A LEARNED MAN ON “EVELINA.”
When we were dressed for dinner, and went into the parlour, we had the agreeable surprise of seeing Mr. Seward. There was also Mr. Lort, who is reckoned one of the most learned men alive, and is also a collector of curiosities, alike in literature and natural history. His manners are somewhat blunt and odd, and he is altogether out of the common road, without having chosen a better path.
The day was passed most agreeably. In the evening we had, as usual, a literary conversation. Mr. Lort produced several curious MSS. of the famous Bristol Chatterton; among others, his will, and divers verses written against Dr. Johnson, as a placeman and pensioner; all of which he read aloud, with a steady voice and unmoved countenance.
I was astonished at him; Mrs. Thrale not much pleased; Mr. Thrale silent and attentive; and Mr. Seward was slily laughing. Dr. Johnson himself listened profoundly and laughed openly. Indeed, I believe he wishes his abusers no other thing than a good dinner, like Pope.
Just as we had got our biscuits and toast-and-water, which make the Streatham supper, and which, indeed, is all there is any chance of eating after our late and great dinners, Mr. Lort suddenly said,
“Pray, ma’am, have you heard anything of a novel that runs about a good deal, called ‘Evelina’?”
What a ferment did this question, before such a set, put me in! I did not know whether he spoke to me, or Mrs. Thrale, and Mrs. Thrale was in the same doubt, and as she owned, felt herself in a little palpitation for me, not knowing what might come next, Between us both, therefore, he had no answer.
“It has been recommended to me,” continued he; “but I have no great desire to see it, because it has such a foolish name. Yet I have heard a great deal of it, too.”
He then repeated “Evelina” — in a very languishing and ridiculous tone.
My heart beat so quick against my stays that I almost panted with extreme agitation, from the dread either of hearing some horrible criticism, or of being betrayed: and I munched my biscuit as if I had not eaten for a fortnight.
I believe the whole party were in some little consternation Dr. Johnson began see-sawing; Mr. Thrale awoke; Mr. E —— who I fear has picked up some notion of the affair from being so much in the house, grinned amazingly; and Mr. Seward, biting his nails and flinging himself back in his chair, I am sure had wickedness enough to enjoy the whole scene.
Mrs. Thrale was really a little fluttered, but without looking at me, said, “And pray what, Mr. Lort, what have you heard of it?”
“Why they say,” answered he, “that it’s an account of a young lady’s first entrance into company, and of the scrapes she gets into; and they say there’s a great deal of character in it, but I have not cared to look in it, because the name is so foolish— ‘Evelina’!”
“Why foolish, sir?” cried Dr. Johnson. “Where’s the folly of it?”
“Why, I won’t say much for the name myself,” said Mrs. Thrale, “to those who don’t know the reason of it, which I found out, but which nobody else seems to know.” She then explained the name from Evelyn, according to my own meaning.
“Well,” said Dr. Johnson, “if that was the reason, it is a very good one.”
“Why, have you had the book here?” cried Mr. Lort, staring.
“Ay, indeed, have we,” said Mrs. Thrale; “I read it when I was last confined, and I laughed over it, and I cried over it!”
“O ho!” said Mr. Lort, “this is another thing! If you have had it here, I will certainly read it.”
“Had it? ay,” returned she; “and Dr. Johnson, who would not look at it at first, was so caught by it when I put it in the coach with him, that he has sung its praises ever since, — and he says Richardson would have been proud to have written it.”
“O ho! this is a good hearing,” cried Mr. Lort; “if Dr. Johnson can read it, I shall get it with all speed.”
“You need not go far for it,” said Mrs. Thrale, “for it’s now upon yonder table.”
I could sit still no longer; there was something so awkward, so uncommon, so strange in my then situation, that I wished myself a hundred miles off, and indeed, I had almost choked myself with the biscuit, for I could not for my life swallow it: and so I got up, and, as Mr. Lort went to the table to look for “Evelina,” I left the room, and was forced to call for water to wash down the biscuit, which literally stuck in my throat.
