Life in St. Martin’s Street—Increase of Fame and Friends—Garrick’s First
Call—Confusion—The Hairdresser—‘Tag-rag and Bobtail’—The History of
Histories—Imitation of Dr. Johnson—The Great Roscius—Mr. Crisp’s Gout—
Correspondence between him and Fanny—Dr. Burney’s Concerts—Abyssinian
Bruce—Supper in St. Martin’s Street—Italian Singers—A Musical Evening—
Visit of Count Orloff—His Stature and Jewels—Condescension—A
Matrimonial Duet—The Empress’s Miniature—Jemmy Twitcher—Present State
of St. Martin’s Street—Mr. and Mrs. Thrale—Dr. Johnson—Visit of the
Thrales and Johnson—Appearance of Dr. Johnson—His Conversation—His
Contempt for Music—Meeting of Dr. Johnson and Mr. Greville—Mrs. Thrale
Defiant—Signor Piozzi.
Frances Burney’s Memoirs of her father, her letters to Daddy Crisp, and
her Diary, together, give us a pretty distinct idea of her life in the
little street south of Leicester Square. From the time when Dr. Burney
became established in that quarter, the circle of his friends and his
reputation steadily widened. In no long time he made acquaintance with
his neighbours, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Miss Reynolds, and their nieces,
the Misses Palmer; with another neighbour, the sculptor Nollekens; with
the painter Barry, Harris of Salisbury,[15] Mrs. Ord, Sir Joseph Banks,
and Abyssinian Bruce, then just returned from his travels. All these and
others were, from time to time, to be found in the Doctor’s modest
drawing-room, together with many old friends, such as the Stranges,
Garrick, Colman, Mason, the Hooles, father and son, Twining, and
Baretti.
We have, in the ‘Memoirs,’ an account of David Garrick’s first call at
the house in St. Martin’s Street, which, though written in the author’s
later style, was no doubt derived from contemporary notes or journals:—
It was early morning, and the doorsteps were being washed by a new
housemaid, who, not recognising the actor, demurred to his entering
unannounced. He brushed past her, ran upstairs, and burst into the
Doctor’s study. Here he found the master of the house under the hands of
his hairdresser; while Susanna was reading a newspaper to him, Charlotte
making his tea, and Fanny arranging his books. There was a litter of
papers everywhere. Burney would have cleared a chair, but the visitor
plumped down into one that was well cushioned with pamphlets, crying:
‘Ay, do now, Doctor, be in a little confusion! Whisk your matters all
out of their places, and don’t know where to find a thing that you want
for the rest of the day, and that will make us all comfortable.’ The
Doctor then, laughing, returned to his place on the stool, that his wig—
or, as Madame d’Arblay calls it, the furniture of his head—might go
through its proper repairs. David, assuming a solemn air of profound
attention, fastened his eyes upon the hairdresser, as if wonderstruck at
his amazing skill. The man, highly gratified by such notice from the
celebrated Garrick, briskly worked on, frizzing, curling, powdering, and
pasting, after the mode of the day, with the utmost importance and
self-complacency. Garrick himself had on what he called his scratch wig,
which was so uncommonly ill-arranged and frightful that the whole family
agreed no one else could have appeared in such a state in the public
streets without risk of being hooted at. He dropped now all talk with
the Doctor, not even answering what he said, and seemed wholly absorbed
in watching what was going on; putting on, by degrees, with a power like
transformation, a little mean face of envy and sadness, such as he wore
in representing Abel Drugger, till at length, in the eyes of the
spectators, he passed out of himself altogether, and, with his mouth
hanging stupidly open, and his features vacant of all expression, he
became the likeness of some daubed wooden block in a barber’s shop
window. The friseur, who at the beginning had felt flattered on seeing
his operations so curiously observed, was put out of countenance by this
incomprehensible change, became presently so embarrassed that he hardly
knew what he was about, and at last fell into utter consternation.
Scared and confounded, he hastily rolled up the last two curls, and
prepared to make his retreat; but before he could escape, Garrick,
lifting his own miserable scratch from his head, and holding it out on
his finger and thumb, squeaked out in a whining voice, ‘Pray now, sir,
do you think, sir, you could touch me up this here old bob a little bit,
sir?’
The hairdresser dismissed, the actor, who could not help acting,
proceeded to give further proofs of his versatility. ‘And so, Doctor,’
he began, ‘you, with your tag-rag and bobtail there——’ Here he pointed
to some shelves of shabby books and tracts, which he started up to
examine; the next moment, becoming an auctioneer, he offered for sale
these valuable works, each worth a hundred pounds, and proclaimed that
they were ‘going, going, going, at a penny apiece.’ Then, quietly
reseating himself: ‘And so, Doctor,’ he continued, ‘you, and tag-rag and
bobtail there, shut yourselves up in this snug little bookstall, with
all your bright elves around you, to rest your understanding!’ There
were loud cries of mock indignation from the young people at the idea of
papa resting his understanding. Garrick apologized in his best stage
manner, and after some further talk, inquired, ‘But when, Doctor, shall
we have out the History of Histories? Do let me know in time, that I may
prepare to blow the trumpet of fame.’ Of course, this was a prelude to
his appearing in the character of a cheap-jack, advertising ‘the only
true History.’ Invited to the parlour to breakfast, he excused himself
on the plea of being engaged at home to Twiss[16] and Boswell, whom
immediately he took off to the life. Encouraged by the laughter of his
audience, this most reprehensible person, who set no bounds to his
levity, proceeded to offer an imitation of Dr. Johnson himself. He
sincerely honoured and loved Dr. Johnson, he said, but that great man
had eccentricities which his most attached admirers were irresistibly
impelled to mimic. Arranging, therefore, his dress so as to enlarge his
person, in some strange way, several inches beyond its natural size,
assuming the voice and authoritative port of the lexicographer, and
giving a thundering stamp on the carpet, the devout worshipper of Dr.
