Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

was an honest fellow, a man whom it the French Ambassador, M. De Guignes, was impossible not to like.

Garrick, too, was a frequent visitor in Poland Street and St. Martin's Lane. That wonderful actor loved David Garrick. the society of children, partly from good-nature, and partly from vanity. The ecstasies of mirth and terror which his gestures and play of countenance never failed to produce in a nursery, flattered him quite as much as the applause of mature critics. He often exhibited all his powers of mimicry for the amusement of the little Burneys, awed them by shuddering and crouching as if he saw a ghost, scared them by raving like a maniac in St. Luke's, and then at once became an auctioneer, a chimney-sweeper, or an old woman, and made them laugh till the tears ran down their cheeks.

renowned for his fine person and for his success in gallantry. But the great show of the night was the Russian Ambassador, Count Orloff, whose gigantic figure was all in a blaze with jewels, and in whose demeanour the untamed ferocity of the Scythian might be discerned through a thin varnish of French politeness. As he stalked about the small parlour, brushing the ceiling with his toupee, the girls whispered to each other, with mingled admiration and horror, that he was the favoured lover of his august mistress; that he had borne the chief part in the revolution to which she owed her throne; and that his huge hands, now glittering with diamond rings, had given the last squeeze to the windpipe of her unfortunate husband.

London "lions."

oxen with water from the fountains of the Nile, came to swagger and talk about his travels. Omai lisped broken English, and made all the assembled musicians hold their ears by howling Otaheitean love-songs, such as those with which Oberea charmed her Opano.

With such illustrious guests as these But it would be tedious to recount the were mingled all the most remarkable names of all the men of letters and artists specimens of the race of whom Frances Burney lions a kind of game Italian singers. had an opportunity of which is hunted in London seeing and hearing. Colman, Twining, every spring with more than Meltonian Harris, Baretti, Hawkesworth, Reynolds, ardour and perseverance. Bruce, who Barry, were among those who occasion-had washed down steaks cut from living ally surrounded the tea-table and suppertray at her father's modest dwelling. This was not all. The distinction which Dr. Burney had acquired as a musician, and as the historian of music, attracted to his house the most eminent musical performers of that age. The greatest Italian singers who visited England regarded him as the dispenser of fame in their art, and exerted themselves to obtain his suffrage. Pachierotti became his intimate friend. The rapacious Agujari, who sang for nobody else under fifty pounds an air, sang her best for Dr. Burney without a fee; and in the company of Dr. Burney even the haughty and eccentric Gabrielli constrained herself to behave with civility. It was thus in his power to give, with scarcely any expense, concerts equal to those of the aristocracy. On such occasions the quiet street in which he lived was blocked up by coroneted chariots, and his little drawing-room was crowded with peers, peeresses, ministers, and ambassadors. On one evening, of which we happen to have a full account, there were present Distinguished Lord Mulgrave, Lord Bruce, visitors at Lord and Lady Edgecumbe, Dr. Burney's. Lord Barrington from the War Office, Lord Sandwich from the Admiralty, Lord Ashburnham, with his gold key dangling from his pocket, and

With the literary and fashionable society which occasionally met under Dr. Burney's roof, Frances can Retiring scarcely be said to have character of mingled. She was not a Miss Burney. musician, and could therefore bear no part in the concerts. She was shy almost to awkwardness, and scarcely ever joined in the conversation. The slightest remark from a stranger disconcerted her; and even the old friends of her father who tried to draw her out could seldom extract more than a Yes or a No. Her figure was small, her face not distinguished by beauty. She was therefore suffered to withdraw quietly to the background, and, unobserved herself, to observe all that passed. Her nearest relations were aware that she had good sense, but seem not to have suspected that under her demure and bashful deportment were concealed a fertile invention and a keen sense of the ridiculous. She had not, it is true, an eye for the fine shades of character. But every marked peculiarity instantly caught her notice and remained engraven on her

imagination. Thus, while still a girl, she | Crisp, an old friend of her father. His

had laid up such a store of materials for fiction as few of those who mix much in the world are able to accumulate during a long life. She had watched and listened to people of every class, from princes and great officers of state down to artists living in garrets, and poets familiar with subterranean cook-shops.. Hundreds of remarkable persons had passed in review before her, English, French, German, Italian, lords and fiddlers, deans of cathedrals and managers of theatres, travellers leading about newly caught savages, and singing women escorted by deputy-husbands.

name, well known, near a century ago, in the most splendid circles of London, has long been forgotten. His history is, however, so interesting and instructive, that it tempts us to venture on a digression.

