Fanny Burney - Diary and Letters

(To Mr. Crisp.)
Friday, July 30 This seems a strange, unseasonable period for my undertaking, but yet, my dear daddy, when you have read my conVersation with Mr. Sheridan, I believe you will agree that I must have been wholly insensible, nay, almost ungrateful, to resist encouragement such as he gave me–nay, more than encouragement, entreaties, all of which he warmly repeated to my father.

Now, as to the play itself, I own I had wished to have been the bearer of it when I visit Chesington; but you seem so urgent, and my father himself is so desirous to carry it you, that I have given that plan up.

O my dear daddy, if your next letter were to contain your real opinion of it, how should I dread to open it! Be, however, as honest as your good nature and delicacy will allow you to be, and assure yourself I shall be very certain that all your criticisms will proceed from your earnest wishes to obviate those of others, and that you would have much more pleasure in being my panegyrist.

As to Mrs. Gast, I should be glad to know what I would refuse to a sister of yours. Make her, therefore, of your coterie, if she is with you while the piece is in your possession.

And now let me tell you what I wish in regard to this affair. I should like that your first reading should have nothing to do with me-that you should go quick through it, or let my father read it to you-forgetting all the time, as much as you can, that Fannikin is the writer, or even that it is a play in manuscript, and capable of alterations ;-and then, when you have done, I should like to have three lines, telling me, as nearly as you can trust my candour, its general effect. After that take it to your own desk, and lash it at your leisure.

(To Dr. Burney.)

The fatal knell, then, is knolled, and down among the dead men sink the poor ” Witlings “-for ever, and for ever, and for ever!

I give a sigh, whether I will or not, to their memory! for, however worthless, they were mes enfans. You, my dear sir, who enjoyed, I really think, even more than myself, the astonishing success of my first attempt, would, I believe, even more than myself, be hurt at the failure of my second; and I am sure I speak from the bottom of a very honest heart, when I most solemnly declare, that upon your account any disgrace would mortify and afflict me more than upon my own ; for whatever appears with your knowledge, will be naturally supposed to have met with your approbation, and, perhaps, your assistance; therefore, though all particular censure would fall where it ought–upon me–yet any general censure of the whole, and the plan, would cruelly, but certainly involve you in its severity.

You bid me open my heart to you,–and so, my dearest sir, I will, for it is the greatest happiness of my life that I dare be sincere to you. I expected many objections to be raised–a thousand errors to be pointed out-and a million of alterations to be proposed; but the suppression of the piece were words I did not expect; indeed, after the warm approbation of Mrs. Thrale, and the repeated commendations and flattery of Mr. Murphy, how could I?

I do not, therefore, pretend to wish you should think a decision, for which I was so little prepared, has given me no disturbance ; for I must be a far more egregious witling than any of those I tried to draw, to imagine you could ever credit that I wrote without some remote hope of success now–though I literally did when I composed “Evelina”!

But my mortification is not at throwing away the characters, or the contrivance;–it is all at throwing away the time,–which I with difficulty stole, and which I have buried in the mere trouble of writing.

(To Mr. Crisp.)

Well! there are plays that are to be saved, and plays that are not to be saved! so good night, Mr. Dabbler!–good night, Lady Smatter,–Mrs. Sapient,–Mrs. Voluble,–Mrs. Wheedle,–Censor,–Cecilia,–Beaufort,–and you, you great oaf, Bobby!–good night! good night!

And good morning, Miss Fanny Burney!–I hope you have opened your eyes for some time, and will not close them in so drowsy a fit again–at least till the full of the moon.

I won’t tell you, I have been absolutely ravie with delight at the fall of the curtain; but I intend to take the affair in the tant miemx manner, and to console myself for your censure by this greatest proof I have ever received of the sincerity, candour, and, let me add, esteem, of my dear daddy. And as I happen to love myself rather more than my play, this consolation is not a very trifling one.

As to all you say of my reputation and so forth, I perceive the kindness of your endeavours to put me in humour with myself, and prevent my taking huff, which, if I did, I should deserve to receive, upon any future trial, hollow praise from you,–and the rest from the public.

The only bad thing in this affair is, that I cannot take the comfort of my poor friend Dabbler, by calling you a crabbed fellow, because you write with almost more kindness than ever neither can I (though I try hard) persuade myself that you have not a grain of taste in your whole composition. This, however, seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put their heads together to concert for me that hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle they sent me, they felt as sorry for poor little Miss Bayes as she could possibly do for herself.

Note: The objection of Mr. Crisp to the MS play of ‘The Witlings,’ was its resemblance to Moliere’s ‘Femmes Savantes,’ and consequent immense inferiority. However, Fanny Burney had not  read the ‘Femmes Savantes’ when she composed ‘The Witlings.’

When Mrs. Thrale joined us, Mr. Seward told us he had just seen Dr. Jebb.–Sir Richard, I mean,–and that he had advised him to marry.

“No,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “that will do nothing for you; but if you should marry, I have a wife for you.”

“Who?” cried he, “the S. S.?”

“The S. S.?–no!–she’s the last person for you,–her extreme softness, and tenderness, and weeping, would add languor to languor, and irritate all your disorders; ‘twould be drink to a dropsical man.”

“No, no,-it would soothe me.”

“Not a whit ! it would only fatigue you. The wife for you is Lady Anne Lindsay. She has birth, wit, and beauty, she has no fortune, and she’d readily accept you; and she is such a spirit that she’d animate you, I warrant you! O, she would trim you well! you’d be all alive presently. She’d take all the care of the money affairs,–and allow you out of them eighteen pence a week! That’s the wife for you!”

Mr. Seward was by no means ” agreeable ” to the proposal; he turned the conversation upon the S. S., and gave us an account of two visits he had made her, and spoke in favour of her manner of living, temper, and character. When he had run on in this strain for some time, Mrs. Thrale cried,

“Well, so you are grown very fond of her?”

“Oh dear, no!” answered he, drily, “not at all!”

” Why, I began to think,” said Mrs. Thrale, “you intended to supplant the parson.”

“No, I don’t: I don’t know what sort of an old woman she’d make; the tears won’t do then. Besides, I don’t think her so sensible as I used to do.”

“But she’s very pleasing,” cried I, “and very amiable.”

“Yes, she’s pleasing,–that’s certain; but I don’t think she reads much; the Greek has spoilt her.”

“Well, but you can read for yourself.”

“That’s true ; but does she work well?”

“I believe she does, and that’s a better thing.”

“Ay; so it is,” said he, saucily, “for ladies; ladies should rather write than read.”

“But authors,” cried I, “before they write should read.”

Returning again to the S. S., and being again rallied about her by Mrs. Thrale, who said she believed at last he would end there,-he said,

“Why, if I must marry–if I was bid to choose between that andracking on the wheel, I believe I should go to her.”

We all laughed at this exquisite compliment; but, as he said, it was a compliment, for though it proved no passion for her, it proved a preference.

“However,” he continued, “it won’t do.”

“Upon my word,” exclaimed I, “you settle it all your own way!–the lady would be ready at any rate!”

“Oh yes ! any man might marry Sophy Streatfield.”

I quite stopt to exclaim against him.

“I mean,” said he, “if he’d pay his court to her.”

Sunday, June 20,-While I was sitting with Mr. Thrale, in the library, Mr. Seward entered. As soon as the first inquiries were over, he spoke about what he calls our comedy, and he pressed and teazed me to set about it. But he grew, in the evening, so queer, so ennuy`e, that, in a fit of absurdity, I called him “Mr. Dry;” and the name took so with Mrs. Thrale, that I know not when he will lose it. Indeed, there is something in this young man’s alternate drollery and lassitude, entertaining qualities and wearying complaints, that provoke me to more pertness than I practise to almost anybody.

