4--“Frances” our “Fanny,” born June 13, 1752.
5. Susanna Elizabeth, the “peculiar darling of the whole
house of Dr. Burney, as well as of his heart”--so Fanny
writes of her favourite sister. She was born about 1755,
and married, in the beginning Of 1781, Captain Molesworth
Phillips, who, as Cook's lieutenant of marines, had seen the
discoverer murdered by savages, in February, 1779, and
narrowly escaped with his own life on that occasion. Susan
died January 6, 1800.
6. Charles, afterwards Dr. Charles, the distinguished Greek
scholar; born December 4, 1757. After his death, in 1817,
his magnificent library was purchased for the British
Museum, at a cost Of 13,500 pounds.
7. Charlotte Ann, born about 1759. She married Clement
Francis, in February, 1786. He died in 1792, and she
married again in 1798, Mrs. Barrett, the editress of the
“Diary and Letters of Madame d'Arblay,” was Charlotte's
daughter by her first marriage.
By his second wife, Elizabeth Allen, whom he married in
1767, Dr. Burney had two children--a son, Richard Thomas,
and a daughter, Sarah Harriet. The latter followed the
career of her famous half-sister, and acquired some
distinction as a novelist. Cousins Richard and Edward were
younger sons of Uncle Richard Burney, of Worcester. Edward
was successful as an artist, especially as a book-
illustrator. He painted the portrait of Fanny Burney, a
reproduction of which forms the frontispiece to the present
volume. Some of his work may be seen in the South
Kensington Museum.
Chesington, where we shall presently find Fanny on a visit
to Mr. Crisp, was an old roomy mansion, standing in the
midst of a lonely common in Surrey, between Kingston and
Epsom. It had belonged to Mr. Crisp's friend, Christopher
Hamilton, and on his death became the property of his
unmarried sister, Mrs. Sarah Hamilton, who, being in poor
circumstances, let part of the house to a farmer, and took
boarders. Of the latter, Mr. Crisp was the most constant,
boarding at Chesington for nearly twenty years, and dying
there in 1783. Kitty Cooke, whose name occurs in the
“Diary,” was the niece of Mrs. Hamilton, and resided with
her at Chesington. Mrs. Sophia Gast, whom we find a
frequent visitor there, was the sister of Mr. Crisp, and
resided at Burford, in Oxfordshire.
Chesington Hall, the name the old manor house goes by in the
locality, is still standing, and is a plain brick building
with a small bell turret in the roof, but in other respects
it has been somewhat modernized since the days of Fanny
Burney. The common has been parcelled out into fields, and
a picturesque country road now gives access to the front
entrance to the house. From the lawn at the back a narrow
avenue of venerable trees, which throw out their long arms
in strange grotesque fashion, leads directly to the little
village church where Mr. Crisp is buried.--ED.]
“EVELINA” AND THE MYSTERY ATTENDING ITS PUBLICATION.
This year was ushered in by a grand and most important event! At the
latter end of January, the literary world was favoured with the first
publication of the ingenious, learned, and most profound Fanny Burney!
I doubt not but this memorable affair will, in future times, mark the
period whence chronologers will date the zenith of the polite arts in
this island!
This admirable authoress has named her most elaborate performance,
“Evelina; or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World.”
Perhaps this may seem a rather bold attempt and title, for a female
whose knowledge of the world is very confined, and whose inclinations,
as well as situation, incline her to a private and domestic life. All
I can urge is, that I have only presumed to trace the accidents and
adventures to which a “young woman” is liable; I have not pretended to
show the world what it actually is, but what it appears to a girl of
seventeen, and so far as that, surely any girl who is past seventeen may
safely do? The motto of my excuse shall be taken from Pope's “Temple of
Fame “:
In every work regard the writer's end
None e'er can compass more than they intend.
About the middle of January, my cousin Edward brought me a parcel, under
the name of Grafton. I had, some little time before, acquainted both my
aunts of my frolic. They will, I am sure, be discreet; indeed, I exacted
a vow from them Of strict secrecy; and they love me with such partial
kindness, that I have a pleasure in reposing much confidence in them.
I immediately conjectured what the parcel was, and found the following
letter.
Fleet-street, Jan. 7, 1778.
Sir,
I take the liberty to send you a novel, which a gentleman, your
acquaintance, said you would hand to him. I beg with expedition, as 'tis
time it should be published, and 'tis requisite he first revise it, or
the reviewers may find a flaw.--I am, sir, your obedient servant, Thomas
Lowndes.
