Chapter III (1)

‘Evelina’—Date of its Composition—Negotiations with Publishers—Dr.
Burney’s Consent—Publication—Illness of the Author—Visit to
Chesington—Her Father reads the Book—Mrs. Thrale and Mrs.
Cholmondeley—Exciting News—Fanny’s Success—Nancy Dawson—The Secret
told to Mr. Crisp—Characters in ‘Evelina’—Dinner at Streatham—Dr.
Johnson—David Garrick—The Unclubbable Man—Curiosity as to Authorship
of ‘Evelina’—The Bookseller in the Dark—Visits to the Thrales—Table
Talk—Mr. Smith—Goldsmith—Johnson and the Scotch—Civil for Four—Sir
Joshua Reynolds—Mrs. Montagu—Boswell—The Branghtons—Mrs. Cholmondeley—
Talk with Sir Joshua—Is it True?—Mrs. Cholmondeley’s Whimsical Manner—
Visit to her House—Mr. Cumberland—A Hint for a Comedy—A Charmed
Circle—Sheridan—Not a Fair Question—Pressed to Write for the Stage—
Flattered by Compliments.

We now approach the time when the ‘History of Evelina’ was given to the world. There has been much futile controversy as to the date at which this novel was composed. As the author was unquestionably half-way between twenty-five and twenty-six when her first book was published, it has been inferred that she was not much below that age when she began the story. This inference was put in sharp contrast with a current report—which cannot be traced to Frances Burney or her family—that she wrote ‘Evelina’ at seventeen. Her enemy Croker went so far as to suggest that she represented herself to have been ten years younger than she really was at the period of the publication.[31] But if we may trust Mrs. Barrett, who had not only the ‘Memoirs,’ but Fanny’s early and still unpublished journals to guide her, the author herself would have been puzzled to say exactly when her tale was written. It was planned in girlhood, worked at by snatches, and occupied long years in growing up. The idea of seeing it in print seems to have been conceived in 1776, shortly after the appearance of the first volume of her father’s History, and we are distinctly told by Madame d’Arblay and her biographer, that there was already a manuscript in existence. We gather, however, that this manuscript was imperfect; and it would manifestly be presuming too much to suppose that its contents remained unaltered, and unimproved, in the transcript which the writer proceeded to make before taking any other step.

Though stimulated by her father’s success, and encouraged by her sisters, whom she took into her confidence, Fanny was, nevertheless, determined that, in bringing forward her work, she would keep its authorship unknown. She therefore copied out her manuscript in a feigned upright hand, in order to guard against the possibility of her ordinary writing being recognised by some one who had seen the numerous pages of the paternal books which she had transcribed for the printer. Tiring of her irksome task when she had accomplished enough to fill two volumes, she wrote a letter, without signature, to be sent to some bookseller, offering the fairly-copied portion for immediate publication, and promising to forward the rest in the following year. This proposal was first directed to Dodsley, who, in answer, declined to look at anything without being previously informed of the author’s name. Fanny and her sisters, “after sitting in committee on this lofty reply,” addressed another offer, in like terms, to Lowndes, a publisher in Fleet Street. The latter, less exacting than his brother at the West-End, desired to see the manuscript, which—there being no Parcels Delivery Company in those days—was conveyed to him by young Charles Burney, muffled up by his sisters to make him look older than he was. Lowndes read, was pleased, and declared himself willing to purchase and print the work when finished, but he naturally would not hear of publishing an unfinished novel. Disappointed at this second rebuff, the impatient aspirant gave up hope; but, her spirits reviving, after a time, her third volume was completed and copied before the end of the twelvemonth. Meanwhile, a scruple had arisen in her mind. Her correspondence with Lowndes had been carried on without her father’s knowledge; the publisher’s letters to her being addressed to Mr. Grafton, and sent to the Orange Coffee House, in Orange Street. But she now saw it to be her duty not to rush into print without Dr. Burney’s consent. Availing herself of a propitious moment, when he was bidding her good-bye before setting out on a visit to Chesington, she confessed to him, with many blushes, that she had written a little book, and hoped that he would allow her to publish it on condition of not disclosing her name. She assured him that he should not be troubled in the business, which her brother Charles would manage for her, and only begged further that he would not himself ask to see the manuscript. The Doctor was first amazed, then amused, and finally bursting into a laugh, kissed her, and bade her see that Charles was discreet, thus tacitly granting her petition. The completed work was now forwarded to Lowndes, who without much delay accepted it, and paid the author what seemed to her the magnificent sum of twenty pounds for the copyright.

Much censure has been thrown on Dr. Burney for his conduct in this transaction. He ought, we are told, to have given his daughter serious counsel as to the perils of authorship, to have inquired into the merits of her production, and to have seen that she made the best possible terms with the bookseller. ‘Happily,’ says Macaulay, ‘his inexcusable neglect of duty caused her no worse evil than the loss of twelve or fifteen hundred pounds.’ We doubt if it cost her the twelfth part of the smaller sum. It is most unlikely, we think, that an untried and anonymous writer could, with the best assistance, have commanded a hundred pounds for a first attempt at fiction. We are not concerned to defend Dr. Burney, but to us he seems to have failed less in carefulness than in discernment. He could not believe his ears when Frances spoke of having a book ready for the press. He looked on her scheme of publication as an idle fancy, and doubtless was convinced that nothing would come of it. Her motive for concealing her project from him had been merely dread of his ridicule. Until ‘Evelina’ became an assured success, he had no faith in the ability of his second daughter. ‘Poor Fanny’—so he used to call her—was, in his eyes, a dutiful and affectionate child, and a useful amanuensis, and nothing more. So little did he expect ever to hear again of her embryo work, that he did not even ask its title.

