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The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay — Volume 1

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

Author: Fanny Burney


        
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #5826]
                Most recently updated: March 15, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5826

Credits: Produced by Marjorie Fulton and David Widger


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




Produced by Marjorie Fulton and David Widger








THE DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME D'ARBLAY

By Frances Burney

With Notes By W. C. Ward,

And Prefaced By Lord Macaulay's Essay.

Volume 1 (of 3)

(1778-1787.)

     “The Cream Of The Diarists And Memoir Writers”




DETAILED CONTENTS     PREFACE

     MADAME D'ARBLAY, by Lord Macaulay

     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”
      Enthusiast--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 order--“Everything a Bore”--Proposed Match between Mr.
     Seward and the Weeper-at-will--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,

     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 Bath--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 Dogmatizes--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 Cambridges--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.

     8. (1786) ROYAL VISIT TO NUNEHAM, OXFORD, AND BLENHEIM---
     373-398 A job's Comforter--The Journey to Nuneham:
     Ungracious Reception--A Hasty Introduction 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.




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 match 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
prospect 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
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 Moliere; 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 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. They had, 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's
admiration 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 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
horror, that he was the favoured lover of his august mistress; that he
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 awkwardness, 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]

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 novel-writing, 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 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 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 public 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 may judge 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 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]

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, 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.

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 which witnessed her first
appearance. There was the envious Kenrick and the savage Wolcot, the
asp George Stevens 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 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.

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's Street. 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 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 Murphy
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
Moliere. 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.

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 relic of a past age. She was the
niece of George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, who, in his youth, exchanged
verses and compliments with Edmund 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 cross-examination 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. Voltaire he 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, and Klopstock,
and might have learned an important lesson of economy from the mode in
which her majesty's library had been formed. “I 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 gave
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
herself 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's Street 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 become rich, and put her into a situation in which
she could not but continue poor. Their object could not be to obtain an
eminently 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 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 recreations 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
neck-handkerchief. 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 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 heels 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
hunger, 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 proceeding 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 Pontine 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, requiring 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 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 degenerating--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 table-deckers
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 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 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 her feeble 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 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 negro slave, a humane planter
would have excused her from work. 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 great French lady
to the doctor “that your daughter is in a situation where she is never
allowed a holiday?” Horace Walpole 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 Aeneid, 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 Burney bring 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 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.” Sweet queen! 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 misery which 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.

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 and as she came out of it.

The pleasures, so long untasted, of liberty, of friendship, of domestic
affection, were almost too acute for her shattered frame. But happy days
and tranquil nights soon restored the health which the queen's toilette
and Madame Schwellenberg's card-table 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 Staël 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 soldier-like
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 Staël, 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.

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'Arblay joined 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 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 in the laws of literary precedence, marshal her to the exact
seat to which she is entitled, we must carry our examination somewhat
further.

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
contribute, 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
third-rate 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 regular 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 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 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.

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 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 disquisition 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 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 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
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 myself more 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. His superiority
was undisputed: his will was without control. He was not, as in the 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, therefore, 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]

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.

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.”




DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME D'ARBLAY.




SECT. 1 (1778.)




MISS BURNEY PUBLISHES HER FIRST NOVEL AND FINDS HERSELF FAMOUS.


     [Miss Burney's first novel, “Evelina,” had been submitted in
     manuscript to the great publisher, Dodsley, who refused to
     look at an anonymous work.  It was then offered to Lowndes,
     who published it.  The negotiations with the publisher were
     carried on by Fanny's brother Charles, and her cousin,
     Edward Burney. These two, with her sisters, and her aunts
     Anne and Rebecca (Dr. Burney's sisters), appear to have been
     the only persons entrusted with the secret.  It will be most
     convenient here, at the commencement of--“The Diary,” to
     give a few necessary details respecting the Burney family.
     By his first wife, Esther Sleepe, Dr. Burney became the
     father of seven children:--

     1. Esther (“Hetty”), born 1749; married, in 1770, her cousin
     Charles Rousseau Burney, eldest son of Dr. Burney's elder
     brother, Richard Burney, of Worcester.  Hetty's husband is
     always called “Mr. Burney” in the “Diary”.  He was a
     musician.

     2. James, the sailor, afterwards Admiral Burney, known to
     readers of “Elia.”  He was born June 5, 1750; accompanied
     the great discoverer, Captain Cook, on his second and third
     voyages; served in the East Indies in 1783, after which he
     retired from active service.  In 1785 he married Miss Sally
     Payne, and the rest of his life was devoted to literature
     and whist.  His “History of the Discoveries in the South Sea
     or Pacific Ocean” is still a standard work.  James died
     November 17, 1821.

     3. Charles born June, 1751; died young.

     4--“Frances” our “Fanny,” born June 13, 1752.

     5. Susanna Elizabeth, the “peculiar darling of the whole
     house of Dr. Burney, as well as of his heart”--so Fanny
     writes of her favourite sister.  She was born about 1755,
     and married, in the beginning Of 1781, Captain Molesworth
     Phillips, who, as Cook's lieutenant of marines, had seen the
     discoverer murdered by savages, in February, 1779, and
     narrowly escaped with his own life on that occasion.  Susan
     died January 6, 1800.

     6. Charles, afterwards Dr. Charles, the distinguished Greek
     scholar; born December 4, 1757.  After his death, in 1817,
     his magnificent library was purchased for the British
     Museum, at a cost Of 13,500 pounds.

     7. Charlotte Ann, born about 1759.  She married Clement
     Francis, in February, 1786.  He died in 1792, and she
     married again in 1798, Mrs. Barrett, the editress of the
     “Diary and Letters of Madame d'Arblay,” was Charlotte's
     daughter by her first marriage.

     By his second wife, Elizabeth Allen, whom he married in
     1767, Dr. Burney had two children--a son, Richard Thomas,
     and a daughter, Sarah Harriet.  The latter followed the
     career of her famous half-sister, and acquired some
     distinction as a novelist. Cousins Richard and Edward were
     younger sons of Uncle Richard Burney, of Worcester.  Edward
     was successful as an artist, especially as a book-
     illustrator.  He painted the portrait of Fanny Burney, a
     reproduction of which forms the frontispiece to the present
     volume.  Some of his work may be seen in the South
     Kensington Museum.

     Chesington, where we shall presently find Fanny on a visit
     to Mr. Crisp, was an old roomy mansion, standing in the
     midst of a lonely common in Surrey, between Kingston and
     Epsom.  It had belonged to Mr. Crisp's friend, Christopher
     Hamilton, and on his death became the property of his
     unmarried sister, Mrs. Sarah Hamilton, who, being in poor
     circumstances, let part of the house to a farmer, and took
     boarders.  Of the latter, Mr. Crisp was the most constant,
     boarding at Chesington for nearly twenty years, and dying
     there in 1783.  Kitty Cooke, whose name occurs in the
     “Diary,” was the niece of Mrs. Hamilton, and resided with
     her at Chesington.  Mrs. Sophia Gast, whom we find a
     frequent visitor there, was the sister of Mr. Crisp, and
     resided at Burford, in Oxfordshire.

