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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

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME D'ARBLAY VOLUME 1 ***




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             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
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
as
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.




59

                           DIARY AND LETTERS
                                   OF
                            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.
60

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.]
61

         "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.

62

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
63

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.
64

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,
65

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
66

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
67

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

68

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

69

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
70

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)

71

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."
72

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

73

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
74

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
75

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.

76

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
77

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?"

78

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

79

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

80

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

82

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."

83

"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
84

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
86

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."

87

"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?

88

"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."

89

"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'?"

90

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

91

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."

92

"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!

93

"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

94

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
95

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
97
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

98

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

99

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
t

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))
m
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
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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 only mentioned it by allusions; most
particularly upon the character of Meadows, which he took various
opportunities of pronouncing to be the "best hit possible" upon
the present race of fine gentlemen.  We did not stay with them
long, but called upon Miss Benson, and proceeded to the rooms.
Mr. Pepys was very

240

unwilling to part with us, and wanted to frighten me from going,
by saying,--

"And has Miss Burney the courage to venture to the Rooms?  I
wonder she dares!"


I did not seem to understand him, though to mistake him was
impossible.  However, I thought of him again when I was at the
rooms, for most violent was the staring and whispering as I
passed and repassed ! insomuch that I shall by no means be in any
haste to go again to them.  Susan and Sophy Thrale, who were with
their aunt, Mrs. Scott, told Queeny upon our return that they
heard nothing said, whichever way they turned, but "That's she!"
"That's the famous Miss Burney!"  I shall certainly escape going
any more, if it is in my power.

Monday, Od. 28.--Mr. Pepys had but just left me, when Mrs. Thrale
sent Susan with a particular request to see me in her dressing-
room, where I found her with a milliner.

"Oh, Miss Burney," she cried, "I could not help promising Mrs.
Cockran that she should have a sight of you--she has begged it so
hard."

You may believe I stared; and the woman, whose eyes almost looked
ready to eat me, eagerly came up to me, exclaiming,-

"Oh, ma'am, you don't know what a favour this is to see you!  I
have longed for it so long!  It is quite a comfort to me, indeed.
Oh, ma'am, how clever you must be!  All the ladies I deal with
are quite distracted about 'Cecilia,'--and I got it myself.  Oh,
ma'am, how sensible you must be!  It does my heart good to see
you."


                         DR. JOHNSON DOGMATISES.

Oct. 29.-We had a large party at home in the evening.  I was
presently engaged by Mr. Pepys, and he was joined by Mr. Coxe,
and he by Miss Benson.  Mr. Pepys led the conversation, and it
was all upon criticism and poetry.  The little set was broken up
by my retreat, and Mr. Pepys joined Dr. Johnson, with whom he
entered into an argument upon some lines of Gray, and upon Pope's
definition of wit, in which he was so roughly confuted, and so
severely ridiculed, that he was hurt and piqued beyond all power
of disguise, and, in the midst of the discourse, suddenly turned
from him, and, wishing Mrs. Thrale good night, very abruptly
withdrew.
241

Dr. Johnson was certainly right with respect to the argument and
to reason ; but his opposition was so warm, and his wit so
satirical and exulting, that I was really quite grieved to see
how unamiable he appeared, and how greatly he made himself
dreaded by all, and by many abhorred.  What pity that he will not
curb the vehemence of his love of victory and superiority.

The sum of the dispute was this.  Wit being talked of, Mr. Pepys
repeated,--

"True wit is Nature to advantage dress'd,
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd."

"That, sir," cried Dr. Johnson, "is a definition both false and
foolish.  Let wit be dressed how it will, it will equally be wit,
and neither the more nor the less for any advantage dress can
give it."

Mr. P.-But, sir, may not wit be so ill expressed, and so obscure,
by a bad speaker, as to be lost?

Dr. J.-The fault, then, sir, must be with the hearer.  If a man
cannot distinguish wit from words, he little deserves to hear it.

Mr. P.-But, sir, what Pope means--

Dr. J.-Sir, what Pope means, if he means what he says, is both
false and foolish.  In the first place, 'what oft was thought,'
is all the worse for being often thought, because to be wit, it
ought to be newly thought.

Mr. P.-But, sir, 'tis the expression makes it new.

Dr. J.-How can the expression make it new?  It may make it clear,
or may make it elegant - but how new?  You are confounding words
with things.

Mr. P.-But, sir, if one man says a thing very ill, may not
another man say it so much better that--

Dr. J.-That other man, sir, deserves but small praise for the
amendment; he is but the tailor to the first man's thoughts.

Mr. P.-True, sir, he may be but the tailor; but then the
difference is as great as between a man in a gold lace suit and a
man in a blanket.

Dr. J.-just so, sir, I thank you for that; the difference is
precisely such, since it consists neither in the gold lace suit
nor the blanket, but in the man by whom they are worn.

This was the summary; the various contemptuous sarcasms
intermixed would fill, and very unpleasantly, a quire.
242

                       A CUNNING RUNAWAY HEIRESS.

Oct. 30.-Lady Warren is immensely tall, and extremely beautiful;
she is now but just nineteen, though she has been married two or
three years.  She is giddy, gay, chatty, goodhumoured, and a
little affected; she hazards all that occurs to her, seems to
think the world at her feet, and is so young and gay and handsome
that she is not much mistaken.  She is, in short, an inferior
Lady Honoria Pemberton;(155) somewhat beneath her in parts and
understanding, but strongly in that class of character.  I had no
conversation with her myself; but her voice is loud and deep, and
all she said was for the whole room.

Marriages being talked of, "I'll tell you," cried she, "a story;
that is, it sha'n't be a story, but a fact.  A lady of my
acquaintance, who had 650,000 fortune, ran away to Scotland with
a gentleman she liked vastly; so she was a little doubtful of
him, and had a mind to try him: so when they stopped to dine, and
change horses, and all that, she said, 'Now, as I have a great
regard for you, I dare say you have for me - so I will tell you a
secret: I have got no fortune at all, in reality, but only 5,000
pounds; for all the rest is a mere pretence : but if you like me
for myself, and not for my fortune, you won't mind that.'  So the
gentleman said, 'Oh, I don't regard it at all, and you are the
same charming angel that ever you was,' and all those sort of
things that people say to one, and then went out to see about the
chaise.  So he did not come back; but when dinner was ready, the
lady said 'Pray, where is he?'  'Lor, ma'am,' said they, 'why,
that gentleman has been gone ever so long!'  So she came back by
herself; and now she's married to somebody else, and has her
50,000 pounds fortune all safe."


                           DR. JOHNSON A BORE.

Saturday, November 2.-We went to Lady Shelley's. Dr. Johnson,
again, excepted in the invitation.  He is almost constantly
omitted, either from too much respect or too much fear.  I am
sorry for it, as he hates being alone, and as, though he scolds
the others, he is well enough satisfied himself, and having given
vent to all his own occasional anger or ill-humour, he is ready
to begin again, and is never aware that those who have so been
"downed" by him, never can much covet So

243

triumphant a visitor.  In contests of wit, the victor is as ill
off in future consequences as the vanquished in present ridicule.

Monday, November 4.-This was a grand and busy day.  Mr. Swinerton
has been some time arranging a meeting for all our house, with
Lady De Ferrars, whom you may remember as Charlotte Ellerker, and
her lord and sisters: and this morning it took place, by mutual
appointment, at his lodgings, where we met to breakfast.  Dr.
Johnson, who already knew Lord De Ferrars, and Mrs. and Miss
Thrale, and myself, arrived first and then came the Lord and
Lady, and Miss Ellerker and her youngest sister, Harriet.  Lord
De Ferrars is very ugly, but extremely well-bred, gentle,
unassuming, sensible, and pleasing.  His lady is much improved
since we knew her in former days, and seems good-humoured,
lively, and rather agreeable.  Miss Ellerker is nothing altered.

I happened to be standing by Dr. Johnson when all the ladies came
in; but, as I dread him before strangers, from the staring
attention he attracts both for himself and all with whom he
talks, I endeavoured to change my ground.  However, he kept
prating a sort of comical nonsense that detained me some minutes
whether I would or not; but when we were all taking places at the
breakfast-table I made another effort to escape.  It proved vain;
he drew his chair next to mine, and went rattling on in a
humorous sort of comparison he was drawing of himself to me,--not
one word of which could I enjoy, or can I remember, from the
hurry I was in to get out of his way.  In short, I felt so
awkward from being thus marked out, that I was reduced to whisper
a request to Mr. Swinerton to put a chair between us, for which I
presently made a space: for I have often known him stop all
conversation with me, when he has ceased to have me for his next
neighbour.  Mr. Swinerton who is an extremely good-natured young
man, and so intimate here that 1 make no scruple with him,
instantly complied, and placed himself between us.

But no sooner was this done, than Dr. Johnson, half seriously,
and very loudly, took him to task.

"'How now, sir! what do you mean by this?  Would you
separate me from Miss Burney?

Mr. Swinerton, a little startled, began some apologies, and Mrs.
Thrale winked at him to give up the place; but he was willing to
oblige me, though he grew more and more frightened every minute,
and coloured violently as the Doctor continued Is remonstrance,
which he did with rather unmerciful raillery,
244

upon his taking advantage of being in his own house to thus
supplant him, and cram; but when he had borne it for about ten
minutes, his face became so hot with the fear of hearing
something worse, that he ran from the field, and took a chair
between Lady De Ferrars and Mrs. Thrale.

I think I shall take warning by this failure, to trust only to my
own expedients for avoiding his public notice in future.  However
it stopped here; for Lord De Ferrars came in, and took the
disputed place without knowing of the contest, and all was quiet.


               Miss BURNEY WILL NOT BE PERSUADED To DANCE.

.... Late as it was, it was settled we should go to the ball,
the last for the season being this night.  My own objections
about going not being strong enough to combat the ado my
mentioning them would have occasioned, I joined in the party,
without demur.

The ball was half over, and all the company seated to tea.  Mr.
Wade(156) came to receive us all, as usual, and we had a table
procured for us, and went to tea ourselves, for something to do.
When this repast was over, the company returned to their
recreation.  The room was very thin, and almost half the ladies
danced with one another, though there were men enough present, I
believe, had they chosen such exertion; but the Meadowses at
balls are in crowds.  Some of the ladies were in riding habits,
and they made admirable men.  'Tis tonnish to be so much
undressed at the last ball.

None of our usual friends, the Shelleys, Hatsels, Dickens, or
Pepys, were here, and we, therefore, made no party - but Mrs.
Thrale and I stood at the top of the room to look on the dancing,
and as we were thus disengaged, she was seized with a violent
desire to make one among them, and I felt myself an equal
inclination.  She proposed, as so many women danced together,
that we two should, and nothing should I have liked so well; but
I begged her to give up the scheme, as that would have occasioned
more fuss and observation than our dancing with all the men that
ever were born.

While we were debating this matter, a gentleman suddenly said to
me,-"Did you walk far this morning, Miss Burney?"  And, looking
at him, I saw Mr. Metcalf,(157) whose graciousness

245

rather surprised me, for he only made to Mrs. Thrale a cold and
distant bow, and it seems he declares, aloud and around, his
aversion to literary ladies.  That he can endure, and even seek
me is, I presume, only from the general perverseness of mankind,
because he sees I have always turned from him; not, however, from
disliking him, for he is a shrewd, sensible, keen, and very
clever man; but merely from a dryness on his own side that has
excited retaliation.

"Yes," I answered, "we walked a good way."

"Dr. Johnson," said he, "told me in the morning you were no
walker; but I informed him then I had had the pleasure of seeing
you upon the Newmarket Hill."

"Oh, he does not know," cried I, "whether I am a walker or not-
-he does not see me walk, because he never walks himself." . . .

Here he was called away by some gentleman, but presently came to
me again.

"Miss Burney," he said, "shall you dance?""

"No, sir, not to-night."

"A gentleman," he added, "has desired me to speak to you for
him."

Now, Susanna, for the grand moment!--the height--the zenith of my
glory in the ton meridian!  I again said I did not mean to dance,
and to silence all objection, he expressively said,--

"Tis Captain Kaye(158) who sends me."

Is not this magnificent?  Pray congratulate me!

I was really very much surprised, but repeated my refusal, with
all customary civilities to soften it.  He was leaving me with
this answer, when this most flashy young officer, choosing to
trust his cause to himself, came forward, and desired to be
introduced to me.  Mr. Metcalf performed that ceremony, and he
then, with as much respect and deference as if soliciting a
countess, said,--

"May I flatter myself you will do me the honour of dancing With
me?"

I thanked him, and said the same thing over again.  He

246

looked much disappointed, and very unwilling to give up his plan.

"If you have not," he said, "any particular dislike to dancing,
it will be doing, not only me, but the Whole room much honour, if
you will make one in a set."

"You do me much honour, sir," I answered, "but I must beg you to
excuse me."

"I hope not," cried he, "I hope out of charity you will dance, as
it is the last ball, and the company is so thin."

"Oh, it will do Very Well without me; Mr. Wade himself says he
dies to-night a very respectable death."

"And will you not have the goodness to help it on a little in its
last stage ? "

"No," said I, laughing; "why should we wish it to be kept
lingering?"

"Lingering!" repeated he, looking round at the dancers, "no,
surely it is not quite so desperate; and if you will but join in,
you will give it new existence."

I was a little thrown off my guard at this unexpected
earnestness, so different to the ton of the day, and I began
hardly to know What to answer, my real objection being such as I
could by no means publish, though his urgency and his politeness
joined would have made me give up any other.

"This is a very quiet dance," he continued.  "there is nothing
fatiguing in it."

"You are very good," said I, "but I cannot really dance
to-night."

I was sorry to seem so obstinate, but he was just the man to make
every body inquire whom he danced with; and any one Who wished
for general attention could do no better than to be his partner.
The ever-mischievous Mrs. Thrale, calling to Mr. Selwyn, who
stood by us, said,-

"Why, here's a man in love !-quite, downright in love with Miss
Burney, if ever I saw one!"

"He is quite mortified, at least," he answered; "I never saw a
man look more mortified."

"Well, he did not deserve it," said she; "he knew how to beg, and
he ought not to have been so served."

I begged her to be silent, for Mr. Metcalf returned to me.  "

"Were you too much tired," he said, "with your walk this morning,
to try at a dance?"

I excused myself as well as I could, and we presently went
247

into the card-room to vary the scene.  When we returned to the
ball-room I was very glad to see my new captain had just taken
out Lady Anne Lindsay, who is here with Lady Margaret Fordyce,
and who dances remarkably well, and was every way a more suitable
partner for him.  He was to leave the town, with his regiment,
the next day.

Tuesday.-Mrs. Thrale took me out to walk with her.  We met Lady
De Ferrars and Miss Ellerker in our ramble, and the very moment
the ball was mentioned, this dear and queer creature called
out,--

"Ay, there was a sad ado, ladies dancing with ladies, and
all sorts of odd things; and that handsome and fine Mr. Kaye
broke his heart almost to dance with Miss Burney; but she refused
him, and so, in despair, he took out Lady Anne Lindsay."


                   DR. JOHNSON HELD IN GENERAL DREAD.

Thursday.-Mr. Metcalf called upon Dr. Johnson, and took him out
for an airing.  Mr. Hamilton is gone, and Mr. Metcalf is now the
only person out of this house that voluntarily communicates with
the doctor.  He has been in a terrible severe bumour of late, and
has really frightened all the people, till they almost ran from
him.  To me only I think he is now kind, for Mrs. Thrale fares
worse than anybody.  'Tis very strange and very melancholy that
he will not a little more accommodate his manners and language to
those of other people.  He likes Mr. Metcalf, however, and so do
I, for he is very clever and entertaining when he pleases.

Poor Dr. Delap confessed to us, that the reason he now came so
seldom, though he formerly almost lived with us when at this
place, was his being too unwell to cope with Dr. Johnson.  And
the other day Mr. Selwyn having refused an invitation from Mr.
Hamilton to meet the doctor, because he preferred being here upon
a day when he was out, suddenly rose at the time he was expected
to return, and said he must run away, "for fear the doctor should
call him to account."



         SHORT, FAT, HANDSOME MISS MONCKTON: DUCAL INDIFFERENCE.

Sunday, November 10, brings in a new person.  Th
e Honourable Miss Monckton,(159) who is here with her mother, the

248

Dowager Lady Galway, has sent various messages of her earnest
desire to be acquainted with Mrs. Thrale and your humble servant
to command.  Dr. Johnson 'she already knew,, for she is one of
those who stand foremost in collecting all extraordinary or
curious people to her London conversaziones, which, like those of
Mrs. Vesey, mix the rank and file literature, and exclude all
beside.  Well--after divers intimations Of this sort, it was at
last settled that Lady De Ferrars should bring her here this
morning.

In the evening came Lady De Ferrars, Miss Monckton, and Miss
Ellerker.  Miss Monckton is between thirty and forty very short,
very fat, but handsome ; splendidly and fantastically dressed,
rouged not unbecomingly, yet evidently and palpably desirous of
gaining notice and admiration.  She has an easy levity in her
air, manner, voice, and discourse, that speak all within to be
comfortable; and her rage of seeing anything curious may be
satisfied, if she pleases, by looking in a mirror.

I can give you no account of the conversation, as it was broken,
and not entertaining.  Miss Monckton went early, having another
engagement, but the other ladies stayed very late.  She told us,
however, one story extremely well worth recarding.  The Duke of
Devonshire was standing near a very fine glass lustre in a corner
of a room, at an assembly, and in a house of people who, Miss
Monckton said, were by no means in a style of life to hold
expense as immaterial ; and, by carelessly lolling back, he threw
the lustre down and it was broke.  He shewed not, however, the
smallest concern or confusion at the accident, but coolly said,
"I wonder how I did that!"  He then removed to the opposite
corner, and to shew, I suppose, he had forgotten what he had
done, leaned his head in the same manner, and down came the
opposite lustre ! He looked at it very calmly, and, with a
philosophical dryness, merely said, "This is singular enough!"
and walked to another part of the room, without either distress
or apology.



             MISS MONCKTON's ASSEMBLY: SACQUES AND RUFFLES.

December 8.-Now for Miss Monckton's assembly.

