If such was the case, the parson said, the
intervening
period
must be turned to the best account.
must be turned to the best account.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v05 - Bro to Cai
In this
they are justified by Lord Macartney himself, who in a subse-
quent letter informs the court that his sketch is a matter of
speculation; it supposes the country restored to its ancient pros-
perity, and the revenue to be in a course of effective and honest
collection. If therefore the ministers have gone wrong, they
were not deceived by Lord Macartney: they were deceived by
no man. The estimate of the directors is nearly the very esti-
mate furnished by the right honorable gentleman himself, and
published to the world in one of the printed reports of his own
committee; but as soon as he obtained his power, he chose to
abandon his account. No part of his official conduct can be
defended on the ground of his Parliamentary information.
FROM THE SPEECH ON (THE FRENCH REVOLUTION)
WE
HEN ancient opinions and rules of life are taken away, the
loss cannot possibly be estimated. From that moment
we have no compass to govern us; nor can we know dis-
tinctly to what port we steer. Europe, undoubtedly, taken in a
mass, was in a flourishing condition the day on which your
revolution was completed. How much of that prosperous state
was owing to the spirit of our old manners and opinions is not
easy to say; but as such causes cannot be indifferent in their
operation, we must presume that on the whole their operation
was beneficial.
We are but too apt to consider things in the state in which
we find them, without sufficiently adverting to the causes by
which they have been produced and possibly may be upheld.
Nothing is more certain than that our manners, our civilization,
and all the good things which are connected with manners and
with civilization, have in this European world of ours depended
for ages upon two principles, and were indeed the result of both
combined: I mean the spirit of a gentleman and the spirit of
religion. The nobility and the clergy, the one by profession,
the other by patronage, kept learning in existence even in the
midst of and confusions, and whilst governments were
arms
## p. 2803 (#375) ###########################################
EDMUND BURKE
2803
rather in their causes than formed. Learning paid back what it
received to nobility and to priesthood; and paid it with usury,
by enlarging their ideas and by furnishing their minds. Happy
if they had all continued to know their indissoluble union and
their proper place! Happy if learning, not debauched by ambi-
tion, had been satisfied to continue the instructor, and not
aspired to be the master! Along with its natural protectors and
guardians, learning will be cast into the mire and trodden down
under the hoofs of a swinish multitude.
If, as I suspect, modern letters owe more than they are
always willing to own to ancient manners, so do other interests
which we value full as much as they are worth. Even com-
merce and trade and manufacture, the gods of our economical
politicians, are themselves perhaps but creatures; are themselves
but effects, which as first causes we choose to worship. They
certainly grew under the same shade in which learning four-
ished. They too may decay with their natural protecting prin-
ciples. With you, for the present at least, they threaten to
disappear together. Where trade and manufactures are wanting
to a people, and the spirit of nobility and religion remains,
sentiment supplies, and not always ill supplies, their place; but
if commerce and the arts should be lost in an experiment to try
how well a State may stand without these old fundamental prin-
ciples, what sort of a thing must be a nation of gross, stupid,
ferocious, and at the same time poor and sordid barbarians, -
destitute of religion, honor, or manly pride, possessing nothing
at present and hoping for nothing hereafter ?
I wish you may not be going fast, and by the shortest cut, to
that horrible and disgustful situation. Already there appears a
poverty of conception, a coarseness and vulgarity, in all the pro-
ceedings of the Assembly and of all their instructors. Their
liberty is not liberal. Their science is presumptuous ignorance.
Their humanity is savage and brutal.
It is not clear whether in England we learned those grand
and decorous principles and manners, of which considerable
'traces yet remain, from you, or whether you took them from us.
But to you, I think, we trace them best. You seem to me to
be gentis incunabula nostra. France has always more or less in-
fluenced manners in England; and when your fountain is choked
up and polluted the stream will not run long, or not run clear,
with us or perhaps with any nation. This gives all Europe, in
## p. 2804 (#376) ###########################################
2804
EDMUND BURKE
my opinion, but too close and connected a concern in what is
done in France. Excuse me therefore if I have dwelt too long
on the atrocious spectacle of the 6th of October, 1789, or have
given too much scope to the reflections which have arisen in my
mind on occasion of the most important of all revolutions, which
may be dated from that day, -I mean a revolution in senti-
ments, manners, and moral opinions. As things now stand, with
everything respectable destroyed without us, and an attempt to
destroy within us every principle of respect, one is almost forced
to apologize for harboring the common feelings of men.
