Printed for T. LOWNDES, Fleet-street.
Mrs. Burney, who read this unsuspectingly, went on immediately to other
articles; but, had she lifted her eyes from the paper, something more
than suspicion must have met them, from the conscious colouring of the
scribbler, and the irresistible smiles of the two sisters, Susanna and
Charlotte, who were present.
Dr. Burney probably read the same advertisement the same morning; but
as he knew neither the name of the book, nor of the bookseller, nor the
time of publication, he must have read it without comment, or thought.
In this projected and intended security from public notice, the author
passed two or three months, during which the Doctor asked not a
question; and perhaps had forgotten the secret with which he had been
entrusted; for, besides the multiplicity of his affairs, his mind, just
then, was deeply disturbed by rising dissension, from claims the most
unwarrantable, with Mr. Greville.
And even from her own mind, the book, with all that belonged to it,
was soon afterwards chased, through the absorbent fears of seeing
her father dangerously attacked by an acute fever; from which by
the admirable prescriptions and skill of Sir Richard Jebb, he was
barely recovered, when she herself, who had been incautiously eager
in aiding her mother and sisters in their assiduous attendance upon
the invaluable invalid, was taken ill with strong symptoms of an
inflammation of the lungs: and though, through the sagacious directions
of the same penetrating physician, she was soon pronounced to be out
of immediate danger, she was so shaken in health and strength, that Sir
Richard enjoined her quitting London for the recruit of country air.
She was therefore conveyed to Chesington Hall, where she was received
and cherished by a second father in Mr. Crisp; with whom, and his
associates, the worthy Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Cooke, she remained for a
considerable time.
A few days before she left town, Dr. Burney, in a visit to her bedside,
revealed to her his late painful disagreement with Mr. Greville; but
told her that they had, at length, come to a full explanation, which
had brought Mr. Greville once more to his former and agreeable self;
and had terminated in a complete reconciliation.
He then read to her, in confidence, a poetical epistle,[24] which he
had just composed, and was preparing to send to his restored friend;
but which was expressed in terms so affecting, that they nearly proved
the reverse of restoration, in her then feeble state, to his fondly
attached daughter.
Dr. Burney’s intercourse with Mr. Greville was then again resumed; and
continued with rational, but true regard, on the part of Dr. Burney;
but with an intemperate importunity on that of Mr. Greville, that
claimed time which could not be spared; and leisure which could not be
found.
Evelina had now been published four or five months, though Dr. Burney
still knew nothing of its existence; and the author herself had learnt
it only by the chance-read advertisement already mentioned. Yet had
that little book found its way abroad; fallen into general reading;
gone through three editions, and been named with favour in sundry
Reviews; till, at length, a sort of cry was excited amongst its readers
for discovering its author.
That author, it will naturally be imagined, would repose her secret,
however sacred, in the breast of so confidential a counsellor as Mr.
Crisp.
And not trust, indeed, was there wanting! far otherwise! But as she
required no advice for what she never meant to avow, and had already
done with, she had no motive of sufficient force to give her courage
for encountering his critic eye. She never, therefore, ventured, and
never purposed to venture revealing to him her anonymous exploit.
June came; and a sixth month was elapsing in the same silent
concealment, when early one morning the Doctor, with great eagerness
and hurry, began a search amongst the pamphlets in his study for a
Monthly Review, which he demanded of his daughter Charlotte, who alone
was in the room. After finding it, he earnestly examined its contents,
and then looked out hastily for an article which he read with a
countenance of so much emotion, that Charlotte stole softly behind him,
to peep over his shoulder; and then saw, with surprise and joy, that
he was perusing an account, which she knew to be most favourable, of
Evelina, beginning, ‘A great variety of natural characters—’
When he had finished the article, he put down the Review, and sat
motionless, without raising his eyes, and looking in deep—but charmed
astonishment. Suddenly, then, he again snatched the Review, and again
ran over the article, with an air yet more intensely occupied. Placing
it afterwards on the chimney-piece, he walked about the room, as if to
recover breath, and recollect himself; though always with looks of the
most vivid pleasure.
Some minutes later, holding the Review in his hand, while inspecting
the table of contents, he beckoned to Charlotte to approach; and
pointing to “Evelina,” ‘you know,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘that book?
