“You can scarcely conceive how heartily he laughed himself; he quite chuckled, with all the enjoyment in mischief of a holiday school boy.
“And he harped upon the subject with such facetious pleasure, that no other could be started.
“‘ I once knew,’ he cried, ‘a man, his name was Robert Chambers, and a good-natured little fellow he was, who was served this very trick the first masquerade he went to in London, upon fresh coming from Scotland. A gentleman who went to it with him, wrote upon his black domino, with chalk, “this is little Bob Chambers, fresh come from Edinburgh;” and immediately some one called out, in passing him, “What Bob? little Bob Chambers? how do do, my boy?”
“Faith,” says Bob, to his friend, “the people of this fine London are pretty impudent! I don’t know that I know a soul in the whole town, and the first person I meet makes free to call me plain Bob?” But when he went on, and found that every creature in every room did the same, he grew quite outrageous at being treated with so little ceremony; and he stamped with his foot at one, and clenched his fist at another, and asked how they dared call him Bob? “What! a’n’t you Bob, then?” replies one; “O yes, you are! you’re Bob, my Bob, as sure as a gun! Bob Chambers! little Bob Chambers. And I hope you have left all well at Edinburgh, my Bob?” In vain he rubbed by them, and tried to get on, for they called to him quite from a distance; “Bob! — Bob! come hither, I say! — come hither, my Bobby! my Bob of all Bobs! you’re welcome from Edinburgh, my Bob!” Well, then, he said, ’twas clear the devil owed him a spite, and had told his name from top to bottom of every room. Poor Bob! he made a wry face at the very sound of a masquerade to the end of his days.’
“To have looked at Mr. Bruce in his glee at this buffoonery, you must really have been amused; though methinks I see, supposing you had been with us, the picturesque rising of your brow, and all the dignity of your Roman nose, while you would have stared at such familiar delight in an active joke, as to transport into so merry an espiegle, the seven-footed loftiness of the haughty and imperious tourist from the sands of Ethiopia, and the waters of Abyssinia; whom, nevertheless, I have now the honour to portray in his de chambre, i.e. in private society, to my dear Chesington Daddy.
“What says he to the portrait?”
With fresh pleasure and alacrity, Dr. Burney now went on with his work. So unlooked for a re-inforcement of his means could not have arrived more seasonably. Every discovery, or development, relative to early times, was not only of essential service to the Dissertation on the Music of the Ancients, upon which, now, he was elaborately engaged, but excited general curiosity in all lovers of antiquity.
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
Amongst other new friends that this new neighbourhood procured, or confirmed, to Dr. Burney, there was one of so congenial, so Samaritan, a sort, that neighbour he must have been to the Doctor from the time of their first acquaintance, had his residence been in Dorset-square, or at Botolph’s Wharf; instead of Leicester-square, and scarcely twenty yards from the Doctor’s own short street.
Sir Joshua Reynolds, this good Samaritan, was, like Dr. Burney, though well-read and deeply studious, as easy and natural in discourse as if he had been merely a man of the world; and though his own art was his passion, he was open to the wannest admiration of every other: and again, like the Doctor, he was gay though contemplative, and flew from indolence, though he courted enjoyment. There was a striking resemblance in the general amenity of their intercourse, that not only made them, at all times, and with all persons, free from any approach to envy, peevishness, or sarcasm themselves, but seemed to spread around them a suavity that dissolved those angry passions in others.
In his chronological doggrels, Dr. Burney records that he now began his intimacy with the great English Raphael; of whom he adds,
“‘Twere vain throughout Europe to look for his peer
Who by converse and pencil alike can endear.”
MRS. REYNOLDS.
Sir Joshua had a maiden sister, Mrs. Frances Reynolds; a woman of worth and understanding, but of a singular character; who, unfortunately for herself, made, throughout life, the great mistake of nourishing that singularity which was her bane, as if it had been her blessing.
She lived with Sir Joshua at this time, and stood high in the regard of his firm and most honoured friend, Dr. Johnson; who saw and pitied her foible, but tried to cure it in vain. It was that of living in an habitual perplexity of mind, and irresolution of conduct, which to herself was restlessly tormenting, and to all around her was teazingly wearisome.
Whatever she suggested, or planned, one day, was reversed the next; though resorted to on the third, as if merely to be again rejected on the fourth; and so on, almost endlessly; for she rang not the changes in her opinions and designs in order to bring them into harmony and practice; but waveringly to stir up new combinations and difficulties; till she found herself in the midst of such chaotic obstructions as could chime in with no given purpose; but must needs be left to ring their own peal, and to begin again just where they began at first.
This lady was a no unfrequent visitor in St. Martin’s street; where, for her many excellent qualities, she was much esteemed.
The Miss Palmers, also, two nieces of Sir Joshua, lived with him then occasionally; and one of them, afterwards, habitually; and added to the grace of his table, and of his evening circles, by the pleasingness of their manners, and the beauty of their persons.