Long before Frances Burney was born Mr. Crisp had made his entrance into the world, with every advantage. He was well connected and well educated. His face and figure were conspicuously handsome; his manners were polished; his fortune was easy; his character was without stain; he lived in the best society; he had read much; he talked well; his taste in literature, music, painting, architecture, sculpture, was held in high esteem. Nothing that the world can give seemed to be wanting to his happiness and respectability, except that he should understand the limits of his powers, and should not throw away distinctions which were within his reach in the pursuit of distinctions which were unattainable.

The critical faculty.

So strong was the impression made on the mind of Frances by the society which she was in the habit of First attempts at authorship. seeing and hearing, that she began to write little fictitious narratives as soon as she could use her pen with ease, which, as we have said, was not very early. Her sisters were amused by her stories. But Dr. Burney knew nothing of their existence; and in "It is an uncontrolled truth," says another quarter her literary propensities Swift, "that no man ever made an ill met with serious discouragement. When figure who understood his she was fifteen her father took a second own talents, nor a good wife. The new Mrs. Burney soon found one who mistook them." out that her daughter-in-law was fond of Every day brings with it fresh illusscribbling, and delivered several good-trations of this weighty saying; but the natured lectures on the subject. The advice no doubt was well-meant, and might have been given by the most judicious friend; for at that time, from causes to which we may hereafter advert, nothing could be more disadvantageous to a young lady than to be known as a novel writer. Frances yielded, relinquished her favourite pursuit, and made a bonfire of all her manuscripts.*

[blocks in formation]

best commentary that we remember is the history of Samuel Crisp. Men like him have their proper place, and it is a most important one, in the Commonwealth of Letters. It is by the judgment of such men that the rank of authors is finally determined. It is neither to the multitude, nor to the few who are gifted with great creative genius, that we are to look for sound critical decisions. The multitude, unacquainted with the best models, are captivated by whatever stuns and dazzles them. They deserted Mrs. Siddons to run after Master Betty; and they now prefer, we have no doubt, Jack Sheppard to Von Artevelde. A man of great original genius, on the other hand, a man who has attained to mastery in some high walk of art, is by no means to be implicitly trusted as a judge of the performances of others. The erroneous decisions pronounced by such men are without number. It is commonly supposed that jealousy makes them unjust. But a more creditable explanation may easily be found. The very excellence of a work shows that some of the facultie of the author have been developed at the expense of the rest; for it is not given to

often bad critics.

ably have held a respectable rank as a writer, if he would have confined himself to some department of literature in which nothing more than sense, taste, and reading was required. Unhappily he set his heart on being a great poet, wrote a tragedy in five acts on the death of Virginia, and offered it to Garrick, who was his personal friend. Garrick read, shook his head, and expressed a doubt whether it would be wise in Mr. Crisp to stake a reputation which stood high on the success of such a piece. But the author, blinded by self-love, set in motion a machinery such as none could long resist. His intercessors were the most eloquent man and the most lovely woman of that generation. Pitt was induced to read Virginia, and to pronounce it excellent. Lady Coventry, with fingers which might have furnished a model to sculptors, forced the manuscript into the reluctant hand of the manager; and, in the year 1754, the play was brought forward.

the human intellect to expand itself was inestimable. Nay, he might prob. widely in all directions at once, and to be at the same time gigantic and well-proportioned. Whoever becomes pre-eminent in Good artists any art, nay, in any style of art, generally does so by devoting himself with intense and exclusive enthusiasm to the pursuit of one kind of excellence. His perception of other kinds of excellence is therefore too often impaired. Out of his own department he praises and blames at random, and is far less to be trusted than the mere connoisseur, who produces nothing, and whose business is only to judge and enjoy. One painter is distinguished by his exquisite finishing. He toils day after day to bring the veins of a cabbage-leaf, the folds of a lace veil, the wrinkles of an old woman's face, nearer and nearer to perfection. In the time which he employs on a square foot of canvas, a master of a different order covers the walls of a palace with gods burying giants under mountains, or makes the cupola of a church alive with seraphim and martyrs. The more fervent the passion of each of these artists for his art, the higher the merit of each in his own line, the more unlikely it is that they will justly appreciate each other. Many persons who never handled a pencil probably do far more justice to Michael Angelo than would have been done by Gerhard Douw, and far more justice to Gerhard Douw than would have been done by Michael Angelo.

piece.

