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but it was neither criminal nor disgraceful. Piozzi was incontestably a respectable man and a constant lover ; but that an Italian musician, who depended upon his talents for his livelihood, should become the husband of the celebrated Mrs. Thrale, and the stepfather of four young ladies of fashion, the daughters of a brewer, and the heiresses to his large fortune,- -there was the rub! The dislike of Dr. Johnson and his friends to the marriage was, from a worldly point of view, justifiable enough, but it argues ill for their generosity of mind that they should have attached such overwhelming importance to such petty considerations. Mrs. Piozzi has been blamed for deserting her three elder daughters; but the fact is, it was her daughters who deserted her, and refused to recognise her husband. Her only fault, if fault it can be called, was in declining to sacrifice the whole happiness of her life to the supposed requirements of their rank in society. In condemning her friends for their severity and illiberality, we must, however, make an exception in favour of Fanny. She, like the rest, had been averse to the match, but her cordiality to Mrs. Piozzi remained undiminished; and when, soon after the marriage, their correspondence was discontinued, to be renewed only after the lapse of many years, it was not Fanny, but Mrs. Piozzi, who broke it off, instigated, Fanny always believed, by her husband.

Her separation from Mrs. Thrale was not the only event which brought sorrow to Fanny during the years to which the following section of the Diary relates. Mr. Crisp, the person dearest to her of all human beings outside her own family, died at Chesington, of an attack of his old malady, the gout, on the 24th of April, 1783, aged seventy-five. Fanny and Susan were with him at the last, and Fanny's love was rewarded, her anguish soothed yet deepened, when, almost with his dying breath, her Daddy Crisp called her "the dearest thing to him on earth."

Towards the end of 1784 another heavy blow fell upon Fanny, in the loss of Dr. Johnson, who died on the 13th of December. The touching references in the Diary to his last illness form an interesting supplement to Boswell's narrative.

But the picture of Fanny's life during these years is not without bright touches. As such we may reckon the great, and deserved success of her novel, "Cecilia"; the commencement of her acquaintance with two ladies who were hereafter to be numbered among her dearest friends—the venerable Mrs. Delany, and Mrs. Locke, of Norbury Park, Surrey; and last, not least, the growing intimacy between Edmund Burke and the family of Dr. Burney.-ED.]

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AT BRIGHTON AGAIN, THE "FAmous Miss BURNEY."

Brighthelmstone, Oct. 26.

My journey was incidentless - but the Moment I came into Brighthelmstone I was met by Mrs. Thrale, who had most eagerly been waiting for me a long while, and therefore I dismounted, and walked home with her. It would be very superfluous to tell you how she received me, for you cannot but know, from her impatient letters, what I had reason to expect of kindness and welcome.

Dr. Johnson received me, too, with his usual goodness, and with a salute so loud, that the two young beaus, Cotton and Swinerton, have never done laughing about it.

Mrs. Thrale spent two or three hours in my room, talking over all her affairs, and then we wished each other bon repos, and— retired. Grandissima conclusion!

Oh, but let me not forget that a fine note came from Mr. Pepys, who is here with his family, saying he was pressd'e de vivre, and entreating to see Mrs. and Miss T., Dr. Johnson, and Cecilia at his house the next day. I hate mightily this method of naming me from my heroines, of whose honour I think I am more jealous than of my own.

Oct. 27-The Pepyses came to visit me in form, but I was dressing; in the evening, however, Mrs. and Miss T. took me to them. Dr. Johnson would not go ; he told me it was my day, and I should be crowned, for Mr. Pepys was wild about "Cecilia." We found at Mr. Pepys' nobody but his wife, his brother, Dr. Pepys,(154) and Dr. Pepys' lady, Countess of Rothes. Mr. Pepys received me with such distinction, that it was very evident how much the book, with the most flattering opinion of it, was in his head; however, he behaved very prettily, and only mentioned it by allusions; most particularly upon the character of Meadows, which he took various opportunities of pronouncing to be the "best hit possible" upon the present race of fine gentlemen. We did not stay with them long, but called upon Miss Benson, and proceeded to the rooms. Mr. Pepys was very

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unwilling to part with us, and wanted to frighten me from going, by saying,—

"And has Miss Burney the courage to venture to the Rooms? I wonder she dares!"

I did not seem to understand him, though to mistake him was impossible. However, I thought of him again when I was at the rooms, for most violent was the staring and whispering as I passed and repassed ! insomuch that I shall by no means be in any haste to go again to them. Susan and Sophy Thrale, who were with their aunt, Mrs. Scott, told Queeny upon our return that they heard nothing said, whichever way they turned, but "That's she!" "That's the famous Miss Burney!" I shall certainly escape going any more, if it is in my power.

Monday, Od. 28.—Mr. Pepys had but just left me, when Mrs. Thrale sent Susan with a particular request to see me in her dressing- room, where I found her with a milliner.

"Oh, Miss Burney," she cried, "I could not help promising Mrs. Cockran that she should have a sight of you—she has begged it so hard."

You may believe I stared; and the woman, whose eyes almost looked ready to eat me, eagerly came up to me, exclaiming,-

"Oh, ma'am, you don't know what a favour this is to see you! I have longed for it so long! It is quite a comfort to me, indeed. Oh, ma'am, how clever you must be! All the ladies I deal with are quite distracted about 'Cecilia,'—and I got it myself. Oh, ma'am, how sensible you must be! It does my heart good to see you."

DR. JOHNSON DOGMATISES.

Oct. 29.-We had a large party at home in the evening. I was presently engaged by Mr. Pepys, and he was joined by Mr. Coxe, and he by Miss Benson. Mr. Pepys led the conversation, and it was all upon criticism and poetry. The little set was broken up by my retreat, and Mr. Pepys joined Dr. Johnson, with whom he entered into an argument upon some lines of Gray, and upon Pope's definition of wit, in which he was so roughly confuted, and so severely ridiculed, that he was hurt and piqued beyond all power of disguise, and, in the midst of the discourse, suddenly turned from him, and, wishing Mrs. Thrale good night, very abruptly withdrew. 241

Dr. Johnson was certainly right with respect to the argument and to reason ; but his opposition was so warm, and his wit so satirical and exulting, that I was really quite grieved to see how unamiable he appeared, and how greatly he made himself dreaded by all, and by many abhorred. What pity that he will not curb the vehemence of his love of victory and superiority.

The sum of the dispute was this. Wit being talked of, Mr. Pepys repeated,—

"True wit is Nature to advantage dress'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd."

"That, sir," cried Dr. Johnson, "is a definition both false and foolish. Let wit be dressed how it will, it will equally be wit, and neither the more nor the less for any advantage dress can give it."

Mr. P.-But, sir, may not wit be so ill expressed, and so obscure, by a bad speaker, as to be lost?

Dr. J.-The fault, then, sir, must be with the hearer. If a man cannot distinguish wit from words, he little deserves to hear it.

Mr. P.-But, sir, what Pope means—

Dr. J.-Sir, what Pope means, if he means what he says, is both false and foolish. In the first place, 'what oft was thought,' is all the worse for being often thought, because to be wit, it ought to be newly thought.

Mr. P.-But, sir, 'tis the expression makes it new.

Dr. J.-How can the expression make it new? It may make it clear, or may make it elegant - but how new? You are confounding words with things.

Mr. P.-But, sir, if one man says a thing very ill, may not another man say it so much better that—

Dr. J.-That other man, sir, deserves but small praise for the amendment; he is but the tailor to the first man's thoughts.

Mr. P.-True, sir, he may be but the tailor; but then the difference is as great as between a man in a gold lace suit and a man in a blanket.

Dr. J.-just so, sir, I thank you for that; the difference is precisely such, since it consists neither in the gold lace suit nor the blanket, but in the man by whom they are worn.

This was the summary; the various contemptuous sarcasms intermixed would fill, and very unpleasantly, a quire. 242

A CUNNING RUNAWAY HEIRESS.

Oct. 30.-Lady Warren is immensely tall, and extremely beautiful; she is now but just nineteen, though she has been married two or three years. She is giddy, gay, chatty, goodhumoured, and a little affected; she hazards all that occurs to her, seems to think the world at her feet, and is so young and gay and handsome that she is not much mistaken. She is, in short, an inferior Lady Honoria Pemberton;(155) somewhat beneath her in parts and understanding, but strongly in that class of character. I had no conversation with her myself; but her voice is loud and deep, and all she said was for the whole room.

Marriages being talked of, "I'll tell you," cried she, "a story; that is, it sha'n't be a story, but a fact. A lady of my acquaintance, who had 650,000 fortune, ran away to Scotland with a gentleman she liked vastly; so she was a little doubtful of him, and had a mind to try him: so when they stopped to dine, and change horses, and all that, she said, 'Now, as I have a great regard for you, I dare say you have for me - so I will tell you a secret: I have got no fortune at all, in reality, but only 5,000 pounds; for all the rest is a mere pretence : but if you like me for myself, and not for my fortune, you won't mind that.' So the gentleman said, 'Oh, I don't regard it at all, and you are the same charming angel that ever you was,' and all those sort of things that people say to one, and then went out to see about the chaise. So he did not come back; but when dinner was ready, the lady said 'Pray, where is he?' 'Lor, ma'am,' said they, 'why, that gentleman has been gone ever so long!' So she came back by herself; and now she's married to somebody else, and has her 50,000 pounds fortune all safe."

DR. JOHNSON A BORE.

Saturday, November 2.-We went to Lady Shelley's. Dr. Johnson, again, excepted in the invitation. He is almost constantly omitted, either from too much respect or too much fear. I am sorry for it, as he hates being alone, and as, though he scolds the others, he is well enough satisfied himself, and having given vent to all his own occasional anger or ill-humour, he is ready to begin again, and is never aware that those who have so been "downed" by him, never can much covet So

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triumphant a visitor. In contests of wit, the victor is as ill off in future consequences as the vanquished in present ridicule.

