“Oh, that young lady is an author, I hear!”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “author of ‘Evelina.’”
“Humph, — I am told it has some humour!”
“Ay, indeed! Johnson says nothing like it has appeared for years!”
“So,” cried he, biting his lips, and waving uneasily in his chair, “so, so!”
“Yes,” continued she, “and Sir Joshua Reynolds told Mr. Thrale he would give fifty pounds to know the author!”
“So, so — oh, vastly well!” cried he, putting his hand on his forehead.
“Nay,” added she, “Burke himself sat up all night to finish it!”
This seemed quite too much for him; he put both his hands to his face, and waving backwards and forwards, said,
“Oh, vastly well! — this will do for anything!” with a tone as much as to say, Pray, no more!
Then Mrs. Thrale bid him good night, longing, she said, to call Miss Thrale first, and say, “So you won’t speak to my daughter? — why, she is no author.”
AN AMUSING CHARACTER: HIS VIEWS ON MANY SUBJECTS.
October 20. — I must now have the honour to present to you a new acquaintance, who this day dined here.
Mr. B —— y, an Irish gentleman, late a commissary in Germany. He is between sixty and seventy, but means to pass for about thirty; gallant, complaisant, obsequious, and humble to the fair sex, for whom he has an awful reverence; but when not immediately addressing them, swaggering, blustering, puffing, and domineering. These are his two apparent characters; but the real man is worthy, moral, religious, though conceited and parading.
He is as fond of quotations as my poor Lady Smatter, and, like her, knows little beyond a song, and always blunders about the author of that. His whole conversation consists in little French phrases, picked up during his residence abroad, and in anecdotes and story-telling, which are sure to be retold daily and daily in the same words.
Speaking of the ball in the evening, to which we were all going, “Ah, madam!” said he to Mrs. Thrale, “there was a time when — fol-de-rol, fol-de-rol [rising, and dancing and Singing], fol-de-rol! — I could dance with the best of them; but now a man, forty and upwards, as my Lord Ligonier used to say — but — fol-de-rol! — there was a time!”
“Ay, so there was, Mr. B —— y,” said Mrs. Thrale, “and I think you and I together made a very venerable appearance!”
“Ah! madam, I remember once, at Bath, I was called out to dance with one of the finest young ladies I ever saw. I was just preparing to do my best, when a gentleman of my acquaintance was so cruel as to whisper me— ‘B —— y! the eyes of all Europe are upon you!’ for that was the phrase of the times. ‘B —— y!’ says he, ‘the eyes of all Europe are upon you!’ — I vow, ma’am, enough to make a man tremble!-fol-de-rol, fol-de-rol! [dancing] — the eyes of all Europe are upon you! — I declare, ma’am, enough to put a man out of countenance.”
I am absolutely almost ill with laughing. This Mr. B —— y half convulses me; yet I cannot make you laugh by writing his speeches, because it is the manner which accompanies them, that, more than the matter, renders them so peculiarly ridiculous. His extreme pomposity, the solemn stiffness of his person, the conceited twinkling of his little old eyes, and the quaint importance of his delivery, are so much more like some pragmatical old coxcomb represented on the stage, than like anything in real and common life, that I think, were I a man, I should sometimes be betrayed into clapping him for acting so well. As it is, I am sure no character in any comedy I ever saw has made me laugh more extravagantly.
He dines and spends the evening here constantly, to my great satisfaction.
At dinner, when Mrs. Thrale offers him a seat next her, he regularly says,
“But where are les charmantes?” meaning Miss T. and me. “I can do nothing till they are accommodated!”
And, whenever he drinks a glass of wine, he never fails to touch either Mrs. Thrale’s, or my glass, with “est-il permis?”
But at the same time that he is so courteous, he is proud to a most sublime excess, and thinks every person to whom he speaks honoured beyond measure by his notice, nay, he does not even look at anybody without evidently displaying that such notice is more the effect of his benign condescension, than of any pretension on their part to deserve such a mark of his perceiving their existence. But you will think me mad about this man.
