CONVERSATIONS WITH MRS. THRALE AND DR. JOHNSON.
Streatham, Sunday, Aug. 23 — I know not how to express the fullness of my contentment at this sweet place. All my best expectations are exceeded, and you know they were not very moderate. If, when my dear father comes, Susan and Mr. Crisp were to come too, I believe it would require at least a day’s pondering to enable me to form another wish.
Our journey was charming. The kind Mrs. Thrale would give courage to the most timid. She did not ask me questions, or catechise me upon what I knew, or use any means to draw me out, but made it her business to draw herself out, that is, to start subjects, to support them herself, and to take all the weight of the conversation, as if it behoved her to find me entertainment. But I am so much in love with her, that I shall be obliged to run away from the subject, or shall write of nothing else.
When we arrived here, Mrs. Thrale showed me my room, which is an exceedingly pleasant one, and then conducted me to the library, there to divert myself while she dressed.
Miss Thrale soon joined me: and I begin to like her. Mr. Thrale was neither well nor in spirits all day. Indeed, he seems not to be a happy man, though he has every means of happiness in his power. But I think I have rarely seen a very rich man with a light heart and light spirits.
Dr. Johnson was in the utmost good humour.
There was no other company at the house all day.
After dinner, I had a delightful stroll with Mrs. Thrale, and she gave me a list of all her “good neighbours” in the town of Streatham, and said she was determined to take me to see Mr. T — , the clergyman, who was a character I could not but be diverted with, for he had so furious and so absurd a rage for building, that in his garden he had as many temples, and summer-houses, and statues as in the gardens of Stow, though he had so little room for them that they all seemed tumbling one upon another.
In short, she was all unaffected drollery and sweet good humour. At tea we all met again, and Dr. Johnson was gaily sociable. He gave a very droll account of the children of Mr. Langton. “Who,” he said, “might be very good children if they were let alone; but the father is never easy when he is not making them do something which they cannot do; they must repeat a fable, or a speech, or the Hebrew alphabet; and they might as well count twenty, for what they know of the matter: however, the father says half, for he prompts every other word. But he could not have chosen a man who would have been less entertained by such means.”
“I believe not!” cried Mrs. Thrale: “nothing is more ridiculous than parents cramming their children’s nonsense down other people’s throats. I keep mine as much out of the way as I can.”
“Yours, madam,” answered he, “are in nobody’s way — no children can be better managed or less troublesome; but your fault is, a too great perverseness in not allowing anybody to give them anything. Why should they not have a cherry, or a gooseberry, as well as bigger children?”
“Because they are sure to return such gifts by wiping their hands upon the giver’s gown or coat, and nothing makes children more offensive. People only make the offer to please the parents, and they wish the poor children at Jericho when they accept it.”
“But, madam, it is a great deal more offensive to refuse them. Let those who make the offer look to their own gowns and coats, for when you interfere, they only wish you at Jericho.”
“It is difficult,” said Mrs. Thrale, “to please everybody.” She then asked whether — Mr. Langton took any better care of his affairs than formerly?
“No, madam,” cried the doctor, “and never will; he complains of the ill effects of habit, and rests contentedly upon a confessed indolence. He told his father himself that he had ‘no turn to economy;’ but a thief might as well plead that he had ‘no turn to honesty.’”
Was not that excellent? At night, Mrs. Thrale asked if I would have anything? I answered, “No,” but Dr. Johnson said,
“Yes: she is used, madam, to suppers; she would like an egg or two, and a few slices of ham, or a rasher — a rasher, I believe, would please her better.”
How ridiculous! However, nothing could persuade Mrs. Thrale not to have the cloth laid: and Dr. Johnson was so facetious, that he challenged Mr. Thrale to get drunk!
“I wish,” said he, “my master would say to me, Johnson, if you will oblige me, you will call for a bottle of Toulon, and then we will set to it, glass for glass, till it is done; and after that, I will say, Thrale, if you will oblige me, you will call for another bottle of Toulon, and then we will set to it, glass for glass, till that is done: and by the time we should have drunk the two bottles, we should be so happy, and such good friends, that we should fly into each other’s arms, and both together call for the third!”
