Chapter 9

I obeyed; and he took me almost in his arms,--that is, one of his arms, for one would go three times, at least, round me,--and, half laughing, half serious, he charged me to “be a good girl!”

“But, my dear,” continued he with a very droll look, “what makes you so fond of the Scotch? I don't like you for that;--I hate these Scotch, and so must you. I wish Branghton had sent the dog to jail! That Scotch dog Macartney.”

“Why, sir,” said Mrs. Thrale, “don't you remember he says he would, but that he should get nothing by it?”

“Why, ay, true,” cried the doctor, see-sawing very solemnly, “that, indeed, is some palliation for his forbearance. But I must not have you so fond of the Scotch, my little Burney; make your hero what you will but a Scotchman. Besides, you write Scotch--you say 'the one'--my dear, that's not English, never use that phrase again.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Thrale, “it may be used in Macartney's letter, and then it will be a propriety.”

“No, madam, no!” cried he; “you can't make a beauty of it--it is in the third volume; put it in Macartney's letter, and welcome--that, or any thing that is nonsense.”

“Why, surely,” cried I, “the poor man is used ill enough by the Branghtons.”

“But Branghton,” said he, “only hates him because of his wretchedness--poor fellow!--But, my dear love, how should he ever have eaten a good dinner before he came to England? And then he laughed violently at young Branghton's idea.

“Well,” said Mrs. Thrale, “I always liked Macartney; he is a very pretty character, and I took to him, as the folks say.”

“Why, madam,” answered he, “I like Macartney myself. Yes, poor fellow, I liked the man, but I love not the nation.” And then he proceeded, in a dry manner, to make at once sarcastic reflections on the Scotch, and flattering speeches to me.[49]

DR. JOHNSON ON SOME “LADIES” OF HIS ACQUAINTANCE

_Saturday._--Dr. Johnson was again all himself; and so civil to me!--even admiring how I dressed myself! Indeed, it is well I have so much of his favour--for it seems he always speaks his mind concerning the dress of ladies, and all ladies who are here obey his injunctions implicitly, and alter whatever he disapproves. This is a part of his character that much surprises me: but notwithstanding he is sometimes so absent, and always so near sighted, he scrutinizes into every part of almost everybody's appearance. They tell me of a Miss Brown, who often visits here, and who has a slovenly way of dressing. “And when she comes down in a morning,” says Mrs. Thrale, “her hair will be all loose, and her cap half off; and then Dr. Johnson, who sees something is wrong, and does not know where the fault is, concludes it is in the cap, and says, “My dear, what do you wear such a vile cap for?” “I'll change it, Sir!” cries the poor girl, “if you don't like it.” “Ay, do,” he says; and away runs poor Miss Brown; but when she gets on another, it's the same thing, for the cap has nothing to do with the fault. And then she wonders Dr. Johnson should not like the cap, for she thinks it very pretty. And so on with her gown, which he also makes her change; but if the poor girl were to change through all her wardrobe, unless she could put her things on better, he would still find fault.”

When Dr. Johnson was gone, she told me of my mother's[50] being obliged to change her dress.

“Now,” said she “Mrs. Burney had on a very pretty linen jacket and coat, and was going to church; but Dr. Johnson, who, I suppose, did not like her in a jacket, saw something was the matter, and so found fault with the linen: and he looked and peered, and then said, 'Why, madam, this won't do! you must not go to church so!' So away went poor Mrs. Burney, and changed her gown! And when she had done so, he did not like it, but he did not know why, so he told her she should not wear a black hat and cloak in summer! How he did bother poor Mrs. Burney! and himself too, for if the things had been put on to his mind, he would have taken no notice of them.”

“Why,” said Mr. Thrale, very drily, “I don't think Mrs. Burney a very good dresser.”

“Last time she came,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she was in a white cloak, and she told Dr. Johnson she had got her old white cloak scoured on purpose to oblige him! 'Scoured!' says he; 'ay, have you, madam?'--so he see-sawed, for he could not for shame find fault, but he did not seem to like the scouring.”

And now let me try to recollect an account he gave of certain celebrated ladies of his acquaintance: an account in which, had you heard it from himself, would have made you die with laughing, his manner is so peculiar, and enforces his humour so originally. It was begun by Mrs. Thrale's apologising to him for troubling him with some question she thought trifling--O, I remember! We had been talking of colours, and of the fantastic names given to them, and why the palest lilac should b called a soupir etouffe; and when Dr. Johnson came in, she applied to him.