     Chesington Hall, the name the old manor house goes by in the
     locality, is still standing, and is a plain brick building
     with a small bell turret in the roof, but in other respects
     it has been somewhat modernized since the days of Fanny
     Burney.  The common has been parcelled out into fields, and
     a picturesque country road now gives access to the front
     entrance to the house.  From the lawn at the back a narrow
     avenue of venerable trees, which throw out their long arms
     in strange grotesque fashion, leads directly to the little
     village church where Mr. Crisp is buried.--ED.]




“EVELINA” AND THE MYSTERY ATTENDING ITS PUBLICATION.

This year was ushered in by a grand and most important event! At the
latter end of January, the literary world was favoured with the first
publication of the ingenious, learned, and most profound Fanny Burney!
I doubt not but this memorable affair will, in future times, mark the
period whence chronologers will date the zenith of the polite arts in
this island!

This admirable authoress has named her most elaborate performance,
“Evelina; or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World.”

Perhaps this may seem a rather bold attempt and title, for a female
whose knowledge of the world is very confined, and whose inclinations,
as well as situation, incline her to a private and domestic life. All
I can urge is, that I have only presumed to trace the accidents and
adventures to which a “young woman” is liable; I have not pretended to
show the world what it actually is, but what it appears to a girl of
seventeen, and so far as that, surely any girl who is past seventeen may
safely do? The motto of my excuse shall be taken from Pope's “Temple of
Fame “:

     In every work regard the writer's end
     None e'er can compass more than they intend.

About the middle of January, my cousin Edward brought me a parcel, under
the name of Grafton. I had, some little time before, acquainted both my
aunts of my frolic. They will, I am sure, be discreet; indeed, I exacted
a vow from them Of strict secrecy; and they love me with such partial
kindness, that I have a pleasure in reposing much confidence in them.
I immediately conjectured what the parcel was, and found the following
letter.

Fleet-street, Jan. 7, 1778.

Sir,

I take the liberty to send you a novel, which a gentleman, your
acquaintance, said you would hand to him. I beg with expedition, as 'tis
time it should be published, and 'tis requisite he first revise it, or
the reviewers may find a flaw.--I am, sir, your obedient servant, Thomas
Lowndes.

To Mr. Grafton,

To be left at the Orange Coffee-house.


My aunts, now, would take no denial to my reading it to them, in
order to mark errata; and to cut the matter short, I was compelled
to communicate the affair to my cousin Edward, and then to obey their
commands.

Of course, they were all prodigiously charmed with it. My cousin now
became my agent, as deputy to Charles, with Mr. Lowndes, and when I had
made the errata, carried it to him.

The book, however, was not published till the latter end of the month. A
thousand little odd incidents happened about this time, but I am not in
a humour to recollect them; however, they were none of them productive
of a discovery either to my father or mother.

My little book, I am told, is now at all the circulating libraries. I
have an exceeding odd sensation, when I consider that it is now in the
power of any and every body to read what I so carefully hoarded even
from my best friends, till this last month or two; and that a work which
was so lately lodged, in all privacy, in my bureau, may now be seen
by every butcher and baker, cobbler and tinker, throughout the three
kingdoms, for the small tribute of threepence.

My aunt Anne and Miss Humphries being settled at this time at Brompton,
I was going thither with Susan to tea, when Charlotte acquainted me that
they were then employed in reading “Evelina” to the invalid, my cousin
Richard. My sister had recommended it to Miss Humphries, and my aunts
and Edward agreed that they would read it, but without mentioning
anything of the author.

This intelligence gave me the utmost uneasiness--I foresaw a thousand
dangers of a discovery--I dreaded the indiscreet warmth of all my
confidants. In truth, I was quite sick with apprehension, and was too
uncomfortable to go to Brompton, and Susan carried my excuses.

Upon her return, I was somewhat tranquillised, for she assured me that
there was not the smallest suspicion of the author, and that they had
concluded it to be the work of a man! and Miss Humphries, who read it
aloud to Richard said several things in its commendation, and concluded
them by exclaiming, “It's a thousand pities the author should lie
concealed!”

Finding myself more safe than I had apprehended, I ventured to go to
Brompton next day. In my way up-stairs, I heard Miss Humphries in the
midst of Mr. Villars' letter of consolation upon Sir John Belmont's
rejection of his daughter; and just as I entered the room, she cried
out, “How pretty that is!”

How much in luck would she have thought herself, had she known who heard
her!

In a private confabulation which I had with my aunt Anne, she told me
a thousand things that had been said in its praise, and assured me they
had not for a moment doubted that the work was a man's.

Comforted and made easy by these assurances, I longed for the diversion
of hearing their observations, and therefore (though rather mal a
propos) after I had been near two hours in the room, I told Miss
Humphries that I was afraid I had interrupted her, and begged she would
go on with what she was reading.

“Why,” cried she, taking up the book, “we have been prodigiously
entertained;” and very readily she continued.

I must own I suffered great difficulty in refraining from laughing upon
several occasions, and several times, when they praised what they read,
I was upon the point of saying, “You are very good!” and so forth, and
I could scarcely keep myself from making acknowledgments, and bowing my
head involuntarily. However, I got off perfectly safe.


_Monday._--Susan and I went to tea at Brompton. We met Miss Humphries
coming to town. She told us she had just finished “Evelina,” and gave us
to understand that she could not get away till she had done it. We heard
afterwards from my aunt the most flattering praises; and Richard could
talk Of nothing else. His encomiums gave me double pleasure, from being
wholly unexpected: for I had prepared myself to hear that he held it
extremely cheap.

It seems, to my utter amazement, Miss Humphries has guessed the author
to be Anstey, who wrote the “Bath Guide”! How improbable and how
extraordinary a supposition! But they have both of them done it so much
honour that, but for Richard's anger at Evelina's bashfulness, I never
Could believe they did not suspect me. I never went to Brompton without
finding the third volume in Richard's hands; he speaks of all the
characters as if they were his acquaintance, and Praises different parts
perpetually: both he and Miss Humphries seem to have it by heart, for
it is always a propos to Whatever is the subject of discourse, and their
whole conversation almost consists of quotations from it.


_Chesington, June 18._--I came hither the first week in May. My recovery
from that time to this, has been slow and sure; but as I could walk
hardly three yards in a day at first, I found so much time to spare,
that I could not resist treating myself with a little private sport
with “Evelina,” a young lady whom I think I have some right to make free
with. I had promised Hetty that she should read it to Mr. Crisp, at
her own particular request; but I wrote my excuses, and introduced it
myself.

I told him it was a book which Hetty had taken to Brompton, to divert my
cousin Richard during his confinement. He was so indifferent about it,
that I thought he would not give himself the trouble to read it, and
often embarrassed me by unlucky questions, such as, “If it was reckoned
clever?” and “What I thought of it?” and “Whether folks laughed at it?”
 I always evaded any direct or satisfactory answer; but he was so totally
free from any idea of suspicion, that my perplexity escaped his notice.