Nov. 3 — Last Monday we went again to the ball. Mr. B —— y, who was there, and seated himself next to Lady Pembroke, at the top of the room, looked most sublimely happy! He continues still to afford me the highest diversion.
As he is notorious for his contempt of all artists, whom he looks upon with little more respect than upon day-labourers, the other day, when painting was discussed, he spoke of Sir Joshua Reynolds as if he had been upon a level with a carpenter or farrier.
“Did you ever,” said Mrs. Thrale, “see his Nativity?”
“No, madam, — but I know his pictures very well; I knew him many years ago, in Minorca; he drew my picture there; and then he knew how to take a moderate price; but now, I vow, ma’am, ’tis scandalous — scandalous indeed! to pay a fellow here seventy guineas for scratching out a head!”
“Sir,” cried Dr. Delap, “you must not run down Sir Joshua Reynolds, because he is Miss Burney’s friend.”
“Sir,” answered he, “I don’t want to run the man down; I like him well enough in his proper place; he is as decent as any man of that sort I ever knew; but for all that, sir, his prices are shameful. Why, he would not (looking at the poor doctor with an enraged contempt) he would not do your head under seventy guineas!”
“Well,” said Mrs. Thrale, “he had one portrait at the last exhibition, that I think hardly could be paid enough for; it was of a Mr. Stuart; I had never done admiring it.”
“What stuff is this, ma’am!” cried Mr. B —— y, “how can two or three dabs of paint ever be worth such a sum as that?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Selwyn (always willing to draw him out), “you know not how much he is improved since you knew him in Minorca; he is now the finest painter, perhaps, in the world.”
“Pho, pho, sir,” cried he, “how can you talk so? you, Mr. Selwin, who have seen so many capital pictures abroad?”
“Come, come, sir,” said the ever odd Dr. Delap, “you must not go on so undervaluing him, for, I tell you, he is a friend of Miss Burney’s.”
“Sir,” said Mr. B —— y, “I tell you again I have no objection to the man; I have dined in his company two or three times; a very decent man he is, fit to keep company with gentlemen; but, ma’am, what are all your modern dabblers put together to one ancient? nothing! — a set of — not a Rubens among them! I vow, ma’am, not a Rubens among them!”....
To go on with the subject I left off with last — my favourite subject you will think it — Mr. B —— y. I must inform you that his commendation was more astonishing to me than anybody’s could be, as I had really taken it for granted he had hardly noticed my existence. But he has also spoken very well of Dr. Delap — that is to say, in a very condescending manner. “That Mr. Delap,” said he, “seems a good sort of man; I wish all the cloth were like him; but, lackaday! ’tis no such thing; the clergy in general are but odd dogs.”
Whenever plays are mentioned, we have also a regular speech about them. “I never,” he says, “go to a tragedy, — it’s too affecting; tragedy enough in real life: tragedies are only fit for fair females; for my part, I cannot bear to see Othello tearing about in that violent manner — and fair little Desdemona, ma’am, ’tis too affecting! to see your kings and your princes tearing their pretty locks, — oh, there’s no standing it! ‘A straw-crown’d monarch,’ — what is that, Mrs. Thrale?
‘A straw-crown’d monarch in mock majesty.’
“I can’t recollect now where that is; but for my part, I really cannot bear to see such sights. And then out come the white handkerchiefs, and all their pretty eyes are wiping, and then come
poison and daggers, and all that kind of thing, — O ma’am, ’tis too much; but yet the fair tender hearts, the pretty little females, all like it!”
This speech, word for word, I have already heard from him literally four times.
When Mr. Garrick was mentioned, he honoured him with much the same style of compliment as he had done Sir Joshua Reynolds.
“Ay, ay,” said he, “that Garrick was another of those fellows that people run mad about. Ma’am, ’tis a shaine to think of such things! an actor living like a person of quality scandalous! I vow, scandalous!”
“Well, — commend me to Mr. B —— y!” cried Mrs. Thrale “for he is your only man to put down all the people that everybody else sets up.”