Why do I feel so differently from the Reverend Dr. Price
and those of his lay flock who will choose to adopt the senti-
ments of his discourse ? For this plain reason - because it is
natural I should; because we are so made as to be affected at
such spectacles with melancholy sentiments upon the unstable
condition of mortal prosperity, and the tremendous uncertainty
of human greatness; because in those natural feelings we learn
great lessons; because in events like these our passions instruct
our reason; because when kings are hurled from their thrones
by the Supreme Director of this great drama, and become the
objects of insult to the base and of pity to the good, we behold
such disasters in the moral as we should a miracle in the physi-
cal order of things. We are alarmed into reflection; our minds
(as it has long since been observed) are purified by terror and
pity; our weak, unthinking pride is humbled under the dis-
pensations of a mysterious wisdom. Some tears might be drawn
from
me, if such a spectacle were exhibited on the stage. I
should be truly ashamed of finding in myself that superficial,
theatric sense of painted distress, whilst I could exult over it in
real life. With such a perverted mind, I could never venture to
show my face at a tragedy. People would think the tears that
Garrick formerly, or that Siddons not long since, have extorted
from me, were the tears of hypocrisy; I should know them to
be the tears of folly.
Indeed, the theatre is a better school of moral sentiments
than churches where the feelings of humanity are thus out-
raged. Poets, who have to deal with an audience not yet grad-
uated in the school of the rights of men, and who must apply
themselves to the moral constitution of the heart, would not dare
to produce such a triumph as a matter of exultation. There,
where men follow their natural impulses, they would not bear
## p. 2805 (#377) ###########################################
EDMUND BURKE
2805
the odious maxims of a Machiavellian policy, whether applied
to the attainment of monarchical or democratic tyranny. They
would reject them on the modern, as they once did on the
ancient stage, where they could not bear even the hypothetical
proposition of such wickedness in the mouth of a personated
tyrant, though suitable to the character he sustained. No the-
atric audience in Athens would bear what has been borne in the
midst of the real tragedy of this triumphal day: a principal actor
weighing, as it were in scales hung in a shop of horrors, so
much actual crime against so much contingent advantage, and
after putting in and out weights, declaring that the balance was
on the side of the advantages. They would not bear to see the
crimes of new democracy posted as in a ledger against the
crimes of old despotism, and the book-keepers of politics finding
democracy still in debt, but by no means unable or unwilling
to pay the balance. In the theatre, the first intuitive glance,
without any elaborate process of reasoning, will show that this
method of political computation would justify every extent of
crime. They would see that on these principles, even where the
very worst acts were not perpetrated, it was owing rather to the
fortune of the conspirators than to their parsimony in the expend-
iture of treachery and blood. They would soon see that crim-
inal means, once tolerated, are soon preferred. They present a
shorter cut to the object than through the highway of the moral
virtues. Justifying perfidy and murder for public benefit, public
benefit would soon become the pretext, and perfidy and murder
the end; until rapacity, malice, revenge, and fear more dreadful
than revenge, could satiate their insatiable appetites. Such must
be the consequences of losing, in the splendor of these triumphs
of the rights of men, all natural sense of wrong and right.
But the reverend pastor exults in this “leading in triumph,"
because truly Louis the Sixteenth was “an arbitrary monarch ";
that is, in other words, neither more nor less than because he
was Louis the Sixteenth, and because he had the misfortune to
be born King of France, with the prerogatives of which a long
line of ancestors, and a long acquiescence of the people, without
any act of his, had put him in possession. A misfortune it has
indeed turned out to him, that he was born King of France.
But misfortune is not crime, nor is indiscretion always the
greatest guilt. I shall never think that a prince, the acts of
whose whole reign were a series of concessions to his subjects;
## p. 2806 (#378) ###########################################
2806
EDMUND BURKE
who was willing to relax his authority, to remit his prerogatives,
to call his people to a share of freedom not known, perhaps not
desired, by their ancestors: such a prince, though he should be
subjected to the common frailties attached to men and to princes,
though he should have once thought it necessary to provide
force against the desperate designs manifestly carrying on against
his person and the remnants of his authority, - though all this
should be taken into consideration, I shall be led with great
difficulty to think he deserves the cruel and insulting triumph of
Paris and of Dr. Price. I tremble for the cause of liberty, from
such an example to kings. I tremble for the cause of humanity,
in the unpunished outrages of the most wicked of mankind.
But there are some people of that low and degenerate fashion of
mind that they look up with a sort of complacent awe and
admiration to kings who know how to keep firm in their seat, to
hold a strict hand over their subjects, to assert their prerogative,
and by the awakened vigilance of a severe despotism to guard
against the very first approaches of freedom. Against such as
these they never elevate their voice. Deserters from principle,
listed with fortune, they never see any good in suffering virtue,
nor any crime in prosperous usurpation.
