We left Tunbridge Wells, and got, by dinner time, to our first stage,
Uckfield. Our next stage brought us to Brighthelmstone, where I fancy we
shall stay till the Parliament calls away Mr. Thrale.[106]
The morning after our arrival, our first visit was from Mr Kipping, the
apothecary, a character so curious that Foote[107] designed him for
his next piece, before he knew he had already written his last. He is
a prating, good-humoured old gossip, who runs on in as incoherent and
unconnected a style of discourse as Rose Fuller, though not so tonish.
The rest of the morning we spent, as usual at this place, upon the
Steyn, and in booksellers' shops. Mrs. Thrale entered all our names at
Thomas's, the fashionable bookseller; but we find he has now a rival,
situated also upon the Steyn, who seems to carry away all the custom and
all the company. This is a Mr. Bowen, who is just come from London, and
who seems just the man to carry the world before him as a shop-keeper.
Extremely civil, attentive to watch opportunities Of obliging, and
assiduous to make use of them--skilful in discovering the taste or turn
of mind of his customers, and adroit in putting in their way just such
temptations as they are least able to withstand. Mrs. Thrale, at the
same time that she sees his management and contrivance, so much admires
his sagacity and dexterity, that, though open-eyed, she is as easily
wrought upon to part with her money, as any of the many dupes in this
place, whom he persuades to require indispensably whatever he shows
them. He did not, however, then at all suspect who I was, for he showed
me nothing but schemes for raffles, and books, pocket-cases, etc., which
weie put up for those purposes. It is plain I can have no authoress air,
since so discerning a bookseller thought me a fine lady spendthrift, who
only wanted occasions to get rid of money.
Sunday morning, as we came out of church, we saw Mrs. Cumberland, one
of her sons, and both her daughters. Mrs. Thrale spoke to them, but I
believe they did not recollect me. They are reckoned the flashers of the
place, yet everybody laughs at them for their airs, affectations, and
tonish graces and impertinences.
In the evening, Mrs. Dickens, a lady of Mrs. Thrale's acquaintance,
invited us to drink tea at the rooms with her, which we did, and found
them much more full and lively than the preceding night. The folks of
most consequence with respect to rank, were Lady Pembroke and Lady Di
Beauclerk,[108] both of whom have still very pleasing remains of the
beauty for which they have been so much admired. But the present beauty,
whose remains our children (i.e. nieces) may talk of, is a Mrs. Musters,
an exceedingly pretty woman, who is the reigning toast of the season.
While Mrs. Thrale, Mrs. Dickens, and I were walking about after tea,
we were joined by a Mr. Cure, a gentleman of the former's acquaintance.
After a little while he said--
“Miss Thrale is very much grown since she was here last year; and
besides, I think she's vastly altered.”
“Do you, sir,” cried she, “I can't say I think so.”
“Oh vastly!--but young ladies at that age are always altering. To tell
you the truth, I did not know her at all.”
This, for a little while, passed quietly; but soon after, he exclaimed,
“Ma'am, do you know I have not yet read 'Evelina?”
“Have not you so, sir?” cried she, laughing.
“No, and I think I never shall, for there's no getting it. The
booksellers say they never can keep it a moment, and the folks that hire
it keep lending it from one to another in such a manner that it is never
returned to the library. It's very provoking.”
“But,” said Mrs. Thrale, “what makes you exclaim about it so to me?”
“Why, because, if you recollect, the last thing you said to me when we
parted last year, was--be sure you read 'Evelina.' So as soon as I saw
you I recollected it all again. But I wish Miss Thrale would turn more
this way.”
“Why, what do you mean, Mr. Cure? do you know Miss Thrale now?”
“Yes, to be sure,” answered he, looking full at me, “though I protest I
should not have guessed at her had I seen her with anybody but you.”
“Oh ho!” cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, “so you mean Miss Burney all this
time.”
Mr. Cure looked aghast. As soon, I suppose, as he was able, he repeated,
in a low voice, “Miss Burney! so then that lady is the authoress of
'Evelina' all this time.”
And, rather abruptly, he left us and joined another party.
I suppose he told his story to as many as he talked to, for, in a short
time, I found myself so violently stared at that I could hardly look any
way without being put quite out of countenance,--particularly by young
Mr. Cumberland, a handsome, soft-looking youth, who fixed his eyes
upon me incessantly, though but the evening before, when I saw him at
Hicks's, he looked as if it would have been a diminution of his dignity
to have regarded me twice. One thing proved quite disagreeable to me,
and that was the whole behaviour of the whole tribe of the Cumberlands,
which I must explain.
Mr. Cumberland,[109] when he saw Mrs. Thrale, flew with eagerness to
her and made her take his seat, and he talked to her, with great
friendliness and intimacy, as he has been always accustomed to do,--and
inquired very particularly concerning her daughter, expressing an
earnest desire to see her. But when, some time after, Mrs. Thrale said,
“Oh, there is my daughter, with Miss Burney,” he changed the discourse
abruptly,--never came near Miss Thrale, and neither then nor since,
when he has met Mrs. Thrale, has again mentioned her name: and the whole
evening he seemed determined to avoid us both.