I heartily wished Mr. Lort at Jerusalem. I did not much like going back, but the moment I recovered breath, I resolved not to make bad worse by staying longer away: but at the door of the room, I met Mrs. Thrale, who, asking me if I would have some water, took me into a back room, and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
“This is very good sport,” cried she; “the man is as innocent about the matter as a child, and we shall hear what he says about it to-morrow morning at breakfast. I made a sign to Dr. Johnson and Seward not to tell him.”
She found I was not in a humour to think it such good sport as she did, she grew more serious, and taking my hand kindly said, “May you never, Miss Burney, know any other pain than that of hearing yourself praised! and I am sure that you must often feel.”
When I told her how much I dreaded being discovered, and begged her not to betray me any further, she again began laughing, and openly declared she should not consult me about the matter. But she told me that, as soon as I had left the room, when Mr. Lort took up “Evelina,” he exclaimed contemptuously “Why, it’s printed for Lowndes!” and that Dr. Johnson then told him there were things and characters in it more than worthy of Fielding. “Oh ho!” cried Mr. Lort; “what, is it better than Fielding?” “Harry Fielding,” answered Dr. Johnson, “knew nothing but the shell of life.”
“So you, ma’am,” added the flattering Mrs. Thrale, “have found the kernel.”
Are they all mad? or do they only want to make me so
CURIOSITY REGARDING THE AUTHOR OF “EVELINA.”
Streatham, Sept. — Our Monday’s intended great party was very small, for people are so dispersed at present in various quarters: we had, therefore, only Sir Joshua Reynolds, two Miss Palmers, Dr. Calvert, Mr. Rose Fuller, and Lady Ladd. Dr. Johnson did not return.
Sir Joshua I am much pleased with: I like his countenance, and I like his manners; the former I think expressive, and sensible; the latter gentle, unassuming, and engaging.
The dinner, in quantity as well as quality, would have sufficed for forty people. Sir Joshua said, when the dessert appeared, “Now if all the company should take a fancy to the same dish, there would be sufficient for all the company from any one.”
After dinner, as usual, we strolled out: I ran first into the hall for my cloak, and Mrs. Thrale, running after me, said in a low voice,
“If you are taxed with ‘Evelina,’ don’t own it; I intend to say it is mine, for sport’s sake.”
You may think how much I was surprised, and how readily I agreed not to own it; but I could ask no questions, for the two Miss Palmers followed close, saying,
“Now pray, ma’am, tell us who it is?”
“No, no,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “who it is, you must find out. I have told you that you dined with the author; but the rest you must make out as you can.”
Miss Thrale began tittering violently, but I entreated her not to betray me; and, as soon as I could, I got Mrs. Thrale to tell me what all this meant. She then acquainted me, that, when she first came into the parlour, she found them all busy in talking of “Evelina,” and heard that Sir Joshua had declared he would give fifty pounds to know the author!
“Well,” said Mrs. Thrale, “thus much, then, I will tell you; the author will dine with you to-day.”
They were then all distracted to know the party.
“Why,” said she, “we shall have Dr. Calvert, Lady Ladd, Rose Fuller, and Miss Burney.”
“Miss Burney?” quoth they, “which Miss Burney?”
“Why, the eldest, Miss Fanny Burney; and so out of this list you must make out the a
uthor.”
I shook my head at her, but begged her, at least, to go no further.
“No, no,” cried she, laughing, “leave me alone; the fun will be to make them think it me.”
However, as I learnt at night, when they were gone, Sir Joshua was so very importunate with Mr. Thrale, and attacked him with such eagerness, that he made him confess who it was, as soon as the ladies retired.
Well, to return to our walk. The Miss Palmers grew more and more urgent.
“Did we indeed,” said the eldest, “dine with the author of ‘Evelina?’”
“Yes, in good truth did you.”
“Why then, ma’am, it was yourself.”
“I shan’t tell you whether it was or not; but were there not other people at dinner besides me? What think you of Dr. Calvert?”
“Dr. Calvert? no! no; I am sure it was not he: besides, they say it was certainly written by a woman.”
“By a woman? nay, then, is not here Lady Ladd, and Miss Burney, and Hester?”
