Well-it was, I think, Saturday, Aug. 25, that Mrs Thrale brought me back.[143] We then took up Mr. Crutchley, who had come to his town-house upon business, and who accompanied us thither for a visit of three days.
In the evening Mr. Seward also came. He has been making the western tour, and gave us, with a seriousness that kept me continually grinning, some account of a doctor, apothecary, or 'chemist' belonging to every town at which he had stopped.
And when we all laughed at his thus following up the faculty, he undauntedly said,—
“I think it the best way to get information; I know no better method to learn what is going forward anywhere than to send for the chief physician of the place, so I commonly consult him the first day I stop at a place, and when I have fee'd him, and made acquaintance, he puts me in a way to find out what is worth looking at.”
A most curious mode of picking up a cicerone!
After this, still pursuing his favourite topic, he began to inquire into the particulars of Mr. Crutchley's late illness—but that gentleman, who is as much in the opposite extreme, of disdaining even any decent care of himself, as Mr. Seward is in the other, of devoting almost all his thoughts to his health cut the matter very short, and would not talk upon it at all.
“But, if I had known sooner,” said Mr. Seward, “that you were ill, I should have come to see you.”
“Should you?” cried Mr. Crutchley, with a loud laugh; “very kind, indeed!—it would have been charming to see you when I am ill, when I am afraid of undertaking you even when well!”
Some time after Sophy Streatfield was talked of,—Oh, with how much impertinence as if she was at the service of any man who would make proposals to her! Yet Mr. Seward spoke of her with praise and tenderness all the time, as if, though firmly of this opinion, he was warmly her admirer. From such admirers and such admiration heaven guard me! Mr. Crutchley said but little; but that little was bitter enough.
“However,” said Mr. Seward, “after all that can be said, there is nobody whose manners are more engaging, nobody more amiable than the little Sophy; and she is certainly very pretty; I must own I have always been afraid to trust myself with her.”
Here Mr. Crutchley looked very sneeringly.
“Nay, squire,” cried Mr. Seward, “she is very dangerous, I can tell you; and if she had you at a fair trial, she would make an impression that would soften even your hard heart.”
“No need of any further trial,” answered he, laughing, “for she has done that already; and so soft was the impression that it is absolutely all dissolved!—melted quite away, and not a trace of it left!”
Mr. Seward then proposed that she should marry Sir John Miller,[144] who has just lost his wife and very gravely said, he had a great mind to set out for Tunbridge, and carry her with him to Bath, and so make the match without delay!
“But surely,” said Mrs. Thrale, “if you fail, you will think yourself bound in honour to marry her yourself?”
“Why, that's the thing,” said he; “no, I can't take the little Sophy myself; I should have too many rivals; no, that won't do.”
How abominably conceited and sure these pretty gentlemen are! However, Mr. Crutchley here made a speech that half won my heart.
“I wish,” said he, “Miss Streatfield was here at this moment to cuff you, Seward!”
“Cuff me!” cried he. “What, the little Sophy!—and why?”
“For disposing of her so freely. I think a man deserves to be cuffed for saying any lady will marry him.”
I seconded this speech with much approbation.
August, Monday.—We were to have Mr. Cator and other company to dinner; and all breakfast Mr. Seward kept plaguing poor Mr. Musgrave, who is an incessant talker, about the difficulty he would have in making his part good with Mr. Cator, who, he assured him, would out-talk him if he did not take care. And Mr. Crutchley recommended to him to “wait for a sneeze,” in order to put in; so that he was almost rallied into a passion, though, being very good-natured, he made light of it, and it blew over.
In the middle of dinner I was seized with a violent laughing fit, by seeing Mr. Musgrave, who had sat quite silent, turn very solemnly to Mr. Seward and say in a reproachful tone,—
“Seward, you said I should be fighting to talk all the talk, and here I have not spoke once.”
“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Seward, nodding at him, “why don't you put in?”
“Why, I lost an opportunity just now, when Mr. Cator—talked of climates; I had something I could have said about them very well.”