At length, in January, 1778, ‘Evelina’ was published. The author was informed of the event through hearing an advertisement announcing it read aloud by her step-mother at breakfast-time. Those of the party who were in the secret smiled, or blushed; those who were not suspected nothing. Several weeks elapsed before the new novel attracted much attention. Meanwhile the writer was laid up with inflammation of the lungs. On quitting her bedroom, she found that, in the circles known to her, her book was being widely read, with speculations as to its authorship. One acquaintance attributed it to Anstey, then famous for his ‘New Bath Guide;’ most voices agreed that it could not have proceeded from a woman’s pen—a conclusion which, with the usual perversity of her sex, Miss Burney regarded as a high compliment. Then the magazines commenced to speak in its praise. The _London Review_ and the _Monthly Review_ both gave favourable notices. Thus stimulated, the sale increased, till at the end of the fifth month two editions had been exhausted, and a third was fast being disposed of.[32] By May, Fanny was sufficiently recovered to leave town, and went on a long visit to Chesington, where, as she ‘could hardly walk three yards in a day at first,’ she amused herself with reading ‘Evelina’ to Daddy Crisp, and goading his curiosity by allusions to dark reports about its origin. Crisp, who, of course, suspected some mystery, was guarded in his praise, but gratified his young favourite by betraying a most uncynical eagerness for the third volume as soon as the first two had been despatched. Before long, exciting letters from home began to pour in on the convalescent at the Hall. She gives the substance of some of them in her Diary:

“I received from Charlotte a letter, the most interesting that could
be written to me, for it acquainted me that my dear father was at
length reading my book, which has now been published six months. How
this has come to pass, I am yet in the dark; but it seems ... he
desired Charlotte to bring him the _Monthly Review_; she contrived to
look over his shoulder as he opened it, which he did at the account of
‘Evelina; or, A Young Lady’s Entrance into the World.’ He read it with
great earnestness, then put it down; and presently after snatched it
up, and read it again. Doubtless his paternal heart felt some
agitation for his girl in reading a review of her publication!—how he
got at the name I cannot imagine. Soon after, he turned to Charlotte,
and bidding her come close to him, he put his finger on the word
‘Evelina,’ and saying _she knew what it was_, bade her write down the
name, and send the man to Lowndes’, as if for herself. This she did,
and away went William. When William returned, he took the book from
him, and the moment he was gone, opened the first volume—and opened it
upon the _Ode_!”

Prefixed to Evelina was an inscription in verse to the writer’s father, much more remarkable for tenderness of feeling than for poetical merit.

“How great must have been his astonishment at seeing himself so
addressed! Indeed, Charlotte says he looked all amazement, read a line
or two with great eagerness, and then, stopping short, he seemed quite
affected, and the tears started into his eyes. Dear soul! I am sure
they did into mine; nay, I even sobbed as I read the account.

I believe he was obliged to go out before he advanced much further.
But the next day I had a letter from Susan, in which I heard that he
had begun reading it with Lady Hales and Miss Coussmaker, and that
they liked it vastly! Lady Hales spoke of it very innocently, in the
highest terms, declaring she was sure it was written by somebody in
high life, and that it had all the marks of real genius! She added,
‘He must be a man of great abilities.’”

Dr. Burney’s opinion was expressed with even greater simplicity than this. From an unbeliever he had been suddenly changed into a worshipper, and in the first glow of his conversion, he pronounced the new novel to be the best he had met with, excepting Fielding’s, and in some respects better than _his_! A proselyte himself, he was at once full of schemes for spreading the knowledge of the true faith. He would begin by telling Mrs. Thrale, as the centre of a large literary circle. Before he could broach the subject, he heard his daughter’s book celebrated at the Streatham tea-table. “Madam,” cried Dr. Johnson, see-sawing on his chair, “Mrs. Cholmondeley was talking to me last night of a new novel, which, she says, has a very uncommon share of merit—‘Evelina.’ She says that she has not been so entertained this great while as in reading it, and that she shall go all over London to discover the author.” Mrs. Cholmondeley was a sister of Peg Woffington, the actress, and had married Captain Cholmondeley, second son of the Earl of Cholmondeley, and a nephew of Horace Walpole. Her husband afterwards quitted the army, and took orders; and at this time the _salon_ of the witty and eccentric Mrs. Cholmondeley was in high repute. Besides recommending Evelina to Johnson, she had engaged Burke and Reynolds to get it, and announced her intention of keeping it on her table the whole summer to make it as widely known as possible. All this made it necessary for her friend and rival, Mrs. Thrale, not to be left in the background. There was but one thing to be done: the lady of Streatham lost no time in procuring and reading this new success; fell into a rapture over it; bepraised it with her usual vivacity, and passed it on to Johnson. The great man took to it immensely. When he had finished one volume, he was as impatient as Crisp had been for the next, protesting that _he could not get rid of the rogue_; and his judgment was that there were passages in the book that might do honour to Richardson. The packet of letters in which this compliment was transmitted to Fanny reported also that Sir Joshua Reynolds had forgotten his dinner while engrossed with her story, and that Burke had sat up all night to finish it; and Dr. Burney added an enclosure, in which he said: ‘Thou hast made thy old father laugh and cry at thy pleasure.’