Monday, November 4.-This was a grand and busy day. Mr. Swinerton has been some time arranging a meeting for all our house, with Lady De Ferrars, whom you may remember as Charlotte Ellerker, and her lord and sisters: and this morning it took place, by mutual appointment, at his lodgings, where we met to breakfast. Dr. Johnson, who already knew Lord De Ferrars, and Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and myself, arrived first and then came the Lord and Lady, and Miss Ellerker and her youngest sister, Harriet. Lord De Ferrars is very ugly, but extremely well-bred, gentle, unassuming, sensible, and pleasing. His lady is much improved since we knew her in former days, and seems good-humoured, lively, and rather agreeable. Miss Ellerker is nothing altered.

I happened to be standing by Dr. Johnson when all the ladies came in; but, as I dread him before strangers, from the staring attention he attracts both for himself and all with whom he talks, I endeavoured to change my ground. However, he kept prating a sort of comical nonsense that detained me some minutes whether I would or not; but when we were all taking places at the breakfast-table I made another effort to escape. It proved vain; he drew his chair next to mine, and went rattling on in a humorous sort of comparison he was drawing of himself to me,—not one word of which could I enjoy, or can I remember, from the hurry I was in to get out of his way. In short, I felt so awkward from being thus marked out, that I was reduced to whisper a request to Mr. Swinerton to put a chair between us, for which I presently made a space: for I have often known him stop all conversation with me, when he has ceased to have me for his next neighbour. Mr. Swinerton who is an extremely good-natured young man, and so intimate here that 1 make no scruple with him, instantly complied, and placed himself between us.

But no sooner was this done, than Dr. Johnson, half seriously, and very loudly, took him to task.

"'How now, sir! what do you mean by this? Would you separate me from Miss Burney?

Mr. Swinerton, a little startled, began some apologies, and Mrs. Thrale winked at him to give up the place; but he was willing to oblige me, though he grew more and more frightened every minute, and coloured violently as the Doctor continued Is remonstrance, which he did with rather unmerciful raillery, 244

upon his taking advantage of being in his own house to thus supplant him, and cram; but when he had borne it for about ten minutes, his face became so hot with the fear of hearing something worse, that he ran from the field, and took a chair between Lady De Ferrars and Mrs. Thrale.

I think I shall take warning by this failure, to trust only to my own expedients for avoiding his public notice in future. However it stopped here; for Lord De Ferrars came in, and took the disputed place without knowing of the contest, and all was quiet.

Miss BURNEY WILL NOT BE PERSUADED To DANCE.

..... Late as it was, it was settled we should go to the ball, the last for the season being this night. My own objections about going not being strong enough to combat the ado my mentioning them would have occasioned, I joined in the party, without demur.

The ball was half over, and all the company seated to tea. Mr. Wade(156) came to receive us all, as usual, and we had a table procured for us, and went to tea ourselves, for something to do. When this repast was over, the company returned to their recreation. The room was very thin, and almost half the ladies danced with one another, though there were men enough present, I believe, had they chosen such exertion; but the Meadowses at balls are in crowds. Some of the ladies were in riding habits, and they made admirable men. 'Tis tonnish to be so much undressed at the last ball.

None of our usual friends, the Shelleys, Hatsels, Dickens, or Pepys, were here, and we, therefore, made no party - but Mrs. Thrale and I stood at the top of the room to look on the dancing, and as we were thus disengaged, she was seized with a violent desire to make one among them, and I felt myself an equal inclination. She proposed, as so many women danced together, that we two should, and nothing should I have liked so well; but I begged her to give up the scheme, as that would have occasioned more fuss and observation than our dancing with all the men that ever were born.

While we were debating this matter, a gentleman suddenly said to me,-"Did you walk far this morning, Miss Burney?" And, looking at him, I saw Mr. Metcalf,(157) whose graciousness

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rather surprised me, for he only made to Mrs. Thrale a cold and distant bow, and it seems he declares, aloud and around, his aversion to literary ladies. That he can endure, and even seek me is, I presume, only from the general perverseness of mankind, because he sees I have always turned from him; not, however, from disliking him, for he is a shrewd, sensible, keen, and very clever man; but merely from a dryness on his own side that has excited retaliation.

"Yes," I answered, "we walked a good way."

"Dr. Johnson," said he, "told me in the morning you were no walker; but I informed him then I had had the pleasure of seeing you upon the Newmarket Hill."

"Oh, he does not know," cried I, "whether I am a walker or not- -he does not see me walk, because he never walks himself." . . .

Here he was called away by some gentleman, but presently came to me again.

"Miss Burney," he said, "shall you dance?""

"No, sir, not to-night."

"A gentleman," he added, "has desired me to speak to you for him."

Now, Susanna, for the grand moment!—the height—the zenith of my glory in the ton meridian! I again said I did not mean to dance, and to silence all objection, he expressively said,—

"Tis Captain Kaye(158) who sends me."

Is not this magnificent? Pray congratulate me!

I was really very much surprised, but repeated my refusal, with all customary civilities to soften it. He was leaving me with this answer, when this most flashy young officer, choosing to trust his cause to himself, came forward, and desired to be introduced to me. Mr. Metcalf performed that ceremony, and he then, with as much respect and deference as if soliciting a countess, said,—

"May I flatter myself you will do me the honour of dancing With me?"

I thanked him, and said the same thing over again. He

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looked much disappointed, and very unwilling to give up his plan.

"If you have not," he said, "any particular dislike to dancing, it will be doing, not only me, but the Whole room much honour, if you will make one in a set."

"You do me much honour, sir," I answered, "but I must beg you to excuse me."

"I hope not," cried he, "I hope out of charity you will dance, as it is the last ball, and the company is so thin."

"Oh, it will do Very Well without me; Mr. Wade himself says he dies to-night a very respectable death."

"And will you not have the goodness to help it on a little in its last stage ? "

"No," said I, laughing; "why should we wish it to be kept lingering?"

"Lingering!" repeated he, looking round at the dancers, "no, surely it is not quite so desperate; and if you will but join in, you will give it new existence."

I was a little thrown off my guard at this unexpected earnestness, so different to the ton of the day, and I began hardly to know What to answer, my real objection being such as I could by no means publish, though his urgency and his politeness joined would have made me give up any other.

"This is a very quiet dance," he continued. "there is nothing fatiguing in it."

"You are very good," said I, "but I cannot really dance to-night."

I was sorry to seem so obstinate, but he was just the man to make every body inquire whom he danced with; and any one Who wished for general attention could do no better than to be his partner. The ever-mischievous Mrs. Thrale, calling to Mr. Selwyn, who stood by us, said,-

"Why, here's a man in love !-quite, downright in love with Miss Burney, if ever I saw one!"

"He is quite mortified, at least," he answered; "I never saw a man look more mortified."

"Well, he did not deserve it," said she; "he knew how to beg, and he ought not to have been so served."

I begged her to be silent, for Mr. Metcalf returned to me. "

"Were you too much tired," he said, "with your walk this morning, to try at a dance?"

I excused myself as well as I could, and we presently went 247

into the card-room to vary the scene. When we returned to the ball-room I was very glad to see my new captain had just taken out Lady Anne Lindsay, who is here with Lady Margaret Fordyce, and who dances remarkably well, and was every way a more suitable partner for him. He was to leave the town, with his regiment, the next day.

Tuesday.-Mrs. Thrale took me out to walk with her. We met Lady De Ferrars and Miss Ellerker in our ramble, and the very moment the ball was mentioned, this dear and queer creature called out,—

"Ay, there was a sad ado, ladies dancing with ladies, and all sorts of odd things; and that handsome and fine Mr. Kaye broke his heart almost to dance with Miss Burney; but she refused him, and so, in despair, he took out Lady Anne Lindsay."

DR. JOHNSON HELD IN GENERAL DREAD.

Thursday.-Mr. Metcalf called upon Dr. Johnson, and took him out for an airing. Mr. Hamilton is gone, and Mr. Metcalf is now the only person out of this house that voluntarily communicates with the doctor. He has been in a terrible severe bumour of late, and has really frightened all the people, till they almost ran from him. To me only I think he is now kind, for Mrs. Thrale fares worse than anybody. 'Tis very strange and very melancholy that he will not a little more accommodate his manners and language to those of other people. He likes Mr. Metcalf, however, and so do I, for he is very clever and entertaining when he pleases.

Poor Dr. Delap confessed to us, that the reason he now came so seldom, though he formerly almost lived with us when at this place, was his being too unwell to cope with Dr. Johnson. And the other day Mr. Selwyn having refused an invitation from Mr. Hamilton to meet the doctor, because he preferred being here upon a day when he was out, suddenly rose at the time he was expected to return, and said he must run away, "for fear the doctor should call him to account."



SHORT, FAT, HANDSOME MISS MONCKTON: DUCAL INDIFFERENCE.

Sunday, November 10, brings in a new person. Th e Honourable Miss Monckton,(159) who is here with her mother, the

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Dowager Lady Galway, has sent various messages of her earnest desire to be acquainted with Mrs. Thrale and your humble servant to command. Dr. Johnson 'she already knew,, for she is one of those who stand foremost in collecting all extraordinary or curious people to her London conversaziones, which, like those of Mrs. Vesey, mix the rank and file literature, and exclude all beside. Well—after divers intimations Of this sort, it was at last settled that Lady De Ferrars should bring her here this morning.

In the evening came Lady De Ferrars, Miss Monckton, and Miss Ellerker. Miss Monckton is between thirty and forty very short, very fat, but handsome ; splendidly and fantastically dressed, rouged not unbecomingly, yet evidently and palpably desirous of gaining notice and admiration. She has an easy levity in her air, manner, voice, and discourse, that speak all within to be comfortable; and her rage of seeing anything curious may be satisfied, if she pleases, by looking in a mirror.

I can give you no account of the conversation, as it was broken, and not entertaining. Miss Monckton went early, having another engagement, but the other ladies stayed very late. She told us, however, one story extremely well worth recarding. The Duke of Devonshire was standing near a very fine glass lustre in a corner of a room, at an assembly, and in a house of people who, Miss Monckton said, were by no means in a style of life to hold expense as immaterial ; and, by carelessly lolling back, he threw the lustre down and it was broke. He shewed not, however, the smallest concern or confusion at the accident, but coolly said, "I wonder how I did that!" He then removed to the opposite corner, and to shew, I suppose, he had forgotten what he had done, leaned his head in the same manner, and down came the opposite lustre ! He looked at it very calmly, and, with a philosophical dryness, merely said, "This is singular enough!" and walked to another part of the room, without either distress or apology.



