I did not, however, sufficiently like her beginning, to accept her challenge of talking, and only coldly answered by yes, no, or a bow.
AT MISS MONCKTON’S: “CECILIA” EXTOLLED BY THE “OLD WITS,” AND BY BURKE.
Then came in Sir Joshua Reynolds, and he soon drew a chair near mine, and from that time I was never without some friend at my elbow.
“Have you seen,” said he, “Mrs. Montagu lately?”
“No, not very lately.”
“But within these few months?”
“No, not since last year.”
“Oh, you must see her, then. You ought to see and to hear her— ‘t will be worth your while. Have you heard of the fine long letter she has written?”
“Yes, but I have not met with it.”
“I have.”
“And who is it to?”
“The old Duchess of Portland. She desired Mrs. Montagu’s opinion of ‘Cecilia,’ and she has written it at full length. I was in a party at her grace’s, and heard of nothing but you. She is so delighted, and so sensibly, so rationally, that I only wish you could have heard her. And old Mrs. Delany had been forced to begin it, though she had said she should never read any more; however, when we met, she was reading it already for the third time.”
After this Mrs. Burke saw me, and with much civility and softness of manner, came and talked with me, while her husband without seeing me, went behind my chair to speak to Mrs Hampden.
Miss Monckton, returning to me, then said —
“Miss Burney, I had the pleasure yesterday of seeing Mrs. Greville.”
I suppose she concluded I was very intimate with her.
“I have not seen her,” said I, “in many years.”
“I know, however,” cried she, looking surprised, “she is your godmother.”
“But she does not do her duty and answer for me, for I never see her.”
“Oh, you have answered very well for yourself! But I know by that your name is Fanny.”
She then tripped to somebody else, and Mr. Burke very quietly came from Mrs. Hampden, and sat down in the vacant place at my side. I could then wait no longer, for I found he was more near-sighted than myself; I, therefore, turned towards him and bowed: he seemed quite amazed, and really made me ashamed, however delighted, by the expressive civility and distinction with which he instantly rose to return my bow, and stood the whole time he was making his compliments upon seeing me, and calling himself the blindest of men for not finding me out sooner. And Mrs. Burke, who was seated near me, said, loud enough for me to hear her —
“See, see what a flirtation Mr. Burke is beginning with Miss Burney and before my face too!”
These ceremonies over, he sat down by me, and began a conversation which you, my dearest Susy, would be glad to hear, for my sake, word for word; but which I really could not listen to with sufficient ease, from shame at his warm eulogiums, to remember with any accuracy. The general substance, however, take as I recollect it.
After many most eloquent compliments upon the book, too delicate either to shock or sicken the nicest ear, he very emphatically congratulated me upon its most universal success, said, “he was now too late to speak of it, since he could only echo the voice of the whole nation” and added, with a laugh, “I had hoped to have made some merit of my enthusiasm; but the moment I went about to hear what others say, I found myself merely one in a multitude.”
He then told me that, notwithstanding his admiration, he was the man who had dared to find some faults with so favourite and fashionable a work. I entreated him to tell me what they were, and assured him nothing would make me so happy as to correct them under his direction. He then enumerated them: and I will tell you what they are, that you may not conclude I write nothing but the fairer part of my adventures, which I really always relate very honestly, though so fair they are at this time, that it hardly seems possible they should not be dressed up.
The masquerade he thought too long, and that something might be spared from Harrel’s grand assembly; he did not like Morrice’s part of the pantheon; and he wished the conclusion either more happy or more miserable “for in a work of imagination,” said he, “there is no medium.”
I was not easy enough to answer him, or I have much, though perhaps not good for much, to say in defence of following life and nature as much in the conclusion as in the progress of a tale; and when is life and nature completely happy or miserable?
Looking very archly at me, and around him, he said, —
“Are you sitting here for characters? Nothing, by the way, struck me more in reading your book than the admirable skill with which your ingenious characters make themselves known by their own words.”
