Complete Works of Frances Burney

by Frances Burney

  “And why?” cried she; “what do you go for?”

  “Nay,” cried he, hesitating, “I don’t know, I am sure!”

  “Never mind him, madam,” cried Dr. Johnson;, “a man who knows not why he goes, knows not why he stays; therefore never heed him.”

  “Does anybody expect you?” said Mrs. Thrale. “Do you want to see anybody?”

  “Not a soul!”

  “Then why can’t you stay?”

  “No; I can’t stay now; I”ll meet you on Tuesday.”

  “If you know so little why you should either go or stay,” said Dr Johnson, “never think about it, sir; toss up —— that’s the shortest way. Heads or tails! — let that decide.”

  “No, no, sir,” answered he; “this is but talk, for I cannot reduce it to that mere difference in my own mind.”

  “What! must you go, then?” said Mrs. Thrale. “I must go,” returned he, “upon a system of economy.”

  “What! to save your horses coming again?”

  “No; but that I may not weary my friends quite out.”

  “Oh, your friends are the best judges for themselves,” said Mrs. Thrale; “do you think you can go anywhere that your company will be more desired?”

  “Nay, nay,” cried Dr. Johnson, “after such an excuse as that, your friends have a right to practise Irish hospitality, and lock up your bridle.”

  The matter was still undecided when Mrs. Thrale called him to walk out with her. . . .

  At dinner, accordingly, he returned, and is now to stay till Tuesday. . . .

  I have very often, though I mention them not, long and melancholy discourses with Dr. Johnson, about our dear deceased master, whom, indeed, he regrets incessantly; but I love not to dwell on subjects of sorrow when I can drive them away, especially to you, upon this account, as you were so much a stranger to that excellent friend, whom you only lamented for the sake of those who survived him.

  At dinner we had a large party of old friends of Mrs. Thrale. Lady Frances Burgoyne, a mighty erect old lady of the last age, lofty, ceremonious, stiff, and condescending. Montague Burgoyne, her son, and as like any other son as ever you saw.

  Mrs. Burgoyne, his wife, a sweet, pretty, innocent, simple young girl, just married to him.

  Miss Burgoyne, his eldest sister, a good, sensible, prating old maid.

  Miss Kitty Burgoyne, a younger sister, equally prating, and not equally sensible.

  Mr. Ned Hervey, brother to the bride.

  To these were added Mr. Pepys and Sophy Streatfield; the former as entertaining, the latter as beautiful, as ever. We had a very good day, but not of a writing sort.

  Dr. Johnson, whom I had not seen since his Sunninghill expedition, as he only returned from town to-day, gave me almost all his attention, which made me of no little consequence to the Burgoynes, who all stared again when they saw him make up to me the moment I entered the room, and talk to me till summoned to dinner.

  Mr. Pepys had desired this meeting, by way of a sort of reconciliation after the Lyttelton quarrel; and Dr. Johnson now made amends for his former violence, as he advanced to him as soon as he came in, and holding out his hand to him, received him with a cordiality he had never shown him before. Indeed, he told me himself, that “he thought the better of Mr. Pepys for all that had passed.” He is as great a souled man as a bodied one, and, were he less furious in his passions, he would be demi- divine.

  Mr. Pepys also behaved extremely well, politely casting aside all reserve or coldness that might be attributed to a lurking ill-will for what had passed.

  Place: Streatham. —

  My poor journal is now so in arrears, that I forget wholly the date of what I sent you last. I have, however, minutes by me of things, though not of times, and, therefore, the chronology not being very important, take them, my dear girls, promiscuously. I am still, I know, in August, et voila tout.

  We have now a new character added to our set, and one of no small diversion, — Mr. Musgrave, an Irish gentleman of fortune, and member of the Irish Parliament. He is tall, thin, and agreeable in his face and figure; is reckoned a good scholar, has travelled, and been very well educated. His manners are impetuous and abrupt; his language is high-flown and hyperbolical; his sentiments are romantic and tender,; his heart is warm and generous; his head hot and wrong! And the whole of his conversation is a mixture the most uncommon, of knowledge and triteness, simplicity and fury, literature and folly!

