Chapter 24

“But,” said he, “I have one other fault to find, and a more material one than any I have mentioned.”

“I am the more obliged to you. What is it?”

“The disposal of this book. I have much advice to offer to you upon that subject. Why did not you send for your own friend out of the city? he would have taken care you should not part with it so much below par.”

He meant Mr. Briggs.[163]

Sir Joshua Reynolds now joined us.

“Are you telling her,” said he, “of our conversation with the old wits? I am glad you hear it from Mr. Burke, Miss Burney, for he can tell it so much better than I can, and remember their very words.”

“Nothing else would they talk of for three whole hours,” said he, “and we were there at the third reading of the bill.”

“I believe I was in good hands,” said I, “if they talked of it to you?”

“Why, yes,” answered Sir Joshua, laughing, “we joined in from time to time. Gibbon says he read the whole five volumes in a day.”

“'Tis impossible,” cried Mr. Burke, “it cost me three days and you know I never parted with it from the time I first opened it.”

A WRITER OF ROMANCES.

Soon after the parties changed again and young Mr. Burke[164] came and sat by me. He is a very civil and obliging, and a sensible and agreeable young man. Old Lady Galway trotted from her corner, in the middle of the evening, and leaning her hands upon the backs of two chairs, put her little round head through two fine high dressed ladies on purpose to peep at me, and then trotted back to her place! Ha, ha!

Miss Monckton now came to us again, and I congratulated her upon her power in making Dr. Johnson sit in a group upon which she immediately said to him,--

“Sir, Miss Burney says you like best to sit in a circle.”

“Does she?” said he, laughing; “Ay, never mind what she says. Don't you know she is a writer of romances?”

“Yes, that I do, indeed,” said Miss Monckton, and every one joined in a laugh that put me horribly out of countenance.

“She may write romances and speak truth,” said my dear Sir Joshua, who, as well as young Burke, and Mr. Metcalf, and two strangers, joined now in our little party.

“But, indeed, Dr. Johnson,” said Miss Monckton, “you must see Mrs. Siddons. Won't you see her in some fine part?”

“Why, if I must, madam, I've no choice.”

“She says, sir, she shall be very much afraid of you.”

“Madam, that cannot be true.”

“Not true,” cried Miss Monckton, staring, “yes it is.”

“It cannot be, madam.”

“But she said so to me; I heard her say it myself.”

“Madam, it is not possible! remember, therefore, in future, that even fiction should be supported by probability.”

Miss Monckton looked all amazement, but insisted upon the--truth of what she had said.

“I do not believe, madam,” said he, warmly, “she knows my name.”

“Oh, that is rating her too low,” said a gentleman stranger.

“By not knowing my name,” continued he, “I do not mean so literally; but that, when she sees it abused in a newspaper, she may possibly recollect that she has seen it abused in a newspaper before.”

“Well, sir,” said Miss Monckton, “but you must see her for all this.”

“Well, madam, if you desire it, I will go. See her I shall not, nor hear her; but I'll go, and that will do. The last time I was at a play, I was ordered there by Mrs. Abington, or Mrs. Somebody, I do not well remember who; but I placed myself in the middle of the first row of the front boxes, to show that when I was called I came.”

The talk upon this matter went on very long, and with great spirit. At last, a large party of ladies arose at the same time', and I tripped after them; Miss Monckton, however, made me come back, for she said I must else wait in the other room till those ladies' carriages drove away.

When I returned, Sir Joshua came and desired he might convey me home; I declined the offer, and he pressed it a good deal, drolly saying,--

“Why, I am old enough, a'n't I?” And when he found me stout, he said to Dr. Johnson,--“Sir, is not this very hard? Nobody thinks me very young, yet Miss Burney won't give me the privilege of age in letting me see her home? She says I a'n't old enough.”[165]

I had never said any such thing.

“Ay, sir,” said the doctor, “did I not tell you she was a writer of romances?”

MRS. WALSINGHAM.

_December 15._--To-day, by an invitation of ten days standing, I waited upon Mrs. Walsingham. She is a woman high in fame for her talents,[166] and a wit by birth, as the daughter of Sir Charles Hanbury Williams.

