“The bill,” said he, “ought to be opposed by all honest men! in itself, and considered simply, it is equitable, and I would forward it; but when we find what a faction it is to support and encourage, it ought not to be listened to. All men should oppose it who do not wish well to sedition!”
These, and several other expressions yet more strong, he made use of; and had Sir Philip had less unalterable politeness, I believe they would have had a vehement quarrel. He maintained his ground, however, with calmness and steadiness, though he had neither argument nor wit at all equal to such an opponent.
Dr. Johnson pursued him with unabating vigour and dexterity, and at length, though he could not convince, he so entirely baffled him, that Sir Philip was self-compelled to be quiet — which, with a very good grace, he confessed.
Dr. Johnson, then, recollecting himself, and thinking as he owned afterwards, that the dispute grew too serious, with a skill all his own, suddenly and unexpectedly turned it to burlesque; and taking Sir Philip by the hand at the moment we arose after supper, and were separating for the night,
“Sir Philip,” said he, “you are too liberal a man for the party to which you belong; I shall have much pride in the honour of converting you; for I really believe, if you were not spoiled by bad company, the spirit of faction would not have possessed you. Go, then, sir, to the House, but make not your motion! Give up your Bill, and surprise the world by turning to the side of truth and reason. Rise, sir, when they least expect you, and address your fellow-patriots to this purpose: — Gentlemen, I have, for many a weary day, been deceived and seduced by you. I have now opened my eyes; I see that you are all scoundrels — the subversion of all government is your aim. Gentlemen, I will no longer herd among rascals in whose infamy my name and character must be included. I therefore renounce you all, gentlemen, as you deserve to be renounced.”
Then, shaking his hand heartily, he added,
“Go, sir, go to bed; meditate upon this recantation, and rise in the morning a more honest man than you laid down” [sic].
Now I must try to be rather more minute. On Thursday, while my dear father was here, who should be announced but Mr. Murphy; the man of all other strangers to me whom I most longed to see.
He is tall and well made, has a very gentleman- like appearance, and a quietness of manner upon his first address that, to me, is very pleasing. His face looks sensible, and his deportment is perfectly easy and polite.
When he had been welcomed by Mrs. Thrale, and had gone through the reception-salutations of Dr. Johnson and my father, Mrs. Thrale, advancing to me, said,
“But here is a lady I must introduce to you, Mr. Murphy; here is another F. B.”
“Indeed!” cried he, taking my hand; “is this a sister of Miss Brown’s?”
“No, no; this is Miss Burney.”
“What!” cried he, staring, “is this — is this — this is not the lady that — that — —”
“Yes, but it is,” answered she, laughing.
“No, you don’t say so? You don’t mean the lady that — —”
“Yes, yes, I do; no less a lady, I assure you.”
He then said he was very glad of the honour of seeing me; and I sneaked away.
When we came up stairs, Mrs. Thrale charged me to make myself agreeable to Mr. Murphy.
“He may be of use to you, in what I am most eager for — your writing a play: he knows stage business so well; and if you will but take a fancy to one another, he may be more able to serve you than all of us put together. My ambition is that Johnson should write your prologue, and Murphy your epilogue; then I shall be quite happy.”
At tea-time, when I went into the library, I found Dr. Johnson reading, and Mrs. Thrale in close conference with Mr. Murphy.
“It is well, Miss Burney,” said the latter, “that you have come, for we were abusing you most vilely;, we were in the very act of pulling you to pieces.”,
“Don’t you think her very like her father?” said Mrs. Thrale.
“Yes; but what a sad man is Dr. Burney for running away so! how long had he been here?”
Mrs. Thrale. — Oh, but an hour or two. I often say Dr. Burney is the most of a male coquet of any man I know; for he only gives one enough of his company to excite a desire for more.
Mr. Murphy. —— Dr. Burny is, indeed, a most extraordinary man; I think I don’t know such another;, he is at home upon all subjects, and upon all so agreeable! he is a wonderful man!”,
And now let me stop this conversation, to go back to a similar one with Dr. Johnson, who, a few days since, when Mrs. Thrale was singing our father’s praise, used this expression:
“I love Burney: my heart goes out to meet him!”