MISS MONCKTON's ASSEMBLY: SACQUES AND RUFFLES.

December 8.-Now for Miss Monckton's assembly.

I had begged Mrs. Thrale to call for me,(160) that I might have her countenance and assistance upon my entrance. Miss

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Thrale came also. Every thing was in a new style. We got out of the coach into a hall full of servants, not one of which inquired our names, or took any notice of us. We proceeded, and went upstairs, and, when we arrived at a door, stopped and looked behind us. No servant had followed or preceded us. We deliberated what was to be done. To announce ourselves was rather awkward, neither could we be sure we were going into the right apartment. I proposed going up higher, till we met with somebody; Miss Thrale thought we should go down and call some of the servants; but Mrs. Thrale, after a ridiculous consultation, determined to try her fortune by opening the door. This being done, we entered a room full of tea-things, and one maid-servant.

"Well," cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, "what is to be done now? I suppose we are come so early that nothing is ready."

The maid stared, but said,—"There's company in the next room."

Then we considered again how to make ourselves known; and then Mrs. Thrale again resolved to take courage and enter. She therefore opened another door, and went into another apartment. I held back, but looked after, and observing that she made no curtsey, concluded she was gone into some wrong place. Miss Thrale followed, and after her went little I, wondering who was to receive, or what was to become of us.

Miss Monckton lives with her mother, the old Dowager Lady Galway, in a noble house in Charles-street, Berkeleysquare, The room was large and magnificent. There was not much company, for we were very early. Lady Galway sat at the side of the fire, and received nobody. She seems very old, and was dressed with a little round white cap, and not a single hair, no cushlori, roll, nor any thing else but the little round cap, which was flat upon her forehead. Such part of the company as already knew her made their compliments to her where she sat, and the rest were never taken up to her, but belonged wholly to Miss Monckton.

Miss Monckton's own manner of receiving her guests was scarce more laborious ; for she kept her seat when they entered, and only turned rOUnd her head to nod it, and say "How do you do?" after which they found what accommodation they could for themselves.

As soon, however, as she perceived Mrs. and Miss Thrale, which was not till they had been some minutes in the room, 250 she arose to welcome them, contrary to her general Custom, and merely because it was their first visit. Our long train making my entrance some time after theirs, gave me the advantage of being immediately seen by her, and she advanced to me with quickness, and very politely thanked me for coming, and said,—

"I fear you think me very rude for taking the liberty of sending to you."

"No, indeed, you did me much honour," quoth I.

She then broke further into her general rules, by making way for me to a good place, and seating me herself, and then taking a chair next me, and beginning a little chat. I really felt myself much obliged to her for this seasonable attention, for 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.

The company in general were dressed with more brilliancy than at any rout I ever was at, as most of them were going to the Duchess of Cumberland's, and attired for that purpose. just behind me sat Mrs. Hampden, still very beautiful, but insufferably affected. Another lady, in full dress, and very pretty, came in soon after, and got herself a chair just before me ; and then a conversation began between her and Mrs. Hampden, of which I will give you a specimen.

"How disagreeable these sacques are! I am so incommoded with these nasty ruffles! I am going to Cumberland House—are you?"

"To be sure," said Mrs. Hampden, "what else, do you think, would make me bear this weight of dress? I can't bear a sacque."

"Why, I thought you said you should always wear them?"

"Oh, yes, but I have changed my mind since then—as many people do."

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"Well, I think it vastly disagreeable indeed," said the other, "you Can't think how I am encumbered with these ruffles!"

" Oh I am quite oppressed with them," said Mrs. Hampden, "I can hardly bear myself up."

" And I dined in this way!" cried the other; "only think—dining in a sacque!"

"Oh," answered Mrs. Hampden, "it really puts me quite out of spirits."

After this they found some subject less popular, and the lady unknown leaned over me, without any ceremony, to whisper with Mrs. Hampden. I should have offered her my place if she had made any apology, but as it was, I thought she might take her own way. In the course of the evening, however, I had the pleasure to observe a striking change in her manners; for as soon as she picked up, I know not how, my name, she ceased her whispering, looked at me with the civilest smiles, spoke to me two or three times, and calling to a fine beau, said—

"Do pray sit this way, that you may screen Miss Burney as well as me from that fire,"

I did not, however, sufficiently like her beginning, to accept her challenge of talking, and only coldly answered by yes, no, or a bow.

AT MISS MONCKTON'S: "CECILIA" EXTOLLED BY THE "OLD WITS," AND By BURKE.

Then came in Sir Joshua Reynolds, and he soon drew a chair near mine, and from that time I was never without some friend at my elbow.

Have you seen," said he, "Mrs. Montagu lately?"

"No, not very lately."

"But within these few months?"

"No, not since last year."

"Oh, you must see her, then. You ought to see and to hear her— 't will be worth your while. Have you heard of the fine long letter she has written?"

"Yes, but I have not met with it."

"I have."

"And who is it to?"

"The old Duchess of Portland.(161) She desired Mrs. Mon-

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tagu's opinion of 'Cecilia,' and she has written it at full length. I was in a party at her grace's, and heard of nothing but you. She is so delighted, and so sensibly, so rationally, that I only wish you could have heard her. And old Mrs. Delany had been forced to begin it, though she had said she should never read any more; however, when we met, she was reading it already for the third time."

After this Mrs. Burke saw me, and with much civility and softness of manner, came and talked with me, while her husband without seeing me, went behind my chair to speak to Mrs Hampden.

Miss Monckton, returning to me, then said—

" Miss Burney, I had the pleasure yesterday of seeing Mrs. Greville.(162)

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 sat down by me, and began a conversation which you, my dearest Susy, would be glad to hear, for my sake, word for word; but which I really could not listen to with sufficient ease, from shame at his warm eulogiums, 253

to remember With any accuracy. The geneial 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 empbatically congratulated me upon its most universal success, said, "he was now too late to speak of it, since he could only echo the voice of the whole nation" and added, with a laugh, "I had hoped to have made some merit of my enthusiasm; but the moment I went about to hear what others say, I found myself merely one in a multitude."

He then told me that, notwithstanding his admiration, he was the man who had dared to find some faults with so favourite and fashionable a work. I entreated him to tell me what they were, and assured him nothing would make me so happy as to correct them under his direction. He then enumerated them: and I will tell you what they are, that you may not conclude I write nothing but the fairer part of my adventures, which I really always relate very honestly, though so fair they are at this time, that it hardly seems possible they should not be dressed up.

The masquerade he thought too long, and that something might be spared from Harrel's grand assembly; he did not like Morrice's part of the pantheon; and he wished the conclusion either more happy or more miserable "for in a work of imagination," said he, "there is no medium."

I was not easy enough to answer him, or I have much, though perhaps not good for much, to say in defence of following life and nature as much in the conclusion as in the progress of a tale; and when is life and nature completely happy or miserable?

Looking very archly at me, and around him, he said,—

"Are you sitting here for characters? Nothing, by the way, struck me more in reading your book than the admirable skill with which your ingenious characters make themselves known by their own words."

He then went on to tell me that I had done the most wonderful of wonders in pleasing the old wits, particularly the Duchess of Portland and Mrs. Delany, who resisted reading the book till they were teased into it, and, since they began, could do nothing else - and he failed not to point out, with his utmost eloquence, the difficulty Of giving satisfaction to those who piqued themselves upon being past receiving it. 254

"But," said he, "I have one other fault to find, and a more material one than any I have mentioned."

"I am the more obliged to you. What is it?"

"The disposal of this book. I have much advice to offer to you upon that subject. Why did not you send for your own friend out of the city? he would have taken care you should not part with it so much below par."

He meant Mr. Briggs.(163)

Sir Joshua Reynolds now joined us.

" Are you telling her," said he, "of our conversation with the old wits? I am glad you hear it from Mr. Burke, Miss Burney, for he can tell it so much better than I can, and remember their very words."

" Nothing else would they talk of for three whole hours," said he, "and we were there at the third reading of the bill."

"I believe I was in good hands," said I, "if they talked of it to you?"

"Why, yes," answered Sir Joshua, laughing, "we joined in from time to time. Gibbon says he read the whole five volumes in a day."

"'Tis impossible," cried Mr. Burke, "it cost me three days and you know I never parted with it from the time I first opened it."

A WRITER OF ROMANCES.

Soon after the parties changed again and young Mr. Burke(164) came and sat by me. He is a very civil and obliging, and a sensible and agreeable young man. Old Lady Galway trotted from her corner, in the middle of the evening, and leaning her hands upon the backs of two chairs, put her little round head through two fine high dressed ladies on purpose to peep at me, and then trotted back to her place! Ha, ha!

Miss Monckton now came to us again, and I congratulated

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her upon her power in making Dr. Johnson sit in a group upon which she immediately said to him,—

"Sir, Miss Burney says you like best to sit in a circle."

"Does she?" said he, laughing; "Ay, never mind what she says. Don't you know she is a writer of romances?"

"Yes, that I do, indeed," said Miss Monckton, and every one joined in a laugh that put me horribly out of countenance.

"She may write romances and speak truth," said my dear Sir Joshua, who, as well as young Burke, and Mr. Metcalf, and two strangers, joined now in our little party.

"But, indeed, Dr. Johnson," said Miss Monckton, "you must see Mrs. Siddons. Won't you see her in some fine part?"

"Why, if I must, madam, I've no choice."

"She says, sir, she shall be very much afraid of you."

"Madam, that cannot be true."

"Not true," cried Miss Monckton, staring, "yes it is."

"It cannot be, madam."

"But she said so to me ; I heard her say it myself."

"Madam, it is not possible! remember, therefore, in future, that even fiction should be supported by probability."