Johnson delivered, with sundry extraordinary attitudes and gestures, a
short dialogue that had passed between them during the preceding week:
“David! Will you lend me your ‘Petrarca’?”
“Y—e—s, sir!”
“David, you sigh?”
“Sir, you shall have it, certainly.”
“Accordingly,” Garrick continued, “the book—stupendously bound—I sent to
him that very evening. But scarcely had he taken the noble quarto in his
hands, when, as Boswell tells me, he poured forth a Greek ejaculation,
and a couplet or two from Horace; and then, in one of those fits of
enthusiasm which always seem to require that he should spread his arms
aloft in the air, his haste was so great to debarrass them for that
purpose, that he suddenly pounces my poor ‘Petrarca’ over his head upon
the floor—Russia leather, gold border, and all! And then, standing for
several minutes erect, lost in abstraction, he forgot, probably, that he
had ever seen it, and left my poor dislocated Beauty to the mercy of the
housemaid’s morning mop!”
This concluded the performance, and the performer presently took his
leave. After he had said good-bye, and left the room, he hastily came
back, whimsically laughing, and said: ‘Here’s one of your maids
downstairs that I love prodigiously to talk to, because she is so cross!
She was washing, and rubbing, and scrubbing, and whitening and
brightening your steps this morning, and would hardly let me pass. Egad,
sir, she did not know the great Roscius! But I frightened her a little
just now: “Child,” says I, “you don’t guess whom you have the happiness
to see! Do you know that I am one of the first geniuses of the age? You
would faint away upon the spot if you could only imagine who I am!”’
One familiar face was no longer seen at Burney’s house. Mr. Crisp had
become subject to such frequent fits of gout that his visits to London
were almost given up, and he rarely slept even a single night away from
Chesington. But his interest in musical and literary news, and in all
that concerned the Burney family, continued unabated. What he could no
more take part in himself was duly communicated to him by letter.
How early the correspondence between Frances and the family friend began
we are not informed. But it must have commenced long before she was old
enough to be admitted to parties such as she had now to describe to her
‘daddy.’ In a passage written at seventy-two, she has set down “a charge
delivered to me by our dear vehement Mr. Crisp at the opening of my
juvenile correspondence with him: ‘Harkee, you little monkey! dash away
whatever comes uppermost; if you stop to consider either what you say,
or what may be said of you, I would not give one fig for your letters.’”
So rough a speech could not have been addressed, even by a professed
cynic, to any young lady very far advanced in her teens. In the letters
from which we are about to quote, Miss Fanny prattles to the old man
with perfect ease and confidence, showing that she felt herself on terms
of established familiarity, and was quite free from the shyness and
embarrassment that would attend a timid girl’s first efforts to
entertain him.
For many years Dr. Burney had given informal evening concerts at his
house. These entertainments, to which he had been prompted by Crisp,
began in Poland Street, were continued in Queen Square, and attained
their highest distinction in St. Martin’s Street. There was no band, no
hired singer, no programme, no admission by ticket. A word from the
courteous host was the only invitation needed or expected. But the
company, as well as the music, was attractive even to guests accustomed
to fashionable society. Before his writings made him famous, Burney’s
extensive acquaintance brought him visitors whom the curious were
anxious to meet. Some came to see Sir Constantine Phipps, afterwards
Lord Mulgrave, on his return from his Arctic voyage. Others came for a
view of Omai, whom Captain Cook had imported from the South Seas. On one
occasion the gentle savage obliged the musical audience with a Tahitian
love-song, which proved to be a mere confused rumbling of uncouth
sounds. Whatever the incident of the evening, Crisp looked for a full
report of it from ‘his Fannikin.’
The sense of humour which we may still see brimming over in her portrait
was greatly provoked by Bruce, the particular lion of that day. The
explorer was reported to have brought home with him drawings of a Theban
harp at least three thousand years old, and of an Abyssinian lyre in
present use, about which Fanny was evidently more sceptical than her
father, who was always ready to welcome materials for his ‘History.’
‘The Abyssinians have lyres, have they?’ said George Selwyn; ‘well, they
have one less since _he_ left their country.’ Bruce was a personage of
stupendous height and breadth, whose pompous manners were proportioned
to his size and fame. ‘He is the tallest man you ever saw in your life—
at least _gratis_,’ wrote the observer. Nevertheless ‘the man-mountain’
condescended to the Burneys. In the season of his greatest glory, he
figured several times at the Doctor’s concerts, of which visits faithful
accounts were duly despatched to Chesington. On one of these evenings
Mr. Bruce even consented to stay supper, “which, you know,” says Fanny,
“with us is nothing but a permission to sit over a table for chat, and
roast potatoes or apples. But now,” she continues, “to perfect your
acquaintance with this towering Ethiopian, where do you think he will
take you during supper? To the source, or sources, you cry, of the Nile?
to Thebes? to its temple? to an arietta on the Theban harp? or perhaps
to banqueting on hot raw beef in Abyssinia? No such thing, my dear Mr.
Crisp—no such thing. Travellers who mean to write their travels are fit
for nothing but to represent the gap at your whist-table at Chesington,
when you have only three players; for they are dummies. Mr. Bruce left
all his exploits, his wanderings, his vanishings, his reappearances, his
harps so celestial, and his bullocks so terrestrial, to plant all our
entertainment within a hundred yards of our own coterie; namely, at the
masquerades at the Haymarket.” Then follows a story of a practical jest
not worth copying. “To have looked at Mr. Bruce in his glee at this
buffoonery, you must really have been amused; though methinks I see,
supposing you had been with us, the picturesque rising of your brow, and
all the dignity of your Roman nose, while you would have stared at such
familiar delight in an active joke as to transport into so merry an
_espiègle_ the seven-footed loftiness of the haughty and impetuous
tourist from the sands of Ethiopia, and the waters of Abyssinia; whom,
nevertheless, I have now the honour to portray in his _robe de chambre_,
that is, in private society, to my dear Chesington daddy.”