To Mr. Grafton,
To be left at the Orange Coffee-house.
My aunts, now, would take no denial to my reading it to them, in
order to mark errata; and to cut the matter short, I was compelled
to communicate the affair to my cousin Edward, and then to obey their
commands.
Of course, they were all prodigiously charmed with it. My cousin now
became my agent, as deputy to Charles, with Mr. Lowndes, and when I had
made the errata, carried it to him.
The book, however, was not published till the latter end of the month. A
thousand little odd incidents happened about this time, but I am not in
a humour to recollect them; however, they were none of them productive
of a discovery either to my father or mother.
My little book, I am told, is now at all the circulating libraries. I
have an exceeding odd sensation, when I consider that it is now in the
power of any and every body to read what I so carefully hoarded even
from my best friends, till this last month or two; and that a work which
was so lately lodged, in all privacy, in my bureau, may now be seen
by every butcher and baker, cobbler and tinker, throughout the three
kingdoms, for the small tribute of threepence.
My aunt Anne and Miss Humphries being settled at this time at Brompton,
I was going thither with Susan to tea, when Charlotte acquainted me that
they were then employed in reading “Evelina” to the invalid, my cousin
Richard. My sister had recommended it to Miss Humphries, and my aunts
and Edward agreed that they would read it, but without mentioning
anything of the author.
This intelligence gave me the utmost uneasiness--I foresaw a thousand
dangers of a discovery--I dreaded the indiscreet warmth of all my
confidants. In truth, I was quite sick with apprehension, and was too
uncomfortable to go to Brompton, and Susan carried my excuses.
Upon her return, I was somewhat tranquillised, for she assured me that
there was not the smallest suspicion of the author, and that they had
concluded it to be the work of a man! and Miss Humphries, who read it
aloud to Richard said several things in its commendation, and concluded
them by exclaiming, “It's a thousand pities the author should lie
concealed!”
Finding myself more safe than I had apprehended, I ventured to go to
Brompton next day. In my way up-stairs, I heard Miss Humphries in the
midst of Mr. Villars' letter of consolation upon Sir John Belmont's
rejection of his daughter; and just as I entered the room, she cried
out, “How pretty that is!”
How much in luck would she have thought herself, had she known who heard
her!
In a private confabulation which I had with my aunt Anne, she told me
a thousand things that had been said in its praise, and assured me they
had not for a moment doubted that the work was a man's.
Comforted and made easy by these assurances, I longed for the diversion
of hearing their observations, and therefore (though rather mal a
propos) after I had been near two hours in the room, I told Miss
Humphries that I was afraid I had interrupted her, and begged she would
go on with what she was reading.
“Why,” cried she, taking up the book, “we have been prodigiously
entertained;” and very readily she continued.
I must own I suffered great difficulty in refraining from laughing upon
several occasions, and several times, when they praised what they read,
I was upon the point of saying, “You are very good!” and so forth, and
I could scarcely keep myself from making acknowledgments, and bowing my
head involuntarily. However, I got off perfectly safe.
_Monday._--Susan and I went to tea at Brompton. We met Miss Humphries
coming to town. She told us she had just finished “Evelina,” and gave us
to understand that she could not get away till she had done it. We heard
afterwards from my aunt the most flattering praises; and Richard could
talk Of nothing else. His encomiums gave me double pleasure, from being
wholly unexpected: for I had prepared myself to hear that he held it
extremely cheap.
It seems, to my utter amazement, Miss Humphries has guessed the author
to be Anstey, who wrote the “Bath Guide”! How improbable and how
extraordinary a supposition! But they have both of them done it so much
honour that, but for Richard's anger at Evelina's bashfulness, I never
Could believe they did not suspect me. I never went to Brompton without
finding the third volume in Richard's hands; he speaks of all the
characters as if they were his acquaintance, and Praises different parts
perpetually: both he and Miss Humphries seem to have it by heart, for
it is always a propos to Whatever is the subject of discourse, and their
whole conversation almost consists of quotations from it.
_Chesington, June 18._--I came hither the first week in May. My recovery
from that time to this, has been slow and sure; but as I could walk
hardly three yards in a day at first, I found so much time to spare,
that I could not resist treating myself with a little private sport
with “Evelina,” a young lady whom I think I have some right to make free
with. I had promised Hetty that she should read it to Mr. Crisp, at
her own particular request; but I wrote my excuses, and introduced it
myself.