After this, however, he made himself amends; for when we left the men to their wine, he began such a violent dispute with Mr Cator, that Mr. Jenkinson and Mr. Crutchley left the field of battle, and went out to join the ladies in their walk round the grounds; and that breaking up the party, the rest soon followed.
By the way, I happened not to walk myself, which was most ludicrously noticed by Mr. Musgrave; who, while we were at tea, suddenly crossed the circle to come up to me, and say,—
“You did not walk, Miss Burney?”
“No, sir.”
“Very much in the right—very much in the right, indeed! You were studying? Oh, very right! never lose a moment! Such an understanding as yours it would be a shame to neglect; it ought to be cultivated every moment.”
And then he hurried back to his seat.
In the evening, when all the company was gone but our three gentlemen, Seward, Crutchley, and Musgrave, we took a walk round the grounds by moonlight—and Mr. Musgrave started with rapture at the appearance of the moon, now full, now cloudy, now clear, now obscured, every three yards we moved.
Friday, Sept. 11.—And now, if I am not mistaken, I come to relate the conclusion of Mr. Crutchley's most extraordinary summer career at Streatham, which place, I believe, he has now left without much intention to frequently revisit. However, this is mere conjecture; but he really had a run of ill-luck not very inviting to a man of his cold and splenetic turn to play the same game.
When we were just going to supper, we heard a disturbance among the dogs; and Mrs. and Miss Thrale went out to see what was the matter, while Dr. Johnson and I remained quiet. Soon returning.
“A friend! a friend!” she cried, and was followed by Mr. Crutchley. He would not eat with us, but was chatty and in good-humour, and as usual, when in spirits, saucily sarcastic. For instance, it is generally half my employment in hot evenings here to rescue some or other poor buzzing idiot of an insect from the flame of a candle. This, accordingly, I was performing with a Harry Longlegs, which, after much trial to catch, eluded me, and escaped, nobody could see how. Mr. Crutchley vowed I had caught and squeezed him to death in my hand.
“No, indeed,” cried I, “when I catch them, I put them out of the window.”
“Ay, their bodies,” said he, laughing; “but their legs, I suppose, you keep.”
“Not I, indeed; I hold them very safe in the palm of my hand.”
“Oh!” said he, “the palm of your hand! why, it would not hold a fly! But what have you done with the poor wretch! thrown him under the table slily?”
“What good would that do?”
“Oh, help to establish your full character for mercy.”
Now was not that a speech to provoke Miss Grizzle herself? However, I only made up a saucy lip.
“Come,” cried he, offering to take my hand, “where is he? Which hand is he in? Let me examine?”
“No, no, I thank you; I sha'n't make you my confessor, whenever I take one.”
He did not much like this; but I did not mean he should.
Afterwards he told us a most unaccountably ridiculous story of a crying wife. A gentleman, he said, of his acquaintance had married lately his own kept mistress; and last Sunday he had dined with the bride and bridegroom, but, to his utter astonishment, without any apparent reason in the world, in the middle of dinner or tea, she burst into a violent fit of crying, and went out of the room, though there was not the least quarrel, and the sposo seemed all fondness and attention.
“What, then,” said I, somewhat maliciously, I grant, “had you been saying to er?”
“Oh, thank you!” said he, with a half-affronted bow, “I expected this! I declare I thought you would conclude it was me!”
Somebody told me (but not your father) that the Opera singers would not be likely to get any money out of Sheridan this year. “Why that fellow grows fat,” says I, “like Heliogabalus, upon the tongues of nightingales.” Did I tell you that bright thing before?—Mrs. Thrale to Fanny Burney.
(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Philips, late Miss Susan Burney.)
February, 1782.
As I have a frank and a subject, I will leave my bothers, and write you and my dear brother Molesworth[145] a little account of a rout I have just been at, at the house of Mr. Paradise.
You will wonder, perhaps, in this time of hurry, why I went thither; but when I tell you Pacchierotti[146] was there, you will not think it surprising.
There was a crowd of company; Charlotte and I went together; my father came afterwards. Mrs. Paradise received us very graciously, and led me immediately up to Miss Thrale, who was sitting by the Pac.