Send William for it to Lowndes’, as if for yourself; and give it to me
when we are alone.’
Charlotte obeyed; and, joyous in sanguine expectation, delivered to him
the little volumes, tied up in brown paper, in his study, when, late at
night, he came home from some engagement.
He locked them up in his bureau, without speaking, and retired to his
chamber.
The kindly impatient Charlotte was in his study the next morning with
the lark, waiting the descent of the Doctor from his room.
He, also, was early, and went straight to his desk, whence, taking out
and untying the parcel, he opened the first volume upon the little ode
to himself,—“Oh author of my being! far more dear,” &c.
He ejaculated a ‘Good God!’ and his eyes were suffused with tears.
Twice he read it, and then re-committed the book to his writing desk,
as if his mind were too full for further perusal; and dressed, and went
out, without uttering a syllable.
All this the affectionate Charlotte wrote to her sister; who read it
with a perturbation inexpressible. It was clear that the Doctor had
discovered the name of her book; and learned, also, that Charlotte was
one of her cabal: but how, was inexplicable; though what would be his
opinion of the work absorbed now all the thoughts and surmises of the
clandestine author.
From this time, he frequently, though privately and confidentially,
spoke with all the sisters upon the subject; and with the kindliest
approbation.
From this time, also, daily accounts of the progress made by the
Doctor in reading the work; or of the progress made in the world by
the work itself, were transmitted to recreate the Chesington invalid
from the eagerly kind sisters; the eldest of which, soon afterwards,
wrote a proposal to carry to Chesington, for reading to Mr. Crisp, ‘an
anonymous new work that was running about the town, called Evelina.’
She came; and performed her promised office with a warmth of heart
that glowed through every word she read, and gave an interest to every
detail.
With flying colours, therefore, the book went off, not only with the
easy social circle, but with Mr. Crisp himself; and without the most
remote suspicion that the author was in the midst of the audience;
a circumstance that made the whole perusal seem to that author the
most pleasant of comedies, from the innumerable whimsical incidents
to which it gave rise, alike in panegyrics and in criticisms, which
alternately, and most innocently, were often addressed to herself; and
accompanied with demands of her opinions, that forced her to perplexing
evasions, productive of the most ludicrous confusion, though of the
highest inward diversion.
Meanwhile, Dr. Burney, uninformed of this transaction, yet justly
concluding that, whether the book were owned or not, some one of the
little committee would be carrying it to Chesington; sent an injunction
to procrastinate its being produced, as he himself meant to be its
reader to Mr. Crisp.
This touching testimony of his parental interest in its success with
the first and dearest of their friends, came close to the heart
for which it was designed, with feelings of strong—and yet living
gratitude!
Equally unexpected and exhilarating to the invalid were all these
occurrences: but of much deeper marvel still was the narrative which
follows, and which she received about a week after this time.
In a letter written in this month, June, her sister Susanna stated
to her, that just as she had retired to her own room, on the evening
preceding its date, their father returned from his usual weekly visit
to Streatham, and sent for her to his study.
She immediately perceived, by his expanded brow, that he had something
extraordinary, and of high agreeability, to divulge.
As the Memorialist arrives now at the first mention, in this little
transaction, of a name that the public seems to hail with augmenting
eagerness in every trait that comes to light, she will venture to copy
the genuine account in which that honoured name first occurs; and
which was written to her by her sister Susanna, with an unpretending
simplicity that may to some have a certain charm; and that to no one
can be offensive.
After the opening to the business that has just been abridged, Susanna
thus goes on.
* * * * *
“‘Oh my dear girl, how shall I surprise you! Prepare yourself, I
beseech, not to be too much moved.
“‘I have such a thing,’ cried our dear father, ‘to tell you about our
poor Fanny!—’
“‘Dear Sir, what?’ cried I; afraid he had been betraying your secret to
Mrs. Thrale; which I know he longed to do.
“He only smiled—but such a smile of pleasure I never saw! ‘Why to
night at Streatham,’ cried he, while we were sitting at tea, only
Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Thrale, Miss Thrale, and myself. ‘Madam,’ cried
Dr. Johnson, see-sawing on his chair, ‘Mrs. Cholmondeley was talking
to me last night of a new novel, which she says has a very uncommon
share of merit; Evelina. She says she has not been so entertained this
great while as in reading it; and that she shall go all over London to
discover the author.’