Nothing that skill or friendship could do was omitted. Garrick wrote both prologue and epilogue. The zealous friends of the author filled every box; and, by their Failure of the strenuous exertions, the life of the play was prolonged during ten nights. But, though there was no clamorous reprobation, it was universally felt that the attempt had failed. When Virginia was printed, the public disappointment was even greater than at the representation. The critics, the Monthly Reviewers in particular, fell on plot, characters, and diction without mercy, but, we fear, not without justice. We have never met with a copy of the play; but, if we may judge from the lines which are extracted in the Gentleman's Magazine, and which do not appear to have been malevolently selected, we should say that nothing but the acting of Garrick, and the partiality of the audience, could have saved so feeble and unnatural a drama from instant damnation.

It is the same with literature. Thousands who have no spark of the genius of Prejudiced Dryden or Wordsworth, criticism of do to Dryden the justice men of letters. which has never been done by Wordsworth, and to Wordsworth the justice which, we suspect, would never have been done by Dryden. Gray, Johnson, Richardson, Fielding, are all highly esteemed by the great body of intelligent and well-informed men. But Gray could see no merit in Rasselas; and Johnson could see no merit in the Bard. Fielding thought Richardson a solemn prig; and Richardson perpetually expressed con- The ambition of the poet was still tempt and disgust for Fielding's low- unsubdued. When the London season closed, he applied himself vigorously to the work of removing blemishes. He does not seem to have suspected, what we are strongly inclined to suspect, that the whole piece was one blemish, and that the passages which were meant to be fine, were, in truth, bursts of that tame extra

ness.

Mr. Crisp seems, as far as we can judge, to have been a man eminently qualified for the useful office of a conCrisp's tragedy noisseur. His talents and of Virginia. knowledge fitted him to appreciate justly almost every species of intellectual superiority. As an adviser he

Useless revision.

vagance into which writers fall, when with the abodes of men. The place of

they set themselves to be sublime and pathetic in spite of nature. He omitted, added, retouched, and flattered himself with hopes of a complete success in the following year; but in the following year Garrick showed no disposition to bring the amended tragedy on the stage. Solicitation and remonstrance were tried in vain. Lady Coventry, drooping under that malady which seems ever to select what is loveliest for its prey, could render no assistance. The manager's language was civilly evasive; but his resolution was inflexible.

An author's

delusion.

his retreat was strictly concealed from his
old associates. In the spring he some-
times emerged, and was
Crisp's
seen at exhibitions and retirement.
concerts in London. But
he soon disappeared, and hid himself,
with no society but his books, in his
dreary hermitage. He survived his
failure about thirty years. A new gene-
ration

No

sprang up around him. memory of his bad verses remained among men. How completely the world had lost sight of him, will appear from a single circumstance. We looked for his Crisp had committed a great error; but name in a copious Dictionary of Dramatic he had escaped with a very slight penance. Authors published while he was still His play had not been alive, and we found only that Mr. Samuel hooted from the boards. Crisp, of the Custom House, had written It had, on the contrary, a play called Virginia, acted in 1754. To been better received than many very the last, however, the unhappy man estimable performances have been-than continued to brood over the injustice of Johnson's Irene, for example, and Gold- the manager and the pit, and tried to smith's Good-Natured Man. Had Crisp convince himself and others that he had been wise, he would have thought himself missed the highest literary honours only happy in having purchased self-knowledge because he had omitted some fine passages so cheap. He would have relinquished in compliance with Garrick's judgment. without vain repinings the hope of Alas, for human nature! that the wounds poetical distinction, and would have of vanity should smart and bleed so much turned to the many sources of happiness longer than the wounds of affection! which he still possessed. Had he been, Few people, we believe, whose nearest on the other hand, an unfeeling and friends and relations died in 1754, had unblushing dunce, he would have gone on any acute feeling of the loss in 1782. writing scores of bad tragedies in defiance Dear sisters and favourite daughters, and of censure and derision. But he had too brides snatched away before the honeymuch sense to risk a second defeat, yet moon was passed, had been too little to bear his first defeat like a forgotten, or were remem- Long literary man. The fatal delusion that he was a bered only with a tranquil great dramatist had taken firm possession regret. But Samuel Crisp was still of his mind. His failure he attributed to mourning for his tragedy, like Rachel every cause except the true one. He weeping for her children, and would not complained of the ill-will of Garrick, who be comforted. "Never," such was his appears to have done everything that language twenty-eight years after his ability and zeal could do; and who, from disaster, "never give up or alter a tittle selfish motives, would, of course, have unless it perfectly coincides with your own been well pleased if Virginia had been as inward feelings. I can say this to my successful as the Beggar's Opera. Nay, sorrow and my cost. But, mum!" Crisp complained of the languor of the Soon after these words were written, his friends whose partiality had given him life-a life which might have been three benefit nights to which he had no eminently useful and happy-ended in the claim. He complained of the injustice of same gloom in which, during more than a -the spectators when, in truth, he ought quarter of a century, it had been passed. to have been grateful for their un- We have thought it worth while to rescue exampled patience. He lost his temper from oblivion this curious fragment of and spirits, and became a cynic and a literary history. It seems to us at once hater of mankind. From London he ludicrous, melancholy, and full of instrucretired to Hampton, and from Hampton to a solitary and long-deserted mansion, built on a common in one of the wildest tracts of Surrey. No road, not even a sheep-walk, connected his lonely dwelling hall in which he hid himself like a wild

tion.

mourning.