  Keep this character in your mind, and, contradictory as it seems, I will give you, from time to time, such specimens as shall remind you of each of these six epithets.

  He was introduced into this house by Mr. Seward, with whom, and Mr. Graves of Worcester, he travelled into Italy: and some years ago he was extremely intimate here. But, before my acquaintance was made at Streatham, he had returned to Ireland; where, about a year since, he married Miss Cavendish. They are now, by mutual consent, parted. She is gone to a sister in France, and he is come to spend some time in England by way of diverting his chagrin.

  Mrs. Thrale who, though open-eyed enough to his absurdities, thinks well of the goodness of his heart, has a real regard for him; and he quite adores her, and quite worships Dr. Johnson — frequently declaring (for what he once says, he says continually), that he would spill his blood for him, —— or clean his shoes, — or go to the East Indies to do him any good! “I am never,” says he, “afraid of him; none but a fool or a rogue has any need to be afraid of him. What a fine old lion (looking up at his picture) he is! Oh! I love him, — I honour him, — I reverence him! I would black his shoes for him. I wish I could give him my night’s sleep!”

  These are exclamations which he is making continually. Mrs. Thrale has extremely well said that he is a caricature of Mr. Boswell, who is a caricature, I must add, of all other of Dr. Johnson’s admirers. The next great favourite he has in the world to our Doctor, and the person whom he talks next most of, is Mr. Jessop, who was his schoolmaster, and whose praise he is never tired of singing in terms the most vehement, — quoting his authority for every other thing he says, and lamenting our misfortune in not knowing him.

  His third favourite topic, at present, is The Life of Louis XV. in 4 vols. 8vo, lately translated from the French; and of this he is so extravagantly fond, that he talks of it as a man might talk of his mistress;, provided he had so little wit as to talk of her at all.

  Painting, music, all the fine arts in their turn, he also speaks of in raptures. He is himself very accomplished, plays the violin extremely well, is a very good linguist, and a very decent painter. But no subject in his hands fails to be ridiculous, as he is sure, by the abruptness of its introduction, the strange turn of his expressions, or the Hibemian twang of his pronunciation, to make everything he says, however usual or common, seem peculiar and absurd.

  When he first came here, upon the present renewal of his acquaintance at Streatham, Mrs. Thrale sent a summons to her daughter and me to come downstairs. We went together; I had long been curious to see him, and was glad of the opportunity. The moment Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, he began a warm éloge of my father, speaking so fast, so much, and so Irish, that I could hardly understand him. That over, he began upon this book, entreating Mrs. Thrale and all of us to read it, assuring us nothing could give us equal pleasure, minutely relating all its principal incidents with vehement expressions of praise or abhorrence, according to the good or bad he mentioned; and telling us that he had devoted three days and nights to making an index to it himself!

  Then he touched upon his dear schoolmaster, Mr. Jessop, and then opened upon Dr. Johnson, whom he calls “the old lion,” and who lasted till we left him to dress.

  When we met again at dinner, and were joined by Dr. Johnson, the incense he paid him, by his solemn manner of listening, by the earnest reverence with which he eyed him, and by a theatric start of admiration every time he spoke, joined to the Doctor’s utter insensibility to all these tokens, made me find infinite difficulty in keeping my coun
tenance during the whole meal. His talk, too, is incessant; no female, however famed, can possibly excel him for volubility.

  He told us a thousand strange staring stories, of noble deeds of valour and tender proofs of constancy, interspersed with extraordinary, and indeed incredible accidents, and with jests, and jokes, and bon-mots, that I am sure must be in Joe Miller. And in the midst of all this jargon he abruptly called out, “Pray, Mrs. Thrale, what is the Doctor’s opinion of the American war?”

  Opinion of the American war at this time of day! We all laughed cruelly; yet he repeated his question to the Doctor, who, however, made no other answer but by laughing too. But he is never affronted with Dr. Johnson, let him do what he will; and he seldom ventures to speak to him till he has asked some other person present for advice how he will take such or such a question.