“Why, madam,” said he, with wonderful readiness, “it is called a stifled sigh because it is checked in its progress, and only half a colour.”

I could not help expressing my amazement at his universal readiness upon all subjects, and Mrs. Thrale said to him, “Sir, Miss Burney wonders at your patience with such stuff, but I tell her you are used to me, for I believe I torment you with more foolish questions than anybody else dares do.”

“No, madam,” said he; “you don't torment me;--you teaze me, indeed, sometimes.”

“Ay, so I do, Dr. Johnson, and I wonder you bear with my nonsense.”

“No, madam, you never talk nonsense; you have as much sense and more wit, than any woman I know.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Thrale, blushing, “it is my turn to go under the table this morning, Miss Burney!”

“And yet,” continued the doctor, with the most comical look, “I have known all the wits, from Mrs. Montagu down to Bet Flint.”

“Bet Flint cried Mrs. Thrale--pray, who is she?”

“Such a fine character, madam! She was habitually a slut and a drunkard, and occasionally a thief and a harlot.”

“And, for heaven's sake, how came you to know her?”

“Why, madam, she figured in the literary world, too! Bet Flint wrote her own life, and called herself Cassandra, and it was in verse;--it began:

'When Nature first ordained my birth, A diminutive I was born on earth: And then I came from a dark abode, Into a gay and gaudy world.'[51]

So Bet brought me her verses to correct; but I gave her half-a-crown, and she liked it as well. Bet had a fine spirit;--she advertised for a husband, but she had no success, for she told me no man aspired to her! Then she hired very handsome lodgings and a footboy; and she got a harpsichord, but Bet could not play; however, she put herself in fine attitudes, and drummed.”

Then he gave an account of another of these geniuses, who called herself by some fine name, I have forgotten what.

“She had not quite the same stock of virtue,” continued he, “nor the same stock of honesty as Bet Flint; but I suppose she envied her accomplishments, for she was so little moved by the power of harmony, that while Bet Flint thought she was drumming very divinely, the other jade had her indicted for a nuisance!”

“And pray what became of her, sir?

“Why, madam, she stole a quilt from the man of the house, and he had her taken up: but Bet Flint had a spirit not to be subdued; so when she found herself obliged to go to jail, she ordered a sedan chair, and bid her footboy walk before her. However, the boy proved refractory, for he was ashamed, though his mistress was not.”

“And did she ever get out of jail again, sir?”

“Yes, madam; when she came to her trial the judge acquitted her. 'So now,' she said to me, 'the quilt is MY own, and now I'll make a petticoat of it.' Oh, I loved Bet Flint!”[52]

Oh, how we all laughed! Then he gave an account of another lady, who called herself Laurinda, and who also wrote verses and stole furniture; but he had not the same affection for her, he said, though she too “was a lady who had high notions of honour.”

Then followed the history of another, who called herself Hortensia, and who walked up and down the park repeating a book of Virgil. “But,” said he, “though I know her story, I never had the good fortune to see her.”

After this he gave us an account of the famous Mrs. Pinkethman: “And she,” he said, “told me she owed all her misfortunes to her wit; for she was so unhappy as to marry a man who thought himself also a wit, though I believe she gave him not implicit credit for it, but it occasioned much contradiction and ill-will.”

“Bless me, sir,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “how can all these vagabonds contrive to get at you, of all people?”

“O the dear creatures!” cried he, laughing heartily, “I can't but be glad to see them.”

“Why, I wonder, sir, you never went to see Mrs. Rudd,[53] among the rest.”

“Why, madam, I believe I should,” said he, “if it was not for the newspapers; but I am prevented many frolics that I should like very well, since I am become such a theme for the papers.”

Now, would you ever have imagined this? Bet Flint, it seems, took Kitty Fisher[54] to see him, but to his no little regret he was not at home. “And Mrs. Williams,”[55] he added, “did not love Bet Flint, but Bet Flint made herself very easy about that.”

A LEARNED MAN ON “EVELINA.”

When we were dressed for dinner, and went into the parlour, we had the agreeable surprise of seeing Mr. Seward. There was also Mr. Lort,[56] who is reckoned one of the most learned men alive, and is also a collector of curiosities, alike in literature and natural history. His manners are somewhat blunt and odd, and he is altogether out of the common road, without having chosen a better path.

