She wrote a drama which was read in sol-
emn judgment by her father and Daddy Crisp,” who decided against
it as too ike (Les Précieuses Ridicules,' a play she had never read.
emn judgment by her father and Daddy Crisp,” who decided against
it as too ike (Les Précieuses Ridicules,' a play she had never read.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v05 - Bro to Cai
2811 (#383) ###########################################
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
2811
“It is na mich as we ha' getten to say,” said the man, <but
we're fain to say it. Are na we, mates ? ”
“Ay, we are, lad,” in chorus.
“It's about summat as we'n heerd. Theer wur a chap as towd
some on us last neet as yo'd getten th’ sack fro' th’ managers —
or leastways as yo'd turned th' tables on 'em an' gi’en them th'
sack yo'rsen. An' we'n heerd as it begun wi' yo're standin' up
fur us chaps — axin' fur things as wur wanted i’ th’ pit to save
us fro' runnin' more risk than we need. An' we heerd as yo'
spoke up bold, an' argied for us an' stood to what yo’ thowt war
th' reet thing, an’ we set our moinds on tellin' yo' as we'd heerd
it an' talked it over, an' we'd loike to say a word o' thanks i’
common fur th' pluck yo' showed. Is na that it, mates ? »
“Ay, that it is, lad! ” responded the chorus.
Suddenly one of the group stepped out and threw down his
pick. “An' I'm dom’d, mates,” he said, “if here is na a chap as
ud loike to shake hands wi' him. ”
It was the signal for the rest to follow his example. They
crowded about their champion, thrusting grimy paws into his
hand, grasping it almost enthusiastically.
“Good luck to yo', lad! ” said one. “We'n noan smooth soart
o'chaps, but we'n stand by what's fair an' plucky. We shall
ha' a good word fur thee when tha hast made thy Aittin'. ”
"I'm glad of that, lads,” responded Derrick heartily, by no
means unmoved by the rough-and-ready spirit of the scene. I
only wish I had had better luck, that's all. "
A few hours later the whole of the little town was shaken to
its very foundations by something like an earthquake, accom-
panied by an ominous, booming sound which brought people
flocking out of their houses with white faces. Some of them
had heard it before — all knew what it meant. From the
colliers' cottages poured forth women, shrieking and wailing,-
women who bore children in their arms and had older ones
dragging at their skirts, and who made their desperate way to
the pit with one accord. From houses and workshops there
rushed men, who coming out in twos and threes joined each
other, and forming a breathless crowd, ran through the streets
scarcely daring to speak a word — and all ran toward the pit.
There were
at its mouth in five minutes; in ten
minutes there were hundreds, and above all the clamor rose the
cry of women:
(
scores
## p. 2812 (#384) ###########################################
2812
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
"My mester's down ! »
“An' mine! ”
"An' mine!
"Four lads o' mine is down! »
« Three o' mine! ”
“My little un's theer — th' youngest — nobbut ten year owd –
nobbut ten year owd, poor little chap! an'ony been at work a
week!
«Ay, wenches, God ha' mercy on us aw'— God ha’ mercy! ”
And then more shrieks and wails, in which the terror-stricken
children joined.
It was a fearful sight. How many lay dead and dying in
the noisome darkness below, God only knew! How many lay
mangled and crushed, waiting for their death, Heaven only could
tell!
In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight figure
in clerical garb made its way through the crowd with an air of
excited determination.
“Th' parson's feart," was the general comment.
"My men,” he said, raising his voice so that all could hear,
can any of you tell me who last saw Fergus Derrick ? »
There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from a col-
lier who stood near.
“I coom up out o'th' pit an hour ago,” he said, “I wur th'
last as coom up, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. Derrick
wur wi' his men i'th' new part o' th’mine. I seed him as I
passed through. "
Grace's face became a shade or so paler, but he made no
more inquiries.
His friend either lay dead below, or was waiting for his doom
at that very moment. He stepped a little farther forward.
“Unfortunately for myself, at present,” he said, “I have no
practical knowledge of the nature of these accidents.
Will some
of you tell me how long it will be before we can make our first
effort to rescue the men who are below ? »
Did he mean to volunteer - this young whipper-snapper of a
parson? And if he did, could he know what he was doing ?
“I ask you,” he said, “because I wish to offer myself as a
volunteer at once; I think I am stronger than you imagine, and
at least my heart will be in the work. I have a friend below
myself,” his voice altering its tone and losing its firmness, -
(
## p. 2813 (#385) ###########################################
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
2813
«a friend who is worthy the sacrifice of ten such lives as mine, if
such a sacrifice could save him. ”
One or two of the older and more experienced spoke up.
Under an hour it would be impossible to make the attempt — it
might even be a longer time, but in an hour they might at least
make their first effort.
If such was the case, the parson said, the intervening period
must be turned to the best account. In that time much could
be thought of and done which would assist themselves and ben-
efit the sufferers. He called upon the strongest and most expe-
rienced, and almost without their recognizing the prominence
of his position, led them on in the work. He even rallied the
weeping women and gave them something to do. One was sent
for this necessary article and another for that. A couple of boys
were dispatched to the next village for extra medical assistance,
so that there need be no lack of attention when it was required.
He took off his broadcloth and worked with the rest of them
until all the necessary preparations were made, and it was con-
sidered possible to descend into the mine,
When all was ready, he went to the mouth of the shaft and
took his place quietly.
It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death would
stare them in the face all through its performance. There was
choking after-damp below,- noxious vapors, to breathe which
was to die; there was the chance of crushing masses falling
from the shaken galleries - and yet these men left their compan-
ions one by one, and ranged themselves without saying a word
at the curate's side.
“My friends," said Grace, baring his head and raising a fem-
inine hand, -"My friends, we will say a short prayer. "
It was only a few words. Then the curate spoke again.
Ready! ” he said.
But just at that moment there stepped out from the anguished
crowd a girl, whose face was set and deathly, though there was
no touch of fear upon it.
“I ax yo',” she said, “to let me go wi' yo' and do what I
con. Lasses, some on yo' speak a word for Joan Lowrie! »
There was a breathless start. The women even stopped their
outcry to look at her as she stood apart from them,-a desperate
appeal in the very quiet of her gesture as she turned to look
about her for some one to speak.
## p. 2814 (#386) ###########################################
2814
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
“Lasses,” she said again, “some on yo' speak a word for Joan
Lowrie !
There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant
this murmur was a cry.
“Ay,” they answered, “we con aw speak fur yo'. Let her
go, lads! She's worth two o' th’ best on yo'. Nowt fears her.
Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan lass,
and we'n not forget thee! ”
But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them
shrank from giving a woman a place in such a perilous under-
taking - the coarser element in others rebelled against it.
« We'n ha' no wenches,” these said, surlily.
Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched
her gently on the shoulder.
“We cannot think of it,” he said. “It is very brave and
generous, and
God bless you! but it cannot be. I could not
think of allowing it myself, if the rest would. ”
"Parson,” said Joan, coolly but not roughly, "thad ha' hard
work to help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'! »
" But,” he protested, “it may be death. I could not bear the
thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your
life. ”
mon
She turned to the volunteers.
« Lads,” she cried passionately, “yo' munnot turn me back.
I— sin I mun tell yo'—" and she faced them like a queen
“theer's a down theer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to
save.
They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no
longer.
“Tak thy place, wench,” said the oldest.
“If tha mun,
tha
mun.
She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took
it she half turned her face away. But when those above began
to lower them, and they found themselves swinging downward
into what might be to them a pit of death, she spoke to him.
“Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray,” she said. "Pray
that if we mun dee, we may na dee until we ha' done our
work. ”
It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to do
in those black galleries. And Joan was the bravest, quickest,
most persistent of all. Paul Grace, following in her wake, found
## p. 2815 (#387) ###########################################
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
2815
on.
himself obeying her slightest word or gesture. He worked con-
stantly at her side, for he at least had guessed the truth. He
knew that they were both engaged in the same quest. When at
last they had worked their way — lifting, helping, comforting — to
the end of the passage where the collier had said he last saw
the master, then for one moment she paused, and her compan-
ion with a thrill of pity touched her to attract her attention.
“Let me go first,” he said.
"Nay,” she answered, "we'n go together. ”
The gallery was a long and low one, and had been terribly
shaken. In some places the props had been torn away, in oth-
ers they were borne down by the loosened blocks of coal. The
dim light of the “Davy Joan held up showed such a wreck
that Grace spoke to her again.
“You must let me go first,” he said with gentle firmness.
“If one of these blocks should fall -
Joan interrupted him: -
“If one on 'em should fall, I'm th' one as it had better fall
There is na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. Yo' ha'
work o'yore own to do. ”
She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, and he
could only follow her. She went before, holding the Davy high,
so that its light might be thrown as far forward as possible.
Now and then she was forced to stoop to make her way around
a bending prop; sometimes there was a falling mass to be sur-
mounted: but she was at the front still when they reached the
other end, without finding the object of their search.
“It — he is na there,” she said. “Let us try th' next pass-
age, and she turned into it.
It was she who first came upon what they were looking for;
but they did not find it in the next passage, or the next, or
even the next. It was farther away from the scene of the ex-
plosion than they had dared to hope. As they entered a narrow
side gallery, Grace heard her utter a low sound, and the next
minute she was down upon her knees.
« Theer's a mon here,” she said. "It's him as we're lookin'
fur. »
She held the dim little lantern close to the face,- a still face
with closed eyes, and blood upon it. Grace knelt down too, his
heart aching with dread.
"Is he – ” he began, but could not finish.
## p. 2816 (#388) ###########################################
2816
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless
breast and waited almost a minute, and then she lifted her own
face, white as the wounded man's - white and solemn, and wet
with a sudden rain of tears.
“He is na dead,” she said. “We ha' saved him. ”
She sat down upon the floor of the gallery, and lifting his
head, laid it upon her bosom, holding it close, as a mother might
hold the head of her child.
«Mester,” she said, "gi' me th' brandy flask, and tak' thou
thy Davy an' go fur some o' the men to help us get him to th'
leet o’ day. I'm gone weak at last. I conna do no more. I'11
go wi' him to th' top. ”
When the cage ascended to the mouth again with its last load
of sufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled by
the golden winter's sunlight as it fell upon her haggard face.
She was holding the head of what seemed to be a dead man
upon her knee.
A great shout of welcome rose up from the
bystanders.
She helped them to lay her charge upon a pile of coats and
blankets prepared for him, and then she turned to the doctor who
had hurried to the spot to see what could be done.
“He is na dead,” she said. "Lay yore hond on his heart. It
beats yet, Mester, - on'y a little, but it beats. ”
“ No,” said the doctor, he is not dead - yet ”; with a
breath's pause between the two last words.
“If some of you
will help me to put him on a stretcher, he may be carried home,
and I will go with him. There is just a chance for him, poor
fellow, and he must have immediate attention. Where does he
live ? )
“He must go with me,” said Grace. “He is my friend. ”
So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and
watched them carry him away,- watched the bearers until they
were out of sight, and then turned again and joined the women
in their work among the sufferers.
By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
## p. 2817 (#389) ###########################################
2817
FRANCES BURNEY (MADAME D’ARBLAY)
(1752-1840)
career as
RHERE is a suggestion of the Ugly Duckling story in Fanny
Burney's early life. The personality of the shy little girl,
who was neither especially pretty nor precocious, was
rather merged in the half-dozen of gayer brothers and sisters. The
first eight years of her life were passed at Lynn Regis in Norfolk;
then the family moved to London, where her father continued his
an important writer on music and a fashionable music-
master. Soon after, Mrs. Burney died. All the children but young
Fanny were sent away to school. She was
to have been educated at home, but re-
ceived little attention from the learned,
kind, but heedless Dr. Burney, who seems
to have considered her the dull member of
his flock. “Poor Fanny! he often said,
until her sudden fame overwhelmed him
with surprise as well as exultation. Only
his friend, her beloved Daddy Crisp of
the letters, appreciated her; himself a dis-
appointed dramatic author, soured by what
he felt to be an incomprehensible failure,
yet of fine critical talent, with kind and FRANCES BURNEY
wise suggestions for his favorite Fanny.
But while her book-education was of the slightest, her social
advantages were great. Pleasure-loving Dr. Burney had a delightful
faculty of attracting witty and musical friends to enliven his home.
Fanny's great unnoticed gift was power of observation. The shy girl
who avoided notice herself, found her social pleasure in watching
and listening to clever people. Perhaps a Gallic strain — for her
mother was of French descent-gave her clear-sightedness. She had
a turn for social satire which added humorous discrimination to her
judgments. She understood people better than books, and perceived
their petty hypocrisies, self-deceptions, and conventional standards,
with witty good sense and love of sincerity. Years of this silent
note-taking and personal intercourse with brilliant people gave her
unusual knowledge of the world.
She was a docile girl, ready always to heed her father and her
“Daddy Crisp,” ready to obey her kindly stepmother, and try to
exchange for practical occupations her pet pastime of scribbling.
V-177
## p. 2818 (#390) ###########################################
2818
FRANCES BURNEY
was
But from the time she was ten she had loved to write down
her impressions, and the habit was too strong to be more than
temporarily renounced. Like many imaginative persons, she
fond of carrying on serial inventions in which repressed fancies
found expression. One long story she destroyed; but the charac-
ters haunted her, and she began a sequel which became Evelina. '
In the young, beautiful, virtuous heroine, with her many mortify-
ing experiences and her ultimate triumph, she may have found com-
pensation for a starved vanity of her own.
For a long time she and her sisters enjoyed Evelina's tribulations;
then Fanny grew ambitious, and encouraged by her brother, thought
of publication. When she tremblingly asked her father's consent, he
carelessly countenanced the venture and gave it no second thought.
After much negotiation, a publisher offered twenty pounds for the
manuscript, and in 1778 the appearance of Evelina' ended Fanny
Burney's obscurity. For a long time the book was the topic of
boundless praise and endless discussion. Every one wondered who
could have written the clever story, which was usually attributed to
a society man. The great Dr. Johnson was enthusiastic, insisted
upon knowing the author, and soon grew very fond of his little
Fanny. He introduced her to his friends, and she became the
celebrity of a delightful circle. Sir Joshua Reynolds and Burke sat
up all night to finish (Evelina. The Thrales, Madame Delaney,–
who later introduced her at court, Sheridan, Gibbon, and Sir
Walter Scott, were among those who admired her most cordially.
It was a happy time for Fanny, encouraged to believe her talent
far greater than it was.
She wrote a drama which was read in sol-
emn judgment by her father and Daddy Crisp,” who decided against
it as too ike (Les Précieuses Ridicules,' a play she had never read.
A second novel, Cecilia,' appeared in 1782, and was as successful as
its predecessor. Later readers find it less spontaneous, and after it
she never resumed her early style except in her journal and corre-
spondence. Her ambition was fully astir. She had every incentive
from her family and friends. But the old zest in composition had
departed. The self-consciousness which had always tormented her
in society seized her now, when she was trying to cater to public
taste, and made her change her frank, free, personal expression for
a stilted artificial formality of phrase.
