I protest I think it will scarce

bear an improvement. The language is as good as anybody need

write--I declare, as good as I would wish to read. Lord

Orville's character is just what it should be - perfectly

benevolent and upright; and there is a boldness in it that struck

me mightily, for he is a man not ashamed of being better than the

rest of mankind. Evelina is in a new style too, so perfectly

innocent and natural ; and the scene between her and her father,

Sir John Belmont, is a scene for a tragedy! I blubbered at it,

and Lady Hales and Miss Coussmaker are not yet recovered from

hearing it, it made them quite ill: indeed, it is wrought up in a

most extraordinary manner."

This account delighted me more than I- can express. How little

did I dream of ever being so much honoured! But the approbation

of all the world put together, would not bear any competition, in

my estimation, with that of my beloved father.

July 25.--Mrs. Cholmondeley has been reading and praising

"Evelina," and my father Is quite delighted at her approbation,

and told Susan that I could not have had a greater compliment

than making two such women my friends as Mrs. Thrale(37) and Mrs.

Cholmondeley. for they were severe and knowing, and afraid of

praising `a tort et `a travers, as their opinions are liable to

be quoted.

Mrs. Thrale said she had only to complain it was too short. She

recommended it to my mother to read!--how droll!--and she told

her she would be much entertained with it, for there was a great

deal of human life in it, and of the manners of the present

times, and added that it was written "by somebody

Who knows the top and the bottom, the highest and the lowest of

mankind." She has even lent her set to my mother, who brought it

home with her!

By the way, I have again resumed my correspondence with my friend

Mr. Lowndes. When I sent the errata I desired to have a set

directed to Mr. Grafton, at the Orange Coffee-house, for I had no

copy but the one he sent tne to make the errata from, which Was

incomplete and unbound. However, I heard nothing at all from

him; and therefore, after some consideration, and much demure I

determined to make an attempt once more; for my father told me it

was a shame that I, the author, should not have even one set of

my own work; I ought, he said, to have had six: and indeed, he is

often enraged that Lowndes gave no more for the MS.--but I was

satisfied,-and that sufficed.(38)

I therefore wrote him word, that I supposed, in the hurry of his

business, and variety of his concerns, he had forgotten my

request, which I now repeated. I also added, that if ever the

book went through another edition, I should be glad to have

timely notice, as I had some corrections and alterations to

propose.

I received an immediate answer, and intelligence from my sisters,

that he had sent a set of " Evelina " most elegantly bound. The

answer I will copy.

Fleet-street, July 2, 1778.

Sir,--I bound up a set for you the first day I had them, and

hoped by some means to hear from you. The Great World send

hereto buy "Evelina." A polite lady said, Do, Mr. Lowndes, give

me "Evelina," I am treated as unfashionable for not having read

it. I think the impression will be sold by Christmas. If

meantime, or about that time, you favour me with any commands, I

shall be proud to observe them. Your obliged servant, J.

Lowndes.

To Mr. Grafton.

(Fanny Burney to Miss S. Burney.)

Chesington, Sunday, July 6.

Your letter, my dearest Susan, and the inclosed one from

Lovirrides, have flung me into such a vehement perturbation, that

i hardly can tell whether I wake or dream, and it is even With

difficulty that I can fetch my breath. I have been strol

ling round the garden three or four times, in hopes of regaining

a little quietness. However, I am not very angry at my inward

disturbance, though it even exceeds what I experienced from the

"Monthly Review."

My dear Susy, what a wonderful affair has this been, and how

extraordinary is this torrent of success, which sweeps down all

before it! I often think it too much, nay, almost wish it would

happen to some other person, who had more ambition, whose hopes

were more sanguine, and who could less have borne to be buried in

the oblivion which I even sought. But though it might have been

better bestowed, it could by no one be more gratefully received.

Indeed I can't help being grave upon the subject; for a success

so really unexpected almost overpowers me. I wonder at myself

that my spirits are not more elated. I believe half the flattery

I have had would have made me madly merry; but all serves only to

almost depress me by the fullness of heart it occasions. I have

been serving Daddy Crisp a pretty trick this morning How he would

rail if he found it all out ! I had a fancy to dive pretty deeply

into the real rank in which he held my book; so I told him that

your last letter acquainted me who was reported to be the author

of "Evelina." I added that it was a profound secret, and he must

by no means mention it to a human being. He bid me tell him

directly, according to his usual style of command--but I insisted

upon his guessing.

"I can't guess," said he - "may be it is you."

Oddso! thought I, what do you mean by that?

"Pooh, nonsense!" cried I," what should make you think of me?"

"Why, you look guilty," answered he.

This was a horrible home stroke. Deuce take my looks! thought I-

-I shall owe them a grudge for this ! however I found it was a

mere random shot, and, without much difficulty, I laughed it to

scorn.

And who do you think he guessed next ?--My father!--there's for

you!--and several questions he asked me, whether he had lately

been shut up much-and so on. And this was not all--for he

afterwards guessed Mrs. Thrale and Mrs. Greville.(39)

There's honour and glory for you!--I assure you I grinned

prodigiously.

July 20.-I have had a letter from Susan. She informs me that my

father, when he took the books back to Streatham, actually

acquainted Mrs. Thrale with my secret. He took an opportunity,

when they were alone together, of saying that Upon her

recommendation, he had himself, as well as my mother; been

reading "Evelina."

Well!" cried she, "and is it not a very pretty book? and a Very

clever book? and a very comical book?

"Why,',' answered he. "'tis well enough; but I have something to

tell you about it."

"Well? what?" cried she; "has Mrs. Cholmondeley found out the

author?"

" No," returned he, " not that I know of, but I believe I have,

though but very lately."

"Well, pray let's hear!" cried she, eagerly, "I want to know him

of all things."

How my father must laugh at the him!--He then, however,

undeceived her in regard to that particular, by telling her it

was "our Fanny!" for she knows all about our family, as my father

talks to'her of his domestic concerns without any reserve.

A hundred handsome things, of course, followed; and she

afterwards read some of the comic parts to Dr. Johnson, Mr.

Thrale, and whoever came near her. How I should have quivered

had I been there ! but they tell me that Dr. Johnson laughed as

heartily as my father himself did.

Nothing can be more ridiculous than the scenes in which I am

almost perpetually engaged. Mr. Crisp, who is totally without

suspicion, says, almost daily, something that has double the

meaning he intends to convey; for, as I am often writing, either

letters, Italian, or some of my own vagaries, he commonly calls

me the scribe, and the authoress; asks when I shall print; says

he will have all my works on royal paper, etc.; and the other

day, Mrs. Gast, who frequently lectures me about studying too

hard, and injuring my health, said-

'Pray, Miss Burney, now you write so much, when do you intend to

publish?"

"Publish?" cried Mr. Crisp, "why, she has published; she brought

out a book the other day that has made a great noise "Evelina"--

and she bribed the reviewers to speak well of it, and set it a

going."

I was almost ready to run out of the room; but, though the hit

was so palpable in regard to the book, what he said of the

reviewers was so much the contrary that it checked my alarm:

indeed, had he the most remote idea of the truth, be would be the

last man to have hinted at it before a room full of people.

"Oh!" cried I, as composedly as I could, "that is but a small

part of my authorship--I shall give you a list of my folios

Soon,"

They had all some jocularity upon the occasion, but I found I was

perfectly safe ; indeed my best security is, that my daddy

concludes the author to be a man, and all the rest follow as he

leads.

Mr. Burney,(40) yesterday, after dinner, said--"Gentlemen and

ladies, I'll propose a toast"; then filling his glass, he drank

to The author of "Evelina!"

Had they known the author was present, they could not have more

civilly accepted the toast; it was a bold kind of drollery in Mr.

Burney, for I was fain to drink my own health in a bumper, which

he filled for me, laughing heartily himself,

August 3--I have an immensity to write. Susan has copied me a

letter which Mrs. Thrale has written to my father, upon the

occasion of returning my mother two novels by Madame

Riccoboni.(41) It is so honourable to me, and so sweet in her,

that I must COPY it for my faithful journal.

Streatham, July 22.

Dear Sir,

I forgot to give you the novels in your carriage, which I now

send. "Evelina" certainly excels them far enough, both in

probability of story, elegance of sentiment, and general power

over the mind, whether exerted in humour or pathos; add to this,

that Riccoboni is a veteran author, and all she ever can be; but

I cannot tell what might not be expected from "Evelina," were she

to try her genius at comedy.

So far had I written of my letter, when Mr. Johnson returned

home, full of the praises of the book I had lent him, and

protesting there Were passages in it which Might do honour to

Richardson. We talk of it for ever, and he feels ardent after

the d`enouement; hee "could not get rid of the rogue," he said.

I lent him the second volume, and he is now busy with the other.

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! These are

things that you would say in verse - but poetry implies fiction,

and all this is naked truth.

my compliments to Mrs. Burney, and kindest wishes to all your

flock, etc.

How, sweet, how amiable in this charming woman is her desire of

making my dear father satisfied with his scribbler's 'attempt! I

do, indeed, feel the most grateful love for her. But Dr.

Johnson's approbation!--It almost crazed me with agreeable

surprise--it gave me such a flight of spirits that I danced a jig

to Mr. Crisp, Without any preparation, music, or explanation;--to

his no small amazement and diversion. I left him, however, to

make his own comments upon my friskiness without affording him

the smallest assistance.

Susan also writes me word, that when my father went last to

Streatham, Dr. Johnson was not there, but Mrs. Thrale told him,

that when he gave her the first volume of "Evelina," which she

had lent him, he said, "Why, madam, why, what a charming book you

lent me!" and eagerly inquired for the rest. He was particularly

pleased with the Snow-hill scenes, and said that Mr. Smith's

vulgar gentility was admirably portrayed; and when Sir Clement

joins them, he said there was a shade of character prodigiously

well marked. Well may it be said, that the greatest winds are

ever the most candid to the inferior set! I think I should love

Dr. Johnson for such lenity to a poor mere worm in literature,

even if I were not myself the identical grub he has obliged.

I now come to last Saturday evening, when my beloved father came

to Chesington, in full health, charming spirits, and all

kindness, openness, and entertainment.

In his way hither he had stopped at Streatham, and he settled

with Mrs. Thrale that he would call on her again in his

way to town, and carry me with him ! and Mrs. Thrale said, "We

all long to know her."

I have been in a kind of twitter ever since, for there seems

something very formidable in the idea of appearing as an

authoress ! I ever dreaded it, as it is a title which must raise

more expectations than I have any chance of answering. Yet I am

highly flattered by her invitation, and highly delighted in the

prospect of being introduced to the Streatham society.

She sent me some very serious advice to write for the theatre,

as, she says, I so naturally run into conversations, that

"Evelina" absolutely and plainly points out that path to me; and

she hinted how much she should be pleased to be honoured with my

confidence."

My dear father communicated this intelligence, and a great deal

more, with a pleasure that almost surpassed that with which I

heard it, and he seems quite eager for me to make another

attempt. He desired to take upon himself the communication to my

daddy Crisp, and as it is now in so many hands that it is

possible accident might discover it to him, I readily consented.

Sunday evening, as I was going into my father's room, I heard him

say, "The variety of characters--the variety of scenes--and the

language--why, she has had very little education but what she has

given herself,-less than any of the others!" and Mr. Crisp

exclaimed, "Wonderful!--it's wonderful!"

I now found what was going forward, and therefore deemed it most

fitting to decamp. About an hour after, as I was passing through

the hall, I met my daddy (Crisp). His face was all animation and

archness; he doubled his fist at me, and would have stopped me,

but I ran past him into the parlour.

Before supper, however, I again met him, and he would not suffer

me to escape ; he caught both my hands, and looked as if he would

have looked me through, and then exclaimed, "Why you little

hussy,--you young devil!--an't you ashamed to look me in the

face, you Evelina, you! Why, what a dance have you led me about

it! Young friend, indeed! O you little hussy, what tricks have

you served me!"

I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle

appellations for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently

compose himself after his great surprise, to ask or hear any

particulars - and then, he broke out every three instants with

exclamations of astonishment at how I had found time to write so

much unsuspected, and how and where I had picked up such various

materials; and not a few times did he, with me, as he had with my

father, exclaim, "wonderful!"

He has, since, made me read him all my letters upon this subject.

He said Lowndes would have made an estate had he given me one

thousand pounds for it, and that he ought not to have given me

less. "You have nothing to do now," continued he, "but to take

your pen in hand, for your fame and reputation are made, and any

bookseller will snap at what you write."

i then told him that I could not but really and unaffectedly

regret that the affair was spread to Mrs. Williams and her

friends.

"Pho," said he, "if those who are proper judges think it right,

that it should be known, why should you trouble yourself about

it? You have not spread it, there can be no imputation of vanity

fall to your share, and it cannot come out more to your honour

than through such a channel as Mrs. Thrale."

A FIRST VISIT TO MRS. THRALE AND ANINTRODUCTION To DR.

JOHNSON.

(an introduction to Mrs. Thrale was practically an introduction

into the most brilliant literary circle of the day. Literary

lions of all sizes, from the monarch Johnson downwards, were wont

to resort to Streatham, to eat Thrale's dinners, and to enjoy the

conversation of his lively wife. At Streatham Dr. Burney had

been a welcome guest since 1776, when he commenced his intimacy

with the family by giving music lessons to the eldest daughter,

Hester Thrale (Johnson's "Queenie"). The head of the house,

Henry Thrale, the wealthy brewer and member of Parliament for

Southwark, was a sensible, unassuming man, whom Johnson loved and

esteemed, and who returned Johnson's attachment with the

sincerest regard. His acquirements, in Johnson's opinion were of

a far more solid character than those Of his wife, whose wit and

vivacity, however, gave her more distinction in those brilliant

assemblies to which Fanny is now, for the first time, to be

introduced. Mrs. Thrale was in her thirty-eighth year at the

date of Fanny's first visit.-ED.] -411PSt-I have now to write

August.--I have now to write an account of the most consequential

day I have spent since my birth: namely, my visit.

Our journey to Streatham, was the least pleasant part of the

day.. for the roads were dreadfully dusty, and I was really in

the fidgets from thinking what my reception might be, and from

fearing they would expect a less awkward and backward kind of

person than I was sure they would find.

Mr. Thrale's house is white, and very pleasantly situated, in a

fine paddock. Mrs. Thrale was strolling about, and came to us as

we got out of the chaise.

"Ah," cried she, "I hear Dr. Burney's voice! and you have brought

your daughter?--well, now you are good!"

She then received me, taking both my hands, and with mixed

politeness and cordiality welcoming me to Streatham.

She led me ]Into the house, and addressed herself almost wholly

for a few minutes to my father, as if to give me an assurance she

did not mean to regard me as a show, or to distress or frighten

me by drawing me out. Afterwards she took me upstairs, and

showed me the house, and said she had very much wished to see me

at Streatham, and should always think herself much obliged to Dr.

Burney for his goodness in bringing me, which she looked upon as

a very great favour.

But though we were some time together, and though she was so very

civil, she did not hint at my book, and I love her much more than

ever for her delicacy in avoiding a subject which she could not

but see would have greatly embarrassed me.

When we returned to the music-room, we found Miss Thrale was with

my father. Miss Thrale is a very fine girl, about fourteen years

of age, but cold and reserved, though full of knowledge and

intelligence.

Soon after, Mrs. Thrale took me to the library ; she talked a

little while upon common topics, and then, at last, she mentioned

"Evelina."

" Yesterday at supper," said she, "we talked it all over, and

discussed all your characters - but Dr. Johnson's favourite is

Mr. Smith. He declares the fine gentleman manqué was never

better drawn; and he acted him all the evening, saying he was

'all for the ladies!' He repeated whole scenes by heart. I

declare I was astonished at him. O, you can't imagine how much

he is pleased with the book; he 'could not get rid of the rogue,'

he told me. But was it not droll," said she, "that I should

recommend it to Dr. Burney? and tease him, so innocently, to read

it?"

I now prevailed upon Mrs. Thrale to let me amuse myself, and she

went to dress. I then prowled about to choose some

book and I saw upon the reading-table, "Evelina."--I had just

fixed upon a new translation of Cicero's "Laelius," when the

library-door was opened, and Mr. Seward(43) entered. I instantly

put away my book, because I dreaded being thought studious and

affected. He offered his service to find anything for me, and

then, in the same breath, ran on to speak of the work with which

I had myself 'favoured the world!'

The exact words he began with I cannot recollect, for I was

actually confounded by the attack; and his abrupt manner of

letting me know he was au fait equally astonished and provoked

me. How different from the delicacy of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale.

When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my father and

me sit on each side of her. I said that I hoped I did not take

Dr. Johnson's place;--for he had not yet appeared.

"No," answered Mrs. Thrale, "he will sit by you, which I am sure

will give him great pleasure."

Soon after we were seated, this great man entered. I have so

true a veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires me

with delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities

to which he is subject; for he has almost perpetual convulsive

movements, either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and

sometimes of all together.

Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place. We had

a noble dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. Johnson, in the

middle of dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what were some little pies

that were near him.

"Mutton," answered she, "so I don't ask you to eat any, because I

know you despise it."

"No, madam, no," cried he, "I despise nothing that is so good of

its sort; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by Miss

Burney makes me very proud to-day!"

"Miss Burney," said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, "you must take care of

your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it for I assure you he is not

often successless."

"What's that you say, madam?" cried he; "are you Making mischief

between the young lady and me already?"

A little while after he drank Miss Thrale's health and mine, and

then added: "Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young

ladies well, without wishing them to become old women!"

"But some people," said Mr. Seward, "are old and young at the

same time, for they wear so well that they never look old."

No, sir, no," cried the doctor, laughing; "that never yet was;

you might as well say they are at the same time tall and short.

I remember an epitaph to that purpose, which is in--"

(I have quite forgot what,--and also the name it was made upon,

but the rest I recollect exactly:)

"----lies buried here;

So early wise, so lasting fair,

That none, unless her years you told,

Thought her a child, or thought her old."

We left Streatham at about eight o'clock, and Mr. Seward, who

handed me into the chaise, added his interest to the rest, that

my father would not fail to bring me next week. In short I was

loaded with civilities from them all. And my ride home was

equally happy with the rest of the day, for my kind and most

beloved father was so happy in my happiness, and congratulated me

so sweetly, that he could, like myself, think on no other

subject: and he told me that, after passing through such a house

as that, I could have nothing to fear-meaning for my book, my

honoured book.

Yet my honours stopped not here ; for Hetty, who, with her sposo,

was here to receive us, told me she had lately met Mrs.

Reynolds,(44) sister of Sir Joshua; and that she talked very much

and very highly of a new novel called "Evelina"; though without a

shadow of suspicion as to the scribbler ; and not contented with

her own praise, she said that Sir Joshua, who began it one day

when he was too much engaged to go on with it, was so much

caught, that he could think of nothing else, and was quite absent

all the day, not knowing a word that was said to him : and, when

he took it up again, found himself so much interested in it, that

he sat up all night to finish it! Sir Joshua, it seems, vows he

would give fifty pounds to

know the author! I have also heard, by the means of Charles,(45)

that other persons have declared they will find him out!

FANNY BURNEY INTERVIEWS HER PUBLISHER.

This intelligence determined me upon going myself to Mr. Lowndes,

and discovering what sort of answers he made to such curious

inquirers as I found were likely to address him. But as I did

not dare trust myself to speak, for I felt that I should not be

able to act my part well, I asked my mother to accompany me. We

introduced ourselves by buying the book, for which I had a

commission from Mrs. G--. Fortunately Mr. Lowndes himself was in

the shop; as we found by his air of consequence and authority, as

well as his age; for I never saw him before.

The moment he had given my mother the book, she asked him if he

could tell her who wrote it.

"No," he answered; "I don't know myself."

"Pho, pho," said she, "you mayn't choose to tell, but you must

know."

"I don't indeed, ma'am," answered he "I have no honour in

keeping the secret, for I have never been trusted. All I know of

the matter is, that it is a gentleman of the other end of the

town."

MY mother made a thousand other inquiries, to which his answers

were to the following effect: that for a great while, he did not

know if it was a man or a woman; but now, he knew that much, and

that he was a master of his subject, and well versed in the

manners of the times.

"For some time," continued he, "I thought it had been Horace

Walpole's; for he once published a book in this snug manner; but

I don't think it is now. I have often people come to inquire of

me who it is; but I suppose he will come Out soon, and then when

the rest of the world knows it, I shall. Servants often come for

it from the other end of the town, and I have asked them divers

questions myself, to see if I could get at the author but I never

got any satisfaction."

Just before we came away, upon my mother's still further pressing

him, he said, with a most important face,

"Why, to tell you the truth, madam, I have been informed

that it is a piece of real secret history ; and, in that case, it

will never be known."

This was too much for me - I grinned irresistibly, and was

obliged to look out at the shop-door till we came away.

How many ridiculous things have I heard upon this subject! I

hope that next, some particular family will be fixed upon, to

whom this secret history must belong! However, I am delighted to

find myself so safe.

CONVERSATIONS WITH MRs. THRALE AND DR. JOHNSON.

Streatham, Sunday, Aug. 23--I know not how to express the

fullness of my contentment at this sweet place. All my best

expectations are exceeded, and you know they were not very

moderate. If, when my dear father comes, Susan and Mr. Crisp

were to come too, I believe it would require at least a day's

pondering to enable me to form another wish.

Our journey was charming. The kind Mrs. Thrale would give

courage to the most timid. She did not ask me questions, or

catechise me upon what I knew, or use any means to draw me out,

but made it her business to draw herself outthat is, to start

subjects, to support them herself, and to take all the weight of

the conversation, as if it behoved her to find me entertainment.

But I am so much in love with her, that I shall be obliged to run

away from the subject, or shall write of nothing else.

When we arrived here, Mrs. Thrale showed me my room, which is an

exceedingly pleasant one, and then conducted me to the library,

there to divert myself while she dressed.

Miss Thrale soon joined me: and I begin to like her. Mr. Thrale

was neither well nor in spirits all day. Indeed, he seems not to

be a happy man, though he has every means of happiness in his

power. But I think I have rarely seen a very rich man with a

light heart and light spirits.

Dr. Johnson was in the utmost good humour.

There was no other company at the house all day.

After dinner, I had a delightful stroll with Mrs. Thrale, and she

gave me a list of all her " good neighbours " in the town of

Streatham, and said she was determined to take me to see Mr. T--,

the clergyman, who was a character i could not but be diverted

with, for he had so furious and so absurd a rage for building,

that in his garden he had as many temples, and summer-houses, and

statues as in the gardens of Stow, though

81'

he had so little room for them that they all seemed tumbling one

upon another.

In short, she was all unaffected drollery and sweet good humour.

At tea we all met again, and Dr. Johnson was gaily sociable. He

gave a very droll account of the children of Mr. Langton.(46)

"Who," he said, "might be very good children if they were let

alone; but the father is never easy when he is not making them do

something which they cannot do; they must repeat a fable, or a

speech, or the Hebrew alphabet; and they might as well count

twenty, for what they know of the matter: however, the father

says half, for he prompts every other word. But he could not

have chosen a man who would have been less entertained by such

means."

"I believe not !" cried Mrs. Thrale: "nothing is more ridiculous

than parents cramming their children's nonsense down other

people's throats. I keep mine as much out of the way as I can."

"Yours, madam," answered he, "are in nobody's way - no children

can be better managed or less troublesome; but your fault is, a

too great perverseness in not allowing anybody to give them

anything. Why Should they not have a cherry, or a gooseberry, as

well as bigger children?"

"Because they are sure to return such gifts by wiping their hands

upon the giver's gown or coat, and nothing makes children more

offensive. People only make the offer to please the parents, and

they wish the poor children at Jericho when they accept it."

"But, madam, it is a great deal more offensive to refuse them.

Let those who make the offer look to their own gowns and coats,

for when you interfere, they only wish you at Jericho."

"It is difficult," said Mrs. Thrale, "to please everybody." She

then asked whether -Mr. Langton took any better care of his

affairs than formerly?

"No, madam," cried the doctor, "and never will; he

complains of the ill effects of habit, and rests contentedly upon

a confessed indolence. He told his father himself that he had

'no turn to economy;' but a thief might as well plead that he had

'no turn to honesty.'"

Was not that excellent? At night, Mrs. Thrale asked if I would

have anything ? I answered, "No," but Dr. Johnson said,

"Yes: she is used, madam, to suppers; she would like an egg or

two, and a few slices of ham, or a rasher--a rasher, I believe,

would please her better."

How ridiculous! However, nothing could persuade Mrs. Thrale not

to have the cloth laid: and Dr. Johnson was so facetious, that he

challenged Mr. Thrale to get drunk!

"I wish," said he, "my master(47) would say to me, Johnson, if

you will oblige me, you will call for a bottle of Toulon, and

then we will set to it, glass for glass, till it is done ; and

after that, I will say, Thrale, if you will oblige me, you will

call for another bottle of Toulon, and then we will set to it,

glass for glass, till that is done : and by the time we should

have drunk the two bottles, we should be so happy, and such good

friends, that we should fly into each other's arms, and both

together call for the third!"

Now for this morning's breakfast.

Dr. Johnson, as usual, came last into the library ; he was in

high spirits, and full of mirth and sport. I had the honour of

sitting next to him: and now, all at once, he flung aside his

reserve, thinking, perhaps, that it was time I should fling aside

mine.

Mrs. Thrale told him that she intended taking me to Mr. T--'s.

"So you ought, madam," cried he; "'tis your business to be

Cicerone to her."

Then suddenly he snatched my hand, and kissing it,

"Ah!" he added, "they will little think what a tartar you carry

to them!"

"No, that they won't!" cried Mrs. Thrale; "Miss Burney looks so

meek and so quiet, nobody would suspect what a comical girl she

is - but I believe she has a great deal of malice at heart."

"Oh, she's a toad!" cried the doctor, laughing--"a sly young

rogue! with her Smiths and her Branghtons!"

"Why, Dr. Johnson said Mrs. Thrale,

"I hope you are well this morning! if one may judge by your

spirits and good humour, the fever you threatened us with is gone

off."

He had complained that he was going to be ill last night.

"Why no, madam, no," answered he, " "I am not yet well. I could

not sleep at all; there I lay, restless and uneasy, and thinking

all the time of Miss Burney. Perhaps I have offended. her,

thought I; perhaps she is angry - I have seen her but once and I

talked to her of a rasher!--Were you angry?"

I think I need not tell you my answer.

"I have been endeavouring to find some excuse," continued he,

"and, as I could not sleep, I got up, and looked for some

authority for the word; and I find, madam, it is used by Dryden:

in one of his prologues, he says--'And snatch a homely rasher

from the coals.' So You must not mind me, madam; I say strange

things, but I mean no harm."

I was almost afraid he thought I was really idiot enough to have

taken him seriously; but, a few minutes after, he put his hand on

my arm, and shaking his head, exclaimed, "Oh, you are a sly

little rogue!--what a Holborn beau have you drawn!"

"Ay, Miss Burney," said Mrs, Thrale, "the Holborn beau is Dr

Johnson's favourite ; and we have all your characters by heart,

from Mr. Smith up to Lady Louisa."

"Oh, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith is the man !" cried he, laughing

violently. "Harry Fielding never drew so good a character!--

such a fine varnish of low politeness!--such a struggle to appear

a gentleman! Madam, there is no character better drawn

anywhere--in any book or by any author."

I almost poked myself under the table. Never did I feel so

delicious a confusion since I was born ! But he added a great

deal more, only I cannot recollect his exact words, and I do not

choose to give him mine.

About noon when I went into the library, book hunting, Mrs.

Thrale came to me. We had a very nice confab about various

books, and exchanged opinions and imitations of Baretti; she told

me many excellent tales of him, and I, in return, related my

stories.

She gave me a long and very entertaining account of Dr.

Goldsmith, who was intimately known here; but in speaking of "The

Good-natured Man," when I extolled my favourite

Croaker, I found that admirable character was a downright theft

from Dr. Johnson. Look at "The Rambler," and you will find

Suspirius is the man, and that not merely the idea, but the

particulars of the character, are all stolen thence!(48)

While we were yet reading this "Rambler," Dr. Johnson came in: we

told him what we were about.

"Ah, madam," cried he, "Goldsmith was not scrupulous but he would

have been a great man had he known the real value of his own

internal resources."

"Miss Burney," said Mrs. Thrale, "is fond of his 'Vicar of

Wakefield.' and so am I;--don't you like it, sir?"

" No, madam, it is very faulty ; there is nothing of real life in

it, and very little of nature. It is a mere fanciful

performance."

He then seated himself upon a sofa, and calling to me, said

Come,--Evelina,--come and sit by me."

I obeyed; and he took me almost in his arms,--that is, one of his

arms, for one would go three times, at least, round me, -and,

half laughing, half serious, he charged me to "be a good girl!"

"But, my dear," continued he with a very droll look, "what makes

you so fond of the Scotch? I don't like you for that;--I hate

these Scotch, and so must you. I wish Branghton had sent the dog

to jail! That Scotch dog Macartney."

"Why, sir," said Mrs. Thrale, " don't you remember he says he

would, but that he should get nothing by it?"

" Why, ay, true," cried the doctor, see-sawing very solemnly,

"that, indeed, is some palliation for his forbearance. But I

must not have you so fond of the Scotch, my little Burney; make

your hero what you will but a Scotchman. Besides, you write

Scotch--you say 'the one'--my dear, that's not English, Never use

that phrase again."

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Thrale, "it may be used in Macartney's

letter, and then it will be a propriety."

"No, madam, no!" cried he; "you can't make a beauty of it - it is

in the third volume; put it in Macartney's letter, and welcome--

that, or any thing that is nonsense."

(85

"Why, surely," cried I, "the poor man is used ill enough by the

Branghtons."

"But Branghton," said he, "only hates him because of his

wretchedness--poor fellow!--But, my dear love, how should he ever

have eaten a good dinner before he came to England? And then he

laughed violently at young Branghton's idea.

"Well," said Mrs. Thrale, "I always liked Macartney; he is a very

pretty character, and I took to him, as the folks say."

Why, madam," answered he, "I like Macartney myself. yes, poor

fellow, I liked the man, but I love not the nation." And then he

proceeded, in a dry manner, to make at once sarcastic reflections

on the Scotch, and flattering speeches to me.(49)

DR. JOHNSON ON SOME "LADIES" OF HIS ACQUAINTANCE

Saturday.--Dr. Johnson was again all himself; and so civil to

me!--even admiring how I dressed myself! Indeed, it is well I

have so much of his favour - for it seems he always speaks his

mind concerning the dress of ladies, and all ladies who are here

obey his injunctions implicitly, and alter whatever he

disapproves. This is a part of his character that much surprises

me: but notwithstanding he is sometimes so absent, and always so

near sighted, he scrutinizes into every part of almost

everybody's appearance. They tell me of a Miss Brown, who often

visits here, and who has a slovenly way of dressing. "And when

she comes down in a morning," says Mrs. Thrale, "her hair will be

all loose, and her cap half off; and then Dr. Johnson, who sees

something is wrong, and does not know where the fault is,

concludes it is in the cap, and says, "My dear, what do you wear

such a vile cap for?" "I'll change it, Sir!" cries the poor

girl, "if you don't like it." Ay, do,'he says; and away runs

poor Miss Brown; but when she gets on another, it's the same

thing, for the cap has nothing to do with the fault. And then

she wonders Dr. Johnson should not like the cap, for she thinks

it very pretty. And so on with her gown, which he also makes her

change; but if the poor girl

were to change through all her wardrobe, unless she could put her

things on better, he would still find fault."

When Dr. Johnson was gone, she told me of my mother's(50) being

obliged to change her dress.

"Now," said she " Mrs. Burney had on a very pretty linen jacket

and coat, and was going to church; but Dr. Johnson, who, I

suppose, did not like her in a jacket, saw something was the

matter, and so found fault with the linen: and he looked and

peered, and then said, 'Why, madam, this won't do! you must not

go to church so!' So away went poor Mrs. Burney, and changed her

gown! And when she had done so, he did not like it, but he did

not know why, so he told her she should not wear a black hat and

cloak in summer! "How he did bother poor Mrs. Burney! and himself

too, for if the things had been put on to his mind, he would have

taken no notice of them."

"Why," said Mr. Thrale, very drily, "I don't think Mrs. Burney a

very good dresser."

"Last time she came," said Mrs. Thrale, "she was in a white

cloak, and she told Dr. Johnson she had got her old white cloak

scoured on purpose to oblige him! 'Scoured!' says he; 'ay, have

you, madam?'--so he see-sawed, for he could not for shame find

fault, but he did not seem to like the scouring.'

And now let me try to recollect an account he gave of certain

celebrated ladies of his acquaintance: an account in which, had

you heard it from himself, would have made you die with laughing,

his manner is so peculiar, and enforces his humour so originally.

It was begun by Mrs. Thrale's apologising to him

for troubling him with some question she thought trifling--O, I

remember! We had been talking of colours, and of the fantastic

names given to them, and why the palest lilac should b called a

soupir `etouff`e; and when Dr. Johnson came in, she applied to

him.

"Why, madam," said he, with wonderful readiness, "it is called a

stifled sigh because it is checked in its progress, and only half

a colour."

I could not help expressing my amazement at his universal

readiness upon all subjects, and Mrs. Thrale said to him, "Sir,

Miss Burney wonders at your patience with such stuff, but I tell

her you are used to me, for I believe I torment you with more

foolish questions than anybody else dares do."

"No, madam," said he; 'you don't torment me;--you teaze me,

indeed, sometimes."

"Ay, so I do, Dr. Johnson, and I wonder you bear with my

nonsense."

No, madam, you never talk nonsense; you have as much sense and

more wit, than any woman I know."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Thrale, blushing, "it is my turn to go under the

table this morning, Miss Burney!"

"And yet," continued the doctor, with the most comical look, "I

have known all the wits, from Mrs. Montagu down to Bet Flint."

"Bet Flint cried Mrs. Thrale -pray, who is she?"

"Such a fine character, madam! She was habitually a slut and a

drunkard, and occasionally a thief and a harlot."

"And, for heaven's sake, how came you to know her?"

"Why, madam, she figured in the literary world, too! Bet Flint

wrote her own life, and called herself Cassandra, and it was in

verse;--it began:

'When Nature first ordained my birth,

A diminutive I was born on earth:

And then I came from a dark abode,

Into a gay and gaudy world.'(51)

So Bet brought me her verses to correct; but I gave her

half-a-crown, and she liked it as well. Bet had a fine spirit;--

she advertised for a husband, but she had no success, for she

told me no man aspired to her! Then she hired very handsome

lodgings and a footboy; and she got a harpsichord, but Bet could

not play; however, she put herself in fine attitudes, and

drummed."

Then he gave an account of another of these geniuses, who called

herself by some fine name, I have forgotten what.

"She had not quite the same stock of virtue," continued he, "nor

the same stock of honesty as Bet Flint; but I suppose she envied

her accomplishments, for she was so little moved by the power of

harmony, that while Bet Flint thought she was drumming very

divinely, the other jade had her indicted for a nuisance!"

"And pray what became of her, sir?

"Why, madam, she stole a quilt from the man of the house, and he

had her taken up: but Bet Flint had a spirit not to be subdued;

so when she found herself obliged to go to jail, she ordered a

sedan chair, and bid her footboy walk before her. However, the

boy proved refractory, for he was ashamed, though his mistress

was not.""

"And did she ever get out of jail again, sir?"

"Yes, madam; when she came to her trial the judge acquitted her.

'So now,' she said to me, 'the quilt is MY own, and now I'll make

a petticoat of it.' Oh, I loved Bet Flint!"(52)

Oh, how we all laughed! Then he gave an account of another lady,

who called herself Laurinda, and who also wrote verses and stole

furniture; but he had not the same affection for her, he said,

though she too "was a lady who had high notions of honour."

Then followed the history of another, who called herself

Hortensia, and who walked up and down the park repeating a book

of Virgil. But," said he " "though I know her story, I never had

the good fortune to see her."

After this he gave us an account of the famous Mrs. Pinkethman:

"And she," he said, "told me she owed all her misfortunes to her

wit; for she was so unhappy as to marry a man who thought himself

also a wit, though I believe she gave him not implicit credit for

it, but it occasioned much contradiction and ill-will."

"Bless me, sir," cried Mrs. Thrale, "how can all these vagabonds

contrive to get at you, of all people?"

"O the dear creatures!" cried he, laughing heartily, "I can't but

be glad to see them."

"Why, I wonder, sir, you never went to see Mrs. Rudd,(53) among

the rest."

"Why, madam, I believe I should," said he, "if it was not for the

newspapers; but I am prevented many frolics that I should like

very well, since I am become such a theme for the papers."

Now, would you ever have imagined this? Bet Flint, it seems,

took Kitty Fisher(54) to see him, but to his no little regret he

was not at home. "And Mrs. Williams,"(55) he added, "did not

love Bet Flint, but Bet Flint made herself very easy about that."

A LEARNED MAN ON "EVELINA."

When we were dressed for dinner, and went into the parlour, we

had the agreeable surprise of seeing Mr. Seward. There was also

Mr. Lort,(56) who is reckoned one of the most learned men alive,

and is also a collector of curiosities,, alike in literature and

natural history. His manners are somewhat blunt and odd, and he

is altogether out of the common road, without having chosen a

better path.

The day was passed most agreeably. In the evening we had, as

usual, a literary conversation. Mr. Lort produced several

curious MSS. of the famous Bristol Chatterton; among others, his

will, and divers verses written against Dr. Johnson, as a

placeman and pensioner; all of which he read aloud, with a steady

voice and unmoved countenance.

I was astonished at him; Mrs. Thrale not much pleased; Mr. Thrale

silent and attentive; and Mr. Seward was slily laughing. Dr.

johnson himself listened profoundly and laughed openly. Indeed,

I believe he wishes his abusers no other Thiing than a good

dinner, like Pope.(57)

Just as we had got our biscuits and toast-and-water, which make

the Streatham supper, and which, indeed, is all there is any

chance of eating after our late and great dinners, Mr. Lort

suddenly said,

"Pray, ma'am, have you heard anything of a novel that runs about

a good deal, called 'Evelina'?"

What a ferment did this question, before such a set, Put me in!

I did not know whether he spoke to me, or Mrs. Thrale, and Mrs.

Thrale was in the same doubt, and as she owned, felt herself in a

little palpitation for me, not knowing what might come next,

Between us both, therefore, he had no answer.

"It has been recommended to me," continued he; "but I have no

great desire to see it, because it has such a foolish name. Yet

I have heard a great deal of it, too."

He then repeated "Evelina"--in a very languishing and ridiculous

tone.

My heart beat so quick against my stays that I almost panted with

extreme agitation, from the dread either of hearing some horrible

criticism, or of being betrayed: and I munched my biscuit as if I

had not eaten for a fortnight.

I believe the whole party were in some little consternation Dr.

Johnson began see-sawing; Mr. Thrale awoke; Mr. E--' who I fear

has picked up some notion of the affair from being so much in the

house, grinned amazingly; and Mr. Seward, biting his nails and

flinging himself back in his chair, I am sure had wickedness

enough to enjoy the whole scene.

Mrs. Thrale was really a little fluttered, but without looking at

me, said, "And pray what, Mr. Lort, what have you heard of it?"

"Why they say," answered he, "that it's an account of a young

lady's first entrance into company, and of the scrapes she gets

into; and they say there's a great deal of character in it, but I

have not cared to look in it, because the name is so foolish-

-'Evelina'!"

"Why foolish, sir?" cried Dr. Johnson. "Where's the folly of

it?"

"Why, I won't say much for the name myself," said Mrs. Thrale,

"to those who don't know the reason of it, which I found out, but

which nobody else seems to know." She then explained the name

from Evelyn, according to my own meaning.

"Well," said Dr. Johnson, " if that was the reason, it is a very

good one."

"Why, have you had the book here?" cried Mr. Lort, staring.

"Ay, indeed, have we," said Mrs. Thrale; "I read it When I was

last confined, and I laughed over it, and I cried over it!"

"O ho!" said Mr. Lort, "this is another thing! If you have had

it here, I will certainly read it."

"Had it? ay," returned she; "and Dr. Johnson, who would

not look at it at first, was so caught by it when I put it in

the coach with him, that he has sung its praises ever

since,--and he says Richardson would have been proud

to have written it."

"O ho! this is a good hearing," cried Mr. Lort; "if Dr.

Johnson can read it, I shall get it with all speed."

"You need not go far for it," said Mrs. Thrale, "for it's

now upon yonder table."

I could sit still no longer; there was something so awkward, so

uncommon, so strange in my then situation, that I wished

myself a hundred miles off, and indeed, I had almost choked

myself with the biscuit, for I could not for my life swallow it:

and so I got up, and, as Mr. Lort wen to the table to look for

"Evelina," I left the room, and was forced to call for

water to wash down the biscuit, which literally stuck in my

throat.

I heartily wished Mr. Lort at jerusalem. I did not much like

going back, but the moment I recovered breath, I

resolved not to make bad worse by staying longer away: but at

the door of the room, I met Mrs. Thrale, who, asking me if I

would have some water, took me into a back room, and burst into a

hearty fit of laughter.

"This is very good sport," cried she; "the man is as innocent

about the matter as a child, and we shall hear what he says

about it to-morrow morning at breakfast. I made a sign to Dr.

Jonnson and Seward not to tell him."

she found I was not in a humour to think it such good sport as

she did, she grew more serious,. and taking my hand kindly said,

"May you never, Miss Burney, know any other pain than that of

hearing yourself praised! and I am sure that you must often

feel."

When I told her how much I dreaded being discovered, and beggt

her not to betray me any further, she again began laughing, and

openly declared she should not consult me about the matter. But

she told me that, as soon as I had left the room, when Mr. Lort

took up "Evelina," he exclaimed contemptuously "Why, it's printed

for Lowndes!" and that Dr. Johnson then told him there were

things and characters in it more than worthy of Fielding.

"Oh ho!" cried Mr. Lort; "what, is it better than Fielding?"

"Harry Fielding," answered Dr. Johnson, "knew nothing

but the shell of life."

"So you, ma'am," added the flattering Mrs. Thrale, "have found

the kernel."

Are they all mad? or do they only want to make me so

CURIOSITY REGARDING THE AUTHOR OF "EVELINA."

Streatham, Sept.-- Our Monday's intended great party was very

small, for people are so dispersed at present in Various

quarters: we had, therefore, only Sir Joshua Reynolds, two Miss

Palmers, Dr. Calvert, Mr. Rose Fuller, and Lady Ladd.(58) Dr.

Johnson did not return.

Sir Joshua I am much pleased with: I like his ccountenance, and I

like his manners; the former I think expressive, and sensible;

the latter gentle, unassuming, and engaging.

The dinner, in quantity as well as quality, would have sufficed

for forty people. Sir Joshua said, when the dessert appeared,

"Now if all the company should take a fancy to the same dish,

there would be sufficient for all the company from any one."

After dinner, as usual, we strolled out: I ran first into the

hall for my cloak-, and Mrs. Thrale, running after me, said in a

low voice,

"If you are taxed with 'Evelina,' don't own it; I intend to say

it is mine, for sport's sake."

You may think how much I was surprised, and how readily I agreed

not to own it; but I could ask no questions, for the two Miss

Palmers followed close, saying,

"Now pray, ma'am, tell us who it is?"