She has the character of being only civil to people of birth, fame, or wealth, and extremely insolent to all others. Of this, however, I could see nothing, since she at least took care to invite no company to her own house whom she was disposed to disdain. Her reception of me appeared rather singular. She was violently dressed,--a large hoop, flowers in her small and full dressed cap, ribands and ornaments extremely shown, and a fan in her hand. She was very polite, said much of her particular pleasure in seeing me, and kept advancing to me near, that involuntarily I retreated from her, not knowing her design, and kept, therefore, getting further and further back as she came forward, till I was stopped from any power of moving by the wainscot. I then necessarily stood still, and she saluted me.

We then quietly sat down, and my father began a very lively conversation upon various subjects; she kept it up with attention and good breeding, often referring to me, and seeming curious to know my notions.

The rest of the company who came to dinner were Mrs. Montagu, Mr. Percy, Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, his lady and daughter, and Sir Joshua Reynolds and Miss Palmer. I was excessively glad to see the latter, who clung to me all the visit, and took off from its formality and grandeur by her chatting and intimacy.

Mrs. Walsingham lives in a splendid house in Stratford place, elegantly fitted up, chiefly by her own paintings and drawings, which are reckoned extremely clever. I hate that word, but cannot think of another.

We did not stay late, for my father and I were both engaged to Miss Monckton's; so was Sir Joshua, who accompanied us.

MRS. SIDDONS.

I was extremely happy to have my dear father with me at Miss Monckton's. We found Mrs. Siddons, the actress, there. She is a woman of excellent character, and therefore I am very glad she is thus patronised, since Mrs. Abington, and so many frail fair ones, have been thus noticed by the great. She behaved with great propriety; very calm, modest, quiet, and unaffected---She has a very fine countenance, and her eyes look both intelligent and soft. She has, however, a steadiness in her manner and deportment by no means engaging. Mrs. Thrale, who was there, said,--“Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all worshipping! however, we shall soon gild it.”

A lady who sat near me then began a dialogue with Mr. Erskine,[167] who had placed himself exactly opposite to Mrs. Siddons; and they debated together upon her manner of studying her parts, disputing upon the point with great warmth, yet not only forbearing to ask Mrs. Siddons herself which was right, but quite over-powering her with their loquacity, when she attempted, unasked, to explain the matter. Most vehement praise of all she did followed, and the lady turned to me, and said,--

“What invitation, Miss Burney, is here, for genius to display itself!--Everybody, I hear, is at work for Mrs. Siddons; but if you would work for her, what an inducement to excel you would both of you have!--Dr. Burney--.”

“Oh, pray, ma'am,” cried I, “don't say to him--”

“Oh, but I will!--if my influence can do you any mischief, you may depend upon having it.”

She then repeated what she had said to my father, and he instantly said,--

“Your ladyship may be sure of my interest.”

I whispered afterwards to know who she was, and heard she Was Lady Lucan.

DR. JOHNSON'S INMATES AT BOLT-COURT.

On Tuesday, Dec. 24, I went in the evening to call on Mrs. Thrale, and tore myself away from her to go to Bolt-court to see Dr. Johnson, who is very unwell. He received me with great kindness, and bade me come oftener, which I will try to contrive. He told me he heard of nothing but me, call upon him who would; and, though he pretended to growl, he was evidently delighted for me. His usual set, Mrs. Williams and Mrs. De Mullins, were with him; and some queer man of a parson who, after grinning at me some time, said,--

“Pray, Mrs. De Mullins, is the fifth volume of 'Cecilia' at home yet? Dr. Johnson made me read it, ma'am.”

“Sir, he did it much honour.”

“Made you, sir?” said the doctor, “you give an ill account of your own taste or understanding, if you wanted any making to read such a book as 'Cecilia.'”

“Oh, sir, I don't mean that; for I am sure I left every thing in the world to go on with it.”

A shilling was now wanted for some purpose or other, and none of them happened to have one; I begged that I might lend one.

“Ay, do,” said the doctor, “I will borrow of you; authors are like privateers, always fair game for one another.”

“True, sir,” said the parson, “one author is always robbing another.”

“I don't know that, sir,” cried the doctor; “there sits an author who, to my knowledge, has robbed nobody. I have never once caught her at a theft. The rogue keeps her resources to herself!”