I told him it was a book which Hetty had taken to Brompton, to divert my
cousin Richard during his confinement. He was so indifferent about it,
that I thought he would not give himself the trouble to read it, and
often embarrassed me by unlucky questions, such as, “If it was reckoned
clever?” and “What I thought of it?” and “Whether folks laughed at it?”
I always evaded any direct or satisfactory answer; but he was so totally
free from any idea of suspicion, that my perplexity escaped his notice.
At length, he desired me to begin reading to him. I dared not trust my
voice with the little introductory ode, for as that is no romance, but
the sincere effusion of my heart, I could as soon read aloud my own
letters, written in my own name and character: I therefore skipped it,
and have so kept the book out of his sight, that, to this day, he knows
not it is there. Indeed, I have, since, heartily repented that I read
any of the book to him, for I found it a much more awkward thing than I
had expected: my voice quite faltered when I began it, which, however, I
passed off for the effect of remaining weakness of lungs; and, in short,
from an invincible embarrassment, which I could not for a page together
repress, the book, by my reading, lost all manner of spirit.
Nevertheless, though he has by no means treated it with the praise so
lavishly bestowed upon it from other quarters, I had the satisfaction
to observe that he was even greedily eager to go on with it; so that I
flatter myself the story caught his attention: and, indeed, allowing for
my mauling reading, he gave it quite as much credit as I had any reason
to expect. But, now that I was sensible of my error in being 'my own
mistress of the ceremonies, I determined to leave to Hetty the third
volume, and therefore pretended I had not brought it. He was in a
delightful ill humour about it, and I enjoyed his impatience far more
than I should have done his forbearance. Hetty, therefore, when she
comes, has undertaken to bring it.
I have had a visit from my beloved Susy, who, with my mother[31] and
little Sally,[32] spent a day here, to my no small satisfaction; and yet
I was put into an embarrassment, of which I even yet know not what will
be the end, during their short stay: for Mr. Crisp, before my mother,
very innocently said, “O! Susan, pray Susette, do send me the third
volume of “Evelina”; Fanny brought me the two first on purpose, I
believe, to tantalize me.”
I felt myself in a ferment; and Susan, too, looked foolish, and knew not
what to answer. As I sat on the same sofa with him, I gave him a gentle
shove, as a token, which he could not but understand, that he had said
something wrong--though I believe he could not imagine what. Indeed, how
should he?
My mother instantly darted forward, and repeated “Evelina,--what's that,
pray?”
Again I jolted Mr. Crisp, who, very much perplexed, said, in a
boggling manner, that it was a novel--he supposed from the circulating
library--only a “trumpery novel.”
Ah, my dear daddy! thought I, you would have devised some other sort of
speech, if you knew all! But he was really, as he well might be, quite
at a loss for what I wanted him to say.
“You have had it here, then, have you?” continued my mother.
“Yes--two of the volumes,” said Mr. Crisp.
“What, had you them from the library?” asked my mother.
“No, ma'am,” answered I, horribly frightened, “from my sister.”
The truth is, the books are Susan's, who bought them the first day of
publication; but I did not dare own that, as it would have been almost
an acknowledgment of all the rest.
She asked some further questions, to which we made the same sort of
answers, and then the matter dropped. Whether it rests upon her mind, or
not, I cannot tell.
Two days after, I received from Charlotte a letter the most interesting
that could be written to me, for it acquainted me that My dear father
was, at length, reading my book, which has now been published six
months. How this has come to pass, I am yet in the dark; but, it seems,
that the very Moment almost that my mother and Susan and Sally left
the house, he desired Charlotte to bring him the “Monthly Review;” she
contrived to look over his shoulder as he opened it, which he did at
the account of “Evelina; Or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World.”
He read it with great earnestness, then put it down; and presently after
snatched it up, and read it again. Doubtless, his paternal heart
felt some agitation for his girl, in reading a review of her
publication![33]--how he got at the name, I cannot imagine.
Soon after he turned to Charlotte, and bidding her come close to him, he
put his finger on the word “Evelina,” and saying, she knew what it was,
bade her--write down the name, and send the man to Lowndes, as if for
herself. This she did, and away went William.