Her reputation was now at its height, and she was very happy in
her position as society favorite and pride of the father whom she
had always passionately admired, when she made the mistake of
her life. Urged by her father, she accepted a position at court as
Second Keeper of the Queen's Robes. There she spent five pleasure-
less and worse than profitless years. In her Diary and Letters,
## p. 2819 (#391) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2819
the most readable to-day of all her works, she has told the story
of wretched discomfort, of stupidly uncongenial companionship, of
arduous tasks made worse by the selfish thoughtlessness of her supe-
riors. She has also given our best historical picture of that time;
the every-day life at court, the slow agony of King George's increas-
ing insanity. But the drudgery and mean hardships of the place, and
the depression of being separated from her family, broke down her
health; and after much opposition she was allowed to resign in 1791.
Soon afterwards she astonished her friends by marrying General
D'Arblay, a French officer and a gentleman, although very poor. As
the pair had an income of only one hundred pounds, this seems a
perilously rash act for a woman over forty. Fortunately the match
proved a very happy one, and the situation stimulated Madame
D'Arblay to renewed authorship. Camilla,' her third novel, was
sold by subscription, and was a very remunerative piece of work.
But from a critical point of view it was a failure; and being written
in a heavy pedantic style, is quite deficient in her early charm.
With the proceeds she built a modest home, Camilla Cottage. Later
the family moved to France, where her husband died and where her
only son received his early education. When he was nearly ready
for an English university she returned to England, and passed her
tranquil age among her friends until she died at eighty-eight.
What Fanny Burney did in all unconsciousness was to establish
fiction upon a new basis. She may be said to have created the
family novel. Fielding, Smollett, and Sterne had bequeathed their
legacy impregnated with objectionable qualities, in spite of strength
and charm; they were read rather secretly, and tabooed for women.
On the other hand, the followers of Richardson were too didactic
to be readable. Fanny Burney proved that entertaining tales, un-
weighted by heavy moralizing, may be written, adapted to young and
old. Her sketches of life were witty, sincere, and vigorous, yet always
moral in tone. “Evelina,' the work of an innocent, frank girl, could
be read by any one.
A still greater source of her success was her robust and abound-
ing, though sometimes rather broad and cheap, fun. In her time
decent novels were apt to be appallingly serious in tone, and not
infrequently stupid; humor in spite of Addison still connoted much
coarseness and obtrusive sexuality, and in fiction had to be sought
in the novels written for men only. As humor is the deadly foe to
sentimentalism and hysterics, the Richardson school were equally
averse to it on further grounds. Fanny Burney produced novels fit
for women's and family reading, yet full of humor of a masculine
vigor – and it must be added, with something of masculine unsensi-
tiveness. There is little fineness to most of it; some is mere horse-
+
## p. 2820 (#392) ###########################################
2820
FRANCES BURNEY
play, some is extravagant farce: but it is deep and genuine, it supplied
an exigent want, and deserved its welcome. De Morgan says it was
like introducing dresses of glaring red and yellow and other crude
colors into a country where everyone had previously dressed in
drab-a great relief, but not art. This is hard measure, however:
some of her character-drawing is almost as richly humorous and
valid as Jane Austen's own.
Fanny Burney undoubtedly did much to augment the new respect
for woman's intellectual ability, and was a stimulus to the brilliant
group which succeeded her. Miss Ferrier, Maria Edgeworth, and
Jane Austen all owe her something of their inspiration and more of
their welcome.
EVELINA'S LETTER TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS
From (Evelina)
YE
HOLBORN, June 17th.
ESTERDAY Mr. Smith carried his point of making a party for
Vauxhall, consisting of Madame Duval, M. Du Bois, all the
Branghtons, Mr. Brown, himself, - and me! - for I find all
endeavors vain to escape anything which these people desire I
should not.
There were twenty disputes previous to our setting out; first
as to the time of our going: Mr. Branghton, his son, and young
Brown, were for six o'clock, and all the ladies and Mr. Smith
were for eight; - the latter, however, conquered. Then as to the
way we should go: some were for a boat, others for a coach, and
Mr. Branghton himself was for walking; but the boat at length
was decided upon. Indeed, this was the only part of the expe-
dition that was agreeable to me; for the Thames was delightfully
pleasant.
The garden is very pretty, but too formal; I should have
been better pleased had it consisted less of straight walks, where
«Grove nods at grove, each alley ha
its brother. ”
The trees, the numerous lights, and the company in the circle
round the orchestra make a most brilliant and gay appearance;
and had I been with a party less disagreeable to me, I should
have thought it a place formed for animation and pleasure.
There was a concert, in the course of which a hautbois concerto
## p. 2821 (#393) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2821
was
so charmingly played that I could have thought myself
upon enchanted ground, had I had spirits more gentle to asso-
ciate with. The hautbois in the open air is heavenly.
Mr. Smith endeavored to attach himself to me, with such
officious assiduity and impertinent freedom that he quite sickened
me. Indeed, M. Du Bois was the only man of the party to
whom, voluntarily, I ever addressed myself. He is civil and
respectful, and I have found nobody else so since I left Howard
Grove. His English is very bad; but I prefer it to speaking
French myself, which I dare not venture to do. I converse with
him frequently, both to disengage myself from others and to
oblige Madame Duval, who is always pleased when he is at-
tended to.
As we were walking about the orchestra, I heard a bell ring;
and in a moment Mr. Smith, flying up to me, caught my hand,
and with a motion too quick to be resisted, ran away with me
many yards before I had breath to ask his meaning; though I
struggled as well as I could to get from him. At last, however,
I insisted upon stopping. “Stopping, ma'am! ” cried he, “why,
we must run on, or we shall lose the cascade ! »
And then again he hurried me away, mixing with a crowd
of people, all running with so much velocity that I could not
imagine what had raised such an alarm. We were soon followed
by the rest of the party; and my surprise and ignorance proved
a source of diversion to them all which was not exhausted the
whole evening. Young Branghton, in particular, laughed till he
could hardly stand.
The scene of the cascade I thought extremely pretty, and the
general effect striking and lively.
But this was not the only surprise which was to divert them
at my expense; for they led me about the garden purposely to
enjoy my first sight of various other deceptions.
About ten o'clock, Mr. Smith having chosen a box in a very
conspicuous place, we all went to supper. Much fault was found
with everything that was ordered, though not a morsel of any.
thing was left, and the dearness of the provisions, with conject-
ures upon what profit was made by them, supplied discourse
during the whole meal.
When wine and cyder were brought, Mr. Smith said, “Now
let's enjoy ourselves; now is the time, or never. Well, ma'am,
and how do you like Vauxhall ?
.
## p. 2822 (#394) ###########################################
2822
FRANCES BURNEY
"Like it! ” cried young Branghton; "why, how can she help
liking it? She has never seen such a place before, that I'll
answer for. ”
"For my part,” said Miss Branghton, “I like it because it is
not vulgar. "
« This must have been a fine treat for you, Miss,” said Mr.
Branghton; "why, I suppose you was never so happy in all your
life before ? "
I endeavored to express my satisfaction with some pleasure;
yet I believe they were much amazed at my coldness.
“Miss ought to stay in town till the last night,” said young
Branghton; "and then, it's my belief, she'd say something to it!
Why, Lord, it's the best night of any; there's always a riot, —
and there the folks run about,- and then there's such squealing
and squalling ! - and there, all the lamps are broke,- and the
women run skimper-scamper-I declare, I would not take five
guineas to miss the last night!
I was very glad when they all grew tired of sitting, and
called for the waiter to pay the bill. The Miss Branghtons said
they would walk on while the gentlemen settled the account, and
asked me to accompany them; which however I declined.
“You girls may do as you please,” said Madame Duval, “but
as to me, I promise you, I sha'n't go nowhere without the gen-
tlemen. ”
“No more, I suppose, will my cousin,” said Miss Branghton,
looking reproachfully towards Mr. Smith.
This reflection, which I feared would flatter his vanity, made
me most unfortunately request Madame Duval's permission to
attend them. She granted it; and away we went, having prom-
ised to meet in the room.