"No, no," cried Mrs. Thrale, "who it is, you must find out. I

have told you that you dined with the author; but the rest you

must make out as you can."

Miss Thrale began tittering violently, but I entreated her not to

betray me; and, as soon as I could, I got Mrs. Thrale to tell me

what all this meant. She then acquainted me, that, when she

first came into the parlour, she found them all busy in talking

of "Evelina," and heard that Sir Joshua had declared he would

give fifty pounds to know the author!

"Well," said Mrs. Thrale, "thus much, then, I Will tell you; the

author will dine with you to-day."

They were then all distracted to know the party.

"Why," said she, "we shall have Dr. Calvert, Lady Ladd, Rose

Fuller, and Miss Burney."

"Miss Burney?" quoth they, "which Miss Burney?"

"Why, the eldest, Miss Fanny Burney; and so out of this list you

must make out the author."

I shook my head at her, but begged her, at least, to go no

further.

"No, no," cried she, laughing, "leave me alone; the fun will be

to make them think it me."

Howeverp as I learnt at night, when they were gone, Sir Joshua

was so very importunate with Mr. Thrale, and attacked him with

such eagerness, that he made him confess who it was, as soon as

the ladies retired.

Well, to return to our walk. The Miss Palmers grew more and more

urgent.

"Did we indeed," said the eldest, "dine with the author of

'Evelina?'"

"Yes, in good truth did you."

"Why then, ma'am, it was yourself."

"I shan't tell you whethir it was or not; but were there not

other people at dinner besides me? What think you of Dr.

Calvert?"

"Dr. Calvert? no! no; I am sure it was not he: besides, they say

it was certainly written by a woman."

"By a woman? nay, then, is not here Lady Ladd, and Miss Burney,

and Hester?"(59)

"Lady Ladd I am sure it was not, nor could it be Miss Thrale's.

O maam! I begin to think it was really yours! Now, was it not,

Mrs. Thrale?"

Mrs. Thrale only laughed.

"A lady of our acquaintance," said Miss Palmer, "Mrs.

Cholmondeley, went herself to the printer, but he would not

tell."

"Would he not?" cried Mrs. Thrale, "why, then, he's an honest

man."

"Oh, is he so?--nay, then, it is certainly Mrs. Thrale's."

"well, well, I told you before I should not deny it."

"Miss Burney," said she, "pray do you deny it?" in a

voice that seemed to say,--I must ask round, though rather from

civility than suspicion.

"Me?" cried I, "well no: if nobody else will deny it, why should

I? It does not seem the fashion to deny it."

"No, in truth," cried she; "I believe nobody would think of

denying it that could claim it, for it is the sweetest book in

the world. My uncle could not go to bed till he had finished it,

and he says he is sure he shall make love to the author, if ever

he meets with her, and it should really be a woman!"

"Dear madam," cried Miss Offy, "I am sure it was you but why will

you not own it at once?"

"I shall neither own nor deny anything about it."

"A gentleman whom we know very well," said Miss Palmer, "when he

could learn nothing at the printer's, took the trouble to go all

about Snow Hill, to see if he could find any silversmith's."

"Well, he was a cunning creature!" said Mrs. Thrale; "but Dr.

Johnson's favourite is Mr. Smith."

"So he is of everybody," answered she: "he and all that family;

everybody says Such a family never was drawn before. But Mrs.

Cholmondeley's favourite is Madame Duval; she acts her from

morning to night, and ma-foi's everybody she sees. But though we

all want so much to know the author, both Mrs. Cholmondeley and

my uncle himself say they should be frightened to death to be in

her company, because she must be such a very nice observer, that

there would be no escaping her with safety."

What strange ideas are taken from mere book-reading! But what

follows gave me the highest delight I can feel.

"Mr. Burke,"(60) she continued, "doats on it: he began it one

morning at seven o'clock, and could not leave it a moment; he sat

up all night reading it. He says he has not seen such a book he

can't tell when."

Mrs. Thrale gave me involuntarily a look of congratulation, and

could not forbear exclaiming, "How glad she was Mr. Burke

approved it!" This served to confirm the Palmers in their

mistake, and they now, without further questioning, quietly and

unaffectedly concluded the book to be really Mrs. Thrale's and

Miss Palmer said,--"Indeed, ma'am, you Ought to write a novel

every year: nobody can write like you!"

I was both delighted and diverted at this mistake, and they

grew so easy and so satisfied under it, that the conversation

dropped, and offy went to the harpsichord.

Not long after, the party broke up, and they took leave.

I had no conversation with Sir Joshua all day; but I found myself

more an object of attention to him than I wished; and he several

times spoke to me, though he did not make love!

When they rose to take leave, Miss Palmer, with the air of asking

the greatest of favours, hoped to see me when I returned to town;

and Sir Joshua, approaching me with the most profound respect,

inquired how long I should remain at Streatham? A week, I

believed: and then he hoped, when I left it, they should have the

honour of seeing me in Leicester Square.(61)

In short, the joke is, the people speak as if they were afraid of

me, instead of my being afraid of them. It seems, when they got

to the door, Miss Palmer said to Mrs. Thrale,

"Ma'am, so it's Miss Burney after all!"

"Ay, sure," answered she, "who should it be?"

"Ah! why did not you tell us sooner?" said Offy, "that we might

have had a little talk about it?"

Here, therefore, end all my hopes of secrecy!

THE MEMBERS OF DR. JOHNSON'S HOUSEHOLD.

At tea-time the subject turned upon the domestic economy "' of

Dr. Johnson's household. Mrs. Thrale has often acquainted me

that his house is quite filled and overrun with all sorts of

strange creatures, whom he admits for mere charity, and because

nobody else will admit them,--for his charity is unbounded; or,

rather, bounded only by his circumstances.

The account he gave of the adventures and absurdities of the set,

was highly diverting, but too diffused for writing--though one or

two speeches I must give. I think I shall occasionally

theatricalise my dialogues.

Mrs. Thrale-Pray, Sir, how does Mrs. Williams like all this

tribe?

Johnson-Madam, she does not like them at all: but their fondness

for her is not greater. She and De Mullin(62)

96.

quarrel incessantly; but as they can both be occasionally of

service to each other, and as neither of them have a place to go

to, their animMOSity does not force them to separate.

Mrs. T.-And pray, sir, what is Mr. Macbean?(63)

Dr. J.-Madam, he is a Scotchman: he is a man of great learning,

and for his learning I respect him, and I wish to serve him. He

knows many languages, and knows them well; but he knows nothing

of life. I advised him to write a geographical dictionary; but I

have lost all hopes of his doing anything properly, since I found

he gave as much labour to Capua as to Rome.

Mr. T.-And pray who is clerk of your kitchen, sir?

Dr. J.-Why, sir, I am afraid there is none; a general anarchy

prevails in my kitchen, as I am told by Mr. Levat,(64) who says

it is not now what it used to be!

Mrs. T.-Mr. Levat, I suppose, sir, has the office of keeping the

hospital in health? for he Is an apothecary.

Dr. J.-Levat, madam, is a brutal fellow, but I have a good regard

for him; for his brutality is in his manners, not his mind.

Mr. T.-But how do you get your dinners drest ?

Dr. J.-Why De Mullin has the chief management of the kitchen; but

our roasting is not magnificent, for we hav no jack.

Mr. T.-No jack? Why, how do they manage without?

Dr. J.-Small joints, I believe, they manage with a string, larger

are done at the tavern. I have some thoughts (with profound

gravity) of buying a jack, because I think a jack is some credit

to a house.

Mr. T.-Well, but you'll have a spit, too?

Dr. J.-No, sir, no; that would be superfluous; for we shall never

use it; and if a jack is seen, a spit will be presumed!

Mrs. T.-But pray, sir, who is the Poll you talk of? She

that you used to abet in her quarrels with Mrs. Williams, and

call out, "At her again, Poll! Never flinch, Poll>"(65)

Dr. J.-Why, I took to Poll very well at first, but she won't do

upon a nearer examination.

Mrs. T.-How came she among you, sir?

Dr. J.-Why I don't rightly remember, but we could spare her very

well from us. Poll is a stupid slut; I had some hopes of her at

first; but when I talked to her tightly and closely, I could make

nothing of her; she was wiggle waggle, and I could never persuade

her to be categorical, I wish Miss Burney would come among us; if

she would Only give US a week, we should furnish her with ample

materials for a new scene in her next work.

ANTICIPATED VISIT FROM MRS. MONTAGU.

("The great Mrs. Montagu" deserves a somewhat longer notice than

can be conveniently compressed within the limits of a footnote.

She was as indisputably, in public estimation, the leading

literary lady of the time, as Johnson was the leading man of

letters. Her maiden name was Elizabeth Robinson. She was born

at York in the year 1720, and married, in 1742, Edward Montagu,

grandson of the first Earl of Sandwich. Her husband's death, in

1775, left her in the possession of a handsome fortune. Mrs.

Montagu's literary celebrity was by no means dearly bought, for

it rested, almost exclusively, on her "Essay on the Writings and

Genius of Shakespear," published by Dodsley in 1769. Indeed, the

only other writings which she committed to the press were three

"Dialogues of the Dead," appended to the Well-known "Dialogues"

of her friend, Lord Lyttelton. The "Essay" is an elegantly

written little work, superficial when regarded in the light of

modern criticism, but marked by good sense and discrimination.

One of the chief objects of the authoress was to defend

Shakespeare against the strictures of Voltaire, and in this not

very difficult task she has undoubtedly succeeded. Johnson's

opinion of the "Essay" was unfavourable. To Sir Joshua

Reynolds's remark, that it did honour to its authoress, he

replied: "Yes Sir: it does her honour, but it would do nobody

else honour;" and he goes on to observe that "there is not one

sentence of true criticism in the book." But if the

general applause which the book had excited was out of all

proportion to its merits, Johnson's unqualified condemnation was

more than equally disproportionate to its defects.

Of Mrs. Montagu's conversational abilities Johnson entertained a

higher opinion. " Sir," he would say, "that lady exerts more

mind in conversation than any person I ever met with" (Miss

Reynolds's Recollections). It was probably, indeed, to the fame

of her conversation, and of the has biem parties which assembled

at her house, that she owed the greater part of her reputation.

She was the acknowledged " Queen of the Blue Stockings,, although

the epithet originated with a rival giver of literary parties,

Mrs. Vesey, who, replying to the apology of a gentleman who

declined an invitation to one of her meetings on the plea of want

of dress, exclaimed, "Pho, pho! don't mind dress! Come in your

blue stockings!" The term "Blue Stocking" (bas bleu) was

thenceforward applied to the set which met at Mrs. Vesey's, and

was gradually extended to other coteries of similar character.

The charitable and beneficient disposition of Mrs. Montagu was as

notorious as her intellectual superiority. It may be interesting

here to observe that after her husband's death, in 1775, she

doubled the income of poor Anna Williams, the blind poetess who

resided with Dr. Johnson, by settling upon her an annuity of ten

pounds. The publication of Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," in

1781, occasioned a coolness between the doctor and Mrs. Montagu,

on account of the severity with which, in that work, he had

handled the character of Lord Lyttelton. In September, 1783,

however, Dr. Johnson wrote to the lady to announce the death of

her pensioner, Miss Williams; and shortly afterwards he informs

Mrs. Thrale that he has received a reply "not only civil but

tender; so I hope peace is proclaimed." Mrs. Montagu died at her

house in Portman Square, in the year 1800.-ED.]

I was looking over the " Life of Cowley," which Dr. Johnson had

himself given me to read, at the same time that he gave to Mrs.

Thrale that of Waller.' But he bade me put it away.

"Do," cried he, "put away that now, and prattle with us; I can't

make this little Burney prattle, and I am sure she prattles well;

but I shall teach her another lesson than to sit thus silent

before I have done with her."

"To talk," cried I, "is the only lesson I shall be backward to

learn from you, sir."

"You shall give me," cried he, "a discourse upon the passions:

come, begin! Tell us the necessity of regulating them

Watching over and curbing them! Did you ever read Norris's

"Theory of Love?"(67)

"No, sir," said I, laughing, yet staring a little.

Dr. J.-It is well worth your reading. He will make you see that

inordinate love is the root of all evil" inordinate love of

wealth brings on avarice; of wine, brings on intemperance; of

power, brings on cruelty; and so on. He deduces from inordinate

love all human frailty."

Mrs. T.-To-morrow, sir, Mrs. Montagu dines here, and then you

will have talk enough.

Dr. Johnson began to see-saw, with a countenance strongly

expressive of inward fun, and after enjoying it Some time in

silence, he suddenly, and with great animation, turned to me and

cried,

"Down with her, Burney!--down with her!--spare her not!--attack

her, fight her, and down with her at once! You are a rising wit,

and she is at the top; and when I was beginning the world, and

was nothing and nobody, the joy of my life was to fire at all the

established wits! and then everybody loved to halloo me on. But

there is no game now; every body would be glad to see me

conquered: but then, when I was new, to vanquish the great ones

was all the delight of my poor little dear soul! So at her,

Burney--at her, and down with her!"

Oh, how we were all amused! By the way I must tell you that Mrs.

Montagu is in very great estimation here, even with Dr. Johnson

himself, when others do not praise her improperly. Mrs. Thrale

ranks her as the first of women in the literary way. I should

have told you that Miss Gregory, daughter of the Gregory who

wrote the "Letters," or, "Legacy of Advice," lives with Mrs.

Montagu, and was invited to accompany her.(68)

"Mark now," said Dr. Johnson, "if I contradict her tomorrow. I

am determined, let her say what she will, that I will not

contradict her."

Mrs. T.-Why, to be sure, sir, you did put her a little out Of

countenance the last time she came. Yet you were neither rough,

nor cruel, nor ill-natured, but still, when a lady changes

colour, we imagine her feelings are not quite composed.

100 '

Dr. j.-Why, madam, I won't answer that I shan't Contradict her

again, if she provokes me as she did then ; but a less

provocation I will withstand. I believe I am not high in her

good graces already ; and I begin (added he, laughing heartily),

to tremble for my admission into her new house. I doubt I shall

never see the inside of it.

(Mrs. Montagu is building a most superb house.)(69)

Mrs. T.-Oh, I warrant you, she fears you, indeed; but that, you

know, is nothing uncommon: and dearly I love to hear your

disquisitions; for certainly she is the first woman for literary

knowledge in England, and if in England, I hope I may say in the

world.

Dr. J.-I believe you may, madam. She diffuses more knowledge in

her conversation than any woman I know, or, indeed, almost any

man.

Mrs. T.-I declare I know no man equal to her, take away yourself

and Burke, for that art. And you who love magnificence, won't

quarrel with her, as everybody else does, for her love of finery.

Dr. J.-No, I shall not quarrel with her upon that topic.

FANNY BURNEY'S INTRODUCTION TO A CELEBRATED

"BLUE-STOCKING."

Wednesday.-We could not prevail with Dr. Johnson to stay till

Mrs. Montagu arrived, though, by appointment, she came very

early. She and Miss Gregory came by one o'clock.

There was no party to meet her.

She is middle-sized, very thin, and looks infirm ; she has a

sensible and penetrating countenance, and the air and manner of a

woman accustomed to being distinguished, and of great parts. Dr.

Johnson, who agrees in this, told us that a Mrs. Hervey, of his

acquaintance, says she can remember Mrs. Montagu trying for this

same air and manner. Mr. Crisp has said the same: however,

nobody can now impartially see her, and not confess that she has

extremely well succeeded.

My expectations, which were compounded of the praise of Mrs.

Thrale, and the abuse of Mr. Crisp, were most exactly, answered,

for I thought her in a medium way.

Miss Gregory is a fine young woman, and seems gentle and

well-bred.

A bustle with the dog Presto--Mrs. Thrale's favourite--a

101

the entrance of these ladies into the library, prevented any

formal reception; but as soon as Mrs. Montagu heard my name, she

inquired very civilly after my father, and made many speeches

concerning a volume of "Linguet,"(70) which she has lost; but she

hopes soon to be able to replace it. I am sure he is very high

in her favour, because she did me the honour of addressing

herself to me three or four times.

But my ease and tranquillity were soon disturbed: for she had not

been in the room more than ten minutes, ere, turning to Mrs.

Thrale, she said,

"Oh, ma'am--but your 'Evelina'--I have not yet got it. I sent

for it, but the bookseller had it not. However, I will certainly

have it."

"Ay, I hope so," answered Mrs. Thrale, "and I hope you Will like

it too; for 'tis a book to be liked."

I began now a vehement nose-blowing, for the benefit of

handkerchiefing my face. "

I hope though," said Mrs. Montagu, drily, "it is not in verse? I

can read anything in prose, but I have a great dread of a long

story in verse."

"No, ma'am, no; 'tis all in prose, I assure you. 'Tis a novel;

and an exceeding--but it does nothing good to be praised too

much, so I will say nothing more about it: only this, that Mr.

Burke sat up all night to read it."

" Indeed? Well, I propose myself great pleasure from it and I am

gratified by hearing it is written by a woman."

"And Sir Joshua Reynolds," continued Mrs. Thrale, "has been

offering fifty pounds to know the author."

"Well, I will have it to read on my journey; I am going to

Berkshire, and it shall be my travelling book."

" No, ma'am if you please you shall have it now. Queeny, do look

it for Mrs. Montagu, and let it be put in her carriage, and go to

town with her."

Miss Thrale rose to look for it, and involuntarily I rose too,

intending to walk off, for my situation was inexpressibly

awkward; but then I recollected that if I went away, it might

seem like giving Mrs. Thrale leave and opportunity to tell my

tale, and therefore I stopped at a distant window, where I busied

myself in contemplating the poultry.

"And Dr. Johnson, ma'am," added my kind puffer, "says

102

Fielding never wrote so well--never wrote equal to this book; he

says it is a better picture of life and manners than is to be

found anywhere in Fielding."

"Indeed?" cried Mrs. Montagu, surprised; "that I did not expect,

for I have been informed it is the work of a young lady and

therefore, though I expected a very pretty book, I supposed it to

be a work of mere imagination, and the name I thought attractive;

but life and manners I never dreamt of finding."

"Well, ma'am, what I tell you is literally true; and for my part,

I am never better pleased than when good girls write clever

books--and that this is clever--But all this time we are killing

Miss Burney, who wrote the book herself."

What a clap of thunder was this !-the last thing in the world I

should have expected before my face? I know not what bewitched

Mrs. Thrale, but this was carrying the jest further than ever.

All retenu being now at an end, I fairly and abruptly took to my

heels, and ran out of the room with the utmost trepidation,

amidst astonished exclamations from Mrs, Montagu and Miss

Gregory.

I was horribly disconcerted, but I am now so irrecoverably in for

it, that I begin to leave off reproaches and expostulations;

indeed, they have very little availed me while they might have

been of service, but now they would pass for mere parade and

affectation; and therefore since they can do no good, I gulp them

down. I find them, indeed, somewhat hard of digestion, but they

must make their own way as well as they can.

I determined not to make my appearance again till dinner was upon

table; yet I could neither read nor write, nor indeed do any

thing but consider the new situation in life into which I am thus

hurried--I had almost said forced--and if I had, methinks it

would be no untruth.

Miss Thrale came laughing up after me, and tried to persuade me

to return. She was mightily diverted all the morning, and came

to me with repeated messages of summons to attend the company,

but I could not brave it again into the roon', and therefore

entreated her to say I was finishing a letter. Yet I was sorry

to lose so much of Mrs. Montagu.

When dinner was upon table, I followed the procession, in a

tragedy step, as Mr. Thrale will have it, into the dining

parlour. Dr. Johnson was returned.

The conversation was not brilliant, nor do I remember much

103

of it; but Mrs. Montagu behaved to me just as I could have

wished, since she spoke to me very little, but spoke that little

with the utmost politeness. But Miss Gregory, though herself a

modest girl, quite stared me out of countenance, and never took

her eyes off my face.

When Mrs. Montagu's new house was talked of, Dr. Johnson, in a

jocose manner, desired to know if he should be invited to see it.

"Ay, sure," cried Mrs. Montagu, looking well pleased; "or I

shan't like it: but I invite you all to a house warming; I shall

hope for the honour of seeing all this company at my new house

next Easter day: I fix the day now that it may be remembered.'

Everybody bowed and accepted the invite but me, and I thought

fitting not to hear it; for I have no notion of snapping at

invites from the eminent. But Dr. Johnson, who sat next to me,

Was determined I should be of the party, for he suddenly clapped

his hand on my shoulder, and called out aloud,

"Little Burney, you and I will go together?"

"Yes, surely," cried Mrs. Montagu, "I shall hope for the pleasure

of seeing 'Evelina.'"

"'Evelina>'" repeated he; "has Mrs. Montagu then found

out 'Evelina?'"

"Yes," cried she, "and I am proud of it: I am proud that a work

so commended should be a woman's."

hhow my face burnt!

"Has Mrs. Montagu," asked Dr. Johnson, "read 'Evelina?'"

"No, sir, not yet; but I shall immediately, for I feel the

greatest eagerness to read it."

"I am very sorry, madam," replied he, "that you have not already,

read it, because you cannot speak of it with a full conviction of

its merit: which, I believe, when you have read it, you will have

great pleasure in acknowledging."

Some other things were said, but I remember them not, for I could

hardly keep my place: but my sweet, naughty Mrs. Thrale looked

delighted for me......

When they were gone, how did Dr. Johnson astonish me by asking if

I had observed what an ugly cap Miss Gregory had on? Then taking

both my hands, and looking at me with an expression of much

kindness, he said,

"Well, Miss Burney, Mrs. Montagu now will read 'Evelina'"......

104

Mrs. Thrale then told me such civil things. Mrs. Montagu, it

seems, during my retreat, inquired very particularly what kind of

book it was?

"And I told her," continued Mrs. Thrale, "that it was a picture

of life, manners, and characters. 'But won't she go on,' says

she; 'surely she won't stop here?'

"'Why,' said I, 'I want her to go on in a new path--I want her to

write a comedy.'

"'But,' said Mrs. Montagu, 'one thing must be considered;

Fielding, who was so admirable in novel writing, never succeeded

when he wrote for the stage.'"

"Very well said," cried Dr. Johnson "that was an answer which

showed she considered her subject."

Mrs. Thrale continued :

"'Well, but `a propos,' said Mrs. Montagu, 'if Miss Burney does

write a play, I beg I may know of it; or, if she thinks proper,

see it; and all my influence is at her service. We shall all be

glad to assist in spreading the fame of Miss Burney.'"

I tremble for what all this will end in. I verily think I had

best stop where I am, and never again attempt writing: for after

so much honour, so much success--how shall I bear a downfall?

DR. JOHNSON'S COMPLIMENTS AND GROSS SPEECHES.

Monday, Sept. 21.-I have had a thousand delightful conversations

with Dr. Johnson, who, whether he loves me or not, I am sure

seems to have some opinion of my discretion, for he speaks of all

this house to me with unbounded confidence, neither diminishing

faults, nor exaggerating praise.

Whenever he is below stairs he keeps me a prisoner, for he does

not like I should quit the room a moment; if I rise he constantly

calls out, "Don't you go, little Burney!"

Last night, when we were talking of compliments and of gross

speeches, Mrs. Thrale most justly said, that nobody could make

either like Dr. Johnson. "Your compliments, sir, are made

seldom, but when they are made they have an elegance unequalled;

but then when you are angry! who dares make speeches so bitter

and so cruel?"

Dr. J.-Madam, I am always sorry when I make bitter speeches, and

I never do it, but when I am insufferably vexed.

Mrs. T-Yes, Sir; but you suffer things to vex you, that

105

nobody else would vex at. I am sure I have had my share of

scoldings from YOU!

Dr. J-It is true, you have ; but you have borne it like an angel,

and you have been the better for it.

Mrs. T.-That I believe, sir: for I have received more instruction

from You than from any man, or any book: and the vanity that you

should think me worth instructing, always overcame the vanity(71)

of being found fault with. And so you had the scolding, and I

the improvement.

F.B.-And I am sure both make for the honour of both!

Dr J.-I think so too. But Mrs. Thrale is a sweet creature, and

never angry; she has a temper the most delightful of any woman I

ever knew.

Mrs. T-This I can tell you, sir, and without any flattery-- I not

only bear your reproofs when present, but in almost everything I

do in your absence, I ask myself whether you would like it, and

what you would say to it. Yet I believe there is nobody you

dispute with oftener than me.

F.B.-But you two are so well established with one another, that

you can bear a rebuff that would kill a stranger.

Dr. J.-Yes; but we disputed the same before we were so well

established with one another.

Mrs. T.-Oh, sometimes I think I shall die no other death than

hearing the bitter things he says to others. What he says to

myself I can bear, because I know how sincerely he is my friend,

and that he means to mend me; but to others it is cruel.

Dr. j.-Why, madam, you often provoke me to say severe things, by

unreasonable commendation. If you would not call for my praise,

I would not give you my censure; but it constantly moves my

indignation to be applied to, to speak well of a thing which I

think contemptible.

F.B.-Well, this I know, whoever I may hear complain of Dr.

Johnson's severity, I shall always vouch for his kindness, as far

as regards myself, and his indulgence.

Mrs. T.-Ay, but I hope he will trim you yet, too!

Dr. J.-I hope not: I should be very sorry to say anything

that should vex my dear little Burney.

F.B.-If you did, sir, it would vex me more than you can imagine.

I should sink in a minute.

106

Mrs-. T.-I remember, sir, when we were travelling in Wales, how

you called me to account for my civility to the people. 'Madam,'

you said, 'let me have no more of this idle commendation of

nothing. Why is it, that whatever You see, and whoever you see,

you are to be so indiscriminately lavish of praise?' 'Why! I'll

tell you, sir,' said I, 'when I am with you and Mr. Thrale, and

Queeny, I am obliged to be civil for four!'"

There was a cutter for you! But this I must say, for the honour

of both--Mrs. Thrale speaks to Dr. Johnson with as much

sincerity, (though with greater softness,) as he does to her.

SUGGESTED HUSBANDS FOR FANNY BURNEY.

Sept. 26-The present chief sport with Mrs. Thrale is disposing of

me in the holy state of matrimony, and she offers me whoever

comes to the house. This was begun by Mrs. Montagu, who, it

seems, proposed a match for me in my absence, with Sir Joshua

Reynolds!-no less a man, I assure you!

When I was dressing for dinner, Mrs. Thrale told me that Mr.

Crutchley was expected.

"Who's he?" quoth I.

" A young man of very large fortune, who was a ward of Mr.

Thrale. Queeny, what do you say of him for Miss Burney?"

"Him?" cried she; "no, indeed; what has Miss Burney done to have

him?"

" Nay, believe me, a man of his fortune may offer himself

anywhere. However, I won't recommend him."

" Why then, ma'am," cried I, with dignity, "I reject him!"

This Mr. Crutchley stayed till after breakfast the next morning.

I can't tell you anything, of him, because I neither like nor

dislike him. Mr. Crutchley was scarce gone, ere Mr. Smith

arrived. Mr. Smith is a second cousin to Mr. Thrale, and a

modest pretty sort of young man. He stayed till Friday morning.

When he was gone,

"What say you to him, Miss Burney?" cried Mrs. Thrale; "I'm sure

I offer you variety."

"Why I like him better than Mr. Crutchley, but I don't think I

shall pine for either of them."

, Dr. Johnson," said Mrs. Thrale, "don't you think Jerry

Crutchley very much improved?"

Dr. J.-Yes, madam, I think he is.

Mrs. T.-Shall he have Miss Burney?

107

Dr. J.-Why, I think not; at least I must know more about him; I

Must inquire into his connections, his recreations, his

employments, and his character, from his intimates, before I

trust Miss Burney with him. And he must come down very

handsomely with a settlement. I will not have him left to his

generosity; for as he will marry her for her wit, and she him for

his fortune, he ought to bid well, and let him come down with

what he will, his price will never be equal to her worth.

Mrs. T.-She says she likes Mr. Smith better.

Dr. J.-Yes, but I won't have her like Mr. Smith without money,

better than Mr. Crutchley with it. Besides, if she has

Crutchley, he will use her well, to vindicate his choice. the

world, madam, has a reasonable claim upon all mankind to account

for their conduct; therefore, if with his great wealth, he

marries a woman who has but little, he will be more attentive to

display her merit, than if she was equally rich,--in order to

show that the woman he has chosen deserves from the world all the

respect and admiration it can bestow, or that else she would not

have been his

choice.

Mrs. T.-I believe young Smith is the better man.

F.B.-Well, I won't be rash in thinking of either; I will take

some time for consideration before I fix.

Dr. J.-Why, I don't hold it to be delicate to offer marriage to

ladies, even in jest, nor do I approve such sort of jocularity;

yet for once I must break through the rules of decorum, and

Propose a match myself for Miss Burney. I therefore nominnate

Sir J- L-.(72)

Mrs. T.-I'll give you my word, sir, you are not the first to say

that, for my master the other morning, when we were alone, said

'What would I give that Sir J-- L--- was married to Miss Burney;

it might restore him to our family.' So spoke his Uncle and

guardian.

F.B.-He, he! Ha, ha! He, he! Ha, ha!

Dr. J.-That was elegantly said of my master, and nobly said, and

not in the vulgar way we have been saying it. And madam, where

will you find another man in trade who will make such a speech-

-who will be capable of making such a speech? Well, I am glad my

master takes so to Miss Burney; I would have everybody take to

Miss Burney, so as they allow

108

me to take to her most! Yet I don't know whether Sir J__ L--

should have her, neither; I should be afraid for her; I don't

think I would hand her to him.

F.B.-Why, now, what a fine match is here broken off!

Some time after, when we were in the library, he asked me very

gravely if I loved reading?

"Yes," quoth I.

"Why do you doubt it, sir ?" cried MrsThrale.

"Because," answered he, "I never see her with a book in her hand.

I have taken notice that she never has been reading whenever I

have come into the room."

" Sir," quoth I, courageously, " I'm always afraid of being

caught reading, lest I should pass for being studious or

affected, and therefore instead of making a display of books, I

always try to hide them, as is the case at this very time, for I

have now your ' Life of Waller' under my gloves behind me.

However, since I am piqued to it, I'll boldly produce my

voucher."

And so saying, I put the book on the table, and opened it with a

flourishing air. And then the laugh was on my side, for he could

not help making a droll face; and if he had known Kitty Cooke,' I

would have called out, "There I had you, my lad!"

A STREATHAm DINNER PARTY.

Monday was the day for our great party; and the Doctor came home,

at MrsThrale's request, to meet them.

The party consisted of Mr. C--, who was formerly a

timber-merchant, but having amassed a fortune of one million of

pounds, he has left off business. He is a good-natured busy sort

of man. ;

Mrs. C--, his lady, a sort of Mrs. Nobody.

Mr. N--, another rich business leaver-off.

Mrs. N--, his lady; a pretty sort of woman, who was formerly a

pupil of Dr. Hawkesworth. I had a great deal of talk with her

about him, and about my favourite miss Kinnaird, whom she knew

very well.

Mr. George and Mr. Thomas N--, her sons-in-law.

Mr. R---, of whom I know nothing but that he married into

MrThrale's family.

Lady Ladd; I ought to have begun with her. I beg her ladyship a

thousand pardons--though if she knew My offence,

109

I am sure I should not obtain one. She is own sister to Mr.

Thrale. She is a tall and stout woman, has an air of mingled

dignity and haughtiness, both of which wear off in conversation.

She dresses very youthful and gaily, and attends to her person

with no little complacency. She appears to me uncultivated in

knowledge, though an adept in the manners of the world, And all

that. She chooses to be much more lively than her brother; but

liveliness sits as awkwardly upon her as her pink ribbons. in

talking her over with MrsThrale who has a very proper regard for

her, but who, I am sure, cannot be blind to her faults, she gave

me another proof to those I have already of the uncontrolled

freedom of speech which Dr. Johnson exercised to everybody, and

which everybody receives quietly from him. Lady Ladd has been

very handsome, but is now, I think, quite ugly--at least she has

the sort of face I like not. she was a little while ago dressed

in so showy a manner as to attract the doctor's notice, and when

he had looked at her some time, he broke out aloud into this

quotation:

"With patches, paint, and jewels on,

Sure Phillis is not twenty-one

But if at night you Phillis see,

The dame at least is forty-three!"

I don't recollect the verses exactly, but such was their purport.

"However," said Mrs. Thrale, "Lady Ladd took it very good-

naturedly, and only said, 'I know enough of that forty-three--I

don't desire to hear any more of it.'"

Miss Moss, a pretty girl, who played and sung, to the great

fatigue of Mrs. Thrale; Mr. Rose Fuller, Mr. Embry, Mr. Seward,

Dr. Johnson, the three Thrales, and myself, close the party.

In the evening the company divided pretty much into parties, and

almost everybody walked upon the gravel-walk before the windows.

I was going to have joined some of them, when Dr. Johnson stopped

me, and asked how I did.

"I was afraid, sir," cried I "you did not intend to know me

again, for you have not spoken to me before since your return

from town."

"MY dear," cried he, taking both my hands, "I was not of You, I

am so near sighted, and I apprehended making some Mistake." Then

drawing me very unexpectedly towards him, he actually kissed me!

To be sure, I was a little surprised, having no idea of such

110

facetiousness from him, However, I was glad nobody was in the

room but MrsThrale, who stood close to us, and Mr. Embry, who was

lounging on a sofa at the furthest end of the room. Mrs. Thrale

laughed heartily, and said she hoped I was contented with his

amends for not knowing me sooner.

A little after she said she would go and walk with the rest, if

she did not fear for my reputation in being left with the doctor"

"However, as Mr. Embry is yonder, I think he'll take some care of

you," she added.

"Ay, madam," said the doctor, "we shall do very well; but I

assure you I sha'n't part with Miss Burney!"

And he held me by both hands; and when MrsThrale went, he drew me

a chair himself facing the window, close to his own; and thus

t`ete-`a-t`ete we continued almost all the evening. I say t`ete-

`a-t`ete, because Mr, Embry kept at an humble distance, and

offered us no interruption And though Mr, Seward soon after came

in, he also seated himself at a distant corner, not presuming, he

said, to break in upon us! Everybody, he added, gave way to the

doctor.

Our conversation chiefly was upon the Hebrides, for he always

talks to me of Scotland, out of sport; and he wished I had been

of that tour--quite gravely, I assure you!

The P-- family came in to tea. When they were gone Mrs. Thrale

complained that she was quite worn out with that tiresome silly

woman Mrs. P--, who had talked of her family and affairs till she

was sick to death of hearing her.

"Madam," said Dr. Johnson, "why do you blame the woman for the

only sensible thing she could do--talking of her family and her

affairs? For how should a woman who is as empty as a drum, talk

upon any other subject? If you speak to her of the sun, she does

not know it rises in the east;--if you speak to her of the moon,

she does not know it changes at the full ;--if you speak to her

of the queen, she does not know she is the king's wife.--how,

then, can you blame her for talking of her family and affairs?"

(31) Fanny Burney's step-mother.-ED.

(32) Dr. Burney's daughter by his second wife.

(33) "Evelina; or a Young Lady's Entrance into the World.-This

novel has given us so much pleasure in the perusal, that we do

not hesitate to pronounce it one of the most sprightly,

entertaining, and agreeable productions of this kind that has of

late fallen under our notice. A great variety of natural

incidents, some of the comic stamp, render the narrative

extremely interesting. The characters, which are agreeably

diversified, are conceived and drawn with propriety, and

supported with spirit. The whole is written with great ease and

command of language. From this commendation we must, however,

except the character of a son of Neptune, whose manners are

rather those of a rough, uneducated country squire than those of

a genuine sea-captain." Monthly Review, April, 1778.

(34) " Evelina.-The history of a young lady exposed to very

critical situations. There is much more merit, as well

respecting style as character and incident, than is usually to be

met with in modern novels." London Review, Feb., 1778.

(35) Fanny was no mistress of numbers; but the sincerity and

warm affection expressed in every line of the Ode prefixed to

"Evelina," would excuse far weaker verses. We quote it in

full.-ED.

"Oh, Author of my being !-far more dear

To me than light, than nourishment, or rest,

Hygeia's blessings, Rapture's burning tear,

Or the life-blood that mantles in-my breast!

If in my heart the love of Virtue glows,

'Twas planted there by an unerring rule

>From thy example the pure flame arose,

Thy life, my precept,--thy good works, my school.

Could my weak pow'rs thy num'rous virtues trace,

By filial love each fear should be repress'd;

The blush of Incapacity I'd chace,

And stand, Recorder of thy worth, confess'd

But since my niggard stars that gift refuse,

Concealment is the only boon I claim

Obscure be still the unsuccessful Muse,

Who cannot raise, but would not sink, thy fame,

Oh! of my life at once the source and joy!

If e'er thy eyes these feeble lines survey,

Let not their folly their intent destroy;

Accept the tribute-but forget the lay."

(36) Lady Hales was the mother of Miss Coussmaker, having been

twice married, the second time to Sir Thomas Pym Hales, Bart.,

who died in 1773. They were intimate friends of the Burneys.-ED.

(37) Dr. Burney had brought the work under the notice of Mrs.

Thrale. Mrs. Cholmondeley was a sister of the famous actress,

Peg

Woffington. Her husband, the Hon. and Rev. Robert Cholmondeley,

was the second son of the Earl of Cholmondeley, and nephew of

Horace Walpole.-ED.

(38) The sum originally paid for "Evelina" was twenty pounds, to

which ten Pounds more were added after the third edition.

"Evelina " passed through four editions within a year.-ED.

(39) Mrs. Greville, the wife of Dr, Burney's friend and early

patron, Fulke Greville, was Fanny's godmother, and the author of

a much admired "Ode to Indifference."-ED

(40) Her cousin, Charles Rousseau Burney-Hetty's husband.-ED.

(41) A French authoress, who wrote about the middle of the

eighteenth century. Her novels, according to Dunlop ""A History

of Fiction," chap. xiii.), "are distinguished by their delicacy

and spirit." Her best works ar: "Miss jenny Salisbury," "Le

Marquis de Cressy," "Letters of Lady Catesby," etc.-ED.

(42) Mrs. Williams, the blind poetess, who resided in Dr.

Johnson's house. She had written to Dr. Burney, requesting the

loan of a copy of "Evelina."-ED.

(43) william Seward "a great favourite at Streatham," was the son

of an eminent brewer, Mr. Seward, of the firm of Calvert and

Seward, and was born in 1747. He was not yet a "literary lion,"

but he published some volumes--"Anecdotes of Distinguished

Persons "--at a later date. He died in 1799.-ED.

(44) Miss Frances Reynolds--Dr. Johnson's "Renny"--was the sister

of the great Sir Joshua, and a miniature painter of some

talent.-ED.

(45) Her brother.-ED.

(46) Bennet Lanpton, of Langton in Lincolnshire, was an old and

much loved friend of Dr. johnson, and is frequently mentioned in

Boswell's "Life." He was born about 1737, was educated at

Oxford, was a good Greek scholar, and, says Boswell, "a gentleman

eminent not only for worth, and learning but for an inexhaustible

fund of entertaining conversation." ." He succeeded Johnson, on

the death of the latter, as Professor of Ancient History to the

Royal Academy, and died in 1801. Boswell has printed a charming

letter, written by johnson, a few months before his death, to

Langton's little daughter jane, then in her seventh year.-ED.

(47) "My master" was a Common appellation for Mr, Thrale,--and

One which he seems, in earnest, to have deserved. "I know no

man," said johnson, "who is more master of his wife and family

than Thrale, he but holds up a finger, he is obeyed." (Boswell.)-

ED.

48) Suspirius the Screech Owl. See "Rambler" for Oct. 9, 1750.

(This is unjust to Goldsmith. The general idea of the character

of Croaker, no doubt, closely resembles that of Suspirius, and

was probably borrowed from johnson; but the details which make

the part so diverting are entirely of Goldsmith's invention, as

anyone may see by comparing "The Good-natured Man" with "The

Rambler."-ED.]

(49) Mrs. Thrale tells a good story of Johnson's irrational

antipathy to the Scotch. A Scotch gentleman inLondon, "at his

return from the Hebrides, asked him, with a firm tone of voice,

'what he thought of his country?' 'That it is a very vile

country, to be sure, sir,' returned for answer Dr. Johnson.

'Well sir!' replies the other, somewhat mortified, 'God made it!'

'Certainly he did,' answers Mr. Johnson, again, 'but we must

always remember that He made it for Scotchmen; and--comparisons

are odious, Mr. S.--but God made hell!'--(Anecdotes of Dr.

Johnson)-ED.

(50) Fanny's step-mother.-ED.

(51) Boswell prints these lines as follows:

"When first I drew my vital breath,

A little minikin I came upon earth

And then I came from a dark abode,

into this gay and gaudy world,"-ED,

(52) Malone gives some further particulars about Bet Flint in a

note to Boswell's "Life of Johnson." She was tried, and

acquitted, at the Old Bailey in September, 1758, the prosecutrix,

Mary Walthow, being unable to prove "that the goods charged to

have been stolen (a counterpane, a silver spoon, two napkins,

etc.) were her property. Bet does not appear to have lived at

that time in a very genteel style; for she paid for her ready-

furnished room in Meard's-court, Dean-street, Soho, from which

these articles were alleged to be stolen, only five shillings a

week."-ED.

(53) Margaret Caroline Rudd was in great notoriety about the year

1776, from the fame of her powers of fascination, which, it was

said, had brought a man to the gallows. This man, her lover, was

hanged in January, 1776, for forgery, and the fascinating

Margaret appeared as evidence against him. Boswell visited her

in that year, and to a lady who expressed her disapprobation of

such proceedings, Johnson said: "Nay, madam, Boswell is right: I

should have visited her myself, were it not that they have got a

trick of putting every thing into the newspapers."-ED.

(54) Kitty Fisher--more correctly, Fischer, her father being a

German--an even more famous courtesan, who enjoyed the

distinction of having been twice painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds

-ED.

(55) The blind poetess, and inmate of Dr. Johnson's house.-ED.

(56) Michael Lort, D.D., Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge,

and subsequently Greek Professor. He was born in 1725, and died

in 1799.-ED.

(57) "I wished the man a dinner and sat still."-Pope.

(58) The Miss Palmers were the nieces of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Mary, the elder, married, in 1792, the Earl of Inchiquin,

afterwards created Marquis of Thomond; the younger, Theophila

("Offy"), married Robert Lovell Gwatkin, Esq. One of Sir

Joshua's most charming pictures ("Simplicity") was painted, in

1788, from Offy's little daughter. Lady Ladd was the sister of

Mr. Thrale.-ED.

(59) Miss Thrale.-ED.

(60) Edmund Burke, our "greatest man since Milton," as Macaulay

called him.-ED.

(61) At Sir Joshua's town house, in Leicester Square. The house

is now occupied by Messrs. Puttick and Simpson, the

auctioneers.-ED.

(62) "de Mullin" is Mrs. Desmoulins, the daughter of Johnson's

godfather, Dr. Swinfen, a physician in Lichfield. Left in

extreme indigence by the deaths of her father and husband, she

found for many years an asylum in the house of Dr. Johnson, whom

she survived.-ED.

(63) Macbean was sometime Johnson's amanuensis. His "Dictionary

of Ancient Geography" was published in 1773, with a Freface by

Johnson.-ED

(64) Robert Levett--not Levat, as Fanny writes it--was a

Lichfield man, "an obscure practiser in pbysick amongst the lower

people," and an old acquaintance of Dr. Johnson's, in whose house

he was supported for many years, until his death, at a very

advanced age, in 1782, "So ended the long life of a very useful

and very blameless man," Johnson wrote, in communicating the

intelligence to Dr, Lawrence.-ED.