He then told Charlotte, that he had never known the name of it till the
day before. 'Tis strange how he got at it! He added that I had come off
vastly well in this review, except for “the Captain.” Charlotte told him
it had also been in “Kenrick's review,”[34] and he desired her to copy
out for him what was said in both of them. He asked her, too, whether I
had mentioned the work was by a lady?
When William returned, he took the books from him, and the moment he
was gone, opened the first volume--and opened it upon the Ode! How great
must have been his astonishment, at seeing himself so addressed![35]
Indeed, Charlotte says he looked all amazement, read a line or two with
great eagerness, and then, stopping short, he seemed quite affected,
and the tears started into his eyes: dear soul! I am sure they did into
mine, nay, I even sobbed, as I read the account.
I believe he was obliged to go out before he advanced much further. But
the next day I had a letter from Susan, in which I heard that he had
begun reading it with Lady Hales, and Miss Coussmaker, and that they
liked it vastly![36] Lady Hales spoke of it very innocently, in the
highest terms, declaring she was sure it was written by somebody in high
life, And that it had all the marks of real genius! She added, “he must
be a man of great abilities!”
How ridiculous! but Miss Coussmaker was a little nearer the truth, for
she gave it as her opinion, that the writer was a woman, for she
said there was such a remarkable delicacy in the conversations and
descriptions, notwithstanding the grossness and vulgarity of some of the
characters, and that all oaths and indelicate words were so carefully,
yet naturally avoided, that she could not but suspect the writer was a
female; but, she added, notwithstanding the preface declared that the
writer never would be known, she hoped, if the book circulated as she
expected it would, he or she would be tempted to make a discovery.
Ha! ha! ha!-that's my answer. They little think how well they are
already acquainted with the writer they so much honour! Susan begged to
have, then, my father's real and final opinion;--and it is such that I
almost blush to write, even for my own private reading; but yet is such
as I can by no means suffer to pass unrecorded, as my whole journal
contains nothing so grateful to me. I will copy his own words, according
to Susan's solemn declaration of their authenticity.
“Upon my word I think it the best novel I know, except Fielding's, and,
in some respects, better than his! I have been excessively pleased with
it; there are, perhaps a few things that might have been otherwise.
Mirvan's trick upon Lovel is, I think, carried too far,--there is
something even disgusting in it: however, this instance excepted, I
protest I think it will scarce bear an improvement. The language is as
good as anybody need write--I declare, as good as I would wish to
read. Lord Orville's character is just what it should be---perfectly
benevolent and upright; and there is a boldness in it that struck me
mightily, for he is a man not ashamed of being better than the rest
of mankind. Evelina is in a new style too, so perfectly innocent and
natural; and the scene between her and her father, Sir John Belmont,
is a scene for a tragedy! I blubbered at it, and Lady Hales and Miss
Coussmaker are not yet recovered from hearing it, it made them quite
ill: indeed, it is wrought up in a most extraordinary manner.”
This account delighted me more than I--can express. How little did I
dream of ever being so much honoured! But the approbation of all the
world put together, would not bear any competition, in my estimation,
with that of my beloved father.
_July 25._--Mrs. Cholmondeley has been reading and praising “Evelina,”
and my father Is quite delighted at her approbation, and told Susan that
I could not have had a greater compliment than making two such women my
friends as Mrs. Thrale[37] and Mrs. Cholmondeley, for they were severe
and knowing, and afraid of praising a tort et a travers, as their
opinions are liable to be quoted.
Mrs. Thrale said she had only to complain it was too short. She
recommended it to my mother to read!--how droll!--and she told her she
would be much entertained with it, for there was a great deal of human
life in it, and of the manners of the present times, and added that it
was written “by somebody who knows the top and the bottom, the highest
and the lowest of mankind.” She has even lent her set to my mother, who
brought it home with her!
By the way, I have again resumed my correspondence with my friend Mr.
Lowndes. When I sent the errata I desired to have a set directed to Mr.
Grafton, at the Orange Coffee-house, for I had no copy but the one he
sent me to make the errata from, which Was incomplete and unbound.
However, I heard nothing at all from him; and therefore, after some
consideration, and much demure I determined to make an attempt once
more; for my father told me it was a shame that I, the author, should
not have even one set of my own work; I ought, he said, to have had
six: and indeed, he is often enraged that Lowndes gave no more for the
MS.--but I was satisfied,--and that sufficed.[38]
I therefore wrote him word, that I supposed, in the hurry of his
business, and variety of his concerns, he had forgotten my request,
which I now repeated. I also added, that if ever the book went through
another edition, I should be glad to have timely notice, as I had some
corrections and alterations to propose.