At length, he desired me to begin reading to him. I dared not trust my
voice with the little introductory ode, for as that is no romance, but
the sincere effusion of my heart, I could as soon read aloud my own
letters, written in my own name and character: I therefore skipped it,
and have so kept the book out of his sight, that, to this day, he knows
not it is there. Indeed, I have, since, heartily repented that I read
any of the book to him, for I found it a much more awkward thing than I
had expected: my voice quite faltered when I began it, which, however, I
passed off for the effect of remaining weakness of lungs; and, in short,
from an invincible embarrassment, which I could not for a page together
repress, the book, by my reading, lost all manner of spirit.

Nevertheless, though he has by no means treated it with the praise so
lavishly bestowed upon it from other quarters, I had the satisfaction
to observe that he was even greedily eager to go on with it; so that I
flatter myself the story caught his attention: and, indeed, allowing for
my mauling reading, he gave it quite as much credit as I had any reason
to expect. But, now that I was sensible of my error in being 'my own
mistress of the ceremonies, I determined to leave to Hetty the third
volume, and therefore pretended I had not brought it. He was in a
delightful ill humour about it, and I enjoyed his impatience far more
than I should have done his forbearance. Hetty, therefore, when she
comes, has undertaken to bring it.

I have had a visit from my beloved Susy, who, with my mother[31] and
little Sally,[32] spent a day here, to my no small satisfaction; and yet
I was put into an embarrassment, of which I even yet know not what will
be the end, during their short stay: for Mr. Crisp, before my mother,
very innocently said, “O! Susan, pray Susette, do send me the third
volume of “Evelina”; Fanny brought me the two first on purpose, I
believe, to tantalize me.”

I felt myself in a ferment; and Susan, too, looked foolish, and knew not
what to answer. As I sat on the same sofa with him, I gave him a gentle
shove, as a token, which he could not but understand, that he had said
something wrong--though I believe he could not imagine what. Indeed, how
should he?

My mother instantly darted forward, and repeated “Evelina,--what's that,
pray?”

Again I jolted Mr. Crisp, who, very much perplexed, said, in a
boggling manner, that it was a novel--he supposed from the circulating
library--only a “trumpery novel.”

Ah, my dear daddy! thought I, you would have devised some other sort of
speech, if you knew all! But he was really, as he well might be, quite
at a loss for what I wanted him to say.

“You have had it here, then, have you?” continued my mother.

“Yes--two of the volumes,” said Mr. Crisp.

“What, had you them from the library?” asked my mother.

“No, ma'am,” answered I, horribly frightened, “from my sister.”

The truth is, the books are Susan's, who bought them the first day of
publication; but I did not dare own that, as it would have been almost
an acknowledgment of all the rest.

She asked some further questions, to which we made the same sort of
answers, and then the matter dropped. Whether it rests upon her mind, or
not, I cannot tell.

Two days after, I received from Charlotte a letter the most interesting
that could be written to me, for it acquainted me that My dear father
was, at length, reading my book, which has now been published six
months. How this has come to pass, I am yet in the dark; but, it seems,
that the very Moment almost that my mother and Susan and Sally left
the house, he desired Charlotte to bring him the “Monthly Review;” she
contrived to look over his shoulder as he opened it, which he did at
the account of “Evelina; Or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World.”
 He read it with great earnestness, then put it down; and presently after
snatched it up, and read it again. Doubtless, his paternal heart
felt some agitation for his girl, in reading a review of her
publication![33]--how he got at the name, I cannot imagine.

Soon after he turned to Charlotte, and bidding her come close to him, he
put his finger on the word “Evelina,” and saying, she knew what it was,
bade her--write down the name, and send the man to Lowndes, as if for
herself. This she did, and away went William.

He then told Charlotte, that he had never known the name of it till the
day before. 'Tis strange how he got at it! He added that I had come off
vastly well in this review, except for “the Captain.” Charlotte told him
it had also been in “Kenrick's review,”[34] and he desired her to copy
out for him what was said in both of them. He asked her, too, whether I
had mentioned the work was by a lady?

When William returned, he took the books from him, and the moment he
was gone, opened the first volume--and opened it upon the Ode! How great
must have been his astonishment, at seeing himself so addressed![35]
Indeed, Charlotte says he looked all amazement, read a line or two with
great eagerness, and then, stopping short, he seemed quite affected,
and the tears started into his eyes: dear soul! I am sure they did into
mine, nay, I even sobbed, as I read the account.

I believe he was obliged to go out before he advanced much further. But
the next day I had a letter from Susan, in which I heard that he had
begun reading it with Lady Hales, and Miss Coussmaker, and that they
liked it vastly![36] Lady Hales spoke of it very innocently, in the
highest terms, declaring she was sure it was written by somebody in high
life, And that it had all the marks of real genius! She added, “he must
be a man of great abilities!”

How ridiculous! but Miss Coussmaker was a little nearer the truth, for
she gave it as her opinion, that the writer was a woman, for she
said there was such a remarkable delicacy in the conversations and
descriptions, notwithstanding the grossness and vulgarity of some of the
characters, and that all oaths and indelicate words were so carefully,
yet naturally avoided, that she could not but suspect the writer was a
female; but, she added, notwithstanding the preface declared that the
writer never would be known, she hoped, if the book circulated as she
expected it would, he or she would be tempted to make a discovery.

Ha! ha! ha!-that's my answer. They little think how well they are
already acquainted with the writer they so much honour! Susan begged to
have, then, my father's real and final opinion;--and it is such that I
almost blush to write, even for my own private reading; but yet is such
as I can by no means suffer to pass unrecorded, as my whole journal
contains nothing so grateful to me. I will copy his own words, according
to Susan's solemn declaration of their authenticity.

“Upon my word I think it the best novel I know, except Fielding's, and,
in some respects, better than his! I have been excessively pleased with
it; there are, perhaps a few things that might have been otherwise.
Mirvan's trick upon Lovel is, I think, carried too far,--there is
something even disgusting in it: however, this instance excepted, I
protest I think it will scarce bear an improvement. The language is as
good as anybody need write--I declare, as good as I would wish to
read. Lord Orville's character is just what it should be---perfectly
benevolent and upright; and there is a boldness in it that struck me
mightily, for he is a man not ashamed of being better than the rest
of mankind. Evelina is in a new style too, so perfectly innocent and
natural; and the scene between her and her father, Sir John Belmont,
is a scene for a tragedy! I blubbered at it, and Lady Hales and Miss
Coussmaker are not yet recovered from hearing it, it made them quite
ill: indeed, it is wrought up in a most extraordinary manner.”

This account delighted me more than I--can express. How little did I
dream of ever being so much honoured! But the approbation of all the
world put together, would not bear any competition, in my estimation,
with that of my beloved father.