“Why, ma’am,” answered he, “I like all these people very well in their proper places; but to see such a set of poor beings living like persons of quality,— ’tis preposterous! common sense, madam, common sense is against that kind of thing. As to Garrick, he was a very good mimic, an entertaining fellow enough, and all that kind of thing — but for an actor to live like a person of quality — oh, scandalous!”
Some time after the musical tribe was mentioned. He was at cards at the time with Mr. Selwyn, Dr. Delap, and Mr. Thrale, while we “fair females,” as he always calls us, were speaking of Agujari. He constrained himself from flying out as long as he was able; but upon our mentioning her having fifty pounds a song, he suddenly, in a great rage, called out, “Catgut and rosin! ma’am, ’tis scandalous!”...
The other day, at dinner, the subject was married life, and among various husbands and wives Lord L — being mentioned, Mr. B —— y pronounced his panegyric, and called him his friend. Mr. Selwyn, though with much gentleness, differed from him in opinion, and declared he could not think well of him, as he knew his lady, who was an amiable woman, was used very ill by him.
“How, sir?” cried Mr. B —— y.
“I have known him,” answered Mr. Selwyn, “frequently pinch her till she has been ready to cry with pain, though she has endeavoured to prevent its being observed.”
“And I,” said Mrs. Thrale, “know that he pulled her nose, in his frantic brutality, till he broke-some of the vessels of it, and when she was dying she still found the torture he had given her by it so great, that it was one of her last complaints.”
The general, who is all for love and gallantry, far from attempting to vindicate his friend, quite swelled with indignation on this account, and, after a pause, big with anger, exclaimed,
“Wretched doings, sir, wretched doings!”
“Nay, I have known him,” added Mr. Selwyn, “insist upon handing her to her carriage, and then, with an affected kindness, pretend to kiss her hand, instead of which he has almost bit a piece out of it.”
“Pitiful! — pitiful! sir,” cried the General, “I know nothing more shabby!”
“He was equally inhuman to his daughter,” said Mrs. Thrale, “for, in one of his rages, he almost throttled her.”
“Wretched doings!” again exclaimed Mr. B —— y, “what! cruel to a fair female! Oh fie! fie! fie! — a fellow who can be cruel to females and children, or animals, must be a pitiful fellow indeed. I wish we had had him here in the sea. I should like to have had him stripped, and that kind of thing, and been well banged by ten of our clippers here with a cat-o’-nine-tails. Cruel to a fair female? Oh fie! fie! fie!”
I know not how this may read, but I assure you its sound was ludicrous enough.
However, I have never yet told you his most favourite story, though we have regularly heard it three or four times a day — and this is about his health.
“Some years ago,” he says,— “let’s see, how many? in the year ‘71, — ay, ‘71, ‘72 — thereabouts — I was taken very ill, and, by ill-luck, I was persuaded to ask advice of one of these Dr. Gallipots: — oh, how I hate them all! Sir, they are the vilest pick-pockets — know nothing, sir! nothing in the world! poor ignorant mortals! and then they pretend — In short, sir, I hate them all! — I have suffered so much by them, sir — lost four years of the happiness of my life — let’s see, ‘71, ‘72, ‘73, ‘74 — ay, four years, sir! — mistook my case, sir! — and all that kind of thing. Why, sir, my feet swelled as big as two horses’ heads! I vow I will never consult one of these Dr. Gallipot fellows again! lost me, sir, four years of the happiness of my life! — why, I grew quite an object! — you would hardly have known me! — lost all the calves of my legs! — had not an ounce of flesh left! — and as to the rouge — why, my face was the colour of that candle! — those deuced Gallipot fellows! — why, they robbed me of four years — let me see, ay, ‘71, ‘72—”
And then it was all given again!
We had a large party of gentlemen to dinner. Among them was Mr. Hamilton, commonly called Single-speech Hamilton, from having made one remarkable speech in the House of Commons against government, and receiving some douceur to be silent ever after. This Mr. Hamilton is extremely tall and handsome; has an air of haughty and fashionable superiority; is intelligent, dry, sarcastic, and clever. I should have received much pleasure from his conversational powers, had I not previously been prejudiced against him, by hearing that he is infinitely artful, double, and crafty.