(65) Boswell tells us nothing of Poll, except that she was a Miss

Carmichael. Domestic dissensions seem to have been the rule with

this happy family, but Johnson's long-suffering was

inexhaustible, On one occasion he writes Mrs. Thrale, "Williams

hates everybody; Levett hates Desmoulins, who does not love

Williams; Desmoulins hates them both; Poll loves none of

them."-ED.

(66) The lives of Cowley and Waller, from Johnson's "Lives of the

Poets." They were not published till 1781, but were already in

print.-ED.

(67) "The Theory and Regulation of Love: A Moral Essay." By the

Rev. John Norris, Oxford, 1688.-ED.

(68) Miss Gregory was the daughter of a Scotch physician. She

married the Rev. Archibald Alison, and was the mother of Sir

Archibald Alison, the historian.-ED.

(69) The house in which she died, in Portman Square.-ED.

(70) No doubt Simon Nicolas Henri Linguet, a French author, who

published numerous works, historical and political, both before

and after this date.-ED.

(71) IN the original edition: perhaps "vexation" was the word

intended.-ED.

(72) Sir John Ladd, Mr, Thrale's sister's son, a young profligate

who subsequently married, not Miss Burney, but a woman of the

town! Dr. Johnson's satirical verses on his coming of age are

printed near the end of Boswell's "Life."-ED.

111

SECTION 2

(1779)

THE AUTHOR OF "EVELINA" IN SOCIETY: SHE VISITS

BRIGHTON AND TUNBRIDGE WELLS.

(Fanny's circle of acquaintance was largely extended in 1779, in

which year she was introduced to Mrs. Horneck and her daughter

Mary (Goldsmith's "Jessamy Bride"), to Mr. and Mrs. cholmondeley,

to Arthur Murphy, the dramatist, and best of all, Richard

Brinsley Sheridan and his beautiful wife. The Hornecks and the

Cholmondeleys she met at one of those delightful parties at Sir

Joshua Reynolds's house in Leicester Square,--parties composed of

the wisest and wittiest in English society of the day, though

nowhere among the guests could there be found a man of more

genuine worth or more brilliant genius than the mild-mannered

host. Mrs. Horneck had been a noted beauty in her younger days,

and she, as well as her two lovely daughters, had been painted by

Sir Joshua. The elder daughter, Catherine (Goldsmith's "Little

Comedy"), was now (1779) Mrs. Bunbury, wife of Henry Bunbury the

caricaturist. Mary, the younger, was at this time about

twenty-six years of age, and was subsequently married to Colonel

Gwynn, whom we shall meet with in Fanny's Diary of her Life at

Court. Goldsmith, it is said, had loved Mary Horneck, though the

ugly little man never ventured to tell his love; but when he

died, five years before her meeting with fanny, the jessamy Bride

caused his coffin to be reopened, and a lock of hair to be cut

from the dead poet's head. This lock she treasured until her own

death, nearly seventy years afterwards.

Mrs. Sheridan's maiden name was Eliza Anne Linley. There is

an interesting notice of her in Fanny's "Early Diary" for the

month of April, 1773. "Can I speak of music, and not mention

Miss Linley? The town has rung of no other name this month.

Miss Linley is daughter to a musician of Bath, a very sour,

ill-bred, severe, and selfish man. She is believed to be very

romantic; she has long been very celebrated for her singing,

though never, till within this month, has she been in London. .

112

She has long been attached to a Mr. Sheridan, a young man of

great talents, and very well spoken of, whom it is expected she

will speedily marry. She has performed this Lent at the Oratorio

of Drury-lane, under Mr. Stanley's direction. The applause and

admiration she has met with, can only be compared to what is

given Mr. Garrick. The whole town seems distracted about her.

Every other diversion is forsaken. Miss Linley alone engrosses

all eyes, ears, hearts."

The "young man of great talents" was, when Fanny first met him,

already renowned as the author of "The Rivals" and "The School

for Scandal." His wife's extraordinary beauty has been

perpetuated in one of Reynolds's masterpieces, in which she is

represented as St. Cecilia, sitting at an organ. Her father

seems to have fully deserved the character which Fanny gives him.

In 1772 Eliza, then only nineteen, ran away to France with young

Sheridan, who was just of age, and, it is reported, was privately

married to him at the time. They were pursued, however, by old

Linley, and Eliza was brought back, to become the rage of the

town as a singer. Her lover married her openly in April, 1773,

and thenceforward she sang no more in public.

Fanny's account of her visits to Tunbridge Wells and Brighton

will recall, to readers of her novels, the delightfully humorous

descriptions of the society at those fashionable resorts, in

"Camilla" and "The Wanderer." Mount Ephraim, at Tunbridge Wells,

where Sophy Streatfield resided, will be recognized as the scene

of the accident in which Camilla's life is saved by Sir Sedley

Clarendel.-ED.]

A QUEER ADVENTURE.

St. Martin's Street, January.

On Thursday, I had another adventure, and one that has made me

grin ever since. A gentleman inquiring for my father, was asked

into the parlour. The then inhabitants were only my mother and

me. In entered a square old gentleman, well-wigged, formal,

grave and important. He seated himself. My mother asked if he

had any message for my father? "No, none."

Then he regarded me with a certain dry kind of attention for

some time; after which, turning suddenly to my mother, he

demanded,

"Pray, ma'am, is this your daughter?"

"Yes, sir."

113

"O! this is Evelina, is it?"

"No, sir," cried I, staring at him, and glad none of you were in

the way to say "Yes."

"No?" repeated he, incredulous; "is not your name Evelina,

ma'am?"

"Dear, no, sir," again quoth I, staring harder.

"Ma'am," cried he, drily; "I beg your pardon! I had understood

your name was Evelina."

Soon: after, he went away.

And when he put down his card, who should it prove but Dr.

Franklin.(73) Was it not queer?

AN EVENING AT SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS'S: A DEMONSTRATIVE

"EVELINA" ENTHUSIAST.

Now to this grand visit, which was become more tremendous than

ever because of the pamphlet (74) business, and I felt almost

ashamed to see Sir JOShua, and could not but conclude he would

think of it too.

My mother, who changed her mind, came with me. My father

promised to come before the Opera was half over.

We found the Miss Palmers alone. We were, for near an hour,

quite easy, chatty, and comfortable; no pointed speech was made,

and no starer entered. But when I asked the elder Miss Palmer if

she would allow me to look at some of her drawings, she said,

"Not unless you will let me see something of yours."

"Of mine?" quoth I. "Oh,! I have nothing to show."

"I am sure you have; you must have."

"No, indeed; I don't draw at all."

"Draw? No, but I mean some of your writing."

"Oh, I never write--except letters."

114

"Letters? those are the very things I want to see."

"Oh, not such as you mean."

" Oh now, don't say so; I am sure you are about something and if

you would but show me--"

"No, no, I am about nothing--I am quite out of conceit with

writing." I had my thoughts full of the vile Warley.

"You out of conceit?" exclaimed she; "nay, then, if you are, who

should be otherwise!"

just then, Mrs. and Miss Horneck were announced. you may suppose

I thought directly of the one hundred and sixty miles(75)--and

may take it for granted I looked them very boldly in the face!

Mrs. Horneck seated herself by my mother. Miss Palmer introduced

me to her and her daughter, who seated herself next me; but not

one word passed between us!

Mrs. Horneck, as I found in the course of the evening, is an

exceedingly sensible, well-bred woman. Her daughter is very

beautiful ; but was low-spirited and silent during the whole

visit. She was, indeed, very unhappy, as Miss Palmer informed

me, upon account of some ill news she had lately heard of the

affairs of a gentleman to whom she is shortly to be married.

Not long after came a whole troop, consisting of Mr.

Cholmondeley!--perilous name!--Miss Cholmondeley, and Miss Fanny

Cholmondeley, his daughters, and Miss Forrest. Mrs.

Cholmondeley, I found, was engaged elsewhere, but soon

expected.(76) Now here was a trick of Sir Joshua, to make me meet

all these people.

Mr. Cholmondeley is a clergyman; nothing shining either in person

or manners, but rather somewhat grim in the first, and glum in

the last. Yet he appears to have humour himself, and to enjoy it

much in others.

Miss Cholmondeley I saw too little of to mention.

Miss Fanny Cholmondeley is a rather pretty, pale girl; very young

and inartificial, and though tall and grown up, treated by her

family as a child, and seemingly well content to really think

herself such. She followed me whichever way I turned, and though

she was too modest to stare, never ceased watching me the whole

evening.

Miss Forrest is an immensely tall and not handsome young woman.

Further I know not.

115

Next came my father, all gaiety and spirits. Then Mr. William

Burke.(77)

Soon after, Sir Joshua returned home. He paid his compliments to

everybody, and then brought a chair next mine, and said,

"So you were afraid to come among us?"

I don't know if I wrote to you a speech to that purpose, which I

made to the Miss Palmers? and which, I Suppose, they had repeated

to him. He went on, saying I might as ,Well fear hobgoblins, and

that I had only to hold up my head to be above them all.

After this address, his behaviour was exactly what my wishes

would have dictated to him, for my own ease and quietness; for he

never once even alluded to my book, but conversed rationally,

gaily, and serenely: and so I became more comfortable than I had

been ever since the first entrance of company. Our confab was

interrupted by the entrance of Mr. King; a gentleman who is, it

seems, for ever with the Burkes; -and presently Lord

Palmerston(78) was announced.

Well, while this was going forward, a violent rapping bespoke, I

was sure, Mrs. Cholmondeley, and I ran from the standers, and

turning my back against the door, looked over Miss Palmer's

cards; for you may well imagine, I was really in a tremor at a

meeting which so long has been in agitation, and with the person

who, of all persons, has been most warm and enthusiastic for my

book.

She had not, however, been in the room half an instant, ere ,,my

father came up to me, and tapping me on the shoulder, said,

"Fanny, here's a lady who wishes to speak to you."

I curtsied in silence, she too curtsied, and fixed her eyes full

on my face: and then tapping me with her fan, she cried,

116

"Come, come, you must not look grave upon me."

Upon this, I te-he'd; she now looked at me yet more earnestly,

and, after an odd silence, said, abruptly--

"But is it true?"

"What, ma'am?"

"It can't be!--tell me, though, is it true?"

I could only simper.

"Why don't you tell me?--but it can't be--I don't believe it!--

no, you are an impostor!"

Sir Joshua and Lord Palmerston were both at her side--oh, how

notably silly must I look! She again repeated her question of

"Is it true?" and I again affected not to understand her: and

then Sir Joshua, taking hold on her arm, attempted to pull her

away, saying

"Come, come, Mrs. Cholmondeley, I won't have her overpowered

here!"

I love Sir Joshua much for this, But Mrs. Cholmondeley, turning

to him, said, with quickness and vehemence:--

"Why, I a'n't going to kill her! don't be afraid, I sha'n't

compliment her!-I can't, indeed!"

Then, taking my hand, she led me through them all, to another

part of the room, where again she examined my phiz, and viewed

and reviewed my whole person.

"Now," said she, "do tell me; is it true?"

"What, ma'am?--I don't-I don't know what--"

"Pho! what,-why you know what: in short, can you read? and can

you write?"

"No, ma'am!"

"I thought so," cried she I have suspected it was a trick, some

time, and now I am sure of it. You are too young by half!-it

can't be!"

I laughed, and would have got away, but she would not let me.

"No," cried she, "one thing you must, at least, tell me;--are you

very conceited? Come, answer me," continued she. "You won't?

Mrs. Burney, Dr. Burney,--come here,--tell me if she is not

very conceited?--if she is not eat up with conceit by this time?"

They were both pleased to answer "Not half enough."

"Well," exclaimed she, "that is the most wonderful part of all!

Why, that is yet more extraordinary than writing the book."

I then got away from her, and again looked over Miss Palmer's

cards : but she was after me in a minute,

117

"Pray, Miss Burney," cried she, aloud, "do you know any thing of

this game?"

"No, ma'am."

"No?" repeated she, "ma foi, that's pity!"(79)

This raised such a laugh, I was forced to move on; yet everybody

seemed to be afraid to laugh, too, and studying to be delicate,

as if they had been cautioned; which, I have since found, was

really the case, and by Sir Joshua himself.

Again, however, she was at my side.

"What game do you like, Miss Burney?" cried she.

"I play at none, ma'am."

"No? Pardie, I wonder at that! Did you ever know such a toad?"

Again I moved on, and got behind Mr. W. Burke, who, turning

round to me, said,--

"This is not very politic in us, Miss Burney, to play at cards,

and have you listen to our follies."

There's for you! I am to pass for a censoress now.

Mrs. Cholmondeley hunted me quite round the card-table, from

chair to chair, repeating various speeches of Madame Duval; and

when, at last, I got behind a sofa, out of her reach, she called

out aloud, " Polly, Polly ! only think! miss has danced with a

lord

Some time after, contriving to again get near me, she began

flirting her fan, and exclaiming, "Well, miss, I have had a beau,

I assure you! ay, and a very pretty beau too, though I don't know

if his lodgings were so prettily furnished, and everything, as

Mr. Smith's."(80)

Then, applying to Mr. Cholmondeley, she said, "Pray, sir, what is

become of my lottery ticket?"

"I don't know," answered he.

" Pardie " cried she, "you don't know nothing

I had now again made off, and, after much rambling, I at last

seated myself near the card-table : but Mrs. Cholmondeley was

after me in a minute, and drew a chair next mine. I now found it

impossible to escape, and therefore forced myself to sit still.

Lord Palmerston and Sir Joshua, in a few moments, seated

themselves by us.

I must now write dialogue-fashion, to avoid the enormous length

of Mrs. C.'s name.

Mrs. C.-I have been very ill; monstrous ill indeed or

118

else I should have been at your house long ago. Sir Joshua, pray

how do you do? you know, I suppose, that I don't come, to see

you?

Sir Joshua could only laugh, though this was her first address to

him.

Mrs. C.-Pray, miss, what's your name?

F.B.-Frances, ma'am.

Mrs. C.-Fanny ? Well, all the Fanny's are excellent and

yet, my name is Mary! Pray, Miss Palmers, how are you?--though I

hardly know if I shall speak to you to-night, I thought I should

have never got here! I have been so out of humour with the

people for keeping me. If you but knew, cried I, to whom I am

going to-night, and who I shall see to-night, you would not dare

keep me muzzing here!

During all these pointed speeches, her penetrating eyes were

fixed upon me; and what could I do?--what, indeed, could anybody

do, but colour and simper?--all the company watching us, though

all, very delicately, avoided joining the confab.

Mrs. C-My Lord Palmerston, I was told to-night that nobody could

see your lordship for me, for that you supped at my house every

night. Dear, bless me, no ! cried I, not every night! and I

looked as confused as I was able; but I am afraid I did not

blush, though I+ tried hard for it.

Then, again, turning to me,

That Mr. What-d'ye-call-him, in Fleet-street, is a mighty silly

fellow;--perhaps you don't know who I mean?--one T. Lowndes,--but

maybe you don't know such a person?

FB.-No, indeed, I do not!--that I can safely say.

Mrs. C.-I could get nothing from him: but I told him I hoped he

gave a good price ; and he answered me that he always did things

genteel. What trouble and tagging we had! Mr. [I cannot

recollect the name she mentioned] laid a wager the writer was a

man:--I said I was sure it was a woman: but now we are both out;

for it's a girl!

In this comical, queer, flighty, whimsical manner she ran on,

till we were summoned to supper ; for we were not allowed to

break up before: and then, when Sir Joshua and almost everybody

was gone down stairs, she changed her tone, and, with a face and

voice both grave, said:

"Well, Miss Burney, you must give me leave to say One thing to

you; yet, perhaps you won't, neither, will you?"

"What is it, ma'am?"

"Why it is, that I admire you more than any human being and that

I can't help!"

119

Then suddenly rising, she hurried down stairs.

While we were upon the stairs, I heard Miss Palmer say to Miss

Fanny Cholmondeley, "Well, you don't find Miss Burney quite so

tremendous as you expected?"

Sir Joshua made me sit next him at supper; Mr. William Burke

was at my other side; though, afterwards, I lost the knight of

plimton,(81) who, as he eats no suppers, made way for Mr.

Gwatkin,(82) and, as the table was crowded, himself stood at the

fire. He was extremely polite and flattering in his manners to

me, and entirely avoided all mention or hint at "Evelina" the

whole evening: indeed, I think I have met more scrupulous

delicacy from Sir Joshua than from anybody, although I have heard

more of his approbation than of almost any other person's.

Mr. W. Burke was immensely attentive at table; but, lest he

should be thought a Mr. Smith for his pains, he took care,

whoever he helped, to add, "You know I am all for the ladies!"

I was glad I was not next Mrs. Cholmondeley; but she frequently,

and very provokingly, addressed herself to me; once she called

out aloud, "Pray, Miss Burney, is there anything new coming out?"

And another time, "Well, I wish people who can entertainme would

entertain me!"

These sort of pointed speeches are almost worse than direct

attacks, for there is no knowing how to look, or what to say,

especially where the eyes of a whole company mark the object for

Whom they are meant. To the last of these speeches I made no

sort of answer but Sir Joshua very good-naturedly turned it from

me, by saying,

"Well, let everyone do what they can in their different ways; do

you begin yourself."

"Oh, I can't!" cried she; "I have tried, but I can't."

"Oh, so you think, then," answered he, "that all the world is

made only to entertain you?"

A very lively dialogue ensued. But I grow tired of writing. One

thing, however, I must mention, which, at the time,

frightened me wofully.

"Pray, Sir Joshua," asked Lord Palmerston, what is this 'Warley'

that is just come out?"

Was not this a cruel question? I felt in such a twitter!

120

"Why, I don't know," answered he; "but the reviewers, my lord,

speak very well of it."

Mrs. C.-Who wrote it?

Sir Joshua.-Mr. Huddisford.

Mrs. C.-O! I don't like it at all, then! Huddisford What a name!

Miss Burney, pray can you conceive anything of such a name as

Huddisford?

I could not speak a word, and I dare say I looked no-how. But

was it not an unlucky reference to me? Sir Joshua attempted a

kind of vindication Of him; but Lord Palmerston said, drily,

"I think, Sir Joshua, it is dedicated to you?"

"Yes, my lord," answered he.

"Oh, your servant! Is it so?" cried Mrs. Cholmondeley; "then you

need say no more!"

Sir Joshua laughed, and the subject, to my great relief, was

dropped.

When we broke up to depart, which was not till near two in the

morning, Mrs. Cholmondeley went up to my mother, and begged her

permission to visit in St. Martin's-street. Then, as she left

the room, she said to me, with a droll sort of threatening look,

"You have not got rid of me yet, I have been forcing myself into

your house."

I must own I was not at all displeased at this, as I had very

much and very reasonably feared that she would have been by then

as sick of me from disappointment, as she was before eager for me

from curiosity.

When we came away, Offy Palmer, laughing, said to me,

"I think this will be a breaking-in to you!"

"Ah," cried I, "if I had known of your party!"

" You would have been sick in bed, I suppose?"

I would not answer "No," yet I was glad it was over. And so

concludeth this memorable evening.

FANNY BURNEY'S INTRODUCTION TO SHERIDAN.

On Monday last, my father sent a note to Mrs. Cholmondeley, to

propose our waiting on her the Wednesday following; she accepted

the proposal, and accordingly on Wednesday evening, my father,

mother, and self went to Hertford-street. I should have told you

that Mrs. Cholmondeley, when My father some time ago called on

her, sent me a message, that if

121

I would go to see her, I should not again be stared at or

worried; and she acknowledged that my visit at Sir Joshua's had

been a formidable one, and that I was watched the whole evening;

but that upon the whole, the company behaved extremely well, for

they only ogled!

Well, we were received by Mrs. Cholmondeley with great

politeness, and in a manner that showed she intended to throw

aside Madame Duval, and to conduct herself towards me in a new

style.

Mr. and Misses Cholmondeley and Miss Forrest were with her; but

who else think you?--why Mrs. Sheridan! I was absolutely charmed

at the sight of her. I think her quite as beautiful as ever, and

even more captivating; for she has now a look of ease and

happiness that animates her whole face.

Miss Linley was with her; she is very handsome, but nothing near

her sister: the elegance of Mrs. Sheridan's beauty is unequalled

by any I ever saw, except Mrs. Crewe.(83) I was pleased with her

in all respects. She is much more lively and agreeable than I

had any idea of finding her; she was very gay, and very

unaffected, and totally free from airs of any kind. Miss Linley

was very much out of spirits; she did not speak three words the

whole evening, and looked wholly unmoved at all that passed.

Indeed, she appeared to be heavy and inanimate.

Mrs. Cholmondeley sat next me. She is determined, I believe, to

make me like her: and she will, I believe, have full success; for

she is very clever, very entertaining, and very much unlike

anybody else.

The first subject started was the Opera, and all joined in the

praise of Pacchierotti.(84) Mrs. Sheridan declared she could not

hear him without tears, and that he was the first Italian singer

who ever affected her to such a degree.

Then they talked of the intended marriage of the Duke of Dorset,

to Miss Cumberland, and many ridiculous anecdotes were related.

The conversation naturally fell upon Mr. Cumberland(85), and he

was finely cut up!

122

"What a man is that! ' said Mrs. Cholmondeley: "I Cannot bear

him--so querulous, so dissatisfied, so determined to like nobody,

and nothing but himself!"

After this, Miss More(86) was mentioned and I was asked what I

thought of her?

"Don't be formal with me if you are, I sha'n't like you!"

"I have no hope that you will any way!"

"Oh, fie! fie! but as to Miss More--I don't like her at all: that

is, I detest her! She does nothing but flatter and fawn; and

then she thinks ill of nobody. Oh, there's no supporting the

company of professed flatterers. She gives me such doses of it,

that I cannot endure her; but I always sit still and make no

answer, but receive it as if I thought it my due: that is the

only way to quiet her.(87) She is really detestable. I hope,

Miss Burney, you don't think I admire all geniuses? The only

person I flatter," continued she, "is Garrick; and he likes it so

much, that it pays one by the spirits it gives him. Other people

that I like, I dare not flatter."

A rat-tat-tat-tat ensued, and the Earl of Harcourt was announced.

When he had paid his compliments to Mrs. Cholmondeley, speaking

of the lady from whose house he was just come, he said,

"Mrs. Vesey(88) 'Is vastly agreeable, but her fear of ceremony is

really troublesome ; for her eagerness to break a circle is such,

that she insists upon everybody's sitting with their backs one to

another ; that is, the chairs are drawn into little parties of

three together, in a confused manner, all over the room."

"Why, then," said my father, "they may have the pleasure of

caballing and cutting up one another, even in the same room."

"Oh, I like the notion of all things," cried Mrs. Cholmondeley,

"I shall certainly adopt it

123

then she drew her chair into the middle of our circle. Lord

Harcourt turned his round, and his back to most of us, and my

father did the same. You can't imagin.e a more absurd

sight.

Just then the door opened, and Mr. Sheridan entered.

Was I not in luck? Not that I believe the meeting was

accidental; but I had more wished to meet him and his wife than

any people I know not.

I could not endure my ridiculous situation, but replaced myself

in an orderly manner immediately. Mr. Sheridan stared at the

mall, and Mrs. Cholmondeley said she intended it as a hint for a

comedy.

Mr. Sheridan has a very fine figure, and a good though I don't

think a handsome face. He is tall, and very upright, and his

appearance and address are at once manly and fashionable, without

the smallest tincture of foppery or modish graces. In short, I

like him vastly, and think him every way worthy his utiful

companion.

And let me tell you what I know will give you as much pleasure as

it gave me,--that, by all I Could observe in the course of the

evening, and we stayed very late, they are extreely happy in each

other: he evidently adores her, and she as evidently idolises

him. The world has by no means done him justice.

When he had paid his compliments to all his acquaintance, he went

behind the sofa on which Mrs. Sheridan and Miss OFFy Cholmondeley

were seated, and entered into earnest conversation with them.

Upon Lord Harcourt's again paying Mrs. Cholmondeley some

compliment. she said,

"Well, my lord, after this I shall be quite sublime for some

days! I shan't descend into common life till--till Saturday.

And then I shall drop into the vulgar style--I shall be in the ma

foi Way."

I do really believe she could not resist this, for she had seemed

determined to be quiet.

When next there was a rat-tat, Mrs. Cholmondeley and Lord

Harcourt, and my father again, at the command of the former,

moved into the middle of the room, and then Sir Joshua Reynolds

and Dr. Warton(89) entered.

No further company came. You may imagine there was a

(89) Joseph Warton, author of the "Essay on the Genius and

Writings of Pope."-ED.

124

general roar at the breaking of the circle, and when they got

into order, Mr. Sheridan seated himself in the place Mrs.

Cholmondeley had left, between my father and myself.

And now I must tell you a little conversation which I did not

hear myself till I came home; it was between Mr. Sheridan and my

father.

"Dr. Burney," cried the former, "have you no older daughters?

Can this possibly be the authoress of 'Evelina'?"

And then he said abundance of fine things, and begged my father

to introduce him to me.

"Why, it will be a very formidable thing to her," answered he,

"to be introduced to you."

"Well then, by and by," returned he.

Some time after this, my eyes happening to meet his, he waived

the ceremony of introduction, and in a low voice said,

"I have been telling Dr. Burney that I have long expected to see

in Miss Burney a lady of the gravest appearance, with the

quickest parts."

I was never much more astonished than at this unexpected address,

as among all my numerous puffers the name of Sheridan has never

reached me, and I did really imagine he had never deigned to look

at my trash.

Of course I could make no verbal answer, and he proceeded then to

speak of "Evelina" in terms of the highest praise but I was in

such a ferment from surprise (not to say pleasure that I have no

recollection of his expressions. I only remember telling him

that I was much amazed he had spared time to read it, and that he

repeatedly called it a most surprising book; and sometime after

he added, "But I hope, Miss Burney, you don't intend to throw

away your pen?"

"You should take care, sir," said I, "what you say: for you know

not what weight it may have."

He wished it might have any, he said, and soon after turned again

to my father.

I protest, since the approbation of the Streathamites, I hav met

with none so flattering to me as this of Mr. Sheridan, in so very

unexpected.

About this time Mrs. Cholmondeley was making much spO by wishing

for an acrostic on her name. She said she had several times

begged for one in vain, and began to entertain thoughts of

writing one herself.

"For," said she, "I am very famous for my rhymes, though I never

made a line of poetry in my life."

125

"An acrostic on your name," said Mr. Sheridan, "would be a very

formidable task; it must be so long that I think it should be

divided into cantos."

"Miss Burney," cried Sir Joshua, who was now reseated,

"Are not you a writer of verses?"

F.B.-No, sir.

Mrs C.-O don't believe her. I have made a resolution ,Aot to

believe anything she says.

Mr. S.-I think a lady should not write verses till she is past

receiving them.

Mrs. C. (rising and stalking majestically towards him).-Mr.

Sheridan, pray, sir, what may you mean by this insinuation; did I

not say I writ verses? )

Mr. S.- Oh, but you--

Mrs. C.-Say no more, sir! You have made your meaning but too

plain already. There now, I think that's a speech for a tragedy

Some time after, Sir Joshua, returning to his standing-place,

entered into confab with Miss Linley and your slave upon various

matters, during which Mr. Sheridan, joining us, said,

"Sir Joshua, I have been telling Miss Burney that she must not

suffer her pen to lie idle--ought she?"

Sir J.-No, indeed, ought she not.

Mr. S.-Do you then, Sir Joshua, persuade her. But perhaps you

have begun something? May we ask? Will you answer a question

candidly?

F.B.-I don't know, but as candidly as Mrs. Candour I think I

certainly shall.

Mr. S.-What then are you about now?

F.B.-Why, twirling my fan, I think!

Mr. S.-No, no; but what are you about at home? However, it is

not a fair question, so I won't press it.

Yet he looked very inquisitive ; but I was glad to get off

without any downright answer.

Sir J-Anything in the dialogue way, I think, she must succeed in;

and I am sure invention will not be wanting,

Mr. S.-No, indeed ; I think, and say, she should write a comedy.

SIr J.-I am sure I think so; and hope she will.

I could only answer by incredulous exclamations.

"Consider" continued Sir Joshua, " you have already had all the

applause and fame you can have given you in the closet; but the

acclamation of a theatre will be new to you."

126

And then he put down his trumpet, and began a violen clapping of

his hands.

I actually shook from head to foot ! I felt myself already in

Drury Lane, amidst the hubbub of a first night.

"Oh, no!" cried I, "there may be a noise, but it will b, just the

reverse." And I returned his salute with a hissing.

Mr. Sheridan joined Sir Joshua Very warmly.

"O sir," cried I, "you should not run on so, you don't know what

mischief you may do!"

Mr. S.-I wish I may-I shall be very glad to be accessory,

Sir j.-She has, certainly, something of a knack at characters;

where she got it I don't know, and how she got it, I can'l

imagine; but she certainly has it. And to throw it away is---

Mr. S.-Oh, she won't, she will write a comedy, she has promised

me she will!

F.B.-Oh! if you both run on in this manner, I shall--"

I was going to say get under the chair, but Mr. Sheridan,

interrupting me with a laugh, said,

"Set about one ? very well, that's right."

"Ay," cried Sir Joshua, "that's very right. And You (to Mr.

Sheridan) would take anything of hers, would you not? unsight,

unseen?"(90) What a point blank question! who but Sir Joshua

would have ventured it!

" Yes," answered Mr. Sheridan, with quickness, "and make her a

bow and my best thanks into the bargain."

Now my dear Susy, tell me, did you ever hear the fellow to such a

speech as this! it was all I could do to sit it.

"Mr. Sheridan," I exclaimed, "are you not mocking me?"

"No, upon my honour! this is what I have meditated to say to you

the first time I should have the pleasure of seeing you."

To be sure, as Mrs. Thrale says, if folks are to be spoilt, there

is nothing in the world so pleasant as spoiling ! But I was never

so much astonished, and seldom have been so much delighted, as by

this attack of Mr. Sheridan. Afterwards he took my father aside,

and formally repeated his opinion that I should write for the

stage, and his desire to see my play, with encomiums the most

flattering of "Evelina."

And now, my dear Susy, if I should attempt the stage, I think I

may be fairly acquitted of presumption, and however I may fall,

that I was strongly pressed to try by Mrs. Thrale, and by Mr.

Sheridan, the most successful and powerful of all dramatic living

authors, will abundantly excuse my temerity.

127

AN ARISTOCRATIC RADICAL OF THE LAST CENTURY.

Streatham, February.-I have been here so long, MY dearest Susan,

Without writing a word, that now I hardly know where or how to

begin, But I will try to draw up a concise account of what has

passed for this last fortnight, and then endeavour to be more

minute.

Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson vied with each other in the kindness

of their reception of me. Mr. Thrale was, as usual at first,

cold and quiet, but soon, as usual also, warmed into sociality,

The next day Sir Philip Jennings Clerke came. He is not at all a

man of letters, but extremely well-bred, nay, elegant, in his

manners, and sensible and agreeable in his conversation, He is a

professed minority man, and very active and zealous in the

opposition. He had, when I came, a bill in agitation concerning

contractors--too long a matter to explain upon paper--but which

was levelled against bribery and corruption in the ministry, and

which he was to make a motion upon in __the House of Commons the

next week.(91)

Men of such different principles as Dr. Johnson and Sir Philip

YOU W, may imagine, can not have much sympathy or cordiality in

their political debates; however, the very superior abilities of

the former, and the remarkable good breeding of the latterp have

kept both upon good terms; though they have had several

arguments, in which each has exerted his utmost force for

conquest.

The heads of one of their debates I must try to remember, because

I should be sorry to forget. Sir Philip explained his bill; Dr.

Johnson at first scoffed at it; Mr. Thrale betted a guinea the

motion would not pass, and Sir Philip, that he should divide a

hundred and fifty upon it.

Sir Philip, addressing

himmself to Mrs. Thrale, hoped she would not suffer the Tories to

warp her judgment, and told me he hoped my father had not tainted

my principles; and then

128

he further explained his bill, and indeed made it appear so

equitable, that Mrs. Thrale gave in to it, and wished her husband

to vote for it. He still bung back ; but, to our general

surprise, Dr. Johnson having made more particular inquiries into

its merits, first softened towards it, and then declared it a

very rational and fair bill, and joined with Mrs, Thrale in

soliciting Mr. Thrale's vote.

Sir Philip was, and with very good reason, quite delighted. He

opened upon politics more amply, and freely declared his

opinions, which were so strongly against the government, and so

much bordering upon the republican principles, that Dr. Johnson

suddenly took fire; he called back his recantation begged Mr.

Thrale not to vote for Sir Philip's bill, and grew' very animated

against his antagonist.

"The bill," said he, "ought to be opposed by all honest men ! in

itself, and considered simply it is equitable, and I would

forward it; but when we find what a faction it is to support and

encourage, it ought not to be listened to. All men should oppose

it who do not wish well to sedition!"

These, and several other expressions yet more strong, he made

use of; and had Sir Philip had less unalterable politeness, I

believe they would have had a vehement quarrel. He maintained

his ground, however, with calmness and steadiness, though he had

neither argument nor wit at all equal to such an opponent.

Dr. Johnson pursued him with unabating vigour and dexterity, and

at length, though he could not convince, he so entirely baffled

him, that Sir Philip was self-compelled to be quiet-which, with a

very good grace, he confessed.

Dr. Johnson then, recollecting himself, and thinking, as he owned

afterwards, that the dispute grew too serious, with a skill all

his own, suddenly and unexpectedly turned it to burlesque; and

taking Sir Philip by the hand at the moment we arose after

supper, and were separating for the night,

"Sir Philip," said he, "you are too liberal a man for the party

to which you belong; I shall have much pride in the honour of

converting you; for I really believe, if you were not spoiled by

bad company, the spirit of faction would not bav possessed you.

Go, then, sir, to the House, but make not your motion! Give up

your bill, and surprise the world by turning to the side of truth

and reason. Rise, sir, when they least expect you, and address

your fellow-patriots to this Purpose:--Gentlemen, I have, for

many a weary day, been

129

deceived and seduced by you. I have now opened my eyes; I see

that you are all scoundrels--the subversion of all government is

your aim. Gentlemen, I will no longer herd among rascals in

whose infamy my name and character must be included. I therefore

renounce you all, gentlemen, as you deserve to be renounced.' "

Then, shaking his hand heartily, he added,

"Go, sir, go to bed; meditate upon this recantation, and rise in

the morning a more honest man than you laid down.

MR. MURPHY, THE DRAMATIST.

on Thursday, while my dear father was here, who should be

announced but Mr. Murphy;(93) the man of all other strangers to

me whom I most longed to see.

He is tall and well made, has a very gentlemanlike appearance,

and a quietness of manner upon his first address that, to me, is

very pleasing. His face looks sensible, and his deportment is

perfectly easy and polite.

When he had been welcomed by Mrs. Thrale, and had gone through

the reception-salutations of Dr. Johnson and my father, Mrs.

Thrale, advancing to me, said,

But here is a lady I must introduce to you, Mr. Murphy here is

another F. B."

"Indeed!" cried he, taking my hand; "is this a sister of Miss

Brown's?"

"No, no; this is Miss Burney."

"What!" cried he, staring; "is this--is this--this is not the

lady that--that--"

"Yes, but it is," answered she, laughing.

"'No, you don't say so? You don't mean the lady that--"

"Yes yes I do; no less a lady, I assure you."

He then said he was very glad of the honour of seeing me. I

sneaked away. When we came upstairs, Mrs. Thrale charged me to

make myself agreeable to Mr. Murphy.

"He may be of use to you, in what I am most eager for, your

writing a play: he knows stage business so well; and if you but

take a fancy to one another, he may be more able to

130

serve you than all of us put together. My ambition is, that

Johnson should write your prologue, and Murphy your epilogue,

then I shall be quite happy."

At tea-time, when I went into the library, I found Johnson

reading, and Mrs. Thrale in close conference with Mr. Murphy.

"If I," said Mr. Murphy, looking very archly, "had writte a

certain book--a book I won't name, but a book I have lately

read--I would next write a comedy."

"Good," cried Mrs. Thrale, colouring with pleasure; "you think so

too?"

"Yes, indeed; I thought so while I was reading it; it struc me

repeatedly."

" Don't look at me, Miss Burney," cried Mrs. Thrale, "for this is

no doing of mine. Well, I wonder what Miss Burney will do twenty

years hence, when she can blush no more; for now she can never

hear the name of her book."

Mr. M.-Nay, I name no book; at least no author: how can I, for I

don't know the author; there is no name given to it: I only say,

whoever wrote that book ought to write a comedy. Dr. Johnson

might write it for aught I know.

F. B.-Oh, yes!

Mr. M.-Nay, I have often told him he does not know his own

strength, or he would write a comedy, and so I think.

Dr. j. (laughing)-Suppose Burney and I begin together?

Mr. M.-Ah, I wish you would! I wish you would Beaumont and

Fletcher us!

F.B.-My father asked me, this morning, how my head stood. If he

should have asked me this evening, I don't know what answer I

must have made.

Mr. M.-I have no wish to turn anybody's head: I speak what I

really think;--comedy is the forte of that book. I laughed over

it most violently: and if the author--I won't say who [all the

time looking away from me]--will write a comedy I will most

readily, and with great pleasure, give any advice or assistance

in my power.

"Well, now you are a sweet man!" cried Mrs. Thrale, who looked

ready to kiss him. "Did not I tell you, Miss Burney, that Mr.

Murphy was the man?"

Mr. M.-All I can do, I shall be very happy to do; and at least I

will undertake to say I can tell what the sovereigns of the upper

gallery will bear: for they are the most formidable part of an

audience. I have had so much experience in this

131

sort of work, that I believe I can always tell what will be

hissed at least. And if Miss Burney will write, and will show

me--

.Dr. J.- Come, come, have done with this now; why should you

overpower her? Let's have no more of it. I don't mean to

dissent from what you say; I think well of it, and approve of it;

but you have said enough of it.

Mr. Murphy, who equally loves and reverences Dr. Johnson,

instantly changed the subject.

Yesterday, at night, I asked Dr. Johnson if he would permit me to

take a great liberty with him? He assented with the most

encouraging smile. And then I said,

"I believe, sir, you heard part of what passed between Mr. Murphy

and me the other evening, concerning-a a comedy. Now, if I

should make such an attempt, would you be so good as to allow me,

any time before Michaelmas, to put it in the coach, for you to

look over as you go to town?"

"To be sure, my dear!--What, have you begun a comedy then?

I told him how the affair stood. He then gave me advice which

just accorded with my wishes, viz., not to make known that I had

any such intention; to keep my own counsel; not to whisper even

the name of it; to raise no expectations, which were always

prejudicial, and finally, to have it performed while the town

knew nothing of whose it was. I readily assured him of my hearty

concurrence in his opinion; but he somewhat distressed me when I

told him that Mr. Murphy must be in my confidence, as he had

offered his services, by desiring he might be the last to see it.

What I shall do, I know not, for he has, himself, begged to be

the first. Mrs. Thrale, however, shall guide me between them.

He spoke highly of Mr. Murphy, too, for he really loves him. He

said he would not have it in the coach, but I should read it to

him; however, I could sooner drown or hang!

When I would have offered some apology for the attempt, he stopt

me, and desired I would never make any.

"For," said he, "if it succeeds, it makes its own apology, if

not---"

"ifnot," quoth I, "I cannot do worse than Dr. Goldsmith, when his

play(94) failed,--go home and cry"

132

He laughed, but told me, repeatedly (I mean twice, which, for

him, is very remarkable), that I might depend upon all the

service in his power; and, he added, it would be well to make

Murphy the last judge, " for he knows the stage," he said, and I

am quite ignorant of it."

Afterwards, grasping my hand with the most affectionate warmth,

he said,

"I wish you success! I wish you well ! my dear little Burney !"

When, at length, I told him I could stay no longer, and bid him

good night, he said, "There is none like you, my dear little

Burney ! there is none like you !--good night, my darling!"

A BEAUTY WEEPING AT WILL,

I find Miss Streatfield' a very amiable girl, and extremely

handsome; not so wise as I expected, but very well; however, had

she not chanced to have had so uncommon an education, with

respect to literature or learning, I believe she would not have

made her way among the wits by the force of her natural parts.

Mr. Seward, you know, told me that she had tears at command, and

I begin to think so too, for when Mrs. Thrale, who had previously

told me I should see her cry, began coaxing her to stay, and

saying, "If you go, I shall know you don't love me so well as

Lady Gresham,"--she did cry, not loud indeed, nor much, but the

tears came into her eyes, and rolled down her fine cheeks.

"Come hither, Miss Burney," cried Mrs. Thrale, "come and see Miss

Streatfield cry! "

I thought it a mere badinage. I went to them, but when

I saw real tears, I was shocked, and saying "No, I won't look

133

NE at her," ran away frightened, lest she should think I laughed

at her, which Mrs. Thrale did so openly, that, as I told her, had

she served me so, I should have been affronted with her ever

after.

miss Streatfield, however, whether from a sweetness not to be

ruffled, or from not perceiving there was any room for taking

offence, gently wiped her eyes, and was perfectly composed!

MR. MURPHY'S CONCERN REGARDING FANNY BURNEY'S COMEDY.

Streatham, May, Friday. Once more, my dearest Susy, I

will attempt journalising, and endeavour, according to my

promise, to keep up something of the kind during our absence,

however brief and curtailed.

To-day, while Mrs. Thrale was chatting with me in my room, we saw

Mr. Murphy drive into the courtyard. Down stairs flew Mrs.

Thrale, but, in a few minutes, up she flew again, 'crying,

"Mr. Murphy is crazy for your play--he won't let me rest for it--

do pray let me run away with the first act."

Little as I like to have it seen in this unfinished state, she

was too urgent to be resisted, so off she made with it.

I did not shew my phiz till I was summoned to dinner. Mr.

Murphy, probably out of flummery, made us wait some minutes, and,

when he did come, said,

I had much ado not to keep you all longer, for I could hardly get

away from some new acquaintances I was just making."

As he could not stay to sleep here, he had only time, after

dinner, to finish the first act. He was pleased to commend it

very liberally; he has pointed out two places where he thinks I

might enlarge, but has not criticised one word; on the contrary,

the dialogue he has honoured with high praise.

Brighthelmstone, May 26. The road from Streatham hither is

beautiful: Mr., Mrs., Miss Thrale, and Miss Susan Thrale, and I,

travelled in a coach, with four horses, and two of the servants

in a chaise, besides two men on horseback; so we were obliged to

stop for some time at three places on the road.

We got home by about nine o'clock. Mr. Thrale's house is in West

Street, which is the court end of the town here, as well

134

as in London. 'Tis a neat, small house, and I have a snug

comfortable room to myself. The sea is not many yards from our

windows. Our journey was delightfully pleasant, the day being

heavenly, the roads in fine order, the prospects charming, and

everybody good-humoured and cheerful.

Thursday. just before we went to dinner, a chaise drove up to

the door, and from it issued Mr. Murphy. He met with, a very

joyful reception; and Mr. Thrale, for the first time in his life,

said he was "a good fellow": for he makes it a sort Of TUle to

salute him with the title of "scoundrel," or "rascal." They are

very old friends; and I question if Mr. Thrale loves any man so

well.

