Fanny Burney - Diary and Letters

Wednesday.-We could not prevail with Dr. Johnson to stay till Mrs. Montagu arrived, though, by appointment, she came very early.  She and Miss Gregory came by one o’clock.

There was no party to meet her. She is middle-sized, very thin, and looks infirm ; she has a sensible and penetrating countenance, and the air and manner of a woman accustomed to being distinguished, and of great parts.  Dr. Johnson, who agrees in this, told us that a Mrs.  Hervey, of his acquaintance, says she can remember Mrs. Montagu trying for this same air and manner.  Mr. Crisp has said the same: however, nobody can now impartially see her, and not confess that she has extremely well succeeded.

My expectations, which were compounded of the praise of Mrs. Thrale, and the abuse of Mr. Crisp, were most exactly, answered, for I thought her in a medium way.

Miss Gregory is a fine young woman, and seems gentle and well-bred. A bustle with the dog Presto–Mrs. Thrale’s favourite–at the entrance of these ladies into the library, prevented any formal reception; but as soon as Mrs. Montagu heard my name, she inquired very civilly after my father, and made many speeches concerning a volume of Linguet, which she has lost; but she hopes soon to be able to replace it.  I am sure he is very high in her favour, because she did me the honour of addressing herself to me three or four times.

But my ease and tranquillity were soon disturbed: for she had not been in the room more than ten minutes, ere, turning to Mrs. Thrale, she said, “Oh, ma’am–but your ‘Evelina’ -I have not yet got it.  I sent for it, but the bookseller had it not.  However, I will certainly have it.”

“Ay, I hope so,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “and I hope you Will like it too; for ’tis a book to be liked.”

I began now a vehement nose-blowing, for the benefit of handkerchiefing my face.

“I hope though,” said Mrs. Montagu, drily, “it is not in verse?  I can read anything in prose, but I have a great dread of a long story in verse.”

“No, ma’am, no; ’tis all in prose, I assure you.  ‘Tis a novel; and an exceeding–but it does nothing good to be praised too much, so I will say nothing more about it: only this, that Mr. Burke sat up all night to read it.”

” Indeed?  Well, I propose myself great pleasure from it and I am gratified by hearing it is written by a woman.”

“And Sir Joshua Reynolds,” continued Mrs. Thrale, “has been offering fifty pounds to know the author.”

“Well, I will have it to read on my journey; I am going to Berkshire, and it shall be my travelling book.”

” No, ma’am if you please you shall have it now.  Queeny, do look it for Mrs. Montagu, and let it be put in her carriage, and go to town with her.”

Miss Thrale rose to look for it, and involuntarily I rose too, intending to walk off, for my situation was inexpressibly awkward; but then I recollected that if I went away, it might seem like giving Mrs. Thrale leave and opportunity to tell my tale, and therefore I stopped at a distant window, where I busied myself in contemplating the poultry.

“And Dr. Johnson, ma’am,” added my kind puffer, “says Fielding never wrote so well–never wrote equal to this book; he
says it is a better picture of life and manners than is to be found anywhere in Fielding.”

“Indeed?” cried Mrs. Montagu, surprised; “that I did not expect, for I have been informed it is the work of a young lady and therefore, though I expected a very pretty book, I supposed it to be a work of mere imagination, and the name I thought attractive; but life and manners I never dreamt of finding.”

“Well, ma’am, what I tell you is literally true; and for my part, I am never better pleased than when good girls write clever books–and that this is clever–But all this time we are killing Miss Burney, who wrote the book herself.”

What a clap of thunder was this !-the last thing in the world I should have expected before my face?  I know not what bewitched Mrs. Thrale, but this was carrying the jest further than ever.  All retenu being now at an end, I fairly and abruptly took to my heels, and ran out of the room with the utmost trepidation, amidst astonished exclamations from Mrs, Montagu and Miss Gregory.

I was horribly disconcerted, but I am now so irrecoverably in for it, that I begin to leave off reproaches and expostulations; indeed, they have very little availed me while they might have been of service, but now they would pass for mere parade and affectation; and therefore since they can do no good, I gulp them down.  I find them, indeed, somewhat hard of digestion, but they must make their own way as well as they can.