But far greater things were to follow this stalking of the African lion.
The Continental reputation which Dr. Burney acquired by his tours, and
which was extended by the first instalment of his ‘History,’ ‘attracted
to his house,’ as Macaulay points out, ‘the most eminent musical
performers of that age. The greatest Italian singers who visited England
regarded him as the dispenser of fame in their art, and exerted
themselves to obtain his suffrage. Pacchierotti[17] became his intimate
friend. The rapacious Agujari,[18] who sang for nobody else under fifty
pounds an air, sang her best for Dr. Burney without a fee; and in the
company of Dr. Burney even the haughty and eccentric Gabrielli[19]
constrained herself to behave with civility. It was thus in his power to
give, with scarcely any expense, concerts equal to those of the
aristocracy. On such occasions the quiet street in which he lived was
blocked up by coroneted chariots, and his little drawing-room was
crowded with peers, peeresses, ministers, and ambassadors.’
The following extract from one of Fanny’s letters contains a full
description of the most memorable of these musical evenings, though it
was one on which no foreign artist performed:
“You reproach me, my dear Mr. Crisp, for not sending you an account of
our last two concerts. But the fact is, I have not anything new to
tell you. The music has always been the same: the matrimonial
duets[20] are so much _à la mode_, that no other thing in our house is
now demanded. But if I can write you nothing new about music, you
want, I well know you will say, to hear some conversations.
My dear Mr. Crisp, there is, at this moment, no such thing as
conversation. There is only one question asked, meet whom you may,
namely: ‘How do you like Gabrielli?’ and only two modes,
contradictory, to be sure, but very steady, of reply: either, ‘Of all
things upon earth!’ or, ‘Not the least bit in the whole world!’
Well, now I will present you with a specimen, beginning with our last
concert but one, and arranging the persons of the drama in the order
of their actual appearance.
But, imprimis, I should tell you that the motive to this concert was a
particular request to my father from Dr. King, our old friend, and the
chaplain to the British—something—at St. Petersburg, that he would
give a little music to a certain mighty personage, who, somehow or
other how, must needs take, transiently at least, a front place in
future history, namely, the famed favourite of the Empress Catherine
of Russia—Prince[21] Orloff.
There, my dear Mr. Crisp! what say you to seeing such a doughty
personage as that in a private house, at a private party, of a private
individual—fresh imported from the Czarina of all the Russias, to sip
a cup of tea in St. Martin’s Street? I wonder whether future
historians will happen to mention this circumstance? I am thinking of
sending it to all the keepers of records. But I see your rising
eyebrows at this name—your start—your disgust—yet big curiosity.
Well, suppose the family assembled, its honoured chief in the midst—
and Tat, tat, tat, tat, at the door.
_Enter Dr. Ogle, Dean of Winchester._
_Dr. Burney_, after the usual ceremonies:—‘Did you hear the Gabrielli
last night, Mr. Dean?’
_The Dean_: ‘No, Doctor, I made the attempt, but soon retreated, for I
hate a crowd—as much as the ladies love it! I beg pardon!’ bowing with
a sort of civil sneer at us fair sex.
My mother was entering upon a spirited defence, when—Tat, tat, tat.
_Enter Dr. King._
He brought the compliments of Prince Orloff, with his Highness’s
apologies for being so late; but he was obliged to dine at Lord
Buckingham’s, and thence to show himself at Lady Harrington’s.
As nobody thought of inquiring into Dr. King’s opinion of La
Gabrielli, conversation was at a stand, till—Tat, tat, tat, tat, too,
and
_Enter Lady Edgcumbe._
We were all introduced to her, and she was very chatty, courteous, and
entertaining. [Lady Edgcumbe is asked the usual question about
Gabrielli, as also are the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Brudenel, who
appear next. Then we are introduced in succession to the Baron
Demidoff, Harris of Salisbury, and Lord Bruce.] At length—Tat, tat,
tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, too!
_Enter his Highness Prince Orloff._
Have you heard the dreadful story of the thumb, by which this terrible
Prince is said to have throttled the late Emperor of Russia, Peter, by
suddenly pressing his windpipe while he was drinking? I hope it is not
true; and Dr. King, of whom, while he resided in Russia, Prince Orloff
was the patron, denies the charge. Nevertheless, it is so currently
reported, that neither Susan nor I could keep it one moment from our
thoughts; and we both shrank from him with secret horror, heartily
wishing him in his own Black Sea.
His sight, however, produced a strong sensation, both in those who
believed, and those who discredited this disgusting barbarity; for
another story, not perhaps of less real, though of less sanguinary
guilt, is not a tale of rumour, but a crime of certainty; namely, that
he is the first favourite of the cruel, inhuman Empress—if it be true
that she connived at this horrible murder.
His Highness was immediately preceded by another Russian nobleman,
whose name I have forgot; and followed by a noble Hessian, General
Bawr.
Prince Orloff is of stupendous stature, something resembling Mr.
Bruce. He is handsome, tall, fat, upright, magnificent. His dress was
superb. Besides the blue garter, he had a star of diamonds of
prodigious brilliancy, a shoulder-knot of the same lustre and value,
and a picture of the Empress hung about his neck, set round with
diamonds of such brightness and magnitude that, when near the light,
they were too dazzling for the eye. His jewels, Dr. King says, are
estimated at one hundred thousand pounds sterling.