He made me many very flattering speeches, of his eagerness to go

on with my play, to know what became of the several characters,

and to what place I should next conduct them; assuring me that

the first act had run in his head ever since he had read it.

In the evening we all, adjourned to Major H-'s, where, besides

his own family, we found Lord Mordaunt, son to the Earl of

Peterborough,--a pretty, languid, tonnish young man; Mr. Fisher,

who is said to be a scholar, but is nothing enchanting as a

gentleman; young Fitzgerald, as much the thing as ever; and Mr.

Lucius Corcannon.

Mr. Murphy was the life of the party: he was in good spirits,,

and extremely entertaining; he told a million of stories,

admirably well; but stories won't do upon paper, therefore I

shall not attempt to present you with them.

This morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Murphy said,

"I must now go to the seat by the seaside, with my new set of

acquaintance, from whom I expect no little entertainment."

"Ay," said Mrs. Thrale, "and there you'll find us all! I believe

this rogue means me for Lady Smatter; but Mrs. Voluble(96) must

speak the epilogue, Mr. Murphy."

"That must depend upon who performs the part," answered he.

"Don't talk of it now," cried I, "for Mr. Thrale knows nothing of

it."

"I think," cried Mr. Murphy, "you might touch upon his character

in 'Censor.'"

"Ay," cried Mr. Thrale, "I expect a knock some time or

135

other; but, when it comes, I'll carry all my myrmidons to cat-

call!"

Mr. Murphy then made me fetch him the second act, and walked off

with it.

A SCENE ON THE BRIGHTON PARADE.

We afterwards went on the parade, where the soldiers were

mustering, and found Captain Fuller's men all half intoxicated,

and laughing so violently as we passed by them, that they could

hardly stand upright. The captain stormed at them most angrily;

but, turning to us, said,

" These poor fellows have just been paid their arrears, and it is

so unusual to them to have a sixpence in their pockets, that they

know not how to keep it there."

The wind being extremely high, our caps and gowns were blown

about most abominably; and this increased the risibility of the

merry light infantry. Captain 'Fuller's desire to keep order

made me laugh as much as the men's incapacity to obey him; for,

finding our flying drapery provoked their mirth, he went up to

the biggest grinner, and, shaking him violently by the shoulders,

said, "What do you laugh for, sirrah? do you laugh at the

ladies?" and, as soon as he had given the reprimand, it struck

him. to be so ridiculous, that he was obliged to turn quick

round, and commit the very fault he was attacking most furiously.

MR. MURPHY CONSIDERS THE DIALOGUE IS CHARMING: A CENSORIous LADY.

After tea, the bishop, his lady, Lord Mordaunt, and Mrs. H--

seated themselves to play at whist, and Mr. Murphy, coming Up to

me, said,

"I have had no opportunity, Miss Burney, to tell you how much I

have been entertained this morning, but I have a great deal to

say to you about it; I am extremely pleased with it, indeed. The

dialogue is charming; and the--"

"What's that?" cried Mrs. Thrale, "Mr. Murphy always flirting

with Miss Burney? And here, too, where everybody's watched!"

And she cast her eyes towards Mrs. H--, who is as censorious a

country lady as ever locked up all her ideas in a

136

country town. She has told us sneering anecdotes of every woman

and every officer in Brighthelm stone. Mr. Murphy, checked by

Mrs. Thrale's exclamation, stopt the conversation, and said he

must run away, but would return in half-an-hour.

"Don't expect, however, Miss Burney," he said, "I shall bring

with me what you are thinking of; no, I can't part with it yet! "

What! at it again cried Mrs. Thrale. " This flirting is

incessant ; but it's all to Mr. Murphy's credit."

Mrs. Thrale told me afterwards, that she made these speeches to

divert the attention of the company from our subject; for that

she found they were all upon the watch the moment Mr. Murphy

addressed me, and that the bishop and his lady almost threw down

their cards, from eagerness to discover what he meant.

The supper was very gay: Mrs. Thrale was in high spirits, and her

wit flashed with incessant brilliancy; Mr. Murphy told several

stories with admirable humour; and the Bishop of Peterborough was

a worthy third in contributing towards general entertainment. He

turns out most gaily sociable. Mrs. H-- was discussed, and, poor

lady, not very mercifully.

Mrs. Thrale says she lived upon the Steyn, for the pleasure of

viewing, all day long, who walked with who, how often the same

persons were seen together, and what visits were made by

gentlemen to ladies, or ladies to gentlemen.

"She often tells me," said the captain,," of my men. 'Oh,' she

says, 'Captain Fuller, your men are always after the ladies!'"

"Nay," cried Mrs. Thrale, "I should have thought the officers

might have contented her; but if she takes in the soldiers too,

she must have business enough."

"Oh, she gets no satisfaction by her complaints; for I only say,

'Why, ma'am, we are all young!--all young and gay!--and how can

we do better than follow the ladies?'"

A MILITIA CAPTAIN OFFICIATES As BARBER.

Saturday, May 29. After breakfast, Mrs. and Miss Thrale took me

to Widget's, the milliner and library-woman on the Steyn. After

a little dawdling conversation, Captain Fuller came in to have a

little chat. He said he had just gone 137

through a great operation--"I have been," he said, "cutting off

the hair of all my men."

"And why ?

"Why, the Duke of Richmond ordered that it should be done, and

the fellows swore that they would not submit to it; so I was

forced to be the operator myself. I told them they would look as

smart again when they had got on their caps; but it went much

against them, they vowed, at first, they would not bear such

usage; some said they would sooner be run through the body, and

others, that the duke should as soon have their heads. I told

them I would soon try that, and fell to work myself with them."

"And how did they bear it ?

"Oh, poor fellows, with great good-nature, when they found his

honour was their barber: but I thought proper to submit to

bearing all their oaths, and all their jokes; for they had no

other comfort but to hope I should have enough of it, and such

sort of wit. Three or four of them, however, escaped, but I

Shall find them out. I told them I had a good mind to cut my own

hair off too, and then they would have a Captain Crop. I shall

soothe them to-morrow with a present of new feathers for all

their caps."

"HEARTS HAVE AT YE ALL."

Streatham, Sunday, June 13. After church we all strolled the

grounds, and the topic of our discourse was Miss Streatfield.

Mrs. Thrale asserted that she had a power of captivation that was

irresistible ; that her beauty, joined to her softness, her

caressing manners, her tearful eyes, and alluring looks, would

insinuate her into the heart of any man she thought worth

attacking.

Sir Philip(97) declared himself of a totally different opinion,

?,:'and quoted Dr. Johnson against her, who had told him that,

taking away her Greek, she was as ignorant as a butterfly.

Mr. Seward declared her Greek was all against her, with him, for

that, instead of reading Pope, Swift, or "The Spectator"-- books

from which she might derive useful knowledge and improvement--it

had led her to devote all her reading time to the first eight

books of Homer.

"But," said Mrs. Thrale, "her Greek, you must own, has

138

made all her celebrity:--you would have heard no more of her than

of any other pretty girl, but for that."

"What I object to," said Sir Philip, "is her avowed Preference

for this parson. Surely it is very indelicate in any lady to let

all the world know with whom she is in love ! "

"The parson," said the severe Mr. Seward, "I suppose, spoke

first,--or she would as soon have been in love with you, or with

me!"

You will easily believe I gave him no pleasant look. He wanted

me to slacken my pace, and tell him, in confidence, my private

opinion of her : but I told him, very truly, that as I knew her

chiefly by account, not by acquaintance, I had not absolutely

formed my opinion.

"Were I to live with her four days," said this odd man, "I

believe the fifth I should want to take her to church."

"You'd be devilish tired of her, though," said Sir Philip, "in

half a year. A crying wife will never do!"

"Oh, yes," cried he, "the pleasure of soothing her would make

amends."

"Ah," cried Mrs. Thrale, "I would insure her power of crying

herself into any of your hearts she pleased. I made her cry to

Miss Burney, to show how beautiful she looked in tears." "

"If I had been her," said Mr. Seward, "I would never have visited

you again."

"Oh, but she liked it," answered Mrs. T., "for she knows how well

she does it. Miss Burney would have run away, but she came

forward on purpose to show herself. I would have done so by

nobody else - but Sophy Streatfield is never happier than when

the tears trickle from her fine eyes in company."

"Suppose, Miss Burney," said Mr. Seward, "we make her the heroine

of our comedy? and call it "Hearts have at ye all?"

"Excellent," cried I, "it can't be better."

GIDDY MISS BROWN.

At dinner we had three persons added to our company,--my dear

father, Miss Streatfield, and Miss Brown.

Miss Brown, as I foresaw, proved the queen of the day. Miss

Streatfield requires longer time to make conquests. She is,

indeed, much more really beautiful than Fanny Brown; but Fanny

Brown is much more showy, and her open, goodhumoured, gay,

laughing face inspires an almost immediate wish of conversing and

merry-making with her. Indeed, the two

139

days she spent here have raised her greatly in my regard. She

is a charming girl, and so natural, and easy, and sweet-tempered,

that there is no being half an hour in her company without

ardently wishing her well.

Next day at breakfast, our party was Sir Philip, Mr. Fuller, Miss

Streatfield, Miss Brown, the Thrales, and I.

The first office performed was dressing Miss Brown. She had put

on bright, jonquil ribbons. Mrs. Thrale exclaimed against them

immediately; Mr. Fuller half joined her, and away she went, and

brought green ribbons of her own, which she made Miss Brown run

up stairs with to put on. This she did with the utmost good

humour; but dress is the last thing in which she excels; for she

has lived so much abroad, and so much with foreigners at home,

that she never appears habited as an Englishwoman, nor as a

high-bred foreigner, but rather as an Italian Opera-dancer; and

her wild, careless, giddy manner, her loud hearty laugh, and

general negligence of appearance, contribute to give her that air

and look. I like her so much, that I am quite sorry she is not

better advised, either by her own or some friend's judgment.

Miss Brown, however, was queen of the breakfast: for though her

giddiness made everybody take liberties with her, her goodhumour

made everybody love her, and her gaiety made everybody desirous

to associate with her. Sir Philip played with her as with a

young and sportive kitten; Mr. Fuller laughed and chatted with

her; and Mr. Seward, when here, teases and torments her. The

truth is, he cannot bear her, and she, in return, equally fears

and dislikes him, but still she cannot help attracting his

notice.

SOPHY STREATFIELD AGAIN WEEPS TO ORDER.

Wednesday, June 16.--We had.at breakfast a scene, of its sort,

the most curious I ever saw.

The persons were Sir Philip, Mr. Seward, Dr. Delap,(98) Miss

Streatfield, Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and I. The discourse turning

I know not how, upon Miss Streatfield, Mrs. Thrale said,

"Ay I made her cry once for Miss Burney as pretty as could be,

but nobody does cry so pretty as the S. S. I'm sure, when she

cried for Seward, I never saw her look half so lovely."

140

"For Seward?" cried Sir Philip; "did she cry for Seward? What a

happy dog! I hope she'll never cry for me, for if she does, I

won't answer for the consequences!"

"Seward," said Mrs. Thrale, "had affronted Johnson, and then

Johnson affronted Seward, and then the S. S. cried."

"OH," cried Sir Philip, "that I had but been here!"

"Nay," answered Mrs. Thrale, "you'd only have seen how like three

fools three sensible persons behaved: for my part, I was quite

sick of it, and of them too."

Sir P.- But what did Seward do? was he not melted?

Mrs. T.-Not he; he was thinking only of his own affront, and

taking fire at that.

Mr. S.-Why, yes, I did take fire, for I went and planted my back

to it.

S.S.-And Mrs. Thrale kept stuffing me with toast-and-water.

Sir P.-But what did Seward do with himself? Was not he in

extacy? What did he do or say?

Mr. S.-Oh, I said pho, pho, don't let's have any more of this,--

it's making it of too much consequence: no more piping, pray.

Sir P.-Well, I have heard so much of these tears, that I would

give the universe to have a sight of them.

Mrs. T.-Well, she shall cry again if you like it.

S.S.-No, pray, Mrs. Thrale.

Sir P.- Oh, pray, do ! pray let me see a little of it.

Mrs. T.-Yes, do cry a little, Sopby [in a wheedling voice], pray

do! Consider, now, you are going to-day, and it's very hard if

you won't cry a little: indeed, S. S., you ought to cry.

Now for the wonder of wonders. When Mrs, Thrale, in a coaxing

voice, suited to a nurse soothing a baby, had run on for some

time,--while all the rest of us, in laughter, joined in the

request,--two crystal tears came into the soft eyes of the

141

S. S., and rolled gently down her cheeks! Such a sight I never

saw before, nor could I have believed. She offered not to

conceal ordissipate them: on the contrary, she really contrived

to have them seen by everybody. She looked, indeed, uncommonly

handsome; for her pretty face was not, like Chloe's, blubbered;

it was smooth and elegant, and neither her features nor

complexion were at all ruffled; nay, indeed, she was smiling all

the time.

"Look, look!" cried Mrs. Thrale; "see if the tears are not come

already."

Loud and rude bursts of laughter broke from us all at once. How,

indeed, could they be restrained? Yet we all stared, and looked

and re-looked again and again, twenty times, ere we could believe

our eyes. Sir Philip, I thought, would have died in convulsions;

for his laughter and his politeness, struggling furiously with

one another, made him almost black in the face. Mr. Seward

looked half vexed that her crying for him was now so much lowered

in its flattery, yet grinned incessantly; Miss Thrale laughed as

much as contempt would allow her: but Dr. Delap seemed petrified

with astonishment.

When our mirth abated, Sir Philip, colouring violently with his

efforts to speak, said,

"I thank you, ma'am, I'm much obliged to you."

But I really believe he spoke without knowing what he was saying.

"What a wonderful command," said Dr. Delap, very gravely, "that

lady must have over herself!"

She now took out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

"Sir Philip," cried Mr. Seward, "how can you suffer her to dry

her own eyes?--you, who sit next her?"

"I dare not dry them for her," answered he, "because I am not the

right man."

"But if I sat next her," returned he, "she would not dry them

herself."

"I wish," cried Dr. Delap, "I had a bottle to put them in; 'tis a

thousand'pities they should be wasted."

"There, now," said Mrs. Thrale, "she looks for all the world as

if nothing had happened; for, you know, nothing has happened!"

"Would you cry, Miss Burney," said Sir Philip, "if we asked you?"

"She can cry, I doubt not," said Mr. Seward, "on any Proper

occasion."

142

"But I must know," said I, "what for."

I did not say this loud enough for the S. S. to hear me, but if I

had, she would not have taken it for the reflection it meant.

She seemed, the whole time, totally insensible to the numerous

strange and, indeed, impertinent speeches which were made and to

be very well satisfied that she was only manifesting a tenderness

of disposition, that increased her beauty of countenance. At

least, I can put no other construction upon her conduct which

was, without exception, the strangest I ever saw. Without any

pretence of affliction,-to weep merely because she was bid,

though bid in a manner to forbid any one else,--to be in good

spirits all the time,--to see the whole company expiring of

laughter at her tears, without being at all offended, and, at

last, to dry them up, and go on with the same sort of

conversation she held before they started!

" EVERYTHING A BORE."

Sunday, June 20,-While I was sitting with Mr. Thrale, in the

library, Mr. Seward entered. As soon as the first inquiries were

over, he spoke about what he calls our comedy, and he pressed and

teazed me to set about it. But he grew, in the evening, so

queer, so ennuy`e, that, in a fit of absurdity, I called him "Mr.

Dry;" and the name took so with Mrs. Thrale, that I know not when

he will lose it. Indeed, there is something in this young man's

alternate drollery and lassitude, entertaining qualities and

wearying complaints, that provoke me to more pertness than I

practise to almost anybody.

The play, he said, should have the double title of "The

Indifferent Man, or Everything a Bore;" and I protested Mr. Dry

should be the hero. And then we ran on, jointly planning a

succession of ridiculous scenes;--he lashing himself pretty

freely though not half so freely, or so much to the purpose, as I

lashed him; for I attacked him, through the channel of Mr, Dry,

upon his ennui, his causeless melancholy, his complaining

languors, his yawning inattention, and his restless discontent.

You may easily imagine I was in pretty high spirits to go so far:

in truth, nothing else could either have prompted or excused my

facetiousness : and his own manners are so cavalier, that they

always, with me, stimulate a sympathising return.

He repeatedly begged me to go to work, and commit the projected

scenes to paper: but I thought that might be carry-

143

ing the jest too far; for as I was in no humour to spare him,

writtten raillery might, perhaps, have been less to his taste

than verbal.

He challenged me to meet him the next morning, before breakfast,

in the library, that we might work together at some scenes, but I

thought it as well to let the matter drop, and did not make my

entry till they were all assembled.

He, however, ran upon nothing else ; and, as soon as

we happened to be left together, he again attacked me.

"Come," said he, "have you nothing ready yet? I dare say you

have half an act in your pocket."

"No," quoth I, "I have quite forgot the whole business; I was

only in the humour for it last night."

"How shall it begin?" cried he; "with Mr. Dry in his study?-- his

slippers just on, his hair about his ears,--exclaiming, 'O what a

bore is life!--What is to be done next?"

"Next?" cried I, "what, before he has done anything at all?"

"Oh, he has dressed himself, you know.--Well, then he takes up a

book--"

"For example, this," cried I, giving him Clarendon's History.

He took it up in character, and flinging it away, cried

"No--this will never do,--a history by a party writer is

vodious."

I then gave him Robertson's "America."

"This," cried he, "is of all reading the most melancholy;--an

account of possessions we have lost by our own folly."

I then gave him Baretti's "Spanish Travels."

"Who," cried he, flinging it aside, "can read travels by a fellow

who never speaks a word of truth."

Then I gave him a volume of "Clarissa."

"Pho," cried he, "a novel writ by a bookseller!--there is but one

novel now one can bear to read,--and that's written by a young

lady."

I hastened to stop him with Dalrymple's Memoirs, and then

proceeded to give him various others, upon all which he made

severe, splenetic, yet comical comments;--and we continued thus

employed till he was summoned to accompany Mr. Thrale to town.

The next morning, Wednesday, I had some very serious talk with

Mr. Seward,--and such as gave me no inclination for railery,

though it was concerning his ennui; on the contrary, I resolved,

athe the moment, never to rally him upon that subject again, for

his account of himself filled me with compassion.

144

He told me that he had never been well for tbree hours in a day

in his life, and that when he was thought only tired he was

really so ill that he believed scarce another man would stay in

company. I was quite shocked at this account, and told him,

honestly, that I had done him so little justice as to attribute

all his languors to affectation.

PROPOSED MATCH BETWEEN MR. SEWARD AND THE WEEPER-AT-WILL.

When Mrs. Thrale joined us, Mr. Seward told us he had just seen

Dr. Jebb.--Sir Richard, I mean,--and that he had advised him to

marry.

"No," cried Mrs. Thrale, "that will do nothing for you; but if

you should marry, I have a wife for you."

"Who?" cried he, "the S. S.?"

"The S. S.?--no!--she's the last person for you,--her extreme

softness, and tenderness, and weeping, would add languor to

languor, and irritate all your disorders; 'twould be drink to a

dropsical man."

"No, no,-it would soothe me."

"Not a whit ! it would only fatigue you. The wife for you is

Lady Anne Lindsay. She has birth, wit, and beauty, she has no

fortune, and she'd readily accept you; and she is such a spirit

that she'd animate you, I warrant you! O, she would trim you

well! you'd be all alive presently. She'd take all the care of

the money affairs,--and allow you out of them eighteen pence a

week! That's the wife for you!"

Mr. Seward was by no means " agreeable " to the proposal; he

turned the conversation upon the S. S., and gave us an account of

two visits he had made her, and spoke in favour of her manner of

living, temper, and character. When he had run on in this strain

for some time, Mrs. Thrale cried,

"Well, so you are grown very fond of her?"

"Oh dear, no!" answered he, drily, "not at all!"

" Why, I began to think," said Mrs. Thrale, "you intended to

supplant the parson."

"No, I don't: I don't know what sort of an old woman she'd make;

the tears won't do then. Besides, I don't think her so sensible

as I used to do."

"But she's very pleasing," cried I, "and very amiable."

"Yes, she's pleasing,--that's certain; but I don't think she

reads much; the Greek has spoilt her."

145

"Well, but you can read for yourself."

"That's true ; but does she work well?"

"I believe she does, and that's a better thing."

"Ay; so it is," said he, saucily, "for ladies; ladies should

rather write than read."

"But authors," cried I, "before they write should read."

Returning again to the S. S., and being again rallied about her

by Mrs. Thrale, who said she believed at last he would end

there,-he said,

"Why, if I must marry--if I was bid to choose between that and

racking on the wheel, I believe I should go to her."

We all laughed at this exquisite compliment; but, as he said, it

was a compliment, for though it proved no passion for her, it

proved a preference.

"However," he continued, "it won't do."

"Upon my word," exclaimed I, "you settle it all your own way!-

-the lady would be ready at any rate!"

"Oh yes ! any man might marry Sophy Streatfield."

I quite stopt to exclaim against him.

"I mean," said he, "if he'd pay his court to her."

THE FATE OF "THE WITLINGS."

(Fanny Burney to Mr. Crisp.)

Friday, July 30This seems a strange, unseasonable period for my

undertaking, but yet, my dear daddy, when you have read my

conVersation with Mr. Sheridan, I believe you will agree that I

must have been wholly insensible, nay, almost ungrateful, to

resist encouragement such as he gave me--nay, more than

encouragement, entreaties, all of which he warmly repeated to my

father.

Now, as to the play itself, I own I had wished to have been the

bearer of it when I visit Chesington; but you seem so urgent, and

my father himself is so desirous to carry it you, that I have

given that plan up.

O my dear daddy, if your next letter were to contain your real

opinion of it, how should I dread to open it! Be, however, as

honest as your good nature and delicacy will allow you to be, and

assure yourself I shall be very certain that all your criticisms

will proceed from your earnest wishes to obviate

146

those of others, and that you would have much more pleasure in

being my panegyrist.

As to Mrs. Gast, I should be glad to know what I would refuse to

a sister of yours. Make her, therefore, of your coterie, if she

is with you while the piece is in your possession.

And now let me tell you what I wish in regard to this affair. I

should like that your first reading should have nothing to do

with me-that you should go quick through it, or let my father

read it to you-forgetting all the time, as much as you can, that

Fannikin is the writer, or even that it is a play in manuscript,

and capable of alterations ;-and then, when you have done, I

should like to have three lines, telling me, as nearly as you can

trust my candour, its general effect. After that take it to your

own desk, and lash it at your leisure.

(Fanny Burney to Dr. Burney.)

The fatal knell, then, is knolled, and down among the dead men

sink the poor " Witlings "-for ever, and for ever, and for ever!

I give a sigh, whether I will or not, to their memory! for,

however worthless, they were mes enfans. You, my dear sir, who

enjoyed, I really think, even more than myself, the astonishing

success of my first attempt, would, I believe, even more than

myself, be hurt at the failure of my second; and I am sure I

speak from the bottom of a very honest heart, when I most

solemnly declare, that upon your account any disgrace would

mortify and afflict me more than upon my own ; for whatever

appears with your knowledge, will be naturally supposed to have

met with your approbation, and, perhaps, your assistance;

therefore, though all particular censure would fall where it

ought--upon me--yet any general censure of the whole, and the

plan, would cruelly, but certainly involve you in its severity.

You bid me open my heart to you,--and so, my dearest sir, I will,

for it is the greatest happiness of my life that I dare be

sincere to you. I expected many objections to be raised--a

thousand errors to be pointed out-and a million of alterations to

be proposed; but the suppression of the piece were words I did

not expect; indeed, after the warm approbation of Mrs. Thrale,

and the repeated commendations and flattery of Mr. Murphy, how

could I?

I do not, therefore, pretend to wish you should think a

147

decision, for which I was so little prepared, has given me no

disturbance ; for I must be a far more egregious witling than any

of those I tried to draw, to imagine you could ever credit that I

wrote without some remote hope of success now--though I literally

did when I composed "Evelina"!

But ny mortification is not at throwing away the characters, or

the contrivance;--it is all at throwing away the time,--which I

with difficulty stole, and which I have buried in the mere

trouble of writing.

(Fanny Burney to Mr. Crisp.)

Well! there are plays that are to be saved, and plays that are

not to be saved! so good night, Mr. Dabbler!--good night, Lady

Smatter,--Mrs. Sapient,--Mrs. Voluble,--Mrs. Wheedle,--Censor,--

Cecilia,--Beaufort,--and you, you great oaf, Bobby!--good night!

good night!

And good morning, Miss Fanny Burney!--I hope you have opened your

eyes for some time, and will not close them in so drowsy a fit

again--at least till the full of the moon.

I won't tell you, I have been absolutely ravie with delight at

the fall of the curtain; but I intend to take the affair in the

tant miemx manner, and to console myself for your censure by this

greatest proof I have ever received of the sincerity, candour,

and, let me add, esteem, of my dear daddy. And as I happen to

love myself rather more than my play, this consolation is not a

very trifling one.

As to all you say of my reputation and so forth, I perceive the

kindness of your endeavours to put me in humour with myself, and

prevent my taking huff, which, if I did, I should deserve to

receive, upon any future trial, hollow praise from you,--and the

rest from the public.

The only bad thing in this affair is, that I cannot take the

comfort of my poor friend Dabbler, by calling you a crabbed

fellow, because you write with almost more kindness than ever

neither can I (though I try hard) persuade myself that you have

not a grain of taste in your whole composition. This, however,

seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put their heads

together to concert for me that hissing, groaning, catcalling

epistle they sent me, they felt as sorry for poor little Miss

Bayes as she could possibly do for herself.(100)

148

"QUITE WHAT WE CALL," AND "GIVE ME LEAVE To TELL YOU."

We had Lady Ladd at Streatham; Mr. Stephen Fuller, the sensible,

but deaf old gentleman I have formerly mentioned, dined here

also; as did Mr. R--,(101) whose trite, settled, tonish emptiness

of discourse is a never-failing source of laughter and diversion.

"Well, I say, what, Miss Burney, so you had a very good party

last Tuesday?--what we call the family party--in that Sort of

way? Pray who had you?"

"Mr. Chamier."(102)

"Mr. Chamier, ay? Give me leave to tell you, Miss Burney, that

Mr. Chamier is what we call a very sensible man!"

"Certainly. And Mr. Pepys."(103)

"Mr. Pepys? Ay, very good--very good in that sort of way. I am

quite sorry I could not be here; but I was so much indisposed--

quite what we call the nursing party."

"I'm very sorry; but I hope little Sharp(104) is well?

"Ma'am, your most humble! you're a very good lady, indeed!--quite

what we call a good lady! Little Sharp is perfectly well: that

sort of attention, and things of that sort,---the bow-wow system

is very well. But pray, Miss Burney, give me leave to ask, in

that sort of way, had you anybody else?"

Yes, Lady Ladd and Mr. Seward."

"So, so!--quite the family system! Give me leave to tell you,

Miss Burney, this commands attention!--what we call a respectable

invitation! I am sorry I could not come, indeed; for we young

men, Miss Burney, we make it what we call a sort of rule to take

notice of this sort of attention. But I was extremely

indisposed, indeed--what we call the walnut system

149

had quite--- Pray what's the news, Miss Burney?--in that sort of

way, is there any news?"

"None, that I have heard. Have you heard any?"

"Why, very bad! very bad, indeed!--quite what we call poor old

England! I was told, in town,--fact--fact, I assure you--that

these Dons intend us an invasion this very month, they and the

Monsieurs intend us the respectable salute this very month;--the

powder system, in that sort of way! Give me leave to tell you,

Miss Burney, this is what we call a disagreeable visit, in that

sort of way."

I think, if possible, his language looks more absurd upon paper

even than it sounds in conversation, from the perpetual

recurrence of the same words and expressions---

THE CRYING BEAUTY AND HER MOTHER.

Brighthelmstone, October 12-On Tuesday Mr., Mrs., Miss Thrale,

and "yours, ma'am, yours," set out on their expedition. The day

was very pleasant, and the journey delightful.

We dined very comfortably at Sevenoaks, and thence made but one

stage to Tunbridge. It was so dark when we went through the town

that I could see it very indistinctly. The Wells, however, are

about seven miles yet further, so that we saw that night nothing

; but I assure you, I felt that I was entering into a new country

pretty roughly, for the roads were so sidelum and jumblum, as

Miss L-- called those of Teignmouth, that I expected an overturn

every minute. Safely, however, we reached the Sussex Hotel, at

Tunbridge Wells.

Having looked at our rooms, and arranged our affairs, we

proceeded to Mount Ephraim, where Miss Streatfield resides. We

found her with only her mother, and spent the evening there.

Mrs. Streatfield is very--very little, but perfectly well made,

thin, genteel, and delicate. She has been quite beautiful, and

has still so much of beauty left, that to call it only the

remains of a fine face seems hardly doing her justice. She is

very lively, and an excellent mimic, and is, I think, as much

superior to her daughter in natural gifts as her daughter is to

her in acquired ones: and how infinitely preferable are parts

without education to education without parts!

The fair S. S. is really in higher beauty than I have ever yet

seen her; and she was so caressing, so soft, so amiable, that I

felt myself insensibly inclining to her with an affectionate

150

regard. "If it was not for that little, gush," as Dr. Delap

Said, I should certainly have taken a very great fancy to her ;

but tears so ready-oh, they blot out my fair opinion of her! Yet

whenever I am with her, I like, nay, almost love her, for her

manners are exceedingly captivating ; but when I quit her, I do

not find that she improves by being thought over-no, nor talked

over; for Mrs. Thrale, who is always disposed to half adore her

in her presence, can never converse about her without exciting

her own contempt by recapitulating what has passed. This,

however, must always be certain, whatever may be doubtful, that

she is a girl in no respect like any other.

But I have not yet done with the mother: I have told you of her

vivacity and her mimicry, but her character is yet not half told.

She has a kind of whimsical conceit and odd affectation, that,

joined to a very singular sort of humour, makes her always seem

to be rehearsing some scene in a comedy. She takes off, if she

mentions them, all her own children, and, though she quite adores

them, renders them ridiculous with all her power. She laughs at

herself for her smallness and for her vagaries, just with the

same ease and ridicule as if she were speaking Of some other

person ; and, while perpetually hinting at being old and broken,

she is continually frisking, flaunting, and playing tricks, like

a young coquet.

When I was introduced to her by Mrs. Thrale, who said,

"Give me leave, ma'am, to present to you a friend of your

daughter's--Miss Burney," she advanced to me with a tripping

pace, and, taking one of my fingers, said, "Allow me, ma'am, will

you, to create a little -acquaintance with you."

And, indeed, I readily entered into an alliance with her, for I

found nothing at Tunbridge half so entertaining, except, indeed,

Miss Birch, of whom hereafter.

A BEWITCHING PRODIGY.

Tunbridge Wells is a place that to me appeared very Singular; the

country is all rock, and every part of it is either up or down

hill, scarce ten yards square being level ground in the whole

place: the houses, too, are scattered about in a strange wild

manner, and look as if they had been dropt where they stand by

accident, for they form neither streets nor squares, but seem

strewed promiscuously, except, indeed, where the shopkeepers

live, who have got two or three dirty little lanes, much like

dirty little lanes in other places,

151

In the evening we all went to the rooms. The rooms, as

they are called, consisted for this evening, of only one

apartment, as there was not company enough to make more

necessary, and a very plain, unadorned, and ordinary apartment

that was.

The next morning we had the company of two young ladies at

breakfast-the S. S. and a Miss Birch, a little girl but ten years

old, whom the S. S. invited, well foreseeing how much we should

all be obliged to her. This Miss Birch is a niece of the

charming Mrs. Pleydell,(105) and so like her, that I should have

taken her for her daughter. yet she is not, now, quite so

handsome; but as she will soon know how to display her beauty to

the utmost advantage, I fancy, in a few years, she will yet more

resemble her lovely and most bewitching aunt. Everybody, she

said, tells her how like she is to her aunt Pleydell.

As you, therefore, have seen that sweet woman, only imagine her

ten years old, and you will see her sweet niece. Nor does the

resemblance rest with the person; she sings like her, laughs like

her, talks like her, caresses like her, and alternately softens

and animates just like her. Her conversation is not merely like

that of a woman already, but like that of a most uncommonly

informed, cultivated, and sagacious woman; and at the same time

that her understanding is thus wonderfully premature, she can, at

pleasure, throw off all this rationality, and make herself a mere

playful, giddy, romping child. One moment, with mingled gravity

and sarcasm, she discusses characters, and the next, with

schoolgirl spirits, she jumps round the room; then, suddenly, she

asks, "Do you know such or such a song?" and instantly, with

mixed grace and buffoonery, singles out an object, and sings it;

and then, before there has been time to applaud her, she runs

into the middle of the room, to try some new step in a dance; and

after all this, without waiting till her vagaries grow tiresome,

she flings herself, with an affectionate air upon somebody's lap,

and there, composed and thoughtful, she continues quiet till she

again enters into rational conversation.

Her voice is really charming--infinitely the most powerful, as

well as sweet, I ever heard at her age. Were she well and

constantly taught, she might, I should think, do anything,--

152

for two or three Italian songs, which she learnt out of only five

months' teaching by Parsons, she sung like a little angel, with

respect to taste, feeling, and expression; but she now learns of

nobody, and is so fond of French songs, for the sake, she says,

of the sentiment, that I fear she will have her wonderful

abilities all thrown away. Oh, how I wish my father had the

charge of her!

She has spent four years out of her little life in France, which

has made her distractedly fond of the French operas, "Rose et

Colas," "Annette et Lubin," etc., and she told us the story quite

through of several I never heard of, always singing the sujet

when she came to the airs, and comically changing parts in the

duets. She speaks French with the same fluency as English, and

every now and then, addressing herself to the S. S.--"Que je vous

adore!"--"Ah, permettez que je me mette `a vos pieds!" etc., with

a dying languor that was equally laughable and lovely.

When I found, by her taught songs, what a delightful singer she

was capable of becoming, I really had not patience to hear her

little French airs, and entreated her to give them up, but the

little rogue instantly began pestering me with them, singing one

after another with a comical sort of malice, and following me

round the room, when I said I would not listen to her, to say,

"But is not this pretty?--and this?--and this?" singing away with

all her might and main.

She sung without any accompaniment, as we had no instrument ; but

the S. S. says she plays too, very well. Indeed, I fancy she can

do well whatever she pleases.

We hardly knew how to get away from her when the carriage was

ready to take us from Tunbridge, and Mrs. Thrale was so much

enchanted with her that she went on the Pantiles and bought her a

very beautiful inkstand.

"I don't mean, Miss Birch," she said, when she gave it her, "to

present you this toy as to a child, but merely to beg you will do

me the favour to accept something that may make you now and then

remember us."

She was much delighted with this present, and told me, in a

whisper, that she should put a drawing of it in her journal.

So you see, Susy, other children have had this whim. But

something being said of novels, the S. S. said--

"Selina, do you ever read them?"--And, with a sigh, the little

girl answered--

"But too often!---I wish I did not:

153

The only thing i did not like in this seducing little creature

was our leave-taking. The S. S. had, as we expected, her fine

eyes suffused with tears, and nothing would serve the little

Selina, who admires the S. S. passionately, but that she, also,

must weep-and weep, therefore, she did, and that in a manner as

pretty to look at, as soft, as melting, and as little to her

discomposure, as the weeping of her fair exemplar. The child's

success in this pathetic art made the tears of both appear to the

whole party to be lodged, as the English merchant says, "very

near the eyes!"

Doubtful as it is whether we shall ever see this sweet syren

again, nothing, as Mrs. Thrale said to her, can be more certain

than that we shall hear of her again, let her go whither she

will.

Charmed as we all were with her, we all agreed that to have the

care of her would be distraction! "She seems the girl in the

world," Mrs. Thrale wisely said, "to attain the highest reach of

human perfection as a man's mistress!--as such she would be a

second Cleopatra, and have the world at her command."

Poor thing! I hope to heaven she willescape such sovereignty and

such honours!

AT BRIGHTON: A "CURE." THE JEALOUS CUMBERLANDS.

We left Tunbridge Wells, and got, by dinner time, to our first

stage, Uckfield. Our next stage brought us to Brighthelmstone,

where I fancy we shall stay till the Parliament calls away Mr.

Thrale.(106)

The morning after our arrival, our first visit was from Mr

Kipping, the apothecary, a character so curious that Foote(107)

designed him for his next piece, before he knew he had already

written his last. He is a prating, good-humoured old gossip, who

runs on in as incoherent and unconnected a style of discourse as

Rose Fuller, though not so tonish.

The rest of the morning we spent, as usual at this place, upon

the Steyn, and in booksellers' shops. Mrs. Thrale entered all

our names at Thomas's, the fashionable bookseller; but we find he

has now a rival, situated also upon the Steyn, who seems to carry

away all the custom and all the company. This is a Mr. Bowen,

who is just come from London, and who

154

seems just the man to carry the world before him as a shop,

keeper. Extremely civil, attentive to watch opportunities Of

obliging, and assiduous to make use of them--skilful in

discovering the taste or turn of mind of his Customers, and

adroit in Putting in their way just such temptations as they are

least able to withstand. Mrs. Thrale, at the same time that she

sees his management and contrivance, so much admires his sagacity

and dexterity, that, though open-eyed, she is as easily wrought

upon to part with her money, as any of the many dupes in this

place, whom he persuades to require indispensably whatever he

shows them. He did not, however, then at all suspect who I was,

for he showed me nothing but schemes for raffles, and books,

pocket-cases, etc., which weie put up for those purposes. It is

plain I c I can have no authoress air, since so discerning a

bookseller thought me a fine lady spendthrift, who only wanted

occasions to get rid of money.

Sunday morning, as we came out of church, we saw Mrs. Cumberland,

one of her sons, and both her daughters. Mrs. Thrale spoke to

them, but I believe they did not recollect me. They are reckoned

the flashers of the place, yet everybody laughs at them for their

airs, affectations, and tonish graces and impertinences.

In the evening, Mrs. Dickens, a lady of Mrs. Thrale's

acquaintance, invited us to drink tea at the rooms with her,

which we did, and found them much more full and lively than the

preceding night. The folks of most consequence with respect to

rank, were Lady Pembroke and Lady Di Beauclerk,(108) both of whom

have still very pleasing remains of the beauty for which they

have been so much admired. But the present beauty, whose remains

our children i.e. nieces) may talk of, is a Mrs. Musters, an

exceedingly pretty woman, who is the reigning toast of the

season.

While Mrs. Thrale, Mrs. Dickens, and I were walking about after

tea, we were joined by a Mr. Cure, a gentleman of the former's

acquaintance. After a little while he said-

155

"Miss Thrale is very much grown since she was here last year ;

and besides, I think she's vastly altered."

"Do you, sir," cried she, "I can't say I think so."

"Oh vastly!--but young ladies at that age are always altering.

To tell you the truth, I did not know her at all."

This, for a little while, passed quietly; but soon after, he

exclaimed,

"Ma'am, do you know I have not yet read 'Evelina?"

"Have not you so, sir?" cried she, laughing.

"No, and I think I never shall, for there's no getting it. the

booksellers say they never can keep it a moment, and the folks

that hire it keep lending it from one to another in such a manner

that it is never returned to the library. It's very provoking."

"But," said Mrs. Thrale, "what makes you exclaim about it so to

me?"

"Why, because, if you recollect, the last thing you said to me

when we parted last year, was--be sure you read 'Evelina.' So as

soon as I saw you I recollected it all again. But I wish Miss

Thrale would turn more this way."

"Why, what do you mean, Mr. Cure? do you know Miss Thrale now?"

"Yes, to be sure," answered he, looking full at me, "though I

protest I should not have guessed at her had I seen her with

anybody but you."

"Oh ho!" cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, "so you mean Miss Burney

all this time."

Mr. Cure looked aghast. As soon, I suppose, as he was able, he

repeated, in a low voice, "Miss Burney! so then that lady is the

authoress of 'Evelina' all this time."

And, rather abruptly, he left us and joined another party.

I suppose he told his story to as many as he talked to, for, in a

short time, I found myself so violently stared at that I could

hardly look any way without being put quite out of

countenance,-particularly by young Mr. Cumberland, a handsome,

soft-looking youth, who fixed his eyes upon me incessantly,

though but the evening before, when I saw him at Hicks's, he

looked as if it would have been a diminution of his dignity to

have regarded me twice. One thing proved quite disagreeable to

me, and that was the whole behaviour of the whole tribe of the

Cumberlands, which I must explain,

156

Mr. Cumberland,(109) when he saw Mrs. Thrale, flew With eagerness

to her and made her take his seat, and he talked to her, with

great friendliness and intimacy, as he has been always accustomed

to do,-and inquired very particularly concerning her daughter,

expressing an earnest desire to see her. But when, some time

after, Mrs. Thrale said, "Oh, there is my daughter, with Miss

Burney," he changed the discourse abruptly,--never came near Miss

Thrale, and neither then nor since, when he has met Mrs. Thrale,

has again mentioned her name: and the whole evening lie seemed

determined to avoid us both.

Mrs. Cumberland contented herself with only looking at me as at a

person she had no reason or business to know.

The two daughters, but especially the eldest, as well as the son,

were by no means so quiet; they stared at me every time I came

near them as if I had been a thing for a show; surveyed me from

head to foot, and then again, and again returned to my face, with

so determined and so unabating a curiosity, that it really made

me uncomfortable.

All the folks here impute the whole of this conduct to its having

transpired that I am to bring out a play this season;

for Mr. Cumberland, though in all other respects an agreeable and

a good man, is so notorious for hating and envying and spiting

all authors in the dramatic line, that he is hardly decent in his

behaviour towards them.

He has little reason, at present at least, to bear me any

ill-will; but if he is capable of such weakness and malignity as

to have taken an aversion to me merely because I can make use of

pen and ink, he deserves not to hear of my having suppressed my

play, or of anything else that can gratify so illiberal a

disposition.

Dr. Johnson, Mr. Cholmondeley, and Mr. and Mrs. Thrale have all

repeatedly said to me, "Cumberland no doubt hates you heartily by

this time;" but it always appeared to me a speech of mingled fun

and flattery, and I never dreamed of its being possible to be

true.

A few days since, after tea at Mrs. Dickens's, we all went to the

rooms. There was a great deal of company, and among them the

Cumberlands. The eldest of the girls, who was walking with Mrs.

Musters, quite turned round her whole person every time we passed

each other, to keep me in sight, and stare at me as long as

possible; so did her brother,

157

I never saw anything so ill-bred and impertinent; I protest I was

ready to quit the rooms to avoid them - till at last Miss Thrale,

catching Miss Cumberland's eye, gave her so full, determined, and

downing a stare, that whether cured by shame or by resentment,

she forbore from that time to look at either of us. Miss Thrale,

with a sort of good-natured dryness, said, "Whenever you are

disturbed with any of these starers, apply to me,--I'll warrant

I'll cure them. I dare say the girl hates me for it ; but what

shall I be the worse for that? I would have served master

Dickey(110) so too, only I could not catch his eye."

Oct. 20-We have had a visit from Dr. Delap. He told me that he

had another tragedy, and that I should have it to read.