We were very late, for we had waited cruelly for the coach, and Pac. had sung a song out of “Artaxerxes,” composed for a tenor, which we lost, to my infinite regret. Afterwards he sang “Dolce speme” delightfully.
Mrs. Paradise, leaning over the Kirwans and Charlotte, who hardly got a seat all night for the crowd, said she begged to speak to me. I squeezed my great person out, and she then said,—
“Miss Burney, Lady Say and Sele desires the honour of being introduced to you.”
Her ladyship stood by her side. She seems pretty near fifty-at least turned forty; her head was full of feathers, flowers, jewels, and gew-gaws, and as high as Lady Archer's her dress was trimmed with beads, silver, persian sashes, and all sorts of fine fancies; her face is thin and fiery, and her whole manner spoke a lady all alive.
“Miss Burney,” cried she, with great quickness, and a look all curiosity, “I am very happy to see you; I have longed to see you a great while. I have read your performance, and I am quite delighted with it. I think it's the most elegant novel I ever read in my life. Such a style! I am quite surprised at it. I can't think where you got so much invention!”
You may believe this was a reception not to make me very loquacious. I did not know which way to turn my head.
“I must introduce you,” continued her ladyship, “to my sister; she'll be quite delighted to see you. She has written a novel herself so you are sister authoresses. A most elegant thing it is, I assure you; almost as pretty as yours, only not quite so elegant. She has written two novels, only one is not so pretty as the other. But I shall insist upon your seeing them. One is in letters, like yours, only yours is prettiest; it's called the 'Mausoleum of Julia'!”
What unfeeling things, thought I, are my sisters! I'm sure I never heard them go about thus praising me. Mrs. Paradise then again came forward, and taking my hand, led me up to her ladyship's sister, Lady Hawke, saying aloud, and with a courteous smirk,
“Miss Burney, ma'am, authoress of 'Evelina.'”
“Yes,” cried my friend, Lady Say and Sele, who followed me close, “it's the authoress of 'Evelina,' so you are sister authoresses!”
Lady Hawke arose and curtsied. She is much younger than her sister, and rather pretty; extremely languishing, delicate, and pathetic; apparently accustomed to be reckoned the genius of her family, and well contented to be looked upon as a creature dropped from the clouds. I was then seated between their ladyships, and Lady S. and S., drawing as near to me as possible, said,—
“Well, and so you wrote this pretty book!—and pray did your papa know of it?”
“No, ma'am; not till some months after the publication.”
“So I've heard—it's surprising! I can't think how you invented it!—there's a vast deal of invention in it! And you've got so much humour, too! Now my sister has no humour; hers is all sentiment. You can't think how I was entertained with that old grandmother and her son!”
I suppose she meant Tom Branghton for the son.
“How much pleasure you must have had in writing it; had not you?”
“Y—e—s, ma'am.”
“So has my sister; she's never without a pen in her hand; she can't help writing for her life. When Lord Hawke is travelling about with her, she keeps writing all the way.”
“Yes,” said Lady Hawke; “I really can't help writing. One has great pleasure in writing the things; has one not, Miss Burney?”
“Y—e—s, ma'am.”
“But your novel,” cried Lady Say and Sele, “is in such a style!—so elegant! I am vastly glad you made it end happily. I hate a novel that don't end happy.”
“Yes,” said Lady Hawke, with a languid smile, “I was vastly glad when she married Lord Orville. I was sadly afraid it would not have been.”
“My sister intends,” said Lady Say and Sele, “to print her 'Mausoleum,' just for her own friends and acquaintances.”
“Yes,” said Lady Hawke; “I have never printed yet.”
“I saw Lady Hawke's name,” quoth I to my first friend, “ascribed to the play of 'Variety.'”[147]
“Did you indeed?” cried Lady Say, in an ecstasy. “Sister! do you know Miss Burney saw your name in the newspapers, about the play!”
“Did she?” said Lady Hawke, smiling complacently. “But I really did not write it; I never wrote a play in my life.”
“Well,” cried Lady Say, “but do repeat that sweet part that I am so fond of—you know what I mean; Miss Burney must hear it,—out of your novel, you know!”