The day was passed most agreeably. In the evening we had, as usual, a literary conversation. Mr. Lort produced several curious MSS. of the famous Bristol Chatterton; among others, his will, and divers verses written against Dr. Johnson, as a placeman and pensioner; all of which he read aloud, with a steady voice and unmoved countenance.

I was astonished at him; Mrs. Thrale not much pleased; Mr. Thrale silent and attentive; and Mr. Seward was slily laughing. Dr. Johnson himself listened profoundly and laughed openly. Indeed, I believe he wishes his abusers no other thing than a good dinner, like Pope.[57]

Just as we had got our biscuits and toast-and-water, which make the Streatham supper, and which, indeed, is all there is any chance of eating after our late and great dinners, Mr. Lort suddenly said,

“Pray, ma'am, have you heard anything of a novel that runs about a good deal, called 'Evelina'?”

What a ferment did this question, before such a set, put me in! I did not know whether he spoke to me, or Mrs. Thrale, and Mrs. Thrale was in the same doubt, and as she owned, felt herself in a little palpitation for me, not knowing what might come next, Between us both, therefore, he had no answer.

“It has been recommended to me,” continued he; “but I have no great desire to see it, because it has such a foolish name. Yet I have heard a great deal of it, too.”

He then repeated “Evelina”--in a very languishing and ridiculous tone.

My heart beat so quick against my stays that I almost panted with extreme agitation, from the dread either of hearing some horrible criticism, or of being betrayed: and I munched my biscuit as if I had not eaten for a fortnight.

I believe the whole party were in some little consternation Dr. Johnson began see-sawing; Mr. Thrale awoke; Mr. E---- who I fear has picked up some notion of the affair from being so much in the house, grinned amazingly; and Mr. Seward, biting his nails and flinging himself back in his chair, I am sure had wickedness enough to enjoy the whole scene.

Mrs. Thrale was really a little fluttered, but without looking at me, said, “And pray what, Mr. Lort, what have you heard of it?”

“Why they say,” answered he, “that it's an account of a young lady's first entrance into company, and of the scrapes she gets into; and they say there's a great deal of character in it, but I have not cared to look in it, because the name is so foolish--'Evelina'!”

“Why foolish, sir?” cried Dr. Johnson. “Where's the folly of it?”

“Why, I won't say much for the name myself,” said Mrs. Thrale, “to those who don't know the reason of it, which I found out, but which nobody else seems to know.” She then explained the name from Evelyn, according to my own meaning.

“Well,” said Dr. Johnson, “if that was the reason, it is a very good one.”

“Why, have you had the book here?” cried Mr. Lort, staring.

“Ay, indeed, have we,” said Mrs. Thrale; “I read it when I was last confined, and I laughed over it, and I cried over it!”

“O ho!” said Mr. Lort, “this is another thing! If you have had it here, I will certainly read it.”

“Had it? ay,” returned she; “and Dr. Johnson, who would not look at it at first, was so caught by it when I put it in the coach with him, that he has sung its praises ever since,--and he says Richardson would have been proud to have written it.”

“O ho! this is a good hearing,” cried Mr. Lort; “if Dr. Johnson can read it, I shall get it with all speed.”

“You need not go far for it,” said Mrs. Thrale, “for it's now upon yonder table.”

I could sit still no longer; there was something so awkward, so uncommon, so strange in my then situation, that I wished myself a hundred miles off, and indeed, I had almost choked myself with the biscuit, for I could not for my life swallow it: and so I got up, and, as Mr. Lort went to the table to look for “Evelina,” I left the room, and was forced to call for water to wash down the biscuit, which literally stuck in my throat.

I heartily wished Mr. Lort at Jerusalem. I did not much like going back, but the moment I recovered breath, I resolved not to make bad worse by staying longer away: but at the door of the room, I met Mrs. Thrale, who, asking me if I would have some water, took me into a back room, and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“This is very good sport,” cried she; “the man is as innocent about the matter as a child, and we shall hear what he says about it to-morrow morning at breakfast. I made a sign to Dr. Johnson and Seward not to tell him.”

She found I was not in a humour to think it such good sport as she did, she grew more serious, and taking my hand kindly said, “May you never, Miss Burney, know any other pain than that of hearing yourself praised! and I am sure that you must often feel.”