He was very curious to see Mr. Cumberland, who, it seems, has

given evident marks of displeasure at his name whenever Mrs.

Thrale has mentioned it. That poor man is so wonderfully

narrow-minded in his authorship capacity, though otherwise good,

humane and generous, that he changes countenance at either seeing

or hearing of any writer whatsoever. Mrs. Thrale, with whom,

this foible excepted, he is a great favourite, is so enraged with

him for his littleness of soul in this respect, that merely to

plague him, she vowed at the rooms she would walk all the evening

between Dr. Delap and me. I wished so little to increase his

unpleasant feelings, that I determined to keep with Miss Thrale

and Miss Dickens entirely. One time, though, Mrs. Thrale, when

she was sitting by Dr. Delap, called me suddenly to her, and when

I was seated, said, "Now let's see if Mr. Cumberland will come

and speak to me !" But he always turns resolutely another way

when he sees her with either of us; though at all other times he

is particularly fond of her company.

"It would actually serve him right," says she, "to make Dr. Delap

and you strut at each side of me, one with a dagger, and the

other with a mask, as tragedy and comedy."

"I think, Miss Burney," said the doctor, "you and I seem to stand

in the same predicament. What shall we do for the Poor man?

suppose we burn a play apiece?"

"Depend upon it," said Mrs. Thrale, "he has heard, in town, that

you are both to bring one out this season, and perhaps one of his

own may be deferred on that account."

On the announcement of the carriage, we went into the next room

for our cloaks, where Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Cumberland were in deep

conversation.

158

"Oh, here's Miss Burney! " said Mrs. Thrale aloud. Mr Cumberland

turned round, but withdrew his eyes instantly; and I, determined

not to interrupt them, made Miss Thrale walk away with me. In

about ten minutes she left him and we all came home.

As soon as we were in the carriage,

"It has been," said Mrs. Thrale, warmly, "all I could do not to

affront Mr. Cumberland to-night!"

"Oh, I hope not cried I, "I would not have you for the world!"

" Why, I have refrained ; but with great difficulty."

And then she told me the conversation she had just had with him.

As soon as I made off, he said, with a spiteful tone of voice,

"Oh, that young lady is an author, I hear!"

"Yes," answered Mrs. Thrale, "author of 'Evelina.'"

"Humph,--I am told it has some humour!"

"Ay, indeed! Johnson says nothing like it has appeared for

years!"

"So," cried he, biting his lips, and waving uneasily in his

chair, "so, so!"

" Yes," continued she, " and Sir Joshua Reynolds told Mr. Thrale

he would give fifty pounds to know the author!"

"So, so--oh, vastly well!" cried he, putting his hand on his

forehead.

"Nay," added she, "Burke himself sat up all night to finish it!"

This seemed quite too much for him; he put both his hands to his

face, and waving backwards and forwards, said,

"Oh, vastly well!--this will do for anything!" with a tone as

much as to say, Pray, no more!

Then Mrs. Thrale bid him good night, longing, she said, to call

Miss Thrale first, and say, "So you won't speak to my daughter?--

why, she is no author."

AN AMUSING CHARACTER: His VIEWS ON MANY SUBJECTS.

October 20.-I must now have the honour to present to you a new

acquaintance, who this day dined here.

Mr. B-y,(111) an Irish gentleman, late a commissary in Germany.

He is between sixty and seventy, but means to pass for about

thirty; gallant, complaisant, obsequious, and humble to the fair

sex, for whom he has an awful reverence; but when

159

not immediately addressing them, swaggering, blustering, puffing,

and domineering. These are his two apparent characters; but the

real man is worthy, moral, religious, though conceited and

parading.

He is as fond of quotations as my poor Lady Smatter,(112) and,

like her, knows little beyond a song, and always blunders about

the author of that. His whole conversation consists in little

French phrases, picked up during his residence abroad, and in

anecdotes and story-telling, which are sure to be retold daily

and daily in the same words.

Speaking of the ball in the evening, to which we were all going,

"Ah, madam!" said he to Mrs. Thrale, "there was a time when--

fol-de-rol, fol-de-rol [rising, and dancing and Singing],

fol-de-rol!--I could dance with the best of them; but now a man,

forty and upwards, as my Lord Ligonier used to say--but-

-fol-de-rol!--there was a time!"

"Ay, so there was, Mr. B--y," said Mrs. Thrale, "and I think you

and I together made a very venerable appearance!"

"Ah! madam, I remember once, at Bath, I was called out to dance

with one of the finest young ladies I ever saw. I was just

preparing to do my best, when a gentleman of my acquaintance was

so cruel as to whisper me-- 'B--y! the eyes of all Europe are

upon you!' for that was the phrase of the times. 'B--y!' says

he, 'the eyes of all Europe are upon you!'-- I vow, ma'am, enough

to make a man tremble!-fol-de-rol, fol-de-rol! [dancing]--the

eyes of all Europe are upon you!--I declare, ma'am, enough to put

a man out of countenance."

I am absolutely almost ill with laughing. This Mr. B--y half

convulses me ; yet I cannot make you laugh by writing his

speeches, because it is the manner which accompanies them, that,

more than the matter, renders them so peculiarly ridiculous.

His extreme pomposity, the solemn stiffness of his person, the

conceited twinkling of his little old eyes, and the quaint

importance of his delivery, are so much more like some

pragmatical old coxcomb represented on the stage, than like

anything in real and common life, that I think, were I a man, I

should sometimes be betrayed into clapping him for acting so

Well. As it is, I am sure no character in any comedy I ever saw

has made me laugh more extravagantly.

He dines and spends the evening here constantly, to my great

satisfaction.

160

At dinner, when Mrs. Thrale offers him a seat next her, he

regularly says,

"But where are les charmantes?" meaning Miss T. and me. "I can

do nothing till they are accommodated!"

And, whenever he drinks a glass of Wine, he never fails to touch

either Mrs. Thrale's, or my glass, with "est-il permis?"

But at the same time that he is so courteous, he is proud to a

most sublime excess, and thinks every person to whom he speaks

honoured beyond measure by his notice, nay, he does not even look

at anybody without evidently displaying that such notice is more

the effect of his benign condescension, than of any pretension on

their part to deserve such a mark of his perceiving their

existence. But you will think me mad about this man.

Nov. 3-Last Monday we went again to the ball. Mr. B--y, who was

there, and seated himself next to Lady Pembroke, at the top of

the room, looked most sublimely happy! He continues still to

afford me the highest diversion.

As he is notorious for his contempt of all artists, whom he looks

upon with little more respect than upon day-labourers, the other

day, when painting was discussed, he spoke of Sir Joshua Reynolds

as if he had been upon a level with a carpenter or farrier.

"Did you ever," said Mrs. Thrale, "see his Nativity?"

"No, madam,--but I know his pictures very well; I knew him many

years ago, in Minorca; he drew my picture there; and then he knew

how to take a moderate price; but now, I vow, ma'am, 'tis

scandalous--scandalous indeed! to pay a fellow here seventy

guineas for scratching out a head!"

"Sir," cried Dr. Delap, "you must not run down Sir Joshua

Reynolds, because he is Miss Burney's friend."

"Sir," answered he, "I don't want to run the man down; I like him

well enough in his proper place; he is as decent as any man of

that sort I ever knew; but for all that, sir, his prices are

shameful. Why, he would not (looking at the poor doctor with an

enraged contempt] he would not do your head under seventy

guineas!"

"Well," said Mrs. Thrale, "he had one portrait at the last

exhibition, that I think hardly could be paid enough for; it was

of a Mr. Stuart; I had never done admiring it."

"What stuff is this, ma'am!" cried Mr. B-y, "how can two or three

dabs of paint ever be worth such a sum as that?"

161

"Sir," said Mr. Selwyn(113) (always willing to draw him out),

"you know not how much he is improved since you knew him in

Minorca; he is now the finest painter, perhaps, in the world."

"Pho, pho, sir," cried he, "how can you talk so? you, Mr.

Selwin, who have seen so many capital pictures abroad?

"Come, come, sir," said the ever odd Dr. Delap, "you must not go

on so undervaluing him, for, I tell you, he is a friend of Miss

Burney's."

"Sir," said Mr. B--y, "I tell you again I have no objection to

the man; I have dined in his company two or three times; a very

decent man he is, fit to keep company with gentlemen; but, ma'am,

what are all your modern dabblers put together to one ancient?

nothing!--a set of--not a Rubens among them! I vow, ma'am, not a

Rubens among them!" .....

To go on with the subject I left off with last--my favourite

subject you will think it---Mr. B-y. I must inform you that his

commendation was more astonishing to me than anybody's could be,

as I had really taken it for granted he had hardly noticed my

existence. But he has also spoken very well of Dr. Delap-that is

to say, in a very condescending manner. " That Mr. Delap," said

he, " seems a good sort of .man ; I wish all the cloth were like

him; but, lackaday! 'tis no such thing; the clergy in general are

but odd dogs."

Whenever plays are mentioned, we have also a regular speech about

them. "I never," he says, "go to a tragedy,--it's too affecting;

tragedy enough in real life: tragedies are only fit for fair

females; for my part, I cannot bear to see Othello tearing about

in that violent manner--and fair little Desdemona, ma'am, 'tis

too affecting! to see your kings and your princes tearing their

pretty locks,--oh, there's no standing it! 'A straw-crown'd

monarch,'--what is that, Mrs. Thrale?

'A straw-crown'd monarch in mock majesty.'

I can't recollect now where that is; but for my part, I really

Cannot bear to see such sights. And then out come the white

handkerchiefs, and all their pretty eyes are wiping, and then

come poison and daggers, and all that kind of thing,--O ma'am,

'tis too much; but yet the fair tender hearts, the pretty little

females, all like it!"

162

This speech, word for word, I have already heard from him

literally four times.

When Mr. Garrick was mentioned, he honoured him with much the

same style of compliment as he had done Sir Joshua Reynolds.

"Ay, ay," said he, "that Garrick was another of those fellows

that people run mad about. Ma'am, 'tis a shaine to think of such

things! an actor living like a person of quality scandalous! I

vow, scandalous!"

"Well,--commend me to Mr. B--y!" cried Mrs. Thrale "for he is

your only man to put down all the people that everybody else sets

up."

"Why, ma'am," answered he, "I like all these people very well in

their proper places ; but to see such a set of poor beings living

like persons of quality,--'tis preposterous! common sense, madam,

common sense is against that kind of thing. As to Garrick, he

was a very good mimic, an entertaining fellow enough, and all

that kind of thing - but for an actor to live like a person of

quality--oh, scandalous!"

Some time after the musical tribe was mentioned. He was at cards

at the time with Mr. Selwyn, Dr. Delap, and Mr. Thrale, while we

"fair females," as he always calls us, were speaking of

Agujari.(114) He constrained himself from flying out as long as

he was able ; but upon our mentioning her having fifty pounds a

song, he suddenly, in a great rage, called out, "Catgut and rosin

!ma'am, 'tis scandalous!" . . .

The other day, at dinner, the subject was married life, and among

various husbands and wives Lord L-- being mentioned, Mr. B--y

pronounced his panegyric, and called him his friend. Mr. Selwyn,

though with much gentleness, differed from him in opinion, and

declared he could not think well of him, as he knew his lady, who

was an amiable woman, was used very ill by him.

"How, sir? " cried Mr. B--y.

"I have known him," answered Mr. Selwyn, "frequently pinch her

till she has been ready to cry with pain, though she has

endeavoured to prevent its being observed."

"And I," said Mrs. Thrale, "know that he pulled her nose, in his

frantic brutality, till he broke-some of the vessels of it, and

when she was dying she still found the torture he had

163

given her by it so great, that it was one of her last

complaints."

The general, who is all for love and gallantry, far from

attempting to vindicate his friend, quite swelled with

indignation It this account, and, after a pause, big with anger,

exclaimed,

"Wretched doings, sir, wretched doings!"

"Nay, I have known him," added Mr. Selwyn, "insist upon handing

her to her carriage, and then, with an affected kindness, pretend

to kiss her hand, instead of which he has almost bit a piece out

of it."

"Pitiful!--pitiful! sir," cried the General, "I know nothing more

shabby!"

"He was equally inhuman to his daughter," said Mrs.

Thrale, "for, in one of his rages, he almost throttled her."

"Wretched doings!" again exclaimed Mr. B--y, "what! cruel to a

fair female! Oh fie! fie! fie!--a fellow who can be cruel to

females and children, or animals, must be a pitiful fellow

indeed. I wish we had had him here in the sea. I should like to

have had him stripped, and that kind of thing, and been well

banged by ten of our clippers here with a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Cruel to a fair female? Oh fie! fie! fie!"

I know not how this may read, but I assure you its sound was

ludicrous enough.

However, I have never yet told you his most favourite story,

though we have regularly heard it three or four times a day --And

this is about his health.

"Some years ago," he says,--" let's see, how many? in the year

'71,--ay, '71, '72--thereabouts--I was taken very ill, and, by

ill-luck, I was persuaded to ask advice of one of these Dr.

Gallipots:--oh, how I hate them all! Sir, they are the vilest

pick-pockets--know nothing, sir! nothing in the world! poor

ignorant mortals! and then they pretend--In short, sir, I hate

them all!- I have suffered so much by them, sir--lost four years

of the happiness of my life--let's see, '71, '72, '73, '74--ay,

four years, sir!--mistook my case, sir !--and all that kind of

thing. Why, sir, my feet swelled as big as two horses' heads! I

vow I will never consult one of these Dr. Gallipot fellows again!

lost me, sir, four years of the happiness of my life!--why, I

grew quite an object!---you would hardly have known me!--lost all

the calves of my legs!--had not an ounce of flesh left!--and as

to the rouge--why, my face was the colour of that candle!--those

deuced Gallipot fellows!--why, they robbed me of four years--let

me see, ay, '71, '72--"

164

And then it was all given again!

We had a large party of gentlemen to dinner. Among them was Mr.

Hamilton, commonly called Single-speech Hamilton, from having

made one remarkable speech in the House of Commons against

government, and receiving some douceur to be silent ever after.

This Mr. Hamilton is extremely tall and handsome; has an air of

haughty and fashionable superiority; is intelligent, dry,

sarcastic, and clever. I should have received much pleasure from

his conversational powers, had I not previously been prejudiced

against him, by hearing that he is infinitely artful, double, and

crafty.

The dinner conversation was too general to be well remembered;

neither, indeed, shall I attempt more than partial scraps

relating to matters of what passed when we adjourned to tea.

Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Selwyn, Mr. Tidy, and Mr. Thrale seated

themselves to whist ; the rest looked on : but the General, as he

always does, took up the newspaper, and, with various comments,

made aloud, as he went on reading to himself, diverted the whole

company. Now he would cry, "Strange! strange that!"--presently,

"What stuff! I don't believe a word of it!"--a little after, "Mr.

Bate,(115) I wish your ears were cropped!"--then, "Ha! ha! ha!

funnibus! funnibus! indeed!"--and, at last, in a great rage, he

exclaimed, "What a fellow is this, to presume to arraign the

conduct of persons of quality!"

Having diverted himself and us in this manner, till he had read

every column methodically through, he began all over again, and

presently called out, "Ha! ha! here's a pretty thing!" and then,

in a plaintive voice, languished out some wretched verses.

(73) This was not the famous philosopher and statesman, but the

Rev. Thomas Franklin, D.D., who was born in 1721, and died in

1784. He published various translations from the classics, as

well as plays and miscellaneous works; but is best known for his

translation of Sophocles, published in 1759.-ED.

(74) "Warley: a Satire," then just published, by a Mr.

Huddisford. "Dear little Burney's" name was coupled in it with

that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, in a manner which seemed to imply

that Sir Joshua had special reasons for desiring her approbation.

It will be remembered that, before he knew that Miss Burney was

the author of "Evelina," Sir Joshua had jestingly remarked that

If the author proved to be a woman, he should be sure to make

love to her. See ante, p. 94.-ED.

(75) Mrs. Horneck and Mrs. Bunbury (her eldest daughter) had

declared that they would walk a hundred and sixty miles, to see

the author of "Evelina."-ED.

(76) See note 37 ante, p. 68.-ED,

(77) A kinsman of the great Edmund Burke, and, like him, a

politician and member of Parliament. Goldsmith has drawn his

character in "Retaliation."

"Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,

While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't;

The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,

His conduct still right, with his argument wrong

Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,

The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;

Would-you ask for his merits ? alas! he had none;

What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own."-ED.

(78) Henry Temple, second Viscount Palmerston, and father of the

celebrated Lord Palmerston.-ED.

(79) Mrs. Cholmondeley imitates the language of Madame Duval, the

Prench woman in "Evelina."-ED.

(80) A character in "Evelina."-ED.

(81) Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was born at Plympton, in

Devonshire, in 1723-ED.

(82) Mr. Qwatkin afterwards married Miss Offy Palmer.-ED.

(83) Afterwards Lady Crewe; the daughter of Mr, and Mrs.

Greville, and a famous Political beauty. At a supper after the

Westminster election on the Prince of Wales toasting, "True blue

and Mrs. Crewe," the lady responded, "True blue and all of

you."-ED.

(84) A celebrated Italian singer and intimate friend of the

Burneys.-ED.

85) See note (15) ante, p. xxvi. The intended marriage above

referred to above came to nothing, Miss Cumberland, the eldest

daughter of the dramatist subsequently marrying Lord Edward

Bentinck, son of the Duke of Portland.-ED.

(86) Miss Hannah More, the authoress.-ED.

(87) Hannah More gave Dr. Johnson, when she was first introduced

to him, such a surfeit of flattery, that at last, losing

patience, he turned to her and said, "Madam, before you flatter a

man so grossly to his face, you should consider whether or not

your flattery is worth his having."-ED.

(88) Mrs. Vesey was the lady at whose house were held the

assemblies from which the term "blue-stocking" first came into

use. (.See ante, p. 98.) Fanny writes of her in 1779, "She is an

exceeding well-bred woman, and of agreeable manners; but all her

name in the world must, I think, have been acquired by her

dexterity and skill in selecting parties, and by her address in

rendering them easy with one another--an art, hoever, that seems

to imply no mean understanding."-ED.

(90) Sheridan was at this time manager of Drury-lane Theatre-ED.

(91) Sir P. J. Clerke's bill was moved on the 12th of February.

It passed the first and second readings, but was afterwards lost

on the motion for going into committee. It was entitled a "Bill

for restraining any person, being a member of the House of

Commons, from being concerned himself, or any person in trust for

him, in any contract made by the commissioners of his Majesty's

Treasury, the commissioners of the Navy, the

board of Ordnance, or by any other person or persons for the

public service, Unless the said contract shall be made at a

public bidding."-ED.

(93) Arthur Murphy, the well-known dramatic author, a very

intimate friend of the Thrales. He was born in Ireland in 1727,

and died at Knightsbridge in 1805. Among his most successful

plays were "The Orphan of China " and "The Way to Keep Hirn."-ED.

(94) "The', Good-natured Man."-ED

(95) Sophy Streatfield, a young lady who understood Greek, and

was consequently looked upon as a prodigy of learning. Mrs.

Thrale appears to have been slightly jealous of her about this

time, though without serious cause. In January, 1779, she writes

(in "Thraliana"): "Mr. Thrale has fallen in love, really and

seriously, with Sophy Streatfield; but there is no wonder in

that; she is very pretty, very gentle, soft and insinuating;

hangs about him, dances round him, cries when she parts from him,

squeezes his hand slily, and with her sweet eyes full of tears

looks fondly in his face--and all for love of me, as she

pretends, that I can hardly sometimes help laughing in her face.

A man must not be a man, but an it, to resist such

artillery."-ED.

(96) Characters in the comedy which Fanny was then engaged

upon.-ED.

(97) Sir Philip Jennings Clerke-ED,

(98) The Rev. John Delap, D.D., born 1725, died 1812. He was a

man "of deep learning, but totally ignorant of life and manners,"

and wrote several tragedies, two or three of which were acted,

but generally without success,-ED.

(99) Mrs. Piozzi (then Mrs. Thrale) relates this story in her

"Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson." "I came into the room one evening

where he [Johnson] and a gentleman [Seward], whose abilities we

all respect exceedingly, were sitting. A lady [Miss

Streatfield], who walked in two minutes before me, had blown 'em

both into a flame by whispering something to Mr. S-d, which he

endeavoured to explain away so as not to affront the doctor,

whose suspicions were all alive. 'And have a care, sir,' said

he, just as I came in, 'the Old Lion will not bear to be

tickled.' The other was pale with rage, the lady wept at the

confusion she had caused, and I could only say with Lady

Macbeth-- 'Soh! you've displaced the mirth, broke the good

meeting With most admired disorder.'-ED.

(100) The following note is in the hand-writing of Miss Burney,

at a subsequent period. The objection of Mr. Crisp to the MS

play of 'The Witlings,' was its resemblance to Moliere's 'Femmes

Savantes,' and consequent immense inferiority. It is, however, a

curious fact, and to the author a consolatory one, that she had

literally never read the 'Femmes Savantes' when she composed 'The

Witlings.'"

(101) Mr. Rose Fuller.-ED.

(102) Anthony Chamier, M.P. for Tamworth, and an intimate friend

of Dr. Burney's. He was Under Secretary of State from 1775 till

his death in 1780. We find him at one of Dr. Burney's famous

music-parties in 1775. Fanny writes of him then as "an extremely

agreeable man, and the very pink of gallantry." ("Early Diary,"

vol, ii. p. 106.)-ED.

(103) Afterwards Sir William Weller Pepys, Master in Chancery,

and brother of the physician, Sir Lucas Pepys. He was an ardent

lover of literature, and gave "blue-stocking" parties, which Dr.

Burney frequently attended. Fanny extols his urbanity and

benevolence. See "Memoirs of Dr. Burney," vol. ii. p. 285.-ED.

(104) His dog.-ED.

(105) Mrs. Pleydell was a friend of Dr. Burney's, and greatly

admired for ber beauty and the sweetness of her disposition. She

was the daughter of Governor Holwell, one of the survivors from

the Dlac Hole of Calcutta.-ED.

(106) Mr. Thrale was Member of Parliament for Southwark.-ED.

(107) Samuel Foote, the famous actor and writer of farces,-ED.

(108) Lady Diana Spencer, eldest daughter of Charles, second Duke

of Marlborough. She was born in 1734, married in 177 to Vicount

Bolingbroke, divorced from him in 17b8, and married soon after to

Dr. Johnson's friend, Topbam Beauclerk. Lady Di was an amateur

artist, and the productions of her pencil were much admired by

Horace Walpole and other persons of fashion. Elizabeth, Countess

of Pembroke, was the sister of Lady Di Beauclerk, being the

second daughter of the Duke of Marlborough.-ED.

(109) See note (15 ante, p. xxvi.-Ep.

(110) Young Cumberland, son of the author.-ED.

(111) General Blakeney.-ED.

(112) A character in Fanny's suppressed comedy, "The

Witlings."-ED.

(113) Not the celebrated George Selwyn, but a wealthy banker of

that name.-ED.

(114) Lucrezia Agujari was one of the most admired Italian

singers of the day. She died at Parma in 1783.-ED.

(115) The Rev. Henry Bate, afterwards Sir Henry Bate Dudley,

editor of the "Morning Post" from its establishment in 1772 till

1780, in which year his connection with that paper came to an end

in consequence of a quarrel with his coadjutors. On the 1st of

November, 1780, he brought out the "Morning Herald" in opposition

to his old paper, the "Post." He assumed the name of Dudley in

1784, was created a baronet in 1813, and died in 1824.

Gainsborough has painted the portrait of this ornament of the

Church, who was notorious, in his younger days, for his physical

strength, and not less so for the very unclerical use which he

made of it. He was popularly known as the "Fighting Parson."-ED.

SECTION 3

(1780-1781-)

A SEASON AT BATH: MR.THRALE'S DEATH.

[There is a long hiatus here in the published " Diary," and upon

its resumption we find Fanny at Bath with the Thrales, in April,

1780; but from her letters to Mr. Crisp we learn that she

returned, at Christmas, 1779, to her father's house in St.

Martin's -street, and spent there the intervening period,

frequently visiting, and being visited by, the Thrales. Bath was

at this time the most fashionable summer resort in the kingdom.

Fanny had been there before, in 1776 or 1777, but of that visit

no account remains to us. She has recorded, however, in "

"Evelina," her general impression of the place. "The charming

city of Bath answered all my expectations. The Crescent, the

prospect from it, and the elegant symmetry of the Circus,

delighted me. The Parades, I own, rather disappointed me; one of

them is scarce preferable to some of the best paved streets in

London; and the other, though it affords a beautiful prospect, a

charming view of Prior-park and of the Avon, yet wanted something

in itself of more striking elegance than a mere broad pavement,

to satisfy the ideas I had formed of it.

"At the pump-room, I was amazed at the public exhibition of the

ladies in the bath; it is true, their heads are covered with

bonnets; but the very idea of being seen, in such a situation, by

whoever pleases to look, is indelicate."

We may be sure Fanny never exhibited herself in such a situation.

Of her drinking the waters, even, there is no mention in her Bath

journal Of 1780. But the journal records a continual succession

of visits and diversions, and keeps us entertained with the most

life-like and amusing descriptions of Bath society. The house

occupied by Mr. Thrale and his party was at the corner of the

South-parade, and Fanny's room commanded that beautiful prospect

of Prior-park and the Avon which had charmed Evelina.

Amid all these gaieties there are glimpses of more serious

scenes. The Gordon riots took place in June, 1780, and the alarm

they occasioned spread far and wide over the country. The

present

166

section, too, closes with a melancholy incident--the death of Mr.

Thrale. He had been long ailing, and had had a paralytic stroke

in 1779. He died on the 4th of April, 1781. Probably no one

felt the loss more keenly than Thrale's old friend, 'Dr. Johnson,

in whose "Prayers and Meditations" occurs the following touching

entry:--

"Good Friday, 13th April, 1781. On Wednesday, 11th, was buried

my dear friend Thrale, who died on Wednesday, 4th ; and with him

were buried many of my hopes and pleasures. About five, I think,

on Wednesday morning he expired. I felt almost the last flutter

of his pulse, and looked for the last time upon the face that for

fifteen years had never been turned upon me but with respect or

benignity."-ED.]

A YOUTHFUL PRODIGY.

Bath, April 7-The journey was very comfortable ; Mr. Thrale was

charmingly well and in very good spirits, and Mrs. Thrale must be

charming, well or ill. We only went to Maidenhead Bridge the

first night, where I found the caution given me by Mr.

Smelt,(116) of not attempting to travel near Windsor on a

hunting-day, was a very necessary one, as we were with difficulty

accommodated even the day after the hunt; several stragglers

remaining at all the inns, and we heard of nothing but the king

and royal huntsmen and huntswomen. The second day we slept at

SDeen Hill, and the third day we reached Devizes.

And here Mrs. Thrale and I were much pleased with our hostess,

Mrs. Laurence, who seemed something above her station in her inn.

While we were at cards before supper, we were much surprised by

the sounds of a pianoforte. I jumped up, and ran to listen

whence it proceeded. I found it came from the next room, where

the overture to the "Buona Figliuola" was performing. The

playing was very decent, but as the

music was not quite new to me, my curiosity was not whole ages in

satisfying, and therefore I returned to finish the rubber.

Don't I begin to talk in an old-cattish manner of cards?

Well, another deal was hardly played, ere we heard the sound of a

voice, and out I ran again. The singing, however, detained me

not long, and so back I whisked; but the performance,

167 however indifferent in itself yet' surprised us at the Bear

however indifferent in itself, yet surprised us at Devizes, and

therefore Mrs. Thrale determined to know from whom it came.

Accordingly, she tapped at the door. A very handsome girl, about

thirteen years old, with fine dark hair upon a finely-formed

forehead, opened it. Mrs. Thrale made an apology for her

intrusion, but the poor girl blushed and retreated into a corner

of the room: another girl, however, advanced, and obligingly and

gracefully invited us in and gave us all chairs. She was just

sixteen extremely pretty, and with a countenance better than her

features, though those were also very good. Mrs. Thrale made her

many compliments, which she received with a mingled modesty and

pleasure, both becoming and interesting. She was, indeed, a

sweetly pleasing girl.

We found they were both daughters of our hostess, and born and

bred at Devizes. We were extremely pleased with them, and made

them a long visit, which I wished to have been longer. But

though those pretty girls struck us so much, the wonder of the

family was yet to be produced. This was their brother, a most

lovely boy of ten years of age who seems to be not merely the

wonder of their family, but of the times, for his astonishing

skill in drawing.(117) They protest he has never had any

instruction, yet showed us some of his productions that were

really beautiful. Those that were copies were delightful, those

of his own composition amazing, though far inferior. I was

equally struck with the boy and his works.

We found that he had been taken to town, and that all the

painters had been very kind to him, and Sir Joshua Reynolds had

pronounced him, the mother said, the most promising genius he had

ever met with. Mr. Hoare has been so charmed with this sweet

boy's drawings that he intends sending him to Italy with his own

son.

This house was full of books, as well as paintings, drawings, and

music and all the family seem not only ingenious and industrious,

but amiable; added to which, they are strikingly handsome.

LORD MULGRAVE ON THE "SERVICES."

Bath.-I shall now skip to our arrival at this beautiful city

which I really admire more than I did, if possible, when I first

saw it. The houses are so elegant, the streets are so beautiful,

the prospects so enchanting, I could fill whole pages upon the

168

general beauty of the place and country, but that I have neither

time for myself, nor incitement for you, as I know nothing tires

so much as description.

Monday.-Lord Mulgrave, Augustus Phipps, Miss Cooper, Dr.

Harrington, and Dr. Woodward dined with us.

I like Lord Mulgrave(118) very much. He has more wit, and a

greater readiness of repartee, than any man I have met with this

age. During dinner he was all brilliancy, but I drew myself into

a little scrape with him, from which I much wanted some of his

wit to extricate myself. Mrs. Thrale was speaking of the House

of Commons, and lamenting that she had never heard any debates

there.

"And now," said she, "1 cannot, for this General Johnson has

turned us all out most barbarously."

"General Johnson?" repeated Lord Mulgrave.

"Ay, or colonel--I don't know what the man was, but I know he was

no man of gallantry."

"Whatever he was," said his lordship, "I hope he was a land

officer."

"I hope so too, my lord," said she.

"No, no, no," cried Mr. Thrale, "it was Commodore Johnson."

"That's bad, indeed said Lord Mulgrave, laughing. "I thought, by

his manners, he had belonged to the army."

"True," said I "they were hardly polished enough for the sea."

This I said `a demi-voix, and meant only for Mrs. Thrale, but

Lord Mulgrave heard and drew up upon them, and pointing his

finger at me with a threatening air, exclaimed,

"Don't you speak, Miss Burney? What's this, indeed?"

They all stared, and to be sure I rouged pretty high.

"Miss Burney," said Mrs. Thrale, "should be more respectful to be

sure, for she has a brother at sea herself."

" I know it," said he, "and for all her, we shall see him come

back from Kamschatka as polished a beau as any he will find."

Poor Jem! God send him safe back, polished or rough.

LordMulgrave's brother Edmund is just entered into the army.

169

"He told me t'other day," said his lordship, "that he did not

like the thoughts of being a parson.

"'Very well,' said I, 'you are old enough to choose for yourself;

what will you be then?'

"'Why, a soldier,' says he.

"'A soldier? will you so? Why, then, the best thing you can do

is to embark with your brother Henry immediately, for you won't

know what to do in a regiment by yourself.' Well, no sooner said

than done! Henry was just going to the West Indies in Lord

Harrington's regiment, and Edmund ordered a chaise and drove to

Portsmouth after him. The whole was settled in half an hour."

SARAH, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.

My sister Gast, in her younger days, was a great favourite with

an old lady who was a particular crony and intimate of old Sarah

Marlborough, who, though much of the jade, had undoubtedly very

strong parts, and was indeed remarkably clever. When Mrs. Hinde

(the old lady) would sometimes talk to her about books, she'd cry

out, "Prithee, don't talk to me about books; I never read any

books but men and cards!" But let anybody read her book, and

then tell me if she did not draw characters with as masterly a

hand as Sir Joshua Reynolds.--Mr. Crisp to Fanny Burney (April

27.)

THE BYRONS.

Sunday-We had Mrs. Byron and Augusta,(119) and Mrs. Lee, to spend

the afternoon. Augusta opened her whole heart to me, as we sat

together, and told me all the affairs of her family. Her

brother, Captain George Byron, is lately returned from the West

Indies, and has brought a wife with him from Earbadoes, though he

was there only three weeks, and knew not this girl he has married

till ten days before he left it!--a pleasant circumstance for

this proud family!

Poor Mrs. Byron seems destined for mortification and humiliation;

yet such is her native fire, and so wonderful are her spirits,

that she bears up against all calamity, and though half mad one

day with sorrow and vexation, is fit the next to entertain an

assembly of company;-and so to entertain them as to

170

make the happiest person in the company, by comparison with

herself, seem sad.

Augusta is a very amiably ingenuous girl, and I love her the more

for her love of her sisters: she talked to me of them all, but

chiefly of Sophia, the youngest next to herself, but who, having

an independent fortune, has quarrelled with her mother, and lives

with one of her sisters, Mrs. Byron, who married a first cousin,

And son of Lord Byron. '

"Ah, Miss Burney," she says continually, "if you knew Sophy, you

would never bear me! she is so much better than I am, and so

handsome, and so good, and so clever,-and I used to talk to her

of you by the hour together. She longs so to know you! 'Come,'

she says, 'now tell me something more about your darling, Miss

Burney.' But I ought to hope you may never see her, for if you

did I should be so jealous."

MR. HENRY WILL BE SO MORTIFIED."

Friday was a busy and comical day. We had an engagement of long

standing, to drink tea with Miss L-, whither we all went, and a

most queer evening did we spend.

When we entered, she and all her company were looking out of the

window; however, she found us out in a few minutes, and made us

welcome in a strain of delight and humbleness at receiving us,

that put her into a flutter of spirits, from which she never

recovered all the evening.

Her fat, jolly mother took her seat at the top of the room; next

to her sat a lady in a riding habit, whom I soon found to be Mrs.

Dobson;(120) below her sat a gentlewoman, prim, upright, neat,

and mean; and, next to her, sat another, thin, haggard, wrinkled,

fine, and tawdry, with a thousand frippery ornaments and

old-fashioned furbelows; she was excellently nick-named, by Mrs.

Thrale, the Duchess of Monmouth. On the opposite side was placed

Mrs. Thrale, and, next to her, Queeny. For my own part, little

liking the appearance of the set, and half dreading Mrs. Dobson,

from whose notice I wished to escape, I had made up myself to one

of the now deserted windows, and Mr. Thrale had followed me. As

to Miss L-, she came to stand by me, and her panic, I fancy,

returned, for she seemed quite panting with a desire to say

something, and an incapacity to utter it.

171

It proved happy for me that I had taken this place, for in a few

minutes the mean, neat woman, whose name was Aubrey, asked if

Miss Thrale was Miss Thrale?

"Yes, ma'am."

"And pray, ma'am, who is that other young lady?" "

A daughter of Dr. Burney's, ma'am."

"What!" cried Mrs. Dobson, "is that the lady that has favoured us

with that excellent novel?"

"Yes, ma'am."

.Then burst forth a whole volley from all at once. "Very

extraordinary, indeed!" said one;--"Dear heart, who'd have

thought it?" said another,--"I never saw the like in my life!"

said a third. And Mrs. Dobson, entering more into detail, began

praising it through, but chiefly Evelina herself, which she said

was the most natural character she had ever met in any book.

Mr. and Mrs. Whalley now arrived, and I was obliged to go to a

chair-when such staring followed; they could not have opened

their eyes wider when they first looked at the Guildhall giants!

I looked with all the gravity and demureness possible, in order

to keep them from coming plump to the subject again, and, indeed

this, for a while, kept them off.

Soon after, Dr. Harrington(121) arrived, which closed our party.

Miss L-- went whispering to him, and then came up to me, with a

look of dismay, and said,

"O, ma'am, I'm so prodigiously concerned; Mr. Henry won't come!"

"Who, ma'am?"

"Mr. Henry, ma'am, the doctor's son. But, to be sure, he does

not know you are here, or else--but I'm quite concerned, indeed,

for here now we shall have no young gentlemen!"

"O, all the better," cried I, "I hope we shall be able to do very

well without."

"O yes, ma'am, to be sure. I don't mean for any common young

gentlemen; but Mr. Henry, ma'am, it's quite another thing;--

however, I think he might have come but I did not bappen to

mention in my card that you was to be here, and so--but I think

it serves him right for not coming to see me."

Soon after the mamma hobbled to me, and began a furious Panegyric

upon my book, saying at the same time,

172

"I wonder, Miss, how you could get at them low characters. As to

the lords and ladies, that's no wonder at all ; but, as to

t'others, why, I have not stirred night nor morning while I've

been reading it; if I don't wonder how you could be so clever!"

And much, much more. And, scarcely had she unburthened herself,

ere Miss L-- trotted back to me, crying, in a tone of mingled

triumph and vexation,

"Well, ma'am, Mr. Henry will be very much mortified when he knows

who has been here; that he will, indeed; however, I'm sure he

deserves it!"

I made some common sort of reply, that I hoped he was better

engaged, which she vehemently declared was impossible.

We had now some music. Miss L- sung various old elegies of

Jackson, Dr. Harrington, and Linley, and O how I dismalled in

hearing them! Mr. Whalley, too, sung "Robin Gray," and divers

other melancholic ballads, and Miss Thrale Sang "Ti seguiro

fedele." But the first time there was a cessation of harmony,

Miss L- again respectfully approaching me, cried,

"O Well, all my comfort is that Mr. Henry will be prodigiously

mortified! But there's a ball to-night, so I suppose he's gone

to that. However, I'm sure if he had known of meeting you young

ladies here--but it's all good enough for him, for not coming."

"Nay," cried I, "if meeting young ladies is a motive with him, he

can have nothing to regret while at a ball, where he will see

many more than he could here."

"O, ma'am, as to that--but I say no more, because it mayn't be

proper; but, to be sure, if Mr. Henry had known--however, he'll

be well mortified!" . . .

I was not two minutes relieved, ere Miss I- returned, to again

assure me how glad she was that Mr. Henry would be mortified.

The poor lady was quite heart-broken that we did not meet.

ALL THE BEST FAMILIES IN THE NAVY.

Tuesday.-Lord Mulgrave called this morning. He is returned to

Bath for only a few days. He was not in his usual spirits; yet

he failed not to give me a rub for my old offence, which he seems

determined not to forget ; for upon something being said, to

which, however, I had not attended, about seamen, he cast an arch

glance at me, and cried out,

173

"Miss Burney, I know, will take our parts-if I remember right,

she is one of the greatest of our enemies!"

"All the sea captains," said Mrs. Thrale, "fall upon Miss Burney:

Captain Cotton, my cousin, was for ever plaguing her about her

spite to the navy."

This, however, was for the character of Captain Mirvan,(122)

which, in a comical and good-humoured way, Captain Cotton

pretended highly to resent, and so, he told me, did all the

captains in the navy.

Augusta Byron, too, tells me that the admiral, her father, very

often talks of Captain Mirvan, and though the book is very high

in his favour, is not half pleased with the captain's being such

a brute.

However, I have this to comfort me-that the more I see of sea

captains, the less reason I have to be ashamed of Captain Mirvan;

for they have all so irresistible a propensity to wanton

mischief--to roasting beaus, and detesting old women, that I

quite rejoice I showed the book to no one ere printed, lest I

should have been prevailed upon to soften his character. Some

time after, while Lord Mulgrave was talking of Captain G. Byron's

marrying a girl at Barbadoes, whom he had not known a week, he

turned suddenly to me, and called out,

"See, Miss Burney, what you have to expect--your brother will

bring a bride from Kamschatka, without doubt!"

"That," said I, "may perhaps be as well as a Hottentot, for when

he was last out, he threatened us with a sister from the Cape of

Good Hope."

Thursday,-Lord Mulgrave and Dr. Harrington dined here. Lord

Mulgrave was delightful;--his wit is of so gay, so forcible, so

splendid a kind that when he is disposed to exert it, he not only

engrosses attention from all the rest of the company, but demands

the full use of all one's faculties to keep pace in understanding

the speeches, allusions, and sarcasms which he sports. But he

will never, I believe, be tired of attacking me about the sea;

"he will make me 'eat it that leak,' I assure YOU.

During dinner he was speaking very highly of a sea officer whose

name, I think, was Reynolds.

"And who is he?" asked Mrs. Thrale, to which his lordship

answered, "Brother to Lord--something, but I forget what;" and

then, laughing and looking at me, he added, "We have all the

great families in the navy--ay, and all the best families, too,

174

--have we not, Miss Burney? The sea is so favourable an element

to genius, that there all high-souled younger brothers with empty

pockets are sure of thriving: nay, I can say even more for it,

for it not only fosters the talents of the spirited younger

brothers, it also lightens the dullness even of that Poor

animal--an elder brother; so that it is always the most desirable

place both for best and worst."

"Well, your lordship is always ready to praise it," said Mrs.

Thrale, "and I only wish we had a few more like you in the

service,--and long may you live, both to defend and to ornament

it!"

"Defence," answered he with quickness, "it does not want, and,

for ornament, it is above all!"

THE LADY OF BATH EASTON.

Saturday.-In the afternoon we all went to the Whalleys, where we

found a large and a highly dressed company, at the head of which

sat Lady Miller.(123)

As soon as my discourse was over with Mr. Whalley, Lady Miller

arose, and went to Mrs. Thrale, and whispered something to her.

Mrs. Thrale then rose, too, and said,

"If your ladyship will give me leave, I will first introduce

175

my daughter to you "-making Miss Thrale, who was next her mother,

make her reverences. "

"And now," she continued, "Miss Burney, Lady Miller desires to be

introduced to you."

Up I jumped and walked forward ; Lady Miller, very civilly, more

than met me half way, and said very polite things, of her wish to

know me, and regret that she had not sooner met me, and then we

both returned to our seats.

Do you know now that notwithstanding Bath Easton is so much

laughed at in London, nothing here is more tonish than to visit

Lady Miller, who is extremely curious in her company, admitting

few people who are not of rank or of fame, and excluding of those

all who are not people of character very unblemished.

Some time after, Lady Miller took a seat next mine on the sofa,

to play at cards, and was excessively civil indeed-scolded Mrs.

Thrale for not sooner making us acquainted, and had the

politeness to offer to take me to the balls herself, as she heard

Mr. and Mrs. Thrale did not choose to go.

After all this, it is hardly fair to tell you what I think of

her. However, the truth is, I always, to the best of my

intentions, speak honestly what I think of the folks I see,

without being biassed either by their civilities or neglect ; and

that you will ,allow is being a very faithful historian.

well then, Lady Miller is a round, plump, coarse looking dame of

about forty, and while all her aim is to appear an elegant woman

of fashion, all her success is to seem an ordinary woman in very

common life, with fine clothes on. Her manners are bustling, her

air is mock-important, and her manners very inelegant.

So much for the lady of Bath Easton; who, however, seems

extremely good-natured, and who is, I am sure, extremely civil.

A FASHIONABLE CONCERT.

June 4.-To go on with Saturday evening. We left the Whalleys at

nine, and then proceeded to Sir J. C--, who had invited us to a

concert at his house.