_July 25._--Mrs. Cholmondeley has been reading and praising “Evelina,”
 and my father Is quite delighted at her approbation, and told Susan that
I could not have had a greater compliment than making two such women my
friends as Mrs. Thrale[37] and Mrs. Cholmondeley, for they were severe
and knowing, and afraid of praising a tort et a travers, as their
opinions are liable to be quoted.

Mrs. Thrale said she had only to complain it was too short. She
recommended it to my mother to read!--how droll!--and she told her she
would be much entertained with it, for there was a great deal of human
life in it, and of the manners of the present times, and added that it
was written “by somebody who knows the top and the bottom, the highest
and the lowest of mankind.” She has even lent her set to my mother, who
brought it home with her!

By the way, I have again resumed my correspondence with my friend Mr.
Lowndes. When I sent the errata I desired to have a set directed to Mr.
Grafton, at the Orange Coffee-house, for I had no copy but the one he
sent me 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 strolling 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.”

Odd so! thought I, what do you mean by that?

“Pooh, nonsense!” cried I, “what should make you think of me?”

“Why, you look guilty,” answered he.

This was a horrible home stroke. Deuce take my looks! thought I--I shall
owe them a grudge for this! however I found it was a mere random shot,
and, without much difficulty, I laughed it to scorn.

And who do you think he guessed next?--My father!--there's for you!--and
several questions he asked me, whether he had lately been shut up
much-and so on. And this was not all--for he afterwards guessed Mrs.
Thrale and Mrs. Greville.[39]

There's honour and glory for you!--I assure you I grinned prodigiously.


_July 20._--I have had a letter from Susan. She informs me that my
father, when he took the books back to Streatham, actually acquainted
Mrs. Thrale with my secret. He took an opportunity, when they were alone
together, of saying that Upon her recommendation, he had himself, as
well as my mother; been reading “Evelina.”

“Well!” cried she, “and is it not a very pretty book? and a Very clever
book? and a very comical book?

“Why,” answered he, “'tis well enough; but I have something to tell you
about it.”

“Well? what?” cried she; “has Mrs. Cholmondeley found out the author?”

“No,” returned he, “not that I know of, but I believe I have, though but
very lately.”

“Well, pray let's hear!” cried she, eagerly, “I want to know him of all
things.”

How my father must laugh at the him!--He then, however, undeceived her
in regard to that particular, by telling her it was “our Fanny!” for she
knows all about our family, as my father talks to her of his domestic
concerns without any reserve.

A hundred handsome things, of course, followed; and she afterwards read
some of the comic parts to Dr. Johnson, Mr. Thrale, and whoever came
near her. How I should have quivered had I been there! but they tell me
that Dr. Johnson laughed as heartily as my father himself did.

Nothing can be more ridiculous than the scenes in which I am almost
perpetually engaged. Mr. Crisp, who is totally without suspicion,
says, almost daily, something that has double the meaning he intends to
convey; for, as I am often writing, either letters, Italian, or some
of my own vagaries, he commonly calls me the scribe, and the authoress;
asks when I shall print; says he will have all my works on royal paper,
etc.; and the other day, Mrs. Gast, who frequently lectures me about
studying too hard, and injuring my health, said--

“Pray, Miss Burney, now you write so much, when do you intend to
publish?”

“Publish?” cried Mr. Crisp, “why, she has published; she brought out a
book the other day that has made a great noise 'Evelina'--and she bribed
the reviewers to speak well of it, and set it a going.”

I was almost ready to run out of the room; but, though the hit was so
palpable in regard to the book, what he said of the reviewers was so
much the contrary that it checked my alarm: indeed, had he the most
remote idea of the truth, he would be the last man to have hinted at it
before a room full of people.

“Oh!” cried I, as composedly as I could, “that is but a small part of my
authorship--I shall give you a list of my folios soon.”

They had all some jocularity upon the occasion, but I found I was
perfectly safe; indeed my best security is, that my daddy concludes the
author to be a man, and all the rest follow as he leads.

Mr. Burney,[40] yesterday, after dinner, said--“Gentlemen and ladies,
I'll propose a toast”; then filling his glass, he drank “to The author
of 'Evelina'!”

Had they known the author was present, they could not have more civilly
accepted the toast; it was a bold kind of drollery in Mr. Burney, for
I was fain to drink my own health in a bumper, which he filled for me,
laughing heartily himself.


_August 3_--I have an immensity to write. Susan has copied me a letter
which Mrs. Thrale has written to my father, upon the occasion of
returning my mother two novels by Madame Riccoboni.[41] It is so
honourable to me, and so sweet in her, that I must COPY it for my
faithful journal.


Streatham, July 22.

Dear Sir,

I forgot to give you the novels in your carriage, which I now send.
“Evelina” certainly excels them far enough, both in probability of
story, elegance of sentiment, and general power over the mind, whether
exerted in humour or pathos; add to this, that Riccoboni is a veteran
author, and all she ever can be; but I cannot tell what might not be
expected from “Evelina,” were she to try her genius at comedy.

So far had I written of my letter, when Mr. Johnson returned home, full
of the praises of the book I had lent him, and protesting there Were
passages in it which Might do honour to Richardson. We talk of it for
ever, and he feels ardent after the d'enouement; hee “could not get rid
of the rogue,” he said. I lent him the second volume, and he is now busy
with the other.

You must be more a philosopher, and less a father, than I wish you, not
to be pleased with this letter; and the giving such pleasure yields to
nothing but receiving it. Long, my dear sir, may you live to enjoy the
just praises of your children! and long may they live to deserve
and delight such a parent! These are things that you would say in
verse---but poetry implies fiction, and all this is naked truth.

My compliments to Mrs. Burney, and kindest wishes to all your flock,
etc.


How, sweet, how amiable in this charming woman is her desire of making
my dear father satisfied with his scribbler's attempt! I do, indeed,
feel the most grateful love for her. But Dr. Johnson's approbation!--It
almost crazed me with agreeable surprise--it gave me such a flight
of spirits that I danced a jig to Mr. Crisp, Without any preparation,
music, or explanation;--to his no small amazement and diversion. I
left him, however, to make his own comments upon my friskiness without
affording him the smallest assistance.

Susan also writes me word, that when my father went last to Streatham,
Dr. Johnson was not there, but Mrs. Thrale told him, that when he gave
her the first volume of “Evelina,” which she had lent him, he said,
“Why, madam, why, what a charming book you lent me!” and eagerly
inquired for the rest. He was particularly pleased with the Snow-hill
scenes, and said that Mr. Smith's vulgar gentility was admirably
portrayed; and when Sir Clement joins them, he said there was a shade
of character prodigiously well marked. Well may it be said, that the
greatest winds are ever the most candid to the inferior set! I think
I should love Dr. Johnson for such lenity to a poor mere worm in
literature, even if I were not myself the identical grub he has obliged.

I now come to last Saturday evening, when my beloved father came
to Chesington, in full health, charming spirits, and all kindness,
openness, and entertainment.

