Mrs. Young then began to speak of Ireland, where her husband had some thoughts of going. She asked Mr. Twiss, if he had been there? Not having well attended to what was said, he took it into his head that she was of that country, answered very civilly, “I reserved the best for the last, Ma’am. Pray, do you speak Erse, Ma’am?”
“Who? I? Sir;” cried Mrs. Young, staring, [“speak Erse?]”
“I did not know, Ma’am — I thought that being an Irish lady, perhaps you might. Well, I declare solemnly, the more I go out of my own country, the more I admire it; as to Ireland and Scotland, I mean to include them; but I have travelled from the age of seventeen, and return with double satisfaction to England. And of all the countries I have seen, upon my honour I would not take a wife out of my own for the universe; for, though I may prefer a foreign lady to dance or sing with, and though they have a certain agr’etnent that is charming in the vivacity with which they make acquaintance with strangers; yet in the English women there is a reserve, a modesty, and something so sensible; they are too sensible indeed, to be intimate with strangers; yet I admire them for it; though I own the Spanish ladies charmed me much, and the Portuguese — O! Ma’am; (to me) if you are fond of clubs, you should see the Portuguese ladies’ hair! — they have them thus broad, and they wear no caps, only a few jewels or flowers, — or—”
“What?” interrupted Mrs. Allen, with a sneer, “and I suppose some of those pretty shining things — those glowworms that you mentioned?”
“They are caught in great plenty in Spain,” said he to me, taking no notice of Mrs. Allen’s palpable sneer, “and they have an exceeding pretty effect in the ladies’ hair; but then, if you wear them, you must shut your eyes, or they won’t shine!”
“There’s for you, my dear!” cried Mrs. Allen.
“Nay, Ma’am,” said mama, “it was not said to you!”
The conversation soon after turned upon dancing. Mr. Twiss spoke of it in very warm terms, “I love dancing most exceedingly. I prefer it to anything.”
“I blush for you,” cried my father, laughing, “is this you who pretend to love Music?”
“Aye,” said Dr. Shepherd, “what becomes of music?”— “O, dancing beats all music! I should prefer a country-dance, with you, Ma’am, to all the music in the world! But this is only for your ear, Ma’am. You must not hear this, Doctor. Don’t you love dancing, Ma’am?” whispering quite languishingly. “Me, Sir?” said I, “Oh, I seldom dance — I don’t know.” What Assemblies do you frequent, Ma’am?”
“Me, Sir? Indeed I never dance; I go to none!”
“To none? bless me! but — pray, Ma’am — will you do me the honour to accept any tickets [for Mrs. Cornely’s?]”
“Sir, I am obliged to you; but I never—”
“No, Sir;” said my father, [gravely;] “she does nothing of that sort.”—’
He seemed extremely surprised, but continued, “I danced last Thursday till past two o’clock; but I was so unlucky, as to fix upon a very stupid partner, from whom I hardly could get a word, all the evening. I chose her, because she was a pretty girl, — Miss Ladbroke.”
“How could a pretty girl be stupid?” cried Dr. Shepherd. “Aye;” said my father; “her eyes should have sufficed to make her eloquent; but English girls are often shy.”
“Shall you go to the Lock Hospital Oratorio, ma’am?”
“No, Sir;” answered I. “To that at the Foundling? [O! I hope it!]”
“No, Sir; I seldom go out.” [This was followed by an Italian moaning, at my retiring spirit.]
“Well! my dear,” cried Mrs. Allen, “you have it all! poor Susy is nothing to-night.”
She said these kind of speeches, [though] in a sort of whisper, so often, [during his almost heroics of compliments,] that I was exceedingly frightened lest Mr. Twiss should hear her; and Mrs. Young fixed her eyes with such curious observation! My father, too, began to grow very grave; so that altogether I was in a very embarrassing situation, which I believe was pretty obvious; for they all endeavoured to turn Mr. Twiss away from me, and my father made several attemps at changing the conversation, though the young man was too flighty to regard them. However, at length, he attacked Susy, and talked a little French with her; but, as I was more conveniently situated for him, he returned again soon to me.