We found such a crowd of chairs and carriages we could hardly

make our way. I had never seen any of the family, consisting of

Sir J. and three daughters, but had been particularly invited.

The two rooms for the company were quite full when we arrived,

and a large party was standing upon the first

176

floor landing-place. just as I got up stairs, I was much

surprised to hear my name called by a man's voice, who stood in

the crowd upon the landing-place, and who said,

"Miss Burney, better go up another flight (pointing up stairs)-

-if you'll take my advice, you'll go up another flight, for

there's no room anywhere else."

I then recollected the voice, for I could not see the face, of

Lord Mulgrave, and I began at first to suppose I must really do

as he said, for there seemed not room for a sparrow, and I have

heard the Sharp family do actually send their company all over

their house when they give concerts. However, by degrees we

squeezed ourselves into the outer room, and then Mrs. Lambart

made way up to me, to introduce me to Miss C--, who is extremely

handsome, genteel, and pleasing, though tonish, and who did the

honours, in spite of the crowd, in a manner to satisfy everybody.

After that, she herself introduced me to her next sister,

Arabella, who is very fat, but not ugly. As to Sir J., He was

seated behind a door in the music-room, where, being lame, he was

obliged to keep still, and I never once saw his face, though I

was upon the point of falling over him; for, at one time, as I

had squeezed just into the musicroom, and was leaning against the

door, which was open, and which Lord Althorp, the Duchess of

Devonshire's brother, was also lolling against, the pressure

pushed Sir James's chair, and the door beginning to move, I

thought we should have fallen backwards. Lord Althorp moved off

instantly, and I started forwards without making any disturbance,

and then Mr. Travell came to assure me all was safe behind the

door, and so the matter rested quietly, though not without giving

me a ridiculous fright.

Mr. Travell, ma'am, if I have not yet introduced him to you, I

must tell you -'is known throughout Bath by the name of Beau

Travell; he is a most approved connoisseur in beauty, gives the

ton to all the world, sets up young ladies in the beau monde, and

is the sovereign arbitrator of fashions, and decider of

fashionable people. I had never the honour of being addressed by

him before, though I have met him at the dean's and at Mrs.

Lainbart's. So you may believe I was properly struck.

Though the rooms were so crowded, I saw but two faces I knew--

-Lord Huntingdon, whom I have drank tea with at Mrs.

Cholmley's.(124) and Miss Philips ; but the rest were all showy

177

tonish people, who are only to be seen by going to the rooms,

which we never do.

Some time after, Lord Mulgrave crowded in among us, and cried out

to me,

"So you would not take my advice!"

I told him he had really alarmed me, for I had taken him

Seriously.

He laughed at the notion of sending me up to the garrets, and

then poked himself into the concert-room.

oh, but I forgot to mention Dr. Harrington, with whom I 'had much

conversation, and who was dry, comical, and very agreeable. I

also saw Mr. Henry, but as Miss L- was not present, nothing

ensued.(125)

Miss C- herself brought me a cup of ice, the room being crowded

that the man could not get near me. How ridiculous to invite so

many more people than could be accommodated! Lord Mulgrave was

soon sick of the heat, and finding me distressed what to do with

my cup, he very good -naturedly took it from me, but carried not

only that, but himself also, away, which I did not equally

rejoice at.

You may laugh, perhaps, that I have all this time said never A

word of the music, but the truth is I heard scarce a note. There

were quartettos and overtures by gentlemen performers whose names

and faces I know not, and such was the never ceasing rattling and

noise in the card-room, where I was kept almost all the evening,

that a general humming of musical sounds, and now and then a

twang, was all I could hear.

Nothing can well be more ridiculous than a concert of this sort;

and Dr. Harrington told me that the confusion amongst the

musicians was equal to that amongst the company ; for that, when

called upon to open the concert, they found no music. The Miss

C--'s had prepared nothing, nor yet solicited their dilettante's

to prepare for them. Miss Harrington, his daughter, who played

upon the harpsichord, and by the very little I could sometimes

hear, I believe very well, complained that she had never touched

so vile an instrument, and that she was quite disturbed at being

obliged to play upon it.

About the time that I got against the door, as I have mentioned,

of the music room, the young ladies were preparing to perform,

and with the assistance of Mr. Henry, they sang catches. Oh,

such singing! worse squalling, more out of tune, and more

178

execrable in every respect, never did I hear. We did not get

away till late.

A BATH ALDERMAN's RAREE SHOW.

Sunday.-We had an excellent sermon from the Bishop of

Peterborough, who preached merely at the request of Mrs. Thrale.

At dinner we had the bishop and Dr. Harrington; and the bishop,

who was in very high spirits, proposed a frolic, which was, that

we should all go to Spring Gardens, where he should give us tea,

and thence proceed to Mr. Ferry's, to see a very curious house

and garden. Mrs. Thrale pleaded that she had invited company to

tea at home, but the bishop said we would go early, and should

return in time, and was so gaily authoritative that he gained his

point. He had been so long accustomed to command, as master of

Westminster school, that he cannot prevail with himself, I

believe, ever to be overcome.

Dr. Harrington was engaged to a patient, and could not be of our

party. But the three Thrales, the bishop and I, pursued our

scheme, crossed the Avon, had a sweet walk through the meadows,

and drank tea at Spring Gardens, where the bishop did the honours

with a spirit, a gaiety, and an activity that jovialised us all,

and really we were prodigiously lively. We then walked on to Mr.

Ferry's habitation.

Mr. Ferry is a Bath alderman; his house and garden exhibit the

house and garden of Mr. Tattersall, enlarged. just the same

taste prevails, the same paltry ornaments, the same crowd of

buildings, the same unmeaning decorations, and the same

unsuccessful attempts at making something of nothing.

They kept us half an hour in the garden, while they were

preparing for our reception in the house, where after parading

through four or five little vulgarly showy closets, not rooms, we

were conducted into a very gaudy little apartment, where the

master of the house sat reclining on his arm, as if in

contemplation, though everything conspired to show that the house

and its inhabitants were carefully arranged for our reception.

The bishop had sent in his name by way of gaining admission.

The bishop, with a gravity of demeanour difficult to himself to

sustain, apologised for our intrusion, and returned thanks for

seeing the house and garden. Mr. Ferry started from his pensive

attitude, and begged us to be seated, and then a curtain was

drawn, and we perceived through a glass a perspective view of 179

ships, boats, and water. This raree-show over, the maid who

officiated as show-woman had a hint given her and presently a

trap-door opened, and up jumped a covered table, ornamented with

various devices. When we had expressed our delight at this long

enough to satisfy Mr. Ferry, another hint was given,

and presently down dropped an eagle from the ceiling whose talons

were put into a certain hook in the top of the covering of the

table, and when the admiration at this was over, up again flew

the eagle, conveying in his talons the cover, and leaving under

it a repast of cakes, sweetmeats, oranges, and jellies.

When our raptures upon this feat subsided, the maid received

another signal, and then seated herself in an armchair, which

presently sank down underground, and up in its room came a

barber's block, with a vast quantity of black wool on it, and a

high head-dress.

This, you may be sure, was more applauded than all the rest; we

were en extase, and having properly expressed our gratitude, were

soon after suffered to decamp.

FLIGHTY CAPTAIN BOUCHIER.

Tuesday.-This morning, by appointment, we met a party at the

pump-room, thence to proceed to Spring Gardens, to a public

breakfast. The folks, however, were not to their time, and we

sallied forth only with the addition of Miss Weston and Miss

Byron.

As soon as we entered the gardens Augusta, who had hold of my

arm, called out, "Ah! there's the man I danced with at the ball!

and he plagued me to death, asking me if I liked this and that,

and the other, and, when I said 'No,' he asked me what I did

like? So, I suppose he thought me a fool, and so indeed, I am!

only you are so good to me that I wrote my sister Sophy word that

you had almost made me quite vain; and she wrote to me t'other

day a private letter, and told me how glad she was you were come

back, for, indeed, I had written her word I should be quite sick

of my life here, if it was not for sometimes seeing you."

The gentleman to whom she pointed presently made up to us, And I

found he was Captain Bouchier, the saine who had rattled away at

Mr. Whalley's. He instantly joined Miss Weston and consequently

our party, and was in the same style of flighty raillery as

before. He seems to have a very good understanding, and very

quick parts, but he is rather too conscious of both

180

however, he was really very entertaining, and as he abided wholly

by Miss Weston, whose delicacy gave way to gaiety and flash,

whether she would or not, I was very glad that he made one among

us.

The rest of the company soon came, and were Mr. and Mrs. Whalley,

Mrs. Lambart, Mrs. Aubrey, Colonel Campbell, an old officer and

old acquaintance of Mr. Thrale, and some others, both male and

female, whose names I know not.

We all sat in one box, but we had three tea-makers. Miss Weston

presided at that to which I belonged, and Augusta, Captain

Bouchier, and herself were of our set. And gay enough we were,

for the careless rattle of Captain Bouchier, which paid no regard

to the daintiness of Miss Weston, made her obliged in her own

defence, to abate her finery, and laugh, and rally, and rail, in

her turn. But, at 'last, I really began to fear that this

flighty officer would bring on a serious quarrel, for, among

other subjects he was sporting, he unfortunately started that of

the Bath Easton vase, which he ridiculed without mercy, and yet,

according to all I have heard of it, without any injustice; but

Mrs. Whalley, who overheard him, was quite irritated with him.

Sir John an Lady Miller are her friends, and she thought it

incumbent upon her to vindicate even this vain folly, which she

did weakly and warmly, while Captain Bouchier only laughed and

ridiculed them the more. Mrs. Whalley then coloured, and grew

quite enraged, reasoning upon the wickedness of laughing at her

good friends, and talking of generosity and sentiment.

Meanwhile, he scampered from side to side to avoid her; laughed,

shouted, and tried every way of braving it out; but was compelled

at last to be serious, and enter into a solemn defence of his

intentions, which were, he said, to ridicule the vase, not the

Millers.

A YOUNG AND AGREEABLE INFIDEL.

Wednesday.-The party was Mr. and Mrs. Vanbrugh--the former a good

sort of man-the latter, Captain Bouchier says, reckons herself a

woman of humour, but she kept it prodigious snug; Lord

Huntingdon, a very deaf old lord Sir Robert Pigot, a very thin

old baronet ; Mr. Tyson, a very civil master of the ceremonies ;

Mr. and Mrs. White, a very insignificant couple; Sir James C--, a

bawling old man; two Misses C--, a pair of tonish misses; Mrs.

and Miss Byron; Miss W--, and certain others I knew nothing of.

181

Augusta Byron, according to custom, had entered into conversation

with me, and we were talking about her sisters, and her affairs,

when Mr. E- -(whose name I forgot to mention) came to inform me

that Mrs. Lambart begged to speak to me. She was upon a sofa

with Miss W--, who, it seemed, desired much to be introduced to

me, and so I took a chair facing them.

Miss W--- is young and pleasing in her appearance,not pretty, but

agreeable in her face, and soft, gentle, and well bred in her

manners. Our conversation, for some time, was upon the common

Bath topics; but when Mrs. Lambart left us--called to receive

more company--we went insensibly into graver matters.

As I soon found, by the looks and expressions of this young lady

that she was of a peculiar cast, I left all choice of subjects to

herself, determined quietly to follow as she led ; and very soon,

and I am sure I know not how, we had for topics the follies and

vices of mankind, and, indeed, she spared not for lashing them.

The women she rather excused than defended, laying to the door of

the men their faults and imperfections; but the men, she said,

were all bad--all, in one word, and without exception,

sensualists.

I stared much at a severity of speech for which her softness of

manner had so ill prepared me ; and she, perceiving my surprise,

said,

"I am sure I ought to apologise for speaking my opinion to you-

-you, who have so just and so uncommon a knowledge of human

nature. I have long wished ardently to have the honour of

conversing with you ; but your party has, altogether, been

regarded as so formidable, that I have not had courage to

approach it."

I made--as what could I do else?--disqualifying speeches, and she

then led to discoursing of happiness and misery: the latter she

held to be the invariable lot of us all; and "one word," she

added, "we have in our language, and in all others, for which

there is never any essential necessity, and that is pleasure!"

And her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

"How you amaze me!" cried I; "I have met with misanthropes

before, but never with so complete a one; and I can hardly think

I hear right when I see how young you are!"

She then, in rather indirect terms, gave me to understand that

she was miserable at home, and in very direct terms, that she was

wretched abroad; and openly said, that to affliction

182

she was born, and in affliction she must die, for that the world

was so vilely formed as to render happiness impossible for its

inhabitants.

There was something in this freedom of repining that I could by

no means approve, and, as I found by all her manner that she had

a disposition to even respect whatever I said, I now grew very

serious, and frankly told her that I could not think it

consistent with either truth or religion to cherish such notions.

"One thing," answered she, "there is, which I believe might make

me happy, but for that I have no inclination: it is an amorous

disposition; but that I do not possess. I can make myself no

happiness by intrigue."

"I hope not, indeed!" cried I, almost confounded by her

extraordinary notions and speeches; "but, surely, there are

worthier objects of happiness attainable!"

"No, I believe there are not, and the reason the men are happier

than us, is because they are more sensual!"

"I would not think such thoughts," cried I, clasping my hands

with an involuntary vehemence, "for worlds!"

The Misses C-- then interrupted us, and seated themselves next to

us; but Miss W-- paid them little attention at first, and soon

after none at all; but, in a low voice, continued her discourse

with me, recurring to the same subject of happiness and misery,

upon which, after again asserting the folly of ever hoping for

the former, she made this speech,

"There may be, indeed, one moment of happiness, which must be the

finding one worthy of exciting a passion which one should dare

own to himself. That would, indeed, be a moment worth living

for! but that can never happen--I am sure not to me--the men are

so low, so vicious, so worthless! No, there is not one such to

be found!"

What a strange girl! I could do little more than listen to her,

from surprise at all she said.

"If, however," she continued, "I had your talents I could, bad as

this world is, be happy in it. There is nothing, there is nobody

I envy like you. With such resources as yours there can never be

ennui; the mind may always be employed, and always be gay! Oh,

if I could write as you write!"

"Try," cried I, "that is all that is wanting! try, and you will

soon do much better things!"

"O no! I have tried, but I cannot succeed."

"Perhaps you are too diffident. But is it possible you can

183

be serious in so dreadful an assertion as that you are never

happy? Are you sure that some real misfortune would not show you

that your present misery is imaginary?"

"I don't know," answered she, looking down, "perhaps it is So,--

but in that case 'tis a misery so much the harder to be cured."

"You surprise me more and more," cried I; "is it possible you can

so rationally see the disease of a disordered imagination, and

yet allow it such power over your mind?"

"Yes, for it is the only source from which I draw any shadow of

felicity. Sometimes when in the country, I give way to my

imagination for whole days, and then I forget the world and its

cares, and feel some enjoyment of existence."

"Tell me what is then your notion of felicity? Whither does your

castle-building carry you?"

"O, quite out of the world--I know not where, but I am surrounded

with sylphs, and I forget everything besides."

"Well, you are a most extraordinary character, indeed; I must

confess I have seen nothing like you!"

"I hope, however, I shall find something like myself, and, like

the magnet rolling in the dust, attract some metal as I go."

"That you may attract what you please, is of all things the most

likely; but if you wait to be happy for a friend resembling

yourself, I shall no longer wonder at your despondency."

"Oh!" cried she, raising her eyes in ecstasy, "could I find such

a one!--male or female--for sex would be indifferent to me.

With such a one I would go to live directly."

I half laughed, but was perplexed in my own mind whether to be-

sad or merry at such a speech.

"But then," she continued, "after making, should I lose such a

friend, I would not survive."

"Not survive?" repeated I, "what can you mean?"

She looked down, but said nothing.

"Surely you cannot mean," said I, very gravely indeed, "to Put a

violent end to your life."

"I should not," said she, again looking up, "hesitate a moment."

I was quite thunderstruck, and for some time could not say A

word; but when I did speak, it was in a style of exhortation so

serious and earnest, I am ashamed to write it to you, lest 'You

should think it too much.

184

She gave me an attention that was even respectful, but when I

urged her to tell me by what right she thought herself entitled

to rush unlicensed on eternity, she said, "By the right of

believing I shall be extinct." I really felt horror-struck.

"Where, for heaven's sake," I cried, "where have

you picked up such dreadful reasoning?"

"In Hume," said she; " I have read his Essays repeatedly."

"I am sorry to find they have power to do so much mischief; you

should not have read them, at least till a man equal to Hume in

abilities had answered him. Have you read any more infidel

writers?"

"Yes, Bolingbroke, the divinest of all writers."

"And do you read nothing upon the right side?"

"Yes, the bible, till I was sick to death of it, every Sunday

evening to my mother."

Have you read Beattie on the Immutability of Truth?"(126)

"No."

"Give me leave then to recommend it to you. After Hume's Essays

you ought to read it. And even for lighter reading, if you were

to look at Mason's 'Elegy on Lady Coventry,' it might be of no

disservice to you."

This was the chief of our conversation, which indeed made an

impression upon me I shall not easily get rid of. A young and

agreeable infidel is even a shocking sight, and with her

romantic, flighty, and unguarded turn of mind, what could happen

to her that could give surprise?

BALL-ROOM FLIRTATIONS.

Friday.-In the evening was the last ball expected to be at Bath

this season, and therefore knowing we could go to no other, it

was settled we should go to this. Of our party

185

were Mrs. Byron and Augusta, Miss Philips, and Charlotte Lewis.

Mrs. Byron was placed at the upper end of the room by Mr. Tyson,

because she is honourable, and her daughter next to her; I, of

course, the lowest of our party; but the moment Mr. Tyson had

arranged us, Augusta arose, and nothing would satisfy her but

taking a seat not only next to but below me; nor could I for my

life get the better of the affectionate humility with which she

quite supplicated me to be content. She was soon after followed

by Captain Brisbane, a young officer who had met her in Spring

Gardens, and seemed much struck with her, and was now presented

to her by Mr. Tyson for her partner.

Captain Brisbane is a very pretty sort of young man, but did not

much enliven us. Soon after I perceived Captain Bouchier, who,

after talking some time with Mrs. Thrale, and various parties,

made up to us, and upon Augusta's being called upon to dance a

minuet, took her place, and began a very lively sort of

chit-chat.

I had, however, no small difficulty to keep him from abusing my

friend Augusta. He had once danced with her, and their commerce

had not been much to her advantage. I defended her upon the

score of her amiable simplicity and unaffected ingenuousness, but

I could not have the courage to contradict him when he said he

had no notion she was very brilliant by the conversation he had

had with her. Augusta, indeed, is nothing less than brilliant:

but she is natural, artless, and very affectionate. just before

she went to dance her minuet, upon my admiring her bouquet, which

was the most beautiful in the room, she tore from it the only two

moss roses in it, and so spoilt it all before her exhibition,

merely that I might have the best of it.

Country dances were now preparing, and after a little further

chat, Captain Bouchier asked me for the honour of my hand, but I

had previously resolved not to dance, and therefore declined his

offer. But he took, of the sudden, a fancy to prate with me, and

therefore budged not after the refusal.

He told me this was the worst ball for company there had been the

whole season ; and, with a wicked laugh that was too Significant

to be misunderstood, said, "And, as you have been to no other,

perhaps you will give this for a specimen of a Bath ball!"

He told me he had very lately met with Hannah More, and

186

then mentioned Mrs. Montagu and Mrs. Carter, whence he took

occasion to say most high and fine things of the ladies of the

present age,--their writings, and talents; and I soon found he

had no small reverence for us blue-stockings.

About this time Charlotte,(127) who had confessedly dressed

herself for dancing, but whose pretty face had by some means been

overlooked, drawled towards us, and asked me why I would not

dance?

"I never intended it," said I, "but I hoped to have seen you."

"No," said she, yawning, "no more shall I,--I don't choose."

"Don't you ?" said Captain Bouchier, dryly, "why not?

"Why, because I don't like it."

"O fie!" cried he; "consider how cruel that is."

"I must consider myself," said she, pertly; "for I don't choose

to heat myself this hot weather."

just then a young man came forward, and requested her hand. She

coloured, looked excessively silly, and walked off with him to

join the dancers. When, between the dances, she came our way, he

plagued her, `a la Sir Clement.(128)

"Well," cried he, "so you have been dancing this hot night! I

thought you would have considered yourself better?"

"Oh," said she, "I could not help it--I had much rather not;--it

was quite disagreeable to me."

" No, no,--pardon me there!" said he, maliciously; "I saw

pleasure dance first in your eyes; I never saw you look more

delighted: you were quite the queen of smiles!"

She looked as if she could have killed him; and yet, from

giddiness and good-humour, was compelled to join in the laugh.

After this we went to tea. When that was over, and we all

returned to the ball-room, Captain Bouchier followed me, and

again took a seat next mine, which he kept, without once moving,

the whole night.

He again applied to me to dance, but I was more steady than

Charlotte; and he was called upon, and reproached by Captain

Brisbane and others for sitting still when there were so few

dancers; but he told them he could not endure being

187

pressed into the service, or serving at all under the master of

the ceremonies.

Well, I have no more time for particulars, though we had much

more converse ; for so it happened that we talked all the evening

almost together, as Mrs. Thrale and Mrs. Byron were engaged with

each other: Miss Thrale, who did not dance, was fairly jockeyed

out of her place next me by Captain Bouchier, and the other young

ladies were with their partners. Before we broke up, this

captain asked me if I should be at the play next night?--"Yes," I

could not but say, as we had had places taken some time; but I

did not half like it, for his manner of asking plainly implied,

"If you go, why I will!"

When we made our exit, he saw me safe out of the rooms, with as

much attention as if we had actually been partners. As we were

near home we did not get into chairs; and Mr. Travell joined us

in our walk.

"Why, what a flirtationcried Mrs. Thrale; "why, Burney, this is a

man of taste!--Pray, Mr. Travell, will it do? What has he."

"Twenty thousand pounds, ma'am," answered the beau.

"O ho! has he so?--Well, well, we'll think of It."

Finding her so facetious, I determined not to acquaint her with

the query concerning the play, knowing that, if I did, and he

appeared there, she would be outrageous in merriment. She is a

most dear creature, but never restrains her tongue in anything,

nor, indeed, any of her feelings:--she laughs, cries, scolds,

sports, reasons, makes fun,--does everything she has an

inclination to do, without any study of prudence, or thought of

blame; and pure and artless as is this character, it often draws

both herself and others into scrapes, which a little discretion

would avoid.

FURTHER FLIRTATIONS.

Saturday morning I spent in visiting. At dinner we had Mrs.

Lambart and Colonel Campbell. All the discourse was upon Augusta

Byron's having made a conquest of Captain Brisbane, and the match

was soon concluded upon,--at least, they all allowed it would be

decided this night, when she was to go with us to the play; and

if Captain Brisbane was there, why then he was in for it, and the

thing was done.

Well--Augusta came at the usual time; Colonel Campbell took

leave, but Mrs. Lambart accompanied us to the play:

188

and, in the lobby, the first object we saw was Captain Brisbane.

He immediately advanced to us, and, joining our party, followed

us into our box.

Nothing could equal the wickedness of Mrs. Thrale and Mrs.

Lambart; they smiled at each other with such significance!

Fortunately, however, Augusta did not observe them.

Well, we took our seats, and Captain Brisbane, by getting into

the next box, on a line with ours, placed himself next to

Augusta:(129) but hardly had Mrs. T. and L. composed their faces,

ere I heard the box-door open. Every one looked round but me,

and I had reasons for avoiding such curiosity,--reasons well

enough founded, for instantly grins, broader than before, widened

the mouths of the two married ladies, while even Miss Thrale

began a titter that half choaked her, and Augusta, nodding to me

with an arch smirk, said, "Miss Burney, I wish you joy!"

To be sure I could have no doubt who entered, but, very

innocently, I demanded of them all the cause of their mirth.

They scrupled not explaining themselves; and I found my caution,

in not mentioning the query that had been put to me, availed me

nothing, for the captain was already a marked man in my service!

He placed himself exactly behind me, but very quietly and

silently, and did not, for some minutes, speak to me; afterwards,

however, he did a little,-except when my favourite, Mr. Lee, who

acted Old Norval, in "Douglas," was on the stage, and then he was

strictly silent. I am in no cue to write our discourse ; but it

was pleasant and entertaining enough at the time, and his

observations upon the play and the players were lively and

comical. But I was prodigiously worried by my own party, who

took every opportunity to inquire how I was entertained and so

forth,--and to snigger.

Two young ladies, who seemed about eighteen, and sat above

189

us Were somuch shocked by the death of Douglas, that both burst

into a loud fit of roaring, like little children,--and sobbed on,

afterwards, for almost half the farce! I was quite astonished;

and Miss Weston complained that they really disturbed her sorrows

; but Captain Bouchier was highly diverted, and went to give them

comfort, as if they had been babies, telling them it was all

over, and that they need not cry any more.

Monday.-At breakfast, Mrs. Thrale said,

"Ah, you never tell me your love-secrets, but I could tell you

one if I chose it!"

This produced entreaties - and entreaties thus much further-

"Why, I know very well who is in love with Fanny Burney!"

I told her that was more than I did, but owned it was not

difficult to guess who she meant, though I could not tell what.

"Captain Bouchier," said she. "But you did not tell me so, nor

he either; I had it from Mr. Tyson, our master of the ceremonies,

who told me you made a conquest of him at the ball; and he knows

these matters pretty well; 'tis his trade to know them."

"Well-a-day!" quoth I--"'tis unlucky we did not meet a little

sooner, for this very day he is ordered away with his troop into

Norfolk."

BATH EASTON AND SCEPTICAL MISS W

Thursday, June 8.-We went to Bath Easton. Mrs.Lambart went with

us.

The house is charmingly situated, well fitted up, convenient, and

pleasant, and not large, but commodious and elegant. Thursday is

still their public day for company, though the business of the

vase is over for this season.

The room into which we were conducted was so much crowded we

could hardly make our way. Lady Miller came to the door, and, as

she had first done to the rest of us, took my hand, and led me up

to a most prodigious fat old lady, and introduced me to her.

This was Mrs. Riggs, her ladyship's mother, who seems to have

Bath Easton and its owners under her feet.

I was smiled upon with a graciousness designedly marked, and

seemed most uncommonly welcome. Mrs. Riggs looked as if she

could have shouted for joy at sight of me! She is

190

mighty merry and facetious, Sir John was very quiet, but very

civil.

I saw the place appropriated for the vase, but at this time it

was removed. As it was hot, Sir John Miller offered us to walk

round the house, and see his greenhouse, etc. So away we set

off, Harriet Bowdler accompanying me, and some others following.

We had not strolled far ere we were overtaken by another party,

and among them I perceived Miss W-- my new sceptical friend. She

joined me immediately, and I found she was by no means in so sad

a humour as when I saw her last. on the contrary, she seemed

flightily gay.

"Were you never here before?" she asked me.

"No."

"No? why what an acquisition you are then! I suppose you will

contribute to the vase?"

"No, indeed!"

"No more you ought; you are quite too good for it."

"No, not that; but I have no great passion for making the trial.

You, I suppose, have contributed?"

"No, never--I can't. I have tried, but I could never write

verses in my life--never get beyond Cupid and stupid."

"Did Cupid, then, always come in your way? what a mischievous

urchin!"

"No, he has not been very mischievous to me this year."

"Not this year? Oh, very well! He has spared you, then, for a

whole twelvemonth!"

She laughed, and we were interrupted by more company. . .

Some time after, while I was talking with Miss W-- and Harriet

Bowdler, Mrs. Riggs came up to us, and with an expression of

comical admiration, fixed her eyes upon me, and for some time

amused herself with apparently watching me. Mrs. Lambart, who

was at cards, turned round and begged me to give her her cloak,

for she felt rheumatic; I could not readily find it, and, after

looking some time, I was obliged to give her my own; but while I

was hunting, Mrs. Riggs followed me, laughing, nodding, and

looking much delighted, and every now and then saying,

"That's right, Evelina--Ah! look for it, Evelina!-Evelina always

did so--she always looked for people's cloaks, and was obliging

and well-bred!"

I grinned a little, to be sure, but tried to escape her, by again

getting between Miss W-- and Harriet Bowdler; but Mrs.

191

Riggs still kept opposite to me, expressing from time to time, by

uplifted hands and eyes, comical applause, Harriet Bowdler

modestly mumbled some praise, but addressed it to Miss Thrale. I

begged a truce, and retired to a chair in a corner, at the

request of Miss W-- to have a t`ete-`a-t`ete, for which, however,

her strange levity gave me no great desire. She begged to know

if I had written anything else. I assured her never.

"The 'Sylph,'" said she, "I am told, was yours."

"I had nothing at all to do with that or anything else that ever

was published but 'Evelina;' you, I suppose, read the 'Sylph' for

its name's sake?"

"No; I never read novels--I hate them; I never read 'Evelina'

till I was quite persecuted by hearing it talked of. 'Sir

Charles Grandison' I tried once, but could not bear it; Sir

Charles for a lover! no lover for me! for a guardian or the

trustee of an estate, he might do very well--but for a lover!"

"What--when he bows upon your hand! would not that do?"

She kept me by her side for a full hour, and we again talked over

our former conversation; and I enquired what first led her to

seeking infidel books?

"Pope," she said; he was himself a deist, she believed, and his

praise of Bolingbroke made her mad to read his books, and then

the rest followed easily. She also gave me an account of her

private and domestic life; of her misery at home, her search of

dissipation, and her incapability of happiness.

CURIOSITY ABOUT THE " EVELINA " SET.

Our conversation would have lasted till leave-taking, but for our

being interrupted by Miss Miller, a most beautiful little ,girl

of ten years old. Miss W- begged her to sing us a French song.

She coquetted, but Mrs. Riggs came to us, and said if I wished it

I did her grand-daughter great honour, and she insisted upon her

obedience. The little girl laughed and complied, and we went

into another room to hear her, followed by the Misses Caldwell.

She sung in a pretty childish manner enough.

When we became more intimate, she said,

"Ma'am, I have a great favour to request of you, if you please!"

192

I begged to know what it was, and assured her I would grant it ;

and to be out of the way of these misses, I led her to the

window.

"Ma'am," said the little girl, will you then be so good as to

tell me where Evelina is now?"

I was a little surprised at the question, and told her I had not

heard lately.

"Oh, ma'am, but I am sure you know! " cried she, "for you know

you wrote it; and mamma was so good as to let me hear her read

it; and pray, ma'am, do tell me where she is? and whether Miss

Branghton and Miss Polly went to see her when she was married to

Lord Orville?"

I promised her I would inquire, and let her know.

"And pray, ma'am, is Madame Duval with her now?"

And several other questions she asked me, with a childish

simplicity that was very diverting. She took the whole for a

true story, and was quite eager to know what was become of all

the people. And when I said I would inquire, and tell her when

we next met,

"Oh, but, ma'am," she said, "had not you better write it down,

because then there would be more of it, you know?"

ALARM AT THE No POPERY RIOTS.

[The disgraceful "No Popery" riots, which filled London with

terror, and the whole country with alarm, in June, 1780, were

occasioned by the recent relaxation of the severe penal laws

against the Catholics. The rioters were headed by Lord George

Gordon, a crazy enthusiast. Dr. Johnson has given a lively

account of the disturbance in his "Letters to Mrs. Thrale," some

excerpts from which will, perhaps, be not unacceptable to the

reader.

"9th June, 1780. on Friday (June 2) the good protestants met in

Saint George's Fields, at the summons of Lord George Gordon; and

marching to Westminster, insulted the lords and commons, who all

bore it with great tameness. At night the outrages began by the

demolition of the mass-house by Lincoln's Inn.

"An exact journal of a week's defiance of government I cannot

give you. On Monday Mr. Strahan, who had been insulted, spoke to

Lord Mansfield, who had, I think, been insulted too, of the

licentiousness of the populace; and his lordship treated it as a

very slight irregularity. On Tuesday night they pulled down

Fielding's(130) house, and burnt his goods in the street. They

had

193

gutted on Monday Sir George Savile's house, but the building was

saved. On Tuesday evening, leaving Fielding's ruins, they went

to Newgate to demand their companions, who had been seized

demolishing the chapel. The keeper could not release them but by

the mayor's permission, which he went to ask; at his return he

found all the prisoners released, and Newgate in a blaze. They

then went to Bloomsbury, and fastened upon Lord Mansfield's

house, which they pulled down; and as for his goods, they totally

burnt them. They have since gone to Caen-wood, but a guard was

there before them. They plundered some papists, I think, and

burnt a mass-house in Moorfields the same night.

"On Wednesday I walked with Dr. Scot to look at Newgate and found

it in ruins, with the fire yet glowing. As I went by, the

Protestants were plundering the sessions-house at the Old Bailey.

There were not, I believe, a hundred; but they did their work at

leisure, in full security, without sentinels without trepidation,

as men lawfully employed in full day. Such is the cowardice of a

commercial place. On Wednesday they broke open the Fleet, and

the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea, and Woodstreet Compter, and

Clerkenwell Bridewell, and released all the prisoners. At night

they set fire to the Fleet, and to the King's Bench, and I know

not how many other places; and one might see the glare of

conflagration fill the sky from many parts. The sight was

dreadful.

"The King said in council, 'That the magistrates had not done

their duty, but that he would do his own;' and a proclamation was

published, directing us to keep our servants within doors, as the

peace was now to be preserved by force. The

soldiers were sent out to different parts, and the town is now at

quiet.

What has happened at your house(131) you will know: the harm is

only a few butts of beer; and, I think, you may be sure that the

danger is over."

10th June, 1780. The soldiers are stationed so as to be

everywhere within call. There is no longer any body of rioters,

and the individuals are hunted to their holes, and led to prison.

Lord George was last night sent to the Tower. . . .

Government now acts again with its proper force - and we are all

under the protection of the King and the law."-ED.)

When we came home our newspaper accounts of the tumults In town

with Lord George Gordon and his mob, alarmed us very much ; but

we had still no notion of the real danger you were all in.

Next day we drank tea with the Dowdlers. At our return

194

home we were informed a mob was surrounding a new Roman Catholic

chapel. At first we disbelieved it, but presently one of the

servants came and told us they were knocking it to pieces; and in

half an hour, looking out of our windows, we saw it in flames:

and listening, we heard loud and violent shouts!

I shall write no particulars - the horrible subject you have had

more than your share of. Mrs. Thrale and I sat up till four

o'clock, and walked about the parades, and at two we went with a

large party to the spot, and saw the beautiful new building

consuming; the mob then were all quiet--all still and silent, and

everybody seemed but as spectators.

Saturday morning, to my inexpressible concern, brought me no

letters from town, and my uneasiness to hear from you made me

quite wretched. Mrs. Thrale had letters from Sir Philip Clerke

and Mr. Perkins, to acquaint her that her town-house had been

three times attacked, but was at last saved by guards; her

children, plate, money, and valuables all removed. Streatham

also threatened, and emptied of all its furniture.

The same morning also we saw a Bath and Bristol paper, in which

Mr. Thrale was asserted to be a papist. This villanous falsehood

terrified us even for his personal safety, and Mrs. Thrale and I

agreed it was best to leave Bath directly, and travel about the

country.

She left to me the task of acquainting Mr. Thrale with these

particulars, being herself too much disturbed to be capable of

such a task. I did it as well as I could, and succeeded so far

that, by being lightly told of it, he treated it lightly, and

bore it with much steadiness and composure. We then soon settled

to decamp.

We had no time nor spirits pour prendre cong`e stuff, but

determined to call upon the Bowdlers and Miss Cooper. They were

all sorry to part, and Miss Cooper, to my equal surprise and

pleasure, fairly made a declaration of her passion for me,

assuring me she had never before taken so great a fancy to a new

acquaintance, and beginning warmly the request I meant to make

myself, of continuing our intimacy in town.

(Fanny Burney to Dr. Burney.)

Bath, June 9, 1780,

My dearest sir,

How are you? where are you? and what is to come next? The

accounts from town are so frightful, that I am un-

195

easy, not only for the city at large, but for every individual I

know in it. Does this martial law confine you quite to the

house? Folks here say that it must, and that no business of any

kind can be transacted. Oh, what dreadful times ! Yet I rejoice

extremely that the opposition members have fared little better

than the ministerial. Had such a mob been confirm(d friends of

either or of any party, I think the nation must have been at

their disposal ; for, if headed by popular or skilful leaders,

who and what could have resisted them?--I mean, if they are as

formidable as we are here told.

Dr. Johnson has written to Mrs. Thrale, without even mentioning

the existence of this mob; perhaps at this very moment he thinks

it "a humbug upon the nation," as George Bodens called the

parliament,

A private letter to Bull, the bookseller, brought word this

morning that much slaughter has been made by the military among

the mob. Never, I am sure, can any set of wretches less deserve

quarter or pity ; yet it is impossible not to shudder at hearing

of their destruction. Nothing less, however, would do; they were

too outrageous and powerful for civil power.

But what is it they want? who is going to turn papist? who,

indeed, is thinking in an alarming way of religion?--this pious

mob, and George Gordon excepted?

All the stage-coaches that come into Bath from London are Chalked

over with "No Popery," and Dr. Harrington called here just now,

and says the same was chalked this morning upon his door, and is

scrawled in several places about the town. Wagers have been laid

that the popish chapel here will be pulled or burnt down in a few

days; but I believe not a word of the matter, nor do I find that

anybody is at all alarmed. Bath, indeed, ought to be held sacred

as a sanctuary for invalids; and I doubt not but the news of the

firing in town will prevent all tumults out of it.

Now, if, after all the intolerable provocation given by the mob,

after all the leniency and forbearance of the ministry, and after

the shrinking Of the minority, we shall by and by hear that this

firing was a massacre--will it not be villanous and horrible?

And yet as soon as safety is secured--though by this means alone

all now agree it can be secured--nothing would less surprise me

than to hear the seekers of popularity make this assertion.

Friday night.-The above I writ this morning, before I re-

196

collected this was not post-day, and all is altered here since.

The threats I despised were but too well grounded, for, to our

utter amazement and consternation, the new Roman Catholic chapel

in this town was set on fire at about nine o'clock. It is now

burning with a fury that is dreadful, and the house of the priest

belonging to it is in flames also. The poor persecuted man

himself has I believe escaped with life, though pelted, followed,

and very ill used. Mrs. Thrale and I have been walking about

with the footmen several times. The whole town is still and

orderly. The rioters do their work with great composure, and

though there are knots of people in every corner, all execrating

the authors of such outrages, nobody dares oppose them. An

attempt indeed was made, but it was ill-conducted, faintly

followed, and soon put an end to by a secret fear of exciting

vengeance.

Alas! to what have we all lived!--the poor invalids here will

probably lose all chance of life, from terror. Mr. Hay, our

apothecary, has been attending the removal of two, who were

confined to their beds in the street where the chapel is burning.

The Catholics throughout the place are all threatened with

destruction, and we met several porters, between ten and eleven

at night, privately removing goods, walking on tiptoe, and

scarcely breathing.

I firmly believe, by the deliberate villany with which this riot

is conducted, that it wil! go on in the same desperate way as in

town, and only be stopped by the same desperate means. Our plan

for going to Bristol is at an end. We are told it would be

madness, as there are seven Romish chapels in it; but we are

determined upon removing somewhere to-morrow; for why should we,

who can go, stay to witness such horrid scenes?

Satarday Afternoon, June 10-I was most cruelly disappointed in

not having one word to-day. I am half crazy with doubt and

disturbance in not hearing. Everybody here is terrified to

death. We have intelligence that Mr. Thrale's house in town is

filled with soldiers, and threatened by the mob with destruction.

Perhaps he may himself be a marked man for their fury. We

are going directly from Bath, and intend to stop only at

villages. To-night we shall stop at Warminster, not daring to go

to Devizes. This place is now well guarded, but still we dare

not await the event of to-night; all the catholics in the town

have privately escaped.

I know not now when I shall hear from you. I am in agony

197

for news. Our head-quarters will be Brighthelmstone, where I do

most humbly and fervently entreat you to write--do, dearest sir,

write, if but one word--if but only you name yourself! Nothing

but your own hand can now tranquillize me. The reports about

London here quite distract me. If it were possible to send ine a

line by the diligence to Brighton, how grateful I should be for

such an indulgence!

HASTY DEPARTURE FRom BATH.

(Fanny Burney to Dr. Burney.)

Salisbury, June 11, 1780

Here we are, dearest sir, and here we mean to pass this night.

We did not leave Bath till eight o'clock yesterday evening, at

which time it was filled with dragoons, militia, and armed

constables, not armed with muskets, but bludgeons: these latter

were all chairmen, who were sworn by the mayor in the morning for

petty constables. A popish private chapel, and the houses of all

the catholics, were guarded between seven and eight, and the

inhabitants ordered to keep house.

We set out in the coach-and-four, with two men on horseback, and

got to Warminster, a small town in Somersetshire, a little before

twelve.

This morning two more servants came after us from Bath, and

brought us word that the precautions taken by the magistrates

last night had good success, for no attempt of any sort had been

renewed towards a riot. But the happiest tidings to me were

contained in a letter which they brought, which had arrived after

our departure, by the diligence, from Mr. Perkins,(132) with an

account that all was quiet in London, and that Lord G. Gordon was

sent to the Tower. I am now again tolerably easy, but I shall

not be really comfortable, or free from some fears, till I hear

from St. Martin's-street.

The Borough house has been quite preserved. I know not how long

we may be on the road, but nowhere long",enough for receiving a

letter till we come to Brighthelmstone.

We stopped in our way at Wilton, and spent half the day at that

beautiful place.

198

just before we arrived there, Lord Arundel had sent to the

officers in the place, to entreat a party of guards immediately,

for the safety of his house, as he had intelligence that a mob

was on the road from London to attack it:--he is a catholic. His

request was immediately complied with.

We intended to have gone to a private town, but find all quiet

here, and therefore prefer it as much more commodious. There is

no Romish chapel in the town; mass has always been performed for

the catholics of the place at a Mrs. Arundel's in the Close--a

relation of his lordship's, whose house is fifteen miles off. I

have inquired about the Harris's;(133) I find they are here and

all well.

THE GORDON RIOTS.

( Charlotte Burney(134) to Fanny Burney.)

I am very sorry, my dear Fanny, to hear how much you have

suffered from your apprehension about us. Susan will tell you

why none of us wrote before Friday; and she says, she has told

you what dreadful havoc and devastation- the mob have made here

in all parts of the town. However, We are pretty quiet and

tranquil again now. Papa goes on with his business pretty much

as usual, and so far from the military keeping people within

doors (as you say in your letter to my father, you suppose to be

the case), the streets were never more crowded--everybody is

wandering about in order to see the ruins of the places that the

mob have destroyed.

There are two camps, one in St. James's, and the other in Hyde

Park, which together with the military law, makes almost every

one here think he is safe again. I expect we shall all have "a

passion for a scarlet coat" now.

I hardly know what to tell you that won't be stale news. They

say that duplicates of the handbill that I have enclosed were

distributed all over the town on Wednesday and Thurs;

199

day last; however, thank heaven, everybody says now that Mr.

Thrale's house and brewery are as safe as we can wish them.

There was a brewer in Turnstile that had his house gutted and

burnt, because, the mob said, "he was a papish, and sold popish

beer." Did you ever hear of such diabolical ruffians?