He then went on to tell me that I had done the most wonderful of wonders in pleasing the old wits, particularly the Duchess of Portland and Mrs. Delany, who resisted reading the book till they were teased into it, and, since they began, could do nothing else — and he failed not to point out, with his utmost eloquence, the difficulty of giving satisfaction to those who piqued themselves upon being past receiving it.
“But,” said he, “I have one other fault to find, and a more material one than any I have mentioned.”
“I am the more obliged to you. What is it?”
“The disposal of this book. I have much advice to offer to you upon that subject. Why did not you send for your own friend out of the city? he would have taken care you should not part with it so much below par.”
He meant Mr. Briggs.
Sir Joshua Reynolds now joined us.
“Are you telling her,” said he, “of our conversation with the old wits? I am glad you hear it from Mr. Burke, Miss Burney, for he can tell it so much better than I can, and remember their very words.”
“Nothing else would they talk of for three whole hours,” said he, “and we were there at the third reading of the bill.”
“I believe I was in good hands,” said I, “if they talked of it to you?”
“Why, yes,” answered Sir Joshua, laughing, “we joined in from time to time. Gibbon says he read the whole five volumes in a day.”
“’Tis impossible,” cried Mr. Burke, “it cost me three days and you know I never parted with it from the time I first opened it.”
A WRITER OF ROMANCES.
Soon after the parties changed again and young Mr. Burke came and sat by me. He is a very civil and obliging, and a sensible and agreeable young man. Old Lady Galway trotted from her corner, in the middle of the evening, and leaning her hands upon the backs of two chairs, put her little round head through two fine high dressed ladies on purpose to peep at me, and then trotted back to her place! Ha, ha!
Miss Monckton now came to us again, and I congratulated her upon her power in making Dr. Johnson sit in a group upon which she immediately said to him, —
“Sir, Miss Burney says you like best to sit in a circle.”
“Does she?” said he, laughing; “Ay, never mind what she says. Don’t you know she is a writer of romances?”
“Yes, that I do, indeed,” said Miss Monckton, and every one joined in a laugh that put me horribly out of countenance.
“She may write romances and speak truth,” said my dear Sir Joshua, who, as well as young Burke, and Mr. Metcalf, and two strangers, joined now in our little party.
“But, indeed, Dr. Johnson,” said Miss Monckton, “you must see Mrs. Siddons. Won’t you see her in some fine part?”
“Why, if I must, madam, I’ve no choice.”
“She says, sir, she shall be very much afraid of you.”
“Madam, that cannot be true.”
“Not true,” cried Miss Monckton, staring, “yes it is.”
“It cannot be, madam.”
“But she said so to me; I heard her say it myself.”
“Madam, it is not possible! remember, therefore, in future, that even fiction should be supported by probability.”
Miss Monckton looked all amazement, but insisted upon the — truth o
f what she had said.
“I do not believe, madam,” said he, warmly, “she knows my name.”
“Oh, that is rating her too low,” said a gentleman stranger.
“By not knowing my name,” continued he, “I do not mean so literally; but that, when she sees it abused in a newspaper, she may possibly recollect that she has seen it abused in a newspaper before.”
“Well, sir,” said Miss Monckton, “but you must see her for all this.”
“Well, madam, if you desire it, I will go. See her I shall not, nor hear her; but I’ll go, and that will do. The last time I was at a play, I was ordered there by Mrs. Abington, or Mrs. Somebody, I do not well remember who; but I placed myself in the middle of the first row of the front boxes, to show that when I was called I came.”
The talk upon this matter went on very long, and with great spirit. At last, a large party of ladies arose at the same time’, and I tripped after them; Miss Monckton, however, made me come back, for she said I must else wait in the other room till those ladies’ carriages drove away.
When I returned, Sir Joshua came and desired he might convey me home; I declined the offer, and he pressed it a good deal, drolly saying, —
“Why, I am old enough, a’n’t I?” And when he found me stout, he said to Dr. Johnson,— “Sir, is not this very hard? Nobody thinks me very young, yet Miss Burney won’t give me the privilege of age in letting me see her home? She says I a’n’t old enough.”
