My journey was incidentless—-but the moment I came into Brighthelmstone I was met by Mrs. Thrale, who had most eagerly been waiting for me a long while, and therefore I dismounted, and walked home with her. It would be very superfluous to tell you how she received me, for you cannot but know, from her impatient letters, what I had reason to expect of kindness and welcome.
Dr. Johnson received me, too, with his usual goodness, and with a salute so loud, that the two young beaus, Cotton and Swinerton, have never done laughing about it.
Mrs. Thrale spent two or three hours in my room, talking over all her affairs, and then we wished each other bon repos, and—retired. Grandissima conclusion!
Oh, but let me not forget that a fine note came from Mr. Pepys, who is here with his family, saying he was pressde de vivre, and entreating to see Mrs. and Miss T., Dr. Johnson, and Cecilia at his house the next day. I hate mightily this method of naming me from my heroines, of whose honour I think I am more jealous than of my own.
Oct. 27—The Pepyses came to visit me in form, but I was dressing; in the evening, however, Mrs. and Miss T. took me to them. Dr. Johnson would not go; he told me it was my day, and I should be crowned, for Mr. Pepys was wild about “Cecilia.” We found at Mr. Pepys' nobody but his wife, his brother, Dr. Pepys,[154] and Dr. Pepys' lady, Countess of Rothes. Mr. Pepys received me with such distinction, that it was very evident how much the book, with the most flattering opinion of it, was in his head; however, he behaved very prettily, and only mentioned it by allusions; most particularly upon the character of Meadows, which he took various opportunities of pronouncing to be the “best hit possible” upon the present race of fine gentlemen. We did not stay with them long, but called upon Miss Benson, and proceeded to the rooms. Mr. Pepys was very unwilling to part with us, and wanted to frighten me from going, by saying,—
“And has Miss Burney the courage to venture to the Rooms? I wonder she dares!”
I did not seem to understand him, though to mistake him was impossible. However, I thought of him again when I was at the rooms, for most violent was the staring and whispering as I passed and repassed! insomuch that I shall by no means be in any haste to go again to them. Susan and Sophy Thrale, who were with their aunt, Mrs. Scott, told Queeny upon our return that they heard nothing said, whichever way they turned, but “That's she!” “That's the famous Miss Burney!” I shall certainly escape going any more, if it is in my power.
Monday, Oct. 28.—Mr. Pepys had but just left me, when Mrs. Thrale sent Susan with a particular request to see me in her dressing-room, where I found her with a milliner.
“Oh, Miss Burney,” she cried, “I could not help promising Mrs. Cockran that she should have a sight of you—she has begged it so hard.”
You may believe I stared; and the woman, whose eyes almost looked ready to eat me, eagerly came up to me, exclaiming,—
“Oh, ma'am, you don't know what a favour this is to see you! I have longed for it so long! It is quite a comfort to me, indeed. Oh, ma'am, how clever you must be! All the ladies I deal with are quite distracted about 'Cecilia,'—and I got it myself. Oh, ma'am, how sensible you must be! It does my heart good to see you.”
Oct. 29.—We had a large party at home in the evening. I was presently engaged by Mr. Pepys, and he was joined by Mr. Coxe, and he by Miss Benson. Mr. Pepys led the conversation, and it was all upon criticism and poetry. The little set was broken up by my retreat, and Mr. Pepys joined Dr. Johnson, with whom he entered into an argument upon some lines of Gray, and upon Pope's definition of wit, in which he was so roughly confuted, and so severely ridiculed, that he was hurt and piqued beyond all power of disguise, and, in the midst of the discourse, suddenly turned from him, and, wishing Mrs. Thrale good night, very abruptly withdrew.
Dr. Johnson was certainly right with respect to the argument and to reason; but his opposition was so warm, and his wit so satirical and exulting, that I was really quite grieved to see how unamiable he appeared, and how greatly he made himself dreaded by all, and by many abhorred. What pity that he will not curb the vehemence of his love of victory and superiority.
The sum of the dispute was this. Wit being talked of, Mr. Pepys repeated,—
“That, sir,” cried Dr. Johnson, “is a definition both false and foolish. Let wit be dressed how it will, it will equally be wit, and neither the more nor the less for any advantage dress can give it.”
Mr. P.-But, sir, may not wit be so ill expressed, and so obscure, by a bad speaker, as to be lost?
Dr. J.-The fault, then, sir, must be with the hearer. If a man cannot distinguish wit from words, he little deserves to hear it.