  We have had some extra diversion from two queer letters. The first of these was to Dr. Johnson, dated from the Orkneys, and costing him 1s. 6d. The contents, were, to beg the Doctor’s advice and counsel upon a very embarrassing matter; the writer, who signs his name and place of abode, says he is a clergyman, and labours under a most peculiar misfortune, for which he can give no account; and which is, — that though he very often writes letters to his friends and others, he never gets any answers; he entreats, therefore, that Dr. Johnson will take this into consideration, and explain to him to what so strange a thing may be attributed.

  He then gives his direction.

  The other of these curious letters is to myself; it is written upon fine French-glazed and gilt paper.

  “Miss F. Burney,

  “At Lady Thrale’s,

  “Streatham, Surrey.

  “Madam — I lately have read the three elegant volumes of Evelina, which were penned by you; and am desired by my friends, which are very numerous, to entreat the favour of you to oblige the public with a fourth.

  “Now, if this desire of mine should meet with your approbation, and you will honour the public with another volume (for it will not be ill-bestowed time), it will greatly add to the happiness of, — Honoured madam, a sincere admirer of you and Evelina.

  Now don’t our two epistles vie well with each other for singular absurdity? Which of them shows least meaning, who can tell? This is the third queer anonymous letter I have been favoured with. The date is more curious than the contents; one would think the people on Snow Hill might think three volumes enough for what they are the better, and not desire a fourth to celebrate more Smiths and Branghtons.

  At dinner, Dr. Johnson returned, and Mr. Musgrave came with him. I did not see them till dinner was upon the table; and then Dr. Johnson, more in earnest than in jest, reproached me with not coming to meet him, and afterwards with not speaking to him, which, by the way, across a large table, and before s, I could not do, were I to be reproached ever so solemnly. It is requisite to speak so loud in order to be heard by him, and everybody listens so attentively for his reply, that not all his kindness will ever, I believe, embolden me to discourse with him willingly except tete-a-tete, or only with his family or my own.

  Mr. Crutchley, who has more odd spite in him than all the rest of the world put together, enjoyed this call upon me, at which Mr. Musgrave no less wondered! He seemed to think it an honour that raised me to the highest pinnacle of glory, and started, and lifted up his hands in profound admiration.

  This, you may imagine, was no great inducement to me to talk more; and when in the evening we all met again in the library, Dr. Johnson still continuing his accusation, and vowing I cared nothing for him, to get rid of the matter, and the grinning of Mr. Crutchley, and the theatrical staring of Mr. Musgrave, I proposed to Miss Thrale, as soon as tea was over, a walk round the grounds.

  The next morning, the instant I entered the library at breakfast-time, where nobody was yet assembled but Messrs. Musgrave and Crutchley, the former ran up to me the moment I opened the door with a large folio in his hand, calling out,

  “See here, Miss Burney, you know what I said about the Racks — —” “The what, sir?” cried I, having forgot it all.

  “Why, the Racks; and here you see is the very same account. I must show it to the Doctor presently; the old lion hardly believed it.”

  He then read to me I know not how much stuff, not a word of which I could understand, because Mr. Crutchley sat laughing slyly, and casting up his eyes exactly before me, though unseen by Mr. Musgrave.

  As soon as I got away from him, and walked on to the other end of the room, Mr. Crutchley followed me, and said,

  “You went to bed too soon last night; you should have stayed a little longer, and then you would have heard such a panegyric as never before was spoken.”

  “So I suppose,” quoth I, not knowing what he drove at.

  “Oh yes!” cried Mr. Musgrave, “Dr. Johnson pronounced such a panegyric upon Miss Burney as would quite have intoxicated anybody else; not her, indeed, for she can bear it, but nobody else could.”

  “Oh! such praise,” said Mr. Crutchley, “never did I hear before. It kept me awake, even me, after eleven o’clock, when nothing else could, — poor drowsy wretch that I am!”

  They then both ran on praising this praise (a qui mieux mieux), and trying which should distract me most with curiosity to hear it; but I know Mr. Crutchley holds all panegyric in such infinite contempt and ridicule, that I felt nothing but mortification in finding he had been an auditor to my dear Dr. Johnson’s partiality. “Woe to him,” cried he at last, “of whom no one speaks ill! Woe, therefore, to you in this house, I am sure!”