I determined not to make my appearance again till dinner was upon table; yet I could neither read nor write, nor indeed do any thing but consider the new situation in life into which I am thus hurried–I had almost said forced–and if I had, methinks it would be no untruth.

Miss Thrale came laughing up after me, and tried to persuade me to return.  She was mightily diverted all the morning, and came to me with repeated messages of summons to attend the company, but I could not brave it again into the roon’, and therefore entreated her to say I was finishing a letter.  Yet I was sorry to lose so much of Mrs. Montagu.

When dinner was upon table, I followed the procession, in a tragedy step, as Mr. Thrale will have it, into the dining parlour.  Dr. Johnson was returned.

The conversation was not brilliant, nor do I remember much of it; but Mrs. Montagu behaved to me just as I could have wished, since she spoke to me very little, but spoke that little with the utmost politeness.  But Miss Gregory, though herself a modest girl, quite stared me out of countenance, and never took her eyes off my face.

When Mrs. Montagu’s new house was talked of, Dr. Johnson, in a jocose manner, desired to know if he should be invited to see it.

“Ay, sure,” cried Mrs. Montagu, looking well pleased; “or I shan’t like it: but I invite you all to a house warming; I shall hope for the honour of seeing all this company at my new house next Easter day: I fix the day now that it may be remembered.’

Everybody bowed and accepted the invite but me, and I thought fitting not to hear it; for I have no notion of snapping at invites from the eminent.  But Dr. Johnson, who sat next to me, Was determined I should be of the party, for he suddenly clapped his hand on my shoulder, and called out aloud,

“Little Burney, you and I will go together?”

“Yes, surely,” cried Mrs. Montagu, “I shall hope for the pleasure of seeing ‘Evelina.’”

“‘Evelina’” repeated he; “has Mrs. Montagu then found out ‘Evelina?’”

“Yes,” cried she, “and I am proud of it: I am proud that a work so commended should be a woman’s.”

hhow my face burnt!

“Has Mrs. Montagu,” asked Dr. Johnson, “read ‘Evelina?’”

“No, sir, not yet; but I shall immediately, for I feel the greatest eagerness to read it.”

“I am very sorry, madam,” replied he, “that you have not already, read it, because you cannot speak of it with a full conviction of its merit: which, I believe, when you have read it, you will have great pleasure in acknowledging.”

Some other things were said, but I remember them not, for I could hardly keep my place: but my sweet, naughty Mrs. Thrale looked delighted for me……

When they were gone, how did Dr. Johnson astonish me by asking if I had observed what an ugly cap Miss Gregory had on?  Then taking both my hands, and looking at me with an expression of much kindness, he said,

“Well, Miss Burney, Mrs. Montagu now will read ‘Evelina’”……

Mrs. Thrale then told me such civil things.  Mrs. Montagu, it seems, during my retreat, inquired very particularly what kind of book it was?

“And I told her,” continued Mrs. Thrale, “that it was a picture of life, manners, and characters.  ‘But won’t she go on,’ says she; ‘surely she won’t stop here?’

“‘Why,’ said I, ‘I want her to go on in a new path–I want her to write a comedy.’

“‘But,’ said Mrs. Montagu, ‘one thing must be considered; Fielding, who was so admirable in novel writing, never succeeded when he wrote for the stage.’”

“Very well said,” cried Dr. Johnson “that was an answer which showed she considered her subject.”

Mrs. Thrale continued:

“‘Well, but `a propos,’ said Mrs. Montagu, ‘if Miss Burney does write a play, I beg I may know of it; or, if she thinks proper, see it; and all my influence is at her service.  We shall all be glad to assist in spreading the fame of Miss Burney.’”

I tremble for what all this will end in.  I verily think I had best stop where I am, and never again attempt writing: for after so much honour, so much success–how shall I bear a downfall?

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, who is reckoned one of the most learned men alive, and is also a collector of curiosities, alike in literature and natural history.  His manners are somewhat blunt and odd, and he is altogether out of the common road, without having chosen a better path.

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

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

Just as we had got our biscuits and toast-and-water, which make the Streatham supper, and which, indeed, is all there is any chance of eating after our late and great dinners, Mr. Lort suddenly said, “Pray, ma’am, have you heard anything of a novel that runs about a good deal, called ‘Evelina’?”

