The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
savages, in February, 1779, and narrowly escaped with his own life on that occasion. Susan died January 6, 1800.
6. Charles, afterwards Dr. Charles, the distinguished Greek scholar; born December 4, 1757. After his death, in 1817, his magnificent library was purchased for the British Museum, at a cost Of 13,500 pounds.
7. Charlotte Ann, born about 1759. She married Clement Francis, in February, 1786. He died in 1792, and she married again in 1798, Mrs. Barrett, the editress of the “Diary and Letters of Madame d’Arblay,” was Charlotte’s daughter by her first marriage.
By his second wife, Elizabeth Allen, whom he married in 1767, Dr. Burney had two children—a son, Richard Thomas, and a daughter, Sarah Harriet. The latter followed the career of her famous half-sister, and acquired some distinction as a novelist. Cousins Richard and Edward were younger sons of Uncle Richard Burney, of Worcester. Edward was successful as an artist, especially as a book-illustrator. He painted the portrait of Fanny Burney, a reproduction of which forms the frontispiece to the present volume. Some of his work may be seen in the South Kensington Museum.
Chesington, where we shall presently find Fanny on a visit to Mr. Crisp, was an old roomy mansion, standing in the midst of a lonely common in Surrey, between Kingston and Epsom. It had belonged to Mr. Crisp’s friend, Christopher Hamilton, and on his death became the property of his unmarried sister, Mrs. Sarah Hamilton, who, being in poor circumstances, let part of the house to a farmer, and took boarders. Of the latter, Mr. Crisp was the most constant, boarding at Chesington for nearly twenty years, and dying there in 1783. Kitty Cooke, whose name occurs in the “Diary,” was the niece of Mrs. Hamilton, and resided with her at Chesington. Mrs. Sophia Gast, whom we find a frequent visitor there, was the sister of Mr. Crisp, and resided at Burford, in Oxfordshire.
Chesington Hall, the name the old manor house goes by in the locality, is still standing, and is a plain brick building with a small bell turret in the roof, but in other respects it has been somewhat modernized since the days of Fanny Burney. The common has been parcelled out into fields, and a picturesque country road now gives access to the front entrance to the house. From the lawn at the back a narrow avenue of venerable trees, which throw out their long arms in strange grotesque fashion, leads directly to the little village church where Mr. Crisp is buried.
“Evelina” and the Mystery attending its publication
This year was ushered in by a grand and most important event! At the latter end of January, the literary world was favoured with the first publication of the ingenious, learned, and most profound Fanny Burney! I doubt not but this memorable affair will, in future times, mark the period whence chronologers will date the zenith of the polite arts in this island!
This admirable authoress has named her most elaborate performance, “Evelina; or, a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World.”
Perhaps this may seem a rather bold attempt and title, for a female whose knowledge of the world is very confined, and whose inclinations, as well as situation, incline her to a private and domestic life. All I can urge is, that I have only presumed to trace the accidents and adventures to which a “young woman” is liable; I have not pretended to show the world what it actually is, but what it appears to a girl of seventeen, and so far as that, surely any girl who is past seventeen may safely do? The motto of my excuse shall be taken from Pope’s “Temple of Fame “:
In every work regard the writer’s end
None e’er can compass more than they intend.
About the middle of January, my cousin Edward brought me a parcel, under the name of Grafton. I had, some little time before, acquainted both my aunts of my frolic. They will, I am sure, be discreet; indeed, I exacted a vow from them Of strict secrecy; and they love me with such partial kindness, that I have a pleasure in reposing much confidence in them. I immediately conjectured what the parcel was, and found the following letter.
Fleet-street, Jan. 7, 1778.
Sir,
I take the liberty to send you a novel, which a gentleman, your acquaintance, said you would hand to him. I beg with expedition, as ’tis time it should be published, and ’tis requisite he first revise it, or the reviewers may find a flaw.—I am, sir, your obedient servant, Thomas Lowndes.
To Mr. Grafton,
To be left at the Orange Coffee-house.
My aunts, now, would take no denial to my reading it to them, in order to mark errata; and to cut the matter short, I was compelled to communicate the affair to my cousin Edward, and then to obey their commands.
Of course, they were all prodigiously charmed with it. My cousin now became my agent, as deputy to Charles, with Mr. Lowndes, and when I had made the errata, carried it to him.
The book, however, was not published till the latter end of the month. A thousand little odd incidents happened about this time, but I am not in a humour to recollect them; however, they were none of them productive of a discovery either to my father or mother.
My little book, I am told, is now at all the circulating libraries. I have an exceeding odd sensation, when I consider that it is now in the power of any and every body to read what I so carefully hoarded even from my best friends, till this last month or two; and that a work which was so lately lodged, in all privacy, in my bureau, may now be seen by every butcher and baker, cobbler and tinker, throughout the three kingdoms, for the small tribute of threepence.
My aunt Anne and Miss Humphries being settled at this time at Brompton, I was going thither with Susan to tea, when Charlotte acquainted me that they were then employed in reading “Evelina” to the invalid, my cousin Richard. My sister had recommended it to Miss Humphries, and my aunts and Edward agreed that they would read it, but without mentioning anything of the author.
This intelligence gave me the utmost uneasiness—I foresaw a thousand dangers of a discovery—I dreaded the indiscreet warmth of all my confidants. In truth, I was quite sick with apprehension, and was too uncomfortable to go to Brompton, and Susan carried my excuses.
Upon her return, I was somewhat tranquillised, for she assured me that there was not the smallest suspicion of the author, and that they had concluded it to be the work of a man! and Miss Humphries, who read it aloud to Richard said several things in its commendation, and concluded them by exclaiming, “It’s a thousand pities the author should lie concealed!”
Finding myself more safe than I had apprehended, I ventured to go to Brompton next day. In my way up-stairs, I heard Miss Humphries in the midst of Mr. Villars’ letter of consolation upon Sir John Belmont’s rejection of his daughter; and just as I entered the room, she cried out, “How pretty that is!”
How much in luck would she have thought herself, had she known who heard her!
In a private confabulation which I had with my aunt Anne, she told me a thousand things that had been said in its praise, and assured me they had not for a moment doubted that the work was a man’s.
Comforted and made easy by these assurances, I longed for the diversion of hearing their observations, and therefore (though rather mal à propos) after I had been near two hours in the room, I told Miss Humphries that I was afraid I had interrupted her, and begged she would go on with what she was reading.
“Why,” cried she, taking up the book, “we have been prodigiously entertained;” and very readily she continued.
I must own I suffered great difficulty in refraining from laughing upon several occasions, and several times, when they praised what they read, I was upon the point of saying, “You are very good!” and so forth, and I could scarcely keep myself from making acknowledgments, and bowing my head involuntarily. However, I got off perfectly safe.
Monday.—Susan and I went to tea at Brompton. We met Miss Humphries coming to town. She told us she had just finished “Evelina,” and gave us to understand that she could not get away till she had done it. We heard afterwards from my aunt the most flattering praises; and