Mr. P.-But, sir, what Pope means—
Dr. J.-Sir, what Pope means, if he means what he says, is both false and foolish. In the first place, 'what oft was thought,' is all the worse for being often thought, because to be wit, it ought to be newly thought.
Mr. P.-But, sir, 'tis the expression makes it new.
Dr. J.-How can the expression make it new? It may make it clear, or may make it elegant—-but how new? You are confounding words with things.
Mr. P.-But, sir, if one man says a thing very ill, may not another man say it so much better that—
Dr. J.-That other man, sir, deserves but small praise for the amendment; he is but the tailor to the first man's thoughts.
Mr. P.-True, sir, he may be but the tailor; but then the difference is as great as between a man in a gold lace suit and a man in a blanket.
Dr. J.-Just so, sir, I thank you for that; the difference is precisely such, since it consists neither in the gold lace suit nor the blanket, but in the man by whom they are worn.
This was the summary; the various contemptuous sarcasms intermixed would fill, and very unpleasantly, a quire.
Oct. 30.—Lady Warren is immensely tall, and extremely beautiful; she is now but just nineteen, though she has been married two or three years. She is giddy, gay, chatty, good-humoured, and a little affected; she hazards all that occurs to her, seems to think the world at her feet, and is so young and gay and handsome that she is not much mistaken. She is, in short, an inferior Lady Honoria Pemberton;[155] somewhat beneath her in parts and understanding, but strongly in that class of character. I had no conversation with her myself; but her voice is loud and deep, and all she said was for the whole room.
Marriages being talked of, “I'll tell you,” cried she, “a story; that is, it sha'n't be a story, but a fact. A lady of my acquaintance, who had 50,000L. fortune, ran away to Scotland with a gentleman she liked vastly; so she was a little doubtful of him, and had a mind to try him: so when they stopped to dine, and change horses, and all that, she said, 'Now, as I have a great regard for you, I dare say you have for me—so I will tell you a secret: I have got no fortune at all, in reality, but only 5,000 pounds; for all the rest is a mere pretence: but if you like me for myself, and not for my fortune, you won't mind that.' So the gentleman said, 'Oh, I don't regard it at all, and you are the same charming angel that ever you was,' and all those sort of things that people say to one, and then went out to see about the chaise. So he did not come back; but when dinner was ready, the lady said 'Pray, where is he?' 'Lor, ma'am,' said they, 'why, that gentleman has been gone ever so long!' So she came back by herself; and now she's married to somebody else, and has her 50,000 pounds fortune all safe.”
Saturday, November 2.—We went to Lady Shelley's. Dr. Johnson, again, excepted in the invitation. He is almost constantly omitted, either from too much respect or too much fear. I am sorry for it, as he hates being alone, and as, though he scolds the others, he is well enough satisfied himself, and having given vent to all his own occasional anger or ill-humour, he is ready to begin again, and is never aware that those who have so been “downed” by him, never can much covet so triumphant a visitor. In contests of wit, the victor is as ill off in future consequences as the vanquished in present ridicule.
Monday, November 4.—This was a grand and busy day. Mr. Swinerton has been some time arranging a meeting for all our house, with Lady De Ferrars, whom you may remember as Charlotte Ellerker, and her lord and sisters: and this morning it took place, by mutual appointment, at his lodgings, where we met to breakfast. Dr. Johnson, who already knew Lord De Ferrars, and Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and myself, arrived first and then came the Lord and Lady, and Miss Ellerker and her youngest sister, Harriet. Lord De Ferrars is very ugly, but extremely well-bred, gentle, unassuming, sensible, and pleasing. His lady is much improved since we knew her in former days, and seems good-humoured, lively, and rather agreeable. Miss Ellerker is nothing altered.
I happened to be standing by Dr. Johnson when all the ladies came in; but, as I dread him before strangers, from the staring attention he attracts both for himself and all with whom he talks, I endeavoured to change my ground. However, he kept prating a sort of comical nonsense that detained me some minutes whether I would or not; but when we were all taking places at the breakfast-table I made another effort to escape. It proved vain; he drew his chair next to mine, and went rattling on in a humorous sort of comparison he was drawing of himself to me,—not one word of which could I enjoy, or can I remember, from the hurry I was in to get out of his way. In short, I felt so awkward from being thus marked out, that I was reduced to whisper a request to Mr. Swinerton to put a chair between us, for which I presently made a space: for I have often known him stop all conversation with me, when he has ceased to have me for his next neighbour. Mr. Swinerton who is an extremely good-natured young man, and so intimate here that I make no scruple with him, instantly complied, and placed himself between us.