The play, he said, should have the double title of “The Indifferent Man, or Everything a Bore;” and I protested Mr. Dry should be the hero. And then we ran on, jointly planning a succession of ridiculous scenes;–he lashing himself pretty freely though not half so freely, or so much to the purpose, as I lashed him; for I attacked him, through the channel of Mr, Dry, upon his ennui, his causeless melancholy, his complaining languors, his yawning inattention, and his restless discontent. You may easily imagine I was in pretty high spirits to go so far: in truth, nothing else could either have prompted or excused my facetiousness : and his own manners are so cavalier, that they always, with me, stimulate a sympathising return.

He repeatedly begged me to go to work, and commit the projected scenes to paper: but I thought that might be carry-ing the jest too far; for as I was in no humour to spare him, writtten raillery might, perhaps, have been less to his taste than verbal.

He challenged me to meet him the next morning, before breakfast, in the library, that we might work together at some scenes, but I thought it as well to let the matter drop, and did not make my entry till they were all assembled.

He, however, ran upon nothing else ; and, as soon as we happened to be left together, he again attacked me.

“Come,” said he, “have you nothing ready yet? I dare say you have half an act in your pocket.”

“No,” quoth I, “I have quite forgot the whole business; I was only in the humour for it last night.”

“How shall it begin?” cried he; “with Mr. Dry in his study?– his slippers just on, his hair about his ears,–exclaiming, ‘O what a bore is life!–What is to be done next?”

“Next?” cried I, “what, before he has done anything at all?”

“Oh, he has dressed himself, you know.–Well, then he takes up a book–”

“For example, this,” cried I, giving him Clarendon’s History.

He took it up in character, and flinging it away, cried

“No–this will never do,–a history by a party writer is vodious.”

I then gave him Robertson’s “America.”

“This,” cried he, “is of all reading the most melancholy;–an account of possessions we have lost by our own folly.”

I then gave him Baretti’s “Spanish Travels.”

“Who,” cried he, flinging it aside, “can read travels by a fellow who never speaks a word of truth.”

Then I gave him a volume of “Clarissa.”

“Pho,” cried he, “a novel writ by a bookseller!–there is but one novel now one can bear to read,–and that’s written by a young lady.”

I hastened to stop him with Dalrymple’s Memoirs, and then proceeded to give him various others, upon all which he made severe, splenetic, yet comical comments;–and we continued thus employed till he was summoned to accompany Mr. Thrale to town.

The next morning, Wednesday, I had some very serious talk with Mr. Seward,–and such as gave me no inclination for railery, though it was concerning his ennui; on the contrary, I resolved,
at the moment, never to rally him upon that subject again, for his account of himself filled me with compassion.

He told me that he had never been well for three hours in a day in his life, and that when he was thought only tired he was really so ill that he believed scarce another man would stay in company. I was quite shocked at this account, and told him, honestly, that I had done him so little justice as to attribute all his languors to affectation.

We had at breakfast a scene, of its sort, the most curious I ever saw.

The persons were Sir Philip, Mr. Seward, Dr. Delap, Miss Streatfield, Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and I. The discourse turning I know not how, upon Miss Streatfield, Mrs. Thrale said,

“Ay I made her cry once for Miss Burney as pretty as could be, but nobody does cry so pretty as the S. S. I’m sure, when she cried for Seward, I never saw her look half so lovely.”

“For Seward?” cried Sir Philip; “did she cry for Seward? What a happy dog! I hope she’ll never cry for me, for if she does, I won’t answer for the consequences!”

“Seward,” said Mrs. Thrale, “had affronted Johnson, and then Johnson affronted Seward, and then the S. S. cried.”

“OH,” cried Sir Philip, “that I had but been here!”

“Nay,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “you’d only have seen how like three fools three sensible persons behaved: for my part, I was quite sick of it, and of them too.”

Sir P.- But what did Seward do? was he not melted?

Mrs. T.-Not he; he was thinking only of his own affront, and taking fire at that.

Mr. S.-Why, yes, I did take fire, for I went and planted my back to it.

S.S.-And Mrs. Thrale kept stuffing me with toast-and-water.

Sir P.-But what did Seward do with himself? Was not he in extacy? What did he do or say?

Mr. S.-Oh, I said pho, pho, don’t let’s have any more of this,– it’s making it of too much consequence: no more piping, pray.

Sir P.-Well, I have heard so much of these tears, that I would give the universe to have a sight of them.

Mrs. T.-Well, she shall cry again if you like it.

S.S.-No, pray, Mrs. Thrale.

Sir P.- Oh, pray, do ! pray let me see a little of it.

Mrs. T.-Yes, do cry a little, Sopby [in a wheedling voice], pray do! Consider, now, you are going to-day, and it’s very hard if you won’t cry a little: indeed, S. S., you ought to cry.

Now for the wonder of wonders. When Mrs, Thrale, in a coaxing voice, suited to a nurse soothing a baby, had run on for some time,–while all the rest of us, in laughter, joined in the request,–two crystal tears came into the soft eyes of the S. S., and rolled gently down her cheeks! Such a sight I never saw before, nor could I have believed. She offered not to conceal ordissipate them: on the contrary, she really contrived to have them seen by everybody. She looked, indeed, uncommonly handsome; for her pretty face was not, like Chloe’s, blubbered; it was smooth and elegant, and neither her features nor complexion were at all ruffled; nay, indeed, she was smiling all the time.

“Look, look!” cried Mrs. Thrale; “see if the tears are not come already.”

Loud and rude bursts of laughter broke from us all at once. How, indeed, could they be restrained? Yet we all stared, and looked and re-looked again and again, twenty times, ere we could believe our eyes. Sir Philip, I thought, would have died in convulsions; for his laughter and his politeness, struggling furiously with one another, made him almost black in the face. Mr. Seward looked half vexed that her crying for him was now so much lowered in its flattery, yet grinned incessantly; Miss Thrale laughed as much as contempt would allow her: but Dr. Delap seemed petrified with astonishment.

When our mirth abated, Sir Philip, colouring violently with his efforts to speak, said,

“I thank you, ma’am, I’m much obliged to you.”

But I really believe he spoke without knowing what he was saying.

“What a wonderful command,” said Dr. Delap, very gravely, “that lady must have over herself!”

She now took out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

“Sir Philip,” cried Mr. Seward, “how can you suffer her to dry her own eyes?–you, who sit next her?”

“I dare not dry them for her,” answered he, “because I am not the right man.”

“But if I sat next her,” returned he, “she would not dry them herself.”

“I wish,” cried Dr. Delap, “I had a bottle to put them in; ’tis a thousand’pities they should be wasted.”

“There, now,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she looks for all the world as if nothing had happened; for, you know, nothing has happened!”

“Would you cry, Miss Burney,” said Sir Philip, “if we asked you?”

“She can cry, I doubt not,” said Mr. Seward, “on any Proper occasion.”

“But I must know,” said I, “what for.” I did not say this loud enough for the S. S. to hear me, but if I
had, she would not have taken it for the reflection it meant. She seemed, the whole time, totally insensible to the numerous strange and, indeed, impertinent speeches which were made and to be very well satisfied that she was only manifesting a tenderness of disposition, that increased her beauty of countenance. At least, I can put no other construction upon her conduct which was, without exception, the strangest I ever saw. Without any pretence of affliction,-to weep merely because she was bid, though bid in a manner to forbid any one else,–to be in good spirits all the time,–to see the whole company expiring of laughter at her tears, without being at all offended, and, at last, to dry them up, and go on with the same sort of conversation she held before they started!