Lady H.-No, I can't; I have forgot it.
Lady S.-Oh, no! I am sure you have not; I insist upon it.
Lady H.-But I know you can repeat it yourself; you have so fine a memory; I am sure you can repeat it.
Lady S.-Oh, but I should not do it justice! that's all,—I should not do it justice!
Lady Hawke then bent forward, and repeated—“'If, when he made the declaration of his love, the sensibility that beamed in his eyes was felt in his heart, what pleasing sensations and soft alarms might not that tender avowal awaken!'”
“And from what, ma'am,” cried I, astonished, and imagining I had mistaken them, “is this taken?”
“From my sister's novel!” answered the delighted Lady Say and Sele, expecting my raptures to be equal to her own; “it's in the 'Mausoleum,'—did not you know that? Well, I can't think how you can write these sweet novels! And it's all just like that part. Lord Hawke himself says it's all poetry. For my part, I'm sure I never could write so. I suppose, Miss Burney, you are producing another,—a'n't you?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Oh, I dare say you are. I dare say you are writing one this Very minute!”
Mrs. Paradise now came up to me again, followed by a square man, middle-aged, and hum-drum, who, I found was Lord Say and Sele, afterwards from the Kirwans, for though they introduced him to me, I was so confounded by their vehemence and their manners, that I did not hear his name.
“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. P., presenting me to him, “authoress of 'Evelina.'”
“Yes,” cried Lady Say and Sele, starting up, “'tis the authoress of 'Evelina!'”
“Of what?” cried he.
“Of 'Evelina.' You'd never think it,—she looks so young, to have so much invention, and such an elegant style! Well, I could write a play, I think, but I'm sure I could never write a novel.”
“Oh, yes, you could, if you would try,” said Lady Hawke.
“Oh, no, I could not,” answered she; “I could not get a style—that's the thing—I could not tell how to get a style! and a novel's nothing without a style, you know!”
“Why no,” said Lady Hawke; “that's true. But then you write such charming letters, you know!”
“Letters!” repeated Lady S. and S. simpering; “do you think so? Do you know I wrote a long letter to Mrs. Ray just before I came here, this very afternoon,—quite a long letter! I did, I assure you!”
Here Mrs. Paradise came forward with another gentleman, younger, slimmer, and smarter, and saying to me, “Sir Gregory Page Turner,” said to him,
“Miss Burney, authoress of 'Evelina.'”
At which Lady Say and Sele, In fresh transport, again rose, and rapturously again repeated—
“Yes, she's authoress of 'Evelina'! Have you read it?”
“No; is it to be had?”
“Oh dear, yes! it's been printed these two years! You'd never think it! But it's the most elegant novel I ever read in my life. Writ in such a style!”
“Certainly,” said he very civilly; “I have every inducement to get it. Pray where is it to be had? everywhere, I suppose?”
“Oh, nowhere, I hope,” cried I, wishing at that moment it had been never in human ken.
My square friend, Lord Say and Sele, then putting his head forward, said, very solemnly, “I'll purchase it!”
His lady then mentioned to me a hundred novels that I had never heard of, asking my opinion of them, and whether I knew the authors? Lady Hawke only occasionally and languidly joining in the discourse: and then Lady S. and S., suddenly rising, begged me not to move, for she should be back again in a minute, and flew to the next room.
I took, however, the first opportunity of Lady Hawke's casting down her eyes, and reclining her delicate head, to make away from this terrible set; and, just as I was got by the pianoforte, where I hoped Pacchierotti would soon present himself, Mrs. Paradise again came to me, and said,—
“Miss Burney, Lady Say and Sele wishes vastly to cultivate your acquaintance, and begs to know if she may have the honour of your company to an assembly at her house next Friday?—and I will do myself the pleasure to call for you if you will give me leave.”
“Her ladyship does me much honour, but I am unfortunately engaged,” was my answer, with as much promptness as I could command.