Miss Monckton looked all amazement, but insisted upon the -truth 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. At last, a large party of ladies arose at the same time', and I tripped after them; Miss Monckton, however, made me come back, for she said I must else wait in the other room till those ladies' carriages drove away. 256

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."(165)

I had never said any such thing.

"Ay," sir," said the doctor, "did I not tell you she was a riter of romances?"

MRS. WALSINGHAM.

December 15.-To-day, by an invitation of ten days standing, I waited upon Mrs. Walsingham. She is a woman high in fame for her talents,(166) and a wit by birth, as the daughter of Sir Charles Hanbury Williams.

She has the character of being only civil to people of birth, fame, or wealth, and extremely insolent to all others. Of this, however, I could see nothing, since she at least took care to invite no company to her own house whom she was disposed to disdain. Her reception of me appeared rather singular. She was violently dressed,—a large hoop, flowers in her small and full dressed cap, ribands and ornaments extremely shown, and a fan in her hand. She was very polite, said much of her particular pleasure in seeing Me, and kept advancing to me near, that involuntarily I retreated from her, not knowing er design, and kept, therefore, getting further and further back as she came forward, till I was stopped from any power of moving by the wainscot. I then necessarily stood still, and she saluted me.

We then quietly sat down, and my father began a very lively conversation upon various subjects; she kept it up with attention and good breeding, often referring to me, and seemig curious to know my notions.

The rest of the company who came to dinner were Mrs. Montagu, Mr. Percy, Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, his lady and daughter, and Sir Joshua Reynolds and Miss Palmer. I was excessively glad to see the latter, who clung

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to me all the visit, and took off from its formality and grandeur by her chatting and intimacy.

Mrs. Walsingham lives in a splendid house in Stratford place, elegantly fitted up, chiefly by her own paintings and drawingsl which are reckoned extremely clever. I hate that word, but cannot think of another.

We did not stay late, for my father and I were both engaged to Miss Monckton's; so was Sir Joshua, who accompanied us.



MRS. SIDDONS.

I was extremely happy to have my dear father with me at Miss Monckton's. We found Mrs. Siddons, the actress, there. She is a woman of excellent character, and therefore I am very glad she is thus patronised, since Mrs. Abington, and so many frail fair ones, have been thus noticed by the great. She behaved with great propriety ; very calm, modest, quiet, and unaffected - She has a very fine countenance, and her eyes 'look both intelligent and soft. She has, however, a steadiness in her manner and deportment by no means engaging. Mrs. Thrale, who was there, said,—"Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all worshipping! however, we shall soon gild it."

A lady who sat near me then began a dialogue with Mr. Erskine,(167) who had placed himself exactly opposite to Mrs. Siddons; and they debated together upon her manner of studying her parts, disputing upon the point with great warmth, yet not only forbearing to ask Mrs. Siddons herself which was right, but quite over-powering her with their loquacity, when she attempted, unasked, to explain the matter. Most vehement praise of all she did followed, and the lady turned to me, and said,-

"What invitation, Miss Burney, is here, for genius to display itself!—Everybody, I hear, is at work for Mrs. Siddons; but if you would work for her, what an inducement to excel you would both of you have!—Dr. Burney—."

"Oh, pray, ma'am," cried I, "don't say to him—"

"Oh, but I will!—if my influence can do you any mischief, you may depend upon having it."

She then repeated what she had said to my father, and he instantly said,—

"Your ladyship may be sure of my interest."

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I whispered afterwards to know who she was, and heard she Was Lady Lucan.

DR. JOHNSON'S INMATES'AT BOLT-COURT.

On Tuesday, Dec. 24, I went in the evening to call on Mrs. Thrale, and tore myself away from her to go to Bolt-court to see Dr. Johnson, who is very unwell. He received me with great kindness, and bade me come oftener, which I will try to contrive. He told me he heard of nothing but me, call upon him who would ; and, though he pretended to grow], he was evidently delighted for me. His usual set, Mrs. Williams and Mrs. De Mullins, were with him; and some queer man of a parson who, after grinning at me some time, said,—

"Pray, Mrs. De Mullins, is the fifth volume of 'Cecilia' at home yet? Dr. Johnson made me read it, ma'am."

"Sir, he did it much honour."

"Made you, sir?" said the doctor, "you give an ill account of your own taste or understanding, if you wanted any making to read such a book as 'Cecilia.'"

"Oh, sir, I don't mean that; for I am sure I left every thing in the world to go on with it."

A shilling was now wanted for some purpose or other, and none of them happened to have one ; I begged that I might lend one.

"Ay, do," said the doctor, "I will borrow of you ; authors are like privateers, always fair game for one another."

"True, sir," said the parson, "one author is always robbing another."

"I don't know that, sir," cried the doctor; "there sits an author who, to my knowledge, has robbed nobody. I have never once caught her at a theft. The rogue keeps her resources to herself!"

THE TWO MR. CAMBRIDGES IMPROVE UPON ACQUAINTANCE.

Thursday.-In the morning Mr. Cambridge(168) came, and made a long visit. He is entertaining, Original, and well-bred; somewhat formal, but extremely civil and obliging, and, I be-

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lieve, remarkably honourable and strict in his principles and actions. I wished I could have been easy and chatty with him as I hear he is so much my friend, and as I like him very much; but, in truth, he listens to every syllable I utter with so grave a deference, that it intimidates and silences me. When he was about taking leave, he said,—

"Shall you go to Mrs. Ord's(169) to-morrow?"

"Yes, sir."

"I thought so," said he, smiling, "and hoped it. Where shall you go to-night?"

"No where,—I shall be at home."

"At home? Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Why, then, Miss Burney, my son(170) and I dine to-day in your neighbourhood, at the Archbishop of York's, and, if you please, we will come here in the evening."

This was agreed to. And our evening was really a charming one. The two Mr. Cambridges came at about eight o'clock, and the good Mr. Hoole(171) was here. My father came downstairs to them in high spirits and good humour, and he and the elder Mr. Cambridge not only talked enough for us all, but so well and so pleasantly that no person present had even a wish to speak for himself. Mr. Cambridge has the best stock of good stories I almost ever heard; and, though a little too precise in his manner, he is always well-bred, and almost always entertaining. Our sweet father kept up the ball with him admirably, whether in anecdotes, serious disquisitions, philosophy, or fun; for all which Mr. Cambridge has both talents and inclination.

The son rises extremely in my opinion and liking. He is sensible, rational, and highly cultivated ; very modest in all he asserts, and attentive and pleasing in his behaviour ; and he is wholly free from the coxcombical airs, either of impertinence, or negligence and nonchalance, that almost all the young men I meet, except also young Burke, are tainted with. What chiefly, however, pleased me in him was observing that

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he quite adores his father. He attended to all his stories with a face that never told he had heard them before; and, though he spoke but little himself, he seemed as well entertained as if he had been the leading person in the company,—a post which, nevertheless, I believe he could extremely well sustain; and, no doubt, much the better for being in no haste to aspire to it. I have seldom, altogether, had an evening with which I hav, been better pleased.

THE SHILLING, THE CHAIRMAN, AND THE GREEN-SHOP GIRL.

Saturday, Dec. 28.-My father and I dined and spent the day at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, after many preceding disappointments. I had a whispering conversation with Mrs. Reynolds,(172) which made me laugh, from her excessive oddness and absurdity.

"I had the most unfortunate thing in the world happen to me," she said, "about Mrs. Montagu, and I always am in some distress or misfortune with that lady. She did me the honour to invite me to dine with her last week,—and I am sure there is nobody in the world can be more obliged to Mrs. Montagu taking such notice of any body;—but just when the day came I was so unlucky as to be ill, and that, you know, made it quite improper to go to dine with Mrs. Montagu, for fear of disagreeable consequences. So this vexed me very much, for I had nobody to send to her that was proper to appear before Mrs. Montagu; for to own the truth, you must know I have no servant but a maid, and I could not think of sending such a person to Mrs. Montagu. So I thought it best to send a chairman, and to tell him only to ring at the bell, and to wait for no answer; because then the porter might tell Mrs. Montagu my servant brought the note, for the porter could not tell but he might be my servant.

But my maid was so stupid, she took the shilling I gave her for the chairman, and went to a green-shop, and bid the woman send somebody with the note, and she left the shilling with her; so the green-woman, I suppose, thought she might keep the shilling, and instead of sending a chairman she sent her own errand-girl; and she was all dirt and rags. But this is not all; for,when the girl got to the house, nothing would serve her but she would give the note to Mrs. Montagu, and wait for an answer; so then, you know, Mrs. Montagu saw this ragged green-shop girl. I was never so shocked in my

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life, for when she brought me back the note I knew at once how it all was. Only think what a mortification, to have Mrs. Montagu see such a person as that! She must think it very odd of me indeed to send a green-shop girl to such a house as hers!"



MR. SOAME JENYNS'S EULOGY ON "CECILIA."

Friday, [Jan. 17, 1783.)-Now for this grand interview with Soame Jenyns.(173) I went with my dear father who was quite enchanted at the affair. Dear soul, how he feeds upon all that brings fame to "Cecilia!" his eagerness upon this subject, and his pleasure in it, are truly enthusiastic, and, I think, rather increase by fulness than grow satiated.

We were late; there was a good deal of company, not in groups, nor yet in a circle, but seated square round the room, in order following,—Miss Ellerker, Mrs. Soame Jenyns, Mrs. Thrale, her daughter, Mrs. Buller, Mr. Cambridge, senior, Mr. Soame Jenyns, Mr. Selwin, Mr. Cambridge, junior, Miss Burgoyne, a lady or two I knew not, and three or four men.

Mrs. Ord almost ran to the door to receive us, and every creature of this company, contrary to all present custom in large meetings, stood up.

"Why have you been so late?" cried Mrs. Ord, "we have been waiting for you this hour. I was afraid there was some mistake."

"My father could not come sooner."

"But why would not you let me send my coach for you? Mr. Soame Jenyns has been dying with impatience; some of us thought you would not come; others thought it only coquetry; but come, let us repair the time as we can, and introduce you to one another without further delay."