“Have you read Miss Aiken’s Poems? Dr. Burney, they have been much admired. There is one poem in them, ‘Come here, fond youth? that describes the symptoms of love, which all the ladies I meet with have by heart. Have not you, Ma’am?”
“Me? no, Sir.”
“But, Dr. Burney, of all the books upon this subject, none was ever equal to [Rousseau’s] Eloisel what feeling! what language! what fire! have you read it, Ma’am?”
“No, Sir.”
“O, it’s a book that is alone!”
“And ought to be alone,” said my father, very gravely.
Mr. Twiss perceived that he was [now] angry, and with great eagerness he cried, “Why, I assure you I gave it to my sister, who is but seventeen, and just going to be married.”
“Well,” returned my father, “I hope she read the Preface, and then flung it away.”
“No, upon my honour; she read the Preface first, and then the book. But pray, Doctor, did you ever meet with a little book upon this subject called the Dictionary of Love? It is a most elegant work. I am surprised you have not seen it. But it is difficult to procure, being out of print. It is but a duodecimo, but I gave half-a-guinea for it. Indeed Davies had a commission from me to get it for five guineas, but it took him three years. I have it now binding in gold, for a present to a young lady. But first I shall do myself the honour to shew it to you, Ma’am, though you cannot want it — you have it all ready — it is only for such bunglers as me.” I made no answer. He spoke this rather in a low voice, and I hoped that nobody heard him, for I was quite ashamed of receiving such an offer, and did not seem even to hear him myself.
His next attempt was for music. He began a most urgent and violent entreaty to me to play—” I will kneel to you, — for a quarter of an hour!” I answered very seriously, that I could not possibly [comply]: but he would not be answered. “To whom must I apply, Dr. Burney? pray, speak for me!”
“Sir,” said my father, half jesting, half earnest, “the young women in this house, like those in Spain, do nothing, before they are married.”
He was silent a few moments; and then turning to mama, with a supplicating tone said, “Will you use your influence, Ma’am? I will kneel to YOU to obtain it.”
“Sir,” said she [rather sharply,] “I am not a Duenna!”... “Duenna, Ma’am,” said he, “is the [true] pronunciation. What shall I say? One air before I go, — only one air will make my sleep so delightful!”
“If you would go to sleep first, [Sir,” said I,] “perhaps—”
“Why, aye, Fanny!” said my father, “do play him to sleep!”
“No, no, Dr. Burney, not to sleep; but my dream after it will be so fine—”
“Well!” cried Mrs. Young, “here’s a lady who can play, if she will,” [turning to Susan.] He immediately arose, and went and flung himself on his knees to Susy. She refused his request, and changed her place; he followed her, and again prostrated himself. “Well, however,” cried Mrs. Allen, “I am glad he is gone [a little] to Susy at last.” This scene lasted but a short time; finding he sued in vain, he was obliged to rise; and Dr. Shepherd, who had been quite out of his element all the evening, rose to depart, and proposed to take Mr. Twiss with him. This was agreed to; [and Mr. Twiss giving me three times most obsequiously his lowest bow, was forced to quit the field.]
I think this was the most extraordinary evening I ever passed. Mr. Twiss is such a... man as I never saw before, or scarcely any one whose character even resembled his. He piques himself upon having travelled many years, and, when very young, without a tutor; but I am apt to attribute greatly to this very circumstance, the extravagant strangeness of his manners. [Always] his own mast
er,.... he has scampered from place to place, met with new customs and new men every month, without any sensible or experienced friend.... to point out the good or evil that he saw. He is really a creature of his own forming; for he seems to have seen every thing and copied nothing. Nothing could be more improper, more injudicious than the conversation which he chose to enter into. Indeed, I often wondered where he would stop. It is, however, evident that he meant no offence or impertinence, by his prating at such a rate, before my father and mother. Yet what a novice should we conclude any man, who could imagine that any father would approve of such sort of a conversation! and more especially,... that any man of letters would be entertained by so much frivolous gallantry and forwardness; [for I have not written half his fine speeches, no, nor a quarter.] But perhaps he is of that number of men, who conclude that all women take nonsense for politeness, and that it is necessary to banish sense and reason, in order to be understood — He has really put our house into a commotion; his behaviour was so extraordinary, that he has been the sole topic of discourse since his curious [visit — ; and] even my gentle and candid father says that he has quite mistaken the thing, and that he shall never see a table-cloth in his house again, or be invited ever more to the [tea table.]