But no sooner was this done, than Dr. Johnson, half seriously, and very loudly, took him to task.
“'How now, sir! what do you mean by this? Would you separate me from Miss Burney?”
Mr. Swinerton, a little startled, began some apologies, and Mrs. Thrale winked at him to give up the place; but he was willing to oblige me, though he grew more and more frightened every minute, and coloured violently as the Doctor continued his remonstrance, which he did with rather unmerciful raillery, upon his taking advantage of being in his own house to thus supplant him, and cram; but when he had borne it for about ten minutes, his face became so hot with the fear of hearing something worse, that he ran from the field, and took a chair between Lady De Ferrars and Mrs. Thrale.
I think I shall take warning by this failure, to trust only to my own expedients for avoiding his public notice in future. However it stopped here; for Lord De Ferrars came in, and took the disputed place without knowing of the contest, and all was quiet.
... Late as it was, it was settled we should go to the ball, the last for the season being this night. My own objections about going not being strong enough to combat the ado my mentioning them would have occasioned, I joined in the party, without demur.
The ball was half over, and all the company seated to tea. Mr. Wade[156] came to receive us all, as usual, and we had a table procured for us, and went to tea ourselves, for something to do. When this repast was over, the company returned to their recreation. The room was very thin, and almost half the ladies danced with one another, though there were men enough present, I believe, had they chosen such exertion; but the Meadowses at balls are in crowds. Some of the ladies were in riding habits, and they made admirable men. 'Tis tonnish to be so much undressed at the last ball.
None of our usual friends, the Shelleys, Hatsels, Dickens, or Pepys, were here, and we, therefore, made no party—but Mrs. Thrale and I stood at the top of the room to look on the dancing, and as we were thus disengaged, she was seized with a violent desire to make one among them, and I felt myself an equal inclination. She proposed, as so many women danced together, that we two should, and nothing should I have liked so well; but I begged her to give up the scheme, as that would have occasioned more fuss and observation than our dancing with all the men that ever were born.
While we were debating this matter, a gentleman suddenly said to me,—“Did you walk far this morning, Miss Burney?” And, looking at him, I saw Mr. Metcalf,[157] whose graciousness rather surprised me, for he only made to Mrs. Thrale a cold and distant bow, and it seems he declares, aloud and around, his aversion to literary ladies. That he can endure, and even seek me is, I presume, only from the general perverseness of mankind, because he sees I have always turned from him; not, however, from disliking him, for he is a shrewd, sensible, keen, and very clever man; but merely from a dryness on his own side that has excited retaliation.
“Yes,” I answered, “we walked a good way.”
“Dr. Johnson,” said he, “told me in the morning you were no walker; but I informed him then I had had the pleasure of seeing you upon the Newmarket Hill.”
“Oh, he does not know,” cried I, “whether I am a walker or not—he does not see me walk, because he never walks himself.”...
Here he was called away by some gentleman, but presently came to me again.
“Miss Burney,” he said, “shall you dance?”
“No, sir, not to-night.”
“A gentleman,” he added, “has desired me to speak to you for him.”
Now, Susanna, for the grand moment!—the height—the zenith of my glory in the ton meridian! I again said I did not mean to dance, and to silence all objection, he expressively said,—
“Tis Captain Kaye[158] who sends me.”
Is not this magnificent? Pray congratulate me!
I was really very much surprised, but repeated my refusal, with all customary civilities to soften it. He was leaving me with this answer, when this most flashy young officer, choosing to trust his cause to himself, came forward, and desired to be introduced to me. Mr. Metcalf performed that ceremony, and he then, with as much respect and deference as if soliciting a countess, said,—
“May I flatter myself you will do me the honour of dancing with me?”
I thanked him, and said the same thing over again. He looked much disappointed, and very unwilling to give up his plan.
“If you have not,” he said, “any particular dislike to dancing, it will be doing, not only me, but the whole room much honour, if you will make one in a set.”
“You do me much honour, sir,” I answered, “but I must beg you to excuse me.”
“I hope not,” cried he, “I hope out of charity you will dance, as it is the last ball, and the company is so thin.”
“Oh, it will do very well without me; Mr. Wade himself says he dies to-night a very respectable death.”
“And will you not have the goodness to help it on a little in its last stage?”
“No,” said I, laughing; “why should we wish it to be kept lingering?”
“Lingering!” repeated he, looking round at the dancers, “no, surely it is not quite so desperate; and if you will but join in, you will give it new existence.”