Now for this morning’s breakfast.
Dr. Johnson, as usual, came last into the library; he was in high spirits, and full of mirth and sport. I had the honour of sitting next to him: and now, all at once, he flung aside his reserve, thinking, perhaps, that it was time I should fling aside mine.
Mrs. Thrale told him that she intended taking me to Mr. T— ‘s.
“So you ought, madam,” cried he; “’tis your business to be Cicerone to her.”
Then suddenly he snatched my hand, and kissing it, “Ah!” he added, “they will little think what a tartar you carry to them!”
“No, that they won’t!” cried Mrs. Thrale; “Miss Burney looks so meek and so quiet, nobody would suspect what a comical girl she is — but I believe she has a great deal of malice at heart.”
“Oh, she’s a toad!” cried the doctor, laughing— “a sly young rogue! with her Smiths and her Branghtons!”
“Why, Dr. Johnson,” said Mrs. Thrale, “I hope you are well this morning! if one may judge by your spirits and good humour, the fever you threatened us with is gone off.”
He had complained that he was going to be ill last night.
“Why no, madam, no,” answered he, “I am not yet well. I could not sleep at all; there I lay, restless and uneasy, and thinking all the time of Miss Burney. Perhaps I have offended her, thought I; perhaps she is angry — I have seen her but once and I talked to her of a rasher! — Were you angry?”
I think I need not tell you my answer.
“I have been endeavouring to find some excuse,” continued he, “and, as I could not sleep, I got up, and looked for some authority for the word; and I find, madam, it is used by Dryden: in one of his prologues, he says— ‘And snatch a homely rasher from the coals.’ So you must not mind me, madam; I say strange things, but I mean no harm.”
I was almost afraid he thought I was really idiot enough to have taken him seriously; but, a few minutes after, he put his hand on my arm, and shaking his head, exclaimed, “Oh, you are a sly little rogue! — what a Holborn beau have you drawn!”
“Ay, Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, “the Holborn beau is Dr Johnson’s favourite; and we have all your characters by heart, from Mr. Smith up to Lady Louisa.”
“Oh, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith is the man!” cried he, laughing violently. “Harry Fielding never drew so good a character! — such a fine varnish of low politeness! — such a struggle to appear a gentleman! Madam, there is no character better drawn anywhere — in any book or by any author.”
I almost poked myself under the table. Never did I feel so delicious a confusion since I was born! But he added a great deal more, only I cannot recollect his exact words, and I do not choose to give him mine.
About noon when I went into the library, book hunting, Mrs. Thrale came to me. We had a very nice confab about various books, and exchanged opinions and imitations of Baretti; she told me many excellent tales of him, and I, in return, related my stories.
She gave me a long and very entertaining account of Dr. Goldsmith, who was intimately known here; but in speaking of “The Good-natured Man,” when I extolled my favourite Croaker, I found that admirable character was a downright theft from Dr. Johnson. Look at “The Rambler,” and you will find Suspirius is the man
, and that not merely the idea, but the particulars of the character, are all stolen thence!
While we were yet reading this “Rambler,” Dr. Johnson came in: we told him what we were about.
“Ah, madam,” cried he, “Goldsmith was not scrupulous but he would have been a great man had he known the real value of his own internal resources.”
“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, “is fond of his ‘Vicar of Wakefield.’ and so am I; — don’t you like it, sir?”
“No, madam, it is very faulty; there is nothing of real life in it, and very little of nature. It is a mere fanciful performance.”
He then seated himself upon a sofa, and calling to me, said “Come, — Evelina, — come and sit by me.”
I obeyed; and he took me almost in his arms, — that is, one of his arms, for one would go three times, at least, round me, — and, half laughing, half serious, he charged me to “be a good girl!”
“But, my dear,” continued he with a very droll look, “what makes you so fond of the Scotch? I don’t like you for that; — I hate these Scotch, and so must you. I wish Branghton had sent the dog to jail! That Scotch dog Macartney.”