At dinner we had three persons added to our company,–my dear father, Miss Streatfield, and Miss Brown.

Miss Brown, as I foresaw, proved the queen of the day. Miss Streatfield requires longer time to make conquests. She is, indeed, much more really beautiful than Fanny Brown; but Fanny Brown is much more showy, and her open, goodhumoured, gay, laughing face inspires an almost immediate wish of conversing and merry-making with her. Indeed, the two days she spent here have raised her greatly in my regard. She is a charming girl, and so natural, and easy, and sweet-tempered, that there is no being half an hour in her company without ardently wishing her well.

Next day at breakfast, our party was Sir Philip, Mr. Fuller, Miss Streatfield, Miss Brown, the Thrales, and I.

The first office performed was dressing Miss Brown. She had put on bright, jonquil ribbons. Mrs. Thrale exclaimed against them immediately; Mr. Fuller half joined her, and away she went, and brought green ribbons of her own, which she made Miss Brown run up stairs with to put on. This she did with the utmost good humour; but dress is the last thing in which she excels; for she has lived so much abroad, and so much with foreigners at home, that she never appears habited as an Englishwoman, nor as a high-bred foreigner, but rather as an Italian Opera-dancer; and her wild, careless, giddy manner, her loud hearty laugh, and general negligence of appearance, contribute to give her that air and look. I like her so much, that I am quite sorry she is not better advised, either by her own or some friend’s judgment.

Miss Brown, however, was queen of the breakfast: for though her giddiness made everybody take liberties with her, her goodhumour made everybody love her, and her gaiety made everybody desirous to associate with her. Sir Philip played with her as with a young and sportive kitten; Mr. Fuller laughed and chatted with her; and Mr. Seward, when here, teases and torments her. The truth is, he cannot bear her, and she, in return, equally fears and dislikes him, but still she cannot help attracting his notice.

Streatham, Sunday, June 13. After church we all strolled the grounds, and the topic of our discourse was Miss Streatfield. Mrs. Thrale asserted that she had a power of captivation that was irresistible; that her beauty, joined to her softness, her caressing manners, her tearful eyes, and alluring looks, would insinuate her into the heart of any man she thought worth attacking.

Sir Philip declared himself of a totally different opinion,?,:’and quoted Dr. Johnson against her, who had told him that, taking away her Greek, she was as ignorant as a butterfly.

Mr. Seward declared her Greek was all against her, with him, for that, instead of reading Pope, Swift, or “The Spectator”– books from which she might derive useful knowledge and improvement–it had led her to devote all her reading time to the first eight books of Homer.

“But,” said Mrs. Thrale, “her Greek, you must own, has made all her celebrity:–you would have heard no more of her than of any other pretty girl, but for that.”

“What I object to,” said Sir Philip, “is her avowed Preference for this parson. Surely it is very indelicate in any lady to let all the world know with whom she is in love ! ”

“The parson,” said the severe Mr. Seward, “I suppose, spoke first,–or she would as soon have been in love with you, or with me!”

You will easily believe I gave him no pleasant look. He wanted me to slacken my pace, and tell him, in confidence, my private opinion of her : but I told him, very truly, that as I knew her chiefly by account, not by acquaintance, I had not absolutely formed my opinion.

“Were I to live with her four days,” said this odd man, “I believe the fifth I should want to take her to church.”

“You’d be devilish tired of her, though,” said Sir Philip, “in half a year. A crying wife will never do!”

“Oh, yes,” cried he, “the pleasure of soothing her would make amends.”

“Ah,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “I would insure her power of crying herself into any of your hearts she pleased. I made her cry to Miss Burney, to show how beautiful she looked in tears.” ”

“If I had been her,” said Mr. Seward, “I would never have visited you again.”

“Oh, but she liked it,” answered Mrs. T., “for she knows how well she does it. Miss Burney would have run away, but she came forward on purpose to show herself. I would have done so by nobody else – but Sophy Streatfield is never happier than when the tears trickle from her fine eyes in company.”

“Suppose, Miss Burney,” said Mr. Seward, “we make her the heroine of our comedy? and call it “Hearts have at ye all?”

“Excellent,” cried I, “it can’t be better.”

Saturday, May 29.  After breakfast, Mrs. and Miss Thrale took me to Widget’s, the milliner and library-woman on the Steyn.  After a little dawdling conversation, Captain Fuller came in to have a little chat.  He said he had just gone  through a great operation–”I have been,” he said, “cutting off the hair of all my men.”

“And why ?

“Why, the Duke of Richmond ordered that it should be done, and the fellows swore that they would not submit to it; so I was forced to be the operator myself.  I told them they would look as smart again when they had got on their caps; but it went much against them, they vowed, at first, they would not bear such usage; some said they would sooner be run through the body, and others, that the duke should as soon have their heads.  I told them I would soon try that, and fell to work myself with them.”

“And how did they bear it ?

“Oh, poor fellows, with great good-nature, when they found his honour was their barber: but I thought proper to submit to bearing all their oaths, and all their jokes; for they had no other comfort but to hope I should have enough of it, and such sort of wit.  Three or four of them, however, escaped, but I Shall find them out.  I told them I had a good mind to cut my own hair off too, and then they would have a Captain Crop.  I shall soothe them to-morrow with a present of new feathers for all their caps.”

After tea, the bishop, his lady, Lord Mordaunt, and Mrs. H– seated themselves to play at whist, and Mr. Murphy, coming Up to me, said,

“I have had no opportunity, Miss Burney, to tell you how much I have been entertained this morning, but I have a great deal to say to you about it; I am extremely pleased with it, indeed. The dialogue is charming; and the–”

“What’s that?” cried Mrs. Thrale, “Mr. Murphy always flirting with Miss Burney?  And here, too, where everybody’s watched!”

And she cast her eyes towards Mrs. H–, who is as censorious a country lady as ever locked up all her ideas in a country town.  She has told us sneering anecdotes of every woman and every officer in Brighthelm stone.  Mr. Murphy, checked by Mrs. Thrale’s exclamation, stopt the conversation, and said he must run away, but would return in half-an-hour.

“Don’t expect, however, Miss Burney,” he said, “I shall bring with me what you are thinking of; no, I can’t part with it yet! ”

What! at it again cried Mrs. Thrale.  ” This flirting is incessant ; but it’s all to Mr. Murphy’s credit.”

Mrs. Thrale told me afterwards, that she made these speeches to divert the attention of the company from our subject; for that she found they were all upon the watch the moment Mr. Murphy addressed me, and that the bishop and his lady almost threw down their cards, from eagerness to discover what he meant.

The supper was very gay: Mrs. Thrale was in high spirits, and her wit flashed with incessant brilliancy; Mr. Murphy told several stories with admirable humour; and the Bishop of Peterborough was a worthy third in contributing towards general entertainment.  He turns out most gaily sociable.  Mrs. H– was discussed, and, poor lady, not very mercifully.

Mrs. Thrale says she lived upon the Steyn, for the pleasure of viewing, all day long, who walked with who, how often the same persons were seen together, and what visits were made by gentlemen to ladies, or ladies to gentlemen.
“She often tells me,” said the captain,,” of my men.  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘Captain Fuller, your men are always after the ladies!’”

“Nay,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “I should have thought the officers might have contented her; but if she takes in the soldiers too, she must have business enough.”

“Oh, she gets no satisfaction by her complaints; for I only say, ‘Why, ma’am, we are all young!–all young and gay!–and how can we do better than follow the ladies?’”