I was a little thrown off my guard at this unexpected earnestness, so different to the ton of the day, and I began hardly to know what to answer, my real objection being such as I could by no means publish, though his urgency and his politeness joined would have made me give up any other.
“This is a very quiet dance,” he continued, “there is nothing fatiguing in it.”
“You are very good,” said I, “but I cannot really dance to-night.”
I was sorry to seem so obstinate, but he was just the man to make every body inquire whom he danced with; and any one who wished for general attention could do no better than to be his partner. The ever-mischievous Mrs. Thrale, calling to Mr. Selwyn, who stood by us, said,—
“Why, here's a man in love!—quite, downright in love with Miss Burney, if ever I saw one!”
“He is quite mortified, at least,” he answered; “I never saw a man look more mortified.”
“Well, he did not deserve it,” said she; “he knew how to beg, and he ought not to have been so served.”
I begged her to be silent, for Mr. Metcalf returned to me.
“Were you too much tired,” he said, “with your walk this morning, to try at a dance?”
I excused myself as well as I could, and we presently went into the card-room to vary the scene. When we returned to the ball-room I was very glad to see my new captain had just taken out Lady Anne Lindsay, who is here with Lady Margaret Fordyce, and who dances remarkably well, and was every way a more suitable partner for him. He was to leave the town, with his regiment, the next day.
Tuesday.—Mrs. Thrale took me out to walk with her. We met Lady De Ferrars and Miss Ellerker in our ramble, and the very moment the ball was mentioned, this dear and queer creature called out,—
“Ay, there was a sad ado, ladies dancing with ladies, and all sorts of odd things; and that handsome and fine Mr. Kaye broke his heart almost to dance with Miss Burney; but she refused him, and so, in despair, he took out Lady Anne Lindsay.”
Thursday.—Mr. Metcalf called upon Dr. Johnson, and took him out for an airing. Mr. Hamilton is gone, and Mr. Metcalf is now the only person out of this house that voluntarily communicates with the doctor. He has been in a terrible severe humour of late, and has really frightened all the people, till they almost ran from him. To me only I think he is now kind, for Mrs. Thrale fares worse than anybody. 'Tis very strange and very melancholy that he will not a little more accommodate his manners and language to those of other people. He likes Mr. Metcalf, however, and so do I, for he is very clever and entertaining when he pleases.
Poor Dr. Delap confessed to us, that the reason he now came so seldom, though he formerly almost lived with us when at this place, was his being too unwell to cope with Dr. Johnson. And the other day Mr. Selwyn having refused an invitation from Mr. Hamilton to meet the doctor, because he preferred being here upon a day when he was out, suddenly rose at the time he was expected to return, and said he must run away, “for fear the doctor should call him to account.”
Sunday, November 10, brings in a new person. The e Honourable Miss Monckton,[159] who is here with her mother, the Dowager Lady Galway, has sent various messages of her earnest desire to be acquainted with Mrs. Thrale and your humble servant to command. Dr. Johnson 'she already knew,' for she is one of those who stand foremost in collecting all extraordinary or curious people to her London conversaziones, which, like those of Mrs. Vesey, mix the rank and file literature, and exclude all beside. Well—after divers intimations of this sort, it was at last settled that Lady De Ferrars should bring her here this morning.
In the evening came Lady De Ferrars, Miss Monckton, and Miss Ellerker. Miss Monckton is between thirty and forty very short, very fat, but handsome; splendidly and fantastically dressed, rouged not unbecomingly, yet evidently and palpably desirous of gaining notice and admiration. She has an easy levity in her air, manner, voice, and discourse, that speak all within to be comfortable; and her rage of seeing anything curious may be satisfied, if she pleases, by looking in a mirror.
I can give you no account of the conversation, as it was broken, and not entertaining. Miss Monckton went early, having another engagement, but the other ladies stayed very late. She told us, however, one story extremely well worth recalling. The Duke of Devonshire was standing near a very fine glass lustre in a corner of a room, at an assembly, and in a house of people who, Miss Monckton said, were by no means in a style of life to hold expense as immaterial; and, by carelessly lolling back, he threw the lustre down and it was broke. He shewed not, however, the smallest concern or confusion at the accident, but coolly said, “I wonder how I did that!” He then removed to the opposite corner, and to shew, I suppose, he had forgotten what he had done, leaned his head in the same manner, and down came the opposite lustre! He looked at it very calmly, and, with a philosophical dryness, merely said, “This is singular enough!” and walked to another part of the room, without either distress or apology.