“Why, sir,” said Mrs. Thrale, “don’t you remember he says he would, but that he should get nothing by it?”
“Why, ay, true,” cried the doctor, see-sawing very solemnly, “that, indeed, is some palliation for his forbearance. But I must not have you so fond of the Scotch, my little Burney; make your hero what you will but a Scotchman. Besides, you write Scotch — you say ‘the one’ — my dear, that’s not English, never use that phrase again.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Thrale, “it may be used in Macartney’s letter, and then it will be a propriety.”
“No, madam, no!” cried he; “you can’t make a beauty of it — it is in the third volume; put it in Macartney’s letter, and welcome — that, or any thing that is nonsense.”
“Why, surely,” cried I, “the poor man is used ill enough by the Branghtons.”
“But Branghton,” said he, “only hates him because of his wretchedness — poor fellow! — But, my dear love, how should he ever have eaten a good dinner before he came to England? And then he laughed violently at young Branghton’s idea.
“Well,” said Mrs. Thrale, “I always liked Macartney; he is a very pretty character, and I took to him, as the folks say.”
“Why, madam,” answered he, “I like Macartney myself. Yes, poor fellow, I liked the man, but I love not the nation.” And then he proceeded, in a dry manner, to make at once sarcastic reflections on the Scotch, and flattering speeches to me.
DR. JOHNSON ON SOME “LADIES” OF HIS ACQUAINTANCE
Saturday. — Dr. Johnson was again all himself; and so civil to me! — even admiring how I dressed myself! Indeed, it is well I have so much of his favour — for it seems he always speaks his mind concerning the dress of ladies, and all ladies who are here obey his injunctions implicitly, and alter whatever he disapproves. This is a part of his character that much surprises me: but notwithstanding he is sometimes so absent, and always so near sighted, he scrutinizes into every part of almost everybody’s appearance. They tell me of a Miss Brown, who often visits here, and who has a slovenly way of dressing. “And when she comes down in a morning,” says Mrs. Thrale, “her hair will be all loose, and her cap half off; and then Dr. Johnson, who sees something is wrong, and does not know where the fault is, concludes it is in the cap, and says, “My dear, what do you wear such a vile cap for?” “I’ll change it, Sir!” cries the poor girl, “if you don’t like it.” “Ay, do,” he says; and away runs poor Miss Brown; but when she gets on another, it’s the same thing, for the cap has nothing to do with the fault. And then she wonders Dr. Johnson should not like the cap, for she thinks it very pretty. And so on with her gown, which he also makes her change; but if the poor girl were to change through all her wardrobe, unless she could put her things on better, he would still find fault.”
When Dr. Johnson was gone, she told me of my mother’s being obliged to change her dress.
“Now,” said she “Mrs. Burney had on a very pretty linen jacket and coat, and was going to church; but Dr. Johnson, who, I suppose, did not like her in a jacket, saw something was the matter, and so found fault with the linen: and he looked and peered, and then said, ‘Why, madam, this won’t do! you must not go to church so!’ So away went poor Mrs. Burney, and changed her gown! And when she had done so, he did not like it, but he did not know why, so he told her she should not wear a black hat and cloak in summer! How he did bother poor Mrs. Burney! and himself too, for if the things had been put on to his mind, he would have taken no notice of them.”
“Why,” said Mr. Thrale, very drily, “I don’t think Mrs. Burney a very good dresser.”
“Last time she came,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she was in a white cloak, and she told Dr. Johnson she had got her old white cloak scoured on purpose to oblige him! ‘Scoured!’ says he; ‘ay, have you, madam?’ — so he see-sawed, for he could not for shame find fault, but he did not seem to like the scouring.”
And now let me try to recollect an account he gave of certain celebrated ladies of his acquaintance: an account in which, had you heard it from himself, would have made you die with laughing, his manner is so peculiar, and enforces his humour so originally. It was begun by Mrs. Thrale’s apologising to him for troubling him with some question she thought trifling — O, I remember! We had been talking of colours, and of the fantastic names given to them, and why the palest lilac should b called a soupir etouffe; and when Dr. Johnson came in, she applied to him.