I had begged Mrs. Thrale to call for me,(160) that I might have
her countenance and assistance upon my entrance.  Miss

249

Thrale came also.  Every thing was in a new style.  We got out of
the coach into a hall full of servants, not one of which inquired
our names, or took any notice of us.  We proceeded, and went
upstairs,  and, when we arrived at a door, stopped and looked
behind us.  No servant had followed or preceded us.  We
deliberated what was to be done.  To announce ourselves was
rather awkward, neither could we be sure we were going into the
right apartment.  I proposed going up higher, till we met with
somebody; Miss Thrale thought we should go down and call some of
the servants; but Mrs. Thrale, after a ridiculous consultation,
determined to try her fortune by opening the door.  This being
done, we entered a room full of tea-things, and one maid-servant.

"Well," cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, "what is to be done now? I
suppose we are come so early that nothing is ready."

The maid stared, but said,--"There's company in the next room."

Then we considered again how to make ourselves known; and then
Mrs. Thrale again resolved to take courage and enter.  She
therefore opened another door, and went into another apartment.
I held back, but looked after, and observing that she made no
curtsey, concluded she was gone into some wrong place.  Miss
Thrale followed, and after her went little I, wondering who was
to receive, or what was to become of us.

Miss Monckton lives with her mother, the old Dowager Lady Galway,
in a noble house in Charles-street, Berkeleysquare, The room was
large and magnificent.  There was not much company, for we were
very early.  Lady Galway sat at the side of the fire, and
received nobody.  She seems very old, and was dressed with a
little round white cap, and not a single hair, no cushlori, roll,
nor any thing else but the little round cap, which was flat upon
her forehead.  Such part of the company as already knew her made
their compliments to her where she sat, and the rest were never
taken up to her, but belonged wholly to Miss Monckton.

Miss Monckton's own manner of receiving her guests was scarce
more laborious ; for she kept her seat when they entered, and
only turned rOUnd her head to nod it, and say "How do you do?"
after which they found what accommodation they could for
themselves.

As soon, however, as she perceived Mrs. and Miss Thrale, which
was not till they had been some minutes in the room,
250
she arose to welcome them, contrary to her general Custom, and
merely because it was their first visit.  Our long train making
my entrance some time after theirs, gave me the advantage of
being immediately seen by her, and she advanced to me with
quickness, and very politely thanked me for coming, and said,--

"I fear you think me very rude for taking the liberty of sending
to you."

"No, indeed, you did me much honour," quoth I.

She then broke further into her general rules, by making way for
me to a good place, and seating me herself, and then taking a
chair next me, and beginning a little chat.  I really felt myself
much obliged to her for this seasonable attention, for I was
presently separated from Mrs. Thrale, and entirely surrounded by
strangers, all dressed superbly, and all looking saucily ; and as
nobody's names were spoken, I had no chance to discover any
acquaintances.  Mr. Metcalf, indeed, came and spoke to me the
instant I came in, and I should have been very happy to have had
him for my neighbour; but he was engaged in attending to Dr.
Johnson, who was standing near the fire, and environed with
listeners.

Some new people now coming in, and placing themselves in a
regular way, Miss Monckton exclaimed,--"My whole care is to
prevent a circle;" and hastily rising, she pulled about the
chairs, and planted the people in groups, with as dexterous a
disorder as you would desire to see.

The company in general were dressed with more brilliancy than at
any rout I ever was at, as most of them were going to the Duchess
of Cumberland's, and attired for that purpose.  just behind me
sat Mrs. Hampden, still very beautiful, but insufferably
affected.  Another lady, in full dress, and very pretty, came in
soon after, and got herself a chair just before me ; and then a
conversation began between her and Mrs. Hampden, of which I will
give you a specimen.

"How disagreeable these sacques are!  I am so incommoded with
these nasty ruffles!  I am going to Cumberland House--are you?"

"To be sure," said Mrs. Hampden, "what else, do you think, would
make me bear this weight of dress?  I can't bear a sacque."

"Why, I thought you said you should always wear them?"

"Oh, yes, but I have changed my mind since then--as many people
do."

251


"Well, I think it vastly disagreeable indeed," said the other,
"you Can't think how I am encumbered with these ruffles!"

" Oh I am quite oppressed with them," said Mrs. Hampden, "I can
hardly bear myself up."

" And I dined in this way!" cried the other; "only think--dining
in a sacque!"

"Oh," answered Mrs. Hampden, "it really puts me quite out of
spirits."

After this they found some subject less popular, and the lady
unknown leaned over me, without any ceremony, to whisper with
Mrs. Hampden.  I should have offered her my place if she had made
any apology, but as it was, I thought she might take her own way.
In the course of the evening, however, I had the pleasure to
observe a striking change in her manners; for as soon as she
picked up, I know not how, my name, she ceased her whispering,
looked at me with the civilest smiles, spoke to me two or three
times, and calling to a fine beau, said--

"Do pray sit this way, that you may screen Miss Burney as well as
me from that fire,"

I did not, however, sufficiently like her beginning, to accept
her challenge of talking, and only coldly answered by yes, no, or
a bow.


AT MISS MONCKTON'S: "CECILIA" EXTOLLED BY THE "OLD WITS," AND By
BURKE.

Then came in Sir Joshua Reynolds, and he soon drew a chair near
mine, and from that time I was never without some friend at my
elbow.

Have you seen," said he, "Mrs. Montagu lately?"

"No, not very lately."

"But within these few months?"

"No, not since last year."

"Oh, you must see her, then.  You ought to see and to hear her--
't will be worth your while.  Have you heard of the fine long
letter she has written?"

"Yes, but I have not met with it."

"I have."


"And who is it to?"

"The old Duchess of Portland.(161)  She desired Mrs. Mon-

252

tagu's opinion of 'Cecilia,' and she has written it at full
length.  I was in a party at her grace's, and heard of nothing
but you.  She is so delighted, and so sensibly, so rationally,
that I only wish you could have heard her.  And old Mrs. Delany
had been forced to begin it, though she had said she should never
read any more; however, when we met, she was reading it already
for the third time."

After this Mrs. Burke saw me, and with much civility and softness
of manner, came and talked with me, while her husband without
seeing me, went behind my chair to speak to Mrs Hampden.

Miss Monckton, returning to me, then said--

" Miss Burney, I had the pleasure yesterday of seeing Mrs.
Greville.(162)

I suppose she concluded I was very intimate with her.

"I have not seen her," said I, "many years."

"I know, however," cried she, looking surprised, "she is your
godmother."

"But she does not do her duty and answer for me, for I never see
her."

"Oh, you have answered very well for yourself! But I know by that
your name is Fanny."

She then tripped to somebody else, and Mr. Burke very quietly
came from Mrs. Hampden, and sat down in the vacant place at my
side.  I could then wait no longer, for I found he was more
near-sighted than myself; I, therefore, turned towards him and
bowed: he seemed quite amazed, and really made me ashamed,
however delighted, by the expressive civility and distinction
with which he instantly rose to return my bow, and stood the
whole time he was making his compliments upon seeing me, and
calling himself the blindest of men for not finding me out
sooner.  And Mrs. Burke, who was seated near me, said, loud
enough for me to hear her--

"See, see what a flirtation Mr. Burke is beginning with Miss
Burney and before my face too!"

These ceremonies over, he sat down by me, and began a
conversation which you, my dearest Susy, would be glad to hear,
for my sake, word for word; but which I really could not listen
to with sufficient ease, from shame at his warm eulogiums,
253

to remember With any accuracy.  The geneial substance, however,
take as I recollect it.

After many most eloquent compliments upon the book, too delicate
either to shock or sicken the nicest ear, he very empbatically
congratulated me upon its most universal success, said, "he was
now too late to speak of it, since he could only echo the voice
of the whole nation" and added, with a laugh, "I had hoped to
have made some merit of my enthusiasm; but the moment I went
about to hear what others say, I found myself merely one in a
multitude."

He then told me that, notwithstanding his admiration, he was the
man who had dared to find some faults with so favourite and
fashionable a work.  I entreated him to tell me what they were,
and assured him nothing would make me so happy as to correct them
under his direction.  He then enumerated them: and I will tell
you what they are, that you may not conclude I write nothing but
the fairer part of my adventures, which I really always relate
very honestly, though so fair they are at this time, that it
hardly seems possible they should not be dressed up.

The masquerade he thought too long, and that something might be
spared from Harrel's grand assembly; he did not like Morrice's
part of the pantheon; and he wished the conclusion either more
happy or more miserable "for in a work of imagination," said he,
"there is no medium."

I was not easy enough to answer him, or I have much, though
perhaps not good for much, to say in defence of following life
and nature as much in the conclusion as in the progress of a
tale; and when is life and nature completely happy or miserable?

Looking very archly at me, and around him, he said,--

"Are you sitting here for characters?  Nothing, by the way,
struck me more in reading your book than the admirable skill with
which your ingenious characters make themselves known by their
own words."

He then went on to tell me that I had done the most wonderful of
wonders in pleasing the old wits, particularly the Duchess of
Portland and Mrs. Delany, who resisted reading the book till they
were teased into it, and, since they began, could do nothing else
- and he failed not to point out, with his utmost eloquence, the
difficulty Of giving satisfaction to those who piqued themselves
upon being past receiving it.
254

"But," said he, "I have one other fault to find, and a more
material one than any I have mentioned."

"I am the more obliged to you.  What is it?"

"The disposal of this book.  I have much advice to
   offer to you upon that subject.  Why did not you send for
                your own friend out of the city? he would have
taken care you should not part with it so much below par."

He meant Mr. Briggs.(163)

Sir Joshua Reynolds now joined us.

" Are you telling her," said he, "of our conversation with the
old wits?  I am glad you hear it from Mr. Burke, Miss Burney, for
he can tell it so much better than I can, and remember their very
words."

" Nothing else would they talk of for three whole hours," said
he, "and we were there at the third reading of the bill."

"I believe I was in good hands," said I, "if they talked of it to
you?"

"Why, yes," answered Sir Joshua, laughing, "we joined in from
time to time.  Gibbon says he read the whole five volumes in a
day."

"'Tis impossible," cried Mr. Burke, "it cost me three days and
you know I never parted with it from the time I first opened it."


                          A WRITER OF ROMANCES.

Soon after the parties changed again and young Mr. Burke(164)
came and sat by me.  He is a very civil and obliging, and a
sensible and agreeable young man.  Old Lady Galway trotted from
her corner, in        the middle of the evening, and leaning her
hands upon the         backs of two chairs, put her little round
head through two fine        high dressed ladies on purpose to
peep at me, and then trotted        back to her place! Ha, ha!

Miss Monckton now came to us again, and I congratulated

255

her upon her power in making Dr. Johnson sit in a group upon
which she immediately said to him,--

"Sir, Miss Burney says you like best to sit in a circle."


"Does she?" said he, laughing; "Ay, never mind what she says.
Don't you know she is a writer of romances?"

"Yes, that I do, indeed," said Miss Monckton, and every one
joined in a laugh that put me horribly out of countenance.

"She may write romances and speak truth," said my dear Sir
Joshua, who, as well as young Burke, and Mr. Metcalf, and two
strangers, joined now in our little party.

"But, indeed, Dr. Johnson," said Miss Monckton, "you must see
Mrs. Siddons.  Won't you see her in some fine part?"

"Why, if I must, madam, I've no choice."

"She says, sir, she shall be very much afraid of you."

"Madam, that cannot be true."

"Not true," cried Miss Monckton, staring, "yes it is."

"It cannot be, madam."

"But she said so to me ; I heard her say it myself."

"Madam, it is not possible! remember, therefore, in future, that
even fiction should be supported by probability."

Miss Monckton looked all amazement, but insisted upon the -truth
of what she had said.

"I do not believe, madam," said he, warmly, "she knows my name."

" "Oh, that is rating her too low," said a gentleman stranger.

"By not knowing my name," continued he, "I do not mean so
literally; but that, when she sees it abused in a newspaper, she
may possibly recollect that she has seen it abused in a newspaper
before."

"Well, sir," said Miss Monckton, "but you must see her for all
this."

"Well, madam, if you desire it, I will go.  See her I shall not,
nor hear her; but I'll go, and that will do.  The last time I was
at a play, I was ordered there by Mrs. Abington, or Mrs.
Somebody, I do not well remember who; but I placed myself in the
middle of the first row of the front boxes, to show that when I
was called I came."

The talk upon this matter went on very long, and with great
spirit.  At last, a large party of ladies arose at the same
time', and I tripped after them; Miss Monckton, however, made me
come back, for she said I must else wait in the other room till
those ladies' carriages drove away.
256

When I returned, Sir Joshua came and desired he might convey me
home; I declined the offer, and he pressed it a good deal, drolly
saying,--

"Why, I am old enough, a'n't I?"  And when he found me stout, he
said to Dr. Johnson,--"Sir, is not this very hard?  Nobody thinks
me very young, yet Miss Burney won't give me the privilege of age
in letting me see her home?  She says I a'n't old enough."(165)

I had never said any such thing.

"Ay," sir," said the doctor, "did I not tell you she was a riter
of romances?"


                            MRS. WALSINGHAM.

December 15.-To-day, by an invitation of ten days standing, I
waited upon Mrs. Walsingham.  She is a woman high in fame for her
talents,(166) and a wit by birth, as the daughter of Sir Charles
Hanbury Williams.

She has the character of being only civil to people of birth,
fame, or wealth, and extremely insolent to all others.  Of this,
however, I could see nothing, since she at least took care to
invite no company to her own house whom she was disposed to
disdain.  Her reception of me appeared rather singular.  She was
violently dressed,--a large hoop, flowers in her small and full
dressed cap, ribands and ornaments extremely shown, and a fan in
her hand.  She was very polite, said much of her particular
pleasure in seeing Me, and kept advancing to me near, that
involuntarily I retreated from her, not knowing er design, and
kept, therefore, getting further and further back as she came
forward, till I was stopped from any power of moving by the
wainscot.  I then necessarily stood still, and she saluted me.

We then quietly sat down, and my father began a very lively
conversation upon various subjects; she kept it up with attention
and good breeding, often referring to me, and seemig curious to
know my notions.

The rest of the company who came to dinner were Mrs. Montagu, Mr.
Percy, Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, his lady and
daughter, and Sir Joshua Reynolds and Miss Palmer.  I was
excessively glad to see the latter, who clung

257

to me all the visit, and took off from its formality and grandeur
by her chatting and intimacy.

Mrs. Walsingham lives in a splendid house in Stratford place,
elegantly fitted up, chiefly by her own paintings and drawingsl
which are reckoned extremely clever.  I hate that word, but
cannot think of another.

We did not stay late, for my father and I were both engaged to
Miss Monckton's; so was Sir Joshua, who accompanied us.



                              MRS. SIDDONS.

I was extremely happy to have my dear father with me at Miss
Monckton's.  We found Mrs. Siddons, the actress, there.  She is a
woman of excellent character, and therefore I am very glad she is
thus patronised, since Mrs. Abington, and so many frail fair
ones, have been thus noticed by the great.  She behaved with
great propriety ; very calm, modest, quiet, and unaffected - She
has a very fine countenance, and her eyes 'look both intelligent
and soft.  She has, however, a steadiness in her manner and
deportment by no means engaging.  Mrs. Thrale, who was there,
said,--"Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all worshipping!
however, we shall soon gild it."

A lady who sat near me then began a dialogue with Mr.
Erskine,(167) who had placed himself exactly opposite to Mrs.
Siddons; and they debated together upon her manner of studying
her parts, disputing upon the point with great warmth, yet not
only forbearing to ask Mrs. Siddons herself which was right, but
quite over-powering her with their loquacity, when she attempted,
unasked, to explain the matter.  Most vehement praise of all she
did followed, and the lady turned to me, and said,-

"What invitation, Miss Burney, is here, for genius to display
itself!--Everybody, I hear, is at work for Mrs. Siddons; but if
you would work for her, what an inducement to excel you would
both of you have!--Dr. Burney--."

"Oh, pray, ma'am," cried I, "don't say to him--"

"Oh, but I will!--if my influence can do you any mischief, you
may depend upon having it."

She then repeated what she had said to my father, and he
instantly said,--

"Your ladyship may be sure of my interest."

258

I whispered afterwards to know who she was, and heard she Was
Lady Lucan.


                  DR. JOHNSON'S INMATES'AT BOLT-COURT.

On Tuesday, Dec. 24, I went in the evening to call on Mrs.
Thrale, and tore myself away from her to go to Bolt-court to see
Dr. Johnson, who is very unwell.  He received me with great
kindness, and bade me come oftener, which I will try to contrive.
He told me he heard of nothing but me, call upon him who would ;
and, though he pretended to grow], he was evidently delighted for
me.  His usual set, Mrs. Williams and Mrs. De Mullins, were with
him; and some queer man of a parson who, after grinning at me
some time, said,--

"Pray, Mrs. De Mullins, is the fifth volume of 'Cecilia' at home
yet?  Dr. Johnson made me read it, ma'am."

"Sir, he did it much honour."

"Made you, sir?" said the doctor, "you give an ill account of
your own taste or understanding, if you wanted any making to read
such a book as 'Cecilia.'"

"Oh, sir, I don't mean that; for I am sure I left every thing in
the world to go on with it."

A shilling was now wanted for some purpose or other, and none of
them happened to have one ; I begged that I might lend one.

"Ay, do," said the doctor, "I will borrow of you ; authors are
like privateers, always fair game for one another."

"True, sir," said the parson, "one author is always robbing
another."

"I don't know that, sir," cried the doctor;  "there sits an
author who, to my knowledge, has robbed nobody.  I have never
once caught her at a theft.  The rogue keeps her resources to
herself!"


           THE TWO MR. CAMBRIDGES IMPROVE UPON ACQUAINTANCE.

Thursday.-In the morning Mr. Cambridge(168) came, and made a long
visit.  He is entertaining, Original, and well-bred; somewhat
formal, but extremely civil and obliging, and, I be-

259

lieve, remarkably honourable and strict in his principles and
actions.  I wished I could have been easy and chatty with him as
I hear he is so much my friend, and as I like him very
much; but, in truth, he listens to every syllable I utter with
so grave a deference, that it intimidates and silences me.  When
he was about taking leave, he said,--

"Shall you go to Mrs. Ord's(169) to-morrow?"

"Yes, sir."

"I thought so," said he, smiling, "and hoped it.  Where shall you
go to-night?"

"No where,--I shall be at home."