When I told her how much I dreaded being discovered, and begged her not to betray me any further, she again began laughing, and openly declared she should not consult me about the matter. But she told me that, as soon as I had left the room, when Mr. Lort took up “Evelina,” he exclaimed contemptuously “Why, it's printed for Lowndes!” and that Dr. Johnson then told him there were things and characters in it more than worthy of Fielding. “Oh ho!” cried Mr. Lort; “what, is it better than Fielding?” “Harry Fielding,” answered Dr. Johnson, “knew nothing but the shell of life.”

“So you, ma'am,” added the flattering Mrs. Thrale, “have found the kernel.”

Are they all mad? or do they only want to make me so

CURIOSITY REGARDING THE AUTHOR OF “EVELINA.”

_Streatham, Sept._--Our Monday's intended great party was very small, for people are so dispersed at present in various quarters: we had, therefore, only Sir Joshua Reynolds, two Miss Palmers, Dr. Calvert, Mr. Rose Fuller, and Lady Ladd.[58] Dr. Johnson did not return.

Sir Joshua I am much pleased with: I like his countenance, and I like his manners; the former I think expressive, and sensible; the latter gentle, unassuming, and engaging.

The dinner, in quantity as well as quality, would have sufficed for forty people. Sir Joshua said, when the dessert appeared, “Now if all the company should take a fancy to the same dish, there would be sufficient for all the company from any one.”

After dinner, as usual, we strolled out: I ran first into the hall for my cloak, and Mrs. Thrale, running after me, said in a low voice,

“If you are taxed with 'Evelina,' don't own it; I intend to say it is mine, for sport's sake.”

You may think how much I was surprised, and how readily I agreed not to own it; but I could ask no questions, for the two Miss Palmers followed close, saying,

“Now pray, ma'am, tell us who it is?”

“No, no,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “who it is, you must find out. I have told you that you dined with the author; but the rest you must make out as you can.”

Miss Thrale began tittering violently, but I entreated her not to betray me; and, as soon as I could, I got Mrs. Thrale to tell me what all this meant. She then acquainted me, that, when she first came into the parlour, she found them all busy in talking of “Evelina,” and heard that Sir Joshua had declared he would give fifty pounds to know the author!

“Well,” said Mrs. Thrale, “thus much, then, I will tell you; the author will dine with you to-day.”

They were then all distracted to know the party.

“Why,” said she, “we shall have Dr. Calvert, Lady Ladd, Rose Fuller, and Miss Burney.”

“Miss Burney?” quoth they, “which Miss Burney?”

“Why, the eldest, Miss Fanny Burney; and so out of this list you must make out the author.”

I shook my head at her, but begged her, at least, to go no further.

“No, no,” cried she, laughing, “leave me alone; the fun will be to make them think it me.”

However, as I learnt at night, when they were gone, Sir Joshua was so very importunate with Mr. Thrale, and attacked him with such eagerness, that he made him confess who it was, as soon as the ladies retired.

Well, to return to our walk. The Miss Palmers grew more and more urgent.

“Did we indeed,” said the eldest, “dine with the author of 'Evelina?'”

“Yes, in good truth did you.”

“Why then, ma'am, it was yourself.”

“I shan't tell you whether it was or not; but were there not other people at dinner besides me? What think you of Dr. Calvert?”

“Dr. Calvert? no! no; I am sure it was not he: besides, they say it was certainly written by a woman.”

“By a woman? nay, then, is not here Lady Ladd, and Miss Burney, and Hester?”[59]

“Lady Ladd I am sure it was not, nor could it be Miss Thrale's. O maam! I begin to think it was really yours! Now, was it not, Mrs. Thrale?”

Mrs. Thrale only laughed.

“A lady of our acquaintance,” said Miss Palmer, “Mrs. Cholmondeley, went herself to the printer, but he would not tell.”

“Would he not?” cried Mrs. Thrale, “why, then, he's an honest man.”

“Oh, is he so?--nay, then, it is certainly Mrs. Thrale's.”

“Well, well, I told you before I should not deny it.”

“Miss Burney,” said she, “pray do you deny it?” in a voice that seemed to say,--I must ask round, though rather from civility than suspicion.

“Me?” cried I, “well no: if nobody else will deny it, why should I? It does not seem the fashion to deny it.”

“No, in truth,” cried she; “I believe nobody would think of denying it that could claim it, for it is the sweetest book in the world. My uncle could not go to bed till he had finished it, and he says he is sure he shall make love to the author, if ever he meets with her, and it should really be a woman!”

