The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
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the man!” cried he, laughing violently. “Harry Fielding never drew so good a character!—such a fine varnish of low politeness!—such a struggle to appear a gentleman! Madam, there is no character better drawn anywhere—in any book or by any author.”
I almost poked myself under the table. Never did I feel so delicious a confusion since I was born! But he added a great deal more, only I cannot recollect his exact words, and I do not choose to give him mine.
About noon when I went into the library, book hunting, Mrs. Thrale came to me. We had a very nice confab about various books, and exchanged opinions and imitations of Baretti; she told me many excellent tales of him, and I, in return, related my stories.
She gave me a long and very entertaining account of Dr. Goldsmith, who was intimately known here; but in speaking of “The Good-natured Man,” when I extolled my favourite Croaker, I found that admirable character was a downright theft from Dr. Johnson. Look at “The Rambler,” and you will find Suspirius is the man, and that not merely the idea, but the particulars of the character, are all stolen thence!18
While we were yet reading this “Rambler,” Dr. Johnson came in: we told him what we were about.
“Ah, madam,” cried he, “Goldsmith was not scrupulous but he would have been a great man had he known the real value of his own internal resources.”
“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, “is fond of his ‘Vicar of Wakefield.’ and so am I;—don’t you like it, sir?”
“No, madam, it is very faulty; there is nothing of real life in it, and very little of nature. It is a mere fanciful performance.”
He then seated himself upon a sofa, and calling to me, said “Come,—Evelina,—come and sit by me.”
I obeyed; and he took me almost in his arms,—that is, one of his arms, for one would go three times, at least, round me,—and, half laughing, half serious, he charged me to “be a good girl!”
“But, my dear,” continued he with a very droll look, “what makes you so fond of the Scotch? I don’t like you for that;—I hate these Scotch, and so must you. I wish Branghton had sent the dog to jail! That Scotch dog Macartney.”
“Why, sir,” said Mrs. Thrale, “don’t you remember he says he would, but that he should get nothing by it?”
“Why, ay, true,” cried the doctor, see-sawing very solemnly, “that, indeed, is some palliation for his forbearance. But I must not have you so fond of the Scotch, my little Burney; make your hero what you will but a Scotchman. Besides, you write Scotch—you say ‘the one’—my dear, that’s not English, never use that phrase again.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Thrale, “it may be used in Macartney’s letter, and then it will be a propriety.”
“No, madam, no!” cried he; “you can’t make a beauty of it—it is in the third volume; put it in Macartney’s letter, and welcome—that, or any thing that is nonsense.”
“Why, surely,” cried I, “the poor man is used ill enough by the Branghtons.”
“But Branghton,” said he, “only hates him because of his wretchedness—poor fellow!—But, my dear love, how should he ever have eaten a good dinner before he came to England? And then he laughed violently at young Branghton’s idea.
“Well,” said Mrs. Thrale, “I always liked Macartney; he is a very pretty character, and I took to him, as the folks say.”
“Why, madam,” answered he, “I like Macartney myself. Yes, poor fellow, I liked the man, but I love not the nation.” And then he proceeded, in a dry manner, to make at once sarcastic reflections on the Scotch, and flattering speeches to me.19
Dr. Johnson on some “Ladies” of his Acquaintance
Saturday.—Dr. Johnson was again all himself; and so civil to me!—even admiring how I dressed myself! Indeed, it is well I have so much of his favour—for it seems he always speaks his mind concerning the dress of ladies, and all ladies who are here obey his injunctions implicitly, and alter whatever he disapproves. This is a part of his character that much surprises me: but notwithstanding he is sometimes so absent, and always so near sighted, he scrutinizes into every part of almost everybody’s appearance. They tell me of a Miss Brown, who often visits here, and who has a slovenly way of dressing. “And when she comes down in a morning,” says Mrs. Thrale, “her hair will be all loose, and her cap half off; and then Dr. Johnson, who sees something is wrong, and does not know where the fault is, concludes it is in the cap, and says, “My dear, what do you wear such a vile cap for?” “I’ll change it, Sir!” cries the poor girl, “if you don’t like it.” “Ay, do,” he says; and away runs poor Miss Brown; but when she gets on another, it’s the same thing, for the cap has nothing to do with the fault. And then she wonders Dr. Johnson should not like the cap, for she thinks it very pretty. And so on with her gown, which he also makes her change; but if the poor girl were to change through all her wardrobe, unless she could put her things on better, he would still find fault.”
When Dr. Johnson was gone, she told me of my mother’s20 being obliged to change her dress.
“Now,” said she “Mrs. Burney had on a very pretty linen jacket and coat, and was going to church; but Dr. Johnson, who, I suppose, did not like her in a jacket, saw something was the matter, and so found fault with the linen: and he looked and peered, and then said, ‘Why, madam, this won’t do! you must not go to church so!’ So away went poor Mrs. Burney, and changed her gown! And when she had done so, he did not like it, but he did not know why, so he told her she should not wear a black hat and cloak in summer! How he did bother poor Mrs. Burney! and himself too, for if the things had been put on to his mind, he would have taken no notice of them.”
“Why,” said Mr. Thrale, very drily, “I don’t think Mrs. Burney a very good dresser.”
“Last time she came,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she was in a white cloak, and she told Dr. Johnson she had got her old white cloak scoured on purpose to oblige him! ‘Scoured!’ says he; ‘ay, have you, madam?’—so he see-sawed, for he could not for shame find fault, but he did not seem to like the scouring.”
And now let me try to recollect an account he gave of certain celebrated ladies of his acquaintance: an account in which, had you heard it from himself, would have made you die with laughing, his manner is so peculiar, and enforces his humour so originally. It was begun by Mrs. Thrale’s apologising to him for troubling him with some question she thought trifling—O, I remember! We had been talking of colours, and of the fantastic names given to them, and why the palest lilac should b called a soupir etouffe; and when Dr. Johnson came in, she applied to him.
“Why, madam,” said he, with wonderful readiness, “it is called a stifled sigh because it is checked in its progress, and only half a colour.”
I could not help expressing my amazement at his universal readiness upon all subjects, and Mrs. Thrale said to him, “Sir, Miss Burney wonders at your patience with such stuff, but I tell her you are used to me, for I believe I torment you with more foolish questions than anybody else dares do.”
“No, madam,” said he; “you don’t torment me;—you teaze me, indeed, sometimes.”
“Ay, so I do, Dr. Johnson, and I wonder you bear with my nonsense.”
“No, madam, you never talk nonsense; you have as much sense and more wit, than any woman I know.”
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Thrale, blushing, “it is my turn to go under the table this morning, Miss Burney!”
“And yet,” continued the doctor, with the most comical look, “I have known all the wits, from Mrs. Montagu down to Bet Flint.”
“Bet Flint cried Mrs. Thrale—pray, who is she?”
“Such