We afterwards went on the parade, where the soldiers were mustering, and found Captain Fuller’s men all half intoxicated, and laughing so violently as we passed by them, that they could hardly stand upright.  The captain stormed at them most angrily; but, turning to us, said,

” These poor fellows have just been paid their arrears, and it is so unusual to them to have a sixpence in their pockets, that they know not how to keep it there.”

The wind being extremely high, our caps and gowns were blown about most abominably; and this increased the risibility of the merry light infantry.  Captain ‘Fuller’s desire to keep order made me laugh as much as the men’s incapacity to obey him; for, finding our flying drapery provoked their mirth, he went up to the biggest grinner, and, shaking him violently by the shoulders, said, “What do you laugh for, sirrah? do you laugh at the ladies?”  and, as soon as he had given the reprimand, it struck him. to be so ridiculous, that he was obliged to turn quick round, and commit the very fault he was attacking most furiously.

Streatham, May, Friday.  Once more, my dearest Susy, I will attempt journalising, and endeavour, according to my
promise, to keep up something of the kind during our absence, however brief and curtailed.

To-day, while Mrs. Thrale was chatting with me in my room, we saw Mr. Murphy drive into the courtyard.  Down stairs flew Mrs. Thrale, but, in a few minutes, up she flew again, ‘crying,

“Mr. Murphy is crazy for your play–he won’t let me rest for it– do pray let me run away with the first act.”

Little as I like to have it seen in this unfinished state, she was too urgent to be resisted, so off she made with it.

I did not shew my phiz till I was summoned to dinner.  Mr. Murphy, probably out of flummery, made us wait some minutes, and, when he did come, said,

I had much ado not to keep you all longer, for I could hardly get away from some new acquaintances I was just making.”

As he could not stay to sleep here, he had only time, after dinner, to finish the first act.  He was pleased to commend it very liberally; he has pointed out two places where he thinks I might enlarge, but has not criticised one word; on the contrary, the dialogue he has honoured with high praise.

Brighthelmstone, May 26.  The road from Streatham hither is beautiful: Mr., Mrs., Miss Thrale, and Miss Susan Thrale, and I, travelled in a coach, with four horses, and two of the servants in a chaise, besides two men on horseback; so we were obliged to stop for some time at three places on the road.

We got home by about nine o’clock.  Mr. Thrale’s house is in West Street, which is the court end of the town here, as well as in London.  ‘Tis a neat, small house, and I have a snug comfortable room to myself.  The sea is not many yards from our windows.  Our journey was delightfully pleasant, the day being heavenly, the roads in fine order, the prospects charming, and everybody good-humoured and cheerful.

Thursday.  just before we went to dinner, a chaise drove up to the door, and from it issued Mr. Murphy.  He met with, a very joyful reception; and Mr. Thrale, for the first time in his life, said he was “a good fellow”: for he makes it a sort Of TUle to salute him with the title of “scoundrel,” or “rascal.”  They are very old friends; and I question if Mr. Thrale loves any man so well.

He made me many very flattering speeches, of his eagerness to go on with my play, to know what became of the several characters, and to what place I should next conduct them; assuring me that the first act had run in his head ever since he had read it.

In the evening we all, adjourned to Major H-’s, where, besides his own family, we found Lord Mordaunt, son to the Earl of Peterborough,–a pretty, languid, tonnish young man; Mr. Fisher, who is said to be a scholar, but is nothing enchanting as a gentleman; young Fitzgerald, as much the thing as ever; and Mr. Lucius Corcannon.

Mr. Murphy was the life of the party: he was in good spirits, and extremely entertaining; he told a million of stories, admirably well; but stories won’t do upon paper, therefore I shall not attempt to present you with them.

This morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Murphy said,

“I must now go to the seat by the seaside, with my new set of acquaintance, from whom I expect no little entertainment.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Thrale, “and there you’ll find us all! I believe this rogue means me for Lady Smatter; but Mrs. Voluble  must speak the epilogue, Mr. Murphy.”

“That must depend upon who performs the part,” answered he.

“Don’t talk of it now,” cried I, “for Mr. Thrale knows nothing of it.”

“I think,” cried Mr. Murphy, “you might touch upon his character in ‘Censor.’”

“Ay,” cried Mr. Thrale, “I expect a knock some time or other; but, when it comes, I’ll carry all my myrmidons to cat-call!”

Mr. Murphy then made me fetch him the second act, and walked off with it.

On Thursday, while my dear father was here, who should be announced but Mr. Murphy; the man of all other strangers to me whom I most longed to see.

He is tall and well made, has a very gentlemanlike appearance, and a quietness of manner upon his first address that, to me, is very pleasing.  His face looks sensible, and his deportment is perfectly easy and polite.

When he had been welcomed by Mrs. Thrale, and had gone through the reception-salutations of Dr. Johnson and my father, Mrs. Thrale, advancing to me, said,

But here is a lady I must introduce to you, Mr. Murphy here is another F. B.”

“Indeed!” cried he, taking my hand; “is this a sister of Miss Brown’s?”

“No, no; this is Miss Burney.”

“What!” cried he, staring; “is this–is this–this is not the lady that–that–”

“Yes, but it is,” answered she, laughing.

“‘No, you don’t say so?  You don’t mean the lady that–”

“Yes yes I do; no less a lady, I assure you.”

He then said he was very glad of the honour of seeing me.  I sneaked away.  When we came upstairs, Mrs. Thrale charged me to make myself agreeable to Mr. Murphy.

“He may be of use to you, in what I am most eager for, your writing a play: he knows stage business so well; and if you but take a fancy to one another, he may be more able to serve you than all of us put together.  My ambition is, that Johnson should write your prologue, and Murphy your epilogue, then I shall be quite happy.”

At tea-time, when I went into the library, I found Johnson reading, and Mrs. Thrale in close conference with Mr. Murphy.

“If I,” said Mr. Murphy, looking very archly, “had writte a certain book–a book I won’t name, but a book I have lately
read–I would next write a comedy.”

“Good,” cried Mrs. Thrale, colouring with pleasure; “you think so too?”

“Yes, indeed; I thought so while I was reading it; it struc me repeatedly.”

” Don’t look at me, Miss Burney,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “for this is no doing of mine.  Well, I wonder what Miss Burney will do twenty years hence, when she can blush no more; for now she can never hear the name of her book.”

Mr. M.-Nay, I name no book; at least no author: how can I, for I don’t know the author; there is no name given to it: I only say, whoever wrote that book ought to write a comedy.  Dr. Johnson might write it for aught I know.

F. B.-Oh, yes!

Mr. M.-Nay, I have often told him he does not know his own strength, or he would write a comedy, and so I think.

Dr. j. (laughing)-Suppose Burney and I begin together?

Mr. M.-Ah, I wish you would!  I wish you would Beaumont and Fletcher us!

F.B.-My father asked me, this morning, how my head stood.  If he should have asked me this evening, I don’t know what answer I must have made.

Mr. M.-I have no wish to turn anybody’s head: I speak what I really think;–comedy is the forte of that book.  I laughed over it most violently: and if the author–I won’t say who [all the time looking away from me]–will write a comedy I will most readily, and with great pleasure, give any advice or assistance in my power.

“Well, now you are a sweet man!” cried Mrs. Thrale, who looked ready to kiss him.  “Did not I tell you, Miss Burney, that Mr. Murphy was the man?”

Mr. M.-All I can do, I shall be very happy to do; and at least I will undertake to say I can tell what the sovereigns of the upper gallery will bear: for they are the most formidable part of an audience.  I have had so much experience in this sort of work, that I believe I can always tell what will be hissed at least.  And if Miss Burney will write, and will show me–

.Dr. J.- Come, come, have done with this now; why should you overpower her?  Let’s have no more of it.  I don’t mean to dissent from what you say; I think well of it, and approve of it; but you have said enough of it.