“Dear madam,” cried Miss Offy, “I am sure it was you but why will you not own it at once?”

“I shall neither own nor deny anything about it.”

“A gentleman whom we know very well,” said Miss Palmer, “when he could learn nothing at the printer's, took the trouble to go all about Snow Hill, to see if he could find any silversmith's.”

“Well, he was a cunning creature!” said Mrs. Thrale; “but Dr. Johnson's favourite is Mr. Smith.”

“So he is of everybody,” answered she: “he and all that family; everybody says such a family never was drawn before. But Mrs. Cholmondeley's favourite is Madame Duval; she acts her from morning to night, and ma-foi's everybody she sees. But though we all want so much to know the author, both Mrs. Cholmondeley and my uncle himself say they should be frightened to death to be in her company, because she must be such a very nice observer, that there would be no escaping her with safety.”

What strange ideas are taken from mere book-reading! But what follows gave me the highest delight I can feel.

“Mr. Burke,”[60] she continued, “doats on it: he began it one morning at seven o'clock, and could not leave it a moment; he sat up all night reading it. He says he has not seen such a book he can't tell when.”

Mrs. Thrale gave me involuntarily a look of congratulation, and could not forbear exclaiming, “How glad she was Mr. Burke approved it!” This served to confirm the Palmers in their mistake, and they now, without further questioning, quietly and unaffectedly concluded the book to be really Mrs. Thrale's and Miss Palmer said,--“Indeed, ma'am, you ought to write a novel every year: nobody can write like you!”

I was both delighted and diverted at this mistake, and they grew so easy and so satisfied under it, that the conversation dropped, and off we went to the harpsichord.

Not long after, the party broke up, and they took leave. I had no conversation with Sir Joshua all day; but I found myself more an object of attention to him than I wished; and he several times spoke to me, though he did not make love!

When they rose to take leave, Miss Palmer, with the air of asking the greatest of favours, hoped to see me when I returned to town; and Sir Joshua, approaching me with the most profound respect, inquired how long I should remain at Streatham? A week, I believed: and then he hoped, when I left it, they should have the honour of seeing me in Leicester Square.[61]

In short, the joke is, the people speak as if they were afraid of me, instead of my being afraid of them. It seems, when they got to the door, Miss Palmer said to Mrs. Thrale,

“Ma'am, so it's Miss Burney after all!”

“Ay, sure,” answered she, “who should it be?”

“Ah! why did not you tell us sooner?” said Offy, “that we might have had a little talk about it?”

Here, therefore, end all my hopes of secrecy!

THE MEMBERS OF DR. JOHNSON'S HOUSEHOLD.

At tea-time the subject turned upon the domestic economy of Dr. Johnson's household. Mrs. Thrale has often acquainted me that his house is quite filled and overrun with all sorts of strange creatures, whom he admits for mere charity, and because nobody else will admit them,--for his charity is unbounded; or, rather, bounded only by his circumstances.

The account he gave of the adventures and absurdities of the set, was highly diverting, but too diffused for writing--though one or two speeches I must give. I think I shall occasionally theatricalise my dialogues.

Mrs. Thrale--Pray, Sir, how does Mrs. Williams like all this tribe?

Johnson--Madam, she does not like them at all: but their fondness for her is not greater. She and De Mullin[62] quarrel incessantly; but as they can both be occasionally of service to each other, and as neither of them have a place to go to, their animosity does not force them to separate.

Mrs. T.--And pray, sir, what is Mr. Macbean?[63]

Dr. J.--Madam, he is a Scotchman: he is a man of great learning, and for his learning I respect him, and I wish to serve him. He knows many languages, and knows them well; but he knows nothing of life. I advised him to write a geographical dictionary; but I have lost all hopes of his doing anything properly, since I found he gave as much labour to Capua as to Rome.

Mr. T.--And pray who is clerk of your kitchen, sir?

Dr. J.--Why, sir, I am afraid there is none; a general anarchy prevails in my kitchen, as I am told by Mr. Levat,[64] who says it is not now what it used to be!

Mrs. T.--Mr. Levat, I suppose, sir, has the office of keeping the hospital in health? for he is an apothecary.

Dr. J.--Levat, madam, is a brutal fellow, but I have a good regard for him; for his brutality is in his manners, not his mind.

Mr. T.--But how do you get your dinners drest?