Mr. Seward, you know, told me that she had tears at command, and I begin to think so too, for when Mrs. Thrale, who had previously told me I should see her cry, began coaxing her to stay, and saying, “If you go, I shall know you don’t love me so well as Lady Gresham,” — she did cry, not loud indeed, nor much, but the tears came into her eyes, and rolled down her fine cheeks.
“Come hither, Miss Burney,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “come and see Miss Streatfield cry!”
I thought it a mere badinage. I went to them, but when I saw real tears, I was shocked, and saying “No, I won’t look at her,” ran away frightened, lest she should think I laughed at her, which Mrs. Thrale did so openly, that, as I told her, had she served me so, I should have been affronted with her ever after.
Miss Streatfield, however, whether from a sweetness not to be ruffled, or from not perceiving there was any room for taking offence, gently wiped her eyes, and was perfectly composed!
MR. MURPHY’S CONCERN REGARDING FANNY BURNEY’S COMEDY.
Streatham, May, Friday. Once more, my dearest Susy, I will attempt journalising, and endeavour, according to my promise, to keep up something of the kind during our absence, however brief and curtailed.
To-day, while Mrs. Thrale was chatting with me in my room, we saw Mr. Murphy drive into the courtyard. Down stairs flew Mrs. Thrale, but, in a few minutes, up she flew again, ‘crying,
“Mr. Murphy is crazy for your play — he won’t let me rest for it — do pray let me run away with the first act.”
Little as I like to have it seen in this unfinished state, she was too urgent to be resisted, so off she made with it.
I did not shew my phiz till I was summoned to dinner. Mr. Murphy, probably out of flummery, made us wait some minutes, and, when he did come, said,
“I had much ado not to keep you all longer, for I could hardly get away from some new acquaintances I was just making.”
As he could not stay to sleep here, he had only time, after dinner, to finish the first act. He was pleased to commend it very liberally; he has pointed out two places where he thinks I might enlarge, but has not criticised one word; on the contrary, the dialogue he has honoured with high praise.
Brighthelmstone, May 26. The road from Streatham hither is beautiful: Mr., Mrs., Miss Thrale, and Miss Susan Thrale, and I, travelled in a coach, with four horses, and two of the servants in a chaise, besides two men on horseback; so we were obliged to stop for some time at three places on the road.
We got home by about nine o’clock. Mr. Thrale’s house is in West Street, which is the court end of the town here, as well as in London. ’Tis a neat, small house, and I have a snug comfortable room to myself. The sea is not many yards from our windows. Our journey was delightfully pleasant, the day being heavenly, the roads in fine order, the prospects charming, and everybody good-humoured and cheerful.
Thursday. Just before we went to dinner, a chaise drove up to the door, and from it issued Mr. Murphy. He met with, a very joyful reception; and Mr. Thrale, for the first time in his life, said he was “a good fellow”: for he makes it a sort of rule to salute him with the title of “scoundrel,” or “rascal.” They are very old friends; and I question if Mr. Thrale loves any man so well.
He made me many very flattering speeches, of his eagerness to go on with my play, to know what became of the several characters, and to what place I should next conduct them; assuring me that the first act had run in his head ever since he had read it.
In the evening we all, adjourned to Major H— ‘s, where, besides his own family, we found Lord Mordaunt, son to the Earl of Peterborough, — a pretty, languid, tonnish young man; Mr. Fisher, who is said to be a scholar, but is nothing enchanting as a gentleman; young Fitzgerald, as much the thing as ever; and Mr. Lucius Corcannon.
Mr. Murphy was the life of the party: he was in good spirits, and extremely entertaining; he told a million of stories, admirably well; but stories won’t do upon paper, therefore I shall not attempt to present you with them.
This morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Murphy said,
“I must now go to the seat by the seaside, with my new set of acquaintance, from whom I expect no little entertainment.”
“Ay,” said Mrs. Thrale, “and there you’ll find us all! I believe this rogue means me for Lady Smatter; but Mrs. Voluble must speak the epilogue, Mr. Murphy.”
“That must depend upon who performs the part,” answered he.
“Don’t talk of it now,” cried I, “for Mr. Thrale knows nothing of it.”