What a ferment did this question, before such a set, Put me in! I did not know whether he spoke to me, or Mrs. Thrale, and Mrs. Thrale was in the same doubt, and as she owned, felt herself in a little palpitation for me, not knowing what might come next, Between us both, therefore, he had no answer. “It has been recommended to me,” continued he; “but I have no great desire to see it, because it has such a foolish name.  Yet I have heard a great deal of it, too.”

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

My heart beat so quick against my stays that I almost panted with extreme agitation, from the dread either of hearing some horrible criticism, or of being betrayed: and I munched my biscuit as if I had not eaten for a fortnight. I believe the whole party were in some little consternation Dr. Johnson began see-sawing; Mr. Thrale awoke; Mr. E – ‘ who I fear has picked up some notion of the affair from being so much in the house, grinned amazingly; and Mr. Seward, biting his nails and flinging himself back in his chair, I am sure had wickedness enough to enjoy the whole scene.

Mrs. Thrale was really a little fluttered, but without looking at me, said, “And pray what, Mr. Lort, what have you heard of it?”

“Why they say,” answered he, “that it’s an account of a young lady’s first entrance into company, and of the scrapes she gets into; and they say there’s a great deal of character in it, but I have not cared to look in it, because the name is so foolish- -’Evelina’!”

“Why foolish, sir?” cried Dr. Johnson.  “Where’s the folly of it?”

“Why, I won’t say much for the name myself,” said Mrs. Thrale, “to those who don’t know the reason of it, which I found out, but which nobody else seems to know.”  She then explained the name from Evelyn, according to my own meaning.

“Well,” said Dr. Johnson, ” if that was the reason, it is a very good one.”

“Why, have you had the book here?” cried Mr. Lort, staring.

“Ay, indeed, have we,” said Mrs. Thrale; “I read it When I was last confined, and I laughed over it, and I cried over it!”

“O ho!” said Mr. Lort, “this is another thing!  If you have had it here, I will certainly read it.”

“Had it?  ay,” returned she; “and Dr. Johnson, who would not look at it at first, was so caught by it when I put it in the coach with him, that he has sung its praises ever since,–and he says Richardson would have been proud to have written it.”

“O ho! this is a good hearing,”  cried Mr. Lort; “if Dr. Johnson can read it, I shall get it with all speed.”

“You need not go far for it,” said Mrs. Thrale, “for it’s now upon yonder table.”

I could sit still no longer; there was something so awkward, so uncommon, so strange in my then situation, that I wished myself a hundred miles off, and indeed, I had almost choked myself with the biscuit, for I could not for my life swallow it: and so I  got up, and, as Mr. Lort wen to the table to look for “Evelina,” I left the room, and was forced to call for water to wash down the biscuit, which literally stuck in my throat.

I heartily wished Mr. Lort at jerusalem. I did not much like going back, but the moment I recovered breath, I resolved  not to make bad worse by staying longer away: but at the door of the room, I met Mrs. Thrale, who, asking me if I would have some water, took me into a back room, and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“This is very good sport,” cried she; “the man is as innocent about the matter as a child, and we shall hear what he says about it to-morrow morning at breakfast. I made a sign to Dr.Jonnson and Seward not to tell him.”

she found I was not in a humour to think it such good sport as she did, she grew more serious, and taking my hand kindly said, “May you never, Miss Burney, know any other pain than that of hearing yourself praised! and I am sure that you must often feel.”

When I told her how much I dreaded being discovered, and beggt her not to betray me any further, she again began laughing, and openly declared she should not consult me about the matter.  But she told me that, as soon as I had left the room, when Mr. Lort took up “Evelina,” he exclaimed contemptuously “Why, it’s printed for Lowndes!” and that Dr. Johnson then told him there were things and characters in it more than worthy of Fielding. “Oh ho!” cried Mr. Lort; “what, is it better than Fielding?”

“Harry Fielding,” answered Dr. Johnson, “knew nothing but the shell of life.”

“So you, ma’am,” added the flattering Mrs. Thrale, “have found the kernel.”

Are they all mad? or do they only want to make me so.

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 runaway 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. “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 suchmeans.”

“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 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!

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.