I had never said any such thing.
“Ay, sir,” said the doctor, “did I not tell you she was a writer of romances?”
MRS. WALSINGHAM.
December 15. — To-day, by an invitation of ten days standing, I waited upon Mrs. Walsingham. She is a woman high in fame for her talents, and a wit by birth, as the daughter of Sir Charles Hanbury Williams.
She has the character of being only civil to people of birth, fame, or wealth, and extremely insolent to all others. Of this, however, I could see nothing, since she at least took care to invite no company to her own house whom she was disposed to disdain. Her reception of me appeared rather singular. She was violently dressed, — a large hoop, flowers in her small and full dressed cap, ribands and ornaments extremely shown, and a fan in her hand. She was very polite, said much of her particular pleasure in seeing me, and kept advancing to me near, that involuntarily I retreated from her, not knowing her design, and kept, therefore, getting further and further back as she came forward, till I was stopped from any power of moving by the wainscot. I then necessarily stood still, and she saluted me.
We then quietly sat down, and my father began a very lively conversation upon various subjects; she kept it up with attention and good breeding, often referring to me, and seeming curious to know my notions.
The rest of the company who came to dinner were Mrs. Montagu, Mr. Percy, Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, his lady and daughter, and Sir Joshua Reynolds and Miss Palmer. I was excessively glad to see the latter, who clung to me all the visit, and took off from its formality and grandeur by her chatting and intimacy.
Mrs. Walsingham lives in a splendid house in Stratford place, elegantly fitted up, chiefly by her own paintings and drawings, which are reckoned extremely clever. I hate that word, but cannot think of another.
We did not stay late, for my father and I were both engaged to Miss Monckton’s; so was Sir Joshua, who accompanied us.
MRS. SIDDONS.
I was extremely happy to have my dear father with me at Miss Monckton’s. We found Mrs. Siddons, the actress, there. She is a woman of excellent character, and therefore I am very glad she is thus patronised, since Mrs. Abington, and so many frail fair ones, have been thus noticed by the great. She behaved with great propriety; very calm, modest, quiet, and unaffected — She has a very fine countenance, and her eyes look both intelligent and soft. She has, however, a steadiness in her manner and deportment by no means engaging. Mrs. Thrale, who was there, said,— “Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all worshipping! however, we shall soon gild it.”
A lady who sat near me then began a dialogue with Mr. Erskine, who had placed himself exactly opposite to Mrs. Siddons; and they debated together upon her manner of studying her parts, disputing upon the point with great warmth, yet not only forbearing to ask Mrs. Siddons herself which was right, but quite over-powering her with their loquacity, when she attempted, unasked, to explain the matter. Most vehement praise of all she did followed, and the lady turned to me, and said, —
“What invitation, Miss Burney, is here, for genius to display itself! — Everybody, I hear, is at work for Mrs. Siddons; but if you would work for her, what an inducement to excel you would both of you have! — Dr. Burney — .”
“Oh, pray, ma’am,” cried I, “don’t say to him—”
“Oh, but I will! — if my influence can do you any mischief, you may depend upon having it.”
She then repeated what she had said to my father, and he instantly said, —
“Your ladyship may be sure of my interest.”
I whispered afterwards to know who she was, and heard she Was Lady Lucan.
DR. JOHNSON’S INMATES AT BOLT-COURT.
On Tuesday, Dec. 24, I went in the evening to call on Mrs. Thrale, and tore myself away from her to go to Bolt-court to see Dr. Johnson, who is very unwell. He received me with great kindness, and bade me come oftener, which I will try to contrive. He told me he heard of nothing but me, call upon him who would; and, though he pretended to growl, he was evidently delighted for me. His usual set, Mrs. Williams and Mrs. De Mullins, were with him; and some queer man of a parson who, after grinning at me some time, said, —
“Pray, Mrs. De Mullins, is the fifth volume of ‘Cecilia’ at home yet? Dr. Johnson made me read it, ma’am.”