His air and address are showy, striking, and assiduously courteous. He
had a look that frequently seemed to say, ‘I hope you observe that I
come from a polished Court? I hope you take note that I am no
Cossack?’ Yet, with all this display of commanding affability, he
seems, from his native taste and humour, ‘agreeably addicted to
pleasantry,’ He speaks very little English, but knows French
perfectly.
His introduction to my father, in which Dr. King pompously figured,
passed in the drawing-room. The library was so crowded that he could
only show himself at the door, which was barely high enough not to
discompose his prodigious toupee. He bowed to Mr. Chamier,[22] then my
next neighbour, whom he had somewhere met; but I was so impressed by
the shocking rumours of his horrible actions, that involuntarily I
drew back even from a bow of vicinity; murmuring to Mr. Chamier, ‘He
looks so potent and mighty, I do not like to be near him!’
‘He has been less unfortunate,’ answered Mr. Chamier archly,
‘elsewhere; such objection has not been made to him by all ladies.’
Lord Bruce, who knew, immediately rose to make way for him, and moved
to another end of the room. The Prince instantly held out his vast
hand, in which, if he had also held a cambric handkerchief, it must
have looked like a white flag on the top of a mast—so much higher than
the most tip-top height of every head in the room was his spread-out
arm, as he exclaimed, ‘_Ah! milord me fuit!_’
His Honour,[23] then, rising also, with a profound reverence, offered
his seat to his Highness; but he positively refused to accept it, and
declared that if Mr. Brudenel would not be seated, he would himself
retire; and seeing Mr. Brudenel demur, still begging his Highness to
take the chair, he cried, with a laugh, but very peremptorily, ‘_Non,
non, monsieur! Je ne le veux pas! Je suis opiniâtre, moi; un peu comme
Messieurs les Anglais!_’
Mr. Brudenel then reseated himself; and the corner of a form appearing
to be vacant, from the pains taken by poor Susan to shrink away from
Mr. Orloff, his Highness suddenly dropped down upon it his immense
weight, with a force—notwithstanding a palpable and studied endeavour
to avoid doing mischief—that threatened his gigantic person with
plumping upon the floor, and terrified all on the opposite side of the
form with the danger of visiting the ceiling.
Perceiving Susan strive, though vainly, from want of space, to glide
further off from him, and struck, perhaps, by her sweet countenance,
‘_Ah, ha!_’ he cried, ‘_je tiens ici, je vois, une petite
prisonnière!_’
Charlotte, blooming like a budding little Hebe, actually stole into a
corner from affright at the whispered history of his thumb ferocity.
Mr. Chamier, who now probably had developed what passed in my mind,
contrived, very comically, to disclose his similar sentiment; for,
making a quiet way to my ear, he said in a low voice, ‘I wish Dr.
Burney had invited Omiah here tonight instead of Prince Orloff!’—
meaning, no doubt, of the two exotics, he should have preferred the
most innocent!
The grand duet of Müthel was now called for, and played; but I can
tell you nothing extra of the admiration it excited. Your Hettina
looked remarkably pretty; and, added to the applause given to the
music, everybody had something to observe upon the singularity of the
performers being husband and wife. Prince Orloff was witty quite to
facetiousness; sarcastically marking something beyond what he said, by
a certain ogling, half-cynical, half-amorous cast of his eyes; and
declaring he should take care to initiate all the foreign academies of
natural philosophy in the secret of the harmony that might be produced
by such nuptial concord.
The Russian nobleman who accompanied Prince Orloff, and who knew
English, they told us, so well that he was the best interpreter for
his Highness in his visits, gave us now a specimen of his proficiency;
for, clapping his fore-finger upon a superfine snuff-box, he
exclaimed, when the duet was finished, ‘Ma foi, dis is so pretty as
never I hear in my life!’
General Bawr also, to whom Mr. Harris directed my attention, was
greatly charmed. He is tall, and of stern and martial aspect. ‘He is a
man,’ said Mr. Harris, ‘to be looked at, from his courage, conduct,
and success during the last Russian war; when, though a Hessian by
birth, he was a lieutenant-general in the service of the Empress of
Russia, and obtained the two military stars, which you now see him
wear on each side, by his valour!’...
Then followed, to vary the entertainment, singing by Mrs. Brudenel.
Prince Orloff inquired very particularly of Dr. King who we four young
female Burneys were; for we were all dressed alike, on account of our
mourning; and when Dr. King answered, ‘Dr. Burney’s daughters,’ he was
quite astonished, for he had not thought our dear father, he said,
more than thirty years of age, if so much.
Mr. Harris, in a whisper, told me he wished some of the ladies would
desire to see the miniature of the Empress a little nearer; the
monstrous height of the Prince putting it quite out of view to his old
eyes and short figure; and being a man, he could not, he said, presume
to ask such an indulgence as that of holding it in his own hands.
Delighted to do anything for this excellent Mr. Harris, and quite at
my ease with poor prosing Dr. King, I told him the wish of Mr. Harris.
Dr. King whispered the desire to M. de Demidoff; M. de Demidoff did
the same to General de Bawr; and General de Bawr dauntlessly made the
petition to the Prince, in the name of _The Ladies_.
The Prince laughed, rather sardonically; yet with ready good humour
complied, telling the General, pretty much _sans ceremonie_, to untie
the ribbon round his neck, and give the picture into the possession of
_The Ladies_.
He was very gallant and debonnaire upon the occasion, entreating they
would by no means hurry themselves; yet his smile, as his eye sharply
followed the progress from hand to hand of the miniature, had a
suspicious cast of investigating whether it would be worth his while
to ask any favour of them in return! and through all the superb
magnificence of his display of courtly manners, a little bit of the
Cossack, methought, broke out, when he desired to know whether _The
Ladies_ wished for anything else—declaring, with a smiling bow, and
rolling, languishing, yet half-contemptuous eyes, that, if _The
Ladies_ would issue their commands, they should strip him entirely!