If it could have been made clear to me that the King and
Queen of France (those I mean who were such before the
triumph) were inexorable and cruel tyrants, that they had
formed a deliberate scheme for massacring the National Assem-
bly (I think I have seen something like the latter insinuated in
certain publications), I should think their captivity just. If this
be true, much more ought to have been done; but done, in my
opinion, in another manner. The punishment of real tyrants is
a noble and awful act of justice; and it has with truth been said
to be consolatory to the human mind. But if I were to punish
a wicked king, I should regard the dignity in avenging the
crime. Justice is grave and decorous, and in its punishments
rather seems to submit to a necessity than to make a choice.
Had Nero, or Agrippina, or Louis the Eleventh, or Charles the
Ninth, been the subject; if Charles the Twelfth of Sweden after
the murder of Patkul, or his predecessor Christina after the
murder of Monaldeschi, had fallen into your hands, sir, or into
mine, I am sure our conduct would have been different.
If the French King, or King of the French (or by whatever
name he is known in the new vocabulary of your constitution),
## p. 2807 (#379) ###########################################
EDMUND BURKE
2807
has in his own person and that of his Queen really deserved these
unavowed but unavenged murderous attempts, and those frequent
indignities more cruel than murder, such a person would ill de-
serve even that subordinate executory trust which I understand
is to be placed in him; nor is he fit to be called chief in a nation
which he has outraged and oppressed. A worse choice for such
an office in a new commonwealth than that of a deposed tyrant
could not possibly be made. But to degrade and insult a man
as the worst of criminals, and afterwards to trust him in your
highest concerns as a faithful, honest, and zealous servant, is not
consistent with reasoning, nor prudent in policy, nor safe in
practice. Those who could make such an appointment must be
guilty of a more flagrant breach of trust than any they have yet
committed against the people. As this is the only crime in
which your leading politicians could have acted inconsistently, I
conclude that there is no sort of ground for these horrid insin-
uations. I think no better of all the other calumnies.
In England, we give no credit to them. We are generous
enemies: we are faithful allies. We spurn from us with disgust
and indignation the slanders of those who bring us their anec-
dotes with the attestation of the flower-de-luce on their shoulder.
We have Lord George Gordon fast in Newgate; and neither his
being a public proselyte to Judaism, nor his having, in his zeal
against Catholic priests and all sorts of ecclesiastics, raised a mob
(excuse the term, it is still in use here) which pulled down all
our prisons, have preserved to him a liberty of which he did not
render himself worthy by a virtuous use of it. We have rebuilt
Newgate, and tenanted the mansion. We have prisons almost as
strong as the Bastile for those who dare to libel the Queens of
France. In this spiritual retreat let the noble libeler remain.
Let him there meditate on his Talmud, until he learns a conduct
more becoming his birth and parts, and not so disgraceful to the
ancient religion to which he has become a proselyte; or until
some persons from your side of the water, to please your new
Hebrew brethren, shall ransom him. He may then be enabled
to purchase, with the old hoards of the synagogue, and a very
small poundage on the long compound interest of the thirty pieces
of silver (Dr. Price has shown us what miracles compound interest
will perform in 1790 years), the lands which are lately discovered
to have been usurped by the Gallican Church. Send us your
Popish Archbishop of Paris, and we will send you our Protestant
## p. 2808 (#380) ###########################################
2808
EDMUND BURKE
Rabbin. We shall treat the person you send us in exchange like
a gentleman and an honest man, as he is; but pray let him
bring with him the fund of his hospitality, bounty, and charity;
and depend upon it, we shall never confiscate a shilling of that
honorable and pious fund, nor think of enriching the treasury
with the spoils of the poor-box.
To tell you the truth, my dear sir, I think the honor of our
nation to be somewhat concerned in the disclaimer of the pro-
ceedings of this society of the Old Jewry and the London Tavern.
I have no man's proxy. I speak only for myself when I dis.
claim, as I do with all possible earnestness, all communion with
the actors in that triumph, or with the admirers of it.
assert anything else, as concerning the people of England, I
speak from observation, not from authority; but I speak from the
experience I have had in a pretty extensive and mixed commu-
nication with the inhabitants of this kingdom, of all descriptions
and ranks, and after a course of attentive observation begun
early in life, and continued for nearly forty years. I have often
been astonished, considering that we are divided from you but by
a slender dike of about twenty-four miles, and that the mutual
intercourse between the two countries has lately been very great,
to find how little you seem to know of us. I suspect that this is
owing to your forming a judgment of this nation from certain
publications which do very erroneously, if they do at all, repre-
sent the opinions and dispositions generally prevalent in Eng.
land. The vanity, restlessness, petulance, and spirit of intrigue of
several petty cabals, who attempt to hide their total want of con-
sequence in bustle, and noise, and puffing, and mutual quotation
of each other, makes you imagine that our contemptuous neglect
of their abilities is a mark of general acquiescence in their
opinions. No such thing, I assure you. Because half a dozen
grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their impor-
tunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle reposed beneath the
shadow of the British oak chew the cud and are silent, pray do
not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhab-
itants of the field; that of course they are many in number; or
that after all they are other than the little, shriveled, meagre,
hopping, though loud and troublesome, insects of the hour.