"At home?  Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Why, then, Miss Burney, my son(170) and I dine to-day in your
neighbourhood, at the Archbishop of York's, and, if you please,
we will come here in the evening."

This was agreed to.  And our evening was really a charming one.
The two Mr. Cambridges came at about eight o'clock, and the good
Mr. Hoole(171) was here.  My father came downstairs to them in
high spirits and good humour, and he and the elder Mr. Cambridge
not only talked enough for us all, but so well and so pleasantly
that no person present had even a wish to speak for himself.  Mr.
Cambridge has the best stock of good stories I almost ever heard;
and, though a little too precise in his manner, he is always
well-bred, and almost always entertaining.  Our sweet father kept
up the ball with him admirably, whether in anecdotes, serious
disquisitions, philosophy, or fun; for all which Mr. Cambridge
has both talents and inclination.

The son rises extremely in my opinion and liking.  He is
sensible, rational, and highly cultivated ; very modest in all he
asserts, and attentive and pleasing in his behaviour ; and he is
wholly free from the coxcombical airs, either of impertinence, or
negligence and nonchalance, that almost all the young men I meet,
except also young Burke, are tainted with.  What chiefly,
however, pleased me in him was observing that

260

he quite adores his father.  He attended to all his stories with
a face that never told he had heard them before; and, though he
spoke but little himself, he seemed as well entertained as if he
had been the leading person in the company,--a post which,
nevertheless, I believe he could extremely well sustain; and, no
doubt, much the better for being in no haste to aspire to it.  I
have seldom, altogether, had an evening with which I hav, been
better pleased.


THE SHILLING, THE CHAIRMAN, AND THE GREEN-SHOP GIRL.

Saturday, Dec. 28.-My father and I dined and spent the day at Sir
Joshua Reynolds's, after many preceding disappointments.  I had a
whispering conversation with Mrs. Reynolds,(172) which made me
laugh, from her excessive oddness and absurdity.

"I had the most unfortunate thing in the world happen to me," she
said, "about Mrs. Montagu, and I always am in some distress or
misfortune with that lady.  She did me the honour to invite me to
dine with her last week,--and I am sure there is nobody in the
world can be more obliged to Mrs. Montagu taking such notice of
any body;--but just when the day came I was so unlucky as to be
ill, and that, you know, made it quite improper to go to dine
with Mrs. Montagu, for fear of disagreeable consequences.  So
this vexed me very much, for I had nobody to send to her that was
proper to appear before Mrs. Montagu; for to own the truth, you
must know I have no servant but a maid, and I could not think of
sending such a person to Mrs. Montagu.  So I thought it best to
send a chairman, and to tell him only to ring at the bell, and to
wait for no answer; because then the porter might tell Mrs.
Montagu my servant brought the note, for the porter could not
tell but he might be my servant.

But my maid was so stupid, she took the shilling I gave her for
the chairman, and went to a green-shop, and bid the woman send
somebody with the note, and she left the shilling with her; so
the green-woman, I suppose, thought she might keep the shilling,
and instead of sending a chairman she sent her own errand-girl;
and she was all dirt and rags.  But this is not all; for,when the
girl got to the house, nothing would serve her but she would give
the note to Mrs. Montagu, and wait for an answer; so then, you
know, Mrs. Montagu saw this ragged green-shop girl.  I was never
so shocked in my

261

life, for when she brought me back the note I knew at once how it
all was.  Only think what a mortification, to have Mrs. Montagu
see such a person as that!  She must think it very odd of me
indeed to send a green-shop girl to such a house as hers!"



                 MR. SOAME JENYNS'S EULOGY ON "CECILIA."

Friday, [Jan. 17, 1783.)-Now for this grand interview with Soame
Jenyns.(173)  I went with my dear father who was quite enchanted
at the affair.  Dear soul, how he feeds upon all that brings fame
to "Cecilia!" his eagerness upon this subject, and his pleasure
in it, are truly enthusiastic, and, I think, rather increase by
fulness than grow satiated.

We were late; there was a good deal of company, not in groups,
nor yet in a circle, but seated square round the room, in order
following,--Miss Ellerker, Mrs. Soame Jenyns, Mrs. Thrale, her
daughter, Mrs. Buller, Mr. Cambridge, senior, Mr. Soame Jenyns,
Mr. Selwin, Mr. Cambridge, junior, Miss Burgoyne, a lady or two I
knew not, and three or four men.

Mrs. Ord almost ran to the door to receive us, and every creature
of this company, contrary to all present custom in large
meetings, stood up.

"Why have you been so late?" cried Mrs. Ord, "we have been
waiting for you this hour.  I was afraid there was some mistake."

"My father could not come sooner."

"But why would not you let me send my coach for you?  Mr. Soame
Jenyns has been dying with impatience; some of us thought you
would not come; others thought it only coquetry; but come, let us
repair the time as we can, and introduce you to one another
without further delay."

You may believe how happy I felt at this "some thought," and
"others," which instantly betrayed that everybody was

262

apprised they were to see this famous rencounter; and lest I
should mark it less, every body still stood up.  Mr. jenyns now,
with all the speed in his power, hastened up to me, and began a
long harangue of which I know hardly a word, upon the pleasure
and favour, and honour, and what not, of meeting me, and upon the
delight, and information, and amusement of reading "Cecilia."

I made all possible reverences, and tried to get to a seat, but
Mrs. Ord, when I turned from him, took my hand, and leading me to
the top of the room, presented me to Mrs. jenyns.  Reverences
were repeated here, in silence, however, so they did very well.
I then hoped to escape to Mrs. Thrale, who held out her hand to
me, pointing to a chair by her own, and saying,-

"Must I, too, make interest to be introduced to Miss Burney?"

This, however, was not allowed; Mrs. Ord again took my hand, and
parading me to the sofa, said,--

"Come, Miss Burney, and let me place you by Mrs. Buller."

I was glad, by this time, to be placed any where, for not till
then did the company seat themselves.

Mr. Cambridge, sen., then came up to speak to me, but had hardly
asked how I did before Mrs. Ord brought Mr. jenyns to me again,
and made him my right-hand neighbour, saying,-

"There! now I have put you fairly together, I have done with
you."

Mr. Soame jenyns then, thus called upon--could he do less?--began
an eulogy unrivalled, I think, for extravagance of praise.  All
creation was open to me; no human being ever began that book and
had power to put it down; pathos, humour, interest, moral--O
heavens!  I heard, however, but the leading words; though every
body else, the whole roon, being silent, doubtless heard how they
hung together.  Had I been carried to a theatre to hear an
oration upon my own performances, I could hardly have felt more
confounded.

I bowed my head during the first two or three sentences, by way
of marking that I thought them over; but over they were not the
more.  I then turned away, but I only met Mrs. Buller, who took
up the panegyric where Mr. jenyns stopped for breath.

In short, the things that were said, with the attention of the
whole company, would have drawn blushes into the cheeks of
Agujari or Garrick.  I was almost upon the point of running
263


away.  I changed so often from hot to cold that I really felt
myself in a fever and an ague.  I never even attempted to speak
to them, and I looked with all the frigidity I possibly could, in
hopes they would tire of bestowing such honours on a subject so
ungrateful.

One moment I had hopes that Mr. G. Cambridge, in Christian
charity, was coming to offer some interruption ; for, when these
speeches were in their height, he came and sat down on a chair
immediately opposite Miss Thrale, and equally near, in profile,
to me; but he merely said, "I hope Dr. Burney has not wanted his
pamphlet?"  Even Mrs. Thrale would not come near me, and told me
afterwards it had been such a settled thing before my arrival,
that I was to belong to Mr. Soame Jenyns, that she did not dare.

The moment they were gone, "Well, Miss Burney," said Mrs. Ord,
"have you and Mr. Jenyns had a great deal of conversation
together?"

"O yes, a great deal on my part!"

"Why you don't look quite recovered from it yet--did not you like
it?"

"O yes, it was perfectly agreeable to me!"

"Did he oppress you?" cried Mr. Cambridge, and then he began a
very warm praise of him for his talents, wit, and understanding,
his knowledge, writings, and humour.

I should have been very ready to have joined with him, had I not
feared he meant an implied reproach to me, for not being more
grateful for the praise of a man such as he described.  I am
sorry he was present if that is the case; but the truth is, the
evening was not merely disagreeable but painful to me.


                  AN ITALIAN SINGER'S VIEWS OF ENGLAND.

Saturday.-While Mr. George Cambridge was here Pacchierotti
called-very grave, but very sweet.  Mr. G. C. asked if he spoke
English.

"O, very well," cried I, "pray try him; he is very amiable, and I
fancy you will like him."

Pacchierotti began with complaining of the variable weather.  "

I cannot," he said, "be well such an inconsistent day."

We laughed at the word "inconsistent," and Mr. Cambridge said,-


"It is curious to see what new modes all languages may take in
the hands of foreigners.  The natives dare not try such ex-

264

periments; and, therefore, we all talk pretty much alike ; but a
foreigner is obliged to hazard new expressions, and very often he
shews us a force and power in our words, by an unusual adaptation
of them, that we were not ourselves aware tlley would admit."

And then, to draw Pacchierotti out, he began a dispute, of the
different merits of Italy and England; defending his own country
merely to make him abuse it; while Pacchierotti most eagerly took
up the gauntlet on the part of Italy.

"This is a climate," said Pacchierotti, "never in the same case
for half an hour at a time; it shall be fair, and wet, and dry,
and humid, forty times in a morning in the least.  I am tired to
be so played with, sir, by your climate."

"We have one thing, however, Mr. Pacchierotti," he
answered, "which I hope you allow makes some amends, and that is
our verdure; in Italy you cannot boast that."

"But it seem to me, sir, to be of no utility so much evergreen is
rather too much for my humble opinion."

"And then your insects, Mr. Pacchierotti! those alone are a most
dreadful drawback upon the comfort of your fine climate.""

"I must own," said Pacchierotti, "Italy is rather disagreeable
for the insects; but is it not better, sir, than an atmosphere so
bad as they cannot live in it?"

"Why, as i can't defend our atmosphere, I must shift my ground,
and talk to you of our fires, which draw together society."

"O indeed, good sir, your societies are not very invigorating!
Twenty people of your gentlemen and ladies to sit about a fire,
and not to pronounce one word, is very dull!"

We laughed heartily at this retort courteous.


               RAPTURES OF THE "OLD WITS" OVER "CECILIA."

[Mary Delany was the daughter of Bernard Granville, younger
brother of George Granville, Baron Lansdowne, the poet and friend
of Wycherley and Pope.  She was born on the 14th Of May, 1700.
Her uncle, Lord Lansdowne, was a better friend to the Muses than
to his young niece, for he forced poor Mary Granville, at the age
of seventeen, to marry one Alexander Pendarves, a coarse, hard
drinking Cornish squire, of more than three times her age.
Pendarves died some six years later, and his widow married, in
1743, Dr. Patrick Delany, the friend of Swift.  With Delany she
lived happily for fifteen years, and after his death in 1768,
Mrs. Delany devoted most of her time to her
265

bosom friend, the dowager Duchess of Portland (see note (161),
ante, p. 251), at whose seat at Bulstrode she usually spent the
summer, while during the winter she resided at her own house in
St. James's-place, where she was constantly visited by the
Duchess.  On the death of the Duchess in July, 1785, King George
bestowed upon Mrs. Delany, whose means were not such as to make
an addition to them a matter of indifference, a furnished house
at Windsor and a pension Of 300 pounds a year.  These she enjoyed
for less than three years, dying on the 15th of April, 1788.

The strong attachment which grew up between her and Fanny renders
Mrs. Delany a very interesting figure in the "Diary."  Nor
wasFanny's enthusiasm for her aged friend misdirected.  Speakin
of Mrs'  Delany, Edmund Burke said: "She was a perfect
pattern of a perfect fine lady: a real fine lady of other days.
Her manners were faultless; her deportment was of marked
elegance; her speech was all sweetness; and her air and address
were all dignity.  I have always looked up to Mrs. Delany, as the
model of an accomplished gentlewoman of former times."(174)-ED.]

Sunday, January ig-And now for Mrs. Delany.  I spent one hour
with Mrs. Thrale, and then called for Mrs. Chapone,(175) and we
proceeded together to St. James's-place.

Mrs. Delany was alone in her drawing-room, which is entirely hung
round with pictures of her own painting, and Ornaments of her own
designing.  She came to the door to receive us.  She is still
tall, though some of her height may be lost: not much, however,
for she is remarkably upright.  She has no remains of beauty in
feature, but in countenance I never but once saw more, and that
was in my sweet maternal grandmother.  Benevolence, softness,
piety, and gentleness are all resident in her face ; and the
resemblance with which she struck me to my dear grandmother, in
her first appearance, grew so much stronger from all that came
from her mind, which seems to contain nothing but purity and
native humility,

266

that I almost longed to embrace her; and I am sure if I had the
recollection of that saint-like woman would have been so strong
that I should never have refrained from crying over her.

Mrs. Chapone presented me to her, and taking my hand* she said,--
"You must pardon me if I give you an old-fashioned reception, for
I know nothing new." And she saluted me.  I did not, as with Mrs.
Walsingham, retreat from her.

"Can you forgive, Miss Burney," she continued, "this great
liberty I have taken with you, of asking for your company to
dinner?  I wished so impatiently to see one from whom I have
received such extraordinary pleasure, that, as I could not be
alone this morning, I could not bear to put it off to another
day; and, if you had been so good to come in the evening, I
might, perhaps, have had company; and I hear so ill that I
cannot, as I wish to do, attend to more than one at a time; for
age makes me stupid even more than I am by nature; and how
grieved and mortified I must have been to know I had Miss Burney
in the room, and not to hear her!"

She then mentioned her regret that we could not stay and spend
the evening with her, which had been told her in our card of
accepting her invitation, as we were both engaged, which, for my
part, I heartily regretted.

"I am particularly sorry," she added, "on account of the Duchess
dowager of Portland, who is so good as to come to me in an
evening, as she knows I am too infirm to wait upon her grace
myself: and she wished so much to see Miss Burney.  But she said
she would come as early as possible."

Soon after we went to dinner, which was plain, neat, well cooked,
and elegantly served.  When it was over, I began to speak; and
now, my Chesington auditors, look to yourselves!

"Will you give me leave, ma'am, to ask if you remember any body
of the name of Crisp?"

"Crisp?" cried she, "What! Mrs. Ann Crisp?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"O surely! extremely well! a charming, an excellent woman she
was; we were very good friends once; I visited her at Burford,
and her sister Mrs. Gast."

Then came my turn, and I talked of the brother - but I won't
write what I said.  Mrs. Delany said she knew him but very
little; and by no means so much as she should have liked.  I
reminded her of
267

a letter he wrote her from abroad, which she immediately
recollected.

This Chesingtonian talk lasted till we went upstairs, and then
she shewed me the new art which she had invented.  It is staining
paper of all possible colours, and then cutting it out, so
finely, and delicately, that when it is pasted on paper or
vellum, it has all the appearance of being pencilled, except
that, by being raised, it has still a richer and more natural
look.  The effect is extremely beautiful.  She invented it at
tseventy-five!  She told me she did four flowers the first year;
sixteen the second; and the third, one hundred and sixty; and
after that many more.  They are all from nature, and consist of
the most curious flowers, plants, and weeds, that are to (be
found.  She has been supplied with patterns from all the great
gardens, and all the great florists in the kingdom.  Her plan was
to finish one thousand; but, alas! her eyes now fail her though
she has only twenty undone of her task,

about seven o'clock, the Duchess dowager of Portland came.  She
is not near so old as Mrs. Delany; nor, to me, is her face by any
means so pleasing; but yet there is sweetness, and dignity, and
intelligence in it.  Mrs. Delany received her with the same
respectful ceremony as if it was her first visit, though she
regularly goes to her every evening.  But what she at first took
as an honour and condescension, she has so much of true humility
of mind, that no use can make her see in any other light.  She
immediately presented me to her.  Her grace courtesied and smiled
with the most flattering air of pleasure, and said she was
particularly happy in meeting with me.  We then took our places,
and Mrs. Delany said,--

"Miss Burney, ma'am, is acquainted with Mr. Crisp, whom your
grace knew so well ; and she tells me he and his sister have been
so good as to remember me, and to mention me to her."

the duchess instantly asked me a thousand questions about
him--where he lived, how he had his health, and whether his
fondness for the polite arts still continued.  She said he was
one of the most ingenious and agreeable men she had ever
known, and regretted his having sequestered himself so much from
the society of his former friends.

IN the course of this conversation I found the duchess very
charming, high-bred, courteous, sensible, and spirited ; not
merely free from pride, but free from affability-its most
mortifying deputy.

268

After this she asked me if I had seen Mrs. SiddOns, and what I
thought of her.  I answered that I admired her very much.

"If Miss Burney approves her," said the duchess, "no approbation,
I am sure, can do her so much credit ; for no One can so
perfectly judge of characters or of human nature."

"Ah, ma'am," cried Mrs. Delany, archly, "and does your grace
remember protesting you would never read 'Cecilia?'"

"Yes," said she, laughing, "I declared that five volumes could
never be attacked; but since I began I have read it three times."

"O terrible!" cried I, "to make them out fifteen."

"The reason," continued she, "I held out so long against reading
them, was remembering the cry there was in favour of 'Clarissa'
and 'Sir Charles Grandison,' when they came out, and those I
never could read.  I was teased into trying both of them; but I
was disgusted with their tediousness, and could not read eleven
letters, with all the effort I could make: so much about my
sisters and my brothers, and all my uncles and my aunts!"

"But if your grace had gone on with 'Clarissa,'" said Mrs.
Chapone, "the latter part must certainly have affected you, and
charmed you."(176)

"O, I hate any thing so dismal!  Every body that did read it had
melancholy faces for a week.  'Cecilia' is as pathetic as I can
bear, and more sometimes; yet, in the midst of the sorrow, there
is a spirit in the writing, a fire in the whole composition, that
keep off that heavy depression given by Richardson.  Cry, to be
sure, we did.  Mrs. Delany, shall you ever forget how we cried?
But then we had so much laughter to make us amends, we were never
left to sink under our concern."

I am really ashamed to write on.

"For my part," said Mrs. Chapone, "when I first read it, I did
not cry at all; I was in an agitation that half killed me, that
shook all nerves, and made me unable to sleep at nights, from the
suspense I was in! but I could not cry, for excess of eagerness."