If Mrs. Cholmondeley could claim to have introduced Evelina to the polite world, to Mrs. Thrale fell the distinction of making known its author. After ratifying the general opinion of the work, Mrs. Thrale asked, in Burney’s presence, whether Mrs. Cholmondeley had yet found out the writer, ‘because,’ said the speaker, ‘I long to know him of all things.’ This inquiry produced an avowal, which the Doctor had obtained his daughter’s permission to make; and shortly afterwards he appeared at Chesington to carry her to Streatham, and present her, by appointment, to the Thrales—and to Dr. Johnson.

Many surprising successes are recorded in the annals of literature; but there have been few quite like this. Lately the least noticed member of her father’s household, Frances Burney was now elevated far above its head. Other writers before their rise have been insignificant; the author of Evelina was despised. Proud and happy man though he was, Dr. Burney could not at once break off the habit of calling her _poor Fanny_. “Do you breathe, my dear Fanny?” asks Susan in a letter, after recounting part of the wonders above mentioned. “It took away my breath,” adds the writer, “and then made me skip about like a mad creature.” “My dearest Susy,” responds Fanny, “don’t you think there must be some wager depending among the little curled imps who hover over us mortals, of how much flummery goes to turn the head of an authoress? Your last communication very near did my business, for, meeting Mr. Crisp ere I had composed myself, I ‘tipt him such a touch of the heroics’ as he has not seen since the time when I was so much celebrated for dancing ‘Nancy Dawson.’[33] I absolutely longed to treat him with one of Captain Mirvan’s[34] frolics, and to fling his wig out of the window. I restrained myself, however, from the apprehension that they would imagine I had a universal spite to that harmless piece of goods, which I have already been known to treat with no little indignity. He would fain have discovered the reason of my skittishness; but as I could not tell it him, I was obliged to assure him it would be lost time to inquire further into my flights.” Refraining from the wig, Fanny darted out of the room, and, as she tells us elsewhere,[35] performed a sort of jig round an old mulberry-tree that stood on the lawn before the house. She related this incident many years afterwards to Sir Walter Scott, who has recorded it in his journal.[36]

It will be gathered from our last extract that Mr. Crisp was not yet in possession of the great secret. Fanny dreaded the edge of his criticism, even more than she had dreaded the chill of her father’s contempt. Dr. Burney arrived at the Hall to fetch away his daughter on the first Saturday in August, and it was agreed between them that a disclosure could no longer be deferred. “My dear father,” says the Diary, “desired to take upon himself the communication to my Daddy Crisp, and as it is now in so many hands that it is possible accident might discover it to him, I readily consented. Sunday evening, as I was going into my father’s room, I heard him say, ‘The variety of characters, the variety of scenes, and the language—why, she has had very little education but what she has given herself—less than any of the others!’ and Mr. Crisp exclaimed, ‘Wonderful! it’s wonderful!’ I now found what was going forward, and therefore deemed it most fitting to decamp. About an hour after, as I was passing through the hall, I met my Daddy Crisp. His face was all animation and archness; he doubled his fist at me, and would have stopped me, but I ran past him into the parlour. Before supper, however, I again met him, and he would not suffer me to escape; he caught both my hands, and looked as if he would have looked me through, and then exclaimed, ‘Why, you little hussy, ain’t you ashamed to look me in the face, you ‘Evelina,’ you! Why, what a dance have you led me about it! Young friend, indeed! Oh, you little hussy, what tricks have you served me!’ I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle appellations for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently compose himself, after his great surprise, to ask or hear any particulars; and then he broke out every three instants with exclamations of astonishment at how I had found time to write so much unsuspected, and how and where I had picked up such various materials; and not a few times did he, with me, as he had with my father, exclaim, ‘Wonderful!’ He has since made me read him all my letters upon this subject. He said Lowndes would have made an estate, had he given me £1,000 for it, and that he ought not to have given less. ‘You have nothing to do now,’ continued he, ‘but to take your pen in hand, for your fame and reputation are made, and any bookseller will snap at what you write.’”

A day or two after this conversation, Fanny and her father left Liberty Hall, as Mr. Crisp was pleased to designate his retreat. Arrived at the verge of our own heroine’s entrance into the world, we shall not stop to discuss the question how far she was entitled to the fame she had so rapidly won, nor shall we engage in any criticism of the work by which she had acquired it. We may assent to the admission of an admirer that the society depicted in Evelina is made up of unreal beings. What else could be expected from a fiction designed in immature youth, executed, like patchwork, at intervals, and put together, at last, without advice from any experienced person? Real or unreal, however, the characters in the novel were vivid enough to interest strongly those of the writer’s contemporaries who were most familiar with the world and human nature.

In the conversations which we are about to extract will be found numerous allusions to personages who, though fictitious, are, at any rate, as substantial for us as most of the talkers, who have long since passed into the region of shadows. We may leave to Miss Burney the task of introducing her friends; she mentions the creations of her brain without a word of explanation, because she knew that the few eyes and ears for which her Diary was intended were as well acquainted with them as herself. It therefore devolves on us to indicate the chief actors in Evelina to our readers. We have the honour to present: Madame Duval, Evelina’s low-bred grandmother from Paris, interlarding her illiterate English with an incessant _Ma foi!_ and other French interjections; Captain Mirvan, a fair specimen of the coarse naval officer of that time;[37] the Branghtons, a vulgar family living on Snow Hill; Mr. Smith, a Holborn beau, lodging with the Branghtons. Add to these, Lord Orville, the hero, and Sir Clement Willoughby, the villain of the piece; Mr. Lovel, a fop; Lady Louisa, a languishing dame of quality; Sir John Belmont, the heroine’s father; M. Du Bois, a Frenchman in attendance on Madame Duval; and Mr. Macartney, a starving Scotch poet. Of the last two, the author conferred on the former the maiden name of her grandmother; on the latter, the maiden-name of her god-mother, Mrs. Greville.