June.—Among the many I have been obliged to shirk this year, for the sake of living almost solely with “Cecilia,” none have had less patience with my retirement than Miss Palmer, who, bitterly believing I intended never to visit her again, has forborne sending me any invitations: but, about three weeks ago, my father had a note from Sir Joshua Reynolds, to ask him to dine at Richmond, and meet the Bishop of St. Asaph,[148] and, therefore, to make my peace, I scribbled a note to Miss Palmer to this purpose,—
“After the many kind invitations I have been obliged to refuse, will you, my dear Miss Palmer, should I offer to accompany my father to-morrow, bid me remember the old proverb,
This was graciously received; and the next morning Sir Joshua and Miss Palmer called for my father and me, accompanied by Lord Cork. We had a mighty pleasant ride, Miss Palmer and I “made up,” though she scolded most violently about my long absence, and attacked me about the book without mercy. The book, in short, to my great consternation, I find is talked of and expected all the town over. My dear father himself, I do verily believe, mentions it to everybody; he is fond of it to enthusiasm, and does not foresee the danger of raising such general expectation, which fills me with the horrors every time I am tormented with the thought.
Sir Joshua's house is delightfully situated, almost at the top of Richmond Hill. We walked till near dinner-time upon the terrace, and there met Mr. Richard Burke, the brother of the orator. Miss Palmer, stopping him, said,—
“Are you coming to dine with us?”
“No,” he answered; “I shall dine at the Star and Garter.”
“How did you come—with Mrs. Burke, or alone?”
“Alone.”
“What, on horseback?”
“Ay, sure!” cried he, laughing; “up and ride! Now's the time.”
And he made a fine flourish with his hand, and passed us. He is just made under-secretary at the Treasury. He is a tall and handsome man, and seems to have much dry drollery; but we saw no more of him.
After our return to the house, and while Sir Joshua and I were tete-a-tete, Lord Cork and my father being still walking, and Miss Palmer having, I suppose, some orders to give about the dinner, the “knight of Plympton” was desiring my opinion of the prospect from his window, and comparing it with Mr. Burke's, as he told me after I had spoken it,—when the Bishop of St. Asaph and his daughter, Miss Georgiana Shipley, were announced. Sir Joshua, to divert himself, in introducing me to the bishop, said, “Miss Burney, my lord; otherwise 'Evelina.'”
The bishop is a well-looking man, and seemed grave, quiet, and sensible. I have heard much more of him, but nothing more appeared. Miss Georgiana, however, was showy enough for two. She is a very tall and rather handsome girl; but the expression of her face is, to me, disagreeable. She has almost a constant smile, not of softness, nor of insipidity, but of self-sufficiency and internal satisfaction. She is very much accomplished, and her fame for painting and for scholarship, I know you are well acquainted with. I believe her to have very good parts and much quickness, but she is so full of herself, so earnest to obtain notice, and so happy in her confidence of deserving it, that I have been not less charmed with any young lady I have seen for many a day. I have met with her before, at Mrs. Pepys', but never before was introduced to her.
Miss Palmer soon joined us; and, in a short time, entered more company,—three gentlemen and one lady; but there was no more ceremony used of introductions. The lady, I concluded was Mrs. Burke, wife of the Mr. Burke, and was not mistaken.
One of the gentlemen I recollected to be young Burke, her son, whom I once met at Sir Joshua's in town, and another of them I knew for Mr. Gibbon: but the third I had never seen before. I had been told that the Burke was not expected yet I could conclude this gentleman to be no other; he had just the air, the manner, the appearance, I had prepared myself to look for in him, and there was an evident, a striking superiority in his demeanour, his eye, his motions, that announced him no common man.
I could not get at Miss Palmer to satisfy my doubts, and we were soon called downstairs to dinner. Sir Joshua and the “unknown” stopped to speak with one another upon the stairs; and, when they followed us, Sir Joshua, in taking his place at the table, asked me to sit next to him; I willingly complied. “And then,” he added, “Mr. Burke shall sit on the other side of you.”
“Oh, no, indeed!” cried Miss Georgiana, who also had placed herself next Sir Joshua; “I won't consent to that; Mr. Burke must sit next me; I won't agree to part with him. Pray, come and sit down quiet, Mr. Burke.”