In his way hither he had stopped at Streatham, and he settled with Mrs.
Thrale that he would call on her again in his way to town, and carry me
with him! and Mrs. Thrale said, “We all long to know her.”

I have been in a kind of twitter ever since, for there seems something
very formidable in the idea of appearing as an authoress! I ever dreaded
it, as it is a title which must raise more expectations than I have any
chance of answering. Yet I am highly flattered by her invitation, and
highly delighted in the prospect of being introduced to the Streatham
society.

She sent me some very serious advice to write for the theatre, as, she
says, I so naturally run into conversations, that “Evelina” absolutely
and plainly points out that path to me; and she hinted how much she
should be pleased to be “honoured with my confidence.”

My dear father communicated this intelligence, and a great deal more,
with a pleasure that almost surpassed that with which I heard it, and
he seems quite eager for me to make another attempt. He desired to take
upon himself the communication to my daddy Crisp, and as it is now in
so many hands that it is possible accident might discover it to him, I
readily consented.

Sunday evening, as I was going into my father's room, I heard him
say, “The variety of characters--the variety of scenes--and the
language--why, she has had very little education but what she has
given herself,-less than any of the others!” and Mr. Crisp exclaimed,
“Wonderful!--it's wonderful!”

I now found what was going forward, and therefore deemed it most fitting
to decamp. About an hour after, as I was passing through the hall, I met
my daddy (Crisp). His face was all animation and archness; he doubled
his fist at me, and would have stopped me, but I ran past him into the
parlour.

Before supper, however, I again met him, and he would not suffer me to
escape; he caught both my hands, and looked as if he would have looked
me through, and then exclaimed, “Why you little hussy,--you young
devil!--an't you ashamed to look me in the face, you Evelina, you!
Why, what a dance have you led me about it! Young friend, indeed! O you
little hussy, what tricks have you served me!”

I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle appellations
for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently compose himself after
his great surprise, to ask or hear any particulars--and then, he broke
out every three instants with exclamations of astonishment at how I had
found time to write so much unsuspected, and how and where I had picked
up such various materials; and not a few times did he, with me, as he
had with my father, exclaim, “wonderful!”

He has, since, made me read him all my letters upon this subject. He
said Lowndes would have made an estate had he given me one thousand
pounds for it, and that he ought not to have given me less. “You have
nothing to do now,” continued he, “but to take your pen in hand, for
your fame and reputation are made, and any bookseller will snap at what
you write.”

I then told him that I could not but really and unaffectedly regret that
the affair was spread to Mrs. Williams and her friends.

“Pho,” said he, “if those who are proper judges think it right, that it
should be known, why should you trouble yourself about it? You have not
spread it, there can be no imputation of vanity fall to your share, and
it cannot come out more to your honour than through such a channel as
Mrs. Thrale.”




A FIRST VISIT TO MRS. THRALE AND AN INTRODUCTION 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.]


_August._--I have now to write an account of the most consequential day
I have spent since my birth: namely, my visit.

Our journey to Streatham, was the least pleasant part of the day, for
the roads were dreadfully dusty, and I was really in the fidgets from
thinking what my reception might be, and from fearing they would expect
a less awkward and backward kind of person than I was sure they would
find.

Mr. Thrale's house is white, and very pleasantly situated, in a fine
paddock. Mrs. Thrale was strolling about, and came to us as we got out
of the chaise.

“Ah,” cried she, “I hear Dr. Burney's voice! and you have brought your
daughter?--well, now you are good!”

She then received me, taking both my hands, and with mixed politeness
and cordiality welcoming me to Streatham. She led me into the house, and
addressed herself almost wholly for a few minutes to my father, as if
to give me an assurance she did not mean to regard me as a show, or
to distress or frighten me by drawing me out. Afterwards she took me
upstairs, and showed me the house, and said she had very much wished to
see me at Streatham, and should always think herself much obliged to Dr.
Burney for his goodness in bringing me, which she looked upon as a very
great favour.

But though we were some time together, and though she was so very civil,
she did not hint at my book, and I love her much more than ever for her
delicacy in avoiding a subject which she could not but see would have
greatly embarrassed me.

When we returned to the music-room, we found Miss Thrale was with my
father. Miss Thrale is a very fine girl, about fourteen years of age,
but cold and reserved, though full of knowledge and intelligence.

Soon after, Mrs. Thrale took me to the library; she talked a little
while upon common topics, and then, at last, she mentioned “Evelina.”

“Yesterday at supper,” said she, “we talked it all over, and discussed
all your characters--but Dr. Johnson's favourite is Mr. Smith. He
declares the fine gentleman manqué was never better drawn; and he acted
him all the evening, saying he was 'all for the ladies!' He repeated
whole scenes by heart. I declare I was astonished at him. O, you can't
imagine how much he is pleased with the book; he 'could not get rid of
the rogue,' he told me. But was it not droll,” said she, “that I should
recommend it to Dr. Burney? and tease him, so innocently, to read it?”

I now prevailed upon Mrs. Thrale to let me amuse myself, and she went
to dress. I then prowled about to choose some book and I saw upon the
reading-table, “Evelina.”--I had just fixed upon a new translation of
Cicero's “Laelius,” when the library-door was opened, and Mr. Seward[43]
entered. I instantly put away my book, because I dreaded being thought
studious and affected. He offered his service to find anything for me,
and then, in the same breath, ran on to speak of the work with which I
had myself 'favoured the world!'

The exact words he began with I cannot recollect, for I was actually
confounded by the attack; and his abrupt manner of letting me know he
was au fait equally astonished and provoked me. How different from the
delicacy of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale.

When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my father and me sit
on each side of her. I said that I hoped I did not take Dr. Johnson's
place;--for he had not yet appeared.

“No,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “he will sit by you, which I am sure will
give him great pleasure.”

Soon after we were seated, this great man entered. I have so true a
veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires me with delight
and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities to which he is
subject; for he has almost perpetual convulsive movements, either of his
hands, lips, feet, or knees, and sometimes of all together.

Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place. We had a
noble dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. Johnson, in the middle of
dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what were some little pies that were near him.

“Mutton,” answered she, “so I don't ask you to eat any, because I know
you despise it.”

“No, madam, no,” cried he, “I despise nothing that is so good of its
sort; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by Miss Burney makes
me very proud to-day!”

“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, “you must take care of
your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it for I assure you he is not often
successless.”

“What's that you say, madam?” cried he; “are you making mischief between
the young lady and me already?”

A little while after he drank Miss Thrale's health and mine, and then
added: “Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young ladies well,
without wishing them to become old women!”

“But some people,” said Mr. Seward, “are old and young at the same time,
for they wear so well that they never look old.”

“No, sir, no,” cried the doctor, laughing; “that never yet was; you might
as well say they are at the same time tall and short. I remember an
epitaph to that purpose, which is in--”

(I have quite forgot what,--and also the name it was made upon, but the
rest I recollect exactly:)

     “----lies buried here;
     So early wise, so lasting fair,
     That none, unless her years you told,
     Thought her a child, or thought her old.”


