The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
madam, she figured in the literary world, too! Bet Flint wrote her own life, and called herself Cassandra, and it was in verse;—it began:
‘When Nature first ordained my birth, A diminutive I was born on earth: And then I came from a dark abode, Into a gay and gaudy world.’21
So Bet brought me her verses to correct; but I gave her half-a-crown, and she liked it as well. Bet had a fine spirit;—she advertised for a husband, but she had no success, for she told me no man aspired to her! Then she hired very handsome lodgings and a footboy; and she got a harpsichord, but Bet could not play; however, she put herself in fine attitudes, and drummed.”
Then he gave an account of another of these geniuses, who called herself by some fine name, I have forgotten what.
“She had not quite the same stock of virtue,” continued he, “nor the same stock of honesty as Bet Flint; but I suppose she envied her accomplishments, for she was so little moved by the power of harmony, that while Bet Flint thought she was drumming very divinely, the other jade had her indicted for a nuisance!”
“And pray what became of her, sir?
“Why, madam, she stole a quilt from the man of the house, and he had her taken up: but Bet Flint had a spirit not to be subdued; so when she found herself obliged to go to jail, she ordered a sedan chair, and bid her footboy walk before her. However, the boy proved refractory, for he was ashamed, though his mistress was not.”
“And did she ever get out of jail again, sir?”
“Yes, madam; when she came to her trial the judge acquitted her. ‘So now,’ she said to me, ‘the quilt is MY own, and now I’ll make a petticoat of it.’ Oh, I loved Bet Flint!”22
Oh, how we all laughed! Then he gave an account of another lady, who called herself Laurinda, and who also wrote verses and stole furniture; but he had not the same affection for her, he said, though she too “was a lady who had high notions of honour.”
Then followed the history of another, who called herself Hortensia, and who walked up and down the park repeating a book of Virgil. “But,” said he, “though I know her story, I never had the good fortune to see her.”
After this he gave us an account of the famous Mrs. Pinkethman: “And she,” he said, “told me she owed all her misfortunes to her wit; for she was so unhappy as to marry a man who thought himself also a wit, though I believe she gave him not implicit credit for it, but it occasioned much contradiction and ill-will.”
“Bless me, sir,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “how can all these vagabonds contrive to get at you, of all people?”
“O the dear creatures!” cried he, laughing heartily, “I can’t but be glad to see them.”
“Why, I wonder, sir, you never went to see Mrs. Rudd,23 among the rest.”
“Why, madam, I believe I should,” said he, “if it was not for the newspapers; but I am prevented many frolics that I should like very well, since I am become such a theme for the papers.”
Now, would you ever have imagined this? Bet Flint, it seems, took Kitty Fisher24 to see him, but to his no little regret he was not at home. “And Mrs. Williams,”25 he added, “did not love Bet Flint, but Bet Flint made herself very easy about that.”
A Learned Man on “Evelina”
When we were dressed for dinner, and went into the parlour, we had the agreeable surprise of seeing Mr. Seward. There was also Mr. Lort,26 who is reckoned one of the most learned men alive, and is also a collector of curiosities, alike in literature and natural history. His manners are somewhat blunt and odd, and he is altogether out of the common road, without having chosen a better path.
The day was passed most agreeably. In the evening we had, as usual, a literary conversation. Mr. Lort produced several curious MSS. of the famous Bristol Chatterton; among others, his will, and divers verses written against Dr. Johnson, as a placeman and pensioner; all of which he read aloud, with a steady voice and unmoved countenance.
I was astonished at him; Mrs. Thrale not much pleased; Mr. Thrale silent and attentive; and Mr. Seward was slily laughing. Dr. Johnson himself listened profoundly and laughed openly. Indeed, I believe he wishes his abusers no other thing than a good dinner, like Pope.27
Just as we had got our biscuits and toast-and-water, which make the Streatham supper, and which, indeed, is all there is any chance of eating after our late and great dinners, Mr. Lort suddenly said,
“Pray, ma’am, have you heard anything of a novel that runs about a good deal, called ‘Evelina’?”
What a ferment did this question, before such a set, put me in! I did not know whether he spoke to me, or Mrs. Thrale, and Mrs. Thrale was in the same doubt, and as she owned, felt herself in a little palpitation for me, not knowing what might come next, Between us both, therefore, he had no answer.
“It has been recommended to me,” continued he; “but I have no great desire to see it, because it has such a foolish name. Yet I have heard a great deal of it, too.”
He then repeated “Evelina”—in a very languishing and ridiculous tone.
My heart beat so quick against my stays that I almost panted with extreme agitation, from the dread either of hearing some horrible criticism, or of being betrayed: and I munched my biscuit as if I had not eaten for a fortnight.
I believe the whole party were in some little consternation Dr. Johnson began see-sawing; Mr. Thrale awoke; Mr. E—— who I fear has picked up some notion of the affair from being so much in the house, grinned amazingly; and Mr. Seward, biting his nails and flinging himself back in his chair, I am sure had wickedness enough to enjoy the whole scene.
Mrs. Thrale was really a little fluttered, but without looking at me, said, “And pray what, Mr. Lort, what have you heard of it?”
“Why they say,” answered he, “that it’s an account of a young lady’s first entrance into company, and of the scrapes she gets into; and they say there’s a great deal of character in it, but I have not cared to look in it, because the name is so foolish—‘Evelina’!”
“Why foolish, sir?” cried Dr. Johnson. “Where’s the folly of it?”
“Why, I won’t say much for the name myself,” said Mrs. Thrale, “to those who don’t know the reason of it, which I found out, but which nobody else seems to know.” She then explained the name from Evelyn, according to my own meaning.
“Well,” said Dr. Johnson, “if that was the reason, it is a very good one.”
“Why, have you had the book here?” cried Mr. Lort, staring.
“Ay, indeed, have we,” said Mrs. Thrale; “I read it when I was last confined, and I laughed over it, and I cried over it!”
“O ho!” said Mr. Lort, “this is another thing! If you have had it here, I will certainly read it.”
“Had it? ay,” returned she; “and Dr. Johnson, who would not look at it at first, was so caught by it when I put it in the coach with him, that he has sung its praises ever since,—and he says Richardson would have been proud to have written it.”
“O ho! this is a good hearing,” cried Mr. Lort; “if Dr. Johnson can read it, I shall get it with all speed.”
“You need not go far for it,” said Mrs. Thrale, “for it’s now upon yonder table.”
I could sit still no longer; there was something so awkward, so uncommon, so strange in my then situation, that I wished myself a hundred miles off, and indeed, I had almost choked myself with the biscuit, for I could not for my life swallow it: and so I got up, and, as Mr. Lort went to the table to look for “Evelina,” I left the