You may believe how happy I felt at this "some thought," and "others," which instantly betrayed that everybody was

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apprised they were to see this famous rencounter; and lest I should mark it less, every body still stood up. Mr. jenyns now, with all the speed in his power, hastened up to me, and began a long harangue of which I know hardly a word, upon the pleasure and favour, and honour, and what not, of meeting me, and upon the delight, and information, and amusement of reading "Cecilia."

I made all possible reverences, and tried to get to a seat, but Mrs. Ord, when I turned from him, took my hand, and leading me to the top of the room, presented me to Mrs. jenyns. Reverences were repeated here, in silence, however, so they did very well. I then hoped to escape to Mrs. Thrale, who held out her hand to me, pointing to a chair by her own, and saying,-

"Must I, too, make interest to be introduced to Miss Burney?"

This, however, was not allowed; Mrs. Ord again took my hand, and parading me to the sofa, said,—

"Come, Miss Burney, and let me place you by Mrs. Buller."

I was glad, by this time, to be placed any where, for not till then did the company seat themselves.

Mr. Cambridge, sen., then came up to speak to me, but had hardly asked how I did before Mrs. Ord brought Mr. jenyns to me again, and made him my right-hand neighbour, saying,-

"There! now I have put you fairly together, I have done with you."

Mr. Soame jenyns then, thus called upon—could he do less?—began an eulogy unrivalled, I think, for extravagance of praise. All creation was open to me; no human being ever began that book and had power to put it down; pathos, humour, interest, moral—O heavens! I heard, however, but the leading words; though every body else, the whole roon, being silent, doubtless heard how they hung together. Had I been carried to a theatre to hear an oration upon my own performances, I could hardly have felt more confounded.

I bowed my head during the first two or three sentences, by way of marking that I thought them over; but over they were not the more. I then turned away, but I only met Mrs. Buller, who took up the panegyric where Mr. jenyns stopped for breath.

In short, the things that were said, with the attention of the whole company, would have drawn blushes into the cheeks of Agujari or Garrick. I was almost upon the point of running 263

away. I changed so often from hot to cold that I really felt myself in a fever and an ague. I never even attempted to speak to them, and I looked with all the frigidity I possibly could, in hopes they would tire of bestowing such honours on a subject so ungrateful.

One moment I had hopes that Mr. G. Cambridge, in Christian charity, was coming to offer some interruption ; for, when these speeches were in their height, he came and sat down on a chair immediately opposite Miss Thrale, and equally near, in profile, to me; but he merely said, "I hope Dr. Burney has not wanted his pamphlet?" Even Mrs. Thrale would not come near me, and told me afterwards it had been such a settled thing before my arrival, that I was to belong to Mr. Soame Jenyns, that she did not dare.

The moment they were gone, "Well, Miss Burney," said Mrs. Ord, "have you and Mr. Jenyns had a great deal of conversation together?"

"O yes, a great deal on my part!"

"Why you don't look quite recovered from it yet—did not you like it?"

"O yes, it was perfectly agreeable to me!"

"Did he oppress you?" cried Mr. Cambridge, and then he began a very warm praise of him for his talents, wit, and understanding, his knowledge, writings, and humour.

I should have been very ready to have joined with him, had I not feared he meant an implied reproach to me, for not being more grateful for the praise of a man such as he described. I am sorry he was present if that is the case; but the truth is, the evening was not merely disagreeable but painful to me.

AN ITALIAN SINGER'S VIEWS OF ENGLAND.

Saturday.-While Mr. George Cambridge was here Pacchierotti called-very grave, but very sweet. Mr. G. C. asked if he spoke English.

"O, very well," cried I, "pray try him; he is very amiable, and I fancy you will like him."

Pacchierotti began with complaining of the variable weather. "

I cannot," he said, "be well such an inconsistent day."

We laughed at the word "inconsistent," and Mr. Cambridge said,-

"It is curious to see what new modes all languages may take in the hands of foreigners. The natives dare not try such ex-

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periments; and, therefore, we all talk pretty much alike ; but a foreigner is obliged to hazard new expressions, and very often he shews us a force and power in our words, by an unusual adaptation of them, that we were not ourselves aware tlley would admit."

And then, to draw Pacchierotti out, he began a dispute, of the different merits of Italy and England; defending his own country merely to make him abuse it; while Pacchierotti most eagerly took up the gauntlet on the part of Italy.

"This is a climate," said Pacchierotti, "never in the same case for half an hour at a time; it shall be fair, and wet, and dry, and humid, forty times in a morning in the least. I am tired to be so played with, sir, by your climate."

"We have one thing, however, Mr. Pacchierotti," he answered, "which I hope you allow makes some amends, and that is our verdure; in Italy you cannot boast that."

"But it seem to me, sir, to be of no utility so much evergreen is rather too much for my humble opinion."

"And then your insects, Mr. Pacchierotti! those alone are a most dreadful drawback upon the comfort of your fine climate.""

"I must own," said Pacchierotti, "Italy is rather disagreeable for the insects; but is it not better, sir, than an atmosphere so bad as they cannot live in it?"

"Why, as i can't defend our atmosphere, I must shift my ground, and talk to you of our fires, which draw together society."

"O indeed, good sir, your societies are not very invigorating! Twenty people of your gentlemen and ladies to sit about a fire, and not to pronounce one word, is very dull!"

We laughed heartily at this retort courteous.

RAPTURES OF THE "OLD WITS" OVER "CECILIA."

[Mary Delany was the daughter of Bernard Granville, younger brother of George Granville, Baron Lansdowne, the poet and friend of Wycherley and Pope. She was born on the 14th Of May, 1700. Her uncle, Lord Lansdowne, was a better friend to the Muses than to his young niece, for he forced poor Mary Granville, at the age of seventeen, to marry one Alexander Pendarves, a coarse, hard drinking Cornish squire, of more than three times her age. Pendarves died some six years later, and his widow married, in 1743, Dr. Patrick Delany, the friend of Swift. With Delany she lived happily for fifteen years, and after his death in 1768, Mrs. Delany devoted most of her time to her 265

bosom friend, the dowager Duchess of Portland (see note (161), ante, p. 251), at whose seat at Bulstrode she usually spent the summer, while during the winter she resided at her own house in St. James's-place, where she was constantly visited by the Duchess. On the death of the Duchess in July, 1785, King George bestowed upon Mrs. Delany, whose means were not such as to make an addition to them a matter of indifference, a furnished house at Windsor and a pension Of 300 pounds a year. These she enjoyed for less than three years, dying on the 15th of April, 1788.

The strong attachment which grew up between her and Fanny renders Mrs. Delany a very interesting figure in the "Diary." Nor wasFanny's enthusiasm for her aged friend misdirected. Speakin of Mrs' Delany, Edmund Burke said: "She was a perfect pattern of a perfect fine lady: a real fine lady of other days. Her manners were faultless; her deportment was of marked elegance; her speech was all sweetness; and her air and address were all dignity. I have always looked up to Mrs. Delany, as the model of an accomplished gentlewoman of former times."(174)-ED.]

Sunday, January ig-And now for Mrs. Delany. I spent one hour with Mrs. Thrale, and then called for Mrs. Chapone,(175) and we proceeded together to St. James's-place.

Mrs. Delany was alone in her drawing-room, which is entirely hung round with pictures of her own painting, and Ornaments of her own designing. She came to the door to receive us. She is still tall, though some of her height may be lost: not much, however, for she is remarkably upright. She has no remains of beauty in feature, but in countenance I never but once saw more, and that was in my sweet maternal grandmother. Benevolence, softness, piety, and gentleness are all resident in her face ; and the resemblance with which she struck me to my dear grandmother, in her first appearance, grew so much stronger from all that came from her mind, which seems to contain nothing but purity and native humility,

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that I almost longed to embrace her; and I am sure if I had the recollection of that saint-like woman would have been so strong that I should never have refrained from crying over her.

Mrs. Chapone presented me to her, and taking my hand* she said,— "You must pardon me if I give you an old-fashioned reception, for I know nothing new." And she saluted me. I did not, as with Mrs. Walsingham, retreat from her.

"Can you forgive, Miss Burney," she continued, "this great liberty I have taken with you, of asking for your company to dinner? I wished so impatiently to see one from whom I have received such extraordinary pleasure, that, as I could not be alone this morning, I could not bear to put it off to another day; and, if you had been so good to come in the evening, I might, perhaps, have had company; and I hear so ill that I cannot, as I wish to do, attend to more than one at a time; for age makes me stupid even more than I am by nature; and how grieved and mortified I must have been to know I had Miss Burney in the room, and not to hear her!"

She then mentioned her regret that we could not stay and spend the evening with her, which had been told her in our card of accepting her invitation, as we were both engaged, which, for my part, I heartily regretted.

"I am particularly sorry," she added, "on account of the Duchess dowager of Portland, who is so good as to come to me in an evening, as she knows I am too infirm to wait upon her grace myself: and she wished so much to see Miss Burney. But she said she would come as early as possible."

Soon after we went to dinner, which was plain, neat, well cooked, and elegantly served. When it was over, I began to speak; and now, my Chesington auditors, look to yourselves!

"Will you give me leave, ma'am, to ask if you remember any body of the name of Crisp?"

"Crisp?" cried she, "What! Mrs. Ann Crisp?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"O surely! extremely well! a charming, an excellent woman she was; we were very good friends once; I visited her at Burford, and her sister Mrs. Gast."

Then came my turn, and I talked of the brother - but I won't write what I said. Mrs. Delany said she knew him but very little; and by no means so much as she should have liked. I reminded her of 267

a letter he wrote her from abroad, which she immediately recollected.