## p. 2809 (#381) ###########################################
2809
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
(1849-)
M
erness.
Rs. BURNETT has told the story of her childhood and tried to
interpret her own personality in her autobiographical story,
“The One I Knew Best of All. ' She has pictured a little
English girl in a comfortable Manchester home, leading a humdrum,
well-regulated existence, with brothers and sisters, nurse and gov-
But an alert imagination added interest to the life of this
« Small Person, and from her nursery windows and from the quiet
park where she played she watched eagerly for anything of dramatic
or picturesque interest. She seized upon the Lancashire dialect often
overheard, as upon a game, and practiced it until she gained the
facility of use shown in her mining and factory stories. One day the
strong and beautiful figure of a young woman, followed by a coarse
and abusive father, caught her attention, and years afterward she
developed Joan Lowrie from the incident.
When the Hodgson family suffered pecuniary loss, and hoping to
better its fortunes came to America, then best known to Frances
from the pages of Uncle Tom's Cabin, she was fifteen. A year or
two later she began to send her stories to various magazines. In
1867 the first of these appeared. She did not however attain her
great popularity until the appearance of That Lass o' Lowrie's)
in 1877. The thoughtfully drawn group of characters — Derrick
the engineer, Grace the young minister, Annie the rector's daughter,
and Joan the pit girl, - are dramatic figures, working out their life
problems under the eyes and the comments of half-cynical, half-
brutalized miners. There is nothing in her history to account for
Joan, or for the fact that the strength of vice in her father becomes
an equal strength of virtue in her. Abused since her babyhood, doing
the work of a man among degrading companionships, she yet remains
capable of the noblest self-abnegation. Mrs. Burnett delights in
heroes and heroines who are thus loftily at variance with their sur-
roundings. Her stories are romantic in spirit, offering little to the
lover of psychologic analysis. Her character-drawing is the product
of quick observation and sympathetic intuition. She does not
write «tendency novels, but appeals to simple emotions of love,
hate, revenge, or self-immolation, which sometimes, as in the case
of her last book, "A Lady of Quality' (1895), verge on sensational-
ism. In 1873 Miss Hodgson married Dr. Burnett of Washington. Her
## p. 2810 (#382) ###########################################
2810
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
longest novel, “Through One Administration,' is a story of the politi-
cal and social life of the Capital. Little Lord Fauntleroy' (1886) is
the best known of a series of stories nominally written for children,
but intended to be read by their elders. (Sara Crewe,' (Giovanni
and the Other,' 'Two Little Pilgrims, and Little Saint Elizabeth'
are chronicles of superlunary children. After those before mentioned,
(Esmeralda,' 'Louisiana,' (A Fair Barbarian,' and Haworth's) are
her best known stories.
AT THE PIT
From (That Lass o' Lowrie's )
TH
He next morning Derrick went down to the mine as usual.
There were several things he wished to do in these last
two days. He had heard that the managers had entered
into negotiations with a new engineer, and he wished the man
to find no half-done work. The day was bright and frosty, and
the sharp, bracing air seemed to clear his brain. He felt more
hopeful, and less inclined to view matters darkly.
He remembered afterward that as he stepped into the cage he
turned to look at the unpicturesque little town, brightened by the
winter's sun; and that as he went down he glanced up at the
sky, and marked how intense appeared the bit of blue which was
framed in by the mouth of the shaft.
Even in the few hours that had elapsed since the meeting,
the rumor of what he had said and done had been bruited about.
Some collier had heard it and had told it to his comrades, and so
it had gone from one to the other. It had been talked over at
the evening and morning meal in divers cottages, and many an
anxious hand had warmed into praise of the man who had had
a thowt for th' men. ”
In the first gallery he entered he found a deputation of men
awaiting him, --- a group of burly miners with picks and shovels
over their shoulders,- and the head of this deputation, a spokes-
man burlier and generally gruffer than the rest, stopped him.
“Mester,” he said, “we chaps 'ud loike to ha' a word wi' yo'. ”
« All right,” was Derrick's reply, “I am ready to listen. ”
The rest crowded nearer, as if anxious to participate as much
as possible, and give their spokesman the support of their pres-
ence.