"I only wish," said the duchess, "Miss Burney could have been in
some corner, amusing herself with listening to us,

269

when Lord Weymouth, and the Bishop of Exeter, and Mr. Lightfoot,
and Mrs. Delany, and I, were all discussing the point -of the
name.  So earnest we were, she must have been diverted with us.
Nothing, the nearest our own hearts and interests, could have
been debated more warmly.  The bishop was quite as eager as any
of us; but what cooled us a little, at last, was Mr. Lightfoot's
thinking we were seriously going to quarrel; and while Mrs.
Delany and I were disputing about Mrs. Delvile, he very gravely
said, 'Why, ladies, this is only a matter of imagination; it is
not a fact: don't be so earnest.'"

"Ah, ma'am," said Mrs. Delany, "how hard your grace was upon Mrs.
Delvile: so elegant, so sensible, so judicious, so charming a
woman."

"O, I hate her," cried the duchess, "resisting that sweet
Cecilia; coaxing her, too, all the time, with such hypocritical
flattery."

"I shall never forget," said Mrs. Delany, "your grace's
earnestness when we came to that part where Mrs. Delvile bursts a
blood vessel.  Down dropped the book, and just with the same
energy as if your grace had heard some real and important news,
You called out, 'I'm glad of it with all my heart!'"

"What disputes, too," said Mrs. Chapone, "there are about Briggs.
I was in a room some time ago where somebody said there could be
no such character; and a poor little mean city man, who was
there, started up and said, 'But there is though, for I'se one
myself!'"

"The Harrels!--O, then the Harrels!" cried Mrs. Delany.

"If you speak of the Harrels, and of the morality of the book,"
cried the duchess, with a solemn sort of voice, "we shall,
indeed, never give Miss Burney her due: so striking, so pure, so
genuine, SO instructive."

"Yes," cried Mrs. Chapone, "let us complain how we will of the
torture she has given our nerves, we must all join in saying she
has bettered us by every line."

"No book," said Mrs. Delany, "ever was so useful as this, because
none other that is so good was ever so much read."

I think I need now write no more.  I could, indeed, hear no more;
for this last so serious praise, from characters so respectable,
so moral, and so aged, quite affected me; and though I had wished
a thousand times during the discourse to run out of the room,
when they gave me finally this solemn sanction to the meaning and
intention of my writing, I found it not without difficulty that I
could keep the tears out of my eyes; and
270

when I told what had passed to our sweet father, his cup quite
ran over.

The duchess had the good sense and judgment to feel she had drawn
up her panegyric to a climax, and therefore here she stopped; so,
however, did not we, for our coach was ready.


                     ILLNESS AND DEATH OF MR. CRISP.

(Fanny Burney to Mr. Crisp.)
April 12, 1783.

My dearest--dearest daddy,

I am more grieved at the long and most disappointing continuation
of your illness than I know how to tell YOU ; and though my last
account, I thank heaven, is better, I find you still suffer so
much, that my congratulations in my letter to Susan, upon what I
thought your recovery, must have appeared quite crazy, if you did
not know me as well as you do, and were not sure what affliction
the discovery of my mistake would bring to myself.  I think I
never yet so much wished to be at Chesington, as at this time,
that I might see how YOU go On, and not be kept in such painful
suspense from post to post.

Why did you tell me of the DelaDYS, Portlands, Cambridges, etc.,
as if any of them came into competition with yourself?  When you
are better, I shall send you a most fierce and sharp remonstrance
upon this subject.  At present I must be content with saying, I
will undoubtedly accept your most kind invitation as soon as I
possibly can.  Meantime, if my letters will give you any
amusement, I will write oftener than ever, and supply you with
all the prog I get myself.

Susan, who is my reader, must be your writer, and let me know if
such tittle-tattle as I can collect serves to divert some of
those many moments of languor and weariness that creep between
pain and ease, and that call more for mental food than for bodily
medicine.  Your love to your Fannikin, I well know, makes all
trash interesting to you that seems to concern her ; and I have
no greater pleasure, when absent, than in letting you and my dear
Susan be acquainted with my proceedings.    I don't mean by this
to exclude the rest of the dear Chesington set--far from it--
-but a sister and a daddy must come first.

God bless and restore you, my most dear daddy! You know

271

not how kindly I take your thinking of me, and inquiring about
me, in an illness that might so well make you forget us all; but
Susan assures me your heart is as affectionate as ever to your
ever and ever faithful and loving child, F. B.

[Mr. Crisp's illness became so alarming, that Miss Burney
hastened to Chesington, where she had been only a few days when
her valued friend breathed his last.  In reply to a letter, in
which she had given Dr. Burney an account of Mr. Crisp's
increasing sufferings, the doctor wrote:

"Ah! my dear Fanny, your last letter has broke all our hearts!
your former accounts kept off despair; but this brings it back in
all its horrors.  I wish, if it were possible, that you would let
him know how much I loved him, and how heavily I shall feel his
loss when all this hurry subsides, and lets me have time to brood
over my sorrows.  I have always thought that, in many
particulars, his equal was not to be found.  His wit, learning,
taste, penetration, and, when well, his conviviality, pleasantry,
and kindness of heart to me and mine, will ever be thought of
with the most profound and desponding regret."

After the last mournful duties had been performed at
Chesington,(177) Miss Burney returned to her father's house in
St. Martin's-street; but some time elapsed ere she recovered
composure sufficient to resume her journal.]

272
                   DR. JOHNSON ATTACKED BY PARALYSIS.

Thursday, june 19.-We heard to-day that Dr. Johnson had been
taken ill, in a way that gave a dreadful shock to himself, and a
most anxious alarm to his friends.  Mr. Seward brought the news
here, and my father and I instantly went to his house.  He had
earnestly desired me, when we lived so much together at
Streatham, to see him frequently if he should be ill.  He saw my
father, but he had medical people with him, and could not admit
me upstairs, but he sent me down a most kind message, that he
thanked me for calling, and when he was better should hope to see
me often.  I had the satisfaction to hear from Mrs. Williams that
the physicians had pronounced him to be in no danger, and
expected a speedy recovery.

The stroke was confined to his tongue. Mrs. Williams told me a
most striking and touching circumstance that attended the attack.
It was at about four o'clock in the morning: he found himself
with a paralytic affection; he rose, and composed in his own mind
a Latin prayer to the Almighty, "that whatever were the
sufferings for which he must prepare himself, it would please
Him, through the grace and mediation of our blessed Saviour, to
spare his intellects, and let them all fall upon his body." When
he had composed this, internally, he endeavoured to speak it
aloud, but found his voice was gone.

June 20.-I Went in the morning to Dr. Johnson, and heard a good
account of him.  Dr. Rose, Dr. Dunbar, and Sam Rose, the Doctor's
son, dined with us.  We expected the rest of our party early
though the absence of Dr. Johnson, whom they were all invited to
meet, took off the spirit of the evening.

July 1.-I had the satisfaction to hear from Sir Joshua that Dr.
Johnson had dined with him at the Club.  I look upon him,
therefore, now, as quite recovered.  I called the next morning to
congratulate him, and found him very gay and very good-humoured.


                                                        A PLEASANT DAY WITH THE CAMBRIDGES.

July 15.-To-day my father, my mother, and I, went by appointment
to dine and spend the day at Twickenham with the Cambridges.
Soon after our arrival Mr. C. asked if we should like to walk, to
which we most readily agreed.

We had not strolled far before we were followed by

273

Mr. George.  No sooner did his father perceive him, than, hastily
coming up to my side, he began a separate conversation with me;
and leaving his son the charge of all the rest, he made me walk
off with him from them all.  It was really a droll manoeuvre, but
he seemed to enjoy it highly, and though he said not a word of
his design, I am sure it reminded me of his own old trick to his
son, when listening to a dull story, in saying to the relator,--
"Tell the rest of that to George." And if George was in as
good-humour with his party as his father was with his why, all
were well pleased.  As soon as we had fairly got away from them,
Mr. Cambridge, with the kindest smiles of satisfaction, said,--"I
give you my word I never was more pleased at any thing in my life
than I am now at having you here to-day."

I told him that I had felt so glad at seeing him again, after so
long an absence, that I had really half a mind to have made up to
him myself, and shook hands.

"You cannot imagine," said he, "how you flatter me !-and there is
nothing, I do assure you, of which I am prouder, than seeing you
have got the better of your fear of me, and feeling that I am not
afraid of you."

"Of me, sir?--but how should you be?"

"Nay, I give you my word, if I was not conscious of the greatest
purity of mind, I should more fear you than any body in the
world.  You know everything, everybody," he continued, "so
wonderfully well!"

We then, I know not how, fell into discussing the characters of
forward and flippant women; and I told him it was my fortune to
be, in general, a very great favourite with them, though I felt
so little gratitude for that honour, that the smallest
discernment would show them it was all thrown away.

"Why, it is very difficult," said he, "for a woman to get rid of
those forward characters without making them her enemies.  But
with a man it is different.  Now I have a very peculiar
happiness, which I will tell you.  I never took very much to a
very amiable woman but I found she took also to me, and I have
the good fortune to be in the perfect confidence of some of the
first women in this kingdom; but then there are a great many
women that I dislike, and think very impertinent and foolish,
and, do you know, they all dislike me too!--they absolutely
cannot bear me!  Now, I don't know, of those two things, which is
the greatest happiness."

How characteristic this!--do you not hear him saying it?

274

We.now renewed our conversation upon various of our
acquaintances, particularly Mr. Pepys, Mr. Langton, and Mrs.
Montagu.  We stayed in this field, sitting and sauntering, near
an hour.  We then went to a stile, just by the riverside, where
the prospect is very beautiful, and there we seated ourselves.
Nothing could be more pleasant, though the wind was so high I was
almost blown into the water.

He now traced to me great part of his life and conduct in former
times, and told me a thousand excellent anecdotes of himself and
his associates.  He summed them all up in a way that gave me
equal esteem and regard for him, in saying he found society the
only thing for lasting happiness ; that, if he had not met a
woman he could permanently love, he must with every other
advantage have been miserable- but that such was his good
fortune, that "to and at this moment," he said, "there is no
sight so pleasing to me as seeing Mrs. Cambridge enter a room ;
and that after having been married to her for forty years.  And
the next most pleasing sight to me is an amiable woman."

He then assured me that almost all the felicity of his life both
had consisted, and did still consist, in female society.  It was,
indeed, he said, very rare but there was nothing like it.

"And if agreeable women," cried I, "are rare, much more so, I
think, are agreeable men; at least, among my acquaintance they
are very few, indeed, that are highly agreeable."

"Yes, and when they are so," said he, "it is difficult for you to
have their society with any intimacy or comfort; there'are always
so many reasons why you cannot know them."

We continued chatting until we came to the end of the meadow, and
there we stopped, and again were joined by the company.

Mr. Cambridge now proposed the water, to which I eagerly agreed.

We had an exceeding pleasant excursion.  We went up the river
beyond the Duke of Montagu's, and the water was smooth and
delightful.  Methinks I should like much to sail from the very
source to the mouth of the Thames. . . .

After dinner we again repaired to the lawn, in a general body ;
but -we- had scarce moved ten paces, before Mr. Cambridge again
walked off with me, to a seat that had a very "fine view of
Petersham wood, and there we renewed our confabulation.

He now shewed me a note from Mr. Gibbon, sent to engage

275

himself to Twickenham on the unfortunate day he got his
ducking.(178)  It is the most affected little piece of writing I
ever saw.  He shall attend him, he says, at Twickenham, and upon
the water, as soon as the weather is propitious, and the Thames,
that amiable creature, is ready, to receive him.

Nothing, to be sure, could be so apt as such a reception as that
"amiable creature" happened to give him!  Mr. Cambridge said it
was "God's revenge against conceit."


                    DR. JOHNSON's HEROic FORBEARANCE.

Tuesday, December 9-This evening at Mrs. Vesey's, Mr. George
Cambridge came, and took the chair half beside me.  I told him of
some new members for Dr. Johnson's club!(179)

"I think," said he, " it sounds more like some club that one
reads of in the 'Spectator,' than like a real club in these
times; for the forfeits of a whole year will not amount to those
of a single night in other clubs.  Does Pepys belong to it?"

"Oh no! he is quite of another party!  He is head man on the side
of the defenders of Lord Lyttelton.  Besides, he has had enough
of Dr. Johnson; for they had a grand battle upon the 'Life of
Lyttelton,' at Streatham."

"And had they really a serious quarrel?  I never imagined it had
amounted to that."

"yes, serious enough, I assure you.  I never saw Dr. Johnson
really in a passion but then: and dreadful, indeed, it was to
see.  I wished myself away a thousand times.  It was a frightful
scene.  He so red, poor Mr. Pepys
so pale!"

"But how did it begin?  What did he say?"

276

" Oh, Dr. Johnson came to the point without much ceremony.  He
called out aloud, before a large company, at dinner, 'What have
you to say, sir, to me or of me?  Come forth, man!  I hear you
object to my "Life of Lord Lyttelton."  What are your objections?
If you have anything to say, let's hear it.  Come forth, man,
when I call you!'"

"What a call, indeed!  Why, then, he fairly bullied him into a
quarrel!"

"Yes.  And I was the more sorry, because Mr. Pepys had begged of
me, before they met, not to let Lord Lyttelton be mentioned.  Now
I had no more power to prevent it than this macaroon cake in my
hand."

"It was behaving ill to Mrs. Thrale, certainly, to quarrel in her
house."

" Yes; but he never repeated it; though he wished of all things
to have gone through just such another scene with Mrs, Montagu,
and to refrain was an act of heroic forbearance."

"Why, I rather wonder he did not ; for she was the head of the
set of Lytteltonians."

"Oh, he knows that; he calls Mr. Pepys only her prime minister."

"And what does he call her ?

"Queen,' to be sure!  'Queen of the blues.'  She came to
Streatham one morning, and I saw he was dying to attack her.  But
he had made a promise to Mrs. Thrale to have no more quarrels in
her house, and so he forced himself to forbear.  Indeed he was
very much concerned, when it was over, for what had passed; and
very candid and generous in acknowledging it.  He is too noble to
adhere to wrong."

"And how did Mrs. Montagu herself behave?"

"Very stately, indeed, at first.  She turned from him very
stiffly, and with a most distant air, and without even
courteseying to him, and with a firm intention to keep to what
she had publicly declared--that she would never speak to him
more!  However, he went up to her himself, longing to begin!  and
very roughly said,--'Well, madam, what's become of your fine new
house?  I hear no more of it.'

" But how did she bear this?"

" Why she was obliged to answer him; and she soon grew so
frightened--as everybody else does--that she was as civil as
ever."

he laughed heartily at this account.  But I told him Dr. Johnson
was now much softened.  He had acquainted me,
277

when I saw him last, that he had written to her upon the death of
Mrs. Williams, because she had allowed her something yearly,
which now ceased. 'And I had a very kind answer from her,' said
he.

"'Well then, sir,' cried I, 'I hope peace now will be again
proclaimed.'"

"'Why, I am now,' said he, 'come to that time when I wish all
bitterness and animosity to be at an end.  I have never done her
any serious harm--nor would I; though I could give her a bite!--
but she must provoke me much first.  In volatile talk, indeed, I
may have spoken of her not much to her mind; for in the tumult of
conversation malice is apt to grow sprightly! and there, I hope,
I am not yet decrepid!'"

He quite laughed aloud at this characteristic speech.

I most readily assured the doctor that I had never yet seen him
limp."


                     "SWEET BEWITCHING MRS. LOCKE."

Friday, April 23, 1784.-The sweet and most bewitching Mrs. Locke
called upon me in the evening, with her son George.(179)  I let
her in and did so rejoice I had not gone to Mrs. Vesey's.  But I
rejoiced for only a short time; she came but to take leave, for
she was going to Norbury the very next morning.  I was quite
heavy all the evening.  She does truly interest both head and
heart.  I love her already.  And she was so kind, so caressing,
so soft ; pressed me so much to fix a time for going to Norbury ;
said such sweet things of Mrs. Phillips; and kissed me so
affectionately in quitting me, that I was quite melted by her.

What a charm has London lost for me by her departure sweet crea
ture that she is ; born and bred to dispense pleasure and delight
to all who see or know her! She, Mrs. Thrale and Mrs. Delany, in
their several ways all excellent, possess the joint powers of
winning the affections, while they delight the intellects, to the
highest summit I can even conceive of human attraction.  The
heart-fascination of Mrs. Thrale, indeed, few know - but those
few must confess and must feel her sweetness, to them, is as
captivating as her wit is brilliant to all.

278

                     MRS. THRALE'S SECOND MARRIAGE.

(Mrs. Thrale to Fanny Burney.)
Mortimer-st., Cavendish-sq.
Tuesday night, May (11), 1784.


I am come, dearest Burney.  It is neither dream nor fiction,
though I love you dearly, or I would not have come.  Absence and
distance do nothing towards wearing out real affection so you
shall always find it in your true and tender H. L. T.

I am somewhat shaken bodily, but 'tis the mental shocks that have
made me unable to bear the corporeal ones.  'Tis past ten
o'clock, however, and I must lay myself down with the sweet
expectation of seeing my charming friend in the
morning to breakfast.  I love Dr. Burney too well to fear him,
and he loves me too well to say a word which should make me love
him less.

May 17.-Let me now, my Susy, acquaint you a little more
connectedly than I have done of late how I have gone on.  The
rest of that week I devoted almost wholly to sweet Mrs. Thrale,
whose society was truly the most delightful of cordials to me,
however, at times, mixed with bitters the least palatable.  Were
I not sensible of her goodness, and full of incurable affection
for her, should I not be a monster? . . .

I parted most reluctantly with my dear Mrs. Thrale, whom, when or
how I shall see again heaven only knows ! but in sorrow we
parted--on my side in real affliction.

[Towards the end of July in this year, Mrs. Thrale's second
marriage took place with Mr. Piozzi, and Miss Burney Went about
the same time to Norbury Park, where she passed some weeks with
Mr and Mrs. Locke.  The following "sketch" of a letter, and
memorandum of what had recently passed between Mrs. Piozzi and
herself, is from the journal of that period.]

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Piozzi.)
Norbury Park,
Aug. 10, 1784.