“He is not ungrateful, sir,” cried I; “for most heartily does he love you.”
“Does he, madam? I am surprised at that.” “Why, sir? why should you have doubted it?”
“Because, madam, Dr. Burney is a man for all the world to love: it is but natural to love him.”
I could almost have cried with delight at this cordial unlaboured éloge. Another time, he said:
“I much question if there is, in the world, such another man as Dr. Burney.”
But to return to the tea-table.
“If I,” said Mr. Murphy, looking very archly, “had written a certain book — a book I won’t name, but a book I have lately read — I would next write a comedy.”“
“Good,” cried Mrs. Thrale, colouring with pleasure; ‘do you think so too?”
“Yes, indeed; I thought so while I was reading it; it struck me repeatedly.”
“Don’t look at me, Miss Burney,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “for this is no doing of mine. Well, I do wonder what Miss Burney will do twenty years hence, when she can blush no more; for now she can never bear the name of her book.”
Mr. Murphy. — Nay, I name no book; at least no author: how can I, for I don’t know the author; there is no name given to it: I only say, whoever wrote that book ought to write a comedy. Dr. Johnson might write it for aught I know.
F. B. — Oh yes!
Mr. Murphy. — Nay, I have often told him he does not know his own strength, or he would write a comedy; and so I think. Dr. Johnson (laughing). — Suppose Burney and I begin together.
Mr. Murphy. — Ah, I wish you would! I wish you would Beaumont and Fletcher us!
F. B. — My father asked me, this morning, how my head stood. If he should have asked me this evening, I don’t know what answer I must have made.
Mr. Murphy. — I have no wish to tum anybody’s head: I speak what I really think; — comedy is the forte of that book. I laughed over it most violently: and if the author — I won’t say who (all the time looking away from me) — will write a comedy, I will most readily, and with great pleasure, give any advice or assistance in my power.
“Well, now you are a sweet man!” cried Mrs. Thrale, who looked ready to kiss him. “Did not I tell you, Miss Burney, that Mr. Murphy was the man?”
Mr. Murphy. — All I can do, I shall be very happy to do; and at least, I will undertake to say I can tell what the sovereigns of the upper gallery will bear; for they are the most formidable part of an audience. I have had so much experience in this sort of work, that I believe I can always tell what will be hissed at least. And if Miss Burney will write, and will show me ——
Dr. Johnson. — Come, come, have done with this now; why should you overpower her? Let’s have no more of it. I don’t mean to dissent from what you say; I think well of it, and approve of it; but you have said enough of it. Mr. Murphy, who equally loves and reverences Dr. Johnson, instantly changed the subject.
The rest of the evening was delightful. Mr. Murphy told abundance of most excellent stories;, Dr. Johnson was in exceeding good humour; and Mrs. Thrale all cheerfulness and sweetness.
For my part, in spite of her injunctions, I could not speak; I was in a kind of consternation. Mr. Murphy’s speeches flattering as they were, made me tremble; for I cannot get out of my
head the idea of disgracing so many people.
After supper, Dr. Johnson turned the discourse upon silent folks — whether by way of reflection and reproof, or by accident, I know not; but I do know he is provoked with me for not talking more; and I was afraid he was seriously provoked; but, a little while ago, I went into the music-room, where he was tete-a-tete with Mrs. Thrale, and calling me to him, he took my hand, and made me sit next him, in a manner that seemed truly affectionate.
“Sir,” cried I, “I was much afraid I was going out of your favour!”,
“Why so? what should make you think so?”
“Why, I don’t know — my silence, I believe. I began to fear you would give me up.”
“No, my darling! — my dear little Burney, no. When I give you up — —”
“What then, sir?” cried Mrs. Thrale.
“Why, I don’t know; for whoever could give her up would deserve worse than I can say; I know not what would be bad enough.”