Mr. Burke,—for him it was,—smiled and obeyed.
“I only meant,” said Sir Joshua, “to have made my peace with Mr. Burke, by giving him that place, because he has been scolding me for not introducing him to Miss Burney. However, I must do it now;—Mr. Burke!—Miss Burney!”
We both half rose, and Mr. Burke said,—
“I have been complaining to Sir Joshua that he left me wholly to my own sagacity; however, it did not here deceive me.”
“Oh dear, then,” said Miss Georgiana, looking a little consternated, “perhaps you won't thank me for calling you to this place!”
Nothing was said, and so we all began dinner,—young Burke making himself my next neighbour.
Captain Phillips[149] knows Mr. Burke. Has he or has he not told you how delightful a creature he is? If he has not, pray in my name, abuse him without mercy; if he has, pray ask if he will subscribe to my account of him, which herewith shall follow.
He is tall, his figure is noble, his air commanding, his address graceful, his voice is clear, penetrating, sonorous, and powerful, his language is copious, various, and eloquent; his manners are attractive, his conversation is delightful.
What says Captain Phillips? Have I chanced to see him in his happiest hour? or is he all this in common? Since we lost Garrick I have seen nobody so enchanting.
I can give you, however, very little of what was said, for the conversation was not suivie, Mr. Burke darting from subject to subject with as much rapidity as entertainment. Neither is the charm of his discourse more in the matter than the manner: all, therefore, that is related from him loses half its effect in not being related by him. Such little sketches as I can recollect take however.
From the window of the dining-parlour, Sir Joshua directed us to look at a pretty white house which belonged to Lady Di Beauclerk.
“I am extremely glad,” said Mr. Burke, “to see her at last so well housed; poor woman! the bowl has long rolled in misery; I rejoice that it has now found its balance. I never, myself, so much enjoyed the sight of happiness in another, as in that woman when I first saw her after the death of her husband. It was really enlivening to behold her placed in that sweet house, released from all her cares, a thousand pounds a-year at her own disposal, and—her husband was dead! Oh, it was pleasant, it was delightful to see her enjoyment of her situation!”
“But, without considering the circumstances,” said Mr. Gibbon, “this may appear very strange, though, when they are fairly stated, it is perfectly rational and unavoidable.”
“Very true,” said Mr. Burke, “if the circumstances are not considered, Lady Di may seem highly reprehensible.”
He then, addressing himself particularly to me, as the person least likely to be acquainted with the character of Mr. Beauclerk, drew it himself in strong and marked expressions, describing the misery he gave his wife, his singular ill-treatment of her, and the necessary relief the death of such a man must give.[150]
He then reminded Sir Joshua of a day in which they had dined at Mr. Beauclerk's, soon after his marriage with Lord Bolingbroke's divorced wife, in company with Goldsmith, and told a new story of poor Goldsmith's eternal blundering.
Whitehall, July 29, 1782.
Madam,
I should feel exceedingly to blame if I could refuse to myself the natural satisfaction, and to you the just but poor return, of my best thanks for the very great instruction and entertainment I have received from the new present you have bestowed on the public. There are few—I believe I may say fairly there are none at all—that will not find themselves better informed concerning human nature, and their stock of observation enriched, by reading your “Cecilia.” They certainly will, let their experience in life and manners be what it may. The arrogance of age must submit to be taught by youth. You have crowded into a few small volumes an incredible variety of characters; most of them well planned, well supported, and well contrasted with each other. If there be any fault in this respect, It is one in which you are in no great danger of being imitated. Justly as your characters are drawn, perhaps they are too numerous. But I beg pardon; I fear it is quite in vain to preach economy to those who are come young to excessive and sudden opulence.
I might trespass on your delicacy if I should fill my letter with what I fill my conversation to others. I should be troublesome to you alone if I should tell you all I feel and think on the natural vein of humour, the tender pathetic, the comprehensive and noble moral, and the sagacious observance, that appear quite throughout that extraordinary performance.
In an age distinguished by producing extraordinary women, I hardly dare to tell you where my opinion would place you amongst them. I respect your modesty, that will not endure the commendations which your merit forces from everybody.