You may suppose, after that, nobody asked for a closer view of any
more of his ornaments! The good, yet unaffectedly humorous philosopher
of Salisbury could not help laughing, even while actually blushing at
it, that his own curiosity should have involved _The Ladies_ in this
supercilious sort of sarcastic homage.
There was hardly any looking at the picture of the Empress for the
glare of the diamonds. One of them, I really believe, was as big as a
nutmeg; though I am somewhat ashamed to undignify my subject by so
culinary a comparison.
When we were all satisfied, the miniature was restored by General Bawr
to the Prince, who took it with stately complacency; condescendingly
making a smiling bow to each fair female who had had possession of it,
and receiving from her in return a lowly courtesy.
Mr. Harris, who was the most curious to see the Empress, because his
son, Sir James,[24] was, or is intended to be, Minister at her Court,
had slyly looked over every shoulder that held her; but would not
venture, he archly whispered, to take the picture in his own hands,
lest he should be included by the Prince amongst _The Ladies_, as an
old woman!
Have you had enough of this concert, my dear Mr. Crisp? I have given
it in detail, for the humour of letting you see how absorbing of the
public voice is La Gabrielli; and also for describing to you Prince
Orloff, a man who, when time lets out facts, and drives in mysteries,
must necessarily make a considerable figure, good or bad—but certainly
not indifferent—in European history. Besides, I want your opinion
whether there is not an odd and striking resemblance in general
manners, as well as in herculean strength and height, in this Siberian
Prince and his Abyssinian Majesty?”
On another musical evening, of which Fanny wrote an account, there were
present: the French Ambassador, the Count de Guignes, at whose request
the concert was given; the Danish Ambassador, Baron Deiden, and his
wife; the Groom of the Stole, Lord Ashburnham, ‘with his gold key
dangling from his pocket;’ Lord Barrington from the War Office, and Lord
Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty. Of this last, the boon-companion
and denouncer[25] of Wilkes, Miss Fanny naïvely asks, “I want to know
why he is called Jemmy Twitcher in the newspapers? Do pray tell me
that.”
Very seldom, in these latter days, does any private carriage, with or
without a coronet on its panels, turn into the decayed thoroughfare
running down from the bottom of Leicester Square. ‘Vulgarly-peopled,’
according to Madame d’Arblay, even in her father’s time, St. Martin’s
Street has since fallen many degrees lower yet. The house to which the
fashionable world was drawn by the charms of Burney’s music stands on
the east side, immediately above the chapel at the corner of Orange
Street. The glass observatory which Dr. Burney repaired, and which he
subsequently rebuilt when it was blown away by a gale of wind, has long
since disappeared. It was replaced by a wooden[26] erection, or what
Macaulay calls ‘a square turret,’ which, when the essayist wrote,
distinguished the house from all the surrounding buildings. This
erection also has been removed, but the house itself cannot be mistaken
by any passer-by who cares to see it. A tablet on the front bears the
inscription: ‘Sir Isaac Newton, philosopher, lived here.’ The house is
at present the quarters of the United Service Warrant Officers’ Club. No
great effort is required to imagine the plain, silent Newton passing in
and out of that slender doorway. The movements of the man _qui genus
humanum ingenio superavit_ were without noise and ostentation. We may
let half a century go by in thought, and with equal ease picture to
ourselves David Garrick tripping up the steps before breakfast; Samuel
Johnson rolling up them for a call, on his way to dine with Mrs.
Montagu; pleasant Dr. Burney briskly setting out on his daily round of
lessons; and demure Miss Fanny sallying forth to seek an interview
_incognita_ with her publisher. But how call up the scene, when the
lacqueys of Count Orloff—Orloff the Big, Walpole calls him—thundered at
the knocker, or when officers of the Household, displaying the ensigns
of their rank, peers with stars and orders, and great ladies arrayed in
brocaded silks and immense head-dresses, followed one another up a
confined staircase[27] into a couple of small and crowded
reception-rooms? Standing opposite to the club where our gallant petty
officers of to-day congregate, and noticing that to the left of it, on
the other side of Long’s Court, there is now a cheap lodging-house for
working men, and that a little further to the left, at the entrance from
the Square, the roadway narrows, as we learn from the “Memoirs” that it
did in Burney’s time, till there is barely room for a single vehicle of
moderate size to pass, we recognise the limitations of the human fancy.
It is difficult to conceive of a great aristocratic crowd assembling in
such a place. We can understand the pride with which Fanny set down the
prolonged _rat-tat-tat-tat-too_ that announced the arrival of each
titled and decorated visitor. We may observe the pains she took to draw
and colour for her country correspondent groups of dazzling figures such
as had never been seen in the more spacious area of Queen Square. But
they are gone, and in presence of the dirt and squalor which have made
St. Martin’s Street little better than an East-End slum, their shadows
will not revisit the glimpses of the moon. _Sic transit gloria mundi._
Somewhat later, Dr. Burney formed a new connection which had an
important influence on the life of his second daughter. He was invited
to Streatham by Mr. and Mrs. Thrale to give lessons in music to their
eldest daughter, familiarly called Queeny, who afterwards became
Viscountess Keith. There, besides winning the regard of the Thrales, he
renewed his acquaintance with Dr. Johnson, to whom he had made himself
known by letter twenty-two years before. Johnson, who had no ear,
despised music, and was wont to speak slightingly of its professors, but
he conceived a strong liking for Burney. In bringing out the ‘Tour to
the Hebrides,’ the author confessed that he had kept his friend’s
Musical Tours in view. At this time, Richard, the youngest son of Dr.