To the room, therefore, I would immediately have gone: but
the sisters agreed that they would first have a little pleasure;
and they tittered and talked so loud that they attracted universal
notice.
"Lord, Polly,” said the eldest, “suppose we were to take a
turn in the dark walks ? »
“Ay, do," answered she; "and then we'll hide ourselves, and
then Mr. Brown will think we are lost. ”
I remonstrated very warmly against this plan, telling them it
would endanger our missing the rest of the party all the even-
ing.
## p. 2823 (#395) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2823
were
were
« dear,” cried Miss Branghton, “I thought how uneasy Miss
would be, without a beau !
This impertinence I did not think worth answering; and quite
by compulsion I followed them down a long alley, in which
there was hardly any light.
By the time we came near the end, a large party of gentle-
inen, apparently very riotous, and who were hallooing, leaning
on one another, and laughing immoderately, seemed to rush sud-
denly from behind some trees, and meeting us face to face, put
their arms at their sides and formed a kind of circle, which first
stopped our proceeding and then our retreating, for we
presently entirely enclosed. The Miss Branghtons screamed
aloud, and I was frightened exceedingly; our screams
answered with bursts of laughter, and for some minutes we were
kept prisoners, till at last one of them, rudely seizing hold of
me, said I was a pretty little creature.
Terrified to death, I struggled with such vehemence to disen-
gage myself from him that I succeeded, in spite of his efforts
to detain me: and immediately, and with a swiftness which fear
only could have given me, I flew rather than ran up the walk,
hoping to secure my safety by returning to the lights and com-
pany we had so foolishly left; but before I could possibly accom-
plish my purpose, I was met by another party of men, one of
whom placed himself directly in my way, calling out, "Whither
so fast, my love ? ” — so that I could only have proceeded by
running into his arms.
In a moment both my hands, by different persons, were caught
hold of, and one of them, in a most familiar manner, desired
when I ran next to accompany me in a race; while the rest of
the party stood still and laughed. I was almost distracted with
terror, and so breathless with running that I could not speak;
till another, advancing, said I was as handsome as an angel,
and desired to be of the party. I then just articulated, For
Heaven's sake, gentlemen, let me pass! »
Another, then rushing suddenly forward, exclaimed, «Heaven
and earth! what voice is that ? »
« The voice of the prettiest little actress I have seen this age,”
answered one of my persecutors.
“No, no,- no,– ” I panted out, “I am no actress — pray let
pray let me pass — »
“By all that's sacred,” cried the same voice, which I then
knew for Sir Clement Willoughby's, «'tis herself! »
me go,
## p. 2824 (#396) ###########################################
2824
FRANCES BURNEY
A MAN OF THE TON
From Cecilia)
A"
(
Have you
T The door of the Pantheon they were joined by Mr. Arnott
and Sir Robert Floyer, whom Cecilia now saw with added
aversion; they entered the great room during the second
act of the concert, to which, as no one of the party but herself
had any desire to listen, no sort of attention was paid; the ladies
entertaining themselves as if no orchestra was in the room, and
the gentlemen, with an equal disregard to it, struggling for a
place by the fire, about which they continued hovering till the
music was over.
Soon after they were seated, Mr. Meadows, sauntering to-
wards them, whispered something to Mrs. Mears, who, immedi-
ately rising, introduced him to Cecilia; after which, the place
next to her being vacant, he cast himself upon it, and lolling as
much at his ease as his situation would permit, began something
like a conversation with her.
been long in town, ma'am ? ”
"No, sir. ”
« This is not your first winter ? »
« Of being in town, it is. ”
« Then you have something new to see; oh charming! how I
envy you! - Are you pleased with the Pantheon ? »
“Very much; I have seen no building at all equal to it. ”
“You have not been abroad. Traveling is the ruin of all
happiness! There's no looking at a building here after seeing
Italy. ”
“Does all happiness, then, depend upon sight of buildings? ”
said Cecilia, when, turning towards her companion, she perceived
him yawning, with such evident inattention to her answer that,
not choosing to interrupt his reverie, she turned her head another
way.
For some minutes he took no notice of this; and then, as if
suddenly recollecting himself, he called out hastily, “I beg your
pardon, ma'am, you were saying something? ”
“No, sir; nothing worth repeating. ”
“Oh, pray don't punish me so severely as not to let me hear
it ! »
Cecilia, though merely not to seem offended at his negli-
gence, was then beginning an answer, when looking at him as she
## p. 2825 (#397) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2825
spoke, she perceived that he was biting his nails with so absent
an air that he appeared not to know he had asked any question.
She therefore broke off, and left him to his cogitation.
Some time after, he addressed her again, saying, “Don't you
find this place extremely tiresome, ma'am ? »
“Yes, sir,” said she half laughing, it is indeed not very
entertaining! ”
"Nothing is entertaining,” answered he, «for two minutes
together. Things are so little different one from another, that
there is no making pleasure out of anything. We go the same
dull round forever; nothing new, no variety! all the same thing
over again! Are you fond of public places, ma'am ? ”
“Yes, sir, soberly, as Lady Grace says. "
“Then I envy you extremely, for you have some amusement
always in your own power.
How desirable that is! ”
“And have you not the same resources ? »
« Oh no!
I am tired to death! tired of everything! I would
give the universe for a disposition less difficult to please. Yet,
after all, what is there to give pleasure? When one has seen
one thing, one has seen everything. Oh, 'tis heavy work! Don't
you find it so, ma'am ? »
This speech was ended with so violent a fit of yawning that
Cecilia would not trouble herself to answer it: but her silence
as before passed unnoticed, exciting neither question nor com-
ment.
A long pause now succeeded, which he broke at last by say.
ing, as he writhed himself about upon his seat, “These forms
would be much more agreeable if there were backs to them.
'Tis intolerable to be forced to sit like a schoolboy. The first
study of life is ease. There is indeed no other study that pays
the trouble of attainment. Don't you think so, ma'am ? ”
"But may not even that,” said Cecilia, “by so much study
become labor ? »
"I am vastly happy you think so. ”
« Sir? ”
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought you said — I really
beg your pardon, but I was thinking of something else. ”
"You did very right, sir,” said Cecilia, laughing, “for what I
said by no means merited any attention. ”
"Will you do me the favor to repeat it ? ” cried he, taking out
his glass to examine some lady at a distance.
## p. 2826 (#398) ###########################################
2826
FRANCES BURNEY
“Oh no,” said Cecilia, “that would be trying your patience
too severely. ”
« These glasses shew one nothing but defects,” said he; "I am
sorry they were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty;
no complexion can stand them. I believe that solo will never be
over! I hate a solo; it sinks, it depresses me intolerably. ”
“You will presently, sir,” said Cecilia, looking at the bill of
the concert, “have a full piece; and that I hope will revive
you. ”
"A full piece! oh, insupportable! it stuns, it fatigues, it over-
powers me beyond endurance! no taste in it, no delicacy, no room
for the smallest feeling. ”
"Perhaps, then, you are only fond of singing ? ”
«I should be, if I could hear it; but we are now so miserably
off in voices, that I hardly ever attempt to listen to a song, with-
out fancying myself deaf from the feebleness of the performers.
I hate everything that requires attention. Nothing gives pleasure
that does not force its own way. ”
« You only, then, like loud voices, and great powers ? ”
“Oh, worse and worse! — no, nothing is so disgusting to me.
All my amazement is that these people think it worth while to
give concerts at all — one is sick to death of music. ”
Nay,” cried Cecilia, “if it gives no pleasure, at least it takes
none away; for, far from being any impediment to conversation,
I think everybody talks more during the performance than be-
tween the acts. And what is there better you could substitute
in its place ? "
Cecilia, receiving no answer to this question, again looked
round to see if she had been heard; when she observed her new
acquaintance, with a very thoughtful air, had turned from her to
fix his eyes upon the statue of Britannia.
