I made all possible reverences, and endeavoured to get to a seat; but
Mrs. Ord, when I turned from him, took my hand, and led me, in solemn
form, to what seemed to be the group of honour, to present me to Mrs.
Soame Jenyns, who, with all the rest, was still immovably standing! The
reverences were repeated here, and returned; but in silence, however,
on both sides; so they did very well—that is, they were only dull.
I then hoped to escape to my dear Mrs. Thrale, who most invitingly held
out her hand to me, and said, pointing to a chair by her own, “Must I,
too, make interest to be introduced to Miss Burney?”
This, however, was not allowed; for my dear Lady Clement Cotterel, Mrs.
Ord, again taking my hand, and parading me to a sofa, said, “Come, Miss
Burney, and let me place you by Mrs. Buller.”
I was glad by this time to be placed any where; for not till I was thus
accommodated, did the company, _en masse_, re-seat themselves!
Mr. Cambridge, senior, then advanced to speak to me; but before I could
answer, or, rather, hear him, Mrs. Ord again summoned poor Mr. Jenyns,
and made him my right hand neighbour on the sofa, saying, “There, Mr.
Jenyns! and there, Miss Burney! now I have put you fairly together, I
have done with you!”
This dear, good Mrs. Ord! what a mistaken road was this for bring
us into acquaintance! I verily think Mr. Jenyns was almost out of
countenance himself; for he had probably said all his say; and would
have been as glad of a new subject, and a new companion, as I could
have been myself.
To my left hand neighbour I had never before been presented. Mrs.
Buller is tall and elegant in her person, genteel and ugly in her face,
and abrupt and singular in her manners. She is, however, very clever,
sprightly, and witty, and much in vogue. She is, also, a Greek scholar,
a celebrated traveller in search of foreign customs and persons, and
every way original, in her knowledge and her enterprising way of life.
And she has had the maternal heroism—which with me is her first
quality—of being the guide of her young son in making the grand tour.
Mr. Soame Jenyns, thus again called upon, resolved, after a pause,
not to be called upon in vain; and therefore, with the chivalrous
courtesy that he seemed to think the call demanded, began an eulogy
unrivalled, I think, in exuberance and variety of animated phraseology.
All creation in praise seemed to open to his fancy! No human being had
ever begun Cecilia, or Evelina, who had power to lay them down unread:
pathos, humour, interest, moral, contrast of character, of manners, of
language—O! such _mille jolis choses_!
I heard, however, but the leading words—which—for I see your arch
smile!—you will say I have not failed to retain!—though every body
else, the whole room being attentively dumb, probably heard how they
were strung together. And indeed, my dear father, who was quite
delighted, says the panegyric was as witty as it was flattering. But
for myself, had I been carried to a theatre, and perched upon a stool,
to hear a public oration upon my simple penmanship, I could hardly have
been more confounded. I bowed my head, after the first three or
four sentences, by way of marking that I thought he had done: but done
he had not the more! I then turned away to the other side, hoping to
relieve him as well as myself; for I am sure he must have been full as
much worried; but I only came upon Mrs. Buller, who took up the _éloge_
just where Mr. Jenyns, for want of breath, let it drop; splendidly
saying, how astonishing it was, that in a nation the most divided of
any in the known world, alike in literature and in politics, any living
pen could be found to bring about a universal harmony of opinion.
You will only, as usual, laugh, I know, my dear Mr. Crisp, and rather
exult than be sorry for my poor embarrassed _phiz_ during this playful
duet. So also do I, too, now it is over; and feel grateful to the
inflictors: but, for all that, I was tempted to wish either them or
myself in the Elysian fields—for I won’t say at Jericho—during the
infliction. And indeed, as to this present evening, the extraordinary
things that were sported by Mr. Jenyns, and seconded by Mrs. Buller,
would have brought blushes into the practised cheeks of Agujari or of
Garrick. I changed so often from hot to cold, between the shame of
insufficiency, and the consciousness that while they engaged
every ear themselves, they put me forward to engage every eye, that
I felt now in a fever, and now in an ague, from the awkwardness of
appearing thus expressly summoned to
“Sit attentive to my own applause—!”
and my dear father himself, with all his gratified approbation, said I
really, at times, looked quite ill. Mrs. Thrale told me, afterwards,
she should have come to _naturalize_ me with a little common chat,
but that I had been so publicly destined for Soame Jenyns before my
arrival, that she did not dare interfere!
At length, however, finding they seemed but to address a breathing
statue, they entered into a discussion that was a most joyful relief to
me, upon foreign and English customs; and especially upon the rarity,
in England, of good conversation; from the perpetual intervention of
politics, always noisy; or of dissipation, always frivolous.
Here they were joined by Mr. Cambridge, who, as _all the world_[52]
knows, is an intimate friend of Soame Jenyns; and who is always
truly original and entertaining: but imagine my surprise—surprise
and delight! in a room and a company like this, where all, except Mr.
Cambridge and Mr. Jenyns, were of the beau monde of the present day,
suddenly to hear pronounced the name of my dear Mr. Crisp! for, in the
midst of this discourse upon customs and conversations in different
countries, Mr. Cambridge, who asserted that every man, possessing
steadiness with spirit, might live in this great nation exactly as he
pleased; either with friends or with strangers, either in public or in
solitude, smilingly illustrated his remark, in calling upon my father
to second him, by reciting the example of Mr. Crisp! I almost jumped
with pleasure and astonishment at the sound of that name, and the
praise with which, from the mover and the seconder, it was instantly
accompanied. How eloquent grew my father!—but here, I know, I must
stop.
When the party broke up, Mr. Jenyns thought it necessary—or, at least,
thought it would so be deemed by Mrs. Ord, to recapitulate, though
with concentration, his panegyric of the highly honoured Cecilia. And
Mrs. Buller renewed, also, her civilities, and hoped “I would not
look strange upon them!”—for I looked, my dear father told me
afterwards, all the colours of the rainbow; adding, “Why Fanny,
“‘I’d not look at all, if I couldn’t look better!’”[53]
But how I blush when I think of Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. and Miss
Thrale, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Garrick, Miss More, Mrs. Chapone, Miss
Gregory[54]—nay, Mrs. Montagu herself—being called upon to a scene
such as this, not as personages of the drama; but as auditresses and
spectatresses! I can only hope they all laugh,—for, if not, I am sure
they must all scoff.
Dear, good—mistaken Mrs. Ord!—But my father says such panegyric, and
such panegyrists, may well make amends for a little want of _tact_.
But I have not told you what was said by Mr. Cambridge, and I dare not!
lest you should think that fervent friend a little non-compos! for ’twas
higher and more piquant in eulogy than all the rest put together. ’Twas
to my father, however, that he uttered his lively sentiments; for he
studies little me as much as my little books; and he knew how he should
double my gratification, by wafting his kind praise to me secretly,
softly, and unsuspectedly, through so genial a channel.
How I wish you could catch a glimpse of my dear father upon these
occasions! and see the conscious smiles, which, however decorously
suppressed by pursing his lips, gleam through every turn, every line,
every bit and morsel of his kind countenance during the processes of
these agreeable flummeries—for such, I know, my dear Mr. Crisp will
call them—and, helas! but too truly! Agreeable, however, they are!
’twere vain to deny that. And here—O how unexpected! I am always
trembling in fear of a reverse—but not from you, my dearest Mr. Crisp,
will it come to your faithful,