THE TWO MR. CAMBRIDGES IMPROVE UPON ACQUAINTANCE.

_Thursday._--In the morning Mr. Cambridge[168] came, and made a long visit. He is entertaining, original, and well-bred; somewhat formal, but extremely civil and obliging, and, I believe, remarkably honourable and strict in his principles and actions. I wished I could have been easy and chatty with him as I hear he is so much my friend, and as I like him very much; but, in truth, he listens to every syllable I utter with so grave a deference, that it intimidates and silences me. When he was about taking leave, he said,--

“Shall you go to Mrs. Ord's[169] to-morrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought so,” said he, smiling, “and hoped it. Where shall you go to-night?”

“No where,--I shall be at home.”

“At home? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why, then, Miss Burney, my son[170] and I dine to-day in your neighbourhood, at the Archbishop of York's, and, if you please, we will come here in the evening.”

This was agreed to. And our evening was really a charming one. The two Mr. Cambridges came at about eight o'clock, and the good Mr. Hoole[171] was here. My father came downstairs to them in high spirits and good humour, and he and the elder Mr. Cambridge not only talked enough for us all, but so well and so pleasantly that no person present had even a wish to speak for himself. Mr. Cambridge has the best stock of good stories I almost ever heard; and, though a little too precise in his manner, he is always well-bred, and almost always entertaining. Our sweet father kept up the ball with him admirably, whether in anecdotes, serious disquisitions, philosophy, or fun; for all which Mr. Cambridge has both talents and inclination.

The son rises extremely in my opinion and liking. He is sensible, rational, and highly cultivated; very modest in all he asserts, and attentive and pleasing in his behaviour; and he is wholly free from the coxcombical airs, either of impertinence, or negligence and nonchalance, that almost all the young men I meet, except also young Burke, are tainted with. What chiefly, however, pleased me in him was observing that he quite adores his father. He attended to all his stories with a face that never told he had heard them before; and, though he spoke but little himself, he seemed as well entertained as if he had been the leading person in the company,--a post which, nevertheless, I believe he could extremely well sustain; and, no doubt, much the better for being in no haste to aspire to it. I have seldom, altogether, had an evening with which I have been better pleased.

THE SHILLING, THE CHAIRMAN, AND THE GREEN-SHOP GIRL.

_Saturday, Dec. 28._--My father and I dined and spent the day at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, after many preceding disappointments. I had a whispering conversation with Mrs. Reynolds,[172] which made me laugh, from her excessive oddness and absurdity.

“I had the most unfortunate thing in the world happen to me,” she said, “about Mrs. Montagu, and I always am in some distress or misfortune with that lady. She did me the honour to invite me to dine with her last week,--and I am sure there is nobody in the world can be more obliged to Mrs. Montagu taking such notice of any body;--but just when the day came I was so unlucky as to be ill, and that, you know, made it quite improper to go to dine with Mrs. Montagu, for fear of disagreeable consequences. So this vexed me very much, for I had nobody to send to her that was proper to appear before Mrs. Montagu; for to own the truth, you must know I have no servant but a maid, and I could not think of sending such a person to Mrs. Montagu. So I thought it best to send a charman, and to tell him only to ring at the bell, and to wait for no answer; because then the porter might tell Mrs. Montagu my servant brought the note, for the porter could not tell but he might be my servant.

“But my maid was so stupid, she took the shilling I gave her for the charman, and went to a green-shop, and bid the woman send somebody with the note, and she left the shilling with her; so the green-woman, I suppose, thought she might keep the shilling, and instead of sending a charman she sent her own errand-girl; and she was all dirt and rags. But this is not all; for, when the girl got to the house, nothing would serve her but she would give the note to Mrs. Montagu, and wait for an answer; so then, you know, Mrs. Montagu saw this ragged green-shop girl. I was never so shocked in my life, for when she brought me back the note I knew at once how it all was. Only think what a mortification, to have Mrs. Montagu see such a person as that! She must think it very odd of me indeed to send a green-shop girl to such a house as hers!”

MR. SOAME JENYNS'S EULOGY ON “CECILIA.”