We will give Fanny’s account of her first dinner at Streatham in the words of her Diary:

“When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my father and me
sit on each side of her. I said that I hoped I did not take Dr.
Johnson’s place;—for he had not yet appeared.

‘No,’ answered Mrs. Thrale, ‘he will sit by you, which I am sure will
give him great pleasure.’

Soon after we were seated, this great man entered. I have so true a
veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires me with
delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities to which
he is subject; for he has almost perpetual convulsive movements,
either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and sometimes of all
together.

Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place. We had a
noble dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. Johnson, in the middle
of dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what was in some little pies that were
near him.

‘Mutton,’ answered she; ‘so I don’t ask you to eat any, because I know
you despise it.’

‘No, madam, no,’ cried he; ‘I despise nothing that is good of its
sort; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by Miss Burney
makes me very proud to-day!’

‘Miss Burney,’ said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, ‘you must take great care
of your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it; for I assure you he is not
often successless.’

‘What’s that you say, madam?’ cried he; ‘are you making mischief
between the young lady and me already?’

A little while after he drank Miss Thrale’s health and mine, and then
added:

‘’Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young ladies well without
wishing them to become old women!’

‘But some people,’ said Mr. Seward, ‘are old and young at the same
time, for they wear so well that they never look old.’

‘No, sir, no,’ cried the doctor, laughing; ‘that never yet was; you
might as well say they are at the same time tall and short. I remember
an epitaph to that purpose, which is in——’

(I have quite forgot what,—and also the name it was made upon, but the
rest I recollect exactly:)

‘—— lies buried here;
So early wise, so lasting fair,
That none, unless her years you told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old.’

Mrs. Thrale then repeated some lines in French, and Dr. Johnson some
more in Latin. An epilogue of Mr. Garrick’s to ‘Bonduca’ was then
mentioned, and Dr. Johnson said it was a miserable performance, and
everybody agreed it was the worst he had ever made.

‘And yet,’ said Mr. Seward, ‘it has been very much admired: but it is
in praise of English valour, and so I suppose the subject made it
popular.’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Dr. Johnson, ‘anything about the subject,
for I could not read on till I came to it; I got through half a dozen
lines, but I could observe no other subject than eternal dulness. I
don’t know what is the matter with David; I am afraid he is grown
superannuated, for his prologues and epilogues used to be
incomparable.’

‘Nothing is so fatiguing,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘as the life of a wit; he
and Wilkes are the two oldest men of their ages I know, for they have
both worn themselves out by being eternally on the rack to give
entertainment to others.’

‘David, madam,’ said the doctor, ‘looks much older than he is; for his
face has had double the business of any other man’s; it is never at
rest; when he speaks one minute, he has quite a different countenance
to what he assumes the next. I don’t believe he ever kept the same
look for half an hour together in the whole course of his life; and
such an eternal, restless, fatiguing play of the muscles must
certainly wear out a man’s face before its real time.’

‘O yes,’ cried Mrs. Thrale; ‘we must certainly make some allowance for
such wear and tear of a man’s face.’

The next name that was started was that of Sir John Hawkins, and Mrs.
Thrale said:

‘Why now, Dr. Johnson, he is another of those whom you suffer nobody
to abuse but yourself; Garrick is one, too; for if any other person
speaks against him, you browbeat him in a minute!’

‘Why, madam,’ answered he, ‘they don’t know when to abuse him, and
when to praise him; I will allow no man to speak ill of David that he
does not deserve; and as to Sir John, why really I believe him to be
an honest man at the bottom: but to be sure he is penurious, and he is
mean, and it must be owned he has a degree of brutality, and a
tendency to savageness, that cannot easily be defended.’

We all laughed, as he meant we should, at this curious manner of
speaking in his favour, and he then related an anecdote that he said
he knew to be true in regard to his meanness. He said that Sir John
and he once belonged to the same club, but that as he ate no supper
after the first night of his admission, he desired to be excused
paying his share.

‘And was he excused?’

‘O yes; for no man is angry at another for being inferior to himself!
we all scorned him, and admitted his plea. For my part, I was such a
fool as to pay my share for wine, though I never tasted any. But Sir
John was a most _unclubbable_ man!’

‘And this,’ continued he, ‘reminds me of a gentleman and lady with
whom I travelled once; I suppose I must call them gentleman and lady,
according to form, because they travelled in their own coach and four
horses. But at the first inn where we stopped, the lady called for—a
pint of ale! and when it came, quarrelled with the waiter for not
giving full measure. Now, Madame Duval could not have done a grosser
thing.’

Oh, how everybody laughed! and to be sure I did not glow at all, nor
munch fast, nor look on my plate, nor lose any part of my usual
composure! But how grateful do I feel to this dear Dr. Johnson, for
never naming me and the book as belonging one to the other, and yet
making an allusion that showed his thoughts led to it, and, at the
same time, that seemed to justify the character as being natural! But,
indeed, the delicacy I met with from him, and from all the Thrales,
was yet more flattering to me than the praise with which I have heard
they have honoured my book.

After dinner, when Mrs. Thrale and I left the gentlemen, we had a
conversation that to me could not but be delightful, as she was all
good-humour, spirits, sense, and _agreeability_. Surely I may make
words, when at a loss, if Dr. Johnson does.