When my wondering eyes first looked over the letter I received
last night, my mind instantly dictated a high-spirited
279

vindication of the consistency, integrity, and faithfulness of
the friendship thus abruptly reproached and cast away.  But a
sleepless night gave me leisure to recollect that you were ever
as generous as precipitate, and that your own heart would do
justice to mine, in the cooler judgment of future reflection.
Committing myself, therefore, to that period, I determined Simply
to assure you, that if my last letter hurt either you or Mr.
Piozzi, I am no less sorry than surprised; and that if it
offended you, I sincerely beg your pardon.

Not to that time, however, can I wait to acknowledge the pain an
accusation so unexpected has caused me, nor the heartfelt
satisfaction with which I shall receive, when you are able to
write it, a softer renewal of regard.

May heaven direct and bless you!  F. B.

N.B.--This is the sketch of the answer which F. B. most painfully
wrote to the unmerited reproach of not sending "cordial
congratulations" upon a marriage which she had uniformly, openly,
and with deep and avowed affliction, thought wrong.

(Mrs. Piozzi to Fanny Burney)
Wellbeck-st., NO, 33, Cavendish-sq.,
Friday, Aug. 13, 1784.

Give yourself no serious concern, sweetest Burney.  All is well,
and I am too happy myself to make a friend otherwise; quiet your
kind heart immediately, and love my husband if you love his and
your H. L. Piozzi.

N.B.-To this kind note, F. B. wrote the warmest and most
affectionate and heartfelt reply; but never received another
word!  And here and thus stopped a correspondence of six years of
almost unequalled partiality, and fondness on her side ; and
affection, gratitude, admiration, and sincerity on that of 'F.
B., who could only conjecture the cessation to be caused by the
resentment of Piozzi, when informed of her constant opposition to
the union.


                              A HAPPY HOME.

Friday, Oct. 8.-I set off with my dear father for Chesington,
where we passed five days very comfortably ; my father was all
good humour, all himself,--such as you and I mean by that


280

word.  The next day we had the blessing of your Dover letter(180)
and on Thursday, Oct.:14, I arrived at dear Norbury Park 'at
about seven o'clock, after a pleasant ride in the dark.  Locke
most kindly and cordially welcomed me; he came out upon the steps
to receive me, and his beloved Fredy(181) waited for me in the
vestibule.  Oh, with what tenderness did she take me to her
bosom!  I felt melted with her kindness, but I could not express
a joy like hers, for my heart was very fullfull of my dearest
Susan, whose image seemed before me upon the spot where we had so
lately been together.  They told me that Madame de la Fite, her
daughter, and Mr. Hinde, were in the house; but as I am now, I
hope, come for a long time, I did not vex at hearing this.  Their
first inquiries were if I had not heard from Boulogne.(182)

Saturday.-I fully expected a letter, but none came; but Sunday I
depended upon one.  The post, however, did not arrive before we
went to church.  Madame de la Fite, seeing my sorrowful looks,
good naturedly asked Mrs. Locke what could be set about to divert
a little la pauvre Mademoiselle Beurney? and proposed reading a
drama of Madame de Genlis.  I approved it much, preferring it
greatly to conversation and accordingly, she and her daughter,
each taking characters to themselves, read "La Rosire de
Salency."  It is a very interesting and touchingly simple little
drama.  I was so much pleased that they afterwards regularly read
one every evening while they stayed.

Next morning I went up stairs as usual, to treat myself with a
solo of impatience for the post, and at about twelve o'clock I
heard Mrs. Locke stepping along the passage.  I was sure of good
news, for I knew, if there was bad, poor Mr. Locke would have
brought it.  She came in, with three letters in her hand, and
three thousand dimples in her cheeks and chin! Oh, my dear Susy,
what a sight to me was your hand ! I hardly cared for the letter;
I hardly desired to open it ; the direction alone almost
satisfied me sufficiently.  How did Mrs. Locke embrace me! I half
kissed her to death.  O Then came dear Mr. Locke, his eyes
brighter than ever--"Well, how does she do?"

281

This question forced me to open my letter; all was just as I
could wish, except that I regretted the having written the day
before such a lamentation.  I was so congratulated! I shook hands
with Mr. Locke; the two dear little girls came jumping to wish me
joy and Mrs. Locke ordered a fiddler, that they might have a
dance in the evening, which had been promised them from the time
of Mademoiselle de la Fite's arrival, but postponed from day to
day, by general desire, on account of my uneasiness.

Monday, Oct. 25-Mr. Hinde and Madame and Mademoiselle de la Fite
all left us.  They were all so good humoured and so happy, there
was no being glad ; though how to be sorry at remaining alone
with this family, I really know not.  Both the De la Fites went
away in tears.  I love them for it.

Wednesday, Nov. 3-This day has brought ine another sweet letter
from my Susy.  What a set of broken-fortuned, brokencharactered
people of fashion are about you at Boulogne.(183)  The accounts
are at once curious and melancholy to me.

Nothing can be more truly pleasant than our present lives.  I
bury all disquietudes in immediate enjoyment; an enjoyment more
fitted to my secret mind than any I had ever hoped to attain.  We
are so perfectly tranquil, that not a particle of our whole
frames seems ruffled or discomposed., Mr. Locke is gayer and more
sportive than I ever have seen him; his Freddy seems made up of
happiness; and the two dear little girls are in spirits almost
ecstatic; and all from that internal contentment which Norbury
Park seems to have gathered from all corners of the world into
its own sphere.
Our mornings, if fine, are to ourselves, as .Mr. Locke rides out;
if bad, we assemble in the picture room.  We have two books in
public reading: Madame de S6vigne's "Letters," and Cook's last
"Voyage."  Mrs. Locke reads the French, myself the English.

Our conversations, too, are such as I could almost wish to last
for ever.  Mr. Locke has been all himself,-all instruction,
information, and intelligence,--since we have been left alone;
and the invariable sweetness, as well as judgment, of all he
says, leaves, indeed, nothing to wish.  They will not let me go
while I can stay, and I am now most willing to stay till I must
go.  The serenity of a life like this,

282

smoothes the whole internal surface of the mind.  My own I assure
you, begins to feel quite glossy.  To see Mrs. Locke so entirely
restored to total health, and to see her adoring husband lose all
his torturing Solicitude, while he retains his Unparalleled
tenderness-these are sights to anticipate a taste of paradise, if
paradise has any felicity consonant to our now ideas.

Tuesday, Nov. 9.- This is Mr. William Locke's birthday; he is now
seventeen.  he came home, with his brothers, to keep it, three
days ago.  May they all be as long-lived and as happy as they are
now sweet and amiable! This sweet place is beautiful even yet,
though no longer of a beauty young and blooming, such as you left
it; but the character Of the prospect is so 'grand that winter
cannot annihilate its charms, though it greatly diminishes them.
The variety of the grounds, and the striking form of the hills,
always afford something new to observe, and contain something
lasting to admire.  Were 1, however, in a desert, people such as
these would make it gay and cheery.


               LADY F.'s ANGER AT MRS. PIOZZI'S MARRIAGE.

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Locke.)
St. Martin's-st.,
Nov. 14.


. . . . I had a very unpleasant morning after I left you.  When
the coach and I had waited upon my father, I made the visit I
mentioned to you.  O what a visit!--all that I pre-supposed of
attack, inquiry, and acrimony, was nothing to what passed.  Rage
more intemperate I have not often seen ; and the shrill voice of
feeble old age, screaming with unavailing passion is horrible.
She had long looked upon Mrs. Thrale as a kind of prot6ge, whom
she had fondled as a child, and whose fame, as she grew into
notice, she was always proud to hear of, and help to exalt.
She is a woman (I can well attest !) of most furious passions
herself, however at liberty she thinks she may be to show no sort
of mercy to those of another.

Once, had I been less disturbed, I could have laughed; for she
declared with great vehemence, that if she had suspected "the
wretch of any intention to marry the man, she would have ordered
her own postchaise, and followed her to prevent it!"
283

Alas, poor Lady F.

She then called upon me, to hear my story ; which, most painfully
to myself, I related.  She expressed herself very sorry for me,
till I came to an avowal of my letter after the marriage she then
flew out into new choler.  "I am amazed you would write to her,
Miss Burney!  I wonder you could think of it any more.

I told her, I had thought myself so much indebted to her patience
with my opposition to all her views and wishes for the whole tine
of her long conflict, that, although I was the first to
acknowledge her last action indefensible, I should be the last to
forget all that had made me love her before it was committed.

This by no means satisfied her, and she poured forth again a
torrent of unrelenting abuse.  Some company, at last, came in,
and I hastily took my leave.  She called after me to fix some day
for a longer visit ; but I pretended not to hear, and ran down
stairs, heartily resolving that necessity alone should ever force
me into her presence again.

When I came home--before I could get upstairs--I was summoned to
Miss Streatfield, whom I met with as little pleasure as Lady F.,
since I had never seen her, nor indeed anybody, from the time
this cruel transaction has been published.  Not that I dreaded
her violence, for she is as gentle as a lamb but there were
causes enough for dread of another nature.  However fortunately
and unexpectedly, she never named the subject, but prattled away
upon nothing but her own affairs; and so, methinks, have I done
too, and just as if I knew you wished to hear them.  Do you?--I
ask only for decency's sake.


                      DR. JOHNSON's FAILING HEALTH.

Norbury Park, Sunday, Nov. 28.-Last Thursday, my father set me
down at Bolt-court, while lie went on upon business.  I was
anxious to again see poor Dr. Johnson, who has had terrible
health since his return from Lichfield.  He let me in, though
very ill.  He was alone, which I much rejoiced at; for I had a
longer and more satisfactory conversation with him than I have
had for many months.  He was in rather better spirits, too, than
I had lately seen him.  but he told me he was going to try what
sleeping Out of town might do for him
284

"I remember," said he, "that my wife, when she was near her end,
poor woman, was also advised to sleep out of town, and when she
was carried to the lodgings that had been prepared for her, she
complained that the staircase was in very bad condition--for the
plaster was beaten off the wall in many places.  'Oh,' said the
man of the house, 'that's nothing but by the knocks against it of
the coffins of the poor souls that have died in the lodgings.'

He laughed, though not without apparent secret anguish, in
telling me this.  I felt extremely shocked, but, willing to
confine my words at least to the literal story, I only exclaimed
against the unfeeling absurdity of such a confession.

"Such a confession," cried he, "to a person then coming to try
his lodgings for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity
than we can well lay our account for."

I had seen Miss Thrale the day before.

"So," said he, "did I."

I then said,--"Do you ever, sir, hear from her mother?"

"No," cried he, "nor write to her.  I drive her quite from my
mind.  If I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly.  I
have burnt all I can find.  I never speak of her, and I desire
never to hear of her more.  I drive her, as I said, wholly from
my mind."

Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the
Bristol milk-woman, and told him the tales I had heard of her
writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and
Milton "though those," I continued, "could never possibly, I
should think, be the first authors with anybody.  Would children
understand them? and grown people who have not read are children
in literature."

"Doubtless," said he; "but there is nothing so little
comprehended among mankind as what is genius.  They give to it
all, when it can be but a part.  Genius is nothing more than
knowing the use of tools - but there must be tools for it to use:
a man who has spent all his life in this room will give a very
poor account of what is contained in the next." '

"Certainly, sir ; yet there is such a thing as invention.
Shakspeare could never have seen a Caliban."

" No; but he had seen a man, and knew, therefore, how to vary him
to a monster.  A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first
know what a cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her
an ass's head or an elephant's tusk will make her monstrous.
Suppose you show me a man who is a very
285

expert carpenter; another will say he was born to be a
carpenter-but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men,
one with genius, the other with none, look at an overturned
waggon ; he who has no genius, will think of the waggon only as
he sees it, overturned, and walk on ; he who has genius, will
paint it to himself before it was overturned-standing still, and
moving on, and heavy loaded, and empty ; but both must see the
waggon, to think of it at all."

He then animated, and talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a
once as famous shoemaker, and upon our immortal Shakspeare, with
as much fire, spirit, wit, and truth of criticism and judgment,
as ever yet I have heard him.  How delightfully bright are his
faculties, though the poor and infirm machine that contains them
seems alarmingly giving way.

Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and
offered to go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did
not oppose; but, most kindly pressing both my hands,--

"Be not," he said, in a voice of even tenderness, "be not longer
in Coming again for my letting you go now."

I assured him I would be the sooner, and was running off.  but he
called me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most
energetic, said,--

"Remember me in your prayers!"

I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare.  I gave him
my promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him.  Great, good,
and excellent that he Is, how short a time will he be our boast!
Ah, my dear Susy, I see he is going!  This winter will never
conduct him to a more genial season here!  Elsewhere, who shall
hope a fairer?  I wish I had bid him pray for me, but it seemed
to me presumptuous.


                     DR. JOHNSON DYING.  His DEATH.

Wednesday, Dec. 8.-At night my father brought us the most dismal
tidings of dear Dr. Johnson.  Dr. Warren had seen him, and told
him to take what opium he pleased! He had thanked and taken leave
of all his physicians.  Alas!--I shall lose him, and he will take
no leave of me!(184)  My father was deeply depressed ; he has
himself tried in vain for admission this week.  Yet some people
see him--the Hooles, Mr.  Sastres,

286

Mr. Langton;--but then they must be in the house, watching for
one moment, whole hours.  I hear from every one he is now
perfectly resigned to his approaching fate, and no longer in
terror of death.  I am thankfully happy in hearing that he speaks
himself now of the change his mind has undergone, from its dark
horror--and says--"He feels the irradiation of hope," Good, and
pious, and excellent Christian--who shall feel it if not he?

Dec. 11.-We had a party to dinner, by long appointment, for
which, indeed, none of us were well disposed, the apprehension of
hearing news only of death being hard upon us all.  The party
was, Dr. Rose, Dr. Gillies, Dr. Garthshore, and Charles.

The day could not be well--but mark the night.

My father, in the morning, saw this first of men!  I had not his
account till bed-time; he feared over-exciting me.  He would not,
he said, but have seen him for worlds!  He happened to be better,
and admitted him.  He Was up, and very composed.  He took his
hand very kindly, asked after all his family, and then, in
particular, how Fanny did?  "I hope," he said, "Fanny did not
take it amiss that I did not see her?  I was very bad!"

Amiss!--what a Word!  Oh that I had been present to have answered
it!  My father stayed, I suppose, half an hour, and then was
coming away.  He again took his hand, and encouraged him to come
again to him ; and when he Was taking leave, said--"Tell Fanny to
pray for me!"

Ah! dear Dr. Johnson!  might I but have your prayers! After
which, still grasping his hand, he made a prayer for himself,--
the most fervent, pious, humble, eloquent, and touching, my
father says, that ever was composed.  Oh, would I had heard it!
He ended it with Amen!  in which my father joined, and was echoed
by all present.  And again, when my father was leaving him, he
brightened up, something of his arch look returned, and he said-
-"I think I shall throw the ball at Fanny yet!"

Little more passed ere my father came away, decided, most
tenderly, not to tell me this till our party was done.

This most earnestly increased my desire to see him; this kind and
frequent Mention of me melted me into double sorrow and regret.
I would give the world I had but gone to him that day!  It was,
however, Impossible, and the day was over before I knew he had
said what I look upon as a call to me.  This
287

morning,(185) after church time, I went.     Frank(186) said he
was very ill, and saw nobody; I told him I had understood by my
father the day before that he meant      'to see me.   He then
let me in. I went into his room up stairs; he was in his bedroom.
I saw it crowded, and ran hastily down. Frank told me his master
had refused seeing even Mr. Langton. I told him merely to say I
had called, but by no means to press my admission. His own
feelings were all that should be consulted ; his tenderness, I
knew, Would be equal, whether he was able to see me or not.

I went into the parlour, preferring being alone in the cold, to
any company with a fire. Here I waited long, here and upon the
stairs, which I ascended and descended to meet again with Frank,
and make inquiries ; but I met him not. At last, upon Dr.
Johnson's ringing his bell, I saw Frank enter his room, and Mr.
Langton follow. "Who's that?" I heard him say; they answered,
"Mr. Langton," and I found he did not return.

Soon after, all the rest went away but a Mrs. Davis, a good sort
of woman, whom this truly charitable soul had sent for to take a
dinner at his house.     I then went and waited with her by the
fire ; it was, however, between three and four o'clock before I
got any answer.        Mr. Langton then came himself.
He could not look at me, and I turned away from him. Mrs. Davis
asked how the doctor was? "Going on to death very fast!" was his
mournful answer.      "Has he taken," said she, "anything?"
"Nothing at all!  We carried him some bread and milk--he refused
it, and said--'The less the better.'"  She asked more questions,
by which I found his faculties were perfect, his mind composed,
and his dissolution was quick drawing on. . . .

I could not immediately go on, and it is now long since I have
written at all; but I will go back to this afflicting theme,
which I can now better bear.

Mr. Langton was, I believe, a quarter of an hour in the room
before I suspected he meant to speak to me, never looking near
me. At last he said--

"This poor man, I understand, ma'am, desired yesterday to see
you."

"My understanding that, sir, brought me here to-day."

"Poor man! it is a pity he did not know himself better, and that
you should have had this trouble."

288

"Trouble!" cried I; "I would have come a hundred times to see him
the hundredth and first!"

"He hopes, now, you will excuse him ; he is very sorry not to see
you; but he desired me to come and speak to you myself, and tell
you he hopes you will excuse him, for he feels himself too weak
for such an interview."

I hastily got up, left him my most affectionate respects, and
every good wish I could half utter, and ran back to the coach.
Ah, my Susy! I have never been to Bolt-court since! I then drove
to poor Miss Strange,(187) to make inquiries of the maid but
Andrew ran out to the coach door, and told me all hope was at an
end.  In short, the next day was fatal to both !-the same day!

December 20.-This day was the ever-honoured, ever-lamented Dr.
Johnson committed to the earth.  Oh, how sad a day to me!  My
father attended, and so did Charles.(188)  I could not keep my
eyes dry all day; nor can I now, in the recollecting it; but let
me pass over what to mourn Is now so vain!

December 30.--In the evening I went to Mrs. Chapone.  I was late,
on account of the coach, and all her party was assembled.  This
was the first time I had seen any of them, except Mrs. Ord, since
last spring.  I was received with the utmost kindness by them
all, but chiefly by Mrs. Chapone herself, who has really, I
believe, a sincere regard for me.  I had talk with all of them,
except Mrs. Levison, with whom I have merely a courtesying
acquaintance.  But I was very sad within; the loss of dear Dr.
Johnson--the flight of Mrs. Thrale, the death of poor Miss Kitty
Cambridge, and of poor, good Miss Strange,--all these home and
bosom strokes, which had all struck me since my last meeting this
society, were revolving in my mind the whole time I stayed.

