It seems he had been speaking very highly of my father to the King, who he was accidentally admitted to the speech of, by being one morning in the apartments of M. [de] Saigas, who is [sub-]preceptor of the Prince of Wales, when the King came in, [who] entered into conversation with great complacency and condescension. He had given an account of this to my mother — She told him now, that my father was much pleased to have had so good a friend speak of him before the King. “Madam,” cried he, “I will speak of him before God, and that is doing much more!”
Since this, I have received another letter from him, much in the style of the former, very much desiring me to write to him; which I yesterday did; though I think few young women have entered into a more singular correspondence.
[MR. JAMES HUTTON TO MISS BURNEY.]
Lindsey House, Chelsea,
April 24, Thursday [1774].
Dear Madam
My little visit at your house on Saturday can by no means dispense with my thanking you in writing for your kind and charming answer to my former letter. I hope by this time you have courage to write to one who is no critic, but an admirer of all the Burneys, and if I was a critic you need not with a heart and expression like yours be afraid of the nicest eye, any more than any of the most exquisite singers your father heard were of his ears.
I was again so pleased at Queen’s Square that I have just now mentioned in a L, which perhaps the King and Queen may see, that I supposed the domestic happiness of your father was one of the causes of the charming spirit one finds in his writings, the good humour this must put a heart in that is like his, is a kind of inspiration; but I do not forget that the good humour originated where it should, in the parents.
If my little short occasional visits can give pleasure in Queen’s Square how delightful will it be to me to give pleasure in return for so much I am sure of receiving? I would add to your father’s time if I could instead of taking it from him, pray tell him then, at some not greatly employed moment, that I am not so unreasonable as to wish him to write to me; and if you will now and then snatch a moment to tell me half a word from him I shall get more than I have any pretence to.
I loved your father long before I saw him, and the sight of him did not disappoint me, and your fondness for him and his ease and yours together was the finest of all exhibitions, but whoever could do that? the arts are but imitations of nature. Have you learnt to paint? If you have I wish I could get a small profile of your father, to send to a learned man abroad who is making a collection of Heads in order to establish his system of Physiognomy. If you can do it there will be expression in it, which no painter who does not feel for the object will ever be able to hit. If you can not, I should be glad, by-and-by, if there be any good picture drawn of him, that satisfies you or your mama tolerably well at least, to get a profile taken of it, for that great work I mentioned above. If you can draw a likeness yourself you can do it from memory, for he has no time to sit for any such work.
If I could paint I would paint his benevolent look at me and you, feeling for something in his pockets on the chair and looking pleased at a stranger that you saw loved your father; but I should never be able to express my satisfaction and the happiness of that moment. At another time I would paint the joy of your father last Saturday with four of his daughters round him, and the friendly looks of that kind groupe. I am glad too that I saw your married sister, to whom now I wish, with increase of good will, every sort of happiness.
Can you find a minute to ask your father his Taste of Peres his compositions? Mr. Sulzar, who just drank coffee with me, desired me to enquire. He is a Swiss who subscribes for the “History of Music”; is vastly fond of the “Musical Tour,” and believes all I say of the Burneys.. Mrs. Hutton loves you too, was vastly pleased with that letter of yours I was so proud of, and takes my word for all I tell her of you. She does indeed bestow happiness on me, and will do as long as we live. I only wish to keep pace with her in that best employment, where friendship and esteem and love are all blended. Will you present my love to your own family? They have it indeed, and I am with truth and a warm heart Your obedient and very humble servant, JAMES HUTTON.
You will perhaps recollect that the first page at least of this is in answer to several parts of your letter, which I have before me, though it was so impressed upon my mind as that I could answer without looking at it again. Whenever you write from the heart be assured that every correspondent of taste will have reason to be satisfied and pleased, and never let letter writing cause you any study. Dip your pen there and you must succeed. Nothing ever disgusted me so much as many laboured printed letters I have seen, which were rather Performances than Letters, and therefore painful, stiff, far-fetched, unnatural stuff. Such are all Bussi Rabutin’s almost. Madame de Sevigne’s are infinitely more to the taste of the discerning, while Rabutin’s vex and teaze my heart and disappoint it and are nauseous to my very soul, considered as letters: after I had thus tasted them I found that many others were of my taste with regard to those Letters. Affectation spoils everything in writing, singing, speaking, looks, gesture, gait, in short, every thing and every where. I have found much pleasure in Madame de Maintenon’s Letters (except in Theologicals and Spirituals), they are often most cordial, free, easy, unaffected and therefore vastly clever. But why should I not leave off?