“Do you breathe, my dear Fanny?
“‘Odd enough!’ cried Mrs. Thrale; ‘why somebody else mentioned that
book to me t’other day—Lady Westcote it was, I believe. The modest
writer of Evelina, she talked about.’
“‘Mrs. Cholmondeley says,’ answered the Doctor, ‘that she never before
met so much modesty with so much merit in any literary production of
the kind, as is implied by the concealment of the author.’
“‘Well,—’ cried I, continued my father, smiling more and more,
‘somebody recommended that book to me, too; and I read a little of
it—which, indeed—seemed to be above the commonplace works of this
kind.’
“Mrs. Thrale said she would certainly get it.
“‘You _must_ have it, madam!’ cried Johnson, emphatically; ‘Mrs.
Cholmondeley says she shall keep it on her table the whole summer, that
every body that knows her may see it; for she asserts that every body
ought to read it! And she has made Burke get it—and Reynolds.’
“A tolerably agreeable conversation, methinks, my dear Fanny! It took
away my breath, and made me skip about like a mad creature.
“‘And how did you feel, Sir?’ said I to my father, when I could speak.
“‘Feel?—why I liked it of all things! I wanted somebody to introduce
the book at Streatham. ’Twas just what I wished, but could not expect!’
“I could not for my life, my dearest Fanny, help saying that—even if
it should be discovered, shy as you were of being known, it would do
you no discredit. ‘Discredit?’ he repeated; ‘no, indeed!—quite the
reverse! It would be a credit to her—and to me!—and to you—and to
all her family!
“Now, my dearest Fanny—pray how do you do?—”
Vain would be any attempt to depict the astonishment of the author at
this communication—the astonishment, or—the pleasure!
And, in truth, in private life, few small events can possibly have
been attended with more remarkable incidents. That a work, voluntarily
consigned by its humble author, even from its birth, to oblivion,
should rise from her condemnation, and,
“‘Unpatronized, unaided, unknown,’
make its way through the metropolis, in passing from the Monthly Review
into the hands of the beautiful Mrs. Bunbury; and from her’s arriving
at those of the Hon. Mrs. Cholmondeley; whence, triumphantly, it should
be conveyed to Sir Joshua Reynolds; made known to Mr. Burke; be mounted
even to the notice of Dr. Johnson, and reach Streatham;—and that there
its name should first be pronounced by the great lexicographer himself;
and,—by mere chance,—in the presence of Dr. Burney; seemed more like
a romance, even to the Doctor himself, than anything in the book that
was the cause of these coincidences.
Very soon afterwards, another singular circumstance, and one of great
flutter to the spirits of the hidden author, reached her from the kind
sisters. Upon the succeeding excursion of Dr. Burney to Streatham, Mrs.
Thrale, most unconsciously, commissioned him to order Mr. Lowndes to
send her down Evelina.
From this moment, the composure of Chesington was over for the
invalid, though not so the happiness! unequalled, in a short time,
that became—unequalled as it was wonderful. Dr. Burney now, from
his numerous occupations, stole a few hours for a flying visit to
Chesington; where his meeting with his daughter, just rescued from the
grave, and still barely convalescent, at a period of such peculiar
interest to his paternal, and to her filial heart, was of the tenderest
description. Yet, earnestly as she coveted his sight, she felt almost
afraid, and quite ashamed, to be alone with him, from her doubts how he
might accept her versified dedication.
She held back, therefore, from any _tête à tête_ till he sent for her
to his little gallery cabinet; or in Mr. Crisp’s words, conjuring
closet. But there, when he had shut the door, with a significant
smile, that told her what was coming, and gave a glow to her very
forehead from anxious confusion, he gently said, ‘I have read your
book, Fanny!—but you need not blush at it—it is full of merit—it is,
really,—extraordinary!’