Mrs. Frances Reynolds desired to paint Dr. Burney’s portrait, that she might place it among certain other worthies of her choice, already ornamenting her dressing-room. The Doctor had little time to spare; but had too natively the spirit of the old school, to suffer No! and a lady, to pair off together.
During his sittings, one trait of her tenacious humour occurred, that he was always amused in relating. While she was painting his hair, which was remarkably thick, she asked him, very gravely, whether he could let her have his wig some day to work at, without troubling him to sit.
“My wig?” repeated he, much surprised.
“Yes;” she answered; “have not you more than one? can’t you spare it?”
“Spare it? — Why what makes you think it a wig? It’s my own hair.”
“O then, I suppose,” said she, with a smile, “I must not call it a wig?”
“Not call it a wig? — why what for, my dear Madam, should you call it a wig?”
“Nay, Sir,” replied she, composedly, “if you do not like it, I am sure I won’t.”
And he protested, that though he offered her every proof of twisting, twitching, and twirling that she pleased, she calmly continued painting, without heeding his appeal for the hairy honours of his head; and only coolly repeating, “I suppose, then, I must not call it a wig?”
MRS. BROOKES.
Mrs. Brookes, authoress of “Lady Julia Mandeville,” &c., having become a joint proprietor of the Opera House with Mr and Mrs. Yates, earnestly coveted the acquaintance of Dr. Burney; in which, of course, was included the benefit of his musical opinions, his skill, and his counsel.
Mrs. Brookes had much to combat in order to receive the justice due to her from the world; for nature had not been more kind in her mental, than hard in her corporeal gifts. She was short, broad, crooked, ill-featured, and ill-favoured; and she had a cast of the eye that made it seem looking every way rather than that which she meant for its direction. Nevertheless, she always ultimately obtained the consideration that she merited. She was free from pretension, and extremely good-natured. All of assumption, by which she might have claimed literary rank, from the higher and graver part of her works, was wholly set aside in conversation; where, however different in grace and appearance, she was as flowing, as cheerful, and as natural in dialogue, as her own popular and pleasing “Rosina.”
MISS REID.
Miss Reid, the Rosalba of Britain, who, in crayons, had a grace and a softness of colouring rarely surpassed, was a visitor likewise at the house, whose works and whose per
son were almost divertingly, as was remarked by Mr. Twining, at variance with one another; for while the works were all loveliness, their author was saturnine, cold, taciturn; absent to an extreme; awkward and full of mischances in every motion; ill-accoutred, even beyond negligence, in her dress; and plain enough to produce, grotesquely, an effect that was almost picturesque.
Yet, with all this outward lack of allurement, her heart was kind, her temper was humane, and her friendships were zealous. But she had met with some misfortunes in early life that had embittered her existence, and kept it always wavering, in a miserable balance, between heartless apathy, and pining discontent.
MRS. ORD.
An acquaintance was now, also, begun, with one of the most valued, valuable, and lasting friends of Dr. Burney and his family, Mrs. Ord; a lady of great mental merit, strict principles, and dignified manners.
Without belonging to what was called the Blues, or Bas Bleu Society, except as a receiver or a visitor, she selected parties from that set to mix with those of other, or of no denomination, that were sometimes peculiarly well assorted, and were always generally agreeable.
Mrs. Ord’s was the first coterie into which the Doctor, after his abode in St. Martin’s Street, initiated his family; Mrs. Burney as a participator, his daughters as appendages, of what might justly he called a conversations.
The good sense, serene demeanour, and cheerful politeness of the lady of the house, made the first meeting so pleasingly animating to every one present, that another and another followed, from time to time, for a long series of years. What Dr. Burney observed upon taking leave of this first little assemblage, may be quoted as applicable to every other.
“I rejoice, Madam,” he said, “to find that there are still two or three houses, even in these dissipated times, where, through judgment and taste in their selection, people may be called together, not with the aid of cards, to kill time, but with that of conversation, to give it life.”
“And I rejoice the more in the success of Mrs. Ord,” cried Mr. Pepys, “because I have known many meetings utterly fail, where equal pleasure has been proposed and expected; but where, though the ingredients, also, have been equally good — the pudding has proved very bad in the eating!”
“The best ingredients,” said Dr. Burney, “however excellent they may be separately, always prove inefficient if they are not well blended; for if any one of them is a little too sour, or a little too bitter — nay, or a little too sweet, they counteract each other. But Mrs. Ord is an excellent cook, and employs all the refinements of her art in taking care not to put clashing materials into the same mess.”
HON. MR. BRUDENEL.
His Honour, Brudenel, loved and sought Dr. Burney with the most faithful admiration from a very early period; and, to the latest in his power, he manifested the same partiality. Though by no means a man of talents, he made his way to the grateful and lasting regard of Dr. Burney, by constancy of personal attachment, and a fervour of devotion to the art through which the distinction of the Doctor had had its origin.