Yesterday, at night, I told Dr. Johnson the inquiry, and added that I attributed it to my being at Streatham, and supposed the folks took it for granted nobody would be admitted there without knowing Latin, at least.
“No, my dear, no,” answered he; “the man thought it because you have written a book — he concluded that a book could not be written by one who knew no Latin. And it is strange that it should — but, perhaps you do know it — for your shyness, and slyness, and pretending to know nothing, never took me in, whatever you may do with others. I always knew you for a toadling.”
At our usual time of absconding, he would not let us go, and was in high good humour; and when, at last, Mrs. Thrale absolutely refused to stay any longer, he took me by the hand and said,
“Don’t you mind her, my little Burney; do you stay whether she will or not.”
So away went Mrs. Thrale, and left us to a tete-a-tete.
Now I had been considering that perhaps I ought to speak to him of my new castle, lest hereafter he should suspect that I preferred the counsel of Mr. Murphy. I therefore determined to take this opportunity, and after some general nothings, I asked if he would permit me to take a liberty with him?
He assented with the most encouraging smile, And then I said,
“I believe, sir, you heard part of what passed between Mr. Murphy and me the other evening, concerning — a — a comedy. Now, if I should make such an attempt, would you be so good as to allow me, any time before Michaelmas, to put it in the coach, for you to look over as you go to town?”
“To be sure, my dear! — What, have you begun a comedy, then?”
I told him how the affair stood. He then gave me advice which just accorded with my own wishes, viz., not to make known that I had any such intention; to keep my own counsel; not to whisper even the name of it; to raise no expectations, which were always prejudicial, and finally to have it performed while the town knew nothing of whose it was.
I readily reassured him of my hearty concurrence in his opinion; but he somewhat distressed me when I told him that Mr. Murphy must be in my confidence, as he had offered his services, by desiring he might be the last to see it.
What I shall do, I”know not, for he has, himself, begged to be the first. Mrs. Thrale, however, shall guide me between them. He spoke highly of Mr. Murphy, too, for he really loves him. He said he would not have it in the coach, but that I should read it to him; however, I could sooner drown or hang!
When I would have offered some apology for the attempt, he stopped me, and desired I would never make any.
“For,” said he, “if it succeeds, it makes its own apology, if not — —”
“If not,” quoth I, “I cannot do worse than Dr. Goldsmith, when his play failed, — go home and cry!”
He laughed, but told me repeatedly (I mean twice, which, for him, is very remarkable) that I might depend upon all the service in his power; and, he added, it would be well to make Murphy the last judge, “for he knows the stage,” he said, “and I am quite ignorant of it.”
Afterwards, grasping my hand with the most affectionate warmth, he said,
“I wish you success! I wish you well! my dear little Burney!”,
When, at length, I told him I could stay no longer, and bid him good night, he said, “There is none like you, my dear little Burney! there is none like you! — good-night, my darling!” . . .
I forgot to mention that, when I told Dr. Johnson Mr. Murphy’s kind offer of examining my plan, and the several rules he gave me, and owned that I had already gone too far to avail myself of his obliging intention, he said, “Never mind, my dear, — ah! you”ll do without, — you want no rules!”
And now I cannot resist telling you of a dispute which Dr. Johnson had with Mrs. Thrale, the next morning, concerning me, which that sweet woman had the honesty and good sense to tell me. Dr. Johnson was talking to her and Sir Philip Jennings of the amazing progress made of late years in literature by the women. He said he was himself astonished at it, and told them he well remembered when a woman who could spell a common letter was regarded as all accomplished; but now they vied with the men in everything.
“I think, sir,” said my friend Sir Philip, “the young lady we have here is a very extraordinary proof of what you say.”
“So extraordinary, sir,” answered he, “that I know none like her, — nor do I believe there is, or there ever was, a man who could write such a book so young.”
They both stared — no wonder, I am sure! — and Sir Philip said,
“What do you think of Pope, sir? could not Pope have written such a one?”