## p. 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.
they are justified by Lord Macartney himself, who in a subse-
quent letter informs the court that his sketch is a matter of
speculation; it supposes the country restored to its ancient pros-
perity, and the revenue to be in a course of effective and honest
collection. If therefore the ministers have gone wrong, they
were not deceived by Lord Macartney: they were deceived by
no man. The estimate of the directors is nearly the very esti-
mate furnished by the right honorable gentleman himself, and
published to the world in one of the printed reports of his own
committee; but as soon as he obtained his power, he chose to
abandon his account. No part of his official conduct can be
defended on the ground of his Parliamentary information.
FROM THE SPEECH ON (THE FRENCH REVOLUTION)
WE
HEN ancient opinions and rules of life are taken away, the
loss cannot possibly be estimated. From that moment
we have no compass to govern us; nor can we know dis-
tinctly to what port we steer. Europe, undoubtedly, taken in a
mass, was in a flourishing condition the day on which your
revolution was completed. How much of that prosperous state
was owing to the spirit of our old manners and opinions is not
easy to say; but as such causes cannot be indifferent in their
operation, we must presume that on the whole their operation
was beneficial.
We are but too apt to consider things in the state in which
we find them, without sufficiently adverting to the causes by
which they have been produced and possibly may be upheld.
Nothing is more certain than that our manners, our civilization,
and all the good things which are connected with manners and
with civilization, have in this European world of ours depended
for ages upon two principles, and were indeed the result of both
combined: I mean the spirit of a gentleman and the spirit of
religion. The nobility and the clergy, the one by profession,
the other by patronage, kept learning in existence even in the
midst of and confusions, and whilst governments were
arms
## p. 2803 (#375) ###########################################
EDMUND BURKE
2803
rather in their causes than formed. Learning paid back what it
received to nobility and to priesthood; and paid it with usury,
by enlarging their ideas and by furnishing their minds. Happy
if they had all continued to know their indissoluble union and
their proper place! Happy if learning, not debauched by ambi-
tion, had been satisfied to continue the instructor, and not
aspired to be the master! Along with its natural protectors and
guardians, learning will be cast into the mire and trodden down
under the hoofs of a swinish multitude.
If, as I suspect, modern letters owe more than they are
always willing to own to ancient manners, so do other interests
which we value full as much as they are worth. Even com-
merce and trade and manufacture, the gods of our economical
politicians, are themselves perhaps but creatures; are themselves
but effects, which as first causes we choose to worship. They
certainly grew under the same shade in which learning four-
ished. They too may decay with their natural protecting prin-
ciples. With you, for the present at least, they threaten to
disappear together. Where trade and manufactures are wanting
to a people, and the spirit of nobility and religion remains,
sentiment supplies, and not always ill supplies, their place; but
if commerce and the arts should be lost in an experiment to try
how well a State may stand without these old fundamental prin-
ciples, what sort of a thing must be a nation of gross, stupid,
ferocious, and at the same time poor and sordid barbarians, -
destitute of religion, honor, or manly pride, possessing nothing
at present and hoping for nothing hereafter ?
I wish you may not be going fast, and by the shortest cut, to
that horrible and disgustful situation. Already there appears a
poverty of conception, a coarseness and vulgarity, in all the pro-
ceedings of the Assembly and of all their instructors. Their
liberty is not liberal. Their science is presumptuous ignorance.
Their humanity is savage and brutal.
It is not clear whether in England we learned those grand
and decorous principles and manners, of which considerable
'traces yet remain, from you, or whether you took them from us.
But to you, I think, we trace them best. You seem to me to
be gentis incunabula nostra. France has always more or less in-
fluenced manners in England; and when your fountain is choked
up and polluted the stream will not run long, or not run clear,
with us or perhaps with any nation. This gives all Europe, in
## p. 2804 (#376) ###########################################
2804
EDMUND BURKE
my opinion, but too close and connected a concern in what is
done in France. Excuse me therefore if I have dwelt too long
on the atrocious spectacle of the 6th of October, 1789, or have
given too much scope to the reflections which have arisen in my
mind on occasion of the most important of all revolutions, which
may be dated from that day, -I mean a revolution in senti-
ments, manners, and moral opinions. As things now stand, with
everything respectable destroyed without us, and an attempt to
destroy within us every principle of respect, one is almost forced
to apologize for harboring the common feelings of men.