_Friday, (Jan. 17, 1783.)_--Now for this grand interview with Soame Jenyns.[173] I went with my dear father who was quite enchanted at the affair. Dear soul, how he feeds upon all that brings fame to “Cecilia!” his eagerness upon this subject, and his pleasure in it, are truly enthusiastic, and, I think, rather increase by fulness than grow satiated.

We were late; there was a good deal of company, not in groups, nor yet in a circle, but seated square round the room, in order following,--Miss Ellerker, Mrs. Soame Jenyns, Mrs. Thrale, her daughter, Mrs. Buller, Mr. Cambridge, senior, Mr. Soame Jenyns, Mr. Selwin, Mr. Cambridge, junior, Miss Burgoyne, a lady or two I knew not, and three or four men.

Mrs. Ord almost ran to the door to receive us, and every creature of this company, contrary to all present custom in large meetings, stood up.

“Why have you been so late?” cried Mrs. Ord, “we have been waiting for you this hour. I was afraid there was some mistake.”

“My father could not come sooner.”

“But why would not you let me send my coach for you? Mr. Soame Jenyns has been dying with impatience; some of us thought you would not come; others thought it only coquetry; but come, let us repair the time as we can, and introduce you to one another without further delay.”

You may believe how happy I felt at this “some thought,” and “others,” which instantly betrayed that everybody was apprised they were to see this famous rencounter; and lest I should mark it less, every body still stood up. Mr. Jenyns now, with all the speed in his power, hastened up to me, and began a long harangue of which I know hardly a word, upon the pleasure and favour, and honour, and what not, of meeting me, and upon the delight, and information, and amusement of reading “Cecilia.”

I made all possible reverences, and tried to get to a seat, but Mrs. Ord, when I turned from him, took my hand, and leading me to the top of the room, presented me to Mrs. Jenyns. Reverences were repeated here, in silence, however, so they did very well. I then hoped to escape to Mrs. Thrale, who held out her hand to me, pointing to a chair by her own, and saying,--

“Must I, too, make interest to be introduced to Miss Burney?”

This, however, was not allowed; Mrs. Ord again took my hand, and parading me to the 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 then did the company seat themselves.

Mr. Cambridge, Sen., then came up to speak to me, but had hardly asked how I did before Mrs. Ord brought Mr. Jenyns to me again, and made him my right-hand neighbour, saying,--

“There! now I have put you fairly together, I have done with you.”

Mr. Soame Jenyns then, thus called upon--could he do less?--began an eulogy unrivalled, I think, for extravagance of praise. All creation was open to me; no human being ever began that book and had power to put it down; pathos, humour, interest, moral--O heavens! I heard, however, but the leading words; though every body else, the whole roon, being silent, doubtless heard how they hung together. Had I been carried to a theatre to hear an oration upon my own performances, I could hardly have felt more confounded.

I bowed my head during the first two or three sentences, by way of marking that I thought them over; but over they were not the more. I then turned away, but I only met Mrs. Buller, who took up the panegyric where Mr. Jenyns stopped for breath.

In short, the things that were said, with the attention of the whole company, would have drawn blushes into the cheeks of Agujari or Garrick. I was almost upon the point of running away. I changed so often from hot to cold that I really felt myself in a fever and an ague. I never even attempted to speak to them, and I looked with all the frigidity I possibly could, in hopes they would tire of bestowing such honours on a subject so ungrateful.

One moment I had hopes that Mr. G. Cambridge, in Christian charity, was coming to offer some interruption; for, when these speeches were in their height, he came and sat down on a chair immediately opposite Miss Thrale, and equally near, in profile, to me; but he merely said, “I hope Dr. Burney has not wanted his pamphlet?” Even Mrs. Thrale would not come near me, and told me afterwards it had been such a settled thing before my arrival, that I was to belong to Mr. Soame Jenyns, that she did not dare.

The moment they were gone, “Well, Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Ord, “have you and Mr. Jenyns had a great deal of conversation together?”

“O yes, a great deal on my part!”

“Why you don't look quite recovered from it yet--did not you like it?”

“O yes, it was perfectly agreeable to me!”

“Did he oppress you?” cried Mr. Cambridge, and then he began a very warm praise of him for his talents, wit, and understanding, his knowledge, writings, and humour.