December 8.—Now for Miss Monckton's assembly.
I had begged Mrs. Thrale to call for me,[160] that I might have her countenance and assistance upon my entrance. Miss Thrale came also. Every thing was in a new style. We got out of the coach into a hall full of servants, not one of which inquired our names, or took any notice of us. We proceeded, and went upstairs, and, when we arrived at a door, stopped and looked behind us. No servant had followed or preceded us. We deliberated what was to be done. To announce ourselves was rather awkward, neither could we be sure we were going into the right apartment. I proposed going up higher, till we met with somebody; Miss Thrale thought we should go down and call some of the servants; but Mrs. Thrale, after a ridiculous consultation, determined to try her fortune by opening the door. This being done, we entered a room full of tea-things, and one maid-servant.
“Well,” cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, “what is to be done now? I suppose we are come so early that nothing is ready.”
The maid stared, but said,—“There's company in the next room.”
Then we considered again how to make ourselves known; and then Mrs. Thrale again resolved to take courage and enter. She therefore opened another door, and went into another apartment. I held back, but looked after, and observing that she made no curtsey, concluded she was gone into some wrong place. Miss Thrale followed, and after her went little I, wondering who was to receive, or what was to become of us.
Miss Monckton lives with her mother, the old Dowager Lady Galway, in a noble house in Charles-street, Berkeleysquare, The room was large and magnificent. There was not much company, for we were very early. Lady Galway sat at the side of the fire, and received nobody. She seems very old, and was dressed with a little round white cap, and not a single hair, no cushlori, roll, nor any thing else but the little round cap, which was flat upon her forehead. Such part of the company as already knew her made their compliments to her where she sat, and the rest were never taken up to her, but belonged wholly to Miss Monckton.
Miss Monckton's own manner of receiving her guests was scarce more laborious; for she kept her seat when they entered, and only turned round her head to nod it, and say “How do you do?” after which they found what accommodation they could for themselves.
As soon, however, as she perceived Mrs. and Miss Thrale, which was not till they had been some minutes in the room, she arose to welcome them, contrary to her general Custom, and merely because it was their first visit. Our long train making my entrance some time after theirs, gave me the advantage of being immediately seen by her, and she advanced to me with quickness, and very politely thanked me for coming, and said,—
“I fear you think me very rude for taking the liberty of sending to you.”
“No, indeed, you did me much honour,” quoth I.
She then broke further into her general rules, by making way for me to a good place, and seating me herself, and then taking a chair next me, and beginning a little chat. I really felt myself much obliged to her for this seasonable attention, for I was presently separated from Mrs. Thrale, and entirely surrounded by strangers, all dressed superbly, and all looking saucily; and as nobody's names were spoken, I had no chance to discover any acquaintances. Mr. Metcalf, indeed, came and spoke to me the instant I came in, and I should have been very happy to have had him for my neighbour; but he was engaged in attending to Dr. Johnson, who was standing near the fire, and environed with listeners.
Some new people now coming in, and placing themselves in a regular way, Miss Monckton exclaimed,—“My whole care is to prevent a circle;” and hastily rising, she pulled about the chairs, and planted the people in groups, with as dexterous a disorder as you would desire to see.
The company in general were dressed with more brilliancy than at any rout I ever was at, as most of them were going to the Duchess of Cumberland's, and attired for that purpose. Just behind me sat Mrs. Hampden, still very beautiful, but insufferably affected. Another lady, in full dress, and very pretty, came in soon after, and got herself a chair just before me; and then a conversation began between her and Mrs. Hampden, of which I will give you a specimen.
“How disagreeable these sacques are! I am so incommoded with these nasty ruffles! I am going to Cumberland House—are you?”
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Hampden, “what else, do you think, would make me bear this weight of dress? I can't bear a sacque.”
“Why, I thought you said you should always wear them?”
“Oh, yes, but I have changed my mind since then—as many people do.”
“Well, I think it vastly disagreeable indeed,” said the other, “you can't think how I am encumbered with these ruffles!”
“Oh I am quite oppressed with them,” said Mrs. Hampden, “I can hardly bear myself up.”
“And I dined in this way!” cried the other; “only think—dining in a sacque!”
“Oh,” answered Mrs. Hampden, “it really puts me quite out of spirits.”