Sir Lucas Pepys talked to me a great deal of Mrs. Thrale, and
read me a letter from her, which seems to shew her gay and happy.
I hope it shews not false colours.  No one else named her - but
poor Dr. Johnson was discussed repeatedly.  How melancholy will
all these circumstances render these once so pleasant meetings.

(153) "Memoirs of Dr. Burney," vol. ii. p. 110.

(154) The physician, afterwards Sir Lucas Pepys.-ED.

(155) A character in "Cecilia."-ED.

(156) The master of the ceremonies.

(157) Philip Metcalf, elected member of Parliament for Horsham,
together with Mr. Crutchley, in 1784.-ED.

(158) Miss Burney had seen this gentleman a few days previously
and thus speaks of him in her "Diary." -Mr. Kaye of the
Dragoons,--a baronet's son, and a very tall, handsome, and
agreeable-looking young man; and, is the folks say, it is he for
whom all the belles here are sighing.  I was glad to see he
seemed quite free from the nonchalance, impertinence of the
times."-ED.

(159) Afterwards Countess of Cork and Orrery.

(160) The Thrales and Fanny were now again in London, whither
they returned from Brighton, November 20.  Mrs, Thrale had taken
a house in Argyle-street,-ED.

(161) Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley, daughter of Robert Harley,
Earl of Oxford; married, in 1734, to the second Duke of Portland,
She inherited from her father a taste for literature.  She was
the constant  associate of Mrs. Delaney, and an old friend of Mr.
Crisp.  Of Mrs. Delany we shall give some account hereafter-ED. I

(162) Mrs. Greville's maiden name was Frances Macartney.-ED.

(163) The miserly guardian of Cecilia, in Fanny's novel.
Among the "Fragments of the journal of Charlotte Anne Burney,"
appended to the "Early Diary," occurs the following passage,
written at the end of 1782.  "Fanny's Cecilia came out last
summer, and is as much liked and read I believe as any book ever
was.  She had 250 pounds for it from Payne and Cadell.  Most
people say she ought to have had a thousand.  It is now going
into the third edition, though Payne owns that they printed 2,000
at the first edition, and Lowndes told me five hundred was the
common number for a novel." ("Early Diary," vol. ii. P. 307.)-ED.

(164)  Richard Burke, the only son of the great Edmund.  He died
in 1794, before his father.-ED.

(165) Sir Joshua Reynolds was then in his sixtieth year; he was
born in 1723.-ED.

(166) She copied pictures cleverly and painted portraits.-ED.

(167) Probably the Hon. Thomas Erskine, afterwirds Lord
Chancellor.-ED.


(168) Richard Owen Cambridge, a gentleman admired for his wit in
conversation, and esteemed as an author.  "He wrote a burlesque
poem called 'The Scribleriad,' and was a principal contributor to
the periodical paper called 'The World.'"  He died in 1802, at
his villa on the banks of the Thames, near Twickenham, aged
eighty-five years.-ED.

(169) Mrs. Ord was a famous blue-stocking and giver of literary
parties, and a constant friend of Fanny's-ED.

(170) The Rev. George Owen Cambridge, second son of Richard Owen
Cambridge, whose works he edited, and whose memoir he wrote.  He
died at Twickenham in 1841.-ED.

(171 John Hoole, the translator of Tasso.-ED.

(172) Frances Reynolds, the miniature painter,-Sir Joshua's
sister-ED.

(173) Soame Jenyns was one of the most celebrated of the "old
wits."  He was born in 1704; was for twenty-five years member of
Parliament for Cambridgeshire; died in 1787.  His principal works
were "A Free Enquiry into the Origin of Evil," and "A View of the
Internal Evidence of the Christian Religion."  Boswell writes of
him: "Jenyns was possessed of lively talents, and a style
eminently pure and 'easy', and could very happily play with a
light subject, either in prose or verse; but when he speculated
on that most difficult and excruciating question, 'The Origin of
Evil,' he ventured far beyond his depth, and, accordingly, was
exPosed by Johnson [in the 'Literary Magazine'), both with acute
argument and brilliant wit."-ED.

(174) "Memoirs of Dr. Burney," vol. iii. p. 169.

(175) Hester Mulso was born in 1727; she married, in 1760, an
attorney named Chapone, who died within a year of the marriage.
Among the many young ladies who surrounded and corresponded with
Samuel Richardson, Hester was a first favourite.  The great
novelist's letters to his "dear Miss Mulso" are very pleasant to
read.  Mrs. Chapone enjoyed considerable esteem as an authoress.
Her "Letters on the Improvement of the Mind," dedicated to Mrs.
Montagu, went through several editions.  We should like to praise
them, but the truth must be owned--they are Vdecidedly
commonplace and "goody-goody."  Still, they are written in a
spirit of tender earnestness, which raises our esteem for the
writer, though it fails to reconcile us to the book.  Mrs.
Chapone died on Christmas-day, 18o1.-ED.

(176) Truly said, "my dear Miss Mulso," but if they cannot feel
the wonderful charm and reality of "Clarissa" in the very first
volume, they may as well leave it alone.-ED.

(177) In a corner of the nave of the quaint little church at
Chesington is a large white marble tablet, marking the spot where
Mr. Crisp lies buried.  The following lines from the pen of
Fanny's father inscribed on it do not, it must be confessed,
exhibit the doctor's poetical talents by any means in a
favourable light.
"In memory Of SAMUEL CRISP, Esq., who died April 24, 1783,
aged 76.

Reader, this cold and humble spot contains
The much lamented, much rever'd remains
Of one whose wisdom, learning, taste, and sense,
Good-humour'd wit and wide benevolence
Cheer'd and enlightened all this hamlet round,
Wherever genius, worth, or want was found.
To few it is that bounteous heav'n imparts
Such depth of knowledge, and such taste in arts
Such penetration, and enchanting pow'rs
Of brit'ning social and convivial hours.
Had he, through life, been blest by nature kind
With health robust of body as of mind,
With skill to serve and charm mankind, so great
In arts, in science, letters, church, or state,
His name the nation's annals had enroll'd
And virtues to remotest ages told.
"C. BURNEY."

(177) Mr, Gibbon, "in stepping too lightly from, or to a boat of
Mr. Cambridge's, had slipt into the Thames; whence, however, he
was intrepidly and immediately rescued, with no other mischief
than a wet jacket, by one of that fearless, water-proof race,
denominated, by Mr. Gibbon, the amphibious family of the
Cambridges." (" Memoir of Dr. Burney," vol. ii. P. 341.)-ED.

(178) The "Essex Head" club, just founded by Dr. Johnson.  The
meetings were held thrice a week at the Essex Head, a tavern in
Essex-street, Strand, kept by Samuel Greaves, an old servant of
Mr. Thrale's.  Among the rule's of the club, which were drawn up
by Dr. Johnson, we find the following: "Every member present at
the club shall spend at least sixpence; and every member who
stays away shall forfeit threepence." He ought to have added, "to
be spen by the company in punch."  (See Goldsmith's delightful
essay on the London clubs.)-ED.

(179) The Lockes, of Norbury Park, Surrey, were friends of
Fanny's sister, Mrs. Phillips, and, subsequently, among the most
constant and attached friends of Fanny herself.-ED.

(180) It must be borne in mind that the , Diary " is addressed to
Fanny's sister Susan (Mrs. Phillips),-ED.

(181) Mrs. Locke.-ED.

(182) Mrs. Phillips had lately gone to live at Boulogne for the
benefit of her health.-ED.

(183) Mrs. Phillips returned in less than a twelvemonth from
Boulogne, much recovered in health, and settled with her husband
and family in a house at MickIcham, at the foot of Norbury Park.

(184) Fanny had called upon Dr. Johnson the same day, but he was
too ill to see her.-ED.

(185) Sunday, December 12.-ED.

(186) Frank Barber, Dr. Johnson's negro servant. -ED.

(187) Mary Bruce Strange, daughter of Sir Robert Strange, the
celebrated engraver.  She died, as Fanny tells us, on the same
day with Dr. Johnson, December 13, 1784, aged thirty-five.  The
Stranges were old and very intimate friends of the Burneys-ED.  I

(188) Her brother-ED.



289
                                SECTION 6
                                (1785-6.)

        MISS BURNEY IS FAVOURABLY NOTICED BY THE KING AND QUEEN.

[The pleasantest portion of the following section of the Diary is
that which relates to the growing intimacy between Fanny and Mrs.
Delany.  It was a friendship, however, which proved dear to Fanny
in every sense of the word.  On the one hand the mutual affection
which subsisted between her and a lady in every way so worthy of
her regard, was a source of continual gratification to both ; on
the other hand it was the immediate cause of an event which may
be, without exaggeration, described as the greatest misfortune of
Fanny's life--her ill-starred appointment at Court.  We fully
share Macaulay's indignation at this absurd and singularly
unsuitable appointment.  Its consequences to Fanny were almost
disastrous ; yet the reader will reap the reward of her suffering
in perusing the brilliant pages in which her humour and
penetration have invested with an interest not its own the
frivolous tattle of her commonplace companions.  Her account of
the royal family is on the whole favourable.  The princesses
appear to have been really amiable and, so far as etiquette would
permit, sensible young women.  Of the king and queen we know few
things which are more to their credit than that they should have
been able to inspire Fanny with a regard so obviously sincere.
But even Fanny, with all her loyal partiality, could make no more
of them than a well-meaning couple, whose conversation never rose
above the commonplace.  After all, we can hardly help feeling
that the whole of this CourtDiary, entertaining as it is, would
be well exchanged for the description, in Fanny's animated style,
of a few more dinnerparties at Sir joshua's, a few more
conversations with Edmund Burke.

The burst of exultation with which Fanny's friends greeted the
unhappy appointment says little for their common sense.  Even
Burke, who at least ought to have known better, fell in with the
general infatuation, although he, if no one else felt that the
290

honour was not all on Fanny's side.  He called in St. Martin's-
street, and finding Dr. Burney and his daughter from home, left a
card on which he had written these words :--"Mr. Burke, to
congratulate upon the honour done by the queen to Miss Burney,-
-and to herself."

The office which Fanny shared with that "old hag," Mrs.
Schwellenberg, was that of keeper of the robes, and she entered
upon her new duties in the month Of July, 1786.  Dress had always
been one of the last subjects about which she troubled herself,
and her want of experience in this all-important matter was
graciously taken into consideration by the queen.  The duties of
the place were lightened, or, at least, altered in her favour.
"The difficulties with respect to jewellery, laces, and Court
habiliments, and the other routine business belonging to the
dress manufactory appertained to her colleague, Mrs.
Schwellenberg; the manual labours and cares devolved upon the
wardrobewomen ; while from herself all that officially was
required was assiduous attention, unremitting readiness for every
summons to the dressing- room, not unfrequent long readings, and
perpetual sojourn at the palace."(189)-ED.]


                    ROYAL GENEROSITY TO MRs. DELANY.

(Fanny Burney to Dr. Burney.)
St. James's-place,
Aug. 24.

I must tell you, dearest sir, a tale concerning Mrs. Delany,
which I am sure you will hear with true pleasure.  Among the many
Inferior losses which have been included in her great and
irreparable calamity,(190) has been that of a country house for
the summer, which she ad in Bulstrode, and which for the half of
every year was her constant home.  The Duke of Portland behaved
with the utmost propriety and feeling upon this occasion, and was
most earnest to accommodate her to the best of his power, with
every comfort to which she had been accustomed ; but this noblest
of women declared she loved the memory of her friend beyond all
other things, and would not suffer it to be tainted in the
misjudging world by an action that would be construed into a
reflection upon her will, as if deficient in consideration to
her.  She steadily, therefore,

291

refused all offers, though made to her with even painful
earnestness, and though solicited till her refusal became a
distress to herself

This transaction was related, I believe, to their majesties and
Lady Weymouth, the duchess's eldest daughter, was commissioned to
wait upon Mrs. Delany with this message That the queen was
extremely anxious about her health, and very apprehensive lest
continuing in London during the summer should be prejudicial to
it : she entreated her, therefore, to accept a house belonging to
the king at Windsor, which she should order to be fitted up for
her immediately ; and she desired Lady Weymouth to give her time
to consider this proposal, and by no means to hurry her; as well
as to assure her, that happy as it would make her to have one she
so sincerely esteemed as a neighbour, she should remember her
situation, and promise not to be troublesome to her.  The king,
at the same time, desired to be allowed to stand to the
additional expenses incurred by the maintenance of two houses,
and that Mrs. Delany would accept from him 3oo pounds a year.

It would be needless to tell you how Mrs. Delany was touched by
this benevolence.  Yet she dreaded accepting what she feared
would involve her in a new course of life, and force her into
notice and connexions she wished to drop or avoid.  She took the
time the queen so considerately gave her for deliberation, and
she consulted with some of her old friends.  They all agreed
there must be no refusal, and Lady Weymouth was made the
messenger of her majesty's offer being accepted.

The house, therefore, is now fitting up, and the king sees after
the workmen himself.

A few days ago, Miss Planta(191) was sent from the queen, with
very kind inquiries after Mrs. Delany's health, and information
that she would receive a summons very soon.  She told her, also,
that as the house might still require a longer time in
preparation than would suit Mrs. Delany to wait in London, the
queen had ordered some apartments in the Castle, which lately
belonged to Prince Edward, to be got ready with all speed, that
she might reside in them till her own .house was finished.

This is the state of her affairs.  I am now with her entirely.
At first I slept at home ; but going after supper, and coming

292


before breakfast, was inconvenient, and she has therefore
contrived me a bed-room. . . .

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Locke.)
St. James's-place,
Aug. 29.

All our movements are at present uncertain ; Mrs. Delany,s
Windsor house is still unfinished, but I suppose it will be fit
for her reception by the beginning of next week, and I have the
happiest reasons for hoping she will then be fit for it herself.
Her maid has been to see what forwardness it is in, and this was
her report:--She was ordered to wait Upon Miss Goldsworthy,(192)
by the king's direction, who heard of her being sent to inspect
the house; and there she received commands, in the name of both
king and queen, to see that Mrs. Delany brought with her nothing
but herself and clothes, as they insisted upon fitting up her
habitation with everything themselves, including not only plate,
china, glass, and linen, but even all sort of stores--wine,
sweetmeats, pickles, etc.  Their earnestness to save her every
care, and give her every gratification in their power, is truly
benevolent and amiable.  They seem to know and feel her worth as
if they had never worn crowns, or, wearing, annexed no value to
them.



                         A VISIT TO MRS. DELANY.

Windsor, Saturday, Nov. 25--I got to Hounslow almost at the same
moment with Mrs. Astley, my dear Mrs. Delany's maid, who was sent
to meet me.  As soon as she had satisfied my inquiries concerning
her lady, she was eager to inform Tne that the queen had drunk
tea with Mrs. Delany the day before, and had asked when I should
come, and heard the time; and that Mrs. Delany believed she would
be with her again that evening, and desire to see me.  This was
rather fidgetting intelligence.  I rather, in my own mind,
thought the queen would prefer giving me the first evening alone
with my dear old friend.  I found that sweet lady not so well as
I had hoped, and strongly affected by afflicting recollections at
sight of me.  With all her gentleness and resignation, bursts of
sorrow break from her still whenever we are alone together, for
the Duchess of Portland was a boson' friend to her.

293

Miss Port,(193) who is a truly lovely girl, received me with her
usual warmth of joy, and was most impatient to whisper me that "
all the princesses intended to come and see me."  She is just at
the age to doat upon an ado, and nothing so much delights her as
the thought of my presentations.

Mrs. Delany acquainted me that the queen, in their first
Interview, upon her coming to this house, said to her, " Why did
not you bring your friend Miss Burney with you?"

My dear Mrs. Delany was very much gratified by such an attention
to whatever could be thought interesting to her, but, with her
usual propriety, answered that, in coming to a house of her
majesty's, she could not presume to ask anybody without immediate
and express permission.  "The king, however," she added, "made
the very same inquiry when I saw him next."

Sunday, Nov. 26.-So now the royal encounters, for a while at
least, are out of all question.  Nobody came last night, though
Mrs. Delany I saw, and Miss Port I heard, in continual
expectation; but this morning, Mr. Battiscombe, apothecary to the
household, called, and said that an express arrived from Germany
yesterday afternoon, with an account of the death of the queen's
youngest brother.

The queen, -whose domestic virtues rise upon me every hour, is
strongly attached to all her family, and in much affliction at
this news ; for though this brother was quite a boy when she left
Germany, he has twice been to visit her in, England.  None of the
royal family will appear till the mourning takes place ; the
queen, perhaps, may shut herself up still longer.

At night, quite incog, quite alone, and quite privately, the king
came, and was shut up with Mrs. Delany for an hour.  It is out of
rule for any of the family to be seen till in mourning, but he
knew she was anxious for an account of the queen.  I had a very
narrow escape of being surprised by him, which
would have vexed me, as he only meant to see Mrs. Delany

294

by herself, though she says he told her he was very glad to hear
I was come.


                   ROYAL CURIOSITY ABOUT Miss BURNEY.

Thursday, Dec. 1.-To-day the queen sent Miss Planta to tell Mrs.
Delany that if she would not yet venture to the Lodge, she would
come to her in the evening.  Mrs. Delany accepted the gracious
offer, and, at tea-time, she came, as well as the king, and spent
two hours here.

Mrs. Delany told me afterwards, that the queen was very
low-spirited, and seemed to wish for nothing but the solace of
sitting perfectly quiet.  She is a sweet woman, and has all the
domestic affections warm and strong in her heart.

Nevertheless they talked of me, she says, a good deal - and the
king asked many questions about me.  There is a new play, he told
Mrs. Delany, coming out ; "and it is said to be Miss Burney's!"
Mrs. Delany immediately answered that she knew the report must be
untrue.  "But I hope she is not idle?" cried the king.  "I hope
she is writing something?

What Mrs. Delany said, I know not; but he afterwards inquired
what she thought of my writing a play?

"What," said he, "do you wish about it, Mrs. Delany?"

