I must continue my account of our Lives in my next.
[From Miss BURNEY to MR. CRISP.]
[27th and] 28th March.
My dear Daddy,
My dear father seemed well pleased at my returning to my time; and that is no small consolation and pleasure to me. So now, to our Thursday morning party.
Mrs and Miss Thrale, Miss Owen, and Mr. Seward came long before Lexiphanes. Mrs. Thrale is a very pretty woman still; she is extremely lively and chatty; has no supercilious or pedantic airs, and is really gay and agreeable. Her daughter is about twelve years old, [stiff and proud,] I believe, [or else shy and reserved: I don’t yet know which]. Miss Owen, who is a relation, is good-humoured and sensible enough; she is a sort of butt, and, as such, a general favourite; for those sort of characters are prodigiously useful in drawing out the wit and pleasantry of others. Mr. Seward is a very polite, agreeable young man.
My sister Burney was invited to meet and play to them. The conversation was supported with a good deal of vivacity (N.B. my father being at home) for about half an hour, and then Hetty and Sukey, for the first time in public, played a duet; and in the midst of this performance Dr. Johnson was announced. He is, indeed, very ill-favoured; is tall and stout; but stoops terribly; he is almost bent double. His mouth is almost [constantly opening and shutting], as if he was chewing. He has a strange method of frequently twirling his fingers, and twisting his hands. His body is in continual agitation, seesawing up and down; his feet are never a moment quiet; and, in short, his whole person is in perpetual motion. His dress, too, considering the times, and that he had meant to put on his best becomes, being engaged to dine in a large company, was as much out of the common road as his figure; he had a large wig, snuff-colour coat, and gold buttons, but no ruffles to his shirt, [doughty fists, and black worsted stockings.] He is shockingly near-sighted, and did not, till she held out her hand to him, even know Mrs. Thrale. He poked his nose over the keys of the harpsichord, till the duet was finished, and then my father introduced Hetty to him as an old acquaintance, and he [cordially] kissed her! When she was a little girl, he had made her a present of “The Idler.”
His attention, however, was not to be diverted five minutes from the books, as we were in the library; he pored over them, [shelf by shelf,] almost touching the backs of them with his eye-lashes, as he read their titles. At last, having fixed upon one, he began, without further ceremony, to read [to himself,] all the time standing at a distance from the company. We were [all] very much provoked, as we perfectly languished to hear him talk; but it seems he is the most silent creature, when not particularly drawn out, in the world.
My sister then played another duet with my father; but Dr. Johnson was so deep in the Encyclopédie that, as he is very deaf, I question if he even knew what was going forward. When this was over, Mrs. Thrale, in a laughing manner, said, “Pray, Dr. Burney, can you tell me what that song was and whose, which Savoi sung last night at Bach’s Concert, and which you did not hear?” My father confessed himself by no means so good a diviner, not having had time to consult the stars, though in the house of Sir Isaac Newton. However, wishing to draw Dr. Johnson into some conversation, he told him the question. The Doctor, seeing his drift, good-naturedly put away his book, and said very drolly, “And pray, Sir, who is Bach? is he a piper?” Many exclamations of surprise you will believe followed this question. “Why you have read his name often in the papers,” said Mrs. Thrale; and then [she] gave him some account of his Concert, and the number of fine performances she had heard at it.
“Pray,” said he, [gravely,] “Madam, what is the expence?”
“O!” answered she, “much trouble and solicitation to get a Subscriber’s Ticket; — or else, half a Guinea.” —
“Trouble and solicitation,” said he, “I will have nothing I to do with; but I would be willing to give eighteen pence.” I [Ha! ha!]
Chocolate being then brought, we adjourned to the dining-room. And here, Dr. Johnson being taken from the books, entered freely and most cleverly into conversation; though it is remarkable he never speaks at all, but when spoken to; nor does he ever start, though he so admirably supports, any subject.