After this they found some subject less popular, and the lady unknown leaned over me, without any ceremony, to whisper with Mrs. Hampden. I should have offered her my place if she had made any apology, but as it was, I thought she might take her own way. In the course of the evening, however, I had the pleasure to observe a striking change in her manners; for as soon as she picked up, I know not how, my name, she ceased her whispering, looked at me with the civilest smiles, spoke to me two or three times, and calling to a fine beau, said—
“Do pray sit this way, that you may screen Miss Burney as well as me from that fire.”
I did not, however, sufficiently like her beginning, to accept her challenge of talking, and only coldly answered by yes, no, or a bow.
Then came in Sir Joshua Reynolds, and he soon drew a chair near mine, and from that time I was never without some friend at my elbow.
“Have you seen,” said he, “Mrs. Montagu lately?”
“No, not very lately.”
“But within these few months?”
“No, not since last year.”
“Oh, you must see her, then. You ought to see and to hear her—'t will be worth your while. Have you heard of the fine long letter she has written?”
“Yes, but I have not met with it.”
“I have.”
“And who is it to?”
“The old Duchess of Portland.[161] She desired Mrs. Montagu's opinion of 'Cecilia,' and she has written it at full length. I was in a party at her grace's, and heard of nothing but you. She is so delighted, and so sensibly, so rationally, that I only wish you could have heard her. And old Mrs. Delany had been forced to begin it, though she had said she should never read any more; however, when we met, she was reading it already for the third time.”
After this Mrs. Burke saw me, and with much civility and softness of manner, came and talked with me, while her husband without seeing me, went behind my chair to speak to Mrs Hampden.
Miss Monckton, returning to me, then said—
“Miss Burney, I had the pleasure yesterday of seeing Mrs. Greville."[162]
I suppose she concluded I was very intimate with her.
“I have not seen her,” said I, “in many years.”
“I know, however,” cried she, looking surprised, “she is your godmother.”
“But she does not do her duty and answer for me, for I never see her.”
“Oh, you have answered very well for yourself! But I know by that your name is Fanny.”
She then tripped to somebody else, and Mr. Burke very quietly came from Mrs. Hampden, and sat down in the vacant place at my side. I could then wait no longer, for I found he was more near-sighted than myself; I, therefore, turned towards him and bowed: he seemed quite amazed, and really made me ashamed, however delighted, by the expressive civility and distinction with which he instantly rose to return my bow, and stood the whole time he was making his compliments upon seeing me, and calling himself the blindest of men for not finding me out sooner. And Mrs. Burke, who was seated near me, said, loud enough for me to hear her—
“See, see what a flirtation Mr. Burke is beginning with Miss Burney and before my face too!”
These ceremonies over, he sat down by me, and began a conversation which you, my dearest Susy, would be glad to hear, for my sake, word for word; but which I really could not listen to with sufficient ease, from shame at his warm eulogiums, to remember with any accuracy. The general substance, however, take as I recollect it.
After many most eloquent compliments upon the book, too delicate either to shock or sicken the nicest ear, he very emphatically congratulated me upon its most universal success, said, “he was now too late to speak of it, since he could only echo the voice of the whole nation” and added, with a laugh, “I had hoped to have made some merit of my enthusiasm; but the moment I went about to hear what others say, I found myself merely one in a multitude.”
He then told me that, notwithstanding his admiration, he was the man who had dared to find some faults with so favourite and fashionable a work. I entreated him to tell me what they were, and assured him nothing would make me so happy as to correct them under his direction. He then enumerated them: and I will tell you what they are, that you may not conclude I write nothing but the fairer part of my adventures, which I really always relate very honestly, though so fair they are at this time, that it hardly seems possible they should not be dressed up.
The masquerade he thought too long, and that something might be spared from Harrel's grand assembly; he did not like Morrice's part of the pantheon; and he wished the conclusion either more happy or more miserable “for in a work of imagination,” said he, “there is no medium.”
I was not easy enough to answer him, or I have much, though perhaps not good for much, to say in defence of following life and nature as much in the conclusion as in the progress of a tale; and when is life and nature completely happy or miserable?
Looking very archly at me, and around him, he said,—
“Are you sitting here for characters? Nothing, by the way, struck me more in reading your book than the admirable skill with which your ingenious characters make themselves known by their own words.”
He then went on to tell me that I had done the most wonderful of wonders in pleasing the old wits, particularly the Duchess of Portland and Mrs. Delany, who resisted reading the book till they were teased into it, and, since they began, could do nothing else—and he failed not to point out, with his utmost eloquence, the difficulty of giving satisfaction to those who piqued themselves upon being past receiving it.
“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.”
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?”