“I think,” cried Mr. Murphy, “you might touch upon his character in ‘Censor.’”
“Ay,” cried Mr. Thrale, “I expect a knock some time or other; but, when it comes, I’ll carry all my myrmidons to cat-call!”
Mr. Murphy then made me fetch him the second act, and walked off with it.
A SCENE ON THE BRIGHTON PARADE.
We afterwards went on the parade, where the soldiers were mustering, and found Captain Fuller’s men all half intoxicated, and laughing so violently as we passed by them, that they could hardly stand upright. The captain stormed at them most angrily; but, turning to us, said,
“These poor fellows have just been paid their arrears, and it is so unusual to them to have a sixpence in their pockets, that they know not how to keep it there.”
The wind being extremely high, our caps and gowns were blown about most abominably; and this increased the risibility of the merry light infantry. Captain ‘Fuller’s desire to keep order made me laugh as much as the men’s incapacity to obey him; for, finding our flying drapery provoked their mirth, he went up to the biggest grinner, and, shaking him violently by the shoulders, said, “What do you laugh for, sirrah? do you laugh at the ladies?” and, as soon as he had given the reprimand, it struck him to be so ridiculous, that he was obliged to turn quick round, and commit the very fault he was attacking most furiously.
MR. MURPHY CONSIDERS THE DIALOGUE IS CHARMING: A CENSORIOUS LADY.
After tea, the bishop, his lady, Lord Mordaunt, and Mrs. H — seated themselves to play at whist, and Mr. Murphy, coming up to me, said,
“I have had no opportunity, Miss Burney, to tell you how much I have been entertained this morning, but I have a great deal to say to you about it; I am extremely pleased with it, indeed. The dialogue is charming; and the—”
“What’s that?” cried Mrs. Thrale, “Mr. Murphy always flirting with Miss Burney? And here, too, where everybody’s watched!”
And she cast her eyes towards Mrs. H — , who is as censorious a country lady as ever locked up all her ideas in a country town. She has told us sneering anecdotes of every woman and every officer in Brighthelm stone. Mr. Murphy, checked by Mrs. Thrale’s exclamation, stopt the conversation, and said he must run away, but would return in half-an-hour.
“Don’t expect, however, Miss Burney,” he said, “I shall bring with me what you are thinking of; no, I can’t part with it yet!”
What! at it again cried Mrs. Thrale. “This flirting is incessant; but it’s all to Mr. Murphy’s credit.”
Mrs. Thrale told me afterwards, that she made these speeches to divert the attention of the company from our subject; for that she found they were all upon the watch the moment Mr. Murphy addressed me, and that the bishop and his lady almost threw down their cards, from eagerness to discover what he meant.
The supper was very gay: Mrs. Thrale was in high spirits, and her wit flashed with incessant brilliancy; Mr. Murphy told several stories with admirable humour; and the Bishop of Peterborough was a worthy third in contributing towards general entertainment. He turns out most gaily sociable. Mrs. H — was discussed, and, poor lady, not very mercifully.
Mrs. Thrale says she lived upon the Steyn, for the pleasure of viewing, all day long, who walked with who, how often the same persons were seen together, and what visits were made by gentlemen to ladies, or ladies to gentlemen.
“She often tells me,” said the captain, “of my men. ‘Oh,’ she says
, ‘Captain Fuller, your men are always after the ladies!’”
“Nay,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “I should have thought the officers might have contented her; but if she takes in the soldiers too, she must have business enough.”
“Oh, she gets no satisfaction by her complaints; for I only say, ‘Why, ma’am, we are all young! — all young and gay! — and how can we do better than follow the ladies?’”
A MILITIA CAPTAIN OFFICIATES AS BARBER.
Saturday, May 29. After breakfast, Mrs. and Miss Thrale took me to Widget’s, the milliner and library-woman on the Steyn. After a little dawdling conversation, Captain Fuller came in to have a little chat. He said he had just gone through a great operation— “I have been,” he said, “cutting off the hair of all my men.”
“And why?