I received an immediate answer, and intelligence from my sisters, that
he had sent a set of “Evelina” most elegantly bound. The answer I will
copy.
Fleet-street, July 2, 1778.
Sir,--I bound up a set for you the first day I had them, and hoped by
some means to hear from you. The Great World send hereto buy “Evelina.”
A polite lady said, Do, Mr. Lowndes, give me “Evelina,” I am treated
as unfashionable for not having read it. I think the impression will be
sold by Christmas. If meantime, or about that time, you favour me with
any commands, I shall be proud to observe them. Your obliged servant, J.
Lowndes.
To Mr. Grafton.
(Fanny Burney to Miss S. Burney.)
Chesington, Sunday, July 6.
Your letter, my dearest Susan, and the inclosed one from Lovirrides,
have flung me into such a vehement perturbation, that I hardly can tell
whether I wake or dream, and it is even with difficulty that I can fetch
my breath. I have been strolling round the garden three or four times,
in hopes of regaining a little quietness. However, I am not very angry
at my inward disturbance, though it even exceeds what I experienced from
the “Monthly Review.”
My dear Susy, what a wonderful affair has this been, and how
extraordinary is this torrent of success, which sweeps down all before
it! I often think it too much, nay, almost wish it would happen to some
other person, who had more ambition, whose hopes were more sanguine,
and who could less have borne to be buried in the oblivion which I even
sought. But though it might have been better bestowed, it could by no
one be more gratefully received.
Indeed I can't help being grave upon the subject; for a success so
really unexpected almost overpowers me. I wonder at myself that my
spirits are not more elated. I believe half the flattery I have had
would have made me madly merry; but all serves only to almost depress me
by the fullness of heart it occasions. I have been serving Daddy Crisp
a pretty trick this morning How he would rail if he found it all out! I
had a fancy to dive pretty deeply into the real rank in which he held my
book; so I told him that your last letter acquainted me who was reported
to be the author of “Evelina.” I added that it was a profound secret,
and he must by no means mention it to a human being. He bid me tell him
directly, according to his usual style of command--but I insisted upon
his guessing.
“I can't guess,” said he---“may be it is you.”
Odd so! thought I, what do you mean by that?
“Pooh, nonsense!” cried I, “what should make you think of me?”
“Why, you look guilty,” answered he.
This was a horrible home stroke. Deuce take my looks! thought I--I shall
owe them a grudge for this! however I found it was a mere random shot,
and, without much difficulty, I laughed it to scorn.
And who do you think he guessed next?--My father!--there's for you!--and
several questions he asked me, whether he had lately been shut up
much-and so on. And this was not all--for he afterwards guessed Mrs.
Thrale and Mrs. Greville.[39]
There's honour and glory for you!--I assure you I grinned prodigiously.
_July 20._--I have had a letter from Susan. She informs me that my
father, when he took the books back to Streatham, actually acquainted
Mrs. Thrale with my secret. He took an opportunity, when they were alone
together, of saying that Upon her recommendation, he had himself, as
well as my mother; been reading “Evelina.”
“Well!” cried she, “and is it not a very pretty book? and a Very clever
book? and a very comical book?
“Why,” answered he, “'tis well enough; but I have something to tell you
about it.”
“Well? what?” cried she; “has Mrs. Cholmondeley found out the author?”
“No,” returned he, “not that I know of, but I believe I have, though but
very lately.”
“Well, pray let's hear!” cried she, eagerly, “I want to know him of all
things.”
How my father must laugh at the him!--He then, however, undeceived her
in regard to that particular, by telling her it was “our Fanny!” for she
knows all about our family, as my father talks to her of his domestic
concerns without any reserve.
A hundred handsome things, of course, followed; and she afterwards read
some of the comic parts to Dr. Johnson, Mr. Thrale, and whoever came
near her. How I should have quivered had I been there! but they tell me
that Dr. Johnson laughed as heartily as my father himself did.
Nothing can be more ridiculous than the scenes in which I am almost
perpetually engaged. Mr. Crisp, who is totally without suspicion,
says, almost daily, something that has double the meaning he intends to
convey; for, as I am often writing, either letters, Italian, or some
of my own vagaries, he commonly calls me the scribe, and the authoress;
asks when I shall print; says he will have all my works on royal paper,
etc.; and the other day, Mrs. Gast, who frequently lectures me about
studying too hard, and injuring my health, said--
“Pray, Miss Burney, now you write so much, when do you intend to
publish?”