Why do I feel so differently from the Reverend Dr. Price
and those of his lay flock who will choose to adopt the senti-
ments of his discourse ? For this plain reason - because it is
natural I should; because we are so made as to be affected at
such spectacles with melancholy sentiments upon the unstable
condition of mortal prosperity, and the tremendous uncertainty
of human greatness; because in those natural feelings we learn
great lessons; because in events like these our passions instruct
our reason; because when kings are hurled from their thrones
by the Supreme Director of this great drama, and become the
objects of insult to the base and of pity to the good, we behold
such disasters in the moral as we should a miracle in the physi-
cal order of things. We are alarmed into reflection; our minds
(as it has long since been observed) are purified by terror and
pity; our weak, unthinking pride is humbled under the dis-
pensations of a mysterious wisdom. Some tears might be drawn
from
me, if such a spectacle were exhibited on the stage. I
should be truly ashamed of finding in myself that superficial,
theatric sense of painted distress, whilst I could exult over it in
real life. With such a perverted mind, I could never venture to
show my face at a tragedy. People would think the tears that
Garrick formerly, or that Siddons not long since, have extorted
from me, were the tears of hypocrisy; I should know them to
be the tears of folly.
Indeed, the theatre is a better school of moral sentiments
than churches where the feelings of humanity are thus out-
raged. Poets, who have to deal with an audience not yet grad-
uated in the school of the rights of men, and who must apply
themselves to the moral constitution of the heart, would not dare
to produce such a triumph as a matter of exultation. There,
where men follow their natural impulses, they would not bear
## p. 2805 (#377) ###########################################
EDMUND BURKE
2805
the odious maxims of a Machiavellian policy, whether applied
to the attainment of monarchical or democratic tyranny. They
would reject them on the modern, as they once did on the
ancient stage, where they could not bear even the hypothetical
proposition of such wickedness in the mouth of a personated
tyrant, though suitable to the character he sustained. No the-
atric audience in Athens would bear what has been borne in the
midst of the real tragedy of this triumphal day: a principal actor
weighing, as it were in scales hung in a shop of horrors, so
much actual crime against so much contingent advantage, and
after putting in and out weights, declaring that the balance was
on the side of the advantages. They would not bear to see the
crimes of new democracy posted as in a ledger against the
crimes of old despotism, and the book-keepers of politics finding
democracy still in debt, but by no means unable or unwilling
to pay the balance. In the theatre, the first intuitive glance,
without any elaborate process of reasoning, will show that this
method of political computation would justify every extent of
crime. They would see that on these principles, even where the
very worst acts were not perpetrated, it was owing rather to the
fortune of the conspirators than to their parsimony in the expend-
iture of treachery and blood. They would soon see that crim-
inal means, once tolerated, are soon preferred. They present a
shorter cut to the object than through the highway of the moral
virtues. Justifying perfidy and murder for public benefit, public
benefit would soon become the pretext, and perfidy and murder
the end; until rapacity, malice, revenge, and fear more dreadful
than revenge, could satiate their insatiable appetites. Such must
be the consequences of losing, in the splendor of these triumphs
of the rights of men, all natural sense of wrong and right.
But the reverend pastor exults in this “leading in triumph,"
because truly Louis the Sixteenth was “an arbitrary monarch ";
that is, in other words, neither more nor less than because he
was Louis the Sixteenth, and because he had the misfortune to
be born King of France, with the prerogatives of which a long
line of ancestors, and a long acquiescence of the people, without
any act of his, had put him in possession. A misfortune it has
indeed turned out to him, that he was born King of France.
But misfortune is not crime, nor is indiscretion always the
greatest guilt. I shall never think that a prince, the acts of
whose whole reign were a series of concessions to his subjects;
## p. 2806 (#378) ###########################################
2806
EDMUND BURKE
who was willing to relax his authority, to remit his prerogatives,
to call his people to a share of freedom not known, perhaps not
desired, by their ancestors: such a prince, though he should be
subjected to the common frailties attached to men and to princes,
though he should have once thought it necessary to provide
force against the desperate designs manifestly carrying on against
his person and the remnants of his authority, - though all this
should be taken into consideration, I shall be led with great
difficulty to think he deserves the cruel and insulting triumph of
Paris and of Dr. Price. I tremble for the cause of liberty, from
such an example to kings. I tremble for the cause of humanity,
in the unpunished outrages of the most wicked of mankind.
But there are some people of that low and degenerate fashion of
mind that they look up with a sort of complacent awe and
admiration to kings who know how to keep firm in their seat, to
hold a strict hand over their subjects, to assert their prerogative,
and by the awakened vigilance of a severe despotism to guard
against the very first approaches of freedom. Against such as
these they never elevate their voice. Deserters from principle,
listed with fortune, they never see any good in suffering virtue,
nor any crime in prosperous usurpation.