The dinner conversation was too general to be well remembered; neither, indeed, shall I attempt more than partial scraps relating to matters of what passed when we adjourned to tea.
Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Selwyn, Mr. Tidy, and Mr. Thrale seated themselves to whist; the rest looked on: but the General, as he always does, took up the newspaper, and, with various comments, made aloud, as he went on reading to himself, diverted the whole company. Now he would cry, “Strange! strange that!” — presently, “What stuff! I don’t believe a word of it!” — a little after, “Mr. Bate, I wish your ears were cropped!” — then, “Ha! ha! ha! funnibus! funnibus! indeed!” — and, at last, in a great rage, he exclaimed, “What a fellow is this, to presume to arraign the conduct of persons of quality!”
Having diverted himself and us in this manner, till he had read every column methodically through, he began all over again, and presently called out, “Ha! ha! here’s a pretty thing!” and then, in a plaintive voice, languished out some wretched verses.
SECT. 3 (1780-1781)
A SEASON AT BATH: MR. THRALE’S DEATH.
[There is a long hiatus here in the published “Diary,” and
upon its resumption we find Fanny at Bath with the Thrales,
in April, 1780; but from her letters to Mr. Crisp we learn
that she returned, at Christmas, 1779, to her father’s house
in St. Martin’s-street, and spent there the intervening
period, frequently visiting, and being visited by, the
Thrales. Bath was at this time the most fashionable summer
resort in the kingdom. Fanny had been there before, in 1776
or 1777, but of that visit no account remains to us. She
has recorded, however, in “Evelina,” her general impression
of the place. “The charming city of Bath answered all my
expectations. The Crescent, the prospect from it, and the
elegant symmetry of the Circus, delighted me. The Parades,
I own, rather disappointed me; one of them is scarce
preferable to some of the best paved streets in London; and
the other, though it affords a beautiful prospect, a
charming view of Prior-park and of the Avon, yet wanted
something in itself of more striking elegance than a mere
broad pavement, to satisfy the ideas I had formed of it.
“At the pump-room, I was amazed at the public exhibition of
the ladies in the bath; it is true, their heads are covered
with bonnets; but the very idea of being seen, in such a
situation, by whoever pleases to look, is indelicate.”
We may be sure Fanny never exhibited herself in such a
situation. Of her drinki
ng the waters, even, there is no
mention in her Bath journal Of 1780. But the journal
records a continual succession of visits and diversions, and
keeps us entertained with the most life-like and amusing
descriptions of Bath society. The house occupied by Mr.
Thrale and his party was at the corner of the South-parade,
and Fanny’s room commanded that beautiful prospect of Prior-
park and the Avon which had charmed Evelina.
Amid all these gaieties there are glimpses of more serious
scenes. The Gordon riots took place in June, 1780, and the
alarm they occasioned spread far and wide over the country.
The present section, too, closes with a melancholy incident —
the death of Mr. Thrale. He had been long ailing, and had
had a paralytic stroke in 1779. He died on the 4th of
April, 1781. Probably no one felt the loss more keenly than
Thrale’s old friend, ‘Dr. Johnson, in whose “Prayers and
Meditations” occurs the following touching entry: —
“Good Friday, 13th April, 1781. On Wednesday, 11th, was
buried my dear friend Thrale, who died on Wednesday, 4th;
and with him were buried many of my hopes and pleasures.
About five, I think, on Wednesday morning he expired. I
felt almost the last flutter of his pulse, and looked for
the last time upon the face that for fifteen years had never
been turned upon me but with respect or benignity.” — ED.]
A YOUTHFUL PRODIGY.
Bath, April 7 — The journey was very comfortable; Mr. Thrale was charmingly well and in very good spirits, and Mrs. Thrale must be charming, well or ill. We only went to Maidenhead Bridge the first night, where I found the caution given me by Mr. Smelt, of not attempting to travel near Windsor on a hunting-day, was a very necessary one, as we were with difficulty accommodated even the day after the hunt; several stragglers remaining at all the inns, and we heard of nothing but the king and royal huntsmen and huntswomen. The second day we slept at Speen Hill, and the third day we reached Devizes.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 531