[FROM MR. CRISP.]
[April, 1774.]
My dear Fanny,
I tell you what — you are a Jew, — an Ebrew Jew — of the line of Shylock, and I shall henceforth call you, Jessica; because you, an over-grown rich Jew, can give me an entertainment of a hundred dishes, do you expect the like from such a poor, forked, unbelieving Christian, as I am? — You riot in provisions of all sorts, and have nothing to do, but to choose, or reject; and your Cookery is at your fingers ends, and to do you justice has the true relish, and is highly season’d; all this I give you credit for; I devour the feast you give me, finish the dessert, lick up the jellies and ic’d creams to the last drop, and am thankful — but all this wont do it seems. The Mosaic Law says— “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth;” and if I have neither, then I must have your pound of flesh, says Jessica. The truth is, Chesington produces nothing but Bacon and Greens, with a new laid egg, or so, and the week round the meats are pretty near the same; so that I can give you no better than I have, Fanny. You say, because I don’t like your new young acquaintance, Mr. Twiss, I am so short — here you are mistaken — I like your picture of him, just as in Raphael’s School of Athens at the Vatican, I like his picture of the Pope’s frightful Dwarf, which for fun and spite he lugg’d by head and shoulders into that fine... composition. I wont pretend to say, like that beast Shebbeare, I will make you immortal for your pictures; but I shall make a choice Cabinet Collection of them, and review them often for my own entertainment.
As to your young, travelled, dying lover, [Twiss,] I own it is matter of surprize to me, that one who has seen and known so much, and who you say has drollery in him, &c., &c., should at the same time, in other things be so thorough a puppy — has your Daddy had any further intercourse with him, or seen any of his Collections? — Tell me all about the progress of the History, the new Subscribers, new acquaintance, Garrick, Charles, Hetty;... likewise about Mr. Beckford, and above all, about your new acquaintance, whom you threaten me with, — Mr. Hutton — I believe I should like him greatly. What did King George say about Daddy’s book? or had he read it? I want somebody that has weight and power to push his interest home. As for that scrub Lord Hertford, I devote him to everlasting contempt; but I should think Lord Sandwich, Lord March, Lord Shelburne, or some of these chaps might and should exert themselves. But when I recollect what the world is my surprize at their neglect ceases.
Send a minute Journal of every thing, and never mind their being trifles, — trifles well-dressed, are excellent food, and your cookery is [with me] of established reputation.
* * * * *
[April or May.]
My father
has bought a House in St. Martin’s Street, Leicester Fields, — an odious street — but well situated, and nearly in the centre of the town; and the house is a large and good one. It was built by Sir Isaac Newton! —
[and, when he constructed it, it stood in Leicester Fields, — not Square, that he might have his observatory unannoyed by neighbouring houses, and his observatory is my favorite sitting place, when I can retire to read or write any of my private fancies or vagaries. I burnt all up to my 15th year — thinking I grew too old for scribbling nonsence, but as I am less young, I grow, I fear, less wise, for I cannot any longer resist what I find to be irresistible, the pleasure of popping down my thoughts from time to time upon paper.]
I shall be most truly glad if my dear Mr. Crisp’s plan can take place and I may have another visit to Chesington —
My good old new friend, Mr. Hutton, made me two visits while my mother was at Chesington — We had a good deal of conversation upon Lord Chesterfield’s Letters, which have lately been published. I had the satisfaction to find, that our opinions exactly coincided; that they were extremely well written, contained some excellent hints for education; but were written with a tendency to make his son a man wholly unprincipled; inculcating immorality, countenancing all gentleman-like vices, advising deceit and exhorting to inconstancy. “It pleased me much,” said Mr. Hutton, “in speaking to the King about these Letters, to hear him say, ‘For my part, I like more straight-forward work.’” I found that he had known Miss Kinnaird, and that he much loved her, which is indeed a natural consequence of knowing her. He told me that she is now gone to [? Scotland] to reside. I cannot help being sorry.