Very soon after, he hastily arose, and seeming entirely to
forget that he had spoken to her, very abruptly walked away.
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
2811
“It is na mich as we ha' getten to say,” said the man, <but
we're fain to say it. Are na we, mates ? ”
“Ay, we are, lad,” in chorus.
“It's about summat as we'n heerd. Theer wur a chap as towd
some on us last neet as yo'd getten th’ sack fro' th’ managers —
or leastways as yo'd turned th' tables on 'em an' gi’en them th'
sack yo'rsen. An' we'n heerd as it begun wi' yo're standin' up
fur us chaps — axin' fur things as wur wanted i’ th’ pit to save
us fro' runnin' more risk than we need. An' we heerd as yo'
spoke up bold, an' argied for us an' stood to what yo’ thowt war
th' reet thing, an’ we set our moinds on tellin' yo' as we'd heerd
it an' talked it over, an' we'd loike to say a word o' thanks i’
common fur th' pluck yo' showed. Is na that it, mates ? »
“Ay, that it is, lad! ” responded the chorus.
Suddenly one of the group stepped out and threw down his
pick. “An' I'm dom’d, mates,” he said, “if here is na a chap as
ud loike to shake hands wi' him. ”
It was the signal for the rest to follow his example. They
crowded about their champion, thrusting grimy paws into his
hand, grasping it almost enthusiastically.
“Good luck to yo', lad! ” said one. “We'n noan smooth soart
o'chaps, but we'n stand by what's fair an' plucky. We shall
ha' a good word fur thee when tha hast made thy Aittin'. ”
"I'm glad of that, lads,” responded Derrick heartily, by no
means unmoved by the rough-and-ready spirit of the scene. I
only wish I had had better luck, that's all. "
A few hours later the whole of the little town was shaken to
its very foundations by something like an earthquake, accom-
panied by an ominous, booming sound which brought people
flocking out of their houses with white faces. Some of them
had heard it before — all knew what it meant. From the
colliers' cottages poured forth women, shrieking and wailing,-
women who bore children in their arms and had older ones
dragging at their skirts, and who made their desperate way to
the pit with one accord. From houses and workshops there
rushed men, who coming out in twos and threes joined each
other, and forming a breathless crowd, ran through the streets
scarcely daring to speak a word — and all ran toward the pit.
There were
at its mouth in five minutes; in ten
minutes there were hundreds, and above all the clamor rose the
cry of women:
(
scores
## p. 2812 (#384) ###########################################
2812
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
"My mester's down ! »
“An' mine! ”
"An' mine!
"Four lads o' mine is down! »
« Three o' mine! ”
“My little un's theer — th' youngest — nobbut ten year owd –
nobbut ten year owd, poor little chap! an'ony been at work a
week!
«Ay, wenches, God ha' mercy on us aw'— God ha’ mercy! ”
And then more shrieks and wails, in which the terror-stricken
children joined.
It was a fearful sight. How many lay dead and dying in
the noisome darkness below, God only knew! How many lay
mangled and crushed, waiting for their death, Heaven only could
tell!
In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight figure
in clerical garb made its way through the crowd with an air of
excited determination.
“Th' parson's feart," was the general comment.
"My men,” he said, raising his voice so that all could hear,
can any of you tell me who last saw Fergus Derrick ? »
There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from a col-
lier who stood near.
“I coom up out o'th' pit an hour ago,” he said, “I wur th'
last as coom up, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. Derrick
wur wi' his men i'th' new part o' th’mine. I seed him as I
passed through. "
Grace's face became a shade or so paler, but he made no
more inquiries.
His friend either lay dead below, or was waiting for his doom
at that very moment. He stepped a little farther forward.
“Unfortunately for myself, at present,” he said, “I have no
practical knowledge of the nature of these accidents.
Will some
of you tell me how long it will be before we can make our first
effort to rescue the men who are below ? »
Did he mean to volunteer - this young whipper-snapper of a
parson? And if he did, could he know what he was doing ?
“I ask you,” he said, “because I wish to offer myself as a
volunteer at once; I think I am stronger than you imagine, and
at least my heart will be in the work. I have a friend below
myself,” his voice altering its tone and losing its firmness, -
(
## p. 2813 (#385) ###########################################
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
2813
«a friend who is worthy the sacrifice of ten such lives as mine, if
such a sacrifice could save him. ”
One or two of the older and more experienced spoke up.
Under an hour it would be impossible to make the attempt — it
might even be a longer time, but in an hour they might at least
make their first effort.
If such was the case, the parson said, the intervening period
must be turned to the best account. In that time much could
be thought of and done which would assist themselves and ben-
efit the sufferers. He called upon the strongest and most expe-
rienced, and almost without their recognizing the prominence
of his position, led them on in the work. He even rallied the
weeping women and gave them something to do. One was sent
for this necessary article and another for that. A couple of boys
were dispatched to the next village for extra medical assistance,
so that there need be no lack of attention when it was required.
He took off his broadcloth and worked with the rest of them
until all the necessary preparations were made, and it was con-
sidered possible to descend into the mine,
When all was ready, he went to the mouth of the shaft and
took his place quietly.
It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death would
stare them in the face all through its performance. There was
choking after-damp below,- noxious vapors, to breathe which
was to die; there was the chance of crushing masses falling
from the shaken galleries - and yet these men left their compan-
ions one by one, and ranged themselves without saying a word
at the curate's side.
“My friends," said Grace, baring his head and raising a fem-
inine hand, -"My friends, we will say a short prayer. "
It was only a few words. Then the curate spoke again.
Ready! ” he said.
But just at that moment there stepped out from the anguished
crowd a girl, whose face was set and deathly, though there was
no touch of fear upon it.
“I ax yo',” she said, “to let me go wi' yo' and do what I
con. Lasses, some on yo' speak a word for Joan Lowrie! »
There was a breathless start. The women even stopped their
outcry to look at her as she stood apart from them,-a desperate
appeal in the very quiet of her gesture as she turned to look
about her for some one to speak.
## p. 2814 (#386) ###########################################
2814
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
“Lasses,” she said again, “some on yo' speak a word for Joan
Lowrie !
There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant
this murmur was a cry.
“Ay,” they answered, “we con aw speak fur yo'. Let her
go, lads! She's worth two o' th’ best on yo'. Nowt fears her.
Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan lass,
and we'n not forget thee! ”
But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them
shrank from giving a woman a place in such a perilous under-
taking - the coarser element in others rebelled against it.
« We'n ha' no wenches,” these said, surlily.
Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched
her gently on the shoulder.
“We cannot think of it,” he said. “It is very brave and
generous, and
God bless you! but it cannot be. I could not
think of allowing it myself, if the rest would. ”
"Parson,” said Joan, coolly but not roughly, "thad ha' hard
work to help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'! »
" But,” he protested, “it may be death. I could not bear the
thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your
life. ”
mon
She turned to the volunteers.
« Lads,” she cried passionately, “yo' munnot turn me back.
I— sin I mun tell yo'—" and she faced them like a queen
“theer's a down theer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to
save.
They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no
longer.
“Tak thy place, wench,” said the oldest.
“If tha mun,
tha
mun.
She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took
it she half turned her face away. But when those above began
to lower them, and they found themselves swinging downward
into what might be to them a pit of death, she spoke to him.
“Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray,” she said. "Pray
that if we mun dee, we may na dee until we ha' done our
work. ”
It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to do
in those black galleries. And Joan was the bravest, quickest,
most persistent of all. Paul Grace, following in her wake, found
## p. 2815 (#387) ###########################################
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
2815
on.
himself obeying her slightest word or gesture. He worked con-
stantly at her side, for he at least had guessed the truth. He
knew that they were both engaged in the same quest. When at
last they had worked their way — lifting, helping, comforting — to
the end of the passage where the collier had said he last saw
the master, then for one moment she paused, and her compan-
ion with a thrill of pity touched her to attract her attention.