This Chesingtonian talk lasted till we went upstairs, and then she shewed me the new art which she had invented. It is staining paper of all possible colours, and then cutting it out, so finely, and delicately, that when it is pasted on paper or vellum, it has all the appearance of being pencilled, except that, by being raised, it has still a richer and more natural look. The effect is extremely beautiful. She invented it at tseventy-five! She told me she did four flowers the first year; sixteen the second; and the third, one hundred and sixty; and after that many more. They are all from nature, and consist of the most curious flowers, plants, and weeds, that are to (be found. She has been supplied with patterns from all the great gardens, and all the great florists in the kingdom. Her plan was to finish one thousand; but, alas! her eyes now fail her though she has only twenty undone of her task,

about seven o'clock, the Duchess dowager of Portland came. She is not near so old as Mrs. Delany; nor, to me, is her face by any means so pleasing; but yet there is sweetness, and dignity, and intelligence in it. Mrs. Delany received her with the same respectful ceremony as if it was her first visit, though she regularly goes to her every evening. But what she at first took as an honour and condescension, she has so much of true humility of mind, that no use can make her see in any other light. She immediately presented me to her. Her grace courtesied and smiled with the most flattering air of pleasure, and said she was particularly happy in meeting with me. We then took our places, and Mrs. Delany said,—

"Miss Burney, ma'am, is acquainted with Mr. Crisp, whom your grace knew so well ; and she tells me he and his sister have been so good as to remember me, and to mention me to her."

the duchess instantly asked me a thousand questions about him—where he lived, how he had his health, and whether his fondness for the polite arts still continued. She said he was one of the most ingenious and agreeable men she had ever known, and regretted his having sequestered himself so much from the society of his former friends.

IN the course of this conversation I found the duchess very charming, high-bred, courteous, sensible, and spirited ; not merely free from pride, but free from affability-its most mortifying deputy.

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After this she asked me if I had seen Mrs. SiddOns, and what I thought of her. I answered that I admired her very much.

"If Miss Burney approves her," said the duchess, "no approbation, I am sure, can do her so much credit ; for no One can so perfectly judge of characters or of human nature."

"Ah, ma'am," cried Mrs. Delany, archly, "and does your grace remember protesting you would never read 'Cecilia?'"

"Yes," said she, laughing, "I declared that five volumes could never be attacked; but since I began I have read it three times."

"O terrible!" cried I, "to make them out fifteen."

"The reason," continued she, "I held out so long against reading them, was remembering the cry there was in favour of 'Clarissa' and 'Sir Charles Grandison,' when they came out, and those I never could read. I was teased into trying both of them; but I was disgusted with their tediousness, and could not read eleven letters, with all the effort I could make: so much about my sisters and my brothers, and all my uncles and my aunts!"

"But if your grace had gone on with 'Clarissa,'" said Mrs. Chapone, "the latter part must certainly have affected you, and charmed you."(176)

"O, I hate any thing so dismal! Every body that did read it had melancholy faces for a week. 'Cecilia' is as pathetic as I can bear, and more sometimes; yet, in the midst of the sorrow, there is a spirit in the writing, a fire in the whole composition, that keep off that heavy depression given by Richardson. Cry, to be sure, we did. Mrs. Delany, shall you ever forget how we cried? But then we had so much laughter to make us amends, we were never left to sink under our concern."

I am really ashamed to write on.

"For my part," said Mrs. Chapone, "when I first read it, I did not cry at all; I was in an agitation that half killed me, that shook all nerves, and made me unable to sleep at nights, from the suspense I was in! but I could not cry, for excess of eagerness."

"I only wish," said the duchess, "Miss Burney could have been in some corner, amusing herself with listening to us,

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when Lord Weymouth, and the Bishop of Exeter, and Mr. Lightfoot, and Mrs. Delany, and I, were all discussing the point -of the name. So earnest we were, she must have been diverted with us. Nothing, the nearest our own hearts and interests, could have been debated more warmly. The bishop was quite as eager as any of us; but what cooled us a little, at last, was Mr. Lightfoot's thinking we were seriously going to quarrel; and while Mrs. Delany and I were disputing about Mrs. Delvile, he very gravely said, 'Why, ladies, this is only a matter of imagination; it is not a fact: don't be so earnest.'"

"Ah, ma'am," said Mrs. Delany, "how hard your grace was upon Mrs. Delvile: so elegant, so sensible, so judicious, so charming a woman."

"O, I hate her," cried the duchess, "resisting that sweet Cecilia; coaxing her, too, all the time, with such hypocritical flattery."

"I shall never forget," said Mrs. Delany, "your grace's earnestness when we came to that part where Mrs. Delvile bursts a blood vessel. Down dropped the book, and just with the same energy as if your grace had heard some real and important news, You called out, 'I'm glad of it with all my heart!'"

"What disputes, too," said Mrs. Chapone, "there are about Briggs. I was in a room some time ago where somebody said there could be no such character; and a poor little mean city man, who was there, started up and said, 'But there is though, for I'se one myself!'"

"The Harrels!—O, then the Harrels!" cried Mrs. Delany.

"If you speak of the Harrels, and of the morality of the book," cried the duchess, with a solemn sort of voice, "we shall, indeed, never give Miss Burney her due: so striking, so pure, so genuine, SO instructive."

"Yes," cried Mrs. Chapone, "let us complain how we will of the torture she has given our nerves, we must all join in saying she has bettered us by every line."

"No book," said Mrs. Delany, "ever was so useful as this, because none other that is so good was ever so much read."

I think I need now write no more. I could, indeed, hear no more; for this last so serious praise, from characters so respectable, so moral, and so aged, quite affected me; and though I had wished a thousand times during the discourse to run out of the room, when they gave me finally this solemn sanction to the meaning and intention of my writing, I found it not without difficulty that I could keep the tears out of my eyes; and 270

when I told what had passed to our sweet father, his cup quite ran over.

The duchess had the good sense and judgment to feel she had drawn up her panegyric to a climax, and therefore here she stopped; so, however, did not we, for our coach was ready.

ILLNESS AND DEATH OF MR. CRISP.

(Fanny Burney to Mr. Crisp.) April 12, 1783.

My dearest—dearest daddy,

I am more grieved at the long and most disappointing continuation of your illness than I know how to tell YOU ; and though my last account, I thank heaven, is better, I find you still suffer so much, that my congratulations in my letter to Susan, upon what I thought your recovery, must have appeared quite crazy, if you did not know me as well as you do, and were not sure what affliction the discovery of my mistake would bring to myself. I think I never yet so much wished to be at Chesington, as at this time, that I might see how YOU go On, and not be kept in such painful suspense from post to post.

Why did you tell me of the DelaDYS, Portlands, Cambridges, etc., as if any of them came into competition with yourself? When you are better, I shall send you a most fierce and sharp remonstrance upon this subject. At present I must be content with saying, I will undoubtedly accept your most kind invitation as soon as I possibly can. Meantime, if my letters will give you any amusement, I will write oftener than ever, and supply you with all the prog I get myself.

Susan, who is my reader, must be your writer, and let me know if such tittle-tattle as I can collect serves to divert some of those many moments of languor and weariness that creep between pain and ease, and that call more for mental food than for bodily medicine. Your love to your Fannikin, I well know, makes all trash interesting to you that seems to concern her ; and I have no greater pleasure, when absent, than in letting you and my dear Susan be acquainted with my proceedings. I don't mean by this to exclude the rest of the dear Chesington set—far from it— -but a sister and a daddy must come first.

God bless and restore you, my most dear daddy! You know

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not how kindly I take your thinking of me, and inquiring about me, in an illness that might so well make you forget us all; but Susan assures me your heart is as affectionate as ever to your ever and ever faithful and loving child, F. B.

[Mr. Crisp's illness became so alarming, that Miss Burney hastened to Chesington, where she had been only a few days when her valued friend breathed his last. In reply to a letter, in which she had given Dr. Burney an account of Mr. Crisp's increasing sufferings, the doctor wrote:

"Ah! my dear Fanny, your last letter has broke all our hearts! your former accounts kept off despair; but this brings it back in all its horrors. I wish, if it were possible, that you would let him know how much I loved him, and how heavily I shall feel his loss when all this hurry subsides, and lets me have time to brood over my sorrows. I have always thought that, in many particulars, his equal was not to be found. His wit, learning, taste, penetration, and, when well, his conviviality, pleasantry, and kindness of heart to me and mine, will ever be thought of with the most profound and desponding regret."

After the last mournful duties had been performed at Chesington,(177) Miss Burney returned to her father's house in St. Martin's-street; but some time elapsed ere she recovered composure sufficient to resume her journal.]

272 DR. JOHNSON ATTACKED BY PARALYSIS.

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.

The stroke was confined to his tongue. Mrs. Williams told me a most striking and touching circumstance that attended the attack. It was at about four o'clock in the morning: he found himself with a paralytic affection; he rose, and composed in his own mind a Latin prayer to the Almighty, "that whatever were the sufferings for which he must prepare himself, it would please Him, through the grace and mediation of our blessed Saviour, to spare his intellects, and let them all fall upon his body." When he had composed this, internally, he endeavoured to speak it aloud, but found his voice was gone.

June 20.-I Went in the morning to Dr. Johnson, and heard a good account of him. Dr. Rose, Dr. Dunbar, and Sam Rose, the Doctor's son, dined with us. We expected the rest of our party early though the absence of Dr. Johnson, whom they were all invited to meet, took off the spirit of the evening.

July 1.-I had the satisfaction to hear from Sir Joshua that Dr. Johnson had dined with him at the Club. I look upon him, therefore, now, as quite recovered. I called the next morning to congratulate him, and found him very gay and very good-humoured.

A PLEASANT DAY WITH THE CAMBRIDGES.

July 15.-To-day my father, my mother, and I, went by appointment to dine and spend the day at Twickenham with the Cambridges. Soon after our arrival Mr. C. asked if we should like to walk, to which we most readily agreed.

We had not strolled far before we were followed by

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Mr. George. No sooner did his father perceive him, than, hastily coming up to my side, he began a separate conversation with me; and leaving his son the charge of all the rest, he made me walk off with him from them all. It was really a droll manoeuvre, but he seemed to enjoy it highly, and though he said not a word of his design, I am sure it reminded me of his own old trick to his son, when listening to a dull story, in saying to the relator,— "Tell the rest of that to George." And if George was in as good-humour with his party as his father was with his why, all were well pleased. As soon as we had fairly got away from them, Mr. Cambridge, with the kindest smiles of satisfaction, said,—"I give you my word I never was more pleased at any thing in my life than I am now at having you here to-day."