“Sir, he did it much honour.”
“Made you, sir?” said the doctor, “you give an ill account of your own taste or understanding, if you wanted any making to read such a book as ‘Cecilia.’”
“Oh, sir, I don’t mean that; for I am sure I left every thing in the world to go on with it.”
A shilling was now wanted for some purpose or other, and none of them happened to have one; I begged that I might lend one.
“Ay, do,” said the doctor, “I will borrow of you; authors are like privateers, always fair game for one another.”
“True, sir,” said the parson, “one author is always robbing another.”
“I don’t know that, sir,” cried the doctor; “there sits an author who, to my knowledge, has robbed nobody. I have never once caught her at a theft. The rogue keeps her resources to herself!”
THE TWO MR. CAMBRIDGES IMPROVE UPON ACQUAINTANCE.
Thursday. — In the morning Mr. Cambridge came, and made a long visit. He is entertaining, original, and well-bred; somewhat formal, but extremely civil and obliging, and, I believe, remarkably honourable and strict in his principles and actions. I wished I could have been easy and chatty with him as I hear he is so much my friend, and as I like him very much; but, in truth, he listens to every syllable I utter with so grave a deference, that it intimidates and silences me. When he was about taking leave, he said, —
“Shall you go to Mrs. Ord’s to-morrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought so,” said he, smiling, “and hoped it. Where shall you go to-night?”
“No where, — I shall be at home.”
“At home? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why, then, Miss Burney, my son and I dine to-day in your neighbourhood, at the Archbishop of York’s, and, if you please, we will come here in the evening.”
This was agreed to. And our evening was really a charming one. The two Mr. Cambridges came at about eight o’clock, and the good Mr. Hoole was here. My father came downstairs to them in high spirits and good humour, and he and the elder Mr. Cambridge not only talked enough for us all, but so well and so pleasantly that no person present had even a wish to speak for himself. Mr. Camb
ridge has the best stock of good stories I almost ever heard; and, though a little too precise in his manner, he is always well-bred, and almost always entertaining. Our sweet father kept up the ball with him admirably, whether in anecdotes, serious disquisitions, philosophy, or fun; for all which Mr. Cambridge has both talents and inclination.
The son rises extremely in my opinion and liking. He is sensible, rational, and highly cultivated; very modest in all he asserts, and attentive and pleasing in his behaviour; and he is wholly free from the coxcombical airs, either of impertinence, or negligence and nonchalance, that almost all the young men I meet, except also young Burke, are tainted with. What chiefly, however, pleased me in him was observing that he quite adores his father. He attended to all his stories with a face that never told he had heard them before; and, though he spoke but little himself, he seemed as well entertained as if he had been the leading person in the company, — a post which, nevertheless, I believe he could extremely well sustain; and, no doubt, much the better for being in no haste to aspire to it. I have seldom, altogether, had an evening with which I have been better pleased.
THE SHILLING, THE CHAIRMAN, AND THE GREEN-SHOP GIRL.
Saturday, Dec. 28. — My father and I dined and spent the day at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, after many preceding disappointments. I had a whispering conversation with Mrs. Reynolds, which made me laugh, from her excessive oddness and absurdity.
“I had the most unfortunate thing in the world happen to me,” she said, “about Mrs. Montagu, and I always am in some distress or misfortune with that lady. She did me the honour to invite me to dine with her last week, — and I am sure there is nobody in the world can be more obliged to Mrs. Montagu taking such notice of any body; — but just when the day came I was so unlucky as to be ill, and that, you know, made it quite improper to go to dine with Mrs. Montagu, for fear of disagreeable consequences. So this vexed me very much, for I had nobody to send to her that was proper to appear before Mrs. Montagu; for to own the truth, you must know I have no servant but a maid, and I could not think of sending such a person to Mrs. Montagu. So I thought it best to send a charman, and to tell him only to ring at the bell, and to wait for no answer; because then the porter might tell Mrs. Montagu my servant brought the note, for the porter could not tell but he might be my servant.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 542