Mr. Murphy, who equally loves and reverences Dr. Johnson, instantly changed the subject.

Yesterday, at night, I asked Dr. Johnson if he would permit me to take a great liberty with him?  He assented with the most encouraging smile.  And then I said,

“I believe, sir, you heard part of what passed between Mr. Murphy and me the other evening, concerning-a a comedy.  Now, if I should make such an attempt, would you be so good as to allow me, any time before Michaelmas, to put it in the coach, for you to look over as you go to town?”

“To be sure, my dear!–What, have you begun a comedy then?

I told him how the affair stood.  He then gave me advice which just accorded with my wishes, viz., not to make known that I had any such intention; to keep my own counsel; not to whisper even the name of it; to raise no expectations, which were always prejudicial, and finally, to have it performed while the town knew nothing of whose it was.  I readily assured him of my hearty concurrence in his opinion; but he somewhat distressed me when I told him that Mr. Murphy must be in my confidence, as he had offered his services, by desiring he might be the last to see it.

What I shall do, I know not, for he has, himself, begged to be the first.  Mrs. Thrale, however, shall guide me between them. He spoke highly of Mr. Murphy, too, for he really loves him.  He said he would not have it in the coach, but I should read it to him; however, I could sooner drown or hang!

When I would have offered some apology for the attempt, he stopt me, and desired I would never make any.

“For,” said he, “if it succeeds, it makes its own apology, if not—”

“ifnot,” quoth I, “I cannot do worse than Dr. Goldsmith, when his play failed,–go home and cry”

He laughed, but told me, repeatedly (I mean twice, which, for him, is very remarkable), that I might depend upon all the service in his power; and, he added, it would be well to make Murphy the last judge, ” for he knows the stage,” he said, and I am quite ignorant of it.”

Afterwards, grasping my hand with the most affectionate warmth, he said,

“I wish you success! I wish you well ! my dear little Burney !”

When, at length, I told him I could stay no longer, and bid him good night, he said, “There is none like you, my dear little Burney ! there is none like you !–good night, my darling!”

Streatham, February.-I have been here so long, MY dearest Susan, Without writing a word, that now I hardly know where or how to begin, But I will try to draw up a concise account of what has passed for this last fortnight, and then endeavour to be more minute.

Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson vied with each other in the kindness of their reception of me.  Mr. Thrale was, as usual at first, cold and quiet, but soon, as usual also, warmed into sociality,

The next day Sir Philip Jennings Clerke came.  He is not at all a man of letters, but extremely well-bred, nay, elegant, in his manners, and sensible and agreeable in his conversation, He is a professed minority man, and very active and zealous in the opposition.  He had, when I came, a bill in agitation concerning contractors–too long a matter to explain upon paper–but which was levelled against bribery and corruption in the ministry, and which he was to make a motion upon in __the House of Commons the next week.

Men of such different principles as Dr. Johnson and Sir Philip you may imagine, can not have much sympathy or cordiality in their political debates; however, the very superior abilities of the former, and the remarkable good breeding of the latter have kept both upon good terms; though they have had several arguments, in which each has exerted his utmost force for conquest.

The heads of one of their debates I must try to remember, because I should be sorry to forget.  Sir Philip explained his bill; Dr. Johnson at first scoffed at it; Mr. Thrale betted a guinea the motion would not pass, and Sir Philip, that he should divide a hundred and fifty upon it.

Sir Philip, addressing himself to Mrs. Thrale, hoped she would not suffer the Tories to warp her judgment, and told me he hoped my father had not tainted my principles; and then he further explained his bill, and indeed made it appear so
equitable, that Mrs. Thrale gave in to it, and wished her husband to vote for it.  He still bung back ; but, to our general
surprise, Dr. Johnson having made more particular inquiries into its merits, first softened towards it, and then declared it a very rational and fair bill, and joined with Mrs, Thrale in soliciting Mr. Thrale’s vote.

Sir Philip was, and with very good reason, quite delighted.  He opened upon politics more amply, and freely declared his opinions, which were so strongly against the government, and so much bordering upon the republican principles, that Dr. Johnson suddenly took fire; he called back his recantation begged Mr. Thrale not to vote for Sir Philip’s bill, and grew’ very animated against his antagonist.

“The bill,” said he, “ought to be opposed by all honest men! in itself, and considered simply it is equitable, and I would
forward it; but when we find what a faction it is to support and encourage, it ought not to be listened to.  All men should oppose it who do not wish well to sedition!”

These, and several other expressions yet more strong, he made use of; and had Sir Philip had less unalterable politeness, I believe they would have had a vehement quarrel.  He maintained his ground, however, with calmness and steadiness, though he had neither argument nor wit at all equal to such an opponent.

Dr. Johnson pursued him with unabating vigour and dexterity, and at length, though he could not convince, he so entirely baffled him, that Sir Philip was self-compelled to be quiet-which, with a very good grace, he confessed.

Dr. Johnson then, recollecting himself, and thinking, as he owned afterwards, that the dispute grew too serious, with a skill all his own, suddenly and unexpectedly turned it to burlesque; and taking Sir Philip by the hand at the moment we arose after supper, and were separating for the night,

“Sir Philip,” said he, “you are too liberal a man for the party to which you belong; I shall have much pride in the honour of converting you; for I really believe, if you were not spoiled by bad company, the spirit of faction would not have possessed you. Go, then, sir, to the House, but make not your motion!  Give up your bill, and surprise the world by turning to the side of truth and reason.  Rise, sir, when they least expect you, and address your fellow-patriots to this Purpose:–Gentlemen, I have, for many a weary day, been deceived and seduced by you.  I have now opened my eyes; I see that you are all scoundrels–the subversion of all government is your aim.  Gentlemen, I will no longer herd among rascals in whose infamy my name and character must be included.  I therefore renounce you all, gentlemen, as you deserve to be renounced.’ ”

Then, shaking his hand heartily, he added,

“Go, sir, go to bed; meditate upon this recantation, and rise in the morning a more honest man than you laid down.”

On Monday last, my father sent a note to Mrs. Cholmondeley, to propose our waiting on her the Wednesday following; she accepted the proposal, and accordingly on Wednesday evening, my father, mother, and self went to Hertford-street.  I should have told you that Mrs. Cholmondeley, when My father some time ago called on her, sent me a message, that if I would go to see her, I should not again be stared at or worried; and she acknowledged that my visit at Sir Joshua’s had been a formidable one, and that I was watched the whole evening; but that upon the whole, the company behaved extremely well, for they only ogled!

Well, we were received by Mrs. Cholmondeley with great politeness, and in a manner that showed she intended to throw aside Madame Duval, and to conduct herself towards me in a new style.

Mr. and Misses Cholmondeley and Miss Forrest were with her; but who else think you?–why Mrs. Sheridan!  I was absolutely charmed at the sight of her.  I think her quite as beautiful as ever, and even more captivating; for she has now a look of ease and happiness that animates her whole face.

Miss Linley was with her; she is very handsome, but nothing near her sister: the elegance of Mrs. Sheridan’s beauty is unequalled by any I ever saw, except Mrs. Crewe.  I was pleased with her in all respects.  She is much more lively and agreeable than I had any idea of finding her; she was very gay, and very unaffected, and totally free from airs of any kind.  Miss Linley was very much out of spirits; she did not speak three words the whole evening, and looked wholly unmoved at all that passed. Indeed, she appeared to be heavy and inanimate.

Mrs. Cholmondeley sat next me.  She is determined, I believe, to make me like her: and she will, I believe, have full success; for she is very clever, very entertaining, and very much unlike anybody else.