She fell upon his neck with heart-throbbing emotion; and he folded
her in his arms so tenderly, that she sobbed upon his shoulder; so
moved was she by his precious approbation. But she soon recovered to
a gayer pleasure—a pleasure more like his own; though the length of
her illness had made her almost too weak for sensations that were
mixed with such excess of amazement. She had written the little book,
like innumerable of its predecessors that she had burnt, simply for
her private recreation. She had printed it for a frolic, to see how a
production of her own would figure in that author-like form. But that
was the whole of her plan. And, in truth, her unlooked for success
evidently surprised her father quite as much as herself.
But what was her start, when he told her that her book was then
actually running the gauntlet at Streatham; and condescended to ask her
leave, if Mrs. Thrale should happen to be pleased with it, to let her
into the secret!
Startled was she indeed, nay, affrighted; for concealment was still her
changeless wish and unalterable purpose. But the words: ‘If Mrs. Thrale
should happen to be pleased with it,’ made her ashamed to demur; and
she could only reply that, upon such a stipulation, she saw no risk of
confidence, for Mrs. Thrale was no partial relative. She besought him,
however, not to betray her to Mr. Crisp, whom she dreaded as a critic
as much as she loved as a friend.
He laughed at her fright, yet forbore agitating her apprehensive
spirits by pressing, at that moment, any abrupt disclosure; and, having
gained his immediate point with regard to Mrs. Thrale, he drove off
eagerly and instantly to Streatham.
And his eagerness there received no check; he found not only Mrs.
Thrale, but her daughter, and sundry visitors, so occupied by Evelina,
that some quotation from it was apropos to whatever was said or done.
An enquiry was promptly made, whether Mrs. Cholmondeley had yet found
out the author of Evelina?—‘because,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘I long to
know him of all things.’
The Him produced a smile that, as soon as they were alone, elicited
an explanation; and the kind civilities that ensued may easily be
conceived.
Every word of them was forwarded to Chesington by the participating
sisters, as so many salutary medicines, they said, for returning
health and strength. And, speedily after, they were followed by a
prescription of the same character, so potent, so superlative, as to
take place of all other mental medicine.
This was conveyed in a packet from Susanna, containing the ensuing
letter from Mrs. Thrale to Dr. Burney; written two days after she had
put the first volume of Evelina into her coach, as Dr. Johnson was
quitting Streatham for a day’s residence in Bolt Court.
“‘Dear Doctor Burney,
“‘Doctor Johnson returned home last night full of the praises of the
book I had lent him; protesting there were passages in it that might do
honour to Richardson. We talk of it for ever; and he, Doctor Johnson,
feels ardent after the denouement. _He could not get rid of the Rogue!_
he said. I then lent him the second volume, which he instantly read;
and he is, even now, busy with the third.
“‘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!’”
This packet was accompanied by intelligence, that Sir Joshua Reynolds
had been fed while reading the little work, from refusing to quit it
at table! and that Edmund Burke had sat up a whole night to finish
it!!! It was accompanied, also, by a letter from Dr. Burney, that
almost dissolved the happy scribbler with touching delight, by its
avowal of his increased approbation upon a second reading: “Thou hast
made,” he says, “thy old father laugh and cry at thy pleasure.... I
never yet heard of a novel writer’s statue;[25]—yet who knows?—above
all things, then, take care of thy head, for if that should be at all
turned out of its place by all this intoxicating success, what sort of
figure wouldst thou cut upon a pedestal? _Prens y bien garde!_’
This playful goodness, with the wondrous news that Doctor Johnson
himself had deigned to read the little book, so struck, so nearly
bewildered the author, that, seized with a fit of wild spirits, and not
knowing how to account for the vivacity of her emotion to Mr. Crisp, she
darted out of the room in which she had read the tidings by his side,
to a small lawn before the window, where she danced, lightly, blithely,
gaily, around a large old mulberry tree, as impulsively and airily as
she had often done in her days of adolescence: and Mr. Crisp, though
he looked on with some surprise, wore a smile of the most expressive
kindness, that seemed rejoicing in the sudden resumption of that buoyant
spirit of springing felicity, which, in her first visits to Liberty
Hall—Chesington,—had made the mulberry tree the favourite site of her
juvenile vagaries.
Dr. Burney sent, also, a packet from Mr. Lowndes, containing ten sets
of Evelina very handsomely bound: and the scribbler had the extreme
satisfaction to see that Mr. Lowndes was still in the dark as to his
correspondent, the address being the same as the last;—