We left Streatham at about eight o’clock, and Mr. Seward, who handed
me into the chaise, added his interest to the rest, that my father
would not fail to bring me again next week to stay with them for some
time. In short, I was loaded with civilities from them all. And my
ride home was equally happy with the rest of the day, for my kind and
most beloved father was so happy in _my_ happiness, and congratulated
me so sweetly, that he could, like myself, think on no other subject.

Yet my honours stopped not here; for Hetty, who, with her _sposo_, was
here to receive us, told me she had lately met Mrs. Reynolds, sister
of Sir Joshua; and that she talked very much and very highly of a new
novel called ‘Evelina;’ though without a shadow of suspicion as to the
scribbler....

Sir Joshua, it seems, vows he would give fifty pounds to know the
author! I have also heard, by the means of Charles, that other persons
have declared they _will_ find him out!

This intelligence determined me upon going myself to Mr. Lowndes, and
discovering what sort of answers he made to such curious inquirers as
I found were likely to address him. But as I did not dare trust myself
to speak, for I felt that I should not be able to act my part well, I
asked my mother to accompany me.

We introduced ourselves by buying the book, for which I had a
commission from Mrs. G——. Fortunately Mr. Lowndes himself was in the
shop; as we found by his air of consequence and authority, as well as
his age; for I never saw him before.

The moment he had given my mother the book, she asked if he could tell
her who wrote it.

‘No,’ he answered: ‘I don’t know myself.’

‘Pho, pho,’ said she; ‘you mayn’t choose to tell, but you must know.’

‘I don’t, indeed, ma’am,’ answered he; ‘I have no honour in keeping
the secret, for I have never been trusted. All I know of the matter
is, that it is a gentleman of the other end of the town.’

My mother made a thousand other inquiries, to which his answers were
to the following effect: that for a great while, he did not know if it
was a man or a woman; but now, he knew that much, and that he was a
master of his subject, and well versed in the manners of the times.”

A few days after this, Mrs. Thrale called in St. Martin’s Street, and carried her new acquaintance down to Streatham:

“At night, Mrs. Thrale asked if I would have anything? I answered,
‘No;’ but Dr. Johnson said,—

‘Yes: she is used, madam, to suppers; she would like an egg or two,
and a few slices of ham, or a rasher—a rasher, I believe, would please
her better.’

How ridiculous! However, nothing could persuade Mrs. Thrale not to
have the cloth laid; and Dr. Johnson was so facetious, that he
challenged Mr. Thrale to get drunk!

‘I wish,’ said he, ‘my master would say to me, Johnson, if you will
oblige me, you will call for a bottle of Toulon, and then we will set
to it, glass for glass, till it is done; and after that I will say,
Thrale, if you will oblige me, you will call for another bottle of
Toulon, and then we will set to it, glass for glass, till that is
done: and by the time we should have drunk the two bottles we should
be so happy, and such good friends, that we should fly into each
other’s arms, and both together call for the third!’

I ate nothing, that they might not again use such a ceremony with me.
Indeed, their late dinners forbid suppers, especially as Dr. Johnson
made me eat cake at tea; for he held it till I took it, with an odd or
absent complaisance.

He was extremely comical after supper, and would not suffer Mrs.
Thrale and me to go to bed for near an hour after we made the
motion....

Now for this morning’s breakfast.

Dr. Johnson, as usual, came last into the library; he was in high
spirits, and full of mirth and sport. I had the honour of sitting next
to him: and now, all at once, he flung aside his reserve, thinking,
perhaps, that it was time I should fling aside mine.

Mrs. Thrale told him that she intended taking me to Mr. T——’s.

‘So you ought, madam,’ cried he; ‘’tis your business to be cicerone to
her.’

Then suddenly he snatched my hand, and kissing it,

‘Ah!’ he added, ‘they will little think what a tartar you carry to
them!’

‘No, that they won’t!’ cried Mrs. Thrale; ‘Miss Burney looks so meek
and so quiet, nobody would suspect what a comical girl she is; but I
believe she has a great deal of malice at heart.’

‘Oh, she’s a toad!’ cried the doctor, laughing—‘a sly young rogue!
with her Smiths and her Branghtons!’

‘Why, Dr. Johnson,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘I hope you are very well this
morning! If one may judge by your spirits and good-humour, the fever
you threatened us with is gone off.’

He had complained that he was going to be ill last night.

‘Why, no, madam, no,’ answered he, ‘I am not yet well; I could not
sleep at all; there I lay, restless and uneasy, and thinking all the
time of Miss Burney. Perhaps I have offended her, thought I; perhaps
she is angry; I have seen her but once, and I talked to her of a
rasher!—Were you angry?’

I think I need not tell you my answer.

‘I have been endeavouring to find some excuse,’ continued he, ‘and, as
I could not sleep, I got up, and looked for some authority for the
word; and I find, madam, it is used by Dryden: in one of his prologues
he says—“And snatch a homely rasher from the coals.” So you must not
mind me, madam; I say strange things, but I mean no harm.’

I was almost afraid he thought I was really idiot enough to have taken
him seriously; but, a few minutes after, he put his hand on my arm,
and shaking his head, exclaimed:

‘Oh, you are a sly little rogue!—what a Holborn beau have you drawn!’

‘Ay, Miss Burney,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘the Holborn beau is Dr.
Johnson’s favourite; and we have all your characters by heart, from
Mr. Smith up to Lady Louisa.’

‘Oh, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith is the man!’ cried he, laughing violently.
‘Harry Fielding never drew so good a character!—such a fine varnish of
low politeness!—such a struggle to appear a gentleman! Madam, there is
no character better drawn anywhere—in any book, or by any author.’