The first subject started was the Opera, and all joined in the praise of Pacchierotti.  Mrs. Sheridan declared she could not hear him without tears, and that he was the first Italian singer who ever affected her to such a degree.

Then they talked of the intended marriage of the Duke of Dorset, to Miss Cumberland, and many ridiculous anecdotes were related. The conversation naturally fell upon Mr. Cumberland, and he was finely cut up!

“What a man is that! ‘ said Mrs. Cholmondeley: “I Cannot bear him–so querulous, so dissatisfied, so determined to like nobody, and nothing but himself!”

After this, Miss More was mentioned and I was asked what I thought of her?

“Don’t be formal with me if you are, I sha’n't like you!”

“I have no hope that you will any way!”

“Oh, fie! fie! but as to Miss More–I don’t like her at all: that  is, I detest her!  She does nothing but flatter and fawn; and then she thinks ill of nobody.  Oh, there’s no supporting the company of professed flatterers.  She gives me such doses of it, that I cannot endure her; but I always sit still and make no answer, but receive it as if I thought it my due: that is the only way to quiet her.  She is really detestable.  I hope, Miss Burney, you don’t think I admire all geniuses? The only person I flatter,” continued she, “is Garrick; and he likes it so much, that it pays one by the spirits it gives him.  Other people that I like, I dare not flatter.”

A rat-tat-tat-tat ensued, and the Earl of Harcourt was announced. When he had paid his compliments to Mrs. Cholmondeley, speaking of the lady from whose house he was just come, he said,

“Mrs. Vesey ‘Is vastly agreeable, but her fear of ceremony is really troublesome ; for her eagerness to break a circle is such, that she insists upon everybody’s sitting with their backs one to another ; that is, the chairs are drawn into little parties of three together, in a confused manner, all over the room.”

“Why, then,” said my father, “they may have the pleasure of caballing and cutting up one another, even in the same room.”

“Oh, I like the notion of all things,” cried Mrs. Cholmondeley, “I shall certainly adopt it then she drew her chair into the middle of our circle.  Lord Harcourt turned his round, and his back to most of us, and my father did the same.  You can’t imagine a more absurd sight.

Just then the door opened, and Mr.  Sheridan entered.

Was I not in luck?  Not that I believe the meeting was accidental; but I had more wished to  meet him  and his wife than
any people I know not.

I could not endure my ridiculous  situation, but replaced myself in an  orderly manner immediately.  Mr. Sheridan stared at the mall, and Mrs. Cholmondeley said she intended it as a hint for a comedy.

Mr. Sheridan has a very fine figure, and a good though I don’t think a handsome face.  He is tall, and very upright, and his appearance and address are at once manly and fashionable, without the smallest tincture of foppery or modish graces.  In short, I like him vastly, and think him every way worthy his utiful companion.

And let me tell you what I know will give you as much pleasure as it gave me,–that, by all I Could observe in the course of the evening, and we stayed very late, they are extreely happy in each other: he evidently adores her, and she as evidently idolises him.  The world has by no means done him justice.

When he had paid his compliments to all his acquaintance, he went behind the sofa on which Mrs. Sheridan and Miss OFFy Cholmondeley were seated, and entered into earnest conversation with them.

Upon Lord Harcourt’s again paying Mrs. Cholmondeley some compliment. she said,

“Well, my lord, after this I shall be quite sublime for some days!  I shan’t descend into common life till–till Saturday.
And then I shall drop into the vulgar style–I shall be in the ma foi Way.”

I do really believe she could not resist this, for she had seemed determined to be quiet.

When next there was a rat-tat, Mrs. Cholmondeley and Lord Harcourt, and my father again, at the command of the former, moved into the middle of the room, and then Sir Joshua Reynolds and Dr. Warton entered.

No further  company came.  You may imagine there was a general roar at the breaking of the circle, and when they got
into order, Mr. Sheridan seated himself in the place Mrs. Cholmondeley had left, between my father and myself.

And now I must tell you a little conversation which I did not hear myself till I came home; it was between Mr. Sheridan and my father.

“Dr. Burney,” cried the former, “have you no older daughters? Can this possibly be the authoress of ‘Evelina’?”

And then he said abundance of fine things, and begged my father to introduce him to me.

“Why, it will be a very formidable thing to her,” answered he, “to be introduced to you.”

“Well then, by and by,” returned he.

Some time after this, my eyes happening to meet his, he waived the ceremony of introduction, and in a low voice said,

“I have been telling Dr. Burney that I have long expected to see in Miss Burney a lady of the gravest appearance, with the quickest parts.”

I was never much more astonished than at this unexpected address, as among all my numerous puffers the name of Sheridan has never reached me, and I did really imagine he had never deigned to look at my trash.

Of course I could make no verbal answer, and he proceeded then to speak of “Evelina” in terms of the highest praise but I was in such a ferment from surprise (not to say pleasure that I have no recollection of his expressions.  I only remember telling him that I was much amazed he had spared time to read it, and that he repeatedly called it a most surprising book; and sometime after he added, “But I hope, Miss Burney, you don’t intend to throw away your pen?”

“You should take care, sir,” said I, “what you say: for you know not what weight it may have.”

He wished it might have any, he said, and soon after turned again to my father.

I protest, since the approbation of the Streathamites, I hav met with none so flattering to me as this of Mr. Sheridan, in so very unexpected.

About this time Mrs. Cholmondeley was making much spO by wishing for an acrostic on her name.  She said she had several times begged for one in vain, and began to entertain thoughts of writing one herself.

“For,” said she, “I am very famous for my rhymes, though I never made a line of poetry in my life.”

“An acrostic on your name,” said Mr. Sheridan, “would be a very formidable task; it must be so long that I think it should be divided into cantos.”
“Miss Burney,” cried Sir Joshua, who was now reseated, “Are not you a writer of verses?”

F.B.-No, sir.

Mrs C.-O don’t believe her.  I have made a resolution, Aot to believe anything she says.

Mr. S.-I think a lady should not write verses till she is past receiving them.

Mrs. C. (rising and stalking majestically towards him).-Mr. Sheridan, pray, sir, what may you mean by this insinuation; did I not say I writ verses?  )

Mr. S.- Oh, but you–

Mrs. C.-Say no more, sir!  You have made your meaning but too plain already.  There now, I think that’s a speech for a tragedy

Some time after, Sir Joshua, returning to his standing-place, entered into confab with Miss Linley and your slave upon various matters, during which Mr. Sheridan, joining us, said,

“Sir Joshua, I have been telling Miss Burney that she must not suffer her pen to lie idle–ought she?”

Sir J.-No, indeed, ought she not.

Mr. S.-Do you then, Sir Joshua, persuade her.   But perhaps you have begun something?  May we ask? Will you answer a question candidly?

F.B.-I don’t know, but as candidly as Mrs. Candour I think I certainly shall.

Mr. S.-What then are you about now?

F.B.-Why, twirling my fan, I think!

Mr. S.-No, no; but what are you about at home?  However, it is not a fair question, so I won’t press it.

Yet he looked very inquisitive ; but I was glad to get off without any downright answer.

Sir J-Anything in the dialogue way, I think, she must succeed in; and I am sure invention will not be wanting,

Mr. S.-No, indeed ; I think, and say, she should write a comedy.

SIr J.-I am sure I think so; and hope she will.

I could only answer by incredulous exclamations.

“Consider” continued Sir Joshua, ” you have already had all the applause and fame you can have given you in the closet; but the acclamation of a theatre will be new to you.”

And then he put down his trumpet, and began a violen clapping of his hands.

I actually shook from head to foot ! I felt myself already in Drury Lane, amidst the hubbub of a first night.

