The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
can cry, I doubt not,” said Mr. Seward, “on any Proper occasion.”
“But I must know,” said I, “what for.”
I did not say this loud enough for the S. S. to hear me, but if I had, she would not have taken it for the reflection it meant. She seemed, the whole time, totally insensible to the numerous strange and, indeed, impertinent speeches which were made and to be very well satisfied that she was only manifesting a tenderness of disposition, that increased her beauty of countenance. At least, I can put no other construction upon her conduct which was, without exception, the strangest I ever saw. Without any pretence of affliction,—to weep merely because she was bid, though bid in a manner to forbid any one else,—to be in good spirits all the time,—to see the whole company expiring of laughter at her tears, without being at all offended, and, at last, to dry them up, and go on with the same sort of conversation she held before they started!
“Everything a Bore”
Sunday, June 20.—While I was sitting with Mr. Thrale, in the library, Mr. Seward entered. As soon as the first inquiries were over, he spoke about what he calls our comedy, and he pressed and teazed me to set about it. But he grew, in the evening, so queer, so ennuye, that, in a fit of absurdity, I called him “Mr. Dry;” and the name took so with Mrs. Thrale, that I know not when he will lose it. Indeed, there is something in this young man’s alternate drollery and lassitude, entertaining qualities and wearying complaints, that provoke me to more pertness than I practise to almost anybody.
The play, he said, should have the double title of “The Indifferent Man, or Everything a Bore;” and I protested Mr. Dry should be the hero. And then we ran on, jointly planning a succession of ridiculous scenes;—he lashing himself pretty freely though not half so freely, or so much to the purpose, as I lashed him; for I attacked him, through the channel of Mr. Dry, upon his ennui, his causeless melancholy, his complaining languors, his yawning inattention, and his restless discontent. You may easily imagine I was in pretty high spirits to go so far: in truth, nothing else could either have prompted or excused my facetiousness: and his own manners are so cavalier, that they always, with me, stimulate a sympathising return.
He repeatedly begged me to go to work, and commit the projected scenes to paper: but I thought that might be carrying the jest too far; for as I was in no humour to spare him, written raillery might, perhaps, have been less to his taste than verbal.
He challenged me to meet him the next morning, before breakfast, in the library, that we might work together at some scenes, but I thought it as well to let the matter drop, and did not make my entry till they were all assembled.
He, however, ran upon nothing else; and, as soon as we happened to be left together, he again attacked me.
“Come,” said he, “have you nothing ready yet? I dare say you have half an act in your pocket.”
“No,” quoth I, “I have quite forgot the whole business; I was only in the humour for it last night.”
“How shall it begin?” cried he; “with Mr. Dry in his study?—his slippers just on, his hair about his ears,—exclaiming, ‘O what a bore is life!—What is to be done next?”
“Next?” cried I, “what, before he has done anything at all?”
“Oh, he has dressed himself, you know.—Well, then he takes up a book—”
“For example, this,” cried I, giving him Clarendon’s History.
He took it up in character, and flinging it away, cried
“No—this will never do,—a history by a party writer is vidious.”
I then gave him Robertson’s “America.”
“This,” cried he, “is of all reading the most melancholy;—an account of possessions we have lost by our own folly.”
I then gave him Baretti’s “Spanish Travels.”
“Who,” cried he, flinging it aside, “can read travels by a fellow who never speaks a word of truth.”
Then I gave him a volume of “Clarissa.”
“Pho,” cried he, “a novel writ by a bookseller!—there is but one novel now one can bear to read,—and that’s written by a young lady.”
I hastened to stop him with Dalrymple’s Memoirs, and then proceeded to give him various others, upon all which he made severe, splenetic, yet comical comments;—and we continued thus employed till he was summoned to accompany Mr. Thrale to town.
The next morning, Wednesday, I had some very serious talk with Mr. Seward,—and such as gave me no inclination for railery, though it was concerning his ennui on the contrary, I resolved, at that moment, never to rally him upon that subject again, for his account of himself filled me with compassion.
He told me that he had never been well for three hours in a day in his life, and that when he was thought only tired he was really so ill that he believed scarce another man would stay in company. I was quite shocked at this account, and told him, honestly, that I had done him so little justice as to attribute all his languors to affectation.
Proposed Match Between Mr. Seward and the Weeper-at-Will
When Mrs. Thrale joined us, Mr. Seward told us he had just seen Dr. Jebb.—Sir Richard, I mean,—and that he had advised him to marry.
“No,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “that will do nothing for you; but if you should marry, I have a wife for you.”
“Who?” cried he, “the S. S.?”
“The S. S.?—no!—she’s the last person for you,—her extreme softness, and tenderness, and weeping, would add languor to languor, and irritate all your disorders; ’twould be drink to a dropsical man.”
“No, no,—it would soothe me.”
“Not a whit! it would only fatigue you. The wife for you is Lady Anne Lindsay. She has birth, wit, and beauty, she has no fortune, and she’d readily accept you; and she is such a spirit that she’d animate you, I warrant you! O, she would trim you well! you’d be all alive presently. She’d take all the care of the money affairs,—and allow you out of them eighteen pence a week! That’s the wife for you!”
Mr. Seward was by no means “agreeable” to the proposal; he turned the conversation upon the S. S., and gave us an account of two visits he had made her, and spoke in favour of her manner of living, temper, and character. When he had run on in this strain for some time, Mrs. Thrale cried,
“Well, so you are grown very fond of her?”
“Oh dear, no!” answered he, drily, “not at all!”
“Why, I began to think,” said Mrs. Thrale, “you intended to supplant the parson.”
“No, I don’t: I don’t know what sort of an old woman she’d make; the tears won’t do then. Besides, I don’t think her so sensible as I used to do.”
“But she’s very pleasing,” cried I, “and very amiable.”
“Yes, she’s pleasing,—that’s certain; but I don’t think she reads much; the Greek has spoilt her.”
“Well, but you can read for yourself.”
“That’s true; but does she work well?”
“I believe she does, and that’s a better thing.”
“Ay; so it is,” said he, saucily, “for ladies; ladies should rather write than read.”
“But authors,” cried I, “before they write should read.”
Returning again to the S. S., and being again rallied about her by Mrs. Thrale, who said