April.
In one of [Mr. Twiss’ late] letters to my father concerning [Spanish music] he says. “ Inclosed is the form of folding Italian billet doux which I promised to the young ladies.” As to promised, which is a strange word, and which only this strange man would use, all that passed concerning the billets was that he asked me if my father had ever shown me the Italian method of folding them? I answered no. “Then pray ask the Doctor,” said he, “I dare not!” I begged to be excused, and neither said or thought more upon the subject. And this he calls a promise!
The billet is folded in form of a heart; and very prettily. It is sealed with a very fine impression of the Emperor. The direction was —
Alla piú bella.
Sukey and I both refused to open it. Perhaps the gentleman fancied we should pull caps upon the occasion! However, my father himself saved us that trouble. Within were these words, written in an elegant hand. —
Di questa parte, i cicesbei Italiani scrivono loro lettere gallanti ed amorosi alle loro dame essendo la figura di questa carta forma.
* * * * *
I shall now go from an odd young to an odd old man, both new acquaintance to us.
Soon after the publication of the German Tour, my father received a letter from a stranger, who called himself Mr. Hutton of Lindsey House, Chelsea, and a friend of Dr. Hawkesworth. It contained some criticisms on the German anecdotes concerning the poverty and wretchedness of that country. He said that he had frequently travelled there, but had always met with white bread, and vindicated several other particulars which seemed to bear hard upon Germany, concluding with supposing that my father’s servant or other people must have misinformed him; and signed himself his real well-wisher and a great admirer of all other parts of his charming book.
My father wrote an immediate and angry answer to this letter, acquainting Mr. Hutton, that his veracity, which had never before been disputed, was what he should most carefully and invariably defend and adhere to; that the accounts he had given of the miserable state of the [German] Empire, was from his observations made with his own eyes, and not the result of any information; that if Mr. Hutton [had] found that country more reasonable, fertile and flourishing, he was sure he must have travelled before the last war, when the most terrible ravages were committed by the King of Prussia; and that whatever reasons he might have for defending Germany, they could not be more powerful than those which would ever impel himself to defend his own honour. Then, after answering particularly to his several remarks, he told him that, if he desired any further satisfaction or had any remaining doubts, he would at any time receive him, and endeavour to convince him in Queen Square.
Soon after this, poor Dr. Hawkesworth brought a letter from Mr. Hutton, filled with apologies and concessions, and allowing that he had travelled before the last war. He protested that his letter was extremely well-meant, and expressed the greatest concern and contrition that he had given offence. With this letter, Dr. Hawkesworth gave a character of Mr. Hutton, the most amiable that could be drawn. He said that he was his old and intimate friend; that a more worthy being did not exist; but that he was singular and wholly ignorant of the world; that he was a man who was a true lover of mankind, and made quite miserable with the idea of hurting or displeasing any living creature. In short, he made his portrait so full of benevolence and simplicity, that my father whose heart is replete with all “the milk of human kindness” wrote to him immediately a letter of reconciliation, apologizing in his turn for his own hasty answer to his first epistle, and begging the continuance of his esteem and friendship.
The much-regretted death of Dr. Hawkesworth, which happened soon after, did not put an end to this strangely begun correspondence. Mr. Hutton wrote letters that were truly his own, being unlike any, either printed or manuscript, which we ever before saw. They contained a good deal of humour, very oddly worded, and the strongest expressions of kindness.