“Let me go first,” he said.
"Nay,” she answered, "we'n go together. ”
The gallery was a long and low one, and had been terribly
shaken. In some places the props had been torn away, in oth-
ers they were borne down by the loosened blocks of coal. The
dim light of the “Davy Joan held up showed such a wreck
that Grace spoke to her again.
“You must let me go first,” he said with gentle firmness.
“If one of these blocks should fall -
Joan interrupted him: -
“If one on 'em should fall, I'm th' one as it had better fall
There is na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. Yo' ha'
work o'yore own to do. ”
She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, and he
could only follow her. She went before, holding the Davy high,
so that its light might be thrown as far forward as possible.
Now and then she was forced to stoop to make her way around
a bending prop; sometimes there was a falling mass to be sur-
mounted: but she was at the front still when they reached the
other end, without finding the object of their search.
“It — he is na there,” she said. “Let us try th' next pass-
age, and she turned into it.
It was she who first came upon what they were looking for;
but they did not find it in the next passage, or the next, or
even the next. It was farther away from the scene of the ex-
plosion than they had dared to hope. As they entered a narrow
side gallery, Grace heard her utter a low sound, and the next
minute she was down upon her knees.
« Theer's a mon here,” she said. "It's him as we're lookin'
fur. »
She held the dim little lantern close to the face,- a still face
with closed eyes, and blood upon it. Grace knelt down too, his
heart aching with dread.
"Is he – ” he began, but could not finish.
## p. 2816 (#388) ###########################################
2816
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless
breast and waited almost a minute, and then she lifted her own
face, white as the wounded man's - white and solemn, and wet
with a sudden rain of tears.
“He is na dead,” she said. “We ha' saved him. ”
She sat down upon the floor of the gallery, and lifting his
head, laid it upon her bosom, holding it close, as a mother might
hold the head of her child.
«Mester,” she said, "gi' me th' brandy flask, and tak' thou
thy Davy an' go fur some o' the men to help us get him to th'
leet o’ day. I'm gone weak at last. I conna do no more. I'11
go wi' him to th' top. ”
When the cage ascended to the mouth again with its last load
of sufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled by
the golden winter's sunlight as it fell upon her haggard face.
She was holding the head of what seemed to be a dead man
upon her knee.
A great shout of welcome rose up from the
bystanders.
She helped them to lay her charge upon a pile of coats and
blankets prepared for him, and then she turned to the doctor who
had hurried to the spot to see what could be done.
“He is na dead,” she said. "Lay yore hond on his heart. It
beats yet, Mester, - on'y a little, but it beats. ”
“ No,” said the doctor, he is not dead - yet ”; with a
breath's pause between the two last words.
“If some of you
will help me to put him on a stretcher, he may be carried home,
and I will go with him. There is just a chance for him, poor
fellow, and he must have immediate attention. Where does he
live ? )
“He must go with me,” said Grace. “He is my friend. ”
So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and
watched them carry him away,- watched the bearers until they
were out of sight, and then turned again and joined the women
in their work among the sufferers.
By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
## p. 2817 (#389) ###########################################
2817
FRANCES BURNEY (MADAME D’ARBLAY)
(1752-1840)
career as
RHERE is a suggestion of the Ugly Duckling story in Fanny
Burney's early life. The personality of the shy little girl,
who was neither especially pretty nor precocious, was
rather merged in the half-dozen of gayer brothers and sisters. The
first eight years of her life were passed at Lynn Regis in Norfolk;
then the family moved to London, where her father continued his
an important writer on music and a fashionable music-
master. Soon after, Mrs. Burney died. All the children but young
Fanny were sent away to school. She was
to have been educated at home, but re-
ceived little attention from the learned,
kind, but heedless Dr. Burney, who seems
to have considered her the dull member of
his flock. “Poor Fanny! he often said,
until her sudden fame overwhelmed him
with surprise as well as exultation. Only
his friend, her beloved Daddy Crisp of
the letters, appreciated her; himself a dis-
appointed dramatic author, soured by what
he felt to be an incomprehensible failure,
yet of fine critical talent, with kind and FRANCES BURNEY
wise suggestions for his favorite Fanny.
But while her book-education was of the slightest, her social
advantages were great. Pleasure-loving Dr. Burney had a delightful
faculty of attracting witty and musical friends to enliven his home.
Fanny's great unnoticed gift was power of observation. The shy girl
who avoided notice herself, found her social pleasure in watching
and listening to clever people. Perhaps a Gallic strain — for her
mother was of French descent-gave her clear-sightedness. She had
a turn for social satire which added humorous discrimination to her
judgments. She understood people better than books, and perceived
their petty hypocrisies, self-deceptions, and conventional standards,
with witty good sense and love of sincerity. Years of this silent
note-taking and personal intercourse with brilliant people gave her
unusual knowledge of the world.
She was a docile girl, ready always to heed her father and her
“Daddy Crisp,” ready to obey her kindly stepmother, and try to
exchange for practical occupations her pet pastime of scribbling.
V-177
## p. 2818 (#390) ###########################################
2818
FRANCES BURNEY
was
But from the time she was ten she had loved to write down
her impressions, and the habit was too strong to be more than
temporarily renounced. Like many imaginative persons, she
fond of carrying on serial inventions in which repressed fancies
found expression. One long story she destroyed; but the charac-
ters haunted her, and she began a sequel which became Evelina. '
In the young, beautiful, virtuous heroine, with her many mortify-
ing experiences and her ultimate triumph, she may have found com-
pensation for a starved vanity of her own.
For a long time she and her sisters enjoyed Evelina's tribulations;
then Fanny grew ambitious, and encouraged by her brother, thought
of publication. When she tremblingly asked her father's consent, he
carelessly countenanced the venture and gave it no second thought.
After much negotiation, a publisher offered twenty pounds for the
manuscript, and in 1778 the appearance of Evelina' ended Fanny
Burney's obscurity. For a long time the book was the topic of
boundless praise and endless discussion. Every one wondered who
could have written the clever story, which was usually attributed to
a society man. The great Dr. Johnson was enthusiastic, insisted
upon knowing the author, and soon grew very fond of his little
Fanny. He introduced her to his friends, and she became the
celebrity of a delightful circle. Sir Joshua Reynolds and Burke sat
up all night to finish (Evelina. The Thrales, Madame Delaney,–
who later introduced her at court, Sheridan, Gibbon, and Sir
Walter Scott, were among those who admired her most cordially.
It was a happy time for Fanny, encouraged to believe her talent
far greater than it was.
She wrote a drama which was read in sol-
emn judgment by her father and Daddy Crisp,” who decided against
it as too ike (Les Précieuses Ridicules,' a play she had never read.
A second novel, Cecilia,' appeared in 1782, and was as successful as
its predecessor. Later readers find it less spontaneous, and after it
she never resumed her early style except in her journal and corre-
spondence. Her ambition was fully astir. She had every incentive
from her family and friends. But the old zest in composition had
departed. The self-consciousness which had always tormented her
in society seized her now, when she was trying to cater to public
taste, and made her change her frank, free, personal expression for
a stilted artificial formality of phrase.
Her reputation was now at its height, and she was very happy in
her position as society favorite and pride of the father whom she
had always passionately admired, when she made the mistake of
her life. Urged by her father, she accepted a position at court as
Second Keeper of the Queen's Robes. There she spent five pleasure-
less and worse than profitless years. In her Diary and Letters,
## p. 2819 (#391) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2819
the most readable to-day of all her works, she has told the story
of wretched discomfort, of stupidly uncongenial companionship, of
arduous tasks made worse by the selfish thoughtlessness of her supe-
riors. She has also given our best historical picture of that time;
the every-day life at court, the slow agony of King George's increas-
ing insanity. But the drudgery and mean hardships of the place, and
the depression of being separated from her family, broke down her
health; and after much opposition she was allowed to resign in 1791.