If it could have been made clear to me that the King and
Queen of France (those I mean who were such before the
triumph) were inexorable and cruel tyrants, that they had
formed a deliberate scheme for massacring the National Assem-
bly (I think I have seen something like the latter insinuated in
certain publications), I should think their captivity just. If this
be true, much more ought to have been done; but done, in my
opinion, in another manner. The punishment of real tyrants is
a noble and awful act of justice; and it has with truth been said
to be consolatory to the human mind. But if I were to punish
a wicked king, I should regard the dignity in avenging the
crime. Justice is grave and decorous, and in its punishments
rather seems to submit to a necessity than to make a choice.
Had Nero, or Agrippina, or Louis the Eleventh, or Charles the
Ninth, been the subject; if Charles the Twelfth of Sweden after
the murder of Patkul, or his predecessor Christina after the
murder of Monaldeschi, had fallen into your hands, sir, or into
mine, I am sure our conduct would have been different.
If the French King, or King of the French (or by whatever
name he is known in the new vocabulary of your constitution),
## p. 2807 (#379) ###########################################
EDMUND BURKE
2807
has in his own person and that of his Queen really deserved these
unavowed but unavenged murderous attempts, and those frequent
indignities more cruel than murder, such a person would ill de-
serve even that subordinate executory trust which I understand
is to be placed in him; nor is he fit to be called chief in a nation
which he has outraged and oppressed. A worse choice for such
an office in a new commonwealth than that of a deposed tyrant
could not possibly be made. But to degrade and insult a man
as the worst of criminals, and afterwards to trust him in your
highest concerns as a faithful, honest, and zealous servant, is not
consistent with reasoning, nor prudent in policy, nor safe in
practice. Those who could make such an appointment must be
guilty of a more flagrant breach of trust than any they have yet
committed against the people. As this is the only crime in
which your leading politicians could have acted inconsistently, I
conclude that there is no sort of ground for these horrid insin-
uations. I think no better of all the other calumnies.
In England, we give no credit to them. We are generous
enemies: we are faithful allies. We spurn from us with disgust
and indignation the slanders of those who bring us their anec-
dotes with the attestation of the flower-de-luce on their shoulder.
We have Lord George Gordon fast in Newgate; and neither his
being a public proselyte to Judaism, nor his having, in his zeal
against Catholic priests and all sorts of ecclesiastics, raised a mob
(excuse the term, it is still in use here) which pulled down all
our prisons, have preserved to him a liberty of which he did not
render himself worthy by a virtuous use of it. We have rebuilt
Newgate, and tenanted the mansion. We have prisons almost as
strong as the Bastile for those who dare to libel the Queens of
France. In this spiritual retreat let the noble libeler remain.
Let him there meditate on his Talmud, until he learns a conduct
more becoming his birth and parts, and not so disgraceful to the
ancient religion to which he has become a proselyte; or until
some persons from your side of the water, to please your new
Hebrew brethren, shall ransom him. He may then be enabled
to purchase, with the old hoards of the synagogue, and a very
small poundage on the long compound interest of the thirty pieces
of silver (Dr. Price has shown us what miracles compound interest
will perform in 1790 years), the lands which are lately discovered
to have been usurped by the Gallican Church. Send us your
Popish Archbishop of Paris, and we will send you our Protestant
## p. 2808 (#380) ###########################################
2808
EDMUND BURKE
Rabbin. We shall treat the person you send us in exchange like
a gentleman and an honest man, as he is; but pray let him
bring with him the fund of his hospitality, bounty, and charity;
and depend upon it, we shall never confiscate a shilling of that
honorable and pious fund, nor think of enriching the treasury
with the spoils of the poor-box.
To tell you the truth, my dear sir, I think the honor of our
nation to be somewhat concerned in the disclaimer of the pro-
ceedings of this society of the Old Jewry and the London Tavern.
I have no man's proxy. I speak only for myself when I dis.
claim, as I do with all possible earnestness, all communion with
the actors in that triumph, or with the admirers of it.
assert anything else, as concerning the people of England, I
speak from observation, not from authority; but I speak from the
experience I have had in a pretty extensive and mixed commu-
nication with the inhabitants of this kingdom, of all descriptions
and ranks, and after a course of attentive observation begun
early in life, and continued for nearly forty years. I have often
been astonished, considering that we are divided from you but by
a slender dike of about twenty-four miles, and that the mutual
intercourse between the two countries has lately been very great,
to find how little you seem to know of us. I suspect that this is
owing to your forming a judgment of this nation from certain
publications which do very erroneously, if they do at all, repre-
sent the opinions and dispositions generally prevalent in Eng.
land. The vanity, restlessness, petulance, and spirit of intrigue of
several petty cabals, who attempt to hide their total want of con-
sequence in bustle, and noise, and puffing, and mutual quotation
of each other, makes you imagine that our contemptuous neglect
of their abilities is a mark of general acquiescence in their
opinions. No such thing, I assure you. Because half a dozen
grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their impor-
tunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle reposed beneath the
shadow of the British oak chew the cud and are silent, pray do
not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhab-
itants of the field; that of course they are many in number; or
that after all they are other than the little, shriveled, meagre,
hopping, though loud and troublesome, insects of the hour.