  “No, no,” cried I, “you, I believe, will save me from that woe.”

  In the midst of this business entered Miss Thrale. Mr. Musgrave, instantly flying up to her with the folio, exclaimed, “See, Miss Thrale, here’s all that about the origin of Racks, that — —”

  “Of what?” cried she. “Of rats?”

  This set us all grinning; but Mr. Crutchley, who had pretty well recovered his spirits, would not rest a moment from plaguing me about this praise, and began immediately to tell Miss Thrale what an oration had been made the preceding evening.

  The moment Mrs. Thrale came in, all this was again repeated, Mr. Musgrave almost blessing himself with admiration while he talked of it, and Mr. Crutchley keeping me in a perpetual fidget, by never suffering the subject to drop.

  When they had both exhausted all they had to say in a general manner of this éloge, and Dr. Johnson’s fondness for me, for a little while we were allowed to rest; but scarce had I time to even hope the matter would be dropped, when Mr. Crutchley said to Mr. Musgrave,

  “Well, sir, but now we have paved the way, I think you might as well go on.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Thrale, never backward in promoting mischief, “methinks you might now disclose some of the particulars.” “Ay, do,” said Mr. Crutchley, “pmy repeat what he said.”

  “Oh! it is not in my power,” cried Mr. Musgrave; “I have not the Doctor’s eloquence. However, as well as I can remember, I will do it. He said that her manners were extraordinarily pleasing, and her language remarkably elegant; that she had as much virtue of mind as knowledge of the world; that with all her skill in human nature, she was at the same time as pure a little creature — —”

  This phrase, most comfortably to me, helped us to a laugh, and carried off in something like a joke praise that almost carried me off, from very shame not better to deserve it.

  “Go on, go on!” cried Mr. Crutchley; “you have not said half.”

  “I am sensible of that,” said he, very solemnly;, “but it really is not in my power to do him justice, else I would say on, for Miss Burney I know would not be intoxicated.”

  “No, no; more, more,” cried that tiresome creature; “at it again.”

  “Indeed, sir; and upon my word I would if I could; but only himself can do the old lion justice.”. . .

  We had half done breakfast before he came down; he then complained he had had a bad night and was not well.

&
nbsp; “I could not sleep,” said he, laughing; “no, not a wink, for thinking of Miss Burney; her cruelty destroys my rest.” “Mercy, sir!” cried Mrs. Thrale; “what, beginning already? — why, we shall all assassinate her. Late at night, and early at morn, — no wonder you can’t sleep!”

  “Oh! what would I give,” cried he, “that Miss Burney would come and tell me stories all night long! — if she would but come and talk to me!”

  “That would be delightful, indeed!” said I; “but when, then, should I sleep?”

  “Oh, that’s your care! I should be happy enough in keeping you awake.”

  “I wish, sir,” cried Mr. Musgrave, with vehemence, “I could give you my own night’s sleep!”

  “I would have you,” continued Dr. Johnson to me (taking no notice of this flight), “come and talk to me of Mr. Smith, and then tell me stories of old Branghton, and then of his son, and then of your sea- captain.”

  “And pray, sir,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “don’t forget Lady Louisa for I shall break my heart if you do.”

  “Ay,” answered he, “and of Lady Louisa, and of Evelina herself as much as you please, but not of Mr. Macartney —— no, not a word of him!”

  “I assure you, ma”am,” said Mr. Musgrave, “the very person who first told me of that book was Mr. Jessop, my schoolmaster. Think of that! — was it not striking? “A daughter,” says he, “of your friend Dr. Burney has written a book; and it does her much credit.” Think of that! (lifting up his hands to enforce his admiration); and he desired me to read it — he recommended it to me; — a man of the finest taste, — a man of great profundity, — an extraordinary scholar, — living in a remote part of 1re1and, — a man I esteem, upon my word!”

  “But, sir,” cried Mrs. Thrale to Dr. Johnson, “why, these men tell such wonders of what you said last night! Why, you spoke quite an oration in favour of Miss Burney.”

  “Ay,” said Mr. Crutchley, “the moment it was over I went to bed. I stayed to hear the panegyric;, but I thought I could bear nothing after it, and made off.”