Burney, born of his second marriage, was preparing for Winchester
School, whither his father proposed conveying him in person. Johnson,
who was a friend of Dr. Warton, the headmaster, volunteered to accompany
them, and introduce the new pupil. This joint expedition of Johnson and
Burney was followed by a similar one to Oxford, and their intercourse
became so cordial that Mrs. Thrale and Johnson arranged to meet in St.
Martin’s Street, there to make acquaintance with Burney’s family, to
look over his library, and to see Newton’s house. Fanny, who had just
come up from Chesington, wrote an account of this visit to her daddy:
“MY DEAREST MR. CRISP,
My father seemed well pleased at my returning to my time; so
that is no small consolation and pleasure to me for the pain of
quitting you. So now to our Thursday morning and Dr. Johnson,
according to my promise.
We were all—by we, I mean Suzette, Charlotte, and I—for my mother had
seen him before, as had my sister Burney; but we three were all in a
twitter from violent expectation and curiosity for the sight of this
monarch of books and authors.
Mrs. and Miss Thrale, Miss Owen, and Mr. Seward,[28] came long before
Lexiphanes. Mrs. Thrale is a pretty woman still, though she has some
defect in the mouth that looks like a cut or scar; but her nose is
very handsome, her complexion very fair; she has the _embonpoint
charmant_, and her eyes are blue and lustrous. She is extremely lively
and chatty, and showed none of the supercilious or pedantic airs so
freely, or rather so scoffingly, attributed by you envious lords of
the creation to women of learning or celebrity; on the contrary, she
is full of sport, remarkably gay, and excessively agreeable. I liked
her in everything except her entrance into the room, which was rather
florid and flourishing, as who should say, ‘It’s I!—no less a person
than Mrs. Thrale!’ However, all that ostentation wore out in the
course of the visit, which lasted the whole morning; and you could not
have helped liking her, she is so very entertaining—though not simple
enough, I believe, for quite winning your heart....
The conversation was supported with a great deal of vivacity, as usual
when il Signor Padrone is at home; but I can write you none of it, as
I was still in the same twitter, twitter, twitter, I have
acknowledged, to see Dr. Johnson. Nothing could have heightened my
impatience—unless Pope could have been brought to life again—or,
perhaps, Shakespeare!
This confab was broken up by a duet between your Hettina and, for the
first time to company-listeners, Suzette; who, however, escaped much
fright, for she soon found she had no musical critics to encounter in
Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Seward, or Miss Owen, who know not a flat from a
sharp, nor a crotchet from a quaver. But every knowledge is not given
to everybody—except to two gentle wights of my acquaintance: the one
commonly hight il Padre, and the other il Dadda. Do you know any such
sort of people, sir? Well, in the midst of this performance, and
before the second movement was come to a close, Dr. Johnson was
announced!
Now, my dear Mr. Crisp, if you like a description of emotions and
sensations—but I know you treat them all as burlesque; so let’s
proceed.
Everybody rose to do him honour, and he returned the attention with
the most formal courtesy. My father then, having welcomed him with the
warmest respect, whispered to him that music was going forward, which
he would not, my father thinks, have found out; and, placing him on
the best seat vacant, told his daughters to go on with the duet; while
Dr. Johnson, intently rolling towards them one eye—for they say he
does not see with the other—made a grave nod, and gave a dignified
motion with one hand, in silent approvance of the proceeding.
But now, my dear Mr. Crisp, I am mortified to own—what you, who always
smile at my enthusiasm, will hear without caring a straw for—that he
is, indeed, very ill-favoured. Yet he has naturally a noble figure;
tall, stout, grand, and authoritative: but he stoops horribly; his
back is quite round: his mouth is continually opening and shutting, as
if he were chewing something; he has a singular method of twirling his
fingers, and twisting his hands: his vast body is in constant
agitation, see-sawing backwards and forwards: his feet are never a
moment quiet; and his whole person looked often as if it were going to
roll itself, quite voluntarily, from his chair to the floor.
Since such is his appearance to a person so prejudiced in his favour
as I am, how I must more than ever reverence his abilities, when I
tell you that, upon asking my father why he had not prepared us for
such uncouth, untoward strangeness, he laughed heartily, and said he
had entirely forgotten that the same impression had been, at first,
made upon himself, but had been lost even on the second interview—how
I long to see him again, to lose it, too!—for knowing the value of
what would come out when he spoke, he ceased to observe the defects
that were out while he was silent.
But you always charge me to write without reserve or reservation, and
so I obey, as usual. Else, I should be ashamed to acknowledge having
remarked such exterior blemishes in so exalted a character.
His dress, considering the times, and that he had meant to put on all
his best _becomes_—for he was engaged to dine with a very fine party
at Mrs. Montagu’s—was as much out of the common road as his figure. He
had a large, full, bushy wig, a snuff-colour coat, with gold buttons
(or, peradventure, brass), but no ruffles to his doughty fists; and
not, I suppose, to be taken for a Blue, though going to the Blue
Queen, he had on very coarse black worsted stockings.
He is shockingly near-sighted; a thousand times more so than either my
Padre or myself. He did not even know Mrs. Thrale, till she held out
her hand to him, which she did very engagingly. After the first few
minutes, he drew his chair close to the pianoforte, and then bent down
his nose quite over the keys, to examine them, and the four hands at
work upon them; till poor Hetty and Susan hardly knew how to play on,
for fear of touching his phiz; or, which was harder still, how to keep
their countenances; and the less, as Mr. Seward, who seems to be very
droll and shrewd, and was much diverted, ogled them slyly, with a
provoking expression of arch enjoyment of their apprehensions.
When the duet was finished, my father introduced your Hettina to him,
as an old acquaintance, to whom, when she was a little girl, he had
presented his Idler.
His answer to this was imprinting on her pretty face—not a half touch
of a courtly salute—but a good, real, substantial, and very loud kiss.
Everybody was obliged to stroke their chins, that they might hide
their mouths.