I almost poked myself under the table. Never did I feel so delicious a
confusion since I was born! But he added a great deal more, only I
cannot recollect his exact words, and I do not choose to give him
mine.

‘Come, come,’ cried Mrs. Thrale, ‘we’ll torment her no more about her
book, for I see it really plagues her. I own I thought for awhile it
was only affectation, for I’m sure if the book were mine I should wish
to hear of nothing else. But we shall teach her in time how proud she
ought to be of such a performance.’

‘Ah, madam,’ cried the Doctor, ‘be in no haste to teach her that;
she’ll speak no more to us when she knows her own weight.’...

Some time after the Doctor began laughing to himself, and then,
suddenly turning to me, he called out, ‘Only think, Polly! Miss has
danced with a lord!’

‘Ah, poor Evelina!’ cried Mrs. Thrale, ‘I see her now in Kensington
Gardens. What she must have suffered! Poor girl! what fidgets she must
have been in! And I know Mr. Smith, too, very well; I always have him
before me at the Hampstead Ball, dressed in a white coat, and a
tambour waistcoat, worked in green silk. Poor Mr. Seward! Mr. Johnson
made him so mad t’other day! “Why, Seward,” said he, “how smart you
are dressed! Why you only want a tambour waistcoat, to look like Mr.
Smith!” But I am very fond of Lady Louisa. I think her as well drawn
as any character in the book—so fine, so affected, so languishing,
and, at the same time, so insolent!...

As I have always heard from my father that every individual at
Streatham spends the morning alone, I took the first opportunity of
absconding to my own room, and amused myself in writing till I tired.
About noon, when I went into the library, book-hunting, Mrs. Thrale
came to me.

We had a very nice confab about various books, and exchanged opinions
and imitations of Baretti; she told me many excellent tales of him,
and I, in return, related my stories.

She gave me a long and very interesting account of Dr. Goldsmith, who
was intimately known here; but in speaking of ‘The Good-natured Man,’
when I extolled my favourite Croaker, I found that admirable character
was a downright theft from Dr. Johnson. Look at the ‘Rambler,’ and you
will find Suspirius is the man, and that not merely the idea, but the
particulars of the character are all stolen thence![38]

While we were yet reading this ‘Rambler,’ Dr. Johnson came in: we told
him what we were about.

‘Ah, madam!’ cried he, ‘Goldsmith was not scrupulous; but he would
have been a great man had he known the real value of his own internal
resources.’

‘Miss Burney,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘is fond of his “Vicar of Wakefield,”
and so am I; don’t you like it, sir?’

‘No, madam; it is very faulty. There is nothing of real life in it,
and very little of nature. It is a mere fanciful performance.’

He then seated himself upon a sofa, and calling to me, said: ‘Come,
Evelina—come, and sit by me.’

I obeyed, and he took me almost in his arms—that is, one of his arms,
for one would go three times, at least, round me—and, half-laughing,
half-serious, he charged me to ‘be a good girl.’

‘But, my dear,’ continued he with a very droll look, ‘what makes you
so fond of the Scotch? I don’t like you for that; I hate these Scotch,
and so must you. I wish Branghton had sent the dog to jail—that Scotch
dog, Macartney!’

‘Why, sir,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘don’t you remember he says he would,
but that he should get nothing by it?’

‘Why, ay, true,’ cried the Doctor, see-sawing very solemnly, ‘that,
indeed, is some palliation for his forbearance. But I must not have
you so fond of the Scotch, my little Burney; make your hero what you
will but a Scotchman. Besides, you write Scotch—you say, “the one.” My
dear, that’s not English—never use that phrase again.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘it may be used in Macartney’s letter,
and then it will be a propriety.’

‘No, madam, no!’ cried he; ‘you can’t make a beauty of it; it is in
the third volume; put it in Macartney’s letter, and welcome!—that, or
anything that is nonsense.’

‘Why, surely,’ cried I, ‘the poor man is used ill enough by the
Branghtons!’

‘But Branghton,’ said he, ‘only hates him because of his wretchedness,
poor fellow! But, my dear love, how should he ever have eaten a good
dinner before he came to England?’

And then he laughed violently at young Branghton’s idea.

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Thrale, ‘I always liked Macartney; he is a very
pretty character, and I took to him, as the folks say.’

‘Why, madam,’ answered he, ‘I liked Macartney myself. Yes, poor
fellow, I liked the man, but I love not the nation.’”

Miss Burney’s visit on this occasion lasted several days, and it was speedily followed by another and another. Mrs. Thrale, having discovered a fresh attraction for her country house, hastened to turn it to the best account. The friendship between her and the new authoress developed with the rapid growth peculiar to feminine attachments. And Fanny enjoyed her life at Streatham. Dr. Johnson was nearly always there; she liked the family; and the opulent establishment, with its well-kept gardens, hot-houses, shrubberies, and paddock, had all the charm of novelty to a young woman, whose time had long been divided between the smoky atmosphere of Leicester Fields and the desolation of Liberty Hall. The great Doctor, whose affection for her increased daily, took an early opportunity of saying to her: ‘These are as good people as you can be with; you can go to no better house; they are all good-nature; nothing makes them angry.’ She found no cause to complain of Mr. Thrale’s curt speech, or the eldest daughter’s cold manner, or the roughness of Ursa Major, though she has reported Mrs. Thrale’s quick answer to Johnson when he asked the motive of his hostess’s excessive complaisance: ‘Why, I’ll tell you, sir; when I am with you, and Mr. Thrale, and Queeny, I am obliged to be civil for four.’