“Why, the Duke of Richmond ordered that it should be done, and the fellows swore that they would not submit to it; so I was forced to be the operator myself. I told them they would look as smart again when they had got on their caps; but it went much against them, they vowed, at first, they would not bear such usage; some said they would sooner be run through the body, and others, that the duke should as soon have their heads. I told them I would soon try that, and fell to work myself with them.”
“And how did they bear it?
“Oh, poor fellows, with great good-nature, when they found his honour was their barber: but I thought proper to submit to bearing all their oaths, and all their jokes; for they had no other comfort but to hope I should have enough of it, and such sort of wit. Three or four of them, however, escaped, but I shall find them out. I told them I had a good mind to cut my own hair off too, and then they would have a Captain Crop. I shall soothe them to-morrow with a present of new feathers for all their caps.”
“HEARTS HAVE AT YE ALL.”
Streatham, Sunday, June 13. After church we all strolled the grounds, and the topic of our discourse was Miss Streatfield. Mrs. Thrale asserted that she had a power of captivation that was irresistible; that her beauty, joined to her softness, her caressing manners, her tearful eyes, and alluring looks, would insinuate her into the heart of any man she thought worth attacking.
Sir Philip declared himself of a totally different opinion, and quoted Dr. Johnson against her, who had told him that, taking away her Greek, she was as ignorant as a butterfly.
Mr. Seward declared her Greek was all against her, with him, for that, instead of reading Pope, Swift, or “The Spectator” — books from which she might derive useful knowledge and improvement — it had led her to devote all her reading time to the first eight books of Homer.
“But,” said Mrs. Thrale, “her Greek, you must own, has made all her celebrity: — you would have heard no more of her than of any other pretty girl, but for that.”
“What I object to,” said Sir Philip, “is her avowed preference for this parson. Surely it is very indelicate in any lady to let all the world know with whom she is in love!”
“The parson,” said the severe Mr. Seward, “I suppose, spoke first, — or she would as soon have been in love with you, or with me!”
You will easily believe I gave him no pleasant look. He wanted me to slacken my pace, and tell him, in confidence, my private opinion of her: but I told him, very truly, that as I knew her chiefly by account, not by acquaintance, I had not absolutely formed my opinion.
“Were I to live with her four days,” said this odd man, “I believe the fifth I should want to take her to church.”
“You’d be devilish tired of her, though,” said Sir Philip, “in half a year. A crying wife will never do!”
“Oh, yes,” cried he, “the pleasure of soothing her would make amends.”
“Ah,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “I would insure her power of crying herself into any of your hearts she pleased. I made her cry to Miss Burney, to show how beautiful she looked in tears.”
“If I had been her,” said Mr. Seward, “I would never have visited you again.”
“Oh, but she liked it,” answered Mrs. T., “for she knows how well she does it. Miss Burney would have run away, but she came forward on purpose to show herself. I would have done so by nobody else — but Sophy Streatfield is never happier than when the tears trickle from her fine eyes in company.”
“Suppose, Miss Burney,” said Mr. Seward, “we make her the heroine of our comedy? and call it ‘Hearts have at ye all?’”
“Excellent,” cried I, “it can’t be better.”
GIDDY MISS BROWN.
At dinner we had three persons added to our company, — my dear father, Miss Streatfield, and Miss Brown.
Miss Brown, as I foresaw, proved the queen of the day. Miss Streatfield requires longer time to make conquests. She is, indeed, much more really beautiful than Fanny Brown; but Fanny Brown is much more showy, and her open, good-humoured, gay, laughing face inspires an almost immediate wish of conversing and merry-making with her. Indeed, the two days she spent here have raised her greatly in my regard. She is a charming girl, and so natural, and easy, and sweet-tempered, that there is no being half an hour in her company without ardently wishing her well.
Next day at breakfast, our party was Sir Philip, Mr. Fuller, Miss Streatfield, Miss Brown, the Thrales, and I.