About three months ago he called here. I heard him parleying in the passage, and delivering his name; which induced me (having only Susy at home) to ask him in[to the parlour.] He looks about sixty, good-humoured, clever, and kind-hearted. He came up to me, and said, “Is your father at home? for I am deaf.” He had not heard the man’s answer. He stayed a little while with us, and desired his respects and love to my father. “Tell him,” said he, “that I know him very well, though I never saw him.” Last Good Friday he called again, and then had the good fortune to meet with my father. He was also introduced to mama and all the family. He came with open arms, and my father was very soon extremely intimate with him. He enquired concerning us all, and whether one daughter was not married? “Yes,”
“And pray,” said he, “are you a grandfather, young Gentleman?” My father has indeed a remarkably young look. He said many other humorous things,.... and left us all in high good humour with him.
The next day I received a letter in a hand that I was unacquainted with; and to my great surprise saw the name of Hutton at the bottom. The letter is so extraordinary, considering the manner of his being known to us, that I will copy it, though I hate the “Dear Miss” at the beginning; the rest of the letter is worth preserving. There was in it one enclosed to my father.
[MR. JAMES HUTTON TO MISS BURNEY.]
Lindsey House, Chelsea.
April 2, Thursday in the evening.
Dear Miss,
I have wrote here a longish kind of Letter to your dear Papa, whom I saw with infinite pleasure you love so tenderly. As you love him therefore so much, I shall recommend to you to give him this Letter, when he is in some degree at leisure for the babble of a friend of his, perhaps after dinner on Monday or some such time: or you may leave the disposal of it to your mama, if you should be going out He is just as well off in one of you as in the other. How well does he deserve you both! I mentioned to him the use of the steam of coffee for his eyes so well employed for himself, his family, and for all who have taste in the world. You and your Mamma together will know how to surprise him into the use of it, as I express in the enclosed, for, if you consult much with him, he may perhaps, as most other studious men do, till it be too late, desire to be excused, but if he should be averse to it after the first surprise, do not teaze him for the world: for you will teaze him I know in nothing else, and I should be sorry if I should be a means of his being teazed.
I will tell you something else, Miss, if my skill in physiognomy has not totally deceived me, he is happy in his lady and children, and you in him. This gives me a high pleasure, as domestic happiness is all harmony and melody, capable of being expressed with a thousand graces, the irregular and new, as well as the old grave of forty years ago; the thousand small attentions accompanying the solid fundamental Melody, charm beyond expression
.
May ye all, all of you be blessed together! Happy will that man be, that shall, be blessed with your hand, or I am totally out. How do I wish my young friend, as I call your Father, may have nothing but blessings in his Children and Grand-children. Pray where does your brother-in-law live that I may run and take a peep at him and your sister? and what is his name? You will always be married sat cito, si sat betti. But, how shall we find a man who will deserve a daughter, who loves her parents as you do? Your Father is the proper person to explain that Latin phrase to you. If I live till next Good Friday, I may perhaps meet with your Father again at home, or on some Sunday afternoon when his book is finished; though then I shall rob all of you of part of the pleasure his leisure gives you, which at present you can have but little of. An old man as I am, is garrulous, and deaf people often are so: Now, I am both old and deaf. Discretion bids me finish. I hope you believe that I am, with the greatest esteem,
Your obedient humble Servant,
JAMES HUTTON.
[P.S.] — I was married 34 years ago, by recommendation of friends, as our Princes used to be; and have had nothing to make me repent. If I had chosen for myself, I fancy I might not have been so well off; for I have had domestic happiness in the highest degree, and have still as much esteem and tender friendship and love, — and it is reciprocal, — as in the first month. Am not I happy? I believe this little anecdote may give pleasure in Queen Square, and therefore I mention it; else I know it is not fashionable for a man to talk of his domestic happiness.
Perhaps Mr. Hutton thought the intelligence of his marriage was necessary, after so civil a letter, to prevent any mistakes on my part! However, he is an exceedingly good man, and I like him very much; nevertheless, his letter was so odd, that I could not attempt to answer it —
Some time after, my mother met this gentleman in.... and he sent me a reproach for not writing; which I therefore was then obliged to do, excusing myself as well as I could. The very day after, he called here again. He came up to me, and shook my hand— “Thank you for your letter; you thought I wanted a performance; but I only wanted the heart; but I have got that, and a performance too!”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 477