The whole party was engaged to dine at Mrs. Montague’s. Dr. Johnson said he had received the most flattering note he had ever read, or [that] any body else had ever read, by way of invitation. “Well! so have I too,” cried Mrs. Thrale; “so if a note from Mrs. Montague is to be boasted of, I beg mine may not be forgot.”
“Your note,” cried Dr. Johnson, “can bear no comparison with mine; I am at the head of the Philosophers, she says.”
“And I,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “have all the Muses in my train!”
“A fair battle,” said my father. “Come, compliment for compliment, and see who will hold out longest.”
“O! I am afraid for Mrs. Thrale,” cried Mr. Seward; “for I know Mrs. Montague exerts all her forces, when she attacks Dr. Johnson.”
“O, yes!” said Mrs. Thrale, “she has often, I know, flattered him, till he has been ready to faint.”
“Well, ladies,” said my father, “you must get him between you to-day, and see which can lay on the paint thickest, Mrs. Thrale or Mrs. Montague.”
“I had rather,” cried the Doctor, [drily,] “go to Bach’s Concert!”
After this, they talked of Mr. Garrick and his late exhibition before the King, to whom and [to] the Queen and Royal Family he read Lethe in character, c’est à dire, in different voices, and theatrically. Mr. Seward gave us an account of a Fable, which Mr. Garrick had written, by way of prologue or Introduction, upon the occasion. In this he says, that a blackbird, grown old and feeble, droops his wings &c. &c., and gives up singing; but being called upon by the eagle, his voice recovers its powers, his spirits revive, he sets age at defiance, and sings better than ever. The application is obvious.
“There is not,” said Dr. Johnson, “much of the spirit of fabulosity in this Fable; for the call of an eagle never yet had much tendency to restore the voice of a black-bird! ’Tis true that the fabulists frequently make the wolves converse with the lambs; but, when the conversation is over, the lambs are sure to be eaten! And so the eagle may entertain the blackbird; but the entertainment always ends in a feast for the eagle.” —
“They say,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “that Garrick was extremely hurt at the coolness of the King’s applause, and did not find his reception such as he expected.”
“He has been so long accustomed,” said Mr. Seward, “to the thundering approbation of the Theatre, that a mere ‘Very well, must necessarily and naturally disappoint him.”
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “he should not, in a Royal apartment, expect the hallowing and clamour of the One Shilling Gallery. The King, I doubt not, gave him as much applause, as was rationally his due; and, indeed, great and uncommon as is the merit of Mr. Garrick, no man will be bold enough to assert he has not had his just proportion both of fame and profit. He has long reigned the unequalled favourite of the public; and therefore nobody will mourn his hard fate, if the King and the Royal Family were not transported into rapture, upon hearing him read Lethe. Yet Mr. Garrick will complain to his friends, and his friends will lament the King’s want of feeling and taste; — and then Mr. Garrick will [kindly] excuse the King. He will say that [His Majesty] might be thinking of something else; that the affairs of America might occur to him; or some subject of more importance than Lethe; but, though he will say this himself, he will not forgive his friends, if they do not contradict him!”
But, now that I have written this satire, it is but just both to Mr. Garrick and to Dr. Johnson, to tell you what he said of him afterwards, when he discriminated his character with equal candour and humour.
“Garrick,” said he, “is accused of vanity; but few men would have borne such unremitting prosperity with greater, if with equal moderation. He is accused, too, of avarice; but, were he not, he would be accused of just the contrary; for he now lives rather as a prince t
han an actor; but the frugality he practised, when he first appeared in the world, and which, even then was perhaps beyond his necessity, has marked his character ever since; and now, though his table, his equipage, and manner of living, are all the most expensive, and equal to those of a nobleman, yet the original stain still blots his name! Though, had he not fixed upon himself the charge of avarice, he would long since have been reproached with luxury and with living beyond his station in magnificence and splendour.”
Another time he said of him, “Garrick never enters a room, but he regards himself as the object of general attention, from whom the entertainment of the company is expected; and true it is, that he seldom disappoints them; for he has infinite humour, a very just proportion of wit, and more convivial pleasantry, than almost any other man. But then off, as well as on the Stage, he is always an Actor; for he thinks it so incumbent upon him to be sportive, that his gaiety becomes mechanical [from being] habitual, and he can exert his spirits at all times alike, without consulting his real disposition to hilarity.”