Beyond this chaste embrace, his attention was not to be drawn off two
minutes longer from the books, to which he now strided his way; for we
had left the drawing-room for the library, on account of the
pianoforte. He pored over them, shelf by shelf, almost brushing them
with his eyelashes from near examination. At last, fixing upon
something that happened to hit his fancy, he took it down; and,
standing aloof from the company, which he seemed clean and clear to
forget, he began, without further ceremony, and very composedly, to
read to himself; and as intently as if he had been alone in his own
study.
We were all excessively provoked: for we were languishing, fretting,
expiring to hear him talk—not to see him read! What could that do for
us?
My sister then played another duet, accompanied by my father, to which
Miss Thrale seemed very attentive; and all the rest quietly resigned.
But Dr. Johnson had opened a volume of the British Encyclopædia, and
was so deeply engaged, that the music, probably, never reached his
ears.
When it was over, Mrs. Thrale, in a laughing manner, said: ‘Pray, Dr.
Burney, will you be so good as to tell me what that song was, and
whose, which Savoi sang last night at Bach’s[29] concert, and which
you did not hear?’
My father confessed himself by no means so able a diviner, not having
had time to consult the stars, though he lived in the house of Sir
Isaac Newton. But, anxious to draw Dr. Johnson into conversation, he
ventured to interrupt him with Mrs. Thrale’s conjuring request
relative to Bach’s concert.
The Doctor, comprehending his drift, good-naturedly put away his book,
and, see-sawing, with a very humorous smile, drolly repeated: ‘Bach,
sir?—Bach’s concert? And pray, sir, who is Bach? Is he a piper?’
You may imagine what exclamations followed such a question.
Mrs. Thrale gave a detailed account of the nature of the concert, and
the fame of Mr. Bach, and the many charming performances she had
heard, with all their varieties, in his rooms.
When there was a pause, ‘Pray, madam,’ said he, with the calmest
gravity, ‘what is the expense for all this?’
‘Oh,’ answered she, ‘the expense is much trouble and solicitation to
obtain a subscriber’s ticket—or else, half a guinea!’
‘Trouble and solicitation,’ he replied, ‘I will have nothing to do
with; but, if it be so fine, I would be willing to give’—he hesitated,
and then finished with—‘eighteen-pence.’
Ha! ha! Chocolate being then brought, we returned to the drawing-room;
and Dr. Johnson, when drawn away from the books, freely, and with
social good-humour, gave himself up to conversation.
The intended dinner of Mrs. Montagu being mentioned, Dr. Johnson
laughingly told us that he had received the most flattering note that
he had ever read, or that anybody else had ever read, of invitation
from that lady.
‘So have I, too!’ cried Mrs. Thrale. ‘So, if a note from Mrs. Montagu
is to be boasted of, I beg mine may not be forgotten.’
‘Your note, madam,’ cried Dr. Johnson, smiling, ‘can bear no
comparison with mine; for I am at the head of all the philosophers—she
says.’
‘And I,’ returned Mrs. Thrale, ‘have all the Muses in my train.’
‘A fair battle!’ cried my father. ‘Come, compliment for compliment,
and see who will hold out longest!’
‘I am afraid for Mrs. Thrale,’ said Mr. Seward; ‘for I know that Mrs.
Montagu exerts all her forces when she sings the praises of Dr.
Johnson.’
‘Oh yes,’ cried Mrs. Thrale, ‘she has often praised him till he has
been ready to faint.’
‘Well,’ said my father, ‘you two ladies must get him fairly between
you to-day, and see which can lay on the paint the thickest—Mrs.
Montagu or Mrs. Thrale.’
‘I had rather,’ said the Doctor very composedly, ‘go to Bach’s
concert!’”
Not long after the morning call described in our last extract, Johnson
spent an evening in St. Martin’s Street, for the purpose of being
introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Greville. The Doctor came with Mr. and Mrs.
Thrale. Signor Piozzi was there, invited to amuse the company by his
musical skill. But the account of the second visit reads much less
pleasantly than that of the first. This is due in great part to the
different behaviour of the principal guests. Burney’s old patron,
Greville, had for years been going steadily down hill, through
indulgence in play and other extravagances. The loss of his fortune,
perhaps, inclined him to assert more stiffly the claims of his rank. At
any rate, in presence of the Thrales and Johnson, he thought it
necessary to appear superior to the brewer’s wealth and the author’s
fame. Johnson seems to have only half perceived his disdain; but the
Doctor was not in a mood for talking, and Greville made no attempt to
draw him out. Nor are the actors only changed on this subsequent
occasion; the narrator is changed also. Instead of a letter by Fanny
Burney, dashed off in the hey-day of youth and spirits, we have a formal
account by her later self, Madame d’Arblay, composed in the peculiar
style which makes a great part of the ‘Memoirs’ such difficult reading.
However, as this account records Mrs. Thrale’s first meeting with the
man who was destined to exercise a fatal influence on her after-life, we
give a portion of it here:
“Mrs. Thrale, of the whole coterie, was alone at her ease. She feared
not Dr. Johnson; for fear made no part of her composition; and with
Mrs. Greville, as a fair rival genius, she would have been glad, from
curiosity, to have had the honour of a little tilt, in full
carelessness of its event; for though triumphant when victorious, she
had spirits so volatile, and such utter exemption from envy or spleen,
that she was gaily free from mortification when vanquished. But she
knew the meeting to have been fabricated for Dr. Johnson, and,
therefore, though not without difficulty, constrained herself to be
passive.