We left Streatham at about eight o'clock, and Mr. Seward, who handed me
into the chaise, added his interest to the rest, that my father would
not fail to bring me next week. In short I was loaded with civilities
from them all. And my ride home was equally happy with the rest of the
day, for my kind and most beloved father was so happy in my happiness,
and congratulated me so sweetly, that he could, like myself, think on no
other subject: and he told me that, after passing through such a house
as that, I could have nothing to fear--meaning for my book, my honoured
book.

Yet my honours stopped not here; for Hetty, who, with her sposo, was
here to receive us, told me she had lately met Mrs. Reynolds,[44] sister
of Sir Joshua; and that she talked very much and very highly of a new
novel called “Evelina”; though without a shadow of suspicion as to the
scribbler; and not contented with her own praise, she said that Sir
Joshua, who began it one day when he was too much engaged to go on with
it, was so much caught, that he could think of nothing else, and was
quite absent all the day, not knowing a word that was said to him: and,
when he took it up again, found himself so much interested in it, that
he sat up all night to finish it! Sir Joshua, it seems, vows he would
give fifty pounds to know the author! I have also heard, by the means of
Charles,[45] that other persons have declared they will find him out!




FANNY BURNEY INTERVIEWS HER PUBLISHER.


This intelligence determined me upon going myself to Mr. Lowndes, and
discovering what sort of answers he made to such curious inquirers as I
found were likely to address him. But as I did not dare trust myself to
speak, for I felt that I should not be able to act my part well, I asked
my mother to accompany me. We introduced ourselves by buying the book,
for which I had a commission from Mrs. G----. Fortunately Mr. Lowndes
himself was in the shop; as we found by his air of consequence and
authority, as well as his age; for I never saw him before.

The moment he had given my mother the book, she asked him if he could
tell her who wrote it.

“No,” he answered; “I don't know myself.”

“Pho, pho,” said she, “you mayn't choose to tell, but you must know.”

“I don't indeed, ma'am,” answered he “I have no honour in keeping the
secret, for I have never been trusted. All I know of the matter is, that
it is a gentleman of the other end of the town.”

MY mother made a thousand other inquiries, to which his answers were to
the following effect: that for a great while, he did not know if it was
a man or a woman; but now, he knew that much, and that he was a master
of his subject, and well versed in the manners of the times.

“For some time,” continued he, “I thought it had been Horace Walpole's;
for he once published a book in this snug manner; but I don't think
it is now. I have often people come to inquire of me who it is; but I
suppose he will come Out soon, and then when the rest of the world knows
it, I shall. Servants often come for it from the other end of the town,
and I have asked them divers questions myself, to see if I could get at
the author but I never got any satisfaction.”

Just before we came away, upon my mother's still further pressing him,
he said, with a most important face,

“Why, to tell you the truth, madam, I have been informed that it is
a piece of real secret history; and, in that case, it will never be
known.”

This was too much for me---I grinned irresistibly, and was obliged to
look out at the shop-door till we came away.

How many ridiculous things have I heard upon this subject! I hope that
next, some particular family will be fixed upon, to whom this secret
history must belong! However, I am delighted to find myself so safe.




CONVERSATIONS WITH MRS. THRALE AND DR. JOHNSON.


Streatham, Sunday, Aug. 23--I know not how to express the fullness of my
contentment at this sweet place. All my best expectations are exceeded,
and you know they were not very moderate. If, when my dear father comes,
Susan and Mr. Crisp were to come too, I believe it would require at
least a day's pondering to enable me to form another wish.

Our journey was charming. The kind Mrs. Thrale would give courage to the
most timid. She did not ask me questions, or catechise me upon what I
knew, or use any means to draw me out, but made it her business to draw
herself out, that 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 he had so little room for them that they all seemed tumbling one
upon another.

In short, she was all unaffected drollery and sweet good humour. At tea
we all met again, and Dr. Johnson was gaily sociable. He gave a very
droll account of the children of Mr. Langton.[46] “Who,” he said, “might
be very good children if they were let alone; but the father is never
easy when he is not making them do something which they cannot do; they
must repeat a fable, or a speech, or the Hebrew alphabet; and they might
as well count twenty, for what they know of the matter: however, the
father says half, for he prompts every other word. But he could not have
chosen a man who would have been less entertained by such means.”

“I believe not!” cried Mrs. Thrale: “nothing is more ridiculous than
parents cramming their children's nonsense down other people's throats.
I keep mine as much out of the way as I can.”

“Yours, madam,” answered he, “are in nobody's way--no children can
be better managed or less troublesome; but your fault is, a too great
perverseness in not allowing anybody to give them anything. Why should
they not have a cherry, or a gooseberry, as well as bigger children?”

“Because they are sure to return such gifts by wiping their hands upon
the giver's gown or coat, and nothing makes children more offensive.
People only make the offer to please the parents, and they wish the poor
children at Jericho when they accept it.”

“But, madam, it is a great deal more offensive to refuse them. Let
those who make the offer look to their own gowns and coats, for when you
interfere, they only wish you at Jericho.”

“It is difficult,” said Mrs. Thrale, “to please everybody.” She then
asked whether--Mr. Langton took any better care of his affairs than
formerly?

“No, madam,” cried the doctor, “and never will; he complains of the ill
effects of habit, and rests contentedly upon a confessed indolence. He
told his father himself that he had 'no turn to economy;' but a thief
might as well plead that he had 'no turn to honesty.'”

Was not that excellent? At night, Mrs. Thrale asked if I would have
anything? I answered, “No,” but Dr. Johnson said,

“Yes: she is used, madam, to suppers; she would like an egg or two, and
a few slices of ham, or a rasher--a rasher, I believe, would please her
better.”

How ridiculous! However, nothing could persuade Mrs. Thrale not to have
the cloth laid: and Dr. Johnson was so facetious, that he challenged Mr.
Thrale to get drunk!

“I wish,” said he, “my master[47] would say to me, Johnson, if you will
oblige me, you will call for a bottle of Toulon, and then we will set
to it, glass for glass, till it is done; and after that, I will say,
Thrale, if you will oblige me, you will call for another bottle of
Toulon, and then we will set to it, glass for glass, till that is done:
and by the time we should have drunk the two bottles, we should be so
happy, and such good friends, that we should fly into each other's arms,
and both together call for the third!”

Now for this morning's breakfast.

Dr. Johnson, as usual, came last into the library; he was in high
spirits, and full of mirth and sport. I had the honour of sitting next
to him: and now, all at once, he flung aside his reserve, thinking,
perhaps, that it was time I should fling aside mine.

Mrs. Thrale told him that she intended taking me to Mr. T--'s.

“So you ought, madam,” cried he; “'tis your business to be Cicerone to
her.”

Then suddenly he snatched my hand, and kissing it, “Ah!” he added, “they
will little think what a tartar you carry to them!”