Mrs. Cumberland contented herself with only looking at me as at a person
she had no reason or business to know.
The two daughters, but especially the eldest, as well as the son, were
by no means so quiet; they stared at me every time I came near them as
if I had been a thing for a show; surveyed me from head to foot, and
then again, and again returned to my face, with so determined and so
unabating a curiosity, that it really made me uncomfortable.
All the folks here impute the whole of this conduct to its having
transpired that I am to bring out a play this season; for Mr.
Cumberland, though in all other respects an agreeable and a good man,
is so notorious for hating and envying and spiting all authors in the
dramatic line, that he is hardly decent in his behaviour towards them.
He has little reason, at present at least, to bear me any ill-will;
but if he is capable of such weakness and malignity as to have taken an
aversion to me merely because I can make use of pen and ink, he deserves
not to hear of my having suppressed my play, or of anything else that
can gratify so illiberal a disposition.
Dr. Johnson, Mr. Cholmondeley, and Mr. and Mrs. Thrale have all
repeatedly said to me, “Cumberland no doubt hates you heartily by
this time;” but it always appeared to me a speech of mingled fun and
flattery, and I never dreamed of its being possible to be true.
A few days since, after tea at Mrs. Dickens's, we all went to the rooms.
There was a great deal of company, and among them the Cumberlands. The
eldest of the girls, who was walking with Mrs. Musters, quite turned
round her whole person every time we passed each other, to keep me in
sight, and stare at me as long as possible; so did her brother.
I never saw anything so ill-bred and impertinent; I protest I was ready
to quit the rooms to avoid them--till at last Miss Thrale, catching Miss
Cumberland's eye, gave her so full, determined, and downing a stare,
that whether cured by shame or by resentment, she forbore from that
time to look at either of us. Miss Thrale, with a sort of good-natured
dryness, said, “Whenever you are disturbed with any of these starers,
apply to me,--I'll warrant I'll cure them. I dare say the girl hates
me for it; but what shall I be the worse for that? I would have served
master Dickey[110] so too, only I could not catch his eye.”
_Oct. 20_--We have had a visit from Dr. Delap. He told me that he had
another tragedy, and that I should have it to read.
He was very curious to see Mr. Cumberland, who, it seems, has given
evident marks of displeasure at his name whenever Mrs. Thrale has
mentioned it. That poor man is so wonderfully narrow-minded in his
authorship capacity, though otherwise good, humane and generous, that
he changes countenance at either seeing or hearing of any writer
whatsoever. Mrs. Thrale, with whom, this foible excepted, he is a great
favourite, is so enraged with him for his littleness of soul in this
respect, that merely to plague him, she vowed at the rooms she would
walk all the evening between Dr. Delap and me. I wished so little to
increase his unpleasant feelings, that I determined to keep with Miss
Thrale and Miss Dickens entirely. One time, though, Mrs. Thrale, when
she was sitting by Dr. Delap, called me suddenly to her, and when I was
seated, said, “Now let's see if Mr. Cumberland will come and speak to
me!” But he always turns resolutely another way when he sees her with
either of us; though at all other times he is particularly fond of her
company.
“It would actually serve him right,” says she, “to make Dr. Delap and
you strut at each side of me, one with a dagger, and the other with a
mask, as tragedy and comedy.”
“I think, Miss Burney,” said the doctor, “you and I seem to stand in the
same predicament. What shall we do for the poor man? suppose we burn a
play apiece?”
“Depend upon it,” said Mrs. Thrale, “he has heard, in town, that you
are both to bring one out this season, and perhaps one of his own may be
deferred on that account.”
On the announcement of the carriage, we went into the next room for our
cloaks, where Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Cumberland were in deep conversation.
“Oh, here's Miss Burney!” said Mrs. Thrale aloud. Mr Cumberland
turned round, but withdrew his eyes instantly; and I, determined not to
interrupt them, made Miss Thrale walk away with me. In about ten minutes
she left him and we all came home.
As soon as we were in the carriage,
“It has been,” said Mrs. Thrale, warmly, “all I could do not to affront
Mr. Cumberland to-night!”
“Oh, I hope not,” cried I, “I would not have you for the world!”
“Why, I have refrained; but with great difficulty.”
And then she told me the conversation she had just had with him. As soon
as I made off, he said, with a spiteful tone of voice,
“Oh, that young lady is an author, I hear!”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “author of 'Evelina.'”
“Humph,--I am told it has some humour!”
“Ay, indeed! Johnson says nothing like it has appeared for years!”
“So,” cried he, biting his lips, and waving uneasily in his chair, “so,
so!”
“Yes,” continued she, “and Sir Joshua Reynolds told Mr. Thrale he would
give fifty pounds to know the author!”
“So, so--oh, vastly well!” cried he, putting his hand on his forehead.
“Nay,” added she, “Burke himself sat up all night to finish it!”
This seemed quite too much for him; he put both his hands to his face,
and waving backwards and forwards, said,
“Oh, vastly well!--this will do for anything!” with a tone as much as to
say, Pray, no more!
Then Mrs. Thrale bid him good night, longing, she said, to call Miss
Thrale first, and say, “So you won't speak to my daughter?--why, she is
no author.”