“Publish?” cried Mr. Crisp, “why, she has published; she brought out a
book the other day that has made a great noise 'Evelina'--and she bribed
the reviewers to speak well of it, and set it a going.”
I was almost ready to run out of the room; but, though the hit was so
palpable in regard to the book, what he said of the reviewers was so
much the contrary that it checked my alarm: indeed, had he the most
remote idea of the truth, he would be the last man to have hinted at it
before a room full of people.
“Oh!” cried I, as composedly as I could, “that is but a small part of my
authorship--I shall give you a list of my folios soon.”
They had all some jocularity upon the occasion, but I found I was
perfectly safe; indeed my best security is, that my daddy concludes the
author to be a man, and all the rest follow as he leads.
Mr. Burney,[40] yesterday, after dinner, said--“Gentlemen and ladies,
I'll propose a toast”; then filling his glass, he drank “to The author
of 'Evelina'!”
Had they known the author was present, they could not have more civilly
accepted the toast; it was a bold kind of drollery in Mr. Burney, for
I was fain to drink my own health in a bumper, which he filled for me,
laughing heartily himself.
_August 3_--I have an immensity to write. Susan has copied me a letter
which Mrs. Thrale has written to my father, upon the occasion of
returning my mother two novels by Madame Riccoboni.[41] It is so
honourable to me, and so sweet in her, that I must COPY it for my
faithful journal.
Streatham, July 22.
Dear Sir,
I forgot to give you the novels in your carriage, which I now send.
“Evelina” certainly excels them far enough, both in probability of
story, elegance of sentiment, and general power over the mind, whether
exerted in humour or pathos; add to this, that Riccoboni is a veteran
author, and all she ever can be; but I cannot tell what might not be
expected from “Evelina,” were she to try her genius at comedy.
So far had I written of my letter, when Mr. Johnson returned home, full
of the praises of the book I had lent him, and protesting there Were
passages in it which Might do honour to Richardson. We talk of it for
ever, and he feels ardent after the d'enouement; hee “could not get rid
of the rogue,” he said. I lent him the second volume, and he is now busy
with the other.
You must be more a philosopher, and less a father, than I wish you, not
to be pleased with this letter; and the giving such pleasure yields to
nothing but receiving it. Long, my dear sir, may you live to enjoy the
just praises of your children! and long may they live to deserve
and delight such a parent! These are things that you would say in
verse---but poetry implies fiction, and all this is naked truth.
My compliments to Mrs. Burney, and kindest wishes to all your flock,
etc.
How, sweet, how amiable in this charming woman is her desire of making
my dear father satisfied with his scribbler's attempt! I do, indeed,
feel the most grateful love for her. But Dr. Johnson's approbation!--It
almost crazed me with agreeable surprise--it gave me such a flight
of spirits that I danced a jig to Mr. Crisp, Without any preparation,
music, or explanation;--to his no small amazement and diversion. I
left him, however, to make his own comments upon my friskiness without
affording him the smallest assistance.
Susan also writes me word, that when my father went last to Streatham,
Dr. Johnson was not there, but Mrs. Thrale told him, that when he gave
her the first volume of “Evelina,” which she had lent him, he said,
“Why, madam, why, what a charming book you lent me!” and eagerly
inquired for the rest. He was particularly pleased with the Snow-hill
scenes, and said that Mr. Smith's vulgar gentility was admirably
portrayed; and when Sir Clement joins them, he said there was a shade
of character prodigiously well marked. Well may it be said, that the
greatest winds are ever the most candid to the inferior set! I think
I should love Dr. Johnson for such lenity to a poor mere worm in
literature, even if I were not myself the identical grub he has obliged.
I now come to last Saturday evening, when my beloved father came
to Chesington, in full health, charming spirits, and all kindness,
openness, and entertainment.
In his way hither he had stopped at Streatham, and he settled with Mrs.
Thrale that he would call on her again in his way to town, and carry me
with him! and Mrs. Thrale said, “We all long to know her.”
I have been in a kind of twitter ever since, for there seems something
very formidable in the idea of appearing as an authoress! I ever dreaded
it, as it is a title which must raise more expectations than I have any
chance of answering. Yet I am highly flattered by her invitation, and
highly delighted in the prospect of being introduced to the Streatham
society.