“No, that they won't!” cried Mrs. Thrale; “Miss Burney looks so meek
and so quiet, nobody would suspect what a comical girl she is---but I
believe she has a great deal of malice at heart.”

“Oh, she's a toad!” cried the doctor, laughing--“a sly young rogue! with
her Smiths and her Branghtons!”

“Why, Dr. Johnson,” said Mrs. Thrale, “I hope you are well this morning!
if one may judge by your spirits and good humour, the fever you
threatened us with is gone off.”

He had complained that he was going to be ill last night.

“Why no, madam, no,” answered he, “I am not yet well. I could not sleep
at all; there I lay, restless and uneasy, and thinking all the time of
Miss Burney. Perhaps I have offended her, thought I; perhaps she is
angry--I have seen her but once and I talked to her of a rasher!--Were
you angry?”

I think I need not tell you my answer.

“I have been endeavouring to find some excuse,” continued he, “and, as
I could not sleep, I got up, and looked for some authority for the word;
and I find, madam, it is used by Dryden: in one of his prologues, he
says--'And snatch a homely rasher from the coals.' So you must not mind
me, madam; I say strange things, but I mean no harm.”

I was almost afraid he thought I was really idiot enough to have taken
him seriously; but, a few minutes after, he put his hand on my arm, and
shaking his head, exclaimed, “Oh, you are a sly little rogue!--what a
Holborn beau have you drawn!”

“Ay, Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, “the Holborn beau is Dr Johnson's
favourite; and we have all your characters by heart, from Mr. Smith up
to Lady Louisa.”

“Oh, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith is the man!” cried he, laughing violently.
“Harry Fielding never drew so good a character!--such a fine varnish of
low politeness!--such a struggle to appear a gentleman! Madam, there is
no character better drawn anywhere--in any book or by any author.”

I almost poked myself under the table. Never did I feel so delicious
a confusion since I was born! But he added a great deal more, only I
cannot recollect his exact words, and I do not choose to give him mine.

About noon when I went into the library, book hunting, Mrs. Thrale came
to me. We had a very nice confab about various books, and exchanged
opinions and imitations of Baretti; she told me many excellent tales of
him, and I, in return, related my stories.

She gave me a long and very entertaining account of Dr. Goldsmith, who
was intimately known here; but in speaking of “The Good-natured Man,”
 when I extolled my favourite Croaker, I found that admirable character
was a downright theft from Dr. Johnson. Look at “The Rambler,” and you
will find Suspirius is the man, and that not merely the idea, but the
particulars of the character, are all stolen thence![48]

While we were yet reading this “Rambler,” Dr. Johnson came in: we told
him what we were about.

“Ah, madam,” cried he, “Goldsmith was not scrupulous but he would
have been a great man had he known the real value of his own internal
resources.”

“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, “is fond of his 'Vicar of Wakefield.'
and so am I;--don't you like it, sir?”

“No, madam, it is very faulty; there is nothing of real life in it, and
very little of nature. It is a mere fanciful performance.”

He then seated himself upon a sofa, and calling to me, said
“Come,--Evelina,--come and sit by me.”

I obeyed; and he took me almost in his arms,--that is, one of his arms,
for one would go three times, at least, round me,--and, half laughing,
half serious, he charged me to “be a good girl!”

“But, my dear,” continued he with a very droll look, “what makes you so
fond of the Scotch? I don't like you for that;--I hate these Scotch, and
so must you. I wish Branghton had sent the dog to jail! That Scotch dog
Macartney.”

“Why, sir,” said Mrs. Thrale, “don't you remember he says he would, but
that he should get nothing by it?”

“Why, ay, true,” cried the doctor, see-sawing very solemnly, “that,
indeed, is some palliation for his forbearance. But I must not have you
so fond of the Scotch, my little Burney; make your hero what you will
but a Scotchman. Besides, you write Scotch--you say 'the one'--my dear,
that's not English, never use that phrase again.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Thrale, “it may be used in Macartney's letter, and
then it will be a propriety.”

“No, madam, no!” cried he; “you can't make a beauty of it--it is in the
third volume; put it in Macartney's letter, and welcome--that, or any
thing that is nonsense.”

“Why, surely,” cried I, “the poor man is used ill enough by the
Branghtons.”

“But Branghton,” said he, “only hates him because of his
wretchedness--poor fellow!--But, my dear love, how should he ever have
eaten a good dinner before he came to England? And then he laughed
violently at young Branghton's idea.

“Well,” said Mrs. Thrale, “I always liked Macartney; he is a very pretty
character, and I took to him, as the folks say.”

“Why, madam,” answered he, “I like Macartney myself. Yes, poor fellow,
I liked the man, but I love not the nation.” And then he proceeded, in
a dry manner, to make at once sarcastic reflections on the Scotch, and
flattering speeches to me.[49]




DR. JOHNSON ON SOME “LADIES” OF HIS ACQUAINTANCE


_Saturday._--Dr. Johnson was again all himself; and so civil to
me!--even admiring how I dressed myself! Indeed, it is well I have so
much of his favour--for it seems he always speaks his mind concerning
the dress of ladies, and all ladies who are here obey his injunctions
implicitly, and alter whatever he disapproves. This is a part of his
character that much surprises me: but notwithstanding he is sometimes
so absent, and always so near sighted, he scrutinizes into every part of
almost everybody's appearance. They tell me of a Miss Brown, who often
visits here, and who has a slovenly way of dressing. “And when she comes
down in a morning,” says Mrs. Thrale, “her hair will be all loose, and
her cap half off; and then Dr. Johnson, who sees something is wrong, and
does not know where the fault is, concludes it is in the cap, and says,
“My dear, what do you wear such a vile cap for?” “I'll change it, Sir!”
 cries the poor girl, “if you don't like it.” “Ay, do,” he says; and away
runs poor Miss Brown; but when she gets on another, it's the same thing,
for the cap has nothing to do with the fault. And then she wonders Dr.
Johnson should not like the cap, for she thinks it very pretty. And so
on with her gown, which he also makes her change; but if the poor girl
were to change through all her wardrobe, unless she could put her things
on better, he would still find fault.”

When Dr. Johnson was gone, she told me of my mother's[50] being obliged
to change her dress.

“Now,” said she “Mrs. Burney had on a very pretty linen jacket and
coat, and was going to church; but Dr. Johnson, who, I suppose, did not
like her in a jacket, saw something was the matter, and so found fault
with the linen: and he looked and peered, and then said, 'Why, madam,
this won't do! you must not go to church so!' So away went poor Mrs.
Burney, and changed her gown! And when she had done so, he did not like
it, but he did not know why, so he told her she should not wear a black
hat and cloak in summer! How he did bother poor Mrs. Burney! and himself
too, for if the things had been put on to his mind, he would have taken
no notice of them.”

“Why,” said Mr. Thrale, very drily, “I don't think Mrs. Burney a very
good dresser.”