The first office performed was dressing Miss Brown. She had put on bright, jonquil ribbons. Mrs. Thrale exclaimed against them immediately; Mr. Fuller half joined her, and away she went, and brought green ribbons of her own, which she made Miss Brown run up stairs with to put on. This she did with the utmost good humour; but dress is the last thing in which she excels; for she has lived so much abroad, and so much with foreigners at home, that she never appears habited as an Englishwoman, nor as a high-bred foreigner, but rather as an Italian Opera-dancer; and her wild, careless, giddy manner, her loud hearty laugh, and general negligence of appearance, contribute to give her that air and look. I like her so much, that I am quite sorry she is not better advised, either by her own or some friend’s judgment.
Miss Brown, however, was queen of the breakfast: for though her giddiness made everybody take liberties with her, her good-humour made everybody love her, and her gaiety made everybody desirous to associate with her. Sir Philip played with her as with a young and sportive kitten; Mr. Fuller laughed and chatted with her; and Mr. Seward, when here, teases and torments her. The truth is, he cannot bear her, and she, in return, equally fears and dislikes him, but still she cannot help attracting his notice.
SOPHY STREATFIELD AGAIN WEEPS TO ORDER.
Wednesday, June 16. — We had at breakfast a scene, of its sort, the most curious I ever saw.
The persons were Sir Philip, Mr. Seward, Dr. Delap, Miss Streatfield, Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and I. The discourse turning I know not how, upon Miss Streatfield, Mrs. Thrale said,
“Ay I made her cry once for Miss Burney as pretty as could be, but nobody does cry so pretty as the S. S. I’m sure, when she cried for Seward, I never saw her look half so lovely.”
“For Seward?” cried Sir Philip; “did she cry for Seward? What a happy dog! I hope she’ll never cry for me, for if she does, I won’t answer for the consequences!”
“Seward,” said Mrs. Thrale, “had affronted Johnson, and then Johnson affronted Seward, and then the S. S. cried.”
“Oh,” cried Sir Philip, “that I had but been here!”
“Nay,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “you’d only have seen how like three fools three sensible persons behaved: for my part, I was quite sick of it, and of them too.”
Sir P.-But what did Seward do? was he not melted?
Mrs. T.-Not he; he was thinking only of his own affront, and taking fire at that.
Mr. S.-Why, yes, I did take fire, for I went and planted my back to it.
S.S.-And Mrs. Thrale kept stuffing me with toast-and-water.
Sir P.-But what did Seward do with himself? Was not he in extacy? What did he do or say?
Mr. S.-Oh, I said pho, pho, don’t let’s have any more of this, — it’s making it of
too much consequence: no more piping, pray.
Sir P.-Well, I have heard so much of these tears, that I would give the universe to have a sight of them.
Mrs. T.-Well, she shall cry again if you like it.
S.S.-No, pray, Mrs. Thrale.
Sir P. — Oh, pray, do! pray let me see a little of it.
Mrs. T.-Yes, do cry a little, Sopby [in a wheedling voice], pray do! Consider, now, you are going to-day, and it’s very hard if you won’t cry a little: indeed, S. S., you ought to cry.
Now for the wonder of wonders. When Mrs. Thrale, in a coaxing voice, suited to a nurse soothing a baby, had run on for some time, — while all the rest of us, in laughter, joined in the request, — two crystal tears came into the soft eyes of the S. S., and rolled gently down her cheeks! Such a sight I never saw before, nor could I have believed. She offered not to conceal or dissipate them: on the contrary, she really contrived to have them seen by everybody. She looked, indeed, uncommonly handsome; for her pretty face was not, like Chloe’s, blubbered; it was smooth and elegant, and neither her features nor complexion were at all ruffled; nay, indeed, she was smiling all the time.
“Look, look!” cried Mrs. Thrale; “see if the tears are not come already.”
Loud and rude bursts of laughter broke from us all at once. How, indeed, could they be restrained? Yet we all stared, and looked and re-looked again and again, twenty times, ere we could believe our eyes. Sir Philip, I thought, would have died in convulsions; for his laughter and his politeness, struggling furiously with one another, made him almost black in the face. Mr. Seward looked half vexed that her crying for him was now so much lowered in its flattery, yet grinned incessantly; Miss Thrale laughed as much as contempt would allow her: but Dr. Delap seemed petrified with astonishment.
When our mirth abated, Sir Philip, colouring violently with his efforts to speak, said,
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