“Lady Ladd I am sure it was not, nor could it be Miss Thrale’s. O maam! I begin to think it was really yours! Now, was it not, Mrs. Thrale?”
Mrs. Thrale only laughed.
“A lady of our acquaintance,” said Miss Palmer, “Mrs. Cholmondeley, went herself to the printer, but he would not tell.”
“Would he not?” cried Mrs. Thrale, “why, then, he’s an honest man.”
“Oh, is he so? — nay, then, it is certainly Mrs. Thrale’s.”
“Well, well, I told you before I should not deny it.”
“Miss Burney,” said she, “pray do you deny it?” in a voice that seemed to say, — I must ask round, though rather from civility than suspicion.
“Me?” cried I, “well no: if nobody else will deny it, why should I? It does not seem the fashion to deny it.”
“No, in truth,” cried she; “I believe nobody would think of denying it that could claim it, for it is the sweetest book in the world. My uncle could not go to bed till he had finished it, and he says he is sure he shall make love to the author, if ever he meets with her, and it should really be a woman!”
“Dear madam,” cried Miss Offy, “I am sure it was you but why will you not own it at once?”
“I shall neither own nor deny anything about it.”
“A gentleman whom we know very well,” said Miss Palmer, “when he could learn nothing at the printer’s, took the trouble to go all about Snow Hill, to see if he could find any silversmith’s.”
“Well, he was a cunning creature!” said Mrs. Thrale; “but Dr. Johnson’s favourite is Mr. Smith.”
“So he is of everybody,” answered she: “he and all that family; everybody says such a family never was drawn before. But Mrs. Cholmondeley’s favourite is Madame Duval; she acts her from morning to night, and ma-foi’s everybody she sees. But though we all want so much to know the author, both Mrs. Cholmondeley and my uncle himself say they should be frightened to death to be in her company, because she must be such a very nice observer, that there would be no escaping her with safety.”
What strange ideas are taken from mere book-reading! But what follows gave me the highest delight I can feel.
“Mr. Burke,” she continued, “doats on it: he began it one morning at seven o’clock, and could not leave it a moment; he sat up all night reading it. He says he has not seen such a book he can’t tell when.”
Mrs. Thrale gave me involuntarily a look of congratulation, and could not forbear exclaiming, “How glad she was Mr. Burke approved it!” This served to confirm the Palmers in their mistake, and they now, without further questioning, quietly and unaffectedly concluded the book to be really Mrs. Thrale’s and Miss Palmer said,— “Indeed, ma’am, you ought to write a novel every year: nobody can write like you!”
I was both delighted and diverted at this mistake, and they grew so easy and so satisfied under it, that the conversation dropped, and off we went to the harpsichord.
Not long after, the party broke up, and they took leave. I had no conversation with Sir Joshua all day; but I found myself more an object of attention to him than I wished; and he several times spoke to me, though he did not make love!
When they rose to take leave, Miss Palmer, with the air of asking the greatest of favours, hoped to see me when I returned to town; and Sir Joshua, approaching me with the most profound respect, inquired how long I should remain at Streatham? A week, I believed: and then he hoped, when I left it, they should have the honour of seeing me in Leicester Square.
In short, the joke is, the people speak as if they were afraid of me, instead of my being afraid of them. It seems, when they got to the door, Miss Palmer said to Mrs. Thrale,
“Ma’am, so it’s Miss Burney after all!”
“Ay, sure,” answered she, “who should it be?”
“Ah! why did not you tell us sooner?” said Offy, “that we might have had a little talk about it?”
Here, therefore, end all my hopes of secrecy!
THE MEMBERS OF DR. JOHNSON’S HOUSEHOLD.
At tea-time the subject turned upon the domestic economy of Dr. Johnson’s household. Mrs. Thrale has often acquainted me that his house is quite filled and overrun with all sorts of strange creatures, whom he admits for mere charity, and because nobody else will admit them, — for his charity is unbounded; or, rather, bounded only by his circumstances.