“Last time she came,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she was in a white cloak, and
she told Dr. Johnson she had got her old white cloak scoured on purpose
to oblige him! 'Scoured!' says he; 'ay, have you, madam?'--so he
see-sawed, for he could not for shame find fault, but he did not seem to
like the scouring.”

And now let me try to recollect an account he gave of certain celebrated
ladies of his acquaintance: an account in which, had you heard it
from himself, would have made you die with laughing, his manner is so
peculiar, and enforces his humour so originally. It was begun by Mrs.
Thrale's apologising to him for troubling him with some question she
thought trifling--O, I remember! We had been talking of colours, and
of the fantastic names given to them, and why the palest lilac should b
called a soupir etouffe; and when Dr. Johnson came in, she applied to
him.

“Why, madam,” said he, with wonderful readiness, “it is called a stifled
sigh because it is checked in its progress, and only half a colour.”

I could not help expressing my amazement at his universal readiness upon
all subjects, and Mrs. Thrale said to him, “Sir, Miss Burney wonders at
your patience with such stuff, but I tell her you are used to me, for
I believe I torment you with more foolish questions than anybody else
dares do.”

“No, madam,” said he; “you don't torment me;--you teaze me, indeed,
sometimes.”

“Ay, so I do, Dr. Johnson, and I wonder you bear with my nonsense.”

“No, madam, you never talk nonsense; you have as much sense and more
wit, than any woman I know.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Thrale, blushing, “it is my turn to go under the table
this morning, Miss Burney!”

“And yet,” continued the doctor, with the most comical look, “I have
known all the wits, from Mrs. Montagu down to Bet Flint.”

“Bet Flint cried Mrs. Thrale--pray, who is she?”

“Such a fine character, madam! She was habitually a slut and a drunkard,
and occasionally a thief and a harlot.”

“And, for heaven's sake, how came you to know her?”

“Why, madam, she figured in the literary world, too! Bet Flint wrote her
own life, and called herself Cassandra, and it was in verse;--it began:

    'When Nature first ordained my birth,
    A diminutive I was born on earth:
    And then I came from a dark abode,
    Into a gay and gaudy world.'[51]

So Bet brought me her verses to correct; but I gave her half-a-crown,
and she liked it as well. Bet had a fine spirit;--she advertised for a
husband, but she had no success, for she told me no man aspired to
her! Then she hired very handsome lodgings and a footboy; and she got
a harpsichord, but Bet could not play; however, she put herself in fine
attitudes, and drummed.”

Then he gave an account of another of these geniuses, who called herself
by some fine name, I have forgotten what.

“She had not quite the same stock of virtue,” continued he, “nor
the same stock of honesty as Bet Flint; but I suppose she envied her
accomplishments, for she was so little moved by the power of harmony,
that while Bet Flint thought she was drumming very divinely, the other
jade had her indicted for a nuisance!”

“And pray what became of her, sir?

“Why, madam, she stole a quilt from the man of the house, and he had
her taken up: but Bet Flint had a spirit not to be subdued; so when she
found herself obliged to go to jail, she ordered a sedan chair, and bid
her footboy walk before her. However, the boy proved refractory, for he
was ashamed, though his mistress was not.”

“And did she ever get out of jail again, sir?”

“Yes, madam; when she came to her trial the judge acquitted her.
'So now,' she said to me, 'the quilt is MY own, and now I'll make a
petticoat of it.' Oh, I loved Bet Flint!”[52]

Oh, how we all laughed! Then he gave an account of another lady, who
called herself Laurinda, and who also wrote verses and stole furniture;
but he had not the same affection for her, he said, though she too “was
a lady who had high notions of honour.”

Then followed the history of another, who called herself Hortensia, and
who walked up and down the park repeating a book of Virgil. “But,” said
he, “though I know her story, I never had the good fortune to see her.”

After this he gave us an account of the famous Mrs. Pinkethman: “And
she,” he said, “told me she owed all her misfortunes to her wit; for she
was so unhappy as to marry a man who thought himself also a wit, though
I believe she gave him not implicit credit for it, but it occasioned
much contradiction and ill-will.”

“Bless me, sir,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “how can all these vagabonds
contrive to get at you, of all people?”

“O the dear creatures!” cried he, laughing heartily, “I can't but be
glad to see them.”

“Why, I wonder, sir, you never went to see Mrs. Rudd,[53] among the
rest.”

“Why, madam, I believe I should,” said he, “if it was not for the
newspapers; but I am prevented many frolics that I should like very
well, since I am become such a theme for the papers.”

Now, would you ever have imagined this? Bet Flint, it seems, took Kitty
Fisher[54] to see him, but to his no little regret he was not at home.
“And Mrs. Williams,”[55] he added, “did not love Bet Flint, but Bet
Flint made herself very easy about that.”




A LEARNED MAN ON “EVELINA.”


When we were dressed for dinner, and went into the parlour, we had the
agreeable surprise of seeing Mr. Seward. There was also Mr. Lort,[56]
who is reckoned one of the most learned men alive, and is also a
collector of curiosities, alike in literature and natural history. His
manners are somewhat blunt and odd, and he is altogether out of the
common road, without having chosen a better path.

The day was passed most agreeably. In the evening we had, as usual, a
literary conversation. Mr. Lort produced several curious MSS. of the
famous Bristol Chatterton; among others, his will, and divers verses
written against Dr. Johnson, as a placeman and pensioner; all of which
he read aloud, with a steady voice and unmoved countenance.

I was astonished at him; Mrs. Thrale not much pleased; Mr. Thrale silent
and attentive; and Mr. Seward was slily laughing. Dr. Johnson himself
listened profoundly and laughed openly. Indeed, I believe he wishes his
abusers no other thing than a good dinner, like Pope.[57]

Just as we had got our biscuits and toast-and-water, which make the
Streatham supper, and which, indeed, is all there is any chance of
eating after our late and great dinners, Mr. Lort suddenly said,

“Pray, ma'am, have you heard anything of a novel that runs about a good
deal, called 'Evelina'?”

What a ferment did this question, before such a set, put me in! I did
not know whether he spoke to me, or Mrs. Thrale, and Mrs. Thrale was in
the same doubt, and as she owned, felt herself in a little palpitation
for me, not knowing what might come next, Between us both, therefore, he
had no answer.

“It has been recommended to me,” continued he; “but I have no great
desire to see it, because it has such a foolish name. Yet I have heard a
great deal of it, too.”

He then repeated “Evelina”--in a very languishing and ridiculous tone.

My heart beat so quick against my stays that I almost panted with
extreme agitation, from the dread either of hearing some horrible
criticism, or of being betrayed: and I munched my biscuit as if I had
not eaten for a fortnight.

I believe the whole party were in some little consternation Dr. Johnson
began see-sawing; Mr. Thrale awoke; Mr. E---- who I fear has picked
up some notion of the affair from being so much in the house, grinned
amazingly; and Mr. Seward, biting his nails and flinging himself back in
his chair, I am sure had wickedness enough to enjoy the whole scene.

Mrs. Thrale was really a little fluttered, but without looking at me,

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