Friday.
I am very sorry that I cannot possibly finish this account, for I am bothered to death — my uncle is just come, cousins James and Becky are with him and all are bent on my returning with them...
A thousand thanks for yours which I have just received....
Your kindness is more grateful to me than I can express, — I am monstrous glad you missed me...
Adieu, my dearest Sir, — a thousand loves and compliments to Mrs. H. and Kitty, and believe me with all affection and gratitude
Yours ever
FRANCES BURNEY.
I am now writing with a Steel Pen, which Mr. Cutler, [an old friend of my father’s] a very agreeable man, has just sent me, with a note, and these lines —
“À ma chere plume Va, petite plume, — va servir Ma’m’selle Burney, —
Puisse tu surpasser la Volantè de Gurney!”
* * * * * *
[MR. CRISP TO MISS BURNEY.]
Ches. March 27, 1777.
My dear Fanny,
You can’t imagine how we miss’d you as soon as you were gone — There was a Void, which still continues, and will not easily be fill’d up. —
* * * * * *
Well, you are gone, so that matter is ended. — So now write a long account, a journal of yourself, and all your proceedings, what you are all doing at St. Martin’s, all about your lordly uncle, and your Worcester.... journey — A most minute, and particular account of your Sunday night’s concert, &c. &c. — &c. — In short, Fanny, in this eternal scene of inaction, call’d Chesington, in return for your lively, entertaining intelligence; your anecdotes, descriptions, accounts of people and things, you must expect nothing else, but a demand for more. You know this place, and its inhabitants; consequently the solid truth of what I say; so that I own, you can have no real motive for such a commerce of letters where the ballance of trade is all on my side, except this one consideration — I mean, a firm persuasion, that I most sincerely, nay ardently, interest myself in whatever concerns a Fannikin — What then, it may be said? This goodwill, and these good wishes, are barren. — I can’t help it — The soil is poor, and you can have no more.
I have now began to get on horseback, and shall try what air and exercise in this fine weather will do for me, in regard to sleep and digestion. I have likewise began a new course of medicines, from which, indeed, I do not expect much, as I know of none that are a cure for age, and the infirmities attending it — If I can obtain a palliation of uneasiness, some intervals of relief, my expectations and pretensions go no farther. Love to your folks. Kate and Ham, I am convinc’d, have a fine regard for a Fannikin, and now, and at all times, desire she may be assur’d of it —
God bless you, my creature,
Yours affectionately
S. C.
[MR. CRISP TO MISS BURNEY.]
Ches. Ap. 2, 1777.
[Some of Mr. Crisp’s old-world words have been effaced at the beginning of this letter.]
D’ye think to come off so?... ’tis true your letter was an excellent one; full of excellent portraits, as like, and as strongly painted as Sir J. Reynolds’s — What then? — the Concert, the Concert, you young [Torment]! Monday night’s concert, Piozzi, Rauzzini, your Gentilities, and your Tranquallities, as Shakespear says! This I expect; and as circumstantially described, and as highly finished, as the Johnson’s, Thrale’s, Garrick’s, Montagues, &c. By the way, how wonderfully well, in half a dozen masterly touches, has Johnson made a striking likeness of Garrick! It half reconciles me to his heavy Dictionary. I am now convinced (putting together your account of him and what I had heard before) that his real forte is Conversation. His quickness, his originality, his oddities, his singularities, (which so well become him and perhaps would nobody else) must make him a model of an entertaining companion. Well, Fanny, since I can’t come to London, and personally partake of the turtle feast; you saved, and collected me a part of it, so well selected, so well clos’d up, and packed with such care, that it has all the full relish, and the high flavour of the Callipash, and the Callipee. This being the case, d’ye think my modesty will restrain me from crying more, more? No, Fanny, I know too well, when I am got into good quarters — Besides Sunday night, send me word all about your Worcester journey and your Worcester people — how d’ye like Becky? — has your Lordly uncle yet given his consent that his son Edward shall be allow’d to make a figure in the world, and do honour to himself, family, and country?... Send me a journal of every thing relating to you and yours — did you deliver my message to Hetty and Charles? how do they do? go on? &c., &c., &c. — I would write you more if I had any thing to say.... Adieu.