“Oh, no!” cried I, “there may be a noise, but it will b, just the reverse.” And I returned his salute with a hissing.

Mr. Sheridan joined Sir Joshua Very warmly.

“O sir,” cried I, “you should not run on so, you don’t know what mischief you may do!”

Mr. S.-I wish I may-I shall be very glad to be accessory,

Sir j.-She has, certainly, something of a knack at characters; where she got it I don’t know, and how she got it, I can’t
imagine; but she certainly has it.  And to throw it away is—

Mr. S.-Oh, she won’t, she will write a comedy, she has promised me she will!

F.B.-Oh! if you both run on in this manner, I shall–”

I was going to say get under the chair, but Mr. Sheridan, interrupting me with a laugh, said,

“Set about one ? very well, that’s right.”

“Ay,” cried Sir Joshua, “that’s very right.     And You (to Mr. Sheridan) would take anything of hers, would you not? unsight, unseen?”  What a point blank question! who but Sir Joshua would have ventured it!

” Yes,” answered Mr. Sheridan, with quickness, “and make her a bow and my best thanks into the bargain.”

Now my dear Susy, tell me, did you ever hear the fellow to such a speech as this! it was all I could do to sit it.

“Mr. Sheridan,” I exclaimed, “are you not mocking me?”

“No, upon my honour! this is what I have meditated to say to you the first time I should have the pleasure of seeing you.”

To be sure, as Mrs. Thrale says, if folks are to be spoilt, there is nothing in the world so pleasant as spoiling ! But I was never so much astonished, and seldom have been so much delighted, as by this attack of Mr. Sheridan.  Afterwards he took my father aside, and formally repeated his opinion that I should write for the stage, and his desire to see my play, with encomiums the most flattering of “Evelina.”

And now, my dear Susy, if I should attempt the stage, I think I may be fairly acquitted of presumption, and however I may fall, that I was strongly pressed to try by Mrs. Thrale, and by Mr. Sheridan, the most successful and powerful of all dramatic living authors, will abundantly excuse my temerity.

Now to this grand visit, which was become more tremendous than ever because of the pamphlet business, and I felt almost ashamed to see Sir JOShua, and could not but conclude he would think of it too.

My mother, who changed her mind, came with me.  My father promised to come before the Opera was half over.

We found the Miss Palmers alone.  We were, for near an hour, quite easy, chatty, and comfortable; no pointed speech was made, and no starer entered.  But when I asked the elder Miss Palmer if she would allow me to look at some of her drawings, she said,

“Not unless you will let me see something of yours.”

“Of mine?” quoth I.  “Oh,! I have nothing to show.”

“I am sure you have; you must have.”

“No, indeed; I don’t draw at all.”

“Draw?  No, but I mean some of your writing.”

“Oh, I never write–except letters.”

“Letters? those are the very things I want to see.”

“Oh, not such as you mean.”

” Oh now, don’t say so; I am sure you are about something and if you would but show me–”

“No, no, I am about nothing–I am quite out of conceit with writing.” I had my thoughts full of the vile Warley.

“You out of conceit?” exclaimed she; “nay, then, if you are, who should be otherwise!”

just then, Mrs. and Miss Horneck were announced.  you may suppose I thought directly of the one hundred and sixty miles–and may take it for granted I looked them very boldly in the face! Mrs. Horneck seated herself by my mother.  Miss Palmer introduced me to her and her daughter, who seated herself next me; but not one word passed between us!

Mrs. Horneck, as I found in the course of the evening, is an exceedingly sensible, well-bred woman.  Her daughter is very beautiful ; but was low-spirited and silent during the whole visit.  She was, indeed, very unhappy, as Miss Palmer informed me, upon account of some ill news she had lately heard of the affairs of a gentleman to whom she is shortly to be married.

Not long after came a whole troop, consisting of Mr. Cholmondeley!–perilous name!–Miss Cholmondeley, and Miss Fanny Cholmondeley, his daughters, and Miss Forrest.  Mrs. Cholmondeley, I found, was engaged elsewhere, but soon expected. Now here was a trick of Sir Joshua, to make me meet all these people.

Mr. Cholmondeley is a clergyman; nothing shining either in person or manners, but rather somewhat grim in the first, and glum in the last.  Yet he appears to have humour himself, and to enjoy it much in others.

Miss Cholmondeley I saw too little of to mention.

Miss Fanny Cholmondeley is a rather pretty, pale girl; very young and inartificial, and though tall and grown up, treated by her family as a child, and seemingly well content to really think herself such.  She followed me whichever way I turned, and though she was too modest to stare, never ceased watching me the whole evening.

Miss Forrest is an immensely tall and not handsome young woman. Further I know not.

Next came my father, all gaiety and spirits.  Then Mr. William Burke.

Soon after, Sir Joshua returned home.  He paid his compliments to everybody, and then brought a chair next mine, and said,

“So you were afraid to come among us?”

I don’t know if I wrote to you a speech to that purpose, which I made to the Miss Palmers? and which, I Suppose, they had repeated to him.  He went on, saying I might as Well fear hobgoblins, and that I had only to hold up my head to be above them all.

After this address, his behaviour was exactly what my wishes would have dictated to him, for my own ease and quietness; for he never once even alluded to my book, but conversed rationally, gaily, and serenely: and so I became more comfortable than I had been ever since the first entrance of company.  Our confab was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. King; a gentleman who is, it seems, for ever with the Burkes; -and presently Lord Palmerston was announced.

Well, while this was going forward, a violent rapping bespoke, I was sure, Mrs. Cholmondeley, and I ran from the standers, and turning my back against the door, looked over Miss Palmer’s cards; for you may well imagine, I was really in a tremor at a meeting which so long has been in agitation, and with the person who, of all persons, has been most warm and enthusiastic for my book.

She had not, however, been in the room half an instant, ere my father came up to me, and tapping me on the shoulder, said,

“Fanny, here’s a lady who wishes to speak to you.”

I curtsied in silence, she too curtsied, and fixed her eyes full on my face: and then tapping me with her fan, she cried,

“Come, come, you must not look grave upon me.”

Upon this, I te-he’d; she now looked at me yet more earnestly, and, after an odd silence, said, abruptly–

“But is it true?”

“What, ma’am?”

“It can’t be!–tell me, though, is it true?”

I could only simper.

“Why don’t you tell me?–but it can’t be–I don’t believe it!–no, you are an impostor!”

Sir Joshua and Lord Palmerston were both at her side–oh, how notably silly must I look!  She again repeated her question of “Is it true?” and I again affected not to understand her: and then Sir Joshua, taking hold on her arm, attempted to pull her away, saying

“Come, come, Mrs. Cholmondeley, I won’t have her overpowered here!”

I love Sir Joshua much for this, But Mrs. Cholmondeley, turning to him, said, with quickness and vehemence:–

“Why, I a’n't going to kill her!  don’t be afraid, I sha’n't compliment her!-I can’t, indeed!”

Then, taking my hand, she led me through them all, to another part of the room, where again she examined my phiz, and viewed and reviewed my whole person.

“Now,” said she, “do tell me; is it true?”

“What, ma’am?–I don’t-I don’t know what–”

“Pho! what,-why you know what: in short, can you read? and can you write?”

“No, ma’am!”

“I thought so,” cried she I have suspected it was a trick, some time, and now I am sure of it.  You are too young by half!-it can’t be!”

I laughed, and would have got away, but she would not let me.

“No,” cried she, “one thing you must, at least, tell me;–are you very conceited?  Come, answer me,” continued she.  “You won’t? Mrs.  Burney, Dr.  Burney,–come here,–tell me if she is not very conceited?–if she is not eat up with conceit by this time?”