She sent me some very serious advice to write for the theatre, as, she
says, I so naturally run into conversations, that “Evelina” absolutely
and plainly points out that path to me; and she hinted how much she
should be pleased to be “honoured with my confidence.”
My dear father communicated this intelligence, and a great deal more,
with a pleasure that almost surpassed that with which I heard it, and
he seems quite eager for me to make another attempt. He desired to take
upon himself the communication to my daddy Crisp, and as it is now in
so many hands that it is possible accident might discover it to him, I
readily consented.
Sunday evening, as I was going into my father's room, I heard him
say, “The variety of characters--the variety of scenes--and the
language--why, she has had very little education but what she has
given herself,-less than any of the others!” and Mr. Crisp exclaimed,
“Wonderful!--it's wonderful!”
I now found what was going forward, and therefore deemed it most fitting
to decamp. About an hour after, as I was passing through the hall, I met
my daddy (Crisp). His face was all animation and archness; he doubled
his fist at me, and would have stopped me, but I ran past him into the
parlour.
Before supper, however, I again met him, and he would not suffer me to
escape; he caught both my hands, and looked as if he would have looked
me through, and then exclaimed, “Why you little hussy,--you young
devil!--an't you ashamed to look me in the face, you Evelina, you!
Why, what a dance have you led me about it! Young friend, indeed! O you
little hussy, what tricks have you served me!”
I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle appellations
for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently compose himself after
his great surprise, to ask or hear any particulars--and then, he broke
out every three instants with exclamations of astonishment at how I had
found time to write so much unsuspected, and how and where I had picked
up such various materials; and not a few times did he, with me, as he
had with my father, exclaim, “wonderful!”
He has, since, made me read him all my letters upon this subject. He
said Lowndes would have made an estate had he given me one thousand
pounds for it, and that he ought not to have given me less. “You have
nothing to do now,” continued he, “but to take your pen in hand, for
your fame and reputation are made, and any bookseller will snap at what
you write.”
I then told him that I could not but really and unaffectedly regret that
the affair was spread to Mrs. Williams and her friends.
“Pho,” said he, “if those who are proper judges think it right, that it
should be known, why should you trouble yourself about it? You have not
spread it, there can be no imputation of vanity fall to your share, and
it cannot come out more to your honour than through such a channel as
Mrs. Thrale.”
A FIRST VISIT TO MRS. THRALE AND AN INTRODUCTION To DR. JOHNSON.
[An introduction to Mrs. Thrale was practically an
introduction into the most brilliant literary circle of the
day. Literary lions of all sizes, from the monarch Johnson
downwards, were wont to resort to Streatham, to eat Thrale's
dinners, and to enjoy the conversation of his lively wife.
At Streatham Dr. Burney had been a welcome guest since 1776,
when he commenced his intimacy with the family by giving
music lessons to the eldest daughter, Hester Thrale
(Johnson's “Queenie”). The head of the house, Henry Thrale,
the wealthy brewer and member of Parliament for Southwark,
was a sensible, unassuming man, whom Johnson loved and
esteemed, and who returned Johnson's attachment with the
sincerest regard. His acquirements, in Johnson's opinion
were of a far more solid character than those Of his wife,
whose wit and vivacity, however, gave her more distinction
in those brilliant assemblies to which Fanny is now, for the
first time, to be introduced. Mrs. Thrale was in her
thirty-eighth year at the date of Fanny's first visit.--ED.]
_August._--I have now to write an account of the most consequential day
I have spent since my birth: namely, my visit.
Our journey to Streatham, was the least pleasant part of the day, for
the roads were dreadfully dusty, and I was really in the fidgets from
thinking what my reception might be, and from fearing they would expect
a less awkward and backward kind of person than I was sure they would
find.
Mr. Thrale's house is white, and very pleasantly situated, in a fine
paddock. Mrs. Thrale was strolling about, and came to us as we got out
of the chaise.
“Ah,” cried she, “I hear Dr. Burney's voice! and you have brought your
daughter?--well, now you are good!”
She then received me, taking both my hands, and with mixed politeness
and cordiality welcoming me to Streatham. She led me into the house, and
addressed herself almost wholly for a few minutes to my father, as if
to give me an assurance she did not mean to regard me as a show, or
to distress or frighten me by drawing me out. Afterwards she took me
upstairs, and showed me the house, and said she had very much wished to
see me at Streatham, and should always think herself much obliged to Dr.