## p. 2809 (#381) ###########################################
2809
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
(1849-)
M
erness.
Rs. BURNETT has told the story of her childhood and tried to
interpret her own personality in her autobiographical story,
“The One I Knew Best of All. ' She has pictured a little
English girl in a comfortable Manchester home, leading a humdrum,
well-regulated existence, with brothers and sisters, nurse and gov-
But an alert imagination added interest to the life of this
« Small Person, and from her nursery windows and from the quiet
park where she played she watched eagerly for anything of dramatic
or picturesque interest. She seized upon the Lancashire dialect often
overheard, as upon a game, and practiced it until she gained the
facility of use shown in her mining and factory stories. One day the
strong and beautiful figure of a young woman, followed by a coarse
and abusive father, caught her attention, and years afterward she
developed Joan Lowrie from the incident.
When the Hodgson family suffered pecuniary loss, and hoping to
better its fortunes came to America, then best known to Frances
from the pages of Uncle Tom's Cabin, she was fifteen. A year or
two later she began to send her stories to various magazines. In
1867 the first of these appeared. She did not however attain her
great popularity until the appearance of That Lass o' Lowrie's)
in 1877. The thoughtfully drawn group of characters — Derrick
the engineer, Grace the young minister, Annie the rector's daughter,
and Joan the pit girl, - are dramatic figures, working out their life
problems under the eyes and the comments of half-cynical, half-
brutalized miners. There is nothing in her history to account for
Joan, or for the fact that the strength of vice in her father becomes
an equal strength of virtue in her. Abused since her babyhood, doing
the work of a man among degrading companionships, she yet remains
capable of the noblest self-abnegation. Mrs. Burnett delights in
heroes and heroines who are thus loftily at variance with their sur-
roundings. Her stories are romantic in spirit, offering little to the
lover of psychologic analysis. Her character-drawing is the product
of quick observation and sympathetic intuition. She does not
write «tendency novels, but appeals to simple emotions of love,
hate, revenge, or self-immolation, which sometimes, as in the case
of her last book, "A Lady of Quality' (1895), verge on sensational-
ism. In 1873 Miss Hodgson married Dr. Burnett of Washington. Her
## p. 2810 (#382) ###########################################
2810
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
longest novel, “Through One Administration,' is a story of the politi-
cal and social life of the Capital. Little Lord Fauntleroy' (1886) is
the best known of a series of stories nominally written for children,
but intended to be read by their elders. (Sara Crewe,' (Giovanni
and the Other,' 'Two Little Pilgrims, and Little Saint Elizabeth'
are chronicles of superlunary children. After those before mentioned,
(Esmeralda,' 'Louisiana,' (A Fair Barbarian,' and Haworth's) are
her best known stories.
AT THE PIT
From (That Lass o' Lowrie's )
TH
He next morning Derrick went down to the mine as usual.
There were several things he wished to do in these last
two days. He had heard that the managers had entered
into negotiations with a new engineer, and he wished the man
to find no half-done work. The day was bright and frosty, and
the sharp, bracing air seemed to clear his brain. He felt more
hopeful, and less inclined to view matters darkly.
He remembered afterward that as he stepped into the cage he
turned to look at the unpicturesque little town, brightened by the
winter's sun; and that as he went down he glanced up at the
sky, and marked how intense appeared the bit of blue which was
framed in by the mouth of the shaft.
Even in the few hours that had elapsed since the meeting,
the rumor of what he had said and done had been bruited about.
Some collier had heard it and had told it to his comrades, and so
it had gone from one to the other. It had been talked over at
the evening and morning meal in divers cottages, and many an
anxious hand had warmed into praise of the man who had had
a thowt for th' men. ”
In the first gallery he entered he found a deputation of men
awaiting him, --- a group of burly miners with picks and shovels
over their shoulders,- and the head of this deputation, a spokes-
man burlier and generally gruffer than the rest, stopped him.
“Mester,” he said, “we chaps 'ud loike to ha' a word wi' yo'. ”
« All right,” was Derrick's reply, “I am ready to listen. ”
The rest crowded nearer, as if anxious to participate as much
as possible, and give their spokesman the support of their pres-
ence.
## p. 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.