The account he gave of the adventures and absurdities of the set, was highly diverting, but too diffused for writing — though one or two speeches I must give. I think I shall occasionally theatricalise my dialogues.
Mrs. Thrale — Pray, Sir, how does Mrs. Williams like all this tribe?
Johnson — Madam, she does not like them at all: but their fondness for her is not greater. She and De Mullin quarrel incessantly; but as they can both be occasionally of service to each other, and as neither of them have a place to go to, their animosity does not force them to separate.
Mrs. T. — And pray, sir, what is Mr. Macbean?
Dr. J. — Madam, he is a Scotchman: he is a man of great learning, and for his learning I respect him, and I wish to serve him. He knows many languages, and knows them well; but he knows nothing of life. I advised him to write a geographical dictionary; but I have lost all hopes of his doing anything properly, since I found he gave as much labour to Capua as to Rome.
Mr. T. — And pray who is clerk of your kitchen, sir?
Dr. J. — Why, sir, I am afraid there is none; a general anarchy prevails in my kitchen, as I am told by Mr. Levat, who says it is not now what it used to be!
Mrs. T. — Mr. Levat, I suppose, sir, has the office of keeping the hospital in health? for he is an apothecary.
Dr. J. — Levat, madam, is a brutal fellow, but I have a good regard for him; for his brutality is in his manners, not his mind.
Mr. T. — But how do you get your dinners drest?
Dr. J. — Why De Mullin has the chief management of the kitchen; but our roasting is not magnificent, for we have no jack.
Mr. T. — No jack? Why, how do they manage without?
Dr. J. — Small joints, I believe, they manage with a string, larger are done at the tavern. I have some thoughts (with profound gravity) of buying a jack, because I think a jack is some credit to a house.
Mr. T. — Well, but you’ll have a spit, too?
Dr. J. — No, sir, no; that would be superfluous; for we shall never use it; and if a jack is seen, a spit will be presumed!
Mrs. T. — But pray, sir, who is the Poll you talk of? She that you used to abet in her quarrels with Mrs. Williams, and call out, “At her again, Poll! Never flinch, Poll.”
Dr. J. — Why, I took to Poll very well at first, but she won’t do upon a nearer examination.
Mrs. T. — How came she among you, sir?
Dr. J. — Why I don’t rightly remember, but we could spare her very well from us. Poll is a stupid slut; I had some hopes of her at first; but when I talked to her tightly and closely, I could make nothing of he
r; she was wiggle waggle, and I could never persuade her to be categorical, I wish Miss Burney would come among us; if she would only give us a week, we should furnish her with ample materials for a new scene in her next work.
ANTICIPATED VISIT FROM MRS. MONTAGU.
[“The great Mrs. Montagu” deserves a somewhat longer notice
than can be conveniently compressed within the limits of a
footnote. She was as indisputably, in public estimation, the
leading literary lady of the time, as Johnson was the
leading man of letters. Her maiden name was Elizabeth
Robinson. She was born at York in the year 1720, and
married, in 1742, Edward Montagu, grandson of the first Earl
of Sandwich. Her husband’s death, in 1775, left her in the
possession of a handsome fortune. Mrs. Montagu’s literary
celebrity was by no means dearly bought, for it rested,
almost exclusively, on her “Essay on the Writings and Genius
of Shakespear,” published by Dodsley in 1769. Indeed, the
only other writings which she committed to the press were
three “Dialogues of the Dead,” appended to the Well-known
“Dialogues” of her friend, Lord Lyttelton. The “Essay” is
an elegantly written little work, superficial when regarded
in the light of modern criticism, but marked by good sense
and discrimination. One of the chief objects of the
authoress was to defend Shakespeare against the strictures
of Voltaire, and in this not very difficult task she has
undoubtedly succeeded. Johnson’s opinion of the “Essay” was
unfavourable. To Sir Joshua Reynolds’s remark, that it did
honour to its authoress, he replied: “Yes Sir: it does her
honour, but it would do nobody else honour;” and he goes on
to observe that “there is not one sentence of true criticism
in the book.” But if the general applause which the book
had excited was out of all proportion to its merits,
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