Ever your affectionate Daddy. S. C.
My love to all your folks.
[THE AUTHOR’S “PRELUDE TO THE WORCESTER JOURNAL.”]
O Yes!
Be it known to all whom it may concern, c’est à dire, in the first place, — Nobody; — in the second place, the same person; — and in the third place, Ditto, — That Frances Burney, Spinster, of the Parish of Saint Martin’s in the Fields,.... did keep no Journal this unhappy year, till she wrote from Worcester to her Sister Susan of the same parish, and likewise a spinster. There are who may live to mourn this. For my part, I shall not here enumerate all the particular misfortunes which this gap in literature may occasion, though I feel that they will be of a nature most serious and melancholy; but I shall merely scrawl down such matters of moment as will be requisite to mention, in order to make the Worcester Journal, which is a delicious morsel of learning and profound reasoning, intelligible to the three persons mentioned above.
When with infinite toil and labour, [during the last year,] I had transcribed [in a feigned hand] the second Volume [of my new Essay], I sent it by my brother [Charles] to Mr. Lowndes. The fear of discovery, or of suspicion in the house, made the copying extremely laborious to me; for in the day time, I could only take odd moments, so that I was obliged to sit up the greatest part of many nights, in order to get it ready. And, after all this fagging, Mr. Lowndes sent me word, that he approved of the book; but could not think of printing it, till it was finished; that it would be a great disadvantage to it, and that he would wait my time, and hoped to see it again, as soon as it was completed.
Now, this man, knowing nothing of my situation, supposed, in all probability, that I could seat myself quietly at my bureau, and write on with all expedition and ease, till the work was finished. But so different was the case, that I had hardly time to write half a page in a day; and neither my health nor inclination would allow me to continue my nocturnal scribbling for so long a time, as to write first, and then copy, a whole volume. I was therefore obliged to give the attempt and affair entirely over for the present.
In March I made a long and happy visit to my ever-dear and ever-kind Mr. Crisp. There is no place where I more really enjoy myself than at Chesington. All the household are kind, hospitable, and partial to me; there is no sort of re
straint; every body is disengaged, and at liberty to pursue their own inclinations; and my Daddy [Crisp], who is the soul of the place, is at once so flatteringly affectionate to me, and so infinitely, so beyond comparison clever in himself that were I to be otherwise than happy in his company, I must either be wholly without feeling or utterly destitute of understanding.
From this loved spot I was suddenly hurried by intelligence, that my uncle was coming to town. And the fear that he would be displeased at finding that I made a visit to Chesington nearly at the time I was invited to Barborne, made me not dare out-stay the intelligence of his intended journey. He brought with him his son James and his daughter Beckey.
James is a very manly, good-natured, unaffected, good-hearted young man. He has by no means the power of entertainment that his brother Richard possesses; but he is so well-disposed and so sweet-tempered that it is hardly fair and possible to find fault with him.
Beckey is rather pretty in her face, and perfectly elegant in her person. She is extremely lively, gay as the morning of May, and wild as the wind of March. Her temper is very sweet; her heart affectionate, and her head mighty well laden with natural stores of good understanding and sense. Like Betsy, she laughs rather more than reason; but she is so young and so good-humoured that, though she may sometimes appear foolishly giddy, it is not possible to entertain an idea of [censuring her.] She is, upon the whole, a most sweet girl, and one that I loved much at first sight, and yet more afterwards.
My uncle’s professed intention in his journey, was to carry me back to Barborne; and he would not be denied; nor let my father rest, till he obtained his leave. And so, escorted by my uncle and cousin James, I set off for Worcester the beginning of April.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 495