Complete Works of Frances Burney

by Frances Burney

  My dear Dr. Johnson! — what condescension is this! He fully, also, enters into all my meaning in the high-flown language of Albany, from his partial insanity and unappeasable remorse.

  So here concludes Brighthelmstone for 1782.

  Dec. 8. —

  Now for Miss Monckton’s assembly. . . .

  I was presently separated from Mrs. Thrale, and entirely surrounded by strangers, all dressed superbly, and all looking saucily; and as nobody’s names were spoken, I had no chance to discover any acquaintances. Mr. Metcalf, indeed, came and spoke to me the instant I came in, and I should have been very happy to have had him for my neighbour; but he was engaged in attending to Dr. Johnson, who was standing near the fire, and environed with listeners.

  Some new people now coming in, and placing themselves in a regular way, Miss Monckton exclaimed,— “My whole care is to prevent a circle”; and hastily rising, she pulled about the chairs, and planted the people in groups, with as dexterous a disorder as you would desire to see.. . .

  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,” he said, “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— ‘twill 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 itto?”

  “The old Duchess of Portland. She desired Mrs. Montagu’s opinion of Fecilia, 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.”

  Pray tell my daddy to rejoice for me in this conquest of the Duchess, his old friend, and Mrs. Delany, his sister’s.

  Sir Joshua is extremely kind; he is always picking up some anecdote of this sort for me; yet, most delicately, never lets me hear his own praises but through others. He looks vastly well, and as if he had never been ill.

  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, “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 sate 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. . . .

  “But,” said he, when he had finished his comments, “what excuse must I give for this presumption? I have none in the world to offer but the real, the high esteem I feel for you; and I must at the same time acknowledge it is all your own doing that I am able to find fault; for it is your general perfection in writing that has taught me to criticise where it is not quite uniform.”

  Here’s an orator, dear Susy!

  Then, 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 far more material one than I have mentioned.”,

  “I am 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.”

  Here are laurels, Susy! My dear daddy and Kitty, are you not doubly glad you so kindly hurried me upstairs to write when at Chessington?

  Mr. Burke then went to some other party, and Mr. Swinerton took his place, with whom I had a dawdling conversation upon dawdling subjects; and I was not a little enlivened, upon his quitting the chair to have it filled by Mr. Metcalf, who, with much satire, but much entertainment, kept chattering with me till Dr. Johnson found me out, and brought a chair opposite to me.

  Do you laugh, my Susan, or cry at your F. B.’s honours?

  “So,” said he to Mr. Metcalf, “it is you, is it, that are engrossing her thus?”

  “He’s jealous,” said Mr. Metcalf drily.

  “How these people talk of Mrs. Siddons!” said the Doctor. “I came hither in full expectation of hearing no name but the name I love and pant to hear, — when from one corner to another they are talking of that jade Mrs. Siddons! till, at last wearied out, I went yon
der into a corner, and repeated to myself Burney! Burney! Burney! Burney!” “Ay, sir,” said Mr. Metcalf, “you should have carved it upon the trees.”

  “Sir, had there been any trees, so I should; but, being none, I was content to carve it upon my heart.” . . .

  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 have 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 of 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; but I have time for no more of it. I felt myself extremely awkward about going away, not choosing, as it was my first visit, to take French leave, and hardly knowing how to lead the way alone among so many strangers.

  At last, and with the last, I made my attempt. 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?”

  Again I tried to run away, but the door stuck, and Miss Monckton prevented me, and begged I would stay a little longer. She then went and whispered something to her mother, and I had a notion from her manner, she wanted to keep me to supper, which I did not choose, and, therefore, when her back was turned, I prevailed upon young Burke to open the door for me, and out I went. Miss Monckton ran after me, but I would not come back. I was, however, and I am, much obliged by her uncommon civility and attentions to me. She is far better at her own house than elsewhere.

  Now, to return to Tuesday, one of my out- days.

  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 everything 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!”

  Friday. —

  I dined with Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson, who was very comic and good-humoured. Susan Thrale had just had her hair turned up, and powdered, and has taken to the womanly robe. Dr. Johnson sportively gave her instructions how to increase her consequence, and to “take upon her” properly.