I told him that I had felt so glad at seeing him again, after so long an absence, that I had really half a mind to have made up to him myself, and shook hands.

"You cannot imagine," said he, "how you flatter me !-and there is nothing, I do assure you, of which I am prouder, than seeing you have got the better of your fear of me, and feeling that I am not afraid of you."

"Of me, sir?—but how should you be?"

"Nay, I give you my word, if I was not conscious of the greatest purity of mind, I should more fear you than any body in the world. You know everything, everybody," he continued, "so wonderfully well!"

We then, I know not how, fell into discussing the characters of forward and flippant women; and I told him it was my fortune to be, in general, a very great favourite with them, though I felt so little gratitude for that honour, that the smallest discernment would show them it was all thrown away.

"Why, it is very difficult," said he, "for a woman to get rid of those forward characters without making them her enemies. But with a man it is different. Now I have a very peculiar happiness, which I will tell you. I never took very much to a very amiable woman but I found she took also to me, and I have the good fortune to be in the perfect confidence of some of the first women in this kingdom; but then there are a great many women that I dislike, and think very impertinent and foolish, and, do you know, they all dislike me too!—they absolutely cannot bear me! Now, I don't know, of those two things, which is the greatest happiness."

How characteristic this!—do you not hear him saying it?

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We.now renewed our conversation upon various of our acquaintances, particularly Mr. Pepys, Mr. Langton, and Mrs. Montagu. We stayed in this field, sitting and sauntering, near an hour. We then went to a stile, just by the riverside, where the prospect is very beautiful, and there we seated ourselves. Nothing could be more pleasant, though the wind was so high I was almost blown into the water.

He now traced to me great part of his life and conduct in former times, and told me a thousand excellent anecdotes of himself and his associates. He summed them all up in a way that gave me equal esteem and regard for him, in saying he found society the only thing for lasting happiness ; that, if he had not met a woman he could permanently love, he must with every other advantage have been miserable- but that such was his good fortune, that "to and at this moment," he said, "there is no sight so pleasing to me as seeing Mrs. Cambridge enter a room ; and that after having been married to her for forty years. And the next most pleasing sight to me is an amiable woman."

He then assured me that almost all the felicity of his life both had consisted, and did still consist, in female society. It was, indeed, he said, very rare but there was nothing like it.

"And if agreeable women," cried I, "are rare, much more so, I think, are agreeable men; at least, among my acquaintance they are very few, indeed, that are highly agreeable."

"Yes, and when they are so," said he, "it is difficult for you to have their society with any intimacy or comfort; there'are always so many reasons why you cannot know them."

We continued chatting until we came to the end of the meadow, and there we stopped, and again were joined by the company.

Mr. Cambridge now proposed the water, to which I eagerly agreed.

We had an exceeding pleasant excursion. We went up the river beyond the Duke of Montagu's, and the water was smooth and delightful. Methinks I should like much to sail from the very source to the mouth of the Thames. . . .

After dinner we again repaired to the lawn, in a general body ; but -we- had scarce moved ten paces, before Mr. Cambridge again walked off with me, to a seat that had a very "fine view of Petersham wood, and there we renewed our confabulation.

He now shewed me a note from Mr. Gibbon, sent to engage

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himself to Twickenham on the unfortunate day he got his ducking.(178) It is the most affected little piece of writing I ever saw. He shall attend him, he says, at Twickenham, and upon the water, as soon as the weather is propitious, and the Thames, that amiable creature, is ready, to receive him.

Nothing, to be sure, could be so apt as such a reception as that "amiable creature" happened to give him! Mr. Cambridge said it was "God's revenge against conceit."

DR. JOHNSON's HEROic FORBEARANCE.

Tuesday, December 9-This evening at Mrs. Vesey's, Mr. George Cambridge came, and took the chair half beside me. I told him of some new members for Dr. Johnson's club!(179)

"I think," said he, " it sounds more like some club that one reads of in the 'Spectator,' than like a real club in these times; for the forfeits of a whole year will not amount to those of a single night in other clubs. Does Pepys belong to it?"

"Oh no! he is quite of another party! He is head man on the side of the defenders of Lord Lyttelton. Besides, he has had enough of Dr. Johnson; for they had a grand battle upon the 'Life of Lyttelton,' at Streatham."

"And had they really a serious quarrel? I never imagined it had amounted to that."

"yes, serious enough, I assure you. I never saw Dr. Johnson really in a passion but then: and dreadful, indeed, it was to see. I wished myself away a thousand times. It was a frightful scene. He so red, poor Mr. Pepys so pale!"

"But how did it begin? What did he say?"

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" Oh, Dr. Johnson came to the point without much ceremony. He called out aloud, before a large company, at dinner, 'What have you to say, sir, to me or of me? Come forth, man! I hear you object to my "Life of Lord Lyttelton." What are your objections? If you have anything to say, let's hear it. Come forth, man, when I call you!'"

"What a call, indeed! Why, then, he fairly bullied him into a quarrel!"

"Yes. And I was the more sorry, because Mr. Pepys had begged of me, before they met, not to let Lord Lyttelton be mentioned. Now I had no more power to prevent it than this macaroon cake in my hand."

"It was behaving ill to Mrs. Thrale, certainly, to quarrel in her house."

" Yes; but he never repeated it; though he wished of all things to have gone through just such another scene with Mrs, Montagu, and to refrain was an act of heroic forbearance."

"Why, I rather wonder he did not ; for she was the head of the set of Lytteltonians."

"Oh, he knows that; he calls Mr. Pepys only her prime minister."

"And what does he call her ?

"Queen,' to be sure! 'Queen of the blues.' She came to Streatham one morning, and I saw he was dying to attack her. But he had made a promise to Mrs. Thrale to have no more quarrels in her house, and so he forced himself to forbear. Indeed he was very much concerned, when it was over, for what had passed; and very candid and generous in acknowledging it. He is too noble to adhere to wrong."

"And how did Mrs. Montagu herself behave?"

"Very stately, indeed, at first. She turned from him very stiffly, and with a most distant air, and without even courteseying to him, and with a firm intention to keep to what she had publicly declared—that she would never speak to him more! However, he went up to her himself, longing to begin! and very roughly said,—'Well, madam, what's become of your fine new house? I hear no more of it.'

" But how did she bear this?"

" Why she was obliged to answer him; and she soon grew so frightened—as everybody else does—that she was as civil as ever."

he laughed heartily at this account. But I told him Dr. Johnson was now much softened. He had acquainted me, 277

when I saw him last, that he had written to her upon the death of Mrs. Williams, because she had allowed her something yearly, which now ceased. 'And I had a very kind answer from her,' said he.

"'Well then, sir,' cried I, 'I hope peace now will be again proclaimed.'"

"'Why, I am now,' said he, 'come to that time when I wish all bitterness and animosity to be at an end. I have never done her any serious harm—nor would I; though I could give her a bite!— but she must provoke me much first. In volatile talk, indeed, I may have spoken of her not much to her mind; for in the tumult of conversation malice is apt to grow sprightly! and there, I hope, I am not yet decrepid!'"

He quite laughed aloud at this characteristic speech.

I most readily assured the doctor that I had never yet seen him limp."

"SWEET BEWITCHING MRS. LOCKE."

Friday, April 23, 1784.-The sweet and most bewitching Mrs. Locke called upon me in the evening, with her son George.(179) I let her in and did so rejoice I had not gone to Mrs. Vesey's. But I rejoiced for only a short time; she came but to take leave, for she was going to Norbury the very next morning. I was quite heavy all the evening. She does truly interest both head and heart. I love her already. And she was so kind, so caressing, so soft ; pressed me so much to fix a time for going to Norbury ; said such sweet things of Mrs. Phillips; and kissed me so affectionately in quitting me, that I was quite melted by her.

What a charm has London lost for me by her departure sweet crea ture that she is ; born and bred to dispense pleasure and delight to all who see or know her! She, Mrs. Thrale and Mrs. Delany, in their several ways all excellent, possess the joint powers of winning the affections, while they delight the intellects, to the highest summit I can even conceive of human attraction. The heart-fascination of Mrs. Thrale, indeed, few know - but those few must confess and must feel her sweetness, to them, is as captivating as her wit is brilliant to all.

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MRS. THRALE'S SECOND MARRIAGE.

(Mrs. Thrale to Fanny Burney.) Mortimer-st., Cavendish-sq. Tuesday night, May (11), 1784.

I am come, dearest Burney. It is neither dream nor fiction, though I love you dearly, or I would not have come. Absence and distance do nothing towards wearing out real affection so you shall always find it in your true and tender H. L. T.

I am somewhat shaken bodily, but 'tis the mental shocks that have made me unable to bear the corporeal ones. 'Tis past ten o'clock, however, and I must lay myself down with the sweet expectation of seeing my charming friend in the morning to breakfast. I love Dr. Burney too well to fear him, and he loves me too well to say a word which should make me love him less.

May 17.-Let me now, my Susy, acquaint you a little more connectedly than I have done of late how I have gone on. The rest of that week I devoted almost wholly to sweet Mrs. Thrale, whose society was truly the most delightful of cordials to me, however, at times, mixed with bitters the least palatable. Were I not sensible of her goodness, and full of incurable affection for her, should I not be a monster? . . .

I parted most reluctantly with my dear Mrs. Thrale, whom, when or how I shall see again heaven only knows ! but in sorrow we parted—on my side in real affliction.

[Towards the end of July in this year, Mrs. Thrale's second marriage took place with Mr. Piozzi, and Miss Burney Went about the same time to Norbury Park, where she passed some weeks with Mr and Mrs. Locke. The following "sketch" of a letter, and memorandum of what had recently passed between Mrs. Piozzi and herself, is from the journal of that period.]

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Piozzi.) Norbury Park, Aug. 10, 1784.

When my wondering eyes first looked over the letter I received last night, my mind instantly dictated a high-spirited 279

vindication of the consistency, integrity, and faithfulness of the friendship thus abruptly reproached and cast away. But a sleepless night gave me leisure to recollect that you were ever as generous as precipitate, and that your own heart would do justice to mine, in the cooler judgment of future reflection. Committing myself, therefore, to that period, I determined Simply to assure you, that if my last letter hurt either you or Mr. Piozzi, I am no less sorry than surprised; and that if it offended you, I sincerely beg your pardon.