Mrs. Delany hesitated, and the queen then said,

"I wish what I know Mrs. Delany does--that she may not; for
though her reputation is so high, her character, by all I hear,
is too delicate to suit with writing for the stage."

Sweet queen!  I could have kissed the hem of her garment for that
speech, and I could not resist writing it.

Mrs. Delany then said,

" Why My opinion is what I believe to be Miss Burney's own ; that
It is too public and hazardous a style of writing for her quiet
and fearful turn of mind."

I have really the grace to be a little ashamed of scribbling
this, but I know I can scribble nothing my dear father will be
more curious to hear.

Saturday, Dec- 3-This morning we had better news of the princess
- and Mrs. Delany went again to the Lodge in the evenin, to the
queen.  When Mrs. Delany returned, she confirmed the good
accounts of the Princess Elizabeth's amendment.  She had told the
queen I was going to-morrow to Thames Ditton, for a week; and was
asked many questions about my coming back, which the queen said
she was sure I
295

should be glad to do from Mrs. Walsingham to Mrs. Delany.  O most
penetrating queen!

She gratified Mrs. Delany by many kind speeches, of being sorry I
was going, and glad I was returning, and so forth.  Mrs. Delany
then told her I had been reading "The Clandestine Marriage" to
her, which the queen had recommended, and she thanked her majesty
for the very great pleasure she had received from it.

"O then," cried the queen, "if Miss Burney reads to you, what a
pleasure you must have to make her read her own works!"

Mrs. Delany laughed, and exclaimed,

"O ma'am! read her own works!--your majesty has no notion of Miss
Burney!  I believe she would as soon die!"

This, of course, led to a great deal of discussion, in the midst
of which the queen said,

"Do you know Dr. Burney, Mrs. Delany?

"Yes, ma'am, extremely well," answered Mrs. Delany.

"I think him," said the queen, "a very agreeable and entertaining
man."

There, my dear father!  said I not well just now, O most
penetrating queen?

So here ends my Windsor journal, part the first.  Tomorrow
morning I go for my week to Thames Ditton.


                     AN ANTICIPATED ROYAL INTERVIEW.

Windsor, Wednesday, Dec. 14-Yesterday I returned to my dear Mrs.
Delany, from Thames Ditton, and had the great concern of finding
her very unwell.  Mr. Bernard Dewes, one of her nephews, and his
little girl, a sweet child of seven years old, were with her,
and, of course, Miss Port.  She had been hurried, though only
with pleasure, and her emotion, first in receiving, and next in
entertaining them, had brought on a little fever.

She revived in the afternoon, and I had the pleasure of reading
to her a play of Shakspeare's, that she had not heard for forty
years, and which I had never read since I was a child,--"The
Comedy of Errors;"--and we found in it all the entertainment
belonging to an excellent farce, and all the objections belonging
to an indifferent play but the spirit with which she enters into
every part of everything she hears, gives a sort of theatric
effect to whatever is read to her; and my spirits rise in her
presence, with the joy of exciting hers.
296

But I am now obliged, by what follows, to confess a little
discussion I have had with my dear Mrs. Delany, almost all the
time I spent with her at first, and now again upon my return,
relative to the royal interview, so long in expectation.

Immediately upon my arrival, she had imagined, by what had
preceded it, that a visit would instantly ensue here, and I
should have a summons to appear ; but the death of the queen's
brother, which was known the very night I came, confined her
majesty and all the family for some days to the Lodge ; and the
dangerous illness of the Princess Elizabeth nexttook place, in
occupying all their thoughts, greatly to their credit.  My dear
old friend, however, earnest I Should have an honour which her
grateful reverence for their majesties makes her regard very
highly, had often wished me to stay in the room when they came to
see her, assuring me that though they were so circumstanced as
not to send for a stranger, she knew they would be much pleased
to meet with me.  This, however, was more than I could assent to,
without infinite pain, and that she was too kind to make a point
of my enduring.

Yesterday, upon my return, she began again the same reasoning;
the Princess Elizabeth had relapsed, and she knew, during her
being worse, there was no chance the queen would take any active
step towards a meeting.  "But she inquires," continued Mrs.
Delany, "so much about you, and is so earnest.  that you should
be with me, that I am sure she wants to see and converse with
you.  You will see her, too, with more ease to yourself by being
already in the room, than from being summoned.  I would not for
the world put this request to you, if I were not sure she wishes
it."

There was no withstanding the word "request" from Mrs. Delany,
and little as I liked the business, I could not but comply.  What
next was to be done, was to beg directions for the rencounter.

Now though you, my dear father, have had an audience, and you, my
dear Susan, are likely enough to avoid one, yet I think the
etiquettes on these occasions will be equally new to you both ;
for one never inquired into them, and the other has never thought
of them.  Here, at Windsor, where more than half the people we
see are belonging to the Court, and where all the rest are trying
to be in the same predicament, the intelligence I have obtained
must be looked upon as accurate, and I shall, therefore give it.,
in full confidence you will
297

both regard it as a valuable addition to your present stock of
Court knowledge, and read it with that decent awe the dignity of
the topic requires!


        DIRECTIONS FOR A PRIVATE ENCOUNTER WITH THE ROYAL FAMILY.

. . . . To come, then, to those particular instructions I
received myself, and which must not be regarded as having
anything to do with general rules.

"I do beg of you," said dear Mrs. Delany, "When the queen or the
king speak to you, not to answer with mere monosyllables.  The
queen often complains to me of the difficulty with which she can
get any conversation, as she not only always has to start the
subjects, but, commonly, entirely to support them: and she says
there is nothing she so much loves as conversation, and nothing
she finds so hard to get.  She is always best pleased to have the
answers that are made her lead on to further discourse.  Now, as
I know she wishes to be acquainted with you, and converse with
you, I do really entreat you not to draw back from her, nor to
stop conversation with only answering 'Yes,' or 'No.'"

This was a most tremendous injunction; however, I could not but
promise her I would do the best I could.

To this, nevertheless, she readily agreed, that if upon entering
the room, they should take no notice of me, I might quietly
retire.  And that, believe me, will not be very slowlv ! They
cannot find me in this house without knowing who I am, and
therefore they can be at no loss whether to speak to me or not,
from incertitude.


                                A PANIC.

In the midst of all this, the queen came!

I heard the thunder at the door, and, panic struck, away flew all
my resolutions and agreements, and away after them flew I!

Don't be angry, my dear father--I would have stayed if I could,
and I meant to stay - but, when the moment came, neither my
preparations nor intentions availed, and I arrived at my own
room, ere I well knew I had left the drawing-room, and quite
breathless between the race I ran with Miss Port and the joy of
escaping,
298

Mrs. Delany, though a little vexed at the time, was not
afterwards, when she found the queen very much dispirited by a
relapse of the poor Princess Elizabeth.  She inquired if I was
returned, and hoped I now came to make a longer stay.

Friday, Dec. 16.-Yesterday morning we had a much better account
of the Princess Elizabeth; and Mrs. Delany said to me,

"Now you will escape no longer, for if their uneasiness ceases, I
am sure they will send for you, when they come next."

To be sent for, I confessed to her, would really be more
formidable than to be surprised; but to pretend to be surprise,
would answer no purpose in making the meeting easy to me. and
therefore I preferred letting the   matter take its chance.


                       "THE KING! AUNT, THE KING!"

After dinner, while Mrs. Delany was left alone, as usual, to take
a little rest,--for sleep it but seldom proves,--Mr. B. Dewes,
his little daughter, Miss Port, and myself, went into the
drawing-room.     And here, while, to pass the time, I was
amusing the little girl with teaching her some Christmas games,
in which her father and cousin joined, Mrs. Delany came in. We
were all in the middle of the room, and in some confusion ;--but
she had but just come up to us to inquire what was going
forwards, and I was disentangling myself from Miss Dewes, to be
ready to fly off if any one knocked at the streetdoor, when the
door of the drawing-room was again opened, and a large man, in
deep mourning, appeared at it, entering, and shutting it himself
without speaking.

A ghost could not more have scared me, when I discovered, by its
glitter on the black, a star!    The general disorder had
prevented his being seen, except by myself, who was always on the
watch, till Miss Port, turning round, exclaimed, "The king!--
aunt, the king!"

O mercy! thought I, that I were but out of the room! which way
shall I escape? and how pass him unnoticed?  There is but the
single door at which he entered, in the room!  Every one
scampered out of the way: Miss Port, to stand next the door; Mr.
Bernard Dewes to a corner opposite it; his little girl clung to
me; and Mrs. Delany advanced to meet his majesty, who, after
quietly looking on till she saw him, approached, and inquired how
she did,
299

He then spoke to Mr. Bernard, whom he had already met two or
three times here.

I had now retreated to the wall, and purposed gliding softly,
though speedily, out of the room ; but before I had taken a
single step, the king, in a loud whisper to Mrs. Delany, said, "
Is that Miss Burney ? "-and on her answering, " Yes, sir," he
bowed, and with a countenance of the most perfect good humour,
came close up to me.

A most profound reverence on my part arrested the progress of my
intended retreat.

"How long have you been come back, Miss Burney?"

"Two days, sir."

Unluckily he did not hear me, and repeated his question and
whether the second time he heard me or not, I don't know, but he
made a little civil inclination of his head, and went back to
Mrs. Delany.

He insisted she should sit down, though he stood himself, and
began to give her an account of the Princess Elizabeth, who once
again was recovering, and trying, at present, James's powders.
She had been blooded, he said, twelve times in this last
fortnight, and had lost seventy-five ounces of blood, besides
undergoing blistering and other discipline.  He spoke of her
illness with the strongest emotion, and seemed quite filled with
concern for her danger and suffering.

Mrs. Delany next inquired for the younger children.  They had
all, he said, the whooping-cough, and were soon to be removed to
Kew.

"Not," added he, " for any other reason than change of air for
themselves ; though I am pretty certain I have never had the
distemper myself, and the queen thinks she has not had it either
:--we shall take our chance.  When the two eldest had it, I sent
them away, and would not see them till it was over; but now there
are so many of them that there would be no end to separations, so
I let it take its course."

Mrs. Delany expressed a good deal of concern at his running this
risk, but he laughed at it, and said, he was much more afraid of
catching the rheumatism, which has been threatening one of his
shoulders lately, However, he added, he should hunt, the next
morning, in defiance of it.

A good deal of talk then followed about his own health, and the
extreme temperance by which he preserved it.  The fault of his
constitution, he said, was a tendency to excessive fat,
300

which e kept, however, in order, by the most vigorous exercise
and the strictest attention to a simple diet.

Mrs. Delany was beginning to praise his forbearance, but he
stopped her.

"NO, no," he cried, " 'tis no virtue ; I only prefer eating plain
and little to growing diseased and infirm."

During this discourse, I stood quietly In the place where he had
first spoken to me.  His quitting me so soon, and conversing
freely and easily with Mrs. Delany, proved so delightful a relief
to me, that I no longer wished myself away; and the moment my
first panic from the surprise was over, I diverted myself with a
thousand ridiculous notions, of my own Situation.

The Christmas games we had been showing Miss Dewes, it seemed as
if we were still performing, as none of us thought it ) proper to
move, though our manner of standing reminded one of "Puss in the
corner."  Close to the door was posted Miss Port; opposite her,
close to the wainscot, stood Mr. Dewes; at just an equal distance
from him, close to a window, stood myself Mrs. Delany, though
seated, was at the opposite side to Miss Port; and his majesty
kept pretty much in the middle of the room.  The little girl, who
kept close to me, did not break the order, and I could hardly
help expecting to be beckoned, with a PUSS! PUSS! PUSS! to change
places with one of my neighbours.

This idea, afterwards, gave way to another more pompous.  It
seemed to me we were acting a play.  There is something so little
like common and real life, in everybody's standing, while
talking, in a room full of chairs, and standing, too, so aloof
from each other, that I almost thought myself upon a stage,
assisting in the representation of a tragedy,--in which the king
played his own part, of the king; Mrs. Delany that of a venerable
confidante; Mr. Dewes, his respectful attendant;Miss Port, a
suppliant Virgin, waiting encouragement to bring forward some
petition; Miss Dewes, a young orphan, intened to move the royal
compassion; and myself,--a very solemn, sober, and decent mute.

These fancies, however, only regaled me while I continued a quiet
spectator, and without expectation of being called into play.
Butt the king, I have reason to think, meant only to give me time
to recover from my first embarrassment; and I feel infinitely
obliged to his good breeding and consideration, which perfectly
answered, for before he returned to me, I was entirely recruited,
301`

To go back to my narration.

When the discourse upon health and strength was over, the king
went up to the table, and looked at a book of prints, from Claude
Lorraine, which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs.
Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me.  He turned over a
leaf or two, and then said--

"Pray, does Miss Burney draw, too?"

The too was pronounced very civilly.

"I believe not, Sir," answered Mrs. Delany "at least, she does
not tell."

"Oh!" cried he, laughing, "that's nothing; she is not apt to
tell! she never does tell, you know!--Her father told me that
himself.  He told me the whole history of her 'Evelina.'  And I
shall never forget his face when he spoke of his feelings at
first taking up the book!--he looked quite frightened, just as if
he was doing it that moment!  I never can forget his face while I
live!"


              THE KING CATEGORICALLY QUESTIONS Miss BURNEY.

Then coming up close to me, the king said-

"But what?--what?--how was it?"

"Sir"--cried I, not well understanding him.

"How came you--how happened it--what?--what?"

"I--I only wrote, Sir, for my own amusement,--only in some odd,
idle hours."

"But your publishing--your printing,--how was that?

"That was only, sir,--only because--"

I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long
story, and growing terribly confused at these questions;--
besides,--to say the truth, his own "what? what? " so reminded me
of those vile "Probationary Odes," that, in the midst of all my
flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance.

The What! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced
to say something, I stammeringly answered--

"I thought-sir-it would look very well in print!" '


I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever
made!  I am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of
laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means
conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying.  He laughed
very heartily himself,--well he might--and walked away to enjoy
it, crying out,

302

"Very fair indeed! that's being very fair and honest

Then, returning to me again, he said,

"But your father--how came you not to show him what you wrote?"

"I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously."

Literal truth that, I am sure.

"And how did he find it out?

"I don't know myself, sir.  He never would tell me."

Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify.

"But how did you get it printed?"

"I sent it, sir, to a bookseller my father never employed, and
that I never had seen myself, Mr. Lowndes, in full hope by that
means he never would hear of it."

"But how could you manage that?"

"By means of a brother, sir."

"O!--you confided in a brother, then?"

"Yes, sir,--that is, for the publication."

"What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's
conjectures, before you were known!  Do you remember any of
them?"

"Yes, sir, many."

"And what?"

"I heard that Mr. Baretti(194) laid a wager it was written by a
man for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel."

This diverted him extremely.

"But how was it," he continued, "you thought most likely for your
father to discover you?"

"Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the
manuscript; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me."

"O! your sister?--what, not your brother?"

"No, sir; he could not, for--"


I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard,
exclaiming,

"Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti's'mind, and

303

think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister?"

"Well, but," cried he presently, "how was it first known to you,
you were betrayed?"

"By a letter, sir, from another sister.  I was very ill, and in
the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a
review, in which the book was mentioned, and had put his finger
upon its name, and said--'Contrive to get that book for me.'"

"And when he got it," cried the king, "he told me he was afraid
of looking at it! and never can I forget his face when he
mentioned his first opening it.  But you have not kept your pen
unemployed all this time?"

"Indeed I have, sir."

"But why?"

"I--I believe I have exhausted myself, sir."

He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany,
civilly treating a plain fact as a mere bon mot.

Then, turning to me again, he said, more seriously, "But you have
not determined against writing, any more?"

"N-o, sir"

"You have made no vow--no real resolution of that sort?"

"No, sir."

"You only wait for inclination""

"No, sir."

A very civil little bow spoke him pleased with this answer, and
he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood,
and, addressing us in general, talked upon the different motives
of writing, concluding with,

"I believe there is no constraint to be put upon real genius;
nothing but inclination can set it to work.  Miss Burney,
however, knows best." And then, hastily returning to me, he
cried, "What? what?"


"No, sir, I--I-believe not, certainly," quoth I, very awkwardly,
for I seemed taking a violent compliment only as my due; but I
knew not how to put him off as I would another person.

He then made some inquiries concerning the pictures with which
the room is hung, and which are all Mrs. Delany's own painting
and a little discourse followed, upon some of the masters whose
pictures she has copied.  This was all with her; for nobody ever
answers him without being immediately addressed by him.
304

He then came to me again, and said,

"Is your father about anything at present?"

"Yes, sir, he goes on, when he has time, with his history."

"Does he write quick?"

"Yes, sir, when he writes from himself; but in his history he has
so many books to consult, that sometimes he spends' three days in
finding authorities for a single passage."

"Very true ; that must be unavoidable."  He pursued these
inquiries some time, and then went again to his general station
before the fire, and Mrs. Delany inquired if he meant to hunt the
next day.  "Yes," he answered; and, a little.pointedly, Mrs.
Delany said,

"I would the hunted could but feel as much pleasure as the
hunter."

The king understood her, and with some quickness, called out,
"Pray what did you hunt ?"

Then, looking round at us all,--

"Did you know," he said, "that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself?--
and in a long gown, and a great hoop?"

It seems she had told his majesty an adventure of that sort which
had befallen her in her youth, from some accident in which her
will had no share.


                    THE QUEEN APPEARS UPON THE SCENE.

While this was talking over, a violent thunder was made at the
door.  I was almost certain it was the queen.  Once more I would
have given anything to escape ; but in vain.  I had been informed
that nobody ever quitted the royal presence, after having been
conversed with, till motioned to withdraw.

Miss Port, according to established etiquette on these occasions,
opened the door which she stood next, by putting her hand behind
her, and slid out, backwards, into the hall, to light the queen
'In.  The door soon opened again, and her majesty entered.

Immediately seeing the king, she made him a low curtsey, and
cried,--

"Oh, your majesty is here."


"Yes," he cried, "I ran here, without speaking to anybody."

The queen had been at the lower Lodge, to see the Princess
Elizabeth, as the king had before told us.

She then, hastened up to Mrs. Delany, with both her hands held
out, saying,
305

"My dear Mrs. Delany, how are you?"