To add to the pleasantness of our situation, there have been

gangs of women going about to rob and plunder. Miss Kirwans went

on Friday afternoon to walk in the Museum gardens, and were

stopped by a set of women, and robbed of all the money they had.

The mob had proscribed the mews, for they said, "the king should

not have a horse to ride upon!" They besieged the new Somerset

House, with intention to destroy it, but were repulsed by some

soldiers placed there for that purpose.

Mr. Sleepe has been here a day or two, and says the folks at

Watford, where he comes from, "approve very Much Of having the

Catholic chapels destroyed, for they say it's a shame the pope

should come here!" There is a house hereabouts that they had

chalked upon last week, "Empty, and No Popery!"

I am heartily rejoiced, my dearest Fanny, that you have got away

from Bath, and hope and trust that at Brighthelmstone you will be

as safe as we are here.

It sounds almost incredible, but they say, that on Wednesday

night last, when the mob were more powerful, more numerous, and

outrageous than ever, there was, nevertheless, a number of

exceeding genteel people at Ranelagh, though they knew not but

their houses might be on fire at the time!

A SUGGESTED VISIT To GRUB-STREET.

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Thrale.)

Since I wrote last I have drunk tea with Dr. Johnson. My father

took me to Bolt-court, and we found him, most fortunately, with

only one brass-headed cane gentleman. Since that I have had the

pleasure to meet him again at Mrs. Reynolds's, when he offered to

take me with him to Grub-street, to see the ruins of the house

demolished there in the late riots, by a mob that, as he

observed, could be no friend to the Muses! He inquired if I had

ever yet visited Grub-street ? but was obliged to restrain his

anger when I answered "No," because he acknowledged he had never

paid his respects to it

200

himself. "However," says he, "you and I, Burney, will go

together; we have a very good right to go, so we'll visit the

mansions of our progenitors, and take up our own freedon,

together." There's for you, madam! What can be grander?

FANNY BURNEY'S BROTHER IS PROMOTED.

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Thrale.)

Chesington, Nov. 4.

I had no other adventure in London, but a most delightful

incident has happened since I came hither. We had just done tea

on Friday, and Mrs. Hamilton, Kitty, Jem, and Mr. Crisp, were

sitting down to cards, when we were surprised by an express from

London, and it brought a "Whereas we think fit" from the

Admiralty, to appoint Captain Burney to the command of the

"Latona," during the absence of the Honourable Captain Conway.

This is one of the best frigates in the navy, of thirty-eight

guns, and immediately, I believe, ready for service. Jem was

almost frantic with ecstacy of joy: he sang, laughed, drank to

his own success, and danced about the room with Miss Kitty till

He put her quite out of breath. His hope is to get out

immediately, and have a brush with some of the Dons, Monsieurs,

or Mynheers, while he is in possession of a ship of sufficient

force to attack any frigate he may meet.

[Mrs. Thrale wrote to Fanny from Streatham, Dec. 22:--)

I have picked up something to please you; Dr. Johnson pronounced

an actual eulogium upon Captain Burney, to his yesterday's

listeners--how amiable he was, and how gentle in his manner,

etc., tho' he had lived so many years with sailors and savages.

THE DEATH OF MR. THRALE.

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Thrale(135))

Wednesday Evening, April 4, 1781

You bid me write to you, and so I will; you bid me pray for you,

and so, indeed, I do, for the restoration of your sweet

201

peace of mind. I pray for your resignation to this hard blow,

for the continued union and exertion of your virtues with your

talents, and for the happiest reward their exertion can meet

with, in the gratitude and prosperity of your children. These

are my prayers for my beloved Mrs. Thrale; but these are not my

only ones; no, the unfailing warmth of her kindness for myself I

have rarely, for a long time past, slept without first

petitioning.

I ran away without seeing you again when I found you repented

that sweet compliance with my request which I had won from you.

For the world would I not have pursued you, had I first seen your

prohibition, nor could I endure to owe that consent to teasing

which I only solicited from tenderness. Still, however, I think

you had better have suffered me to follow you; I might have been

of some use; I hardly could have been in your way. But I grieve

now to have forced you to an interview which I would have spared

myself as well as you, had I foreseen how little it would have

answered my purpose.

Yet though I cannot help feeling disappointed, I am not

surprised; for in any case at all similar, I am sure I should

have the same eagerness for solitude.

I tell you nothing of how sincerely I sympathise in your

affliction; yet I believe that Mr. Crutchley and Dr. Johnson

alone do so more earnestly; and I have some melancholy comfort in

flattering myself that, allowing for the difference of our

characters, that true regard which I felt was as truly returned.

Nothing but kindness did I ever meet with; he ever loved to have

me, not merely with his family, but with himself; and gratefully

shall I ever remember a thousand kind expressions of esteem and

good opinion, which are now crowding upon my memory.

(116) Mr. Smelt was a friend of Dr. Burney's, and highly esteemed

by Fanny both for his character and talents. He had been tutor

to the Prince of Wales (afterwards George IV.). We shall meet

with him later.-ED,

(117)This boy was afterwards the celebrated painter, Sir Thomas

Lawrence, President of the Royal Academy.

(118) Constantine John Phipps, second Baron Mulgrave in the Irish

peerage. He was born in 1744; served with distinction in the

navy, and made a voyage of discovery towards the North Pole in

1773. His account of this voyage was published in the following

year. He became Baron Mulgrave on the death of his father, the

first Baron, in 1775; was raised to the English peerage under the

title of Lord Mulgrave in 1790, and died in 1792.-ED.

(119) Mrs. Byron was the wife of Admiral the Hon. John Byron

("Foul-weather Jack"), and grandmother of the poet. Her daughter

Augusta subsequently married Vice-Admiral Parker, and died in

1824.-ED.

(120) Mrs. Dobson was authoress of an abridged translation of

"Petrarch's Life," and of the "History of the Troubadours."-ED.

(121) Dr. Harrington was a physician, and a friend of Dr. Burney.

His son, "Mr. Henry"--the Rev. Henry Harrington--was the editor

of "Nugaae Antiquae.""-ED.

(122) The rough-mannered, brutal sea-captain in "Evelina."-ED.

(123) Lady Miller, of Bath Easton--the lady of the Vase. Horace

Walpole gives an amusing description of the flummery which was

indulged in every week at Bath Easton under her presidency. "You

must know, that near Bath is erected a new Parnassus, composed of

three laurels, a myrtle-tree, a weeping-willow, and a view of the

Avon, which has now been christened Helicon. Ten years ago there

lived a Madam (Briggs], an old rough humourist, who passed for a

wit; her daughter, who passed for nothing, married to a captain

[Miller], full of good-natured officiousness. These good folks

were friends of Miss Rich, who carried me to dine with them at

Bath Easton, now Pindus. They caught a little of what was then

called taste, built, and planted, and begot children, till the

whole caravan were forced to go abroad to retrieve. Alas! Mrs.

Miller is returned a beauty, a genius, a Sappho, a tenth muse, as

romantic as Mademoiselle Scuderi, and as sophisticated as Mrs.

Vesey. The captain's fingers are loaded with cameos, his tongue

runs over with virt`u; and that both may contribute to the

improvement of their own country, they have introduced

bouts-rim`es as a new discovery. They hold a Parnassus-fair

every Thursday, give out rhymes and themes, and all the flux of

quality at Bath contend for the prizes. A Roman vase, dressed

with pink ribands and myrtles, receives the poetry, which is

drawn out every festival: six judges of these Olympic games

retire and select the brightest compositions, which the

respective successful acknowledge, kneel to Mrs. Calliope

(Miller), kiss her fair hand, and are crowned by it with myrtle."

Works, vol. v. P. 183-ED.

(124) Not our old acquaintance, Mrs. Cholmondeley, but a lady

whom Fanny met for the first time during this season at Bath.-ED.

(125) See ante, note 121, p. 170.-ED.

(126) Beattie's "Essay on Truth," published in 1770, and

containing a feeble attack on Hume. Commonplace as the book is,

it was received with rapture by the Orthodox, and Reynolds

painted a fine picture of Beattie, standing with the "Essay"

under his arm, while the angel of Truth beside him, drives away

three demonic figures, in whose faces we trace a resemblance to

the portraits of Hume, Voltaire, and Gibbon. For this piece of

flattery the painter was justly rebuked by Goldsmith, whose

sympathies were certainly not on the side of infidelity. "It very

ill becomeF a mann Of your eminence and character," said the

poet, "to debase so high a genius as Voltaire before so mean a

writer as Beattie. Beattie and his book will be forgotten in ten

years, while Voltaire's fame will last for ever. Take care it

does not perpetuate this picture, to the shame of such a man as

you."-ED.

(127) Charlotte Lewis.-ED.

(128) Sir Clement Willoughby, a rakish baronet in "Evelina."-ED.

(129) This flirtation came to nothing, as Captain Brisbane

proved himself a jilt. The following month Miss Burney wrote to

Mrs. Thrale as follows:-- "Your account of Miss M-'s being taken

in, and taken in by Captain Brisbane, astonishes me! surely not

half we have heard either of her adorers, or her talents, can

have been true. Mrs. Byron has lost too little to have anything

to lament, except, indeed, the time she sacrificed to foolish

conversation, and the civilities she threw away upon so worthless

a subject. Augusta has nothing to reproach herself with, and

riches and wisdom must be rare indeed, if she fares not as well

with respect to both, as she would have done with an adventurer

whose pocket, it seems, was as empty as his head."-ED.

(130) Sir John Fielding, the magistrate; brother of the

novelist.-ED.

(131) Mr Thrale's brewery in Southwark. His town house in

Grosvenor Square was threatened by the mob, but escaped

destruction.-ED.

(132) The manager of Mr. Thrale's brewery.-ED.

(133) James Harris, of Salisbury, and his family. Mr. Harris was

the author of "Hermes, an Enquiry concerning Universal Grammar,"

and was characterised by Dr. Johnson as a "sound, solid scholar."

He was an enthusiast on the subject of music, and had made Dr.

Burney's acquaintance at the opera in 1773.-ED.

(134) Fanny's younger sister, some of whose lively and amusing

letters and fragments of journal are printed in the "Early

Diary." Unlike Fanny, she was a bit of a flirt, and she seems to

have been altogether a very charming young woman, who fully

sustained the Burney reputation for sprightliness and good

humour.-ED.

(135) This letter was written in reply to a few words from Mrs.

Thrale, in which, alluding to her husband's sudden death, she

begs Miss Burney to "write to me--pray for me!" The hurried note

from Mrs. Thrale is thus endorsed by Miss Burney:--"Written a few

hours after the death of Mr. Thrale, which happened by a sudden

stroke of apoplexy, on the morning of a day on which half the

fashion of London had been invited to an intended assembly at his

house in Grosvenor Square." [Mr. Thrale, who had long suffered

from ill health, had been contemplating a journey to Spa, and

thence to Italy. His physicians, however, were strongly opposed

to the scheme, and Fanny writes, just before his death, that it

was settled that a great meeting of hi friends should take place,

and that they should endeavour to prevail with him to give it up;

in which she has little doubt of their succeeding.-ED.]

202

SECTION 4

(1781-2.)

MISS BURNEY EXTENDS THE CIRCLE OF HER ACQUAINTANCE.

[During the years 1781 and 1782 Fanny was engaged upon her second

novel, "Cecilia," which was published in July, 1782. It is not

necessary here to discuss the merits of a work with which

everyone ought to be acquainted. We may safely leave the task of

criticising "Cecilia" to an unimpeachable authority, Edmund

Burke, whose magnificent, but just eulogy of the book will be

found on page 232 Of the present volume. In the following

section of " The Diary" Fanny records one of the most memorable

events of her life,--her introduction to Burke, in June, 1782, at

Sir Joshua Reynolds's house on Richmond Hill. Rer letter to Mr.

Crisp, printed in the " Memoirs of Dr. Burney," gives a more

detailed account than that in the " Diary," of the conversation

which passed on this occasion. Other men of genius were present,

among them Gibbon the historian, whom she then met for the first

time; but Fanny had eyes and ears for none but Burke. Nor was

she singular in yielding thus completely to the fascination of

the great Irishman's manner and conversation. Wherever he

appeared, in what society soever he mingled, Burke was still the

man of distinction. As Johnson said, you could not stand under a

shed with Burke for a few minutes, during a shower of rain,

without feeling that you were in the company of an extraordinary

man.

Mr. Thrale's death produced no immediate change in the situation

of affairs at Streatham. Dr. Johnson's visits were as frequent

and as protracted as before; Fanny continued to be numbered among

the dearest friends of the widow. Not yet had arisen that

infatuation which eventually alienated from Mrs. Thrale the

sympathy of her former friends, and subjected her, justly or

unjustly, to such severe and general condemnation. But to this

topic we shall revert at a later period.

The great brewer had left his wife and family in affluent

203

circumstances. The executors to his Will were Dr. Johnson, Mr.

Henry Smith, Mr. Cator and Mr. Crutchley, together with Mrs.

Thrale. Of the last-named gentleman we shall hear a good deal in

the following pages. He and Mr. Cator were both chosen members

of parliament In the same year--1784: Mr. Cator for Ipswich, Mr.

Crutchley for Horsham. Early in the summer following Thrale's

decease the brewery was sold for the handsome sum of 135,000

pounds, to David Barclay, the Quaker, who took Thrale's old

manager, Perkins into Partnership. Thus was Vfounded the famous

house Of Barclay and Perkins.-ED-]

YOUNG MR. CRUTCHLEY RUFFLES MISS BURNEY.

Streatham, May.

Miss Owen and I arrived here without incident,

which, in a journey of six or seven miles, was really marvellous.

Mrs. Thrale came from the Borough with two of the executors, Dr.

Johnson and Mr Crutchley soon after us. She had been sadly

worried, and in the evening frightened us all by again fainting

away. Dear creature! she is all agitation of mind and of body:

but she is now wonnderfully recovered though in continual fevers

about her affairs, which are mighty difficult and complicate

indeed. Yet the behaviour of all the executors is exactly to her

wish. Mr. Crutchley, In particular, was he a darling son or only

brother could not possibly be more truly devoted to her.

Indeed., I am very happy in the revolution in my own mind in

favour of this young man, whom formerly I so little liked; for I

now see so much of him, business and inclination uniting to bring

him hither continually, that if he were disagreeable to me, I

should spend my time in a most comfortless manner. On the

contrary, I both respect and esteem him very highly; for his

whole conduct manifests so much goodness of heart and excellence

of principle, that he is Un homme comme ill y en a peu; and that

first appearance of coldness, pride, reserve, and sneering, all

wears off upon further acquaintance, and leaves behind nothing

but good-humour and good-will. And this you must allow to be

very candid, when I tell you that, but yesterday, he affronted me

so much by a Piece Of impertinence that I had a very serious

quarrel with im.

Sunday morning nobody went to church but Mr. Crutchley, Miss

Thrale, and myself; and some time after, when I was

204

sauntering upon the lawn before the house, Mr. Crutchley joined

ine. We were returning together into the house, when, Mrs.

Thrale, popping her head out of her dressing-room window, called

out,

"How nicely these men domesticate among us, Miss Burney! Why,

they take to us as natural as life!"

"Well, well," cried Mr. Crutchley, "I have sent for my horse, and

I shall release you early to-morrow morning, I think yonder comes

Sir Philip."(136)

"Oh! you'll have enough to do with him," cried she, laughing; "he

is well prepared to plague you, I assure you."

"Is he?--and what about?"

"Why, about Miss Burney. He asked me the other day what was my

present establishment. 'Mr. Crutchley and Miss Burney,' I

answered. 'How well those two names go together,' cried he; 'I

think they can't do better than make a match of it: I will

consent, I am sure,' he added; and to-day, I dare say, you will

hear enough of it."

I leave you to judge if I was pleased at this stuff thus

communicated; but Mrs. Thrale, with all her excellence, can give

up no occasion of making sport, however unseasonable, or even

painful.

" I am very much obliged to him, indeed cried I, dryly; and Mr.

Crutchley called out, "Thank him !-thank him! " in a voice of

pride and of pique that spoke him mortally angry.

I instantly came into the house, leaving him to talk it out with

Mrs. Thrale, to whom I heard him add, "So this is Sir Philip's

kindness!" and her answer, "I wish you no worse luck!"

Now, what think you of this? was it not highly insolent?--and

from a man who has behaved to me hitherto with the utmost

deference, good-nature, and civility, and given me a thousand

reasons, by every possible opportunity, to think myself very high

indeed in his good opinion and good graces? But these rich men

think themselves the constant prey of all portionless girls, and

are always upon their guard, and suspicious of some design to

take them in. This sort of disposition I had very early observed

in Mr. Crutchley, and therefore I had been more distant and cold

with him than with anybody I ever met with ; but latterly his

character had risen so much in my mind, and his behaviour was so

much improved, that I had let things take their own course, and

no more shunned than I sought him; for I evidently saw his doubts

concerning me and my plots were

205

all at an end, and his civility and attentions were daily

increasing, so that I had become very comfortable with him, and

well pleased with his society.

I need not, I think, add that I determined to see as little of

this most fearful and haughty gentleman in future as was in my

power, since no good qualities can compensate for such arrogance

of suspicion; and, therefore, as I had reason enough to suppose

he would, in haste, resume his own reserve, I resolved, without

much effort, to be beforehand with him in resuming mine.

Miss BURNEY SULKS ON.

At dinner we had a large and most disagreeable party of Irish

ladies, whom Mrs. Thrale was necessitated to invite from motives

of business and various connections.

I was obliged to be seated between Miss O'Riley and Mr.

Crutchley, to whom you may believe I was not very courteous,

especially as I had some apprehension of Sir Philip. Mr.

Crutchley, however, to my great surprise, was quite as civil as

ever, and endeavoured to be as chatty; but there I begged to be

excused, only answering upon the reply, and that very dryly,

for I was indeed horribly provoked with him.

I was much diverted during dinner by this Miss O'Riley, who took

it in her humour to attack Mr. Crutchley repeatedly, though so

discouraging a beau never did I see! Her forwardness, and his

excessive and inordinate coldness, made a contrast that, added to

her brogue, which was broad, kept me in a grin irrepressible.

In the afternoon we had also Mr. Wallace, the attorney general, a

most squat and squab looking man. In the evening, when the Irish

ladies, the Perkinses, Lambarts, and Sir Philip, had gone, Mrs.

Thrale walked out with Mr. Wallace, whom she had some business to

talk over with; and then, when only Miss Owen, Miss T., and I

remained, Mr. Crutchley, after repeatedly addressing me, and

gaining pretty dry answers, called out suddenly,

"Why, Miss Burney! why, what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Why, are you stricken, or smitten, or ill?

"None of the three."

"Oh, then, you are setting down all these Irish folks."

"No, indeed; I don't think them worth the trouble."

"Oh, but I am sure you are; only I interrupted you."

I went on no further with the argument, and Miss Thrale pro-

206

posed our walking out to meet her mother. We all agreed and Mr.

Crutchley would not be satisfied without walking near me, though

I really had no patience to talk with him, and wished him at

Jericho.

"What's the matter?" said he; "have you had a quarrel?"

"NO."

"Are you affronted?"

Not a word. Then again he called to Miss Thrale-

" Why, Queeny--why, she's quite in a rage! What have you done to

her?"

I still sulked on, vexed to be teased ; but, though with a gaiety

that showed he had no suspicion of the cause, he grew more and

more urgent, trying every means to make me tell him what was the

matter, till at last, much provoked, I said-

" I must be strangely in want of a confidant, indeed, to take you

for one!"

"Why, what an insolent speech!" cried he, half serious and half

laughing, but casting up his eyes and hands with astonishment.

He then let me be quiet some time,- but in a few minutes renewed

his inquiries, with added eagerness, begging me to tell him if

nobody else.

A likely matter! thought I; nor did I scruple to tell him, when

forced to answer, that no one had such little chance of success

in such a request.

"Why so?" cried he; "for I am the best person in the world to

trust with a secret, as I always forget it."

He continued working at me till we joined Mrs. Thrale and the

attorney-general. And then Miss Thrale, stimulated by him, came

to inquire if I had really taken anything amiss of her. "No," I

assured her.

"Is it of me, then?" cried Mr. Crutchley, as if sure I should say

no; but I made no other answer than to desire him to desist

questioning me. . . .

He then grew quite violent, and at last went on with his

questions till, by being quite silent, he could no longer doubt

who it was. He seemed then wholly amazed, and entreated to know

what he had done; but I tried only to avoid him.

Soon after the attorney-general took his leave, during which

ceremony Mr. Crutchley, coming behind me, exclaimed,-

"Who'd think of this creature's having any venom in her"

"Oh, yes," answered I, "when she's provoked."

" But have I provoked you?"

Again I got off. Taking Miss Thrale by the arm, we hurried

207

away, leaving him with Mrs. Thrale and Miss Owen.

He was presently, however, with us again ; and when he came to

my side and found me really trying to talk of other matters with

Miss Thrale, and avoid him, he called out,-

"Upon my life, this is too bad! Do tell me, Miss Burney, what is

the matter? If you won't, I protest I'll call Mrs. Thrale, and

make her work at you herself."

"I assure you," answered I, "that it will be to no purpose for I

must offend myself by telling it, and therefore I shall mention

it to nobody."

"But what in the world have I done?"

"Nothing; you have done nothing."

"What have I said, then? Only let me beg your pardon, only let

me know what it is, that I may beg your pardon."

I then took up the teasing myself, and quite insisted upon his

leaving us, and joining Mrs. Thrale. He begged me to tell Miss

Thrale, and let her mediate, and entreated her to be his agent;

which, in order to get rid of him, she promised; and he then

slackened his pace, though very reluctantly, while we quickened

ours. He was, however, which I very little expected, too uneasy

to stay long away; and when we had walked on quite out of hearing

of Mrs. Thrale and Miss Owen, he suddenly galloped after us.

"How odd it is of you," said Miss Thrale, "to come and intrude

yourself in this manner upon anybody that tries so to avoid you!"

"Have you done anything for me?" cried he. I don't believe you

have said a word."

"Not I, truly!" answered she; "if I can keep my own self, out of

scrapes, it's all I can pretend to."

"Well, but do tell me, Miss Burney,--pray tell me! indeed, this

is quite too bad; I sha'n't have a wink of sleep all night! If I

have offended you, I am very sorry indeed; but I am sure I did

not mean--"

"No, sir!" interrupted I, "I don't suppose you did mean to offend

me, nor do I know why you should. I expect from you neither good

nor ill,--civility I think myself entitled to, and that is all I

have any desire for."

"Good heaven!" exclaimed he. "Tell me, however, but what it is,

and if I have said any thing unguardedly, I am extremely sorry,

and I most sincerely beg your pardon. If You would tell me, I am

sure I could explain it off, because I am sure it has been done

undesignedly."

208

"No, it does not admit of any explanation ; so pray don't mention

it any more."

"Only tell me what part of the day it was."

Whether this unconsciousness was real, or only to draw me in so

that he might come to the point, and make his apology with

greater ease, I know not; but I assured him it was in vain he

asked, and again desired him to puzzle himself with no further

recollections.

"Oh," cried he, "but I shall think of every thing I have ever

said to you for this half year. I am sure, whatever it was, it

must have been unmeant and unguarded."

"That, Sir, I never doubted; and probably you thought me hard

enough to hear any thing without minding it."

"Good heaven, Miss Burney! why, there is nobody I would not

sooner offend,--nobody in the world! Queeny knows it. If Queeny

would speak, she could tell you so. Is it not true, Miss

Thrale?"

"I shall say nothing about it; if I can keep my own neck out of

the collar, it's enough for me."

"But won't it plead something for me that you are sure, and must

be sure, it was by blunder, and not design? . . . I beg you will

think no more of it. I--I believe I know what it is; and, indeed,

I was far from meaning to give you the smallest offence, and I

most earnestly beg your pardon. There is nothing I would not do

to assure you how sorry I am. But I hope it will be all over by

the time the candles come. I shall look to see, and I hope--I

beg--you will have the same countenance again."

I now felt really appeased, and so I told him.

We then talked of other matters till we reached home, though it

was not without difficulty I could even yet keep him quiet. I

see that Mr. Crutchley, though of a cold and proud disposition,

is generous, amiable, and delicate, and, when not touched upon

the tender string of gallantry, concerning which he piques

himself upon invariable hardness and immoveability, his

sentiments are not merely just, but refined.

Too MUCH OF MANY THINGS.

Sunday.-We had Mr. and Mrs. Davenant here. They are very lively

and agreeable, and I like them more' and more. Mrs. Davenant is

one of the saucy women of the ton, indeed; but she has good

parts, and is gay and entertaining; and her

209

sposo, who passionately adores her, though five years her junior,

is one of the best-tempered and most pleasant-charactered young

men imaginable . . .

"Mrs. Davenant is very agreeable," said I to Mr. Crutchley, "I

like her much. Don't you?"

"Yes, very much," said he; "she is lively and entertaining;" and

then a moment after, "'Tis wonderful," he exclaimed, "that such a

thing as that can captivate a man!"

"Nay," cried I, "nobody more, for her husband quite adores her."

"So I find," said he; "and Mrs. Thrale says men in general like

her."

"They certainly do," cried I, "and all the oddity is in you who

do not, not in them who do."

"May be so," answered he, "but it don't do for me, indeed."

We then came to two gates, and there I stopped short, to wait

till they joined us ; and Mr. Crutchley, turning about and

looking at Mrs. Davenant, as she came forward, said, rather in a

muttering voice, and to himself than to me, "What a thing for an

attachment! No, no, it would not do for me!--too much glare!

too much flippancy! too much hoop! too much gauze! too much

slipper! too much neck! Oh, hide it! hide it! muffle it up!

muffle it up! If it is but in a fur cloak, I am for muffling it

all up!"

A "POOR WRETCH OF A PAINTER."

I had new specimens to-day of the oddities of Mr. Crutchley, whom

I do not yet quite understand, though I have seen so much of him.

In the course of our walks to-day we chanced, at one time, to be

somewhat before the rest of the company, band soon got into a

very serious conversation; though we began it by his relating a

most ludicrous incident which had happened to him last winter.

There is a certain poor wretch of a villainous painter, one Mr.

Lowe,(137) who is in some measure under Dr. Johnson's pro-

210

tection, and whom, therefore, he recommends to all the people he

thinks can afford to sit for their pictures. Among these he made

Mr. Seward very readily, and then applied to Mr. Crutchley.

"But now," said Mr. Crutchley, as he told me the circumstance, "I

have not a notion of sitting for my picture,--for who wants it?

I may as well give the man the money without; but no, they all

said that would not do so well, and Dr. Johnson asked me to give

him my picture. 'And I assure you, sir,' says he, 'I shall put

it in very good company, for I have portraits of some very

respectable people in my dining-room.' 'Ay, sir,' says I,

'that's sufficient reason why you should not have mine, for I am

sure it has no business in such society.' So then Mrs. Thrale

asked me to give it to her. 'Ay sure, ma'am,' says I, 'you do me

great honour; but pray, first, will you do me the favour to tell

me what door you intend to put it behind?' However, after all I

could say in opposition, I was obliged to go to the painter's.

And I found him in such a condition! a room all dirt and filth,

brats squalling and wrangling, up two pair of stairs, and a

closet, of which the door was open, that Seward well said was

quite Pandora's box--it was the repository of all the nastiness,

and stench, and filth, and food, and drink, and - oh, it was too

bad to be borne! and 'Oh!' says I, 'Mr. Lowe, I beg your pardon

for running away, but I have just recollected another

engagement;' so I poked the three guineas in his hand, and told

him I would come again another time, and then ran out of the

house with all my might."

DR. JOHNSON IN A RAGE.

June.--Wednesday--We had a terrible noisy day. Mr. and Mrs.

Cator came to dinner, and brought with them Miss Collison, a

niece. Mrs. Nesbitt was also here, and Mr. Pepys.(138)

The long war which has been proclaimed among the wits concerning

Lord Lyttelton's "Life," by Dr. Johnson, and which a whole tribe

of "blues," with Mrs. Montagu at their head, have vowed to

execrate and revenge, now broke out with all the fury of the

first actual hostilities, stimulated by long concerted schemes

and much spiteful information. Mr. Pepys, Dr. Johnson well knew,

was one of Mrs. Montagu's steadiest abettors; and, therefore, as

he had some time determined to

211

defend himself with the first of them he met, this day he fell

the sacrifice to his wrath.

In a long t`ete-`a-t`ete which I accidentally had with Mr. Pepys

before the company was assembled, he told me his apprehensions of

an attack, and entreated me earnestly to endeavour to prevent it;

modestly avowing he was no antagonist for Dr. Johnson; and yet

declaring his personal friendship for Lord Lyttelton made him so

much hurt by the "Life," that he feared he could not discuss the

matter without a quarrel, which, especially in the house of Mrs.

Thrale, he wished to avoid.

It was, however, utterly impossible for me to serve him. I could

have stopped Mrs. Thrale with ease, and Mr. Seward with a hint,

had either of them begun the subject; but, unfortunately, in the

middle of dinner, it was begun by Dr. Johnson himself, to oppose

whom, especially as he spoke with great anger, would have been

madness and folly.

Never before have I seen Dr. Johnson speak with so much passion.

"Mr. Pepys," he cried, in a voice the most enraged, "I understand

you are offended by my 'Life of Lord Lyttelton.' What is it you

have to say against it? Come forth, man Here am I, ready to

answer any charge you can bring!"

"No, sir," cried Mr. Pepys, "not at present; I must beg leave to

decline the subject. I told Miss Burney before dinner that I

hoped it would not be started."

I was quite frightened to hear my own name mentioned ina .debate

which began so seriously; but Dr. Johnson made not -to this any

answer, he repeated his attack and his challenge, and a violent

disputation ensued, in which this great but mortal man did, to

own the truth, appear unreasonably furious and grossly severe. I

never saw him so before, and I heartily hope I never shall again.

He has been long provoked, and justly enough, at the sneaking

complaints and murmurs of the Lytteltonians; and, therefore, his

long-excited wrath, which hitherto had met no object, now burst

forth with a vehemence and bitterness almost incredible.

Mr. Pepys meantime never appeared to so much advantage; he

preserved his temper, uttered all that belonged merely to himself

with modesty, and all that more immediately related to Lord

Lyttelton with spirit. Indeed, Dr. Johnson, in the very midst of

the dispute, had the candour and liberality to make him a

personal compliment, by saying

"Sir, all that you say, while you are vindicating one who

212

cannot thank you, makes me only think better of you than I ever

did before. Yet still I think you do me wrong," etc., etc.

Some time after, in the heat of the argument, he called out,--

" The more my Lord Lyttelton is inquired after, the worse he will

appear; Mr. Seward has just heard two stories of him, which

corroborate all I have related."

He then desired Mr. Seward to repeat them. Poor Mr. Seward

looked almost as frightened as myself at the very mention of his

name; but he quietly and immediately told the stories, which

consisted of fresh instances, from good authorities, of Lord

Lyttelton's illiberal behaviour to Shenstone; and then he flung

himself back in his chair, and spoke no more during the whole

debate, which I am sure he was ready to vote a bore.

One happy circumstance, however, attended the quarrel, which was

the presence of Mr. Cator, who would by no means be prevented

talking himself, either by reverence for Dr. Johnson, or

ignorance of the subject in question; on the contrary, he gave

his opinion, quite uncalled upon every thing that was said by

either party, and that with an importance and pomposity, yet with

an emptiness and verbosity, that rendered the whole dispute, when

in his hands, nothing more than ridiculous, and compelled even

the disputants themselves, all inflamed as they were, to laugh.

To give a specimen--one speech will do for a thousand.

"As to this here question of Lord Lyttelton, I can't speak to it

to the purpose, as I have not read his 'Life,' for I have only

read the 'Life of Pope;' I have got the books though, for I sent

for them last week, and they came to me on Wednesday, and then I

began them; but I have not yet read 'Lord Lyttelton.' 'Pope' I

have begun, and that is what I am now reading. But what I have

to say about Lord Lyttelton is this here: Mr. Seward says that

Lord Lyttelton's steward dunned Mr. Shenstone for his rent, by

which I understand he was a tenant of Lord Lyttelton's. Well, if

he was a tenant of Lord Lyttelton's, why should not he pay his

rent?"

Who could contradict this?

When dinner was quite over, and we left the men to their wine, we

hoped they would finish the affair; but Dr. Johnson was

determined to talk it through, and make a battle of it, though

Mr. Pepys tried to be off continually. When they were all

summoned to tea, they entered still warm and violent. Mr. Cator

had the book in his hand, and was reading the "Life of

213

Lyttelton," that he might better, he said, understand the cause,

though not a creature cared if he had never heard of it.

Mr. Pepys came up to me and said-

"just what I had so much wished to avoid! I have been crushed in

the very onset."

I could make him no answer, for Dr. Johnson immediately called

him off, and harangued and attacked him with a vehemence and

continuity that quite concerned both Mrs. Thrale and myself, and

that made Mr. Pepys, at last, resolutely silent, however called

upon. This now grew more unpleasant than ever; till Mr. Cator,

having some time studied his book, exclaimed--

"What I am now going to say, as I have not yet read the 'Life of

Lord Lyttelton' quite through, must be considered as being only

said aside, because what I am going to say--"

"I wish, sir," cried Mrs. Thrale, "it had been all said aside;

here is too much about it, indeed, and I should be very glad to

hear no more of it."

This speech, which she made with great spirit and dignity, had an

admirable effect. Everybody was silenced. Mr. Cator, thus

interrupted in the midst of his proposition, looked quite amazed;

Mr. Pepys was much gratified by the interference; and Dr.

Johnson, after a pause, said-

"Well, madam, you shall hear no more of it; yet I will defend

myself in every part and in every atom!"

And from this time the subject was wholly dropped. This dear

violent doctor was conscious he had been wrong, and therefore he

most candidly bore the reproof. . . .

When the leave-taking time arrived, Dr. Johnson called to Mr.

Pepys to shake hands, an invitation which was most coldly and

forcibly accepted.(139)

THE MISERABLE HOST AND MELANCHOLY GUEST.

Monday, june 17.-There passed, some time ago, an 'agreement'

between Mr. Crutchley and Mr. Seward, that the latter is to make

a visit to the former, at his country house in Berkshire; and

to-day the time was settled; but a more ridiculous scene

214

never was exhibited. The host elect and the guest elect tried

which should show least expectation of pleasure from the meeting,

and neither of them thought it at all worth while to disguise his

terror of being weary of the other. Mr. Seward seemed quite

melancholy and depressed in the prospect of making, and Mr.

Crutchley absolutely miserable in that of receiving, the visit.

Yet nothing so ludicrous as the distress of both, since nothing

less necessary than that either should have such a punishment

inflicted. I cannot remember half the absurd things that passed

- but a few, by way of specimen, I will give.

"How long do you intend to stay with me, Seward?" cried Mr.

Crutchley; "how long do you think you can bear it?"

"O, I don't know; I sha'n't fix," answered the other: just as I

find it."

"Well, but--when shall you come? Friday or Saturday? I think

you'd better not come till Saturday."

"Why, yes, I believe on Friday."

" On Friday! Oh, you'll have too much of it! what shall I do

with you?"

"Why, on Sunday we'll dine at the Lyells'. Mrs. Lyell is a

charming woman; one of the most elegant creatures I ever saw."

"Wonderfully so," cried Mr. Crutchley; "I like her extremely--an

insipid idiot! She never opens her mouth but in a whisper; I

never heard her speak a word in my life. But what must I do with

you on Monday? will you come away?"

"Oh, no; I'll stay and see it out."

" Why, how long shall you stay? Why, I must come away myself'on

Tuesday."

"O, I sha'n't settle yet," cried Mr. Seward, very dryly. "I shall

put up six shirts, and then do as I find it."

" Six shirts!" exclaimed Mr. Crutchley '; and then, with equal

dryness, added--"Oh, I suppose you wear two a-day."

And so on. . . .

June 26.-Mr. Crutchley said he had just brought Mr. Seward to

town in his phaeton, alive. He gave a diverting account of the

visit, which I fancy proved much better than either party

pretended to expect, as I find Mr. Seward not only went a day

sooner, but stayed two days later, than was proposed; and Mr.

Crutchley, on his part, said he had invited him to repeat his

visit at any time when he knew not in what other manner "to knock

down a day or two. When he was at my place," continued Mr.

Crutchley, "he did himself up pretty handsomely;

215

he ate cherries till he complained most bitterly of indigestion,

and he poured down madeira and port most plentifully, but without

relief. Then he desired to have some peppermint-water, and he

drank three glasses; still that would not do, and he said

he njust have a large quantity of ginger. We had no such thing

in the house. However, he had brought some, it seems, with him,

and then he took that, but still to no purpose. At last, he

desired some brandy, and tossed off a glass of that; and, after

all, he asked for a dose of rhubarb. Then we had to send and

inquire all over the house for this rhubarb, but our folks had

hardly ever heard of such a thing. I advised him to take a good

bumper of gin and gunpowder, for that seemed almost all he had

left untried."

Two CELEBRATED DUCHESSEs DISCUSSED.

Wednesday, June 26.-Dr. Johnson, who had been in town .some days,

returned, and Mr. Crutchley came also, as well as my father. I

did not see the two latter till summoned to dinner; and then Dr.

Johnson seizing my hand, while with one of his own he gave me a

no very gentle tap on the shoulder, half drolly and half

reproachfully called out--

"Ah, you little baggage, you! and have you known how long I have

been here, and never to come to me?"

And the truth is, in whatever sportive mood he expresses it, he

really likes not I should be absent from him half a minute

whenever he is here, and not in his own apartment.

Dr. Johnson, as usual, kept me in chat with him 'in the library

after all the rest had dispersed ; but when Mr. Crutchley

returned again, he went upstairs, and, as I was finishing some

work I had in hand, Mr. Crutchley, either from civility or a

sudden turn to loquacity, forbore his books, to talk.

Among other folks, we discussed the two rival duchesses, Rutland

and Devonshire.(140) "The former," he said, "must, he

216

fancied, be very weak and silly, as he knew that she endured

being admired to her face, and complimented perpetually, both

upon her beauty and her dress;" and when I asked whether he was

one who joined in trying her--

"Me!" cried he, "no, indeed! I never complimented any body; that

is, I never said to any body a thing I did not think, unless I

was openly laughing at them, and making sport for other people."

" Oh," cried I, "if everybody went by this rule, what a world of

conversation would be curtailed! The Duchess of Devonshire, I

fancy, has better parts."

Oh yes; and a fine, pleasant, open countenance. She came to my

sister's once, in Lincolnshire, when I was there, in order to see

hare-hunting, which was then quite new to her."

" She is very amiable, I believe," said I, "for all her friends

love and speak highly of her."

"Oh, yes, very much so - perfectly good-humoured and unaffected.

And her horse was led, and she was frightened; and we told her

that was the hare, and that was the dog; and the dog pointed to

the hare, and the hare ran away from the dog and then she took

courage, and then she was timid;--and, upon my word, she did it

all very prettily! For my part, I liked it so well, that in half

an hour I took to my own horse, and rode away."

MR. CRUTCHLEY IS BANTERED ABOUT HIS PRIDE.

While we were at church on Sunday morning, we heard a sermon,

upon which, by means of a speech I chanced to make, we have been

talking ever since. The subject was treating of humility, and

declaiming against pride; in the midst of which Mrs. Thrale

whispered-

"This sermon is all against us; that is, four of us: Queeny,

Burney, Susan, and I, are all as proud as possible--Mr. Crutchley

and Sophy(141) are humble enough."

"Good heavens!" cried I, "Mr. Crutchley!--why he is the proudest

among us!"

This speech she instantly repeated, and just at that moment the

preacher said--"Those -who are the weakest are ever the soonest

puffed up."

He instantly made me a bow, with an expressive laugh, that

217

thanked me for the compliment. To be sure it happened most

untimely.

As soon as we came out of church, he called out-

"Well, Miss Burney, this is what I never can forgive! Am I so

proud?"

"I am sure if you are," cried Mrs. Thrale, "you have imposed upon

me, for I always thought you the humblest man I knew. Look how

Burney casts up her eyes! Why, are you so proud, after all, Mr.

Crutchley?"

"I hope not," cried he, rather gravely "but I little thought of

ever going to Streatham church to hear I was the proudest man in

it."

"Well, but," said I, "does it follow you certainly are so because

I say so?"

"Why yes, I suppose I am if you see it, for you are one that see

all things and people right."

"Well, it's very odd," said Mrs. Thrale, "I wonder how she found

you out."

"I wonder," cried I, laughing, "how you missed finding him out."

"Oh! worse and worse!" cried he. "Why there's no bearing this!"

"I protest, then," said Mrs. Thrale, "he has always taken me in;

he seemed to me the humblest creature I knew; always speaking so

ill of himself--always depreciating all that belongs to him."

"Why, I did not say," quoth I, "that he had more vanity than

other men; on the contrary, I think he has none."

"Well distinguished," cried she; "a man may be proud enough, and

yet have no vanity."

"Well, but what is this pride?" cried Mr. Crutchley; "what is it

shown in?--what are its symptoms and marks?"

"A general contempt," answered I, undaunted, "of every body and

of every thing."

"Well said, Miss Burney!" exclaimed Mrs. Thrale. "Why that's

true enough, and so he has."

"A total indifference," continued I, "of what is thought of him

by others, and a disdain alike of happiness or misery."

"Bravo, Burney!" cried Mrs. Thrale, "that's true enough!"

"Indeed," cried Mr. Crutchley, "you are quite mistaken. Indeed,

nobody in the world is half so anxious about the opinions of

others; I am wretched--I am miserable if I think myself thought

ill of; not, indeed, by everybody, but by those

218

whose good opinion I have tried--there if I fall, no man Can be

more unhappy."

"Oh, perhaps," returned I, "there may be two or three people in

the world you may wish should think well of you, but that is

nothing to the general character."

"Oh, no ! many more. I am now four-and-thirty, and perhaps,

indeed, in all my life I have not tried to gain the esteem of

more than four-and-thirty people, but---"

"Oh, leave out the thirty!" cried I, "and then you may be nearer

the truth."

"No, indeed: ten, at least, I daresay I have tried for, but,

perhaps, I have not succeeded with two. However, I am thus even

with the world; for if it likes me not, I can do without it--I

can live alone; and that, indeed, I prefer to any thing I can

meet with; for those with whom I like to live are so much above

me, that I sink into nothing in their society; so I think it best

to run away from them."

"That is to say," cried I, "you are angry you cannot yourself

excel--and this is not pride"

"Why, no, indeed; but it is melancholy to be always behind--to

hear conversation in which one is unable to join--"

"Unwilling," quoth I, "you mean."

"No, indeed, but really unable; and therefore what can I do so

well as to run home? As to an inferior, I hope I think that of

nobody; and as to my equals, and such as I am on a par with,

heaven knows I can ill bear them!--I would rather live alone to

all eternity!"

This conversation lasted till we got home, when Mrs. Thrale said-

"Well, Mr. Crutchley, has she convinced you ?"

"I don't know," cried I, "but he has convinced me."

"Why, how you smote him," cried Mrs. Thrale, "but I think you

make your part good as you go on."

"The great difference," said I, "which I think there is between

Mr. Seward and Mr. Crutchley, who in some things are very much

alike, is this--Mr. Seward has a great deal of vanity and no

pride, Mr. Crutchley a great deal of pride and no vanity."