They were both pleased to answer “Not half enough.”

“Well,” exclaimed she, “that is the most wonderful part of all! Why, that is yet more extraordinary than writing the book.”

I then got away from her, and again looked over Miss Palmer’s cards : but she was after me in a minute,

“Pray, Miss Burney,” cried she, aloud, “do you know any thing of this game?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No?” repeated she, “ma foi, that’s pity!”

This raised such a laugh, I was forced to move on; yet everybody seemed to be afraid to laugh, too, and studying to be delicate, as if they had been cautioned; which, I have since found, was really the case, and by Sir Joshua himself.

Again, however, she was at my side.

“What game do you like, Miss Burney?” cried she.

“I play at none, ma’am.”

“No?  Pardie, I wonder at that!  Did you ever know such a toad?”

Again I moved on, and got behind Mr.  W. Burke, who, turning round to me, said,–

“This is not very politic in us, Miss Burney, to play at cards, and have you listen to our follies.”

There’s for you!  I am to pass for a censoress now.

Mrs. Cholmondeley hunted me quite round the card-table, from chair to chair, repeating various speeches of Madame Duval; and when, at last, I got behind a sofa, out of her reach, she called out aloud, ” Polly, Polly ! only think! miss has danced with a lord

Some time after, contriving to again get near me, she began flirting her fan, and exclaiming, “Well, miss, I have had a beau, I assure you! ay, and a very pretty beau too, though I don’t know if his lodgings were so prettily furnished, and everything, as Mr. Smith’s.”(80)

Then, applying to Mr. Cholmondeley, she said, “Pray, sir, what is become of my lottery ticket?”

“I don’t know,” answered he.

” Pardie ” cried she, “you don’t know nothing

I had now again made off, and, after much rambling, I at last seated myself near the card-table : but Mrs. Cholmondeley was after me in a minute, and drew a chair next mine.  I now found it impossible to escape, and therefore forced myself to sit still. Lord Palmerston and Sir Joshua, in a few moments, seated themselves by us.

I must now write dialogue-fashion, to avoid the enormous length of Mrs. C.’s name.

Mrs. C.-I have been very ill; monstrous ill indeed or else I should have been at your house long ago.  Sir Joshua, pray how do you do?  you know, I suppose, that I don’t come, to see you?

Sir Joshua could only laugh, though this was her first address to him.

Mrs. C.-Pray, miss, what’s your name?

F.B.-Frances, ma’am.

Mrs. C.-Fanny ?        Well, all the Fanny’s are excellent and yet, my name is Mary!  Pray, Miss Palmers, how are you?–though I hardly know if I shall speak to you to-night, I thought I should have never got here!  I have been so out of humour with the people for keeping me.  If you but knew, cried I, to whom I am going to-night, and who I shall see to-night, you would not dare keep me muzzing here!

During all these pointed speeches, her penetrating eyes were fixed upon me; and what could I do?–what, indeed, could anybody do, but colour and simper?–all the company watching us, though all, very delicately, avoided joining the confab.

Mrs. C-My Lord Palmerston, I was told to-night that nobody could see your lordship for me, for that you supped at my house every night.  Dear, bless me, no ! cried I, not every night! and I looked as confused as I was able; but I am afraid I did not blush, though I+ tried hard for it.

Then, again, turning to me,

That Mr.  What-d’ye-call-him, in Fleet-street, is a mighty silly fellow;–perhaps you don’t know who I mean?–one T. Lowndes,–but maybe you don’t know such a person?

FB.-No, indeed, I do not!–that I can safely say.

Mrs. C.-I could get nothing from him: but I told him I hoped he gave a good price ; and he answered me that he always did things genteel.  What trouble and tagging we had!  Mr. [I cannot recollect the name she mentioned] laid a wager the writer was a man:–I said I was sure it was a woman: but now we are both out; for it’s a girl!

In this comical, queer, flighty, whimsical manner she ran on, till we were summoned to supper ; for we were not allowed to break up before: and then, when Sir Joshua and almost everybody was gone down stairs, she changed her tone, and, with a face and voice both grave, said:

“Well, Miss Burney, you must give me leave to say One thing to you; yet, perhaps you won’t, neither, will you?”

“What is it, ma’am?”

“Why it is, that I admire you more than any human being and that I can’t help!”

Then suddenly rising, she hurried down stairs.

While we were upon the stairs, I heard Miss Palmer say to Miss Fanny Cholmondeley, “Well, you don’t find Miss Burney quite so tremendous as you expected?”

Sir Joshua made me sit next him at supper; Mr. William Burke was at my other side; though, afterwards, I lost the knight of plimton, who, as he eats no suppers, made way for Mr. Gwatkin, and, as the table was crowded, himself stood at the fire.  He was extremely polite and flattering in his manners to me, and entirely avoided all mention or hint at “Evelina” the whole evening: indeed, I think I have met more scrupulous delicacy from Sir Joshua than from anybody, although I have heard more of his approbation than of almost any other person’s.

Mr. W. Burke was immensely attentive at table; but, lest he should be thought a Mr. Smith for his pains, he took care,
whoever he helped, to add, “You know I am all for the ladies!”

I was glad I was not next Mrs. Cholmondeley; but she frequently, and very provokingly, addressed herself to me; once she called out aloud, “Pray, Miss Burney, is there anything new coming out?” And another time, “Well, I wish people who can entertain me would entertain me!”

These sort of pointed speeches are almost worse than direct attacks, for there is no knowing how to look, or what to say, especially where the eyes of a whole company mark the object for Whom they are meant.  To the last of these speeches I made no sort of answer but Sir Joshua very good-naturedly turned it from me, by saying,

“Well, let everyone do what they can in their different ways; do you begin yourself.”

“Oh, I can’t!” cried she; “I have tried, but I can’t.”

“Oh, so  you think, then,” answered he, “that all the world is made only to entertain you?”

A very lively dialogue ensued.  But I grow tired of writing.  One thing, however, I must mention, which, at the time,
frightened me wofully.

“Pray, Sir Joshua,” asked Lord Palmerston, what is this ‘Warley’ that is just come out?”

Was not this a cruel question?  I felt in such a twitter!

“Why, I don’t know,” answered he; “but the reviewers, my lord, speak very well of it.”

Mrs. C.-Who wrote it?

Sir Joshua.-Mr. Huddisford.

Mrs. C.-O! I don’t like it at all, then!  Huddisford What a name! Miss Burney, pray can you conceive anything of such a name as Huddisford?

I could not speak a word, and I dare say I looked no-how.  But was it not an unlucky reference to me? Sir Joshua attempted a kind of vindication Of him; but Lord Palmerston said, drily,

“I think, Sir Joshua, it is dedicated to you?”

“Yes, my lord,” answered he.

“Oh, your servant! Is it so?” cried Mrs. Cholmondeley; “then you need say no more!”

Sir Joshua laughed, and the subject, to my great relief, was dropped.

When we broke up to depart, which was not till near two in the morning, Mrs. Cholmondeley went up to my mother, and begged her permission to visit in St. Martin’s-street.  Then, as she left the room, she said to me, with a droll sort of threatening look,

“You have not got rid of me yet, I have been forcing myself into your house.”

I must own I was not at all displeased at this, as I had very much and very reasonably feared that she would have been by then as sick of me from disappointment, as she was before eager for me from curiosity.

When we came away, Offy Palmer, laughing, said to me,

“I think this will be a breaking-in to you!”

“Ah,” cried I, “if I had known of your party!”

” You would have been sick in bed, I suppose?”

I would not answer “No,” yet I was glad it was over.  And so concludeth this memorable evening.