“When, however, she observed the sardonic disposition of Mr. Greville
to stare around him at the whole company in curious silence, she felt
a defiance against his aristocracy beat in every pulse; for, however
grandly he might look back to the long ancestry of the Brookes and the
Grevilles, she had a glowing consciousness that her own blood, rapid
and fluent, flowed in her veins from Adam of Saltsburg;[30] and, at
length, provoked by the dulness of a taciturnity that, in the midst of
such renowned interlocutors, produced as narcotic a torpor as could
have been caused by a dearth the most barren of human faculties, she
grew tired of the music, and yet more tired of remaining, what as
little suited her inclinations as her abilities, a mere cipher in the
company; and, holding such a position, and all its concomitants, to be
ridiculous, her spirits rose rebelliously above her control, and, in a
fit of utter recklessness of what might be thought of her by her fine
new acquaintance, she suddenly but softly arose, and stealing on
tip-toe behind Signor Piozzi, who was accompanying himself on the
pianoforte to an animated _aria parlante_, with his back to the
company, and his face to the wall, she ludicrously began imitating him
by squaring her elbows, elevating them with ecstatic shrugs of the
shoulders, and casting up her eyes, while languishingly reclining her
head, as if she were not less enthusiastically, though somewhat more
suddenly, struck with the transports of harmony than himself.
“This grotesque ebullition of ungovernable gaiety was not perceived by
Dr. Johnson, who faced the fire, with his back to the performer and
the instrument. But the amusement which such an unlooked-for
exhibition caused to the party was momentary; for Dr. Burney, shocked
lest the poor Signor should observe, and be hurt by this mimicry,
glided gently round to Mrs. Thrale, and, with something between
pleasantry and severity, whispered to her, ‘Because, madam, you have
no ear yourself for music, will you destroy the attention of all who,
in that one point, are otherwise gifted?’
“It was now that shone the brightest attribute of Mrs. Thrale,
sweetness of temper. She took this rebuke with a candour, and a sense
of its justice the most amiable; she nodded her approbation of the
admonition; and, returning to her chair, quietly sat down, as she
afterwards said, like a pretty little miss, for the remainder of one
of the most humdrum evenings that she had ever passed.
“Strange, indeed, strange and most strange, the event considered, was
this opening intercourse between Mrs. Thrale and Signor Piozzi. Little
could she imagine that the person she was thus called away from
holding up to ridicule, would become, but a few years afterwards, the
idol of her fancy, and the lord of her destiny! And little did the
company present imagine, that this burlesque scene was but the first
of a drama the most extraordinary of real life, of which these two
persons were to be the hero and heroine; though, when the catastrophe
was known, this incident, witnessed by so many, was recollected and
repeated from coterie to coterie throughout London, with comments and
sarcasms of endless variety.”
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Footnote 15:
James Harris, author of ‘Hermes; or a Philosophical Inquiry into
Universal Grammar,’ and several other works. Entering Parliament in
1761, he became a Lord of the Admiralty, and subsequently a Lord of
the Treasury, etc. He died in 1786.
Footnote 16:
Author of ‘Travels in Spain.’
Footnote 17:
‘Nothing is fit to be heard but Pacchierotti,’ was the general
verdict, according to Walpole.
Footnote 18:
A celebrated Italian singer, wife of Colla, an Italian composer. She
was engaged at the Pantheon to sing two songs nightly, for which she
received £100.
Footnote 19:
A performer of great Continental reputation, whose merits were much
controverted in England. ‘Is, or has the Gabrielli been, a great
singer?’ asks Walpole of his Florence correspondent. ‘She has, at
least, not honoured us but with a most slender low voice.’
Footnote 20:
Duets between Esther Burney, now married, and her husband, who was
also her cousin and a Burney. Esther was the beauty of the family,
and became a wife early.
Footnote 21:
Fanny should rather have written, _Count_ Orloff.
Footnote 22:
Anthony Chamier was member of Parliament for Tamworth, and
Under-Secretary of State from 1775 till his death in 1780. He was an
original member of the celebrated Literary Club.
Footnote 23:
A name by which Mr. Brudenel, afterwards Earl of Cardigan, was
known.
Footnote 24:
Afterwards Lord Malmesbury.
Footnote 25:
We need scarcely remind our readers that, in 1763, Sandwich had
denounced Wilkes in the House of Lords for having composed and printed
the ‘Essay on Woman,’ an indecent parody on Pope’s ‘Essay on Man.’
Society resented the attack, placing the accuser and accused on a par
in point of morals. ‘The public indignation went so far, that the
_Beggar’s Opera_ being performed at Covent Garden Theatre soon after
this event, the whole audience, when Macheath says, “That Jemmy
Twitcher should peach, I own surprises me,” burst out into an applause
of application, and the nickname of “Jemmy Twitcher” stuck by the Earl
so as almost to occasion the disuse of his title.’—Walpole’s ‘Memoirs
of George III.,’ vol. i., p. 313.
Footnote 26:
The observatory in its later form is stated to have been put up in the
early years of the present century, by a Frenchman, then tenant of the
house, who placed in it some mathematical instruments, which he
exhibited as the identical instruments with which the great Newton
made his discoveries; and we are told that this ingenious person
realized a considerable sum before his imposture was exposed. See ‘The
Streets of London,’ by J. T. Smith, edited by Charles Mackay, 1849, p.
76.
Footnote 27:
There is some account both of the inside and outside of Newton’s house
in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for 1814. At that date, we learn among
other things, the original chimney-piece in the observatory remained,
though the room itself had undergone a change. The house appears to
have been built about 1692.
Footnote 28:
William Seward, afterwards author of ‘Anecdotes of Distinguished
Persons,’ and ‘Biographiana,’ a sequel to the same.
Footnote 29:
John Christian Bach, sometimes called Bach of Berlin, who for many
years was established in England.
Footnote 30:
Hester Lynch Salusbury (Mrs. Thrale) claimed to be lineally
descended from Adam of Saltsburg, who came over to England with the
Conqueror.
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