Dr. Ogle, Dean of Winchester, a man of facetious pleasantry, yet of real sagacity; though mingled with eccentricities, perversities, and decidedly republican principles, became a warm admirer of the character and conversation of the Doctor; while the exemplary Mrs. Ogle and her sprightly daughters united to enliven his reception, in Berkeley-square, as an honoured instructor, and a cordial friend.
But with far more political congeniality the President of the Royal Society, Sir Joseph Banks, was included in this new amical committee.
In a loose manuscript of recurrence to the year 1776, stand these words upon the first Dr. Warren.
“In January of this year, an acquaintance which I had already begun with that most agreeable of men, Dr. Warren, grew into intimacy. His conversation was the most pleasant, and, nearly, the most enlightened, without pedantry or dogmatism, that I had ever known.”
Amongst the distinguished persons appertaining to this numerous list of connexions upon the opening of the St. Martin’s-street residence during the last century, one, at least, still remains to ornament, both by his writings and his conversation, the present, Dr. Gillies; whose urbanity of mind and manners, joined to his literary merits, made him, at his own pleasure, one of the most estimable and honourable contributors to the Doctor’s social circle.
MR. CUTLER.
But the most prominent in eagerness to claim the Doctor’s regard, and to fasten upon his time, with wit, humour, learning, and eccentric genius, that often made him pleasant, and always saved him from becoming insignificant; though with an officious zeal, and an obtrusive kindness that frequently caused him to be irksome, must be ranked Mr. Cutler, a gentleman of no common parts, and certainly of no common conduct; who loved Dr. Burney with an ardour the most sincere, but which he had not attraction to make reciprocal; who wrote him letters of a length interminable, yet with a frequency of repetition that would have rendered even little billets wearisome; and who, satisfied of the truth of his feelings, investigated not their worth, and never doubted their welcome.
The Doctor had a heart too grateful and too gentle to roughly awaken such friendship from its error; he endured, therefore, its annoyance, till the intrusion upon his limited leisure became a serious persecution. He then, almost perforce, sought to render him more considerate by neglect, in wholly omitting to answer his letters.
But Mr. Cutler, though hurt and chagrined, was not quieted. Letter still followed letter, detailing at full length his own ideas upon every subject he could start; with kind assurances of his determined patient expectance of future replies.
The Doctor then was reduced to frankly offer a remonstrance upon the difference of their position with respect to time, — and its claims.
This, though done with softness and delicacy, opened all at once the eyes of this pertinacious friend to his unreflecting insufficiency; but, of course, rather with a feeling of injury, than to a sense of justice; and he withdrew abruptly from all correspondence; powerfully piqued, yet in silent, uncomplaining dismay.
To give an idea of his singular style, some few extracts, of the most uncommon sort, will be selected for the correspondence, from the vast volume of letters that will be consigned to the flames.
MR. BARRY.
The most striking, however, though by no means the most reasonable converser amongst those who generally volunteered their colloquial services in St. Martin’s-street, was that eminent painter, and entertaining character, Mr. Barry; who, with a really innocent belief that he was the most modest and moderate of men, nourished the most insatiable avidity of applause; who, with a loudly laughing defiance of the ills of life, was internally and substantially sinking under their annoyance; and who, with a professed and sardonic contempt of rival prosperity or superiority, disguised, even to himself, the bitterness with which he pined at the success which he could not share, but to which he flattered himself that he was indifferent, or above; because so to be, behoved the character of his believed adoption, that of a genuine votary to philanthropy and philosophy.
His ideas and his views of his art he held, and justly, to be sublime; but his glaring execution of the most chaste designs left his practice in the lurch, even where his theory was most perfect.
He disdained to catch any hints from the works, much less from the counsel, of Sir Joshua Reynolds; from whose personal kindness and commanding abilities he had unfortunately been cut off by early disagreement; for nearly as they approached each other in their ideas, and their knowledge of their art, their process, in cultivating their several talents, had as little accord, as their method of organizing their intellectual attributes and characters. And, indeed, the inveterate dissension of Barry with Sir Joshua Reynolds, must always be in his own disfavour, though his harder fate must mingle pity with censure — little thankfully as his high spirit would have accepted such a species of mitigation. It is not, however, probable, that the fiery Mr. Barry should have received from the serene and can
did Sir Joshua, the opening provocation; Sir Joshua, besides his unrivalled professional merits, had a negative title to general approbation, that included many an affirmative one; “Sir Joshua Reynolds,” said Dr. Johnson, “possesses the largest share of inoffensiveness of any man that I know.
Yet Mr. Barry had many admirable as well as uncommon qualities. His moral sentiments were liberal, nay, noble; he was full fraught, almost bursting with vigorous genius; and his eccentricities, both in manner and notions, made his company generally enlightening, and always original and entertaining.
GARRICK.
The regret that stood next, or, rather, that stood alone with Dr. Burney, to that of losing the pure air and bright view of Hampstead and Highgate, by this change to St. Martin’s-street, was missing the frequency of the visits of Mr. Garrick; to whom the Queen-square of that day was so nearly out of town, that to arrive at it on foot had almost the refreshment of a country walk.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 393