“Lives of the Poets.” They were not published till 1781, but were already in print.
37 “The Theory and Regulation of Love: A Moral Essay.” By the Rev. John Norris, Oxford, 1688.
38 Miss Gregory was the daughter of a Scotch physician. She married the Rev. Archibald Alison, and was the mother of Sir Archibald Alison, the historian.
39 The house in which she died, in Portman Square.
40 No doubt Simon Nicolas Henri Linguet, a French author, who published numerous works, historical and political, both before and after this date.
41 In the original edition: perhaps “vexation” was the word intended.
42 Sir John Ladd, Mr. Thrale’s sister’s son, a young profligate who subsequently married, not Miss Burney, but a woman of the town! Dr. Johnson’s satirical verses on his coming of age are printed near the end of Boswell’s “Life.”
(1779)
THE AUTHOR OF “EVELINA” IN SOCIETY: SHE VISITS BRIGHTON AND TUNBRIDGE WELLS
(Fanny’s circle of acquaintance was largely extended in 1779, in which year she was introduced to Mrs. Horneck and her daughter Mary (Goldsmith’s “Jessamy Bride”), to Mr. and Mrs. Cholmondeley, to Arthur Murphy, the dramatist, and best of all, Richard Brinsley Sheridan and his beautiful wife. The Hornecks and the Cholmondeleys she met at one of those delightful parties at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s house in Leicester Square,—parties composed of the wisest and wittiest in English society of the day, though nowhere among the guests could there be found a man of more genuine worth or more brilliant genius than the mild-mannered host. Mrs. Horneck had been a noted beauty in her younger days, and she, as well as her two lovely daughters, had been painted by Sir Joshua. The elder daughter, Catherine (Goldsmith’s “Little Comedy”), was now (1779) Mrs. Bunbury, wife of Henry Bunbury the caricaturist. Mary, the younger, was at this time about twenty-six years of age, and was subsequently married to Colonel Gwynn, whom we shall meet with in Fanny’s Diary of her Life at Court. Goldsmith, it is said, had loved Mary Horneck, though the ugly little man never ventured to tell his love; but when he died, five years before her meeting with Fanny, the Jessamy Bride caused his coffin to be reopened, and a lock of hair to be cut from the dead poet’s head. This lock she treasured until her own death, nearly seventy years afterwards.
Mrs. Sheridan’s maiden name was Eliza Anne Linley. There is an interesting notice of her in Fanny’s “Early Diary” for the month of April, 1773. “Can I speak of music, and not mention Miss Linley? The town has rung of no other name this month. Miss Linley is daughter to a musician of Bath, a very sour, ill-bred, severe, and selfish man. She is believed to be very romantic; she has long been very celebrated for her singing, though never, till within this month, has she been in London.
“She has long been attached to a Mr. Sheridan, a young man of great talents, and very well spoken of, whom it is expected she will speedily marry. She has performed this Lent at the Oratorio of Drury-lane, under Mr. Stanley’s direction. The applause and admiration she has met with, can only be compared to what is given Mr. Garrick. The whole town seems distracted about her. Every other diversion is forsaken. Miss Linley alone engrosses all eyes, ears, hearts.”
The “young man of great talents” was, when Fanny first met him, already renowned as the author of “The Rivals” and “The School for Scandal.” His wife’s extraordinary beauty has been perpetuated in one of Reynolds’s masterpieces, in which she is represented as St. Cecilia, sitting at an organ. Her father seems to have fully deserved the character which Fanny gives him. In 1772 Eliza, then only nineteen, ran away to France with young Sheridan, who was just of age, and, it is reported, was privately married to him at the time. They were pursued, however, by old Linley, and Eliza was brought back, to become the rage of the town as a singer. Her lover married her openly in April, 1773, and thenceforward she sang no more in public.
Fanny’s account of her visits to Tunbridge Wells and Brighton will recall, to readers of her novels, the delightfully humorous descriptions of the society at those fashionable resorts, in “Camilla” and “The Wanderer.” Mount Ephraim, at Tunbridge Wells, where Sophy Streatfield resided, will be recognized as the scene of the accident in which Camilla’s life is saved by Sir Sedley Clarendel.
A Queer Adventure
St. Martin’s Street, January.
On Thursday, I had another adventure, and one that has made me grin ever since. A gentleman inquiring for my father, was asked into the parlour. The then inhabitants were only my mother and me. In entered a square old gentleman, well-wigged, formal, grave and important. He seated himself. My mother asked if he had any message for my father? “No, none.”
Then he regarded me with a certain dry kind of attention for some time; after which, turning suddenly to my mother, he demanded,
“Pray, ma’am, is this your daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“O! this is Evelina, is it?”
“No, sir,” cried I, staring at him, and glad none of you were in the way to say “Yes.”
“No?” repeated he, incredulous; “is not your name Evelina, ma’am?”
“Dear, no, sir,” again quoth I, staring harder.
“Ma’am,” cried he, drily; “I beg your pardon! I had understood your name was Evelina.”
Soon: after, he went away.
And when he put down his card, who should it prove but Dr. Franklin.43 Was it not queer?
An Evening at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s A Demonstrative “Evelina” Enthusiast
Now to this grand visit, which was become more tremendous than ever because of the pamphlet 44 business, and I felt almost ashamed to see Sir Joshua, and could not but conclude he would think of it too.
My mother, who changed her mind, came with me. My father promised to come before the Opera was half over.
We found the Miss Palmers alone. We were, for near an hour, quite easy, chatty, and comfortable; no pointed speech was made, and no starer entered. But when I asked the elder Miss Palmer if she would allow me to look at some of her drawings, she said,
“Not unless you will let me see something of yours.”
“Of mine?” quoth I. “Oh! I have nothing to show.”
“I am sure you have; you must have.”
“No, indeed; I don’t draw at all.”
“Draw? No, but I mean some of your writing.”
“Oh, I never write—except letters.”
“Letters? those are the very things I want to see.”
“Oh,