Signor Corri the Italian, who dined with us with Martinelli [2] summers ago, has made us 2 or 3 visits lately. He has been with his....
* * * * *
I have had the honour, not long since, of being in company with Mr. Keate, author of an account of Geneva, Ferney, and some other things, chiefly poetical. He is an author, comme il faut; for he is in affluent circumstances, and writes at his leisure and for his amusement. It was at the house of six old maids, all sisters, and all above sixty, that I met him. These votaries of Diana are exceedingly worthy women of the name of Blake; and I heartily wish that I, who [mean to] devote myself to the same goddess, should I be as ancient, may be as good.
Mr. Keate did not appear to me to be very brilliant; his powers of conversation are not of a shining cast; and one disadvantage to his speeches is, his delivery of them; for he speaks in a slow and sluggish voice. But what principally banished him from my good graces was, the conceited manner in which he introduced a discourse upon his own writings.
“Do you know, Mrs. Blake,” (addressing himself to the senior virgin) “I have at last ventured upon building, in spight of my resolution, and in spight of my Ode?”
Mrs. Blake fell into his plot, without being sensible that he had laid one. “O! Mrs. Burney” (cried she to mama), “that Ode was the prettiest thing! I wish you could see it!”
“Why I had determined, and indeed promised,” said he, “that when I went into my new house, I would either give a Ball or write an Ode; — and so I found the Ode was the more easy to me; but I protested in the poem, that I would never undertake to build? All the sisters then poured forth the incense of praise upon this Ode, to which he listened with the utmost nonchalance, reclining his person upon the back of his chair, and kicking his foot now over, and now under, a gold-headed cane.
When these effusions of civility were vented, the good old ladies began another subject; but, upon the first cessation of speech, Mr. Keate broke the silence he had kept, and said to mama, “But the worst thing to me was, that I was obliged to hang a carpenter in the course of my poem.”
“O dear, aye;” cried Mrs. Blake; “that part was vastly pretty! Lord! I wish I could remember it. Dear Mrs. Burney, I wish you could see it! Mr. Keate, it’s a pity it should not be seen—”
“Why surely” (cried he, affectedly), “you would not have me publish it?”
“O! as to that, — I don’t know,” answered with the utmost simplicity, Mrs. Blake, “you are the best judge of that. But I do wish you could see it, Mrs. Burney.”
“No; faith!” added he, “I think that, if I was to collect my other brats, I should not, I believe, put this among them.”
“If we may judge,” said mama, “of the family unseen by those in the world, we must certainly wish for the pleasure of knowing them all.”
Having now set the conversation upon this favourite topic again, he resumed his posture and his silence, which he did not again break, till he had again the trouble of renewing himself the theme, to which his ear delighted to listen; else he only “Sat attentive to his own applause.”
My father, who, thank Heaven! is an author of a different stamp, pursues his work at all the leisure moments he can snatch from business or from sleep.
* * * * *
Sunday night, June 26th.
Mama with Bessy and Dick are gone for a few days to Bradfield, on a visit to Mrs. Young. A message came this evening, while my father and I were tete á tete in the study, from Mr. Coney of Lynn, with compliments, and that he was coming to pay a visit here with an intimate friend of my father’s. Not conjecturing who this might be, and knowing that Mr. Coney did not merit the sacrifice of an evening, word was sent that my father was in the country; [but] they had left home before the messenger returned, and were therefore told the same tale at this door. However, they came in to see me, Mr. Coney first, and then Mr. Bewley! my father’s very learned and philosophical friend, who is come to town only for this one evening! I protest I was quite confounded at the sight of him. I well knew that my father would as earnestly desire to see Mr. Bewley, as he had not to see Mr. Coney. I was upon the point of saying, tout de bon, at sight of him, “ Mr. Bewley, my father is at home”; but the recollection of the third of a second told me what a gross affront that would be to Mr. Coney, whose name had already been sent, and without success. I therefore restrained myself, and to my great concern, after about a quarter of an hour spent in chatting, I was obliged to suffer Mr. Bewley to march off in the same ignorance that his companion did. My father has since sent half the town over in search of him; but in vain;.... for I could not procure from him any satisfactory account of his place of abode; which indeed he did not seem to know himself. He was so extremely distrait during the visit, that I believe he was uncertain whether he was in Queen Square in reality or in a vision.