Not to that time, however, can I wait to acknowledge the pain an accusation so unexpected has caused me, nor the heartfelt satisfaction with which I shall receive, when you are able to write it, a softer renewal of regard.

May heaven direct and bless you! F. B.

N.B.—This is the sketch of the answer which F. B. most painfully wrote to the unmerited reproach of not sending "cordial congratulations" upon a marriage which she had uniformly, openly, and with deep and avowed affliction, thought wrong.

(Mrs. Piozzi to Fanny Burney) Wellbeck-st., NO, 33, Cavendish-sq., Friday, Aug. 13, 1784.

Give yourself no serious concern, sweetest Burney. All is well, and I am too happy myself to make a friend otherwise; quiet your kind heart immediately, and love my husband if you love his and your H. L. Piozzi.

N.B.-To this kind note, F. B. wrote the warmest and most affectionate and heartfelt reply; but never received another word! And here and thus stopped a correspondence of six years of almost unequalled partiality, and fondness on her side ; and affection, gratitude, admiration, and sincerity on that of 'F. B., who could only conjecture the cessation to be caused by the resentment of Piozzi, when informed of her constant opposition to the union.

A HAPPY HOME.

Friday, Oct. 8.-I set off with my dear father for Chesington, where we passed five days very comfortably ; my father was all good humour, all himself,—such as you and I mean by that

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word. The next day we had the blessing of your Dover letter(180) and on Thursday, Oct.:14, I arrived at dear Norbury Park 'at about seven o'clock, after a pleasant ride in the dark. Locke most kindly and cordially welcomed me; he came out upon the steps to receive me, and his beloved Fredy(181) waited for me in the vestibule. Oh, with what tenderness did she take me to her bosom! I felt melted with her kindness, but I could not express a joy like hers, for my heart was very fullfull of my dearest Susan, whose image seemed before me upon the spot where we had so lately been together. They told me that Madame de la Fite, her daughter, and Mr. Hinde, were in the house; but as I am now, I hope, come for a long time, I did not vex at hearing this. Their first inquiries were if I had not heard from Boulogne.(182)

Saturday.-I fully expected a letter, but none came; but Sunday I depended upon one. The post, however, did not arrive before we went to church. Madame de la Fite, seeing my sorrowful looks, good naturedly asked Mrs. Locke what could be set about to divert a little la pauvre Mademoiselle Beurney? and proposed reading a drama of Madame de Genlis. I approved it much, preferring it greatly to conversation and accordingly, she and her daughter, each taking characters to themselves, read "La Rosire de Salency." It is a very interesting and touchingly simple little drama. I was so much pleased that they afterwards regularly read one every evening while they stayed.

Next morning I went up stairs as usual, to treat myself with a solo of impatience for the post, and at about twelve o'clock I heard Mrs. Locke stepping along the passage. I was sure of good news, for I knew, if there was bad, poor Mr. Locke would have brought it. She came in, with three letters in her hand, and three thousand dimples in her cheeks and chin! Oh, my dear Susy, what a sight to me was your hand ! I hardly cared for the letter; I hardly desired to open it ; the direction alone almost satisfied me sufficiently. How did Mrs. Locke embrace me! I half kissed her to death. O Then came dear Mr. Locke, his eyes brighter than ever—"Well, how does she do?"

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This question forced me to open my letter; all was just as I could wish, except that I regretted the having written the day before such a lamentation. I was so congratulated! I shook hands with Mr. Locke; the two dear little girls came jumping to wish me joy and Mrs. Locke ordered a fiddler, that they might have a dance in the evening, which had been promised them from the time of Mademoiselle de la Fite's arrival, but postponed from day to day, by general desire, on account of my uneasiness.

Monday, Oct. 25-Mr. Hinde and Madame and Mademoiselle de la Fite all left us. They were all so good humoured and so happy, there was no being glad ; though how to be sorry at remaining alone with this family, I really know not. Both the De la Fites went away in tears. I love them for it.

Wednesday, Nov. 3-This day has brought ine another sweet letter from my Susy. What a set of broken-fortuned, brokencharactered people of fashion are about you at Boulogne.(183) The accounts are at once curious and melancholy to me.

Nothing can be more truly pleasant than our present lives. I bury all disquietudes in immediate enjoyment; an enjoyment more fitted to my secret mind than any I had ever hoped to attain. We are so perfectly tranquil, that not a particle of our whole frames seems ruffled or discomposed., Mr. Locke is gayer and more sportive than I ever have seen him; his Freddy seems made up of happiness; and the two dear little girls are in spirits almost ecstatic; and all from that internal contentment which Norbury Park seems to have gathered from all corners of the world into its own sphere. Our mornings, if fine, are to ourselves, as .Mr. Locke rides out; if bad, we assemble in the picture room. We have two books in public reading: Madame de S6vigne's "Letters," and Cook's last "Voyage." Mrs. Locke reads the French, myself the English.

Our conversations, too, are such as I could almost wish to last for ever. Mr. Locke has been all himself,-all instruction, information, and intelligence,—since we have been left alone; and the invariable sweetness, as well as judgment, of all he says, leaves, indeed, nothing to wish. They will not let me go while I can stay, and I am now most willing to stay till I must go. The serenity of a life like this,

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smoothes the whole internal surface of the mind. My own I assure you, begins to feel quite glossy. To see Mrs. Locke so entirely restored to total health, and to see her adoring husband lose all his torturing Solicitude, while he retains his Unparalleled tenderness-these are sights to anticipate a taste of paradise, if paradise has any felicity consonant to our now ideas.

Tuesday, Nov. 9.- This is Mr. William Locke's birthday; he is now seventeen. he came home, with his brothers, to keep it, three days ago. May they all be as long-lived and as happy as they are now sweet and amiable! This sweet place is beautiful even yet, though no longer of a beauty young and blooming, such as you left it; but the character Of the prospect is so 'grand that winter cannot annihilate its charms, though it greatly diminishes them. The variety of the grounds, and the striking form of the hills, always afford something new to observe, and contain something lasting to admire. Were 1, however, in a desert, people such as these would make it gay and cheery.

LADY F.'s ANGER AT MRS. PIOZZI'S MARRIAGE.

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Locke.) St. Martin's-st., Nov. 14.

. . . . . I had a very unpleasant morning after I left you. When the coach and I had waited upon my father, I made the visit I mentioned to you. O what a visit!—all that I pre-supposed of attack, inquiry, and acrimony, was nothing to what passed. Rage more intemperate I have not often seen ; and the shrill voice of feeble old age, screaming with unavailing passion is horrible. She had long looked upon Mrs. Thrale as a kind of prot6ge, whom she had fondled as a child, and whose fame, as she grew into notice, she was always proud to hear of, and help to exalt. She is a woman (I can well attest !) of most furious passions herself, however at liberty she thinks she may be to show no sort of mercy to those of another.

Once, had I been less disturbed, I could have laughed; for she declared with great vehemence, that if she had suspected "the wretch of any intention to marry the man, she would have ordered her own postchaise, and followed her to prevent it!" 283

Alas, poor Lady F.

She then called upon me, to hear my story ; which, most painfully to myself, I related. She expressed herself very sorry for me, till I came to an avowal of my letter after the marriage she then flew out into new choler. "I am amazed you would write to her, Miss Burney! I wonder you could think of it any more.

I told her, I had thought myself so much indebted to her patience with my opposition to all her views and wishes for the whole tine of her long conflict, that, although I was the first to acknowledge her last action indefensible, I should be the last to forget all that had made me love her before it was committed.

This by no means satisfied her, and she poured forth again a torrent of unrelenting abuse. Some company, at last, came in, and I hastily took my leave. She called after me to fix some day for a longer visit ; but I pretended not to hear, and ran down stairs, heartily resolving that necessity alone should ever force me into her presence again.

When I came home—before I could get upstairs—I was summoned to Miss Streatfield, whom I met with as little pleasure as Lady F., since I had never seen her, nor indeed anybody, from the time this cruel transaction has been published. Not that I dreaded her violence, for she is as gentle as a lamb but there were causes enough for dread of another nature. However fortunately and unexpectedly, she never named the subject, but prattled away upon nothing but her own affairs; and so, methinks, have I done too, and just as if I knew you wished to hear them. Do you?—I ask only for decency's sake.

DR. JOHNSON's FAILING HEALTH.

Norbury Park, Sunday, Nov. 28.-Last Thursday, my father set me down at Bolt-court, while lie went on upon business. I was anxious to again see poor Dr. Johnson, who has had terrible health since his return from Lichfield. He let me in, though very ill. He was alone, which I much rejoiced at; for I had a longer and more satisfactory conversation with him than I have had for many months. He was in rather better spirits, too, than I had lately seen him. but he told me he was going to try what sleeping Out of town might do for him 284

"I remember," said he, "that my wife, when she was near her end, poor woman, was also advised to sleep out of town, and when she was carried to the lodgings that had been prepared for her, she complained that the staircase was in very bad condition—for the plaster was beaten off the wall in many places. 'Oh,' said the man of the house, 'that's nothing but by the knocks against it of the coffins of the poor souls that have died in the lodgings.'

He laughed, though not without apparent secret anguish, in telling me this. I felt extremely shocked, but, willing to confine my words at least to the literal story, I only exclaimed against the unfeeling absurdity of such a confession.

"Such a confession," cried he, "to a person then coming to try his lodgings for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our account for."

I had seen Miss Thrale the day before.

"So," said he, "did I."

I then said,—"Do you ever, sir, hear from her mother?"

"No," cried he, "nor write to her. I drive her quite from my mind. If I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly. I have burnt all I can find. I never speak of her, and I desire never to hear of her more. I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind."

Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the Bristol milk-woman, and told him the tales I had heard of her writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and Milton "though those," I continued, "could never possibly, I should think, be the first authors with anybody. Would children understand them? and grown people who have not read are children in literature."