"just, and true, and wise!" said dear Mrs. Thrale, "for Seward is

always talking of himself, and always with approbation; Mr.

Crutchley seldom mentions himself, and when he does, it is with

dislike. And which have I, most pride or most vanity?"

"Oh, most vanity, certa!" quoth I.

219

At Supper we had only Sir Philip and Mr. Crutchley. The

conversation of the morning was then again renewed. -

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Thrale, "what a smoking did Miss Burney give Mr.

Crutchley!"

"A smoking, indeed!" cried He. "Never had I such a one before!

Never did I think to get such a character! I had no notion of

it."

"Nay, then," said I, "why should you, now?"

"But what is all this?" cried Sir Philip, delighted enough at any

mischief between Mr. Crutchley and me, or between any male and

female, for he only wishes something to go forward, And thinks a

quarrel or dispute next best to foridness and flirting.

"Why, Miss Burney," answered she, "gave Mr, Crutchley this

morning a noble trimming. I had always thought him very humble,

but she shewed me my mistake, and said I had not distinguished

pride from vanity."

"Oh, never was I so mauled in my life," said he.

Enough, however, of this rattle, which lasted till we all went to

bed, and which Mrs. Thrale most kindly kept up, by way of rioting

me from thinking, and which Mr. Crutchley himself bore with the

utmost good nature, from having noticed that I was out of

spirits. . . .

July 2-The other morning Mrs. Thrale ran hastily into my room,

her eyes full of tears, and cried,--

"What an extraordinary man is this Crutchley! I declare he has

quite melted me! He came to me just now, and thinking I was

uneasy I could do no more for Perkins,(142) though he cared not

himself if the man were drowned, he offered to lend him a

thousand pounds, merely by way of giving pleasure to me!"

MISS SOPHY STREATHIELD IS COMMENTED ON

Well-it was, I think, Saturday, Aug. 25, that Mrs Thrale brought

me back.(143) We then took up Mr. Crutchley, who had come to his

town-house upon business, and who accompanied us thither for a

visit of three days.

In the evening Mr. Seward also came. He has been making the

western tour, and gave us, with a seriousness that kept me

continually grinning, some account of a doctor, apothecary, or

'chemist' belonging to every town at which he had stopped.

220

And when we all laughed at his thus following up the faculty, he

undauntedly said,--

"I think it the best way to get information; I know no better

method to learn what is going forward anywhere than to send for

the chief physician of the place, so I commonly consult him the

first day I stop at a place, and when I have fee'd him, and made

acquaintance, he puts me in a way to find out what is worth

looking at."

A most curious mode of picking up a cicerone!

After this, still pursuing his favourite topic, he began to

inquire into the particulars of Mr. Crutchley's late illness -

but that gentleman, who is as much in the opposite extreme, of

disdaining even any decent care of himself, as Mr. Seward is in

the other, of devoting almost all his thoughts to his health cut

the matter very short, and would not talk upon it at all.

"But, if I had known sooner," said Mr. Seward, "that you were

ill, I should have come to see you."

"Should you?" cried Mr. Crutchley, with a loud laugh; "very kind,

indeed!--it would have been charming to see you when I am ill,

when I am afraid of undertaking you even when well!"

Some time after Sophy Streatfield was talked of,-Oh, with how

much impertinence as if she was at the service of any man who

would make proposals to her! Yet Mr. Seward spoke of her with

praise and tenderness all the time, as if, though firmly of this

opinion, he was warmly her admirer. From such admirers and such

admiration heaven guard me! Mr. Crutchley said but little; but

that little was bitter enough.

"However," said Mr. Seward, "after all that can be said, there is

nobody whose manners are more engaging, nobody more amiable than

the little Sophy; and she is certainly very pretty; I must own I

have always been afraid to trust myself with her."

Here Mr. Crutchley looked very sneeringly.

"Nay, squire," cried Mr. Seward, "she is very dangerous, I can

tell you; and if she had you at a fair trial, she would make an

impression that would soften even your hard heart."

"No need of any further trial," answered he, laughing, "for she

has done that already; and so soft was the impression that it is

absolutely all dissolved!--melted quite away, and not a trace of

it left!"

Mr. Seward then proposed that she should marry Sir John

221

Miller,(144) who has just lost his wife and very gravely said, he

had a great mind to set out for Tunbridge, and carry her with him

to Bath, and so make the match without delay!

"But surely," said Mrs. Thrale, "if you fail, you will think

yourself bound in honour to marry her yourself?"

"Why, that's the thing," said he; "no, I can't take the little

Sophy myself; I should have too many rivals; no, that won't do."

How abominably conceited and sure these pretty gentlemen are!

However, Mr. Crutchley here made a speech that half won my heart.

"I wish," said he, "Miss Streatfield was here at this moment to

cuff you, Seward!"

"Cuff me!" cried he. "What, the little Sophy!--and why?"

"For disposing of her so freely. I think a man deserves to be

cuffed for saying any lady will marry him."

I seconded this speech with much approbation.

GARRULOUS MR. MUSGRAVE.

August, Monday.-We were to have Mr. Cator and other company to

dinner; and all breakfast Mr. Seward kept plaguing poor Mr.

Musgrave, who is an incessant talker, about the difficulty he

would have in making his part good with Mr. Cator, who, he

assured him, would out-talk him if he did not take care. And Mr.

Crutchley recommended to him to "wait for a sneeze," in order to

put in; so that he was almost rallied into a passion, though,

being very good-natured, he made light of it, and it blew over.

In the middle of dinner I was seized with a violent laughing fit,

by seeing Mr. Musgrave, who had sat quite silent, turn very

solemnly to Mr. Seward and say in a reproachful tone,--

"Seward, you said I should be fighting to talk all the talk, and

here I have not spoke once."

"Well, sir," cried Mr. Seward, nodding at him, 'why don't you put

in?"

"Why, I lost an opportunity just now, when Mr. Cator -talked of

climates; I had something I could have said about them very

well."

222

After this, however, he made himself amends ; for when we left

the men to their wine, he began such a violent dispute with Mr

Cator, that Mr. Jenkinson and Mr. Crutchley left the field of

battle, and went out to join the ladies in their walk round the

grounds ; and that breaking up the party, the rest soon followed.

By the way, I happened not to walk myself, which was most

ludicrously noticed by Mr. Musgrave; who, while we were at tea,

suddenly crossed the circle to come up to me, and say,--

"You did not walk, Miss Burney?"

"No, sir."

"Very much in the right--very much in the right, indeed! You

were studying? Oh, very right! never lose a moment! Such an

understanding as yours it would be a shame to neglect; it ought

to be cultivated every moment."

And then he hurried back to his seat.

In the evening, when all the company was gone but our three

gentlemen, Seward, Crutchley, and Musgrave, we took a walk round

the grounds by moonlight - and Mr. Musgrave started with rapture

at the appearance of the moon, now full, now cloudy, now clear,

now obscured, every three yards we moved.

A PARTING SHOT AT MR. CRUTCHLEY.

Friday, Sept. 11.-And now, if I am not mistaken, I come to relate

the conclusion of Mr. Crutchley's most extraordinary summer

career at Streatham, which place, I believe, he has now left

without much intention to frequently revisit. However, this is

mere conjecture; but he really had a run of ill-luck not very

inviting to a man of his cold and splenetic turn to play the same

game.

When we were just going to supper, we heard a disturbance among

the dogs; and Mrs. and Miss Thrale went out to see what was the

matter, while Dr. Johnson and I remained quiet. Soon returning,

"A friend! a friend!" she cried, and was followed by Mr.

Crutchley. He would not eat with us, but was chatty and in

goodhumour, and as usual, when in spirits, saucily sarcastic.

For instance, it is generally half my employment in hot evenings

here to rescue some or other poor buzzing idiot of an insect from

the flame of a candle. This, accordingly, I was performing with

a Harry Longlegs, which, after much trial to catch,

223

eluded me, and escaped, nobody could see how. Mr. Crutchley

vowed I had caught and squeezed him to death in my hand.

"No, indeed," cried I, "when I catch them, I put them out of the

window."

"Ay, their bodies," said he, laughing; "but their legs, I

suppose, you keep."

"Not I, indeed; I hold them very safe in the palm of my hand."

Oh!" said he, "the palm of your hand! why, it would not hold a

fly! But what have you done with the poor wretch! thrown him

under the table slily?:

"What good would that do?"

"Oh, help to establish your full character for mercy."

Now was not that a speech to provoke Miss Grizzle herself?

However, I only made up a saucy lip.

"Come," cried he, offering to take my hand, "where is he? Which

hand is he in? Let me examine?"

"No, no, I thank you; I sha'n't make you my confessor, whenever I

take one."

He did not much like this; but I did not mean he should.

Afterwards he told us a most unaccountably ridiculous story of a

crying wife. A gentleman, he said, of his acquaintance had

married lately his own kept mistress; and last Sunday he had

dined with the bride and bridegroom, but, to his utter

astonishment, without any apparent reason in the world, in the

middle of dinner or tea, she burst into a violent fit of crying,

and went out of the room, though there was not the least quarrel,

and the sposo seemed all fondness and attention.

"What, then," said I, somewhat maliciously, I grant, "had you

been saying to er?"

"Oh, thank you!" said he, with a half-affronted bow, "I expected

this! I declare I thought you would conclude it was me!"

MANAGER HELIOGABALUS.

Somebody told me (but not your father) that the Opera singers

would not be likely to get any money out of Sheridan This year.

"Why that fellow grows fat," says I, "like Heliogabalus, upon the

tongues of nightingales." Did I tell you that bright thing

before?--Mrs. Thrale to Fanny Burney.

224

SISTER AUTHORESSES.

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Philips, late Miss Susan Burney.)

February, 1782.

As I have a frank and a subject, I will leave my bothers, and

write you and my dear brother Molesworth(145) a little account of

a rout I have just been at, at the house of Mr. Paradise.

You will wonder, perhaps, in this time of hurry, why I went

thither ; but when I tell you Pacchierotti(146) was there, you

will not think it surprising.

There was a crowd of company; Charlotte and I went together; my

father came afterwards. Mrs. Paradise received us very

graciously, and led me immediately up to Miss Thrale, who was

sitting by the Pac.

We were very late, for we had waited cruelly for the coach, and

Pac. had sung a song out of "Artaxerxes," composed for a tenor,

which we lost, to my infinite regret. Afterwards he sang "Dolce

speme" delightfully.

Mrs. Paradise, leaning over the Kirwans and Charlotte, who hardly

got a seat all night for the crowd, said she begged to speak to

me. I squeezed my great person out, and she then said,-

"Miss Burney, Lady Say and Sele desires the honour of being

introduced to you."

Her ladyship stood by her side. She seems pretty near fifty-at

least turned forty ; her head was full of feathers, flowers,

jewels, and gew-gaws, and as high as Lady Archer's her dress was

trimmed with beads, silver, persian sashes, and all sorts of fine

fancies; her face is thin and fiery, and her whole manner spoke a

lady all alive.

"Miss Burney," cried she, with great quickness, and a look all

curiosity, "I am very happy to see you; I have longed to see you

a great while. I have read your performance, and I am quite

delighted with it. I think it's the most elegant novel I ever

read in my life. Such a style! I am quite surprised at it. I

can't think where you got so much invention!"

You may believe this was a reception not to make me very

loquacious. I did not know which way to turn my head.

225

"I must introduce You," continued her ladyship, "to my sister;

she'll be quite delighted to see you. She has written a novel

herself so you are sister authoresseS. A most elegant thing it

is, I assure You; almost as pretty as yours, only not quite so

elegant. She has written two novels, only one is not so pretty

as the other. But I shall insist upon your seeing them. One is

in letters, like yours, only yours is prettiest ; it's called the

'Mausoleum of Julia'!"

What unfeeling things, thought I, are my sisters! I'm sure I

never heard them go about thus praising me. Mrs. Paradise then

again came forward, and taking my hand, led me up to her

ladyship's sister, Lady Hawke, saying aloud, and with a courteous

smirk,

"Miss Burney, ma'am, authoress of 'Evelina.'"

"Yes," cried my friend, Lady Say and Sele, who followed me close,

"it's the authoress of 'Evelina,' so you are sister

authoresses!"

Lady Hawke arose and curtsied. She is much younger than her

sister, and rather pretty; extremely languishing, delicate, and

pathetic; apparently accustomed to be reckoned the genius of her

family, and well contented to be looked upon as a creature

dropped from the clouds. I was then seated between their

ladyships, and Lady S. and S., drawing as near to me as possible,

said,-

"Well, and so you wrote this pretty book ! -and pray did your

papa know of it?"

"No, ma'am; not till some months after the publication."

"So I've heard - it's surprising! I can't think how you invented

it!--there's a vast deal of invention in it! And you've got so

much humour, too! Now my sister has no humour; hers is all

sentiment. You can't think how I was entertained with that old

grandmother and her son!"

I suppose she meant Tom Branghton for the son.

"How much pleasure you must have had in writing it; had not you?"

"Y--e--s, ma'am."

"So has my sister; she's never without a pen in her band; she

can't help writing for her life. When Lord Hawke is travelling

about with her, she keeps writing all the way."

"Yes," said Lady Hawke; "I really can't help writing. One has

great pleasure in writing the things; has one not, Miss Burney?

226

"Y--e--s, ma'am."

"But your novel," cried Lady Say and Sele, "is in such a style!-

-so elegant! I am vastly glad you made it end happily. I hate a

novel that don't end happy."

"Yes," said Lady Hawke, with a languid smile, "I was vastly glad

when she married Lord Orville. I was sadly afraid it would not

have been."

"My sister intends," said Lady Say and Sele, "to print her

'Mausoleum,' just for her own friends and acquaintances."

"Yes," said Lady Hawke; "I have never printed yet."

"I saw Lady Hawke's name," quoth I to my first friend, "ascribed

to the play of 'Variety.'"(147)

"Did you indeed?" cried Lady Say, in an ecstasy. "Sister! do you

know Miss Burney saw your name in the newspapers, about the

play!"

"Did she?" said Lady Hawke, smiling complacently. "But I really

did not write it; I never wrote a play in my life."

"Well," cried Lady Say, "but do repeat that sweet part that I am

so fond of--you know what I mean; Miss Burney must hear it,--out

of your novel, you know!"

Lady H.-No, I can't ; I have forgot it.

Lady S.-Oh, no! I am sure you have not; I insist upon it.

Lady H.-But I know you can repeat it yourself; you have so fine a

memory; I am sure you can repeat it;

Lady S.-Oh, but I should not do it justice! that's all,--I

should not do it justice!

Lady Hawke then bent forward, and repeated--"'If, when he made

the declaration of his love, the sensibility that beamed in his

eyes was felt in his heart, what pleasing sensations and soft

alarms might not that tender avowal awaken!'"

"And from what, ma'am," cried I, astonished, and imagining I had

mistaken them, "is this taken?"

"From my sister's novel!" answered the delighted Lady Say and

Sele, expecting my raptures to be equal to her own; "it's in the

'Mausoleum,'--did not you know that? Well, I can't think how you

can write these sweet novels! And it's all just like that part.

Lord Hawke himself says it's all poetry. For my part, I'm sure I

never could write so. I suppose, Miss Burney, you are producing

another,--a'n't you?"

"No, ma'am."

227

"oh, I dare say you are. I dare say you are writing one this

Very minute!"

Mrs. Paradise now came up to me again, followed by a square man,

middle-aged, and hum-drum, who, I found was Lord Say and Sele,

afterwards from the Kirwans, for though they introduced him to

me, I was so confounded by their vehemence and their manners,

that I did not hear his name.

"Miss Burney," said Mrs. P.,, presenting me to him, "authoress of

'Evelina.'"

"Yes," cried Lady Say and Sele, starting up, "'tis the authoress

of 'Evelina!'"

"Of what ? " cried he.

"Of 'Evelina.' You'd never think it,--she looks so young, to

have so much invention, and such an elegant style! Well, I could

write a play, I think, but I'm sure I could never write a novel."

"Oh, yes, you could, if you would try," said Lady Hawke.

"Oh, no, I could not," answered she; "I could not get a style--

that's the thing--I could not tell how to get a style! and a

novel's nothing without a style, you know!"

"Why no," said Lady Hawke; "that's true. But then you write such

charming letters, you know!"

"Letters!" repeated Lady S. and S. simpering; "do you tbink so?

Do you know I wrote a long letter to Mrs. Ray just before I came

here, this very afternoon,--quite a long letter! I did, I assure

you!"

Here Mrs. Paradise came forward with another gentleman, younger,

slimmer, and smarter, and saying to me, "Sir Gregory Page

Turner," said to him,

"Miss Burney, authoress of 'Evelina.'"

At which Lady Say and Sele, In fresh transport, again rose, and

rapturously again repeated--

"Yes, she's authoress of 'Evelina'! Have you read it?"

"No; is it to be had?"

"Oh dear, yes! it's been printed these two years! You'd never

think it! But it's the most elegant novel I ever read in my

life. Writ in such a style!"

"Certainly," said he very civilly; "I have every inducement to

get it. Pray where is it to be had? everywhere, I suppose?"

"Oh, nowhere, I hope," cried I, wishing at that moment it had

been never in human ken.

228

My square friend, Lord Say and Sele, then putting his head

forward, said, very solemnly, "I'll purchase it!"

His lady then mentioned to me a hundred novels that I had never

heard of, asking my opinion of them, and whether I knew the

authors? Lady Hawke only occasionally and languidlv joining in

the discourse: and then Lady S. and S., sudclertl rising, begged

me not to move, for she should be back again in a minute, and

flew to the next room.

I took, however, the first opportunity of Lady Hawke's casting

down her eyes, and reclining her delicate head, to make away from

this terrible set; and, just as I was got by the pianoforte,

where I hoped Pacchierotti would soon present himself, Mrs.

Paradise again came to me, and said,-

"Miss Burney, Lady Say and Sele wishes vastly to cultivate your

acquaintance, and begs to know if she may have the honour of your

company to an assembly at her house next Friday?--and I will do

myself the pleasure to call for you if you will give me leave."

"Her ladyship does me much honour, but I am unfortunately

engaged," was my answer, with as much promptness as I could

command.

A DINNER AT SIR JOSHUA'S, WITH BURKE AND GiBBON.

June.-Among the many I have been obliged to shirk this year, for

the sake of living almost solely with "Cecilia," none have had

less patience with my retirement than Miss Palmer, who, bitterly

believing I intended never to visit her again, has forborne

sending me any invitations: but, about three weeks ago, my father

had a note from Sir Joshua Reynolds, to ask him to dine at

Richmond, and meet the Bishop of St. Asaph,(148) and, therefore,

to make my peace, I scribbled a note to Miss Palmer to this

purpose,--

"After the many kind invitations I have been obliged to refuse,

will you, my dear Miss Palmer, should I offer to accompany my

father to-morrow, bid me remember the old proverb,

'Those who will not when they may,

When they will, they shall have nay?'--F.B."

This was graciously received; and the next morning Sir Joshua and

Miss Palmer called for my father and me, accompanied by Lord

Cork. We had a mighty pleasant ride, Miss

229

Palmer and I " made up," though she scolded most violently about

my long absence, and attacked me about the book without mercy.

The book, in short, to my great consternation, I find is talked

of and expected all the town over. My dear father himself, I do

verily believe, mentions it to everybody; he is fond of it to

enthusiasm, and does not foresee the danger of raising such

general expectation, which fills me with the horrors every time I

am tormented with the thought.

Sir Joshua's house is delightfully situated, almost at the top of

Richmond Hill. We walked till near dinner-time upon the terrace,

and there met Mr. Richard Burke, the brother of the orator. Miss

Palmer, stopping him, said,-

"Are you coming to dine with us?"

"No," he answered ; "I shall dine at the Star and Garter."

"How did you come--with Mrs. Burke, or alone?"

"Alone."

"What, on horseback?"

"Ay, sure!" cried he, laughing; "up and ride! Now's the time."

And he made a fine flourish with his hand, and passed us. He is

just made under-secretary at the Treasury. He is a tall and

handsome man, and seems to have much dry drollery; but we saw no

more of him.

After our return to the house, and while Sir Joshua and I were

t`ete-`a-t`ete, Lord Cork and my father being still walking, and

Miss Palmer having, I suppose, some orders to give about the

dinner, the " knight of Plympton " was desiring my opinion of the

prospect from his window, and comparing it with Mr. Burke's, as

he told me after I had spoken it,--when the Bishop of St. Asaph

and his daughter, Miss Georgiana Shipley, were announced. Sir

Joshua, to divert himself, in introducing me to the bishop, said,

"Miss Burney, my lord; otherwise 'Evelina.'"

The bishop is a well-looking man, and seemed grave, quiet, and

sensible. I have heard much more of him, but nothing more

appeared. Miss Georgiana, however, was showy enough for two.

She is a very tall and rather handsome girl; but the expression

of her face is, to me, disagreeable. She has almost a constant

smile, not of softness, nor of insipidity, but of selfsufficiency

and internal satisfaction. She is very much accomplished, and

her fame for painting and for scholarship, I know You are well

acquainted with. I believe her to have very good parts and much

quickness , but she is so full of herself, so

230

earnest to obtain notice, and so happy in her confidence of

deserving it, that I have been not less charmed with any youn

lady I have seen for many a day. I have met with her before, at

Mrs. Pepys', but never before was introduced to her.

Miss Palmer soon joined us ; and, in a short time, entered more

company,--three gentlemen and one lady; but there was no more

ceremony used of introductions. The lady, I concluded was Mrs.

Burke, wife of the Mr. Burke, and was not mistaken.

One of the gentlemen I recollected to be young Burke, her son,

whom I once met at Sir Joshua's in town, and another of them I

knew for Mr. Gibbon: but the third I had never seen before. I

had been told that the Burke was not expected yet I could

conclude this gentleman to be no other; he had just the air, the

manner, the appearance, I had prepared myself to look for in him,

and there was an evident, a striking superiority in his

demeanour, his eye, his motions, that announced him no common

man.

I could not get at Miss Palmer to satisfy my doubts, and we were

soon called downstairs to dinner. Sir Joshua and the "unknown"

stopped to speak with one another upon the stairs; and, when they

followed us, Sir Joshua, in taking his place at the table, asked

me to sit next to him; I willingly complied. "And then," he

added, "Mr. Burke shall sit on the other side of you." "Oh, no,

indeed!" cried Miss Georgiana, who also had placed herself next

Sir Joshua; "I won't consent to that; Mr. Burke must sit next me;

I won't agree to part with him. Pray, come and sit down quiet,

Mr. Burke."

Mr. Burke,-for him it was,-smiled and obeyed.

"I only meant," said Sir Joshua, "to have made my peace with Mr.

Burke, by giving him that place, because he has been scolding me

for not introducing him to Miss Burney. However, I must do it

now;--Mr. Burke!--Miss Burney!"

We both half rose, and Mr. Burke said,--

" I have been complaining to Sir Joshua that he left me wholly to

my own sagacity; however, it did not here deceive me."

" Oh dear, then," said Miss Georgiana, looking a little

consternated, "perhaps you won't thank me for calling you to this

place!"

Nothing was said, and so we all began dinner,-youngBurke making

himself my next neighbour.

231

Captain Phillips(149) knows Mr. Burke. Has he or has he not told

you how delightful a creature he is? If he has not, pray in my

name, abuse him without mercy; if he has, pray ask if he will

subscribe to my account of him, which herewith shall follow.

He is tall, his figure is noble, his air commanding, his address

graceful, his voice is clear, penetrating, sonorous, and

powerful, his language is copious, various, and eloquent; his

manners are attractive, his conversation is delightful.

What says Captain Phillips? Have I chanced to see him in his

happiest hour? or is he all this in common? Since we lost

Garrick I have seen nobody so enchanting.

I can give you, however, very little of what was said, for the

conversation was not suivie, Mr. Burke darting from subject to

subject with as much rapidity as entertainment. Neither is the

charm of his discourse more in the matter than the manner: all,

therefore, that is related from him loses half its effect in not

being related by him. Such little sketches as I can recollect

take however.

>From the window of the dining-parlour, Sir Joshua directed us to

look at a pretty white house which belonged to Lady Di Beauclerk.

"I am extremely glad," said Mr. Burke, "to see her at last so

well housed; poor woman! the bowl has long rolled in misery; I

rejoice that it has now found its balance. I never, myself, so

much enjoyed the sight of happiness in another, as in that woman

when I first saw her after the death of her husband. It was

really enlivening to behold her placed in that sweet house,

released from all her cares, a thousand pounds a-year at her own

disposal, and--her husband was dead! Oh, it was pleasant, it was

delightful to see her enjoyment of her situation!"

"But, without considering the circumstances," said Mr. Gibbon,

"this may appear very strange, though, when they are fairly

stated, it is perfectly rational and unavoidable."

"Very true," said Mr. Burke, "if the circumstances are not

considered, Lady Di may seem highly reprehensible."

He then, addressing himself particularly to me, as the person

least likely to be acquainted with the character of Mr.

Beauclerk, drew it himself in strong and marked expressions,

describing the misery he gave his wife, his singular

ill-treatment

232

of her, and the necessary relief the death of such a man must

give.(150)

He then reminded Sir Joshua of a day in which they had dined at

Mr. Beauclerk's, soon after his marriage with Lord Bolingbroke's

divorced wife, in company with Goldsmith, and told a new story of

poor Goldsmith's eternal blundering.

A LETTER FROM BURKE To FANNY BURNEY.

Whitehall, July 29, 1782.

Madam,

I should feel exceedingly to blame if I could refuse to myself

the natural satisfaction, and to you the just but poor return, of

my best thanks for the very great instruction and entertainment I

have received from the new present you have bestowed on the

public. There are few--I believe I may say fairly there are none

at all--that will not find themselves better informed concerning

human nature, and their stock of observation enriched, by reading

your "Cecilia." They certainly will, letheir experience in life

and manners be what it may. The arrogance of age must submit to

be taught by youth. You have crowded into a few small volumes an

incredible variety of characters; most of them well planned, well

supported, and well contrasted with each other. If there be any

fault in this respect, It is one in which you are in no great

danger of being imitated. justly as your characters are drawn,

perhaps they are too numerous. But I beg pardon; I fear it is

quite in vain to preach economy to those who are come young to

excessive and sudden opulence.

I might trespass on your delicacy if I should fill my letter to u

with what I fill my conversation to others. I should be

troublesome to you alone If I should tell you all I feel and

think on the natural vein of humour, the tender pathetic, the

comprehensive and noble moral, and the sagacious observance, that

appear quite throughout that extraordinary performance.

233

In an age distinguished by producing extraordinary women,

I hardly dare to tell you where my opinion would place you

amongst them. I respect your modesty, that will not endure the

commendations which your merit forces from everybody.

I have the honour to be, with great gratitude, respect, and

esteem, madam, your most obedient and most humble servant,

EDM. BURKE.

My best compliments and congratulations to Dr. Burney on the

great honour acquired to his family.

Miss BURNEY SITS FOR HER PORTRAIT.

Chesington, Monday, Aug. 12-I Set Out for this ever dear place,

accompanied by Edward,(151) who was sent for to paint Mr. Crisp

for my father. I am sure you will rejoice in this. I was a

little dumpish in the journey, for I seemed leaving my Susan

again. However, I read a "Rambler" or two, and "composed the

harmony of my temper," as well as I could, for the sake of

Edward, who was not only faultless of this, but who is, I almost

think, faultless of all things. I have thought him more amiable

and deserving, than ever, since this last sojourn under the same

roof with him; and, as it happened, I have owed to him almost all

the comfort I have this time met with here.

We came in a chaise, which was well loaded with canvasses,

.pencils, and painting materials ; for Mr. Crisp was to be three

times painted, and Mrs. Gast once. My sweet father came down

Gascoign-lane to meet us, in very pood spirits and very good

health. Next came dear daddy Crisp, looking vastly well, and, as

usual, high in glee and kindness at the meeting. Then the

affectionate Kitty, the good Mrs. Hamilton, the gentle Miss

Young, and the enthusiastic Mrs. Gast.

The instant dinner was over, to my utter surprise and

consternation, I was called into the room appropriated for Edward

and his pictures, and informed I was to sit to him for Mr. Crisp!

Remonstrances were unavailing, and declarations of aversion to

the design were only ridiculed; both daddies interfered, and,

when I ran off, brought me back between them, and compelled my

obedience;--and from that time to this, nothing has gone forward

but picture-sitting.

234

GENERAL PAOLI.

(Fanny Burney to Mr. crisp.)

Oct. 15, 1782.

.....I am very sorry you could not come to Streatham at the time

Mrs. Thrale hoped to see you, for when shall we be likely to meet

there again? You would have been much pleased, I am sure, by

meeting with General Paoli,' who spent the day there, and was

extremely communicative and agreeable. I had seen him in large

companies, but was never made known to him before; nevertheless,

he conversed with me as if well acquainted not only with myself,

but my connexions,--inquiring of me when I had last seen Mrs.

Montagu? and calling Sir Joshua Reynolds, when he spoke of him,

my friend. He is a very pleasing man, tall and genteel in his

person, remarkably well bred, and very mild and soft in his

manners.

I will try to give you a little specimen of his conversation,

because I know you love to hear particulars of all out-of-theway

persons. His English is blundering but not unpretty. Speaking

of his first acquaintance with Mr. Boswell,--

"He came," he said, "to my country, and he fetched me some letter

of recommending him; but I was of the belief he

235

might be an impostor, and I supposed, in my minte, he was an

espy; for I look away from him, and in a moment I look to him

again, and I behold his tablets. Oh! he was to the work of

writing down all I say! Indeed I was angry. But soon I discover

he was no impostor and no espy; and I only find I was myself the

monster he had come to discern. Oh,-is a very good man! I love

him indeed; so cheerful! so gay! so pleasant! but at the first,

oh! I was indeed angry."

After this he told us a story of an expectation he had of being

robbed, and of the protection he found from a very large dog that

he is very fond of. "

I walk out," he said, "in the night; I go towards the field; I

behold a man--oh, ugly one! I proceed--he follow; I go on--he

address me. 'You have one dog,' he says. 'Yes,' say I to him.

'Is a fierce dog?' he says; 'is he fiery?' 'Yes,' reply I, 'he

can bite.' 'I would not attack in the night,' says he, 'a house

to have such dog in it.' Then I conclude he was a breaker" so I

turn to him---oh, very rough! not gentle--and I say, very fierce,

'He shall destroy you, if you are ten!'"

Afterwards, speaking of the Irish giant, who is now shown in

town, he said,-

"He is so large I am as a baby! I look at him--oh! I find myself

so little as a child! Indeed, my indignation it rises when I see

him hold up his hand so high. I am as nothing; and I find myself

in the power of a man who fetches from me half a crown."

This language, which is all spoke very pompously by him, sounds

comical from himself, though I know not how it may read.

(136 Sir Philip Jennings Clerke.-ED,

(137) Mauritius Lowe, a natural son of Lord Southwell. He sent a

large picture of the Deluge to the Royal Academy in 1783, and was

so distressed at its rejection, that Johnson compassionately

wrote to Sirjoshua Reynolds in his behalf, entreating that the

verdict might be re-considered. His intercession was successful,

and the picture was admitted. We know nothing of Mr. Lowe's

work.-ED.

(138) Afterwards Sir William PWeller Pepys. See note (103),

ante, p. 148.-ED.

(139) "The moment he was gone, 'Now,' says Dr. Johnson, 'is Pepys

gone home hating me, who love him better than I did before. He

spoke in defence of his dead friend; but though I hope I spoke

better, who spoke against him, yet all my eloquence will gain me

nothing but an honest man for my enemy!'" (Mrs. Piozzi's

"Anecdotes of Johnson.")-ED.

(140) The celebrated Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, equally

famous for her personal attractions and her political enthusiasm

in the Whig interest. Her canvassing, and, it is said, her

kisses, largely contributed to the return of Charles james Fox

for Westminster in the election of 1784. She was the daughter of

John, first Earl Spencer ; was born 1757; married, 1774, to

William, fifth Duke of Devonshire; and died, 18o6. Her portrait

was painted by both Reynolds and Gainsborough.

Mary Isabella, Duchess of Rutland, was the youngest daughter of

the Duke of Beaufort, and was married, in 1775, to Charles

Mariners, fourth Duke of Rutland. She died, 1831.-ED.

(141) Susan and Sophy were younger daughters of Mrs. Thrale-ED.

(142) The manager of Mr. Thrale's brewery.-ED.

(143) i.e. To Streatham: Fanny had been home in the interval.-ED.

(144) Of Bath Easton: husband of the lady of the "Vase." See

note (123), ante, P. 174.-ED.

(145) Captain Molesworth Phillips, who had recently married Susan

Burney.-ED.

(146) Gasparo Pacchierotti, a celebrated Italian singer, and a

very intimate friend of the Burney family.-ED.

(147) "Variety," a comedy, was produced at Drury Lane, Feb. 25,

1782, and ran nine nights. Genest calls it a dull play, with

little or no plot. The author is unknown.-ED.

(148) Dr. Jonathan Shipley.-ED.

(149) The husband of Fanny Burney's sister, Susan.-ED.

(150) Poor Lady Di was throughout unfortunate in her marriages.

Her first husband, Lord Bolingbroke, to whom she was married in

1757, brutally used her, and drove her to seek elsewhere the

affection which he failed to bestow. She was divorced from him

in 1768, and married, immediately afterwards, to Topham

Beauclerk, who, in his turn, ill-treated her. Mr. Beauclerk died

in March, 1780. He was greatly esteemed by Johnson, but his good

qualities appear to have been rather of the head than of the

heart.-ED.

(151) Her cousin Edward Burney, the painter. A reproduction of

his portrait of Fanny forms the frontispiece to the present

volume.-ED.

(152) Pasquale Paoli, the famous Corsican general and patriot.

He maintained the independence of his country against the Genoese

for nearly ten years. in 1769, upon the submission of Corsica to

France, to which the Genoese had ceded it, Paoli settled in

England, where he enjoyed a pension of 1200 pounds a year from

the English Government. More details respecting this delightful

interview between Fanny and the General are given in the "Memoirs

of Dr. Burney" (vol. ii. p. 255), from which we select the

following extracts:--

"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.

"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.'"-ED.

236

SECTION 5

(1782-3-4-)

"CECILIA": A PAEAN OF PRAISE: LAMENTATIONS.

[" This is the last visit remembered, or, at least, narrated, of

Streatham." With these words Madame D'Arblay concludes the

account given in the "Memoirs of Dr. Burney," of her meeting with

General Paoli. In the autumn Of 1782 Mrs. Thrale went, with her

daughters and Dr. Johnson, to Brighthelmstone, where Fanny joined

them. On their return to London, November 20, the Thrales

settled for the winter in Argyle-street, and Fanny repaired to

her father's residence in St. Martin's-street. She saw much of

Mrs. Thrale during the winter, but in the following April that

lady quitted London for Bath, where she resided until her

marriage with Signor Piozzi in the summer of 1784. She

maintained an affectionate correspondence with Fanny until after

the marriage, but from the date of their parting in London, they

saw no more of each other, except for one brief interval in May,

1784, for several years.

We must here give an account, as concise as possible, of the

transaction which was so bitterly resented by the friends of Mrs.

Thrale, but in which her conduct seems to us, taking all the

circumstances fairly into consideration, to have been less

deserving of condemnation than their uncharitableness. She had

first seen Piozzi, an Italian singer, at a party at Dr. Burney's

in 1777, and her behaviour to him on that occasion had certainly

afforded no premonition of her subsequent infatuation. Piozzi,

who was nearly of the same age as herself, was, as Miss Seward

describes him, "a handsome man, with gentle, pleasing, unaffected

manners, and with very eminent skill in his profession." He was

requested by Dr. Burney to sing; rather unfortunately, it would

appear, for the company, which included Johnson and the

Grevilles, was by no means composed of musical enthusiasts, and

Mrs. Thrale, in particular, "knew not a flat from a sharp, nor a

crotchet from a quaver." However, he complied; and Mrs. Thrale,

after sitting awhile in silence, finding the proceed-

237

ings dull, was seized with a desire to enliven them. "In a fit

of utter recklessness, she suddenly, but softly, arose, and

stealing on tiptoe behind Signor Piozzi, who was accompanying

himself on the pianoforte to an animated aria 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.

"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?'"(153)

This deserved rebuke the lively lady took in perfectly good part,

and the incident passed without further notice. She does not

appear to have met with Piozzi again, Until, in July, 1780, she

Pppicked him up " at Brighton. She now finds him " amazingly

like her father," and insists that he shall teach Hester music.

>From this point the fever gradually increased. In August, 1781,

little more than four months after her husband's death, Piozzi

has become "a prodigious favourite" with her; she has even

developed a taste for his music, which "fills the mind with

emotions one would not be without, though inconvenient enough

sometimes." In the spring Of 1783, soon after her arrival at

Bath, they were formally engaged, but the urgent remonstrances of

her friends and family caused the engagement to be broken off,

and Piozzi went to Italy. Her infatuation, however, was too

strong to be overcome. Under the struggle, long protracted, her

health gave way, and at length, by the advice of her doctor, and

with the sullen consent of Miss Thrale, Piozzi was summoned to

Bath. He, too, had been faithful, and he lost no time in obeying

the summons. They were married, according to the Roman Catholic

rites, in London, and again, on the 25th of July, 1784, in a

Protestant church at Bath, her three elder daughters, of whom the

eldest, Hester ("Queeny"), was not yet twenty years of age,

having quitted Bath before his arrival.

Mrs. Piozzi left England with her husband and her youngest

daughter, Cecilia, and lived for some years in Italy, where she

compiled her well known "Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson." Her wedded

life with Piozzi was certainly happy, and he gave her no reason

to repent the step she had taken. The indignation of her former

friends, especially of Dr. Johnson, was carried to a length

which, the cause being considered, appears little short of

ridiculous. Mrs. Thrale's second marriage may have been

ill-advised,

238

but it was neither criminal nor disgraceful. Piozzi was

incontestably a respectable man and a constant lover ; but that

an Italian musician, who depended upon his talents for his

livelihood, should become the husband of the celebrated Mrs.

Thrale, and the stepfather of four young ladies of fashion, the

daughters of a brewer, and the heiresses to his large fortune,-

-there was the rub! The dislike of Dr. Johnson and his friends

to the marriage was, from a worldly point of view, justifiable

enough, but it argues ill for their generosity of mind that they

should have attached such overwhelming importance to such petty

considerations. Mrs. Piozzi has been blamed for deserting her

three elder daughters; but the fact is, it was her daughters who

deserted her, and refused to recognise her husband. Her only

fault, if fault it can be called, was in declining to sacrifice

the whole happiness of her life to the supposed requirements of

their rank in society. In condemning her friends for their

severity and illiberality, we must, however, make an exception in

favour of Fanny. She, like the rest, had been averse to the

match, but her cordiality to Mrs. Piozzi remained undiminished;

and when, soon after the marriage, their correspondence was

discontinued, to be renewed only after the lapse of many years,

it was not Fanny, but Mrs. Piozzi, who broke it off, instigated,

Fanny always believed, by her husband.

Her separation from Mrs. Thrale was not the only event which

brought sorrow to Fanny during the years to which the following

section of the Diary relates. Mr. Crisp, the person dearest to

her of all human beings outside her own family, died at

Chesington, of an attack of his old malady, the gout, on the 24th

of April, 1783, aged seventy-five. Fanny and Susan were with him

at the last, and Fanny's love was rewarded, her anguish soothed

yet deepened, when, almost with his dying breath, her Daddy Crisp

called her "the dearest thing to him on earth."

Towards the end of 1784 another heavy blow fell upon Fanny, in

the loss of Dr. Johnson, who died on the 13th of December. The

touching references in the Diary to his last illness form an

interesting supplement to Boswell's narrative.

But the picture of Fanny's life during these years is not without

bright touches. As such we may reckon the great, and deserved

success of her novel, "Cecilia"; the commencement of her

acquaintance with two ladies who were hereafter to be numbered

among her dearest friends--the venerable Mrs. Delany, and Mrs.

Locke, of Norbury Park, Surrey; and last, not least, the growing

intimacy between Edmund Burke and the family of Dr. Burney.-ED.]

239

AT BRIGHTON AGAIN, THE "FAmous Miss BURNEY."

Brighthelmstone, Oct. 26.

My journey was incidentless - but the Moment I came into

Brighthelmstone I was met by Mrs. Thrale, who had most eagerly

been waiting for me a long while, and therefore I dismounted, and

walked home with her. It would be very superfluous to tell you

how she received me, for you cannot but know, from her impatient

letters, what I had reason to expect of kindness and welcome.

Dr. Johnson received me, too, with his usual goodness, and with a

salute so loud, that the two young beaus, Cotton and Swinerton,

have never done laughing about it.

Mrs. Thrale spent two or three hours in my room, talking over all

her affairs, and then we wished each other bon repos, and--

retired. Grandissima conclusion!

Oh, but let me not forget that a fine note came from Mr. Pepys,

who is here with his family, saying he was pressd`e de vivre, and

entreating to see Mrs. and Miss T., Dr. Johnson, and Cecilia at

his house the next day. I hate mightily this method of naming me

from my heroines, of whose honour I think I am more jealous than

of my own.

Oct. 27-The Pepyses came to visit me in form, but I was dressing;

in the evening, however, Mrs. and Miss T. took me to them. Dr.

Johnson would not go ; he told me it was my day, and I should be

crowned, for Mr. Pepys was wild about "Cecilia." We found at Mr.

Pepys' nobody but his wife, his brother, Dr. Pepys,(154) and Dr.

Pepys' lady, Countess of Rothes. Mr. Pepys received me with such

distinction, that it was very evident how much the book, with the

most flattering opinion of it, was in his head; however, he

behaved very prettily, and

Livros Grátis
( http://www.livrosgratis.com.br )
 
Milhares de Livros para Download:
 
Baixar livros de Administração
Baixar livros de Agronomia
Baixar livros de Arquitetura
Baixar livros de Artes
Baixar livros de Astronomia
Baixar livros de Biologia Geral
Baixar livros de Ciência da Computação
Baixar livros de Ciência da Informação
Baixar livros de Ciência Política
Baixar livros de Ciências da Saúde
Baixar livros de Comunicação
Baixar livros do Conselho Nacional de Educação - CNE
Baixar livros de Defesa civil
Baixar livros de Direito
Baixar livros de Direitos humanos
Baixar livros de Economia
Baixar livros de Economia Doméstica
Baixar livros de Educação
Baixar livros de Educação - Trânsito
Baixar livros de Educação Física
Baixar livros de Engenharia Aeroespacial
Baixar livros de Farmácia
Baixar livros de Filosofia
Baixar livros de Física
Baixar livros de Geociências
Baixar livros de Geografia
Baixar livros de História
Baixar livros de Línguas

Baixar livros de Literatura
Baixar livros de Literatura de Cordel
Baixar livros de Literatura Infantil
Baixar livros de Matemática
Baixar livros de Medicina
Baixar livros de Medicina Veterinária
Baixar livros de Meio Ambiente
Baixar livros de Meteorologia
Baixar Monografias e TCC
Baixar livros Multidisciplinar
Baixar livros de Música
Baixar livros de Psicologia
Baixar livros de Química
Baixar livros de Saúde Coletiva
Baixar livros de Serviço Social
Baixar livros de Sociologia
Baixar livros de Teologia
Baixar livros de Trabalho
Baixar livros de Turismo
 
 