I should have been very ready to have joined with him, had I not feared he meant an implied reproach to me, for not being more grateful for the praise of a man such as he described. I am sorry he was present if that is the case; but the truth is, the evening was not merely disagreeable but painful to me.

AN ITALIAN SINGER'S VIEWS OF ENGLAND.

_Saturday._--While Mr. George Cambridge was here Pacchierotti called-very grave, but very sweet. Mr. G. C. asked if he spoke English.

“O, very well,” cried I, “pray try him; he is very amiable, and I fancy you will like him.”

Pacchierotti began with complaining of the variable weather.

“I cannot,” he said, “be well such an inconsistent day.”

We laughed at the word “inconsistent,” and Mr. Cambridge said,--

“It is curious to see what new modes all languages may take in the hands of foreigners. The natives dare not try such experiments; and, therefore, we all talk pretty much alike; but a foreigner is obliged to hazard new expressions, and very often he shews us a force and power in our words, by an unusual adaptation of them, that we were not ourselves aware they would admit.”

And then, to draw Pacchierotti out, he began a dispute, of the different merits of Italy and England; defending his own country merely to make him abuse it; while Pacchierotti most eagerly took up the gauntlet on the part of Italy.

“This is a climate,” said Pacchierotti, “never in the same case for half an hour at a time; it shall be fair, and wet, and dry, and humid, forty times in a morning in the least. I am tired to be so played with, sir, by your climate.”

“We have one thing, however, Mr. Pacchierotti,” he answered, “which I hope you allow makes some amends, and that is our verdure; in Italy you cannot boast that.”

“But it seem to me, sir, to be of no utility so much evergreen is rather too much for my humble opinion.”

“And then your insects, Mr. Pacchierotti! those alone are a most dreadful drawback upon the comfort of your fine climate.”

“I must own,” said Pacchierotti, “Italy is rather disagreeable for the insects; but is it not better, sir, than an atmosphere so bad as they cannot live in it?”

“Why, as I can't defend our atmosphere, I must shift my ground, and talk to you of our fires, which draw together society.”

“O indeed, good sir, your societies are not very invigorating! Twenty people of your gentlemen and ladies to sit about a fire, and not to pronounce one word, is very dull!”

We laughed heartily at this retort courteous.

RAPTURES OF THE “OLD WITS” OVER “CECILIA.”

[Mary Delany was the daughter of Bernard Granville, younger brother of George Granville, Baron Lansdowne, the poet and friend of Wycherley and Pope. She was born on the 14th Of May, 1700. Her uncle, Lord Lansdowne, was a better friend to the Muses than to his young niece, for he forced poor Mary Granville, at the age of seventeen, to marry one Alexander Pendarves, a coarse, hard drinking Cornish squire, of more than three times her age. Pendarves died some six years later, and his widow married, in 1743, Dr. Patrick Delany, the friend of Swift. With Delany she lived happily for fifteen years, and after his death in 1768, Mrs. Delany devoted most of her time to her bosom friend, the dowager Duchess of Portland (see note [161], ante.), at whose seat at Bulstrode she usually spent the summer, while during the winter she resided at her own house in St. James's- place, where she was constantly visited by the Duchess. On the death of the Duchess in July, 1785, King George bestowed upon Mrs. Delany, whose means were not such as to make an addition to them a matter of indifference, a furnished house at Windsor and a pension Of 300 pounds a year. These she enjoyed for less than three years, dying on the 15th of April, 1788.

The strong attachment which grew up between her and Fanny renders Mrs. Delany a very interesting figure in the “Diary.” Nor was Fanny's enthusiasm for her aged friend misdirected. Speaking of Mrs. Delany, Edmund Burke said: “She was a perfect pattern of a perfect fine lady: a real fine lady of other days. Her manners were faultless; her deportment was of marked elegance; her speech was all sweetness; and her air and address were all dignity. I have always looked up to Mrs. Delany, as the model of an accomplished gentlewoman of former times.”[174]--ED.]

_Sunday, January 19_--And now for Mrs. Delany. I spent one hour with Mrs. Thrale, and then called for Mrs. Chapone,[175] and we proceeded together to St. James's-place.