If Mrs. Thrale engrossed a large share of her novice’s time this autumn, she took pains to make her talk a little in company, and prepared her, in some degree, for the ordeal that awaited her during the ensuing winter in London. Numerous visitors were invited to Streatham to become acquainted with the timid young writer, who, though accustomed to society, had never yet learned to make her voice heard in a circle of listeners. One afternoon Sir Joshua Reynolds and his nieces came down, and on their arrival, the conversation being turned to the subject of Evelina, they were informed that they should meet the author at dinner. After a good deal of guessing, the suspicions of the guests settled on the lady of the house, who sportively assumed a conscious air, but before the close of the day, the secret was allowed to transpire, and when the party broke up, Sir Joshua, approaching Miss Burney, with his most courtly bow, hoped that as soon as she left Streatham he should have the honour of seeing her in Leicester Square.

“The joke is,” writes Fanny, “the people speak as if they were afraid of me, instead of my being afraid of them.... Next morning, Mrs. Thrale asked me if I did not want to see Mrs. Montagu? I truly said, I should be the most insensible of animals not to like to see our sex’s glory.” A note was despatched accordingly, and the glory of her sex graciously accepted. On hearing of this, “Dr. Johnson began to see-saw, with a countenance strongly expressive of inward fun, and after enjoying it some time in silence, he suddenly, and with great animation, turned to me, and cried: ‘Down with her, Burney!—down with her!—spare her not!— attack her, fight her, and down with her at once! You are a rising wit, and she is at the top; and when I was beginning the world, and was nothing and nobody, the joy of my life was to fire at all the established wits! and then everybody loved to halloo me on. But there is no game now; everybody would be glad to see me conquered: but then, when I was new, to vanquish the great ones was all the delight of my poor little dear soul! So at her, Burney—at her, and down with her.’” The Queen of the Blue Stockings arrived, attended by her companion, a Miss Gregory; and the usual presentation and disclosure took place. Fanny, of course, had not much to say for herself, but the observant eyes were busy as usual. This is their report of Mrs. Montagu; “She is middle-sized, very thin, and looks infirm; she has a sensible and penetrating countenance, and the air and manner of a woman accustomed to being distinguished, and of great parts. Dr. Johnson, who agrees in this, told us that Mrs. Hervey, of his acquaintance, says she can remember Mrs. Montagu _trying_ for this same air and manner. Mr. Crisp has said the same: however, nobody can now impartially see her, and not confess that she has extremely well succeeded.” When dinner was upon table, the observer followed the procession, in a tragedy step, as Mr. Thrale would have it, into the dining-room. The conversation was not brilliant, nor is much of it recorded. When Mrs. Montagu’s new house[39] was talked of, Dr. Johnson, in a jocose manner, desired to know if he should be invited to see it. ‘Ay, sure,’ cried Mrs. Montagu, looking well pleased; ‘or else I shan’t like it: but I invite you all to a house-warming; I shall hope for the honour of seeing all this company at my new house next Easter-day: I fix the day now that it may be remembered.’ “Dr. Johnson,” adds Fanny, “who sat next to me, was determined I should be of the party, for he suddenly clapped his hand on my shoulder, and called out aloud: ‘Little Burney, you and I will go together.’ ‘Yes, surely,’ cried Mrs. Montagu, ‘I shall hope for the pleasure of seeing Evelina.’”

It was at Streatham shortly afterwards that Miss Burney made her first acquaintance with James Boswell. We do not get our account of this meeting direct from the Diary, and have to take it as it stands in the Memoirs, dressed up by the pen of the aged Madame d’Arblay. Boswell, we are told, had a strong Scotch accent, though by no means strong enough to make him unintelligible to an English ear. He had an odd mock solemnity of tone and manner that he had acquired unconsciously from constantly thinking of, and imitating, Johnson. There was also something slouching in the gait and dress of Mr. Boswell that ridiculously caricatured the same model. His clothes were always too large for him; his hair, or wig, was constantly in a state of negligence; and he never for a moment sat still or upright in his chair. Every look and movement betrayed either intentional or involuntary imitation:

“As Mr. Boswell was at Streatham only upon a morning visit, a
collation was ordered, to which all were assembled. Mr. Boswell was
preparing to take a seat that he seemed, by prescription, to consider
as his own, next to Dr. Johnson; but Mr. Seward, who was present,
waved his hand for Mr. Boswell to move farther on, saying with a
smile:

“‘Mr. Boswell, that seat is Miss Burney’s.’

“He stared, amazed: the asserted claimant was new and unknown to him,
and he appeared by no means pleased to resign his prior rights. But
after looking round for a minute or two, with an important air of
demanding the meaning of the innovation, and receiving no
satisfaction, he reluctantly, almost resentfully, got another chair,
and placed it at the back of the shoulder of Dr. Johnson; while this
new and unheard-of rival quietly seated herself as if not hearing what
was passing, for she shrank from the explanation that she feared might
ensue, as she saw a smile stealing over every countenance, that of Dr.
Johnson himself not excepted, at the discomfiture and surprise of Mr.
Boswell.

“Mr. Boswell, however, was so situated as not to remark it in the
Doctor; and of everyone else, when in that presence, he was
unobservant, if not contemptuous. In truth, when he met with Dr.
Johnson, he commonly forbore even answering anything that went
forward, lest he should miss the smallest sound from that voice to
which he paid such exclusive, though merited, homage. But the moment
that voice burst forth, the attention which it excited in Mr. Boswell
amounted almost to pain. His eyes goggled with eagerness; he leant his
ear almost on the shoulder of the Doctor; and his mouth dropped open
to catch every syllable that might be uttered: nay, he seemed not only
to dread losing a word, but to be anxious not to miss a breathing; as
if hoping from it, latently or mystically, some information.