Instantly after, I felt her eye on my face.  I believe, too, she
curtsied to me; but though I saw the bend, I was too near-sighted
to be sure it was intended for me.  I was hardly ever in a
situation more embarrassing - I dared not return what I was not
certain I had received, yet considered myself as appearing quite
a monster, to stand stiff-necked, if really meant.

Almost at the same moment, she spoke to Mr. Bernard Dewes, and
then nodded to my little clinging girl.

I was now really ready to sink, with horrid uncertainty of what I
was doing, or what I should do,--when his majesty, who I fancy
saw my distress, most good-humouredly said to the queen
something, but I was too much flurried to remember what, except
these words,--"I have been telling Miss Burney--"

Relieved from so painful a dilemma, I immediately dropped a
curtsey.  She made one to me in the same moment, and, with a very
smiling countenance, came up to me; but she could not speak, for
the king went on talking, eagerly, and very gaily, repeating to
her every word I had said during our conversation upon "Evelina,"
its publication, etc. etc.

Then he told her of Baretti's wager, saying,--"But she heard of a
great many conjectures about the author, before it was known, and
of Baretti, an admirable thing !-he laid a bet it must be a man,
as no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel!"

The queen, laughing a little, exclaimed-

"Oh, that is quite too bad an affront to us !-Don't you think
so?" addressing herself to me, with great gentleness of voice and
manner.

I assented; and the king continued his relation, which she
listened to with a look of some interest; but when he told her
some particulars of my secrecy, she again spoke to me.

"But! your sister was your confidant, was she not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

My sisters, I might have said, but I was always glad to have
done.

"Oh, yes!" cried the king, laughing "but I assure you she is of
Baretti's opinion herself; for I asked her if she thought it was
her sister or her brother that betrayed her to her father?--and
she says her sister, she thinks."


Poor Esther !-but I shall make her amends by what follows; for
the queen, again addressing me, said--
306

"But to betray to a father is no crime-don't you think so ?"

I agreed ; and plainly saw she thought Esther, if Esther it was,
had only done right.

The king then went on, and when he had finished his narration the
queen took her seat.  She made Mrs. Delany sit next her, and Miss
Port brought her some tea.



             "Miss BURNEY PLAYS-BUT NOT TO ACKNOWLEDGE IT."

The king, meanwhile, came to me again, and said,--"Are you
musical?"  "Not a performer, sir."

Then, going from me to the queen, he cried,--"She does not play."
I did not hear what the queen answered - she spoke in a low
voice, and seemed much out of spirits.

They now talked together a little while, about the Princess
Elizabeth, and the king mentioned having had a very promising
account from her physician, Sir George Baker and the queen soon
brightened up.

The king then returned to me and said,-

"Are you sure you never play?--never touch the keys at all."

"Never to acknowledge it, sir."

"Oh ! that's it ! " cried he; and flying to the queen, cried,
"She does play-but not to acknowledge it!"

I was now in a most horrible panic once more ; pushed so very
home, I could answer no other than I did, for these categorical
questions almost constrain categorical answers; and here, at
Windsor, it seems an absolute point that whatever they ask must
be told, and whatever they desire must be done.  Think but, then,
of my consternation, in expecting their commands to perform!  My
dear father, pity me!

The eager air with which he returned to me fully explained what
was to follow.  I hastily, therefore, spoke first, in order to
stop him, crying-" I never, sir, played to anybody but myself!--
never!"

"No ?" cried he, looking incredulous; "what, not to

"Not even to me, sir! " cried my kind Mrs. Delany, who saw what
was threatening me.


"No?--are you sure?" cried he, disappointed; "but--but you'll--"

"I have never, sir," cried I, very earnestly, "played in my
307

life, but when I could hear nobody else-quite alone, and from a
mere love of any musical sounds."

He repeated all this to the queen, whose answers I never heard;
but when he once more came back, with a face that looked
unwilling to give it up, in my fright I had recourse to dumb
show, and raised my hands in a supplicating fold, with a most
begging countenance to be excused.  This, luckily, succeeded; he
understood me very readily, and laughed a little, but made a sort
of desisting, or rather complying, little bow, and said no more
about it.

I felt very much obliged to him, for I saw his curiosity was all
alive, I wished I could have kissed his hand.  He still, however,
kept me in talk, and still upon music.

"To me," said he, " it appears quite as strange to meet with
people who have no ear for music, and cannot distinguish one air
from another, as to meet with people who are dumb.  Lady Bell
Finch once told me that she had heard there was some difference
between a psalm, a minuet, and a country dance, but she declared
they all sounded alike to her!  There are people who have no eye
for difference of colour.  The Duke of Marlborough actually
cannot tell scarlet from green!"

He then told me an anecdote of his mistaking one of those colours
for another, which was very laughable, but I do not remember it
clearly enough to write it.  How unfortunate for true virtuosi
that such an eye should possess objects worthy the most
discerning--the treasures of Blenheim! " I do not find, though,"
added his majesty, "that this defect runs in his family, for Lady
Di Beauclerk, draws very finely."

He then went to Mr. Bernard Dewes.

Almost instantly upon his leaving me, a very gentle voice called
out-" Miss Burney!"

It was the queen's.  I walked a little nearer her, and a gracious
inclination of her head made me go quite up to her.

"You have been," she said, "at Mrs. Walsingham's?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"She has a pretty place, I believe?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Were You ever there before?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Oh, shocking! shocking ! thought I ; what will"Mrs. Delany say to
all these monosyllables ?

"Has not she lately made some improvements?"

"Yes, ma'am; she has built a conservatory."
308

Then followed some questions about its situation, during which
the king came up to us; and she then, ceasing to address me in
particular, began a general sort of conversation, with a spirit
and animation that I had not at all expected, and which seemed
the result of the great and benevolent pleasure she took in
giving entertainment to Mrs. Delany.


                      A DRAWING-ROOM DURING A FOG.

The subject was the last Drawing-room, which she had been in town
to keep on Thursday, during the dense fog.

"I assure you, ma'am," cried she to Mrs. Delany, "it was so dark,
there was no seeing anything, and no knowing any body.  And Lady
Harcourt could be of no help to tell me who people were, for when
it was light, she can't see and now it was dark, I could not see
myself.  So it was in vain for me to go on in that manner,
without knowing which I had spoken to, and which was waiting for
me; so I said to Lady Harcourt, 'We had better stop, and stand
quite still, for I don't know anybody, no more than you do.  But
if we stand still, they will all come up in the end, and we must
ask them who they are, and if I have spoken to them yet, or not:
for it is very odd to do it, but what else can we manage?'"

Her accent is a little foreign, and very prettily so ; and her
emphasis has that sort of changeability, which gives an interest
to everything she utters. But her language is rather peculiar
than foreign.

"'Besides,"' added she, with a very significant look, "'if we go
on here in the dark, maybe I shall push against somebody, or
somebody will push against me--which is the more likely to
happen.'"

She then gave an account of some circumstances which attended the
darkness, in a manner not only extremely lively, but mixed, at
times, with an archness and humour that made it very
entertaining.  She chiefly addressed herself to Mrs. Delany ; and
to me, certainly, she would not, separately, have been so
communicative; but she contrived, with great delicacy, to include
me in the little party, by frequently looking at me, and always
with an expression that invited my participation in the
conversation.  And, indeed, though I did not join in words, I
shared very openly in the pleasure of her recital.

"well," she continued, "so there was standing by me a man that I
could not see in the face; but I saw the twisting of his
309

bow; and I said to Lady Harcourt, 'I am sure that must be nobody
but the Duke of Dorset.'--'Dear,' she says, 'how can you tell
that?'--'Only ask,' said I; and so it proved he."


"Yes," cried the king, "he is pretty well again; he can smile
again, now!"

It seems his features had appeared to be fixed, or stiffened.  It
is said, he has been obliged to hold his hand to his mouth, to
hide it, ever since his stroke,--which he refuses to acknowledge
was paralytic.

The queen looked as if some comic notion had struck her, and,
after smiling a little while to herself, said, with a sort of
innocent archness, very pleasing,

"To be sure, it is very wrong to laugh at such things,--I know
that; but yet, I could not help thinking, when his mouth was in
that way, that it was very lucky people's happiness did not
depend upon his smiles!"

Afterwards, she named other persons, whose behaviour and manners
pointed them out to her, in defiance of obscurity.

"A lady," said she, "came up to me, that I could not see, so I
was forced to ask who she was; and immediately she burst into a
laugh.  'O,' says I, 'that can be only Mrs. De Rolles!'--and so
it proved."

Methinks, by this trait, she should be a near relation to my Miss
Larolles!(195)


WILL Miss BURNEY WRITE ANY MORE?

When these, and some more anecdotes which I do not so clearly
remember, were told, the king left us, and went to Mr. Bernard
Dewes.  A pause ensuing, I, too, drew back, meaning to return to
my original station, which, being opposite the fire, was never a
bad one.  But the moment I began retreating, the queen, bending
forward, and speaking in a very low voice, said, "Miss Burney!"--
and, upon my coming up to her, almost in a whisper, cried, "But
shall we have no more--nothing more?"

I could not but understand her, and only shook my head.  The
queen then, as if she thought she had said too much, with great
sweetness and condescension, drew back herself, and, very
delicately, said,

"To be sure it is, I own, a very home question, for one who has
not the pleasure to know you."

I was quite ashamed of this apology, but did not know

310

what to say to it.  But how amiable a simplicity in her speaking
of herself in such a style,- for one who has not the ,pleasure to
know you."

"But, indeed," continued she, presently, "I would not say it,
only that I think from what has been done, there is a power to do
so much good--and good to young people, which is so very good a
thing--that I cannot help wishing it could be."

I felt very grateful for this speech, and for the very soft
manner in which she said it ; and I very much wished to thank her
and was trying to mutter something, though not very intelligibly,
when the king suddenly coming up to us, inquired what was going
forward.

The queen readily repeated her kind speech.

The king eagerly undertook to make my answer for me, crying, "O,
but she will write!--she only waits for inclination--she told me
so." Then, speaking to me, he said, "What--is it not so?"

I only laughed a little; and he again said to the queen,

"She will write.  She told me, just now, she had made no vow
against It."

"No, no," cried the queen, "I hope not, indeed."

"A vow!"  cried dear Mrs. Delany, "no, indeed, I hope she would
not be so wicked--she who can so do what she does!"

"But she has not," said the king, earnestly; "she has owned that
to me already."

What excessive condescension, my dear padre!

"I only wish," cried Mrs. Delany, "it could be as easily done, as
it is earnestly and universally desired."

"I doubt it not to be so desired," said the queen.

I was quite ashamed of all this, and quite sorry to make no
icknowledgment of their great condescension in pressing such
subject, and pressing it so much in earnest.  But I really could
get out nothing, so that's the truth; and I wish I could give a
better account of my eloquence, my dear padre and I cannot,
however, in justice any more than in inclination, go on, till I
stop to admire the sweetness of the queen, and the consideration
of the king, in each making me a party in their general
conversation, before they made any particular address to me.
311

                      A MUSICIAN, WITH A PROBOSCIS.

They afterwards spoke of Mr. Webb, a Windsor musician, who is
master to the young princesses, and who has a nose, from some
strange calamity, of so enormous a size that it covers all.  the
middle of his face.  I never saw so frightful a deformity.  Mrs.
Delany told the queen I had met with him, accidentally, when he
came to give a lesson to Miss Port, and had been quite startled
by him.

"I dare say so," said her majesty.  "I must tell Miss Burney a
little trait of Sophia, about Mr. Webb."

A small table was before the queen, who always has it brought
when she is seated, to put her tea or work upon, or, when she has
neither, to look comfortable, I believe ; for certainly it takes
off much formality in a standing circle.  And close to this, by
the gracious motion of her head, she kept me.

"When first," continued she, "Mr. Webb was to come to Sophia, I
told her he had had some accident to disfigure his whole face, by
making him an enormous nose; but I desired her to remember this
was a misfortune, for which he ought to be pitied, and that she
must be sure not to laugh at it, nor stare at it.  And she minded
this very well, and behaved always very properly.  But, while
Lady Cremorne was at the Lodge, she Was with Sophia when Mr. Webb
came to give her a lesson.  As soon as he was named, she coloured
very red, and ran up to Lady Cremorne, and said to her in a
whisper, 'Lady Cremorne, Mr. Webb has got a very great nose, but
that is only to be pitied --so mind you don't laugh.'"

This little princess is just nine years old!

The king joined us while the queen was telling this, and added,
"Poor Mr. Webb was very much discountenanced when he first saw
me, and tried to hide his nose, by a great nosegay, or I believe
only a branch, which he held before it: but really that had so
odd a look, that it was worse, and more ridiculous, than his
nose.  However, I hope he does not mind me, now, for I have seen
him four or five times."


GENERAL CONVERSATION: ROYALTY DEPARTS.

After this, Mrs. Delany mentioned Madame de la Fite and her son.

The queen said, "He is a pretty little boy; and when be goes to
school, it will do him 'good,"
312

" Where will she send him ? " said the king.

The queen, looking at me, with a smile answered,
"To the school where Mr. Locke puts his sons.  I know that!"

"And where is that?"

"Indeed I don't know; where is it, Miss Burney?"

"At Cheam, ma'am."

"Oh, at young Gilpin's?" cried the king. "Is it near Mr.
Locke's?"

"Yes, sir; within about six miles, I believe."

The queen, then, with a little arch smile, that seemed to premise
she should make me stare, said,

"It was there, at Mr. Locke's, your sister(196) laid in?"

"O yes, ma'am!" cried I, out of breath with surprise.

The king repeated my "O yes!" and said, "I fancy--by that O --you
were frightened a little for her?  What?"

I could not but assent to that; and the king, who seemed a good
deal diverted at the accident--for he loves little babies too
well to look upon it, as most people would, to be a shocking
business--questioned me about it.

"How was it?" said he,--"how happened it?  Could not she get
home?"

"It was so sudden, sir, and so unexpected, there was no time."

"I dare say," said the sweet queen, "Mrs. Locke was only
veryhappy to have it at her house."

"Indeed, ma'am," cried I, "her kindness, and Mr. Locke's would
make anybody think so      but they are all kindness and
ggoodness."

"I have heard indeed," said the queen, "that they are all
sensible, and amiable, and ingenuous, in that family."

"They are indeed," cried I, "and as exemplary as they are
accomplished."

"I have never seen Mrs. Locke," said the king, "since she was
that high;"--pointing to little Miss Dewes.


"And I," said the queen "I have never seen her in my life; but
for all that, from what I hear of her, I cannot help feeling
interested whenever I only hear her name."

This, with a good deal of animation, she said directly to me.

"Mr. William Locke, ma'am," said Mrs. Delany, "I understand from
Miss Burney, is now making the same wonderful progress in
painting that he had done before in drawing,"

313

"I have seen some of his drawings," said the queen, "which were
charming."

" How old is he?" cried the king.

"Eighteen, sir."

"Eighteen!" repeated the king--"how time flies!"

"Oh! for me," cried the queen, "I am always quarrelling with
time!  It is so short to do something, and so long to do
nothing."

She has now and then something foreign to our idiom, that has a
very pretty effect.

"Time," said the king, "always seems long when we are young, and
short when we begin to grow old."

"But nothing makes me so angry," said the queen, "as to
hear people not know what to do!  For me, I never have half time
enough to do things.  But what makes me most angry still, is to
see people go up to a window and say, 'what a bad day!--dear,
what shall we do such a day as this?'  'What?'  I say; 'why,
employ yourselves; and then what signifies the bad day?'"

Afterwards, there was some talk upon sermons, and the queen
wished the Bishop of Chester would publish another volume.

"No, no," said the king, "you must not expect a man, while he
continues preaching, to go on publishing.  Every sermon printed,
diminishes his stock for the pulpit."

"Very true," said the queen, "but I believe the Bishop of Chester
has enough to spare."

The king then praised Carr's sermons, and said he liked none but
what were plain and unadorned.

"Nor I neither," said the queen; "but for me, it is, I suppose,
because the others I don't understand."


The king then, looking at his watch, said, "It is eight o'clock,
and ]If we don't go now, the children will be sent to the other
house."

"Yes, your majesty," cried the queen, instantly rising.

Mrs. Delany put on her majesty's cloak, and she took a very kind
leave of her.  She then curtsied separately to us all, and the
king handed her to the carriage.

It is the custom for everybody they speak to to attend them out,
but they would not suffer Mrs. Delany to move.  Miss Port, Mr.
Dewes, and his little daughter, and myself, all accompanied them,
and saw them in their coach, and received their last gracious
nods.
314

When they were gone, Mrs. Delany confessed she had heard the
king's knock at the door before she came into the drawinroom, but
would not avow it, that I might not run away.  Well ! being over
was so good a thing, that I could not but be content.

The queen, indeed, is a most charming woman.  She appears to me
full of sense and graciousness, mingled with delicacy of mind and
liveliness of temper.  She speaks English almost perfectly well,
with great choice and copiousness of language, though now and
then with foreign idiom, and frequently with a foreign accent.
Her manners have an easy dignity, with a most engaging
simplicity, and she has all that fine high breeding which the
mind, not the station, gives, of carefully avoiding to distress
those who converse with her, or studiously removing the
embarrassment she cannot prevent.

The king, however he may have power, in the cabinet, to command
himself, has, in private, the appearance of a character the most
open and sincere.  He speaks his opinions without reserve, and
seems to trust them intuitively to his hearers, from a belief
they will make no ill use of them.  His countenance is full of
inquiry, to gain information without asking it, probably from
believing that to be the nearest road to truth.  All I saw of
both was the most perfect good humour, good spirits, ease, and
pleasantness.

Their behaviour to each other speaks the most cordial confidence
and happiness.  The king seems to admire as much as he enjoys her
conversation, and to covet her participation in everything he
either sees or hears.  The queen appears to feel the most
grateful regard for him, and to make it her chief study to raise
his consequence with others, by always marking that she considers
herself, though queen to the nation, only to him, the first and
most obedient of subjects.  Indeed, in their different ways, and
allowing for the difference of their characters, they left me
equally charmed both with their behaviour to each other and to
myself.


                  THE KING AGAIN: TEA TABLE ETIQUETTE.

Monday, Dec. 19-In the evening, while Mrs. Delany, Miss Port, and
I were sitting and working together in the drawing-room, the door
was opened, and the king entered.

We all started up; Miss Port flew to her modest post by the door,
and I to my more comfortable one opposite the fire,
315