Soon afterwards she astonished her friends by marrying General
D'Arblay, a French officer and a gentleman, although very poor. As
the pair had an income of only one hundred pounds, this seems a
perilously rash act for a woman over forty. Fortunately the match
proved a very happy one, and the situation stimulated Madame
D'Arblay to renewed authorship. Camilla,' her third novel, was
sold by subscription, and was a very remunerative piece of work.
But from a critical point of view it was a failure; and being written
in a heavy pedantic style, is quite deficient in her early charm.
With the proceeds she built a modest home, Camilla Cottage. Later
the family moved to France, where her husband died and where her
only son received his early education. When he was nearly ready
for an English university she returned to England, and passed her
tranquil age among her friends until she died at eighty-eight.
What Fanny Burney did in all unconsciousness was to establish
fiction upon a new basis. She may be said to have created the
family novel. Fielding, Smollett, and Sterne had bequeathed their
legacy impregnated with objectionable qualities, in spite of strength
and charm; they were read rather secretly, and tabooed for women.
On the other hand, the followers of Richardson were too didactic
to be readable. Fanny Burney proved that entertaining tales, un-
weighted by heavy moralizing, may be written, adapted to young and
old. Her sketches of life were witty, sincere, and vigorous, yet always
moral in tone. “Evelina,' the work of an innocent, frank girl, could
be read by any one.
A still greater source of her success was her robust and abound-
ing, though sometimes rather broad and cheap, fun. In her time
decent novels were apt to be appallingly serious in tone, and not
infrequently stupid; humor in spite of Addison still connoted much
coarseness and obtrusive sexuality, and in fiction had to be sought
in the novels written for men only. As humor is the deadly foe to
sentimentalism and hysterics, the Richardson school were equally
averse to it on further grounds. Fanny Burney produced novels fit
for women's and family reading, yet full of humor of a masculine
vigor – and it must be added, with something of masculine unsensi-
tiveness. There is little fineness to most of it; some is mere horse-
+
## p. 2820 (#392) ###########################################
2820
FRANCES BURNEY
play, some is extravagant farce: but it is deep and genuine, it supplied
an exigent want, and deserved its welcome. De Morgan says it was
like introducing dresses of glaring red and yellow and other crude
colors into a country where everyone had previously dressed in
drab-a great relief, but not art. This is hard measure, however:
some of her character-drawing is almost as richly humorous and
valid as Jane Austen's own.
Fanny Burney undoubtedly did much to augment the new respect
for woman's intellectual ability, and was a stimulus to the brilliant
group which succeeded her. Miss Ferrier, Maria Edgeworth, and
Jane Austen all owe her something of their inspiration and more of
their welcome.
EVELINA'S LETTER TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS
From (Evelina)
YE
HOLBORN, June 17th.
ESTERDAY Mr. Smith carried his point of making a party for
Vauxhall, consisting of Madame Duval, M. Du Bois, all the
Branghtons, Mr. Brown, himself, - and me! - for I find all
endeavors vain to escape anything which these people desire I
should not.
There were twenty disputes previous to our setting out; first
as to the time of our going: Mr. Branghton, his son, and young
Brown, were for six o'clock, and all the ladies and Mr. Smith
were for eight; - the latter, however, conquered. Then as to the
way we should go: some were for a boat, others for a coach, and
Mr. Branghton himself was for walking; but the boat at length
was decided upon. Indeed, this was the only part of the expe-
dition that was agreeable to me; for the Thames was delightfully
pleasant.
The garden is very pretty, but too formal; I should have
been better pleased had it consisted less of straight walks, where
«Grove nods at grove, each alley ha
its brother. ”
The trees, the numerous lights, and the company in the circle
round the orchestra make a most brilliant and gay appearance;
and had I been with a party less disagreeable to me, I should
have thought it a place formed for animation and pleasure.
There was a concert, in the course of which a hautbois concerto
## p. 2821 (#393) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2821
was
so charmingly played that I could have thought myself
upon enchanted ground, had I had spirits more gentle to asso-
ciate with. The hautbois in the open air is heavenly.
Mr. Smith endeavored to attach himself to me, with such
officious assiduity and impertinent freedom that he quite sickened
me. Indeed, M. Du Bois was the only man of the party to
whom, voluntarily, I ever addressed myself. He is civil and
respectful, and I have found nobody else so since I left Howard
Grove. His English is very bad; but I prefer it to speaking
French myself, which I dare not venture to do. I converse with
him frequently, both to disengage myself from others and to
oblige Madame Duval, who is always pleased when he is at-
tended to.
As we were walking about the orchestra, I heard a bell ring;
and in a moment Mr. Smith, flying up to me, caught my hand,
and with a motion too quick to be resisted, ran away with me
many yards before I had breath to ask his meaning; though I
struggled as well as I could to get from him. At last, however,
I insisted upon stopping. “Stopping, ma'am! ” cried he, “why,
we must run on, or we shall lose the cascade ! »
And then again he hurried me away, mixing with a crowd
of people, all running with so much velocity that I could not
imagine what had raised such an alarm. We were soon followed
by the rest of the party; and my surprise and ignorance proved
a source of diversion to them all which was not exhausted the
whole evening. Young Branghton, in particular, laughed till he
could hardly stand.
The scene of the cascade I thought extremely pretty, and the
general effect striking and lively.
But this was not the only surprise which was to divert them
at my expense; for they led me about the garden purposely to
enjoy my first sight of various other deceptions.
About ten o'clock, Mr. Smith having chosen a box in a very
conspicuous place, we all went to supper. Much fault was found
with everything that was ordered, though not a morsel of any.
thing was left, and the dearness of the provisions, with conject-
ures upon what profit was made by them, supplied discourse
during the whole meal.
When wine and cyder were brought, Mr. Smith said, “Now
let's enjoy ourselves; now is the time, or never. Well, ma'am,
and how do you like Vauxhall ?
.
## p. 2822 (#394) ###########################################
2822
FRANCES BURNEY
"Like it! ” cried young Branghton; "why, how can she help
liking it? She has never seen such a place before, that I'll
answer for. ”
"For my part,” said Miss Branghton, “I like it because it is
not vulgar. "
« This must have been a fine treat for you, Miss,” said Mr.
Branghton; "why, I suppose you was never so happy in all your
life before ? "
I endeavored to express my satisfaction with some pleasure;
yet I believe they were much amazed at my coldness.
“Miss ought to stay in town till the last night,” said young
Branghton; "and then, it's my belief, she'd say something to it!
Why, Lord, it's the best night of any; there's always a riot, —
and there the folks run about,- and then there's such squealing
and squalling ! - and there, all the lamps are broke,- and the
women run skimper-scamper-I declare, I would not take five
guineas to miss the last night!
I was very glad when they all grew tired of sitting, and
called for the waiter to pay the bill. The Miss Branghtons said
they would walk on while the gentlemen settled the account, and
asked me to accompany them; which however I declined.
“You girls may do as you please,” said Madame Duval, “but
as to me, I promise you, I sha'n't go nowhere without the gen-
tlemen. ”
“No more, I suppose, will my cousin,” said Miss Branghton,
looking reproachfully towards Mr. Smith.
This reflection, which I feared would flatter his vanity, made
me most unfortunately request Madame Duval's permission to
attend them. She granted it; and away we went, having prom-
ised to meet in the room.
To the room, therefore, I would immediately have gone: but
the sisters agreed that they would first have a little pleasure;
and they tittered and talked so loud that they attracted universal
notice.