“But when, in a few minutes, Dr. Johnson, whose eye did not follow
him, and who had concluded him to be at the other end of the table,
said something gaily and good-humouredly, by the appellation of Bozzy,
and discovered, by the sound of the reply, that Bozzy had planted
himself, as closely as he could, behind and between the elbows of the
new usurper and his own, the Doctor turned angrily round upon him,
and, clapping his hand rather loudly upon his knee, said, in a tone of
displeasure: ‘What do you do there, sir?—Go to the table, sir!’

“Mr. Boswell instantly, and with an air of affright, obeyed; and there
was something so unusual in such humble submission to so imperious a
command, that another smile gleamed its way across every mouth, except
that of the Doctor and of Mr. Boswell, who now, very unwillingly, took
a distant seat.

“But, ever restless when not at the side of Dr. Johnson, he presently
recollected something that he wished to exhibit; and, hastily rising,
was running away in its search, when the Doctor, calling after him,
authoritatively said: ‘What are you thinking of, sir? Why do you get
up before the cloth is removed?—Come back to your place, sir!’

“Again, and with equal obsequiousness, Mr. Boswell did as he was bid;
when the Doctor, pursing his lips not to betray rising risibility,
muttered half to himself: ‘Running about in the middle of meals! One
would take you for a Branghton!’

“‘A Branghton, sir?’ repeated Mr. Boswell, with earnestness; ‘what is
a Branghton, sir?’

“‘Where have you lived, sir?’ cried the Doctor, laughing; ‘and what
company have you kept, not to know that?’

“Mr. Boswell now, doubly curious, yet always apprehensive of falling
into some disgrace with Dr. Johnson, said, in a low tone, which he
knew the Doctor could not hear, to Mrs. Thrale: ‘Pray, ma’am, what’s a
Branghton? Do me the favour to tell me! Is it some animal hereabouts?’

“Mrs. Thrale only heartily laughed, but without answering, as she saw
one of her guests uneasily fearful of an explanation. But Mr. Seward
cried: ‘I’ll tell you, Boswell—I’ll tell you!—if you will walk with me
into the paddock; only let us wait till the table is cleared, or I
shall be taken for a Branghton, too!’

“They soon went off together; and Mr. Boswell, no doubt, was fully
informed of the road that had led to the usurpation by which he had
thus been annoyed. But the Branghton fabricator took care to mount to
her chamber ere they returned, and did not come down till Mr. Boswell
was gone.”

The following December and January Miss Burney spent at home. She paid her promised visit to Sir Joshua Reynolds:

“We found the Miss Palmers alone. We were, for near an hour, quite
easy, chatty, and comfortable; no pointed speech was made, and no
starer entered.

“Just then, Mrs. and Miss Horneck were announced....

“Mrs. Horneck, as I found in the course of the evening, is an
exceeding sensible, well-bred woman.[40] Her daughter is very
beautiful; but was low-spirited and silent during the whole visit. She
was, indeed, very unhappy, as Miss Palmer informed me, upon account of
some ill news she had lately heard of the affairs of a gentleman to
whom she is shortly to be married.

“Not long after came a whole troop, consisting of Mr. Cholmondeley!—O
perilous name!—Miss Cholmondeley, and Miss Fanny Cholmondeley, his
daughters, and Miss Forrest. Mrs. Cholmondeley, I found, was engaged
elsewhere, but soon expected.

“Now here was a trick of Sir Joshua, to make me meet all these people!

“Mr. Cholmondeley is a clergyman; nothing shining either in person or
manners, but rather somewhat grim in the first, and glum in the last.
Yet he appears to have humour himself, and to enjoy it much in
others....

“Next came my father, all gaiety and spirits. Then Mr. William Burke.
Soon after, Sir Joshua returned home. He paid his compliments to
everybody, and then brought a chair next mine, and said:

“‘So you were afraid to come among us?’

“I don’t know if I wrote to you a speech to that purpose, which I made
to the Miss Palmers? and which, I suppose, they had repeated to him.
He went on, saying I might as well fear hobgoblins, and that I had
only to hold up my head to be above them all.

“After this address, his behaviour was exactly what my wishes would
have dictated to him, for my own ease and quietness; for he never once
even alluded to my book, but conversed rationally, gaily, and
serenely: and so I became more comfortable than I had been ever since
the first entrance of company....

“Our confab was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. King; a gentleman
who is, it seems, for ever with the Burkes; and presently Lord
Palmerston[41] was announced.

“Well, while this was going forward, a violent rapping bespoke, I was
sure, Mrs. Cholmondeley, and I ran from the standers, and turning my
back against the door, looked over Miss Palmer’s cards; for you may
well imagine I was really in a tremor at a meeting which so long has
been in agitation, and with the person who, of all persons, has been
most warm and enthusiastic for my book.

“She had not, however, been in the room half an instant, ere my father
came up to me, and tapping me on the shoulder, said, ‘Fanny, here’s a
lady who wishes to speak to you.’

“I curtseyed in silence; she too curtseyed, and fixed her eyes full on
my face, and then tapping me with her fan, she cried:

“‘Come, come, you must not look grave upon me.’

“Upon this, I te-he’d; she now looked at me yet more earnestly, and,
after an odd silence, said, abruptly:

“‘But is it true?’

“‘What, ma’am?’

“‘It can’t be!—tell me, though, is it true?’

“I could only simper.

“‘Why don’t you tell me?—but it can’t be—I don’t believe it!—no, you
are an impostor!’