  “Begin,” said he, “Miss Susy, with something grand — something to surprise mankind! Let your first essay in life be a warm censure of Cecilia. You can no way make yourself more conspicuous. Tell the world how ill it was conceived, and how ill executed. Tell them how little there is in it of human nature, and how well your knowledge of the world enables you to judge of the failings in that book. Find fault without fear; and if you are at a loss for any to find, invent whatever comes into your mind, for you may say what you please, with little fear of detection, since of those who praise Cecilia not half have read it, and of those who have read it, not half remember it. Go to work, therefore, boldly; and particularly mark that the character of Albany is extremely unnatural, to your own knowledge, since you never met with such a man at Mrs. Cummyn’s School.”

  This stopped his exhortation, for we laughed so violently at this happy criticism that he could not recover the thread of his harangue.

  Mrs. Thrale, who was to have gone with me to Mrs. Ord’s, gave up her visit in order to stay with Dr. Johnson; Miss Thrale, therefore, and I went together.

  Friday, 4th Jan. —

  We had an invited party at home, both for dinner and the evening. . . .

  Dr. Johnson came so very late, that we had all given him up: he was, however, very ill, and only from an extreme of kindness did he come at all. When I went up to him, to tell how sorry I was to find him so unwell, ——

  “Ah!” he cried, taking my hand and kissing it, “who shall ail anything when “Cecilia, is so near? Yet you do not think how poorly I am!”

  This was quite melancholy, and all dinner-time he hardly opened his mouth but to repeat to me,— “Ah! you little know how ill I am.” He was excessively kind to me, in spite of all his pain, and indeed I was so sorry for him, that I could talk no more than himself. All our comfort was from Mr. Seward, who enlivened us as much as he possibly could by his puns and his sport. But poor Dr. Johnson was so ill, that after dinner he went home.

  I made a visit to poor Dr. Johnson, to inquire after his health. I found him better, yet extremely far from well. One thing, however, gave me infinite satisfaction. He was so good as to ask me after Charles, and said, “I shall be glad to see him; pray tell him to call upon me.” I thanke
d him very much, and said how proud he would be of such a permission.

  “I should be glad,” said he, still more kindly, ‘to see him, if he were not your brother; but were he a dog, a cat, a rat, a frog, and belonged to you, I must needs be glad to see him!”

  Mr. Seward has sent me a proof plate, upon silver paper, of an extremely fine impression of this dear Doctor, a mezzotinto, by Doughty, from Sir Joshua,s picture, and a very pretty note to beg my acceptance of it. I am much obliged to him, and very glad to have it.

  Thursday, Feb. 23 . . .

  He [Mr. Cambridge ] began talking of Dr. Johnson, and asking after his present health. “He is very much recovered,” I answered, “and out of town, at Mr. Langton’s. And there I hope he will entertain him with enough of Greek.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Cambridge, “and make his son repeat the Hebrew alphabet to him.”

  “He means,” said I, “to go, when he returns, to Mr. Bowles, in Wiltshire. I told him I had heard that Mr. Bowles was very much delighted with the expectation of seeing him, and he answered me,— “He is so delighted, that it is shocking! — it is really shocking to see how high are his expectations.” I asked him why; and he said,— “Why, if any man is expected to take a leap of twenty yards, and does actually take one of ten, everybody will be disappointed, though ten yards may be more than any other man ever leaped!”

  Thursday, June 19. —

  We heard to-day that Dr. Johnson had been taken ill, in a way that gave a dreadful shock to himself, and a most anxious alarm to his friends. Mr. Seward brought the news here, and my father and I instantly went to his house. He had earnestly desired me, when we lived so much together at Streatham, to see him frequently if he should be ill. He saw my father, but he had medical people with him, and could not admit me upstairs, but he sent me down a most kind message, that he thanked me for calling, and when he was better should hope to see me often. I had the satisfaction to hear from Mrs. Williams that the physicians had pronounced him to be in no danger, and expected a speedy recovery.