Mr. Coney, who piques himself upon having the address of a man of the world, and who is very conceited, gave himself the air of being diverted at Mr. Bewley for his absence, and ignorance of the town, &c. He protested he had done nothing but laugh since they arrived. Ah! thought I, my merry gentleman, however you may presume upon your external acquirements, that quiet unassuming man, who makes your diversion, may also from you receive his own!
* * * * *
I have been interrupted by a visit from Dr. Amstrong. He must be very old, and looks very much broken; but he still retains his wit and his gallantry. When I regretted my father’s being out, and thanked him for coming in to see me; “To you” repeated he, shaking my hands, “do you think there is any body I would sooner come in to see than you?” Speaking afterwards of physicians, I said that it appeared to me to be the most melancholy of all professions, though the most useful to the world. He shook his head, and said that indeed he had never been happy till he was able to live independant of his business; for that the pain and anxiety attendant upon it, were inconceivable.
* * * * *
But now let me come to a matter of more importance and, at the same time, pleasure: My brother is returned in health, spirits, and credit. He has made what he calls a very fine voyage; but it must have been very dangerous. Indeed, he has had several personal dangers; and in these voyages of hazard and enterprize, so, I imagine, must every individual of the ship. Captain Cooke was parted from in bad weather, accidentally, in the passage from the Society Isles
to New Zealand, in the second and so fatal visit which they made to that barbarous country, where they lost ten men in the most inhuman manner. My brother, unfortunately for himself, was the witness and informer of that horrid massacre. Mr. Rowe, (the acting Lieutenant), a midshipman, and eight men were sent from the ship in a boat to shore, to get some greens. The whole ship’s company had lived so long upon good terms with the New Zealanders, that there was no suspicion of treachery or ill usage. They were ordered to return at three o’clock; but upon their failure. Captain Furneaux sent a launch, with Jem to command it, in search of them. They landed at two places without seeing anything of them. They went among the people, and bought fish; and Jem says he imagined they were gone further up the country, but never supposed how very long a way they were gone. At the third place, it is almost too terrible to mention, they found —
[MR. CRISP TO MISS BURNEY.]
Chesington, July 18 [1774].
My dear Fan,
* * * * *
I have been very ill, Fanny, since I wrote last — had a Physician — and then it must be bad with me — I thought I was going to have a violent fit of illness — .......... These uncomfortable symptoms are in some measure lessen’d, but still far from well.... and like other vegetables, I feel myself more and more fix’d to the spot, where I am planted, and take deeper root every hour I live — and that this will be the case, till I gradually wither away for good and all, all my inward feelings assure me, and so ends the subject of self. In this situation, my dear Fanny, assure yourself, one of my principal regales, is the Queen Square Journal, and I heartily wish I could procure it three times a Week, at the same rate, as I do the General Evening Post; — by the same Rate, I don’t mean the same price, viz. 2 pence halfpenny; but with the same ease; in a word, that I could command, and be sure of it regularly, at the stated times, let it cost what it would. But, says Fanny, if you don’t answer, I won’t write — now there is something of the Jew in that speech; if by Answer, you meant and were contented with, “Dear Fanny, I am delighted with your letter, and thank you a 1000 times; I wish I had anything to send you in return, but as you know where and how I live, and consequently how impossible that is in my situation, I do beg you to go on, and content yourself with the thought that you are doing a good, and kind action, which will ever be acknowledged by your affectionate Daddy S. C.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 478