“Why, madam,” said he, with wonderful readiness, “it is called a stifled sigh because it is checked in its progress, and only half a colour.”
I could not help expressing my amazement at his universal readiness upon all subjects, and Mrs. Thrale said to him, “Sir, Miss Burney wonders at your patience with such stuff, but I tell her you are used to me, for I believe I torment you with more foolish questions than anybody else dares do.”
“No, madam,” said he; “you don’t torment me; — you teaze me, indeed, sometimes.”
“Ay, so I do, Dr. Johnson, and I wonder you bear with my nonsense.”
“No, madam, you never talk nonsense; you have as much sense and more wit, than any woman I know.”
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Thrale, blushing, “it is my turn to go under the table this morning, Miss Burney!”
“And yet,” continued the doctor, with the most comical look, “I have known all the wits, from Mrs. Montagu down to Bet Flint.”
“Bet Flint cried Mrs. Thrale — pray, who is she?”
“Such a fine character, madam! She was habitually a slut and a drunkard, and occasionally a thief and a harlot.”
“And, for heaven’s sake, how came you to know her?”
“Why, madam, she figured in the literary world, too! Bet Flint wrote her own life, and called herself Cassandra, and it was in verse; — it began:
‘When Nature first ordained my birth,
A diminutive I was born on earth:
And then I came from a dark abode,
Into a gay and gaudy world.’
So Bet brought me her verses to correct; but I gave her half-a-crown, and she liked it as well. Bet had a fine spirit; — she advertised for a husband, but she had no success, for she told me no man aspired to her! Then she hired very handsome lodgings and a footboy; and she got a harpsichord, but Bet could not play; however, she put herself in fine attitudes, and drummed.”
Then he gave an account of another of these geniuses, who called herself by some fine name, I have forgotten what.
“She had not quite the same stock of virtue,” continued he, “nor the same stock of honesty as Bet Flint; but I suppose she envied her accomplishments, for she was so little moved by the power of harmony, that while Bet Flint thought she was drumming very divinely, the other jade had her indicted for a nuisance!”
“And pray what became of her, sir?
�
��Why, madam, she stole a quilt from the man of the house, and he had her taken up: but Bet Flint had a spirit not to be subdued; so when she found herself obliged to go to jail, she ordered a sedan chair, and bid her footboy walk before her. However, the boy proved refractory, for he was ashamed, though his mistress was not.”
“And did she ever get out of jail again, sir?”
“Yes, madam; when she came to her trial the judge acquitted her. ‘So now,’ she said to me, ‘the quilt is MY own, and now I’ll make a petticoat of it.’ Oh, I loved Bet Flint!”
Oh, how we all laughed! Then he gave an account of another lady, who called herself Laurinda, and who also wrote verses and stole furniture; but he had not the same affection for her, he said, though she too “was a lady who had high notions of honour.”
Then followed the history of another, who called herself Hortensia, and who walked up and down the park repeating a book of Virgil. “But,” said he, “though I know her story, I never had the good fortune to see her.”
After this he gave us an account of the famous Mrs. Pinkethman: “And she,” he said, “told me she owed all her misfortunes to her wit; for she was so unhappy as to marry a man who thought himself also a wit, though I believe she gave him not implicit credit for it, but it occasioned much contradiction and ill-will.”
“Bless me, sir,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “how can all these vagabonds contrive to get at you, of all people?”
“O the dear creatures!” cried he, laughing heartily, “I can’t but be glad to see them.”
“Why, I wonder, sir, you never went to see Mrs. Rudd, among the rest.”
“Why, madam, I believe I should,” said he, “if it was not for the newspapers; but I am prevented many frolics that I should like very well, since I am become such a theme for the papers.”
Now, would you ever have imagined this? Bet Flint, it seems, took Kitty Fisher to see him, but to his no little regret he was not at home. “And Mrs. Williams,” he added, “did not love Bet Flint, but Bet Flint made herself very easy about that.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 522