I have the honour to be, with great gratitude, respect, and esteem, madam, your most obedient and most humble servant,
EDM. BURKE.
My best compliments and congratulations to Dr. Burney on the great honour acquired to his family.
Chesington, Monday, Aug. 12—I set out for this ever dear place, accompanied by Edward,[151] who was sent for to paint Mr. Crisp for my father. I am sure you will rejoice in this. I was a little dumpish in the journey, for I seemed leaving my Susan again. However, I read a “Rambler” or two, and “composed the harmony of my temper,” as well as I could, for the sake of Edward, who was not only faultless of this, but who is, I almost think, faultless of all things. I have thought him more amiable and deserving, than ever, since this last sojourn under the same roof with him; and, as it happened, I have owed to him almost all the comfort I have this time met with here.
We came in a chaise, which was well loaded with canvasses, pencils, and painting materials; for Mr. Crisp was to be three times painted, and Mrs. Gast once. My sweet father came down Gascoign-lane to meet us, in very pood spirits and very good health. Next came dear daddy Crisp, looking vastly well, and, as usual, high in glee and kindness at the meeting. Then the affectionate Kitty, the good Mrs. Hamilton, the gentle Miss Young, and the enthusiastic Mrs. Gast.
The instant dinner was over, to my utter surprise and consternation, I was called into the room appropriated for Edward and his pictures, and informed I was to sit to him for Mr. Crisp! Remonstrances were unavailing, and declarations of aversion to the design were only ridiculed; both daddies interfered, and, when I ran off, brought me back between them, and compelled my obedience;—and from that time to this, nothing has gone forward but picture-sitting.
FANNY BURNEY to MR. CRISP
Oct. 15, 1782.
... I am very sorry you could not come to Streatham at the time Mrs. Thrale hoped to see you, for when shall we be likely to meet there again? You would have been much pleased, I am sure, by meeting with General Paoli, who spent the day there, and was extremely communicative and agreeable. I had seen him in large companies, but was never made known to him before; nevertheless, he conversed with me as if well acquainted not only with myself, but my connexions,—inquiring of me when I had last seen Mrs. Montagu? and calling Sir Joshua Reynolds, when he spoke of him, my friend. He is a very pleasing man, tall and genteel in his person, remarkably well bred, and very mild and soft in his manners.
I will try to give you a little specimen of his conversation, because I know you love to hear particulars of all out-of-the-way persons. His English is blundering but not unpretty. Speaking of his first acquaintance with Mr. Boswell,—
“He came,” he said, “to my country, and he fetched me some letter of recommending him; but I was of the belief he might be an impostor, and I supposed, in my mind, he was an espy; for I look away from him, and in a moment I look to him again, and I behold his tablets. Oh! he was to the work of writing down all I say! Indeed I was angry. But soon I discover he was no impostor and no espy; and I only find I was myself the monster he had come to discern. Oh,—is a very good man! I love him indeed; so cheerful! so gay! so pleasant! but at the first, oh! I was indeed angry.”
After this he told us a story of an expectation he had of being robbed, and of the protection he found from a very large dog that he is very fond of.”
“I walk out,” he said, “in the night; I go towards the field; I behold a man—oh, ugly one! I proceed—he follow; I go on—he address me. 'You have one dog,' he says. 'Yes,' say I to him. 'Is a fierce dog?' he says; 'is he fiery?' 'Yes,' reply I, 'he can bite.' 'I would not attack in the night,' says he, 'a house to have such dog in it.' Then I conclude he was a breaker, so I turn to him—-oh, very rough! not gentle—and I say, very fierce, 'He shall destroy you, if you are ten!'”
Afterwards, speaking of the Irish giant, who is now shown in town, he said,—
“He is so large I am as a baby! I look at him—oh! I find myself so little as a child! Indeed, my indignation it rises when I see him hold up his hand so high. I am as nothing; and I find myself in the power of a man who fetches from me half a crown.”
This language, which is all spoke very pompously by him, sounds comical from himself, though I know not how it may read.