Burney for his goodness in bringing me, which she looked upon as a very
great favour.
But though we were some time together, and though she was so very civil,
she did not hint at my book, and I love her much more than ever for her
delicacy in avoiding a subject which she could not but see would have
greatly embarrassed me.
When we returned to the music-room, we found Miss Thrale was with my
father. Miss Thrale is a very fine girl, about fourteen years of age,
but cold and reserved, though full of knowledge and intelligence.
Soon after, Mrs. Thrale took me to the library; she talked a little
while upon common topics, and then, at last, she mentioned “Evelina.”
“Yesterday at supper,” said she, “we talked it all over, and discussed
all your characters--but Dr. Johnson's favourite is Mr. Smith. He
declares the fine gentleman manqué was never better drawn; and he acted
him all the evening, saying he was 'all for the ladies!' He repeated
whole scenes by heart. I declare I was astonished at him. O, you can't
imagine how much he is pleased with the book; he 'could not get rid of
the rogue,' he told me. But was it not droll,” said she, “that I should
recommend it to Dr. Burney? and tease him, so innocently, to read it?”
I now prevailed upon Mrs. Thrale to let me amuse myself, and she went
to dress. I then prowled about to choose some book and I saw upon the
reading-table, “Evelina.”--I had just fixed upon a new translation of
Cicero's “Laelius,” when the library-door was opened, and Mr. Seward[43]
entered. I instantly put away my book, because I dreaded being thought
studious and affected. He offered his service to find anything for me,
and then, in the same breath, ran on to speak of the work with which I
had myself 'favoured the world!'
The exact words he began with I cannot recollect, for I was actually
confounded by the attack; and his abrupt manner of letting me know he
was au fait equally astonished and provoked me. How different from the
delicacy of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale.
When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my father and me sit
on each side of her. I said that I hoped I did not take Dr. Johnson's
place;--for he had not yet appeared.
“No,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “he will sit by you, which I am sure will
give him great pleasure.”
Soon after we were seated, this great man entered. I have so true a
veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires me with delight
and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities to which he is
subject; for he has almost perpetual convulsive movements, either of his
hands, lips, feet, or knees, and sometimes of all together.
Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place. We had a
noble dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. Johnson, in the middle of
dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what were some little pies that were near him.
“Mutton,” answered she, “so I don't ask you to eat any, because I know
you despise it.”
“No, madam, no,” cried he, “I despise nothing that is so good of its
sort; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by Miss Burney makes
me very proud to-day!”
“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, “you must take care of
your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it for I assure you he is not often
successless.”
“What's that you say, madam?” cried he; “are you making mischief between
the young lady and me already?”
A little while after he drank Miss Thrale's health and mine, and then
added: “Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young ladies well,
without wishing them to become old women!”
“But some people,” said Mr. Seward, “are old and young at the same time,
for they wear so well that they never look old.”
“No, sir, no,” cried the doctor, laughing; “that never yet was; you might
as well say they are at the same time tall and short. I remember an
epitaph to that purpose, which is in--”
(I have quite forgot what,--and also the name it was made upon, but the
rest I recollect exactly:)
“----lies buried here;
So early wise, so lasting fair,
That none, unless her years you told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old.”
We left Streatham at about eight o'clock, and Mr. Seward, who handed me
into the chaise, added his interest to the rest, that my father would
not fail to bring me next week. In short I was loaded with civilities
from them all. And my ride home was equally happy with the rest of the
day, for my kind and most beloved father was so happy in my happiness,
and congratulated me so sweetly, that he could, like myself, think on no
other subject: and he told me that, after passing through such a house
as that, I could have nothing to fear--meaning for my book, my honoured
book.
Yet my honours stopped not here; for Hetty, who, with her sposo, was
here to receive us, told me she had lately met Mrs. Reynolds,[44] sister
of Sir Joshua; and that she talked very much and very highly of a new
novel called “Evelina”; though without a shadow of suspicion as to the
scribbler; and not contented with her own praise, she said that Sir
Joshua, who began it one day when he was too much engaged to go on with
it, was so much caught, that he could think of nothing else, and was
quite absent all the day, not knowing a word that was said to him: and,
when he took it up again, found himself so much interested in it, that
he sat up all night to finish it! Sir Joshua, it seems, vows he would
give fifty pounds to know the author! I have also heard, by the means of
Charles,[45] that other persons have declared they will find him out!