"Lord, Polly,” said the eldest, “suppose we were to take a
turn in the dark walks ? »
“Ay, do," answered she; "and then we'll hide ourselves, and
then Mr. Brown will think we are lost. ”
I remonstrated very warmly against this plan, telling them it
would endanger our missing the rest of the party all the even-
ing.
## p. 2823 (#395) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2823
were
were
« dear,” cried Miss Branghton, “I thought how uneasy Miss
would be, without a beau !
This impertinence I did not think worth answering; and quite
by compulsion I followed them down a long alley, in which
there was hardly any light.
By the time we came near the end, a large party of gentle-
inen, apparently very riotous, and who were hallooing, leaning
on one another, and laughing immoderately, seemed to rush sud-
denly from behind some trees, and meeting us face to face, put
their arms at their sides and formed a kind of circle, which first
stopped our proceeding and then our retreating, for we
presently entirely enclosed. The Miss Branghtons screamed
aloud, and I was frightened exceedingly; our screams
answered with bursts of laughter, and for some minutes we were
kept prisoners, till at last one of them, rudely seizing hold of
me, said I was a pretty little creature.
Terrified to death, I struggled with such vehemence to disen-
gage myself from him that I succeeded, in spite of his efforts
to detain me: and immediately, and with a swiftness which fear
only could have given me, I flew rather than ran up the walk,
hoping to secure my safety by returning to the lights and com-
pany we had so foolishly left; but before I could possibly accom-
plish my purpose, I was met by another party of men, one of
whom placed himself directly in my way, calling out, "Whither
so fast, my love ? ” — so that I could only have proceeded by
running into his arms.
In a moment both my hands, by different persons, were caught
hold of, and one of them, in a most familiar manner, desired
when I ran next to accompany me in a race; while the rest of
the party stood still and laughed. I was almost distracted with
terror, and so breathless with running that I could not speak;
till another, advancing, said I was as handsome as an angel,
and desired to be of the party. I then just articulated, For
Heaven's sake, gentlemen, let me pass! »
Another, then rushing suddenly forward, exclaimed, «Heaven
and earth! what voice is that ? »
« The voice of the prettiest little actress I have seen this age,”
answered one of my persecutors.
“No, no,- no,– ” I panted out, “I am no actress — pray let
pray let me pass — »
“By all that's sacred,” cried the same voice, which I then
knew for Sir Clement Willoughby's, «'tis herself! »
me go,
## p. 2824 (#396) ###########################################
2824
FRANCES BURNEY
A MAN OF THE TON
From Cecilia)
A"
(
Have you
T The door of the Pantheon they were joined by Mr. Arnott
and Sir Robert Floyer, whom Cecilia now saw with added
aversion; they entered the great room during the second
act of the concert, to which, as no one of the party but herself
had any desire to listen, no sort of attention was paid; the ladies
entertaining themselves as if no orchestra was in the room, and
the gentlemen, with an equal disregard to it, struggling for a
place by the fire, about which they continued hovering till the
music was over.
Soon after they were seated, Mr. Meadows, sauntering to-
wards them, whispered something to Mrs. Mears, who, immedi-
ately rising, introduced him to Cecilia; after which, the place
next to her being vacant, he cast himself upon it, and lolling as
much at his ease as his situation would permit, began something
like a conversation with her.
been long in town, ma'am ? ”
"No, sir. ”
« This is not your first winter ? »
« Of being in town, it is. ”
« Then you have something new to see; oh charming! how I
envy you! - Are you pleased with the Pantheon ? »
“Very much; I have seen no building at all equal to it. ”
“You have not been abroad. Traveling is the ruin of all
happiness! There's no looking at a building here after seeing
Italy. ”
“Does all happiness, then, depend upon sight of buildings? ”
said Cecilia, when, turning towards her companion, she perceived
him yawning, with such evident inattention to her answer that,
not choosing to interrupt his reverie, she turned her head another
way.
For some minutes he took no notice of this; and then, as if
suddenly recollecting himself, he called out hastily, “I beg your
pardon, ma'am, you were saying something? ”
“No, sir; nothing worth repeating. ”
“Oh, pray don't punish me so severely as not to let me hear
it ! »
Cecilia, though merely not to seem offended at his negli-
gence, was then beginning an answer, when looking at him as she
## p. 2825 (#397) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2825
spoke, she perceived that he was biting his nails with so absent
an air that he appeared not to know he had asked any question.
She therefore broke off, and left him to his cogitation.
Some time after, he addressed her again, saying, “Don't you
find this place extremely tiresome, ma'am ? »
“Yes, sir,” said she half laughing, it is indeed not very
entertaining! ”
"Nothing is entertaining,” answered he, «for two minutes
together. Things are so little different one from another, that
there is no making pleasure out of anything. We go the same
dull round forever; nothing new, no variety! all the same thing
over again! Are you fond of public places, ma'am ? ”
“Yes, sir, soberly, as Lady Grace says. "
“Then I envy you extremely, for you have some amusement
always in your own power.
How desirable that is! ”
“And have you not the same resources ? »
« Oh no!
I am tired to death! tired of everything! I would
give the universe for a disposition less difficult to please. Yet,
after all, what is there to give pleasure? When one has seen
one thing, one has seen everything. Oh, 'tis heavy work! Don't
you find it so, ma'am ? »
This speech was ended with so violent a fit of yawning that
Cecilia would not trouble herself to answer it: but her silence
as before passed unnoticed, exciting neither question nor com-
ment.
A long pause now succeeded, which he broke at last by say.
ing, as he writhed himself about upon his seat, “These forms
would be much more agreeable if there were backs to them.
'Tis intolerable to be forced to sit like a schoolboy. The first
study of life is ease. There is indeed no other study that pays
the trouble of attainment. Don't you think so, ma'am ? ”
"But may not even that,” said Cecilia, “by so much study
become labor ? »
"I am vastly happy you think so. ”
« Sir? ”
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought you said — I really
beg your pardon, but I was thinking of something else. ”
"You did very right, sir,” said Cecilia, laughing, “for what I
said by no means merited any attention. ”
"Will you do me the favor to repeat it ? ” cried he, taking out
his glass to examine some lady at a distance.
## p. 2826 (#398) ###########################################
2826
FRANCES BURNEY
“Oh no,” said Cecilia, “that would be trying your patience
too severely. ”
« These glasses shew one nothing but defects,” said he; "I am
sorry they were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty;
no complexion can stand them. I believe that solo will never be
over! I hate a solo; it sinks, it depresses me intolerably. ”
“You will presently, sir,” said Cecilia, looking at the bill of
the concert, “have a full piece; and that I hope will revive
you. ”
"A full piece! oh, insupportable! it stuns, it fatigues, it over-
powers me beyond endurance! no taste in it, no delicacy, no room
for the smallest feeling. ”
"Perhaps, then, you are only fond of singing ? ”
«I should be, if I could hear it; but we are now so miserably
off in voices, that I hardly ever attempt to listen to a song, with-
out fancying myself deaf from the feebleness of the performers.
I hate everything that requires attention. Nothing gives pleasure
that does not force its own way. ”
« You only, then, like loud voices, and great powers ? ”
“Oh, worse and worse! — no, nothing is so disgusting to me.
All my amazement is that these people think it worth while to
give concerts at all — one is sick to death of music. ”
Nay,” cried Cecilia, “if it gives no pleasure, at least it takes
none away; for, far from being any impediment to conversation,
I think everybody talks more during the performance than be-
tween the acts. And what is there better you could substitute
in its place ? "
Cecilia, receiving no answer to this question, again looked
round to see if she had been heard; when she observed her new
acquaintance, with a very thoughtful air, had turned from her to
fix his eyes upon the statue of Britannia.
Very soon after, he hastily arose, and seeming entirely to
forget that he had spoken to her, very abruptly walked away.