Crisp was an old and very intimate friend of the Burneys. To them alone was confided the name of the desolate old

beast in a den. For them were reserved and ragged, with a broad Scotch accent.

Frances Burney.

such remains of his humanity as had survived the failure of his "Daddy" Crisp and play. Frances Burney he regarded as his daughter. He called her his Fannikin, and she in return called him her dear Daddy. In truth, he seems to have done much more than her real father for the development of her intellect; for though he was a bad poet, he was a scholar, a thinker, and an excellent counsellor. He was particularly fond of Dr. Burney's concerts. They had, indeed, been commenced at his suggestion, and when he visited London he constantly attended them. But when he grew old, and when gout, brought on partly by mental irritation, confined him to his retreat, he was desirous of having a glimpse of that gay and brilliant world from which he was exiled, and he pressed Fannikin to send him full accounts of her father's evening parties. A few of her letters to him have been published; and it is impossible to read them without discerning in them all the powers which afterwards produced Evelina and Cecilia, the quickness in catching every odd peculiarity of character and manner, the skill in grouping, the humour, often richly comic, sometimes even farcical.

The origin of Evelina.

Fanny's propensity to novel-writing had for a long time been kept down. It now rose up stronger than ever. The heroes and heroines of the tales which had perished in the flames, were still present to the eye of her mind. One favourite story, in particular, haunted her imagination. It was about a certain Caroline Evelyn, a beautiful damsel who made an unfortunate love match, and died, leaving an infant daughter. Frances began to image to herself the various scenes, tragic and comic, through which the poor motherless girl, highly connected on one side, meanly connected on the other, might have to pass. A crowd of unreal beings, good and bad, grave and ludicrous, surrounded the pretty, timid, young orphan; a coarse sea-captain; an ugly insolent fop, blazing in a superb court dress; another fop, as ugly and as insolent, but lodged on Snow Hill, and tricked out in second-hand finery for the Hampstead ball; an old woman, all wrinkles and rouge, flirting her fan with the air of a miss of seventeen, and screaming in a dialect made up of vulgar French and vulgar English; a poet lean

By degrees these shadows acquired stronger and stronger consistence: the impulse which urged Frances to write became irresistible; and the result was the history of Evelina.

Difficulties of

Then came, naturally enough, a wish. mingled with many fears, to appear before the public; for, timid as Frances was, and bashful, publication. and altogether unaccustomed to hear her own praises, it is clear that she wanted neither a strong passion for distinction, nor a just confidence in her own powers. Her scheme was to become, if possible, a candidate for fame without running any risk of disgrace. She had not money to bear the expense of printing. It was therefore necessary that some bookseller should be induced to take the risk; and such a bookseller was not readily found. Dodsley refused even to look at the manuscript unless he were trusted with the name of the author. A publisher in Fleet Street, named Lowndes, was more complaisant. Some correspondence took place between this person and Miss Burney, who took the name of Grafton, and desired that the letters addressed to her might be left at the Orange Coffee House. But, before the bargain was finally struck, Fanny thought it her duty to obtain her father's consent. She told him that she had written a book, that she wished to have his permission to publish it anonymously, but that she hoped that he would not insist upon seeing it. What followed may serve to illustrate what we meant when we said that Dr. Burney was as bad a father as so good-hearted a man could possibly be. It never seems to have crossed his mind that Fanny was about to take a step on which the whole happiness of her life might depend, a step which might raise her to an honourable eminence, or cover her with ridicule and contempt. Several people had already been trusted, and strict concealment was therefore not to be expected. On so grave an occasion it was surely his duty to give his best counsel to his daughter, to win her confidence, to prevent her from exposing herself if her book were a bad one, and if it were a good one, to see that the terms which she made with the publisher were likely to be beneficial to her. Instead of this, he only stared, burst out a-laughing, kissed her, gave her leave to do as she liked, and never even asked the name of

Dr. Burney's indifference.

« ПредишнаНапред »