“Nay, nay,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “there is no need to talk of Pope; a book may be a clever book, and an extraordinary book, and yet not want a Pope for its author. I suppose he was no older than Miss Burney when he wrote Windsor Forest; and I suppose Windsor Forest is equal to Evelina!” “Windsor Forest,” repeated Dr. Johnson, ‘though so delightful a poem, by no means required the knowledge of life and manners, nor the accuracy of observation, nor the skill of penetration, necessary for composing such a work as Evelina; he who could ever write Windsor Forest, might as well write it young or old. Poetical abilities require not age to mature them; but Evelina seems a work that should result from long experience, and deep and intimate knowledge of the world; yet it has been written without either. Miss Burney is a real wonder. What she is, she is intuitively. Dr. Burney told me she had had the fewest advantages of any of his daughters, from some peculiar circumstances. And such has been her timidity, that he himself had not any suspicion of her powers.”
“Her modesty,” said Mrs. Thrale (as she told me), “is really beyond bounds. It quite provokes me. And, in fact, I can never make out how the mind that could write that book could be ignorant of its value.” “That madam is another wonder,” answered my dear, dear Dr. Johnson, “for modesty with her is neither pretence nor decorum; ’tis an ingredient of her nature; for she who could part with such a work for twenty pounds, could know so little of its worth, or of her own, as to leave no possible doubt of her humility.”
My kind Mrs. Thrale told me this with a pleasure that made me embrace her with gratitude; but the astonishment of Sir Philip Clerke at such an éloge from Dr. Johnson was quite, she says, comical.
Place: Streatham, July 5. —
I have hardly had any power to write, my dear Susy, since I left you, for my cold has increased so much that I have hardly been able to do anything.
Mr. Thrale, I think, is better, and he was cheerful all the ride. Mrs. Thrale made as much of me as if the two days had been two months.
I was heartily glad to see Dr. Johnson, and I believe he was not sorry to see me: he had inquired very much after me, and very particularly of Mrs. Thrale whether she loved me as well as she used to do.
He is better in health than I have ever seen him before; his journey has been very serviceable to him, and he has taken a very good resolution to reform his diet; — so has my daddy Crisp. I wish I could pit them one against the other,
and see the effect of their emulation.
I wished twenty times to have transmitted to paper the conversation of the evening, for Dr. Johnson was as brilliant as I have ever known him — and that’s saying something; — but I was not very well, and could only attend to him for present entertainment.
July 10 . —
Since I wrote last, I have been far from well — but I am now my own man again — a peu-pres.
Very concise, indeed, must my journal grow, for I have now hardly a moment in my power to give it;, however, I will keep up its chain, and mark, from time to time, the general course of things.
Sir Philip Jennings has spent three days here, at the close of which he took leave of us for the summer, and set out for his seat in Hampshire. We were all sorry to lose him; he is a most comfortable man in society, for he is always the same — easy, good- humoured, agreeable, and well-bred. He has made himself a favourite to the whole house, Dr. Johnson included, who almost always prefers the company of an intelligent man of the world to that of a scholar.
July 20. —
What a vile journalist do I growl — it is, however, all I can do to keep it at all going; for, to let you a little into the nature of things, you must know that my studies occupy almost every moment that I spend by myself. Dr. Johnson gives us a Latin lesson every morning. I pique myself somewhat upon being ready for him; so that really, when the copying my play, and the continual returning occurrences of every fresh day are considered, you will not wonder that I should find so little opportunity for scrawling letters.
What progress we may make in this most learned scheme I know not; but, as I have always told you, I am sure I fag more for fear of disgrace than for hope of profit. To devote so much time to acquire something I shall always dread to have known, is really unpleasant enough, considering how many things there are I might employ myself in that would have no such drawback. However, on the other side, I am both pleased and flattered that Dr. Johnson should think me worth inviting to be his pupil, and I shall always recollect with pride and with pleasure the instructions he has the goodness to give me; so, since I cannot without dishonour alter matters, ’tis as well to turn Frenchwoman, and take them in the tant mieux fashion.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 684