On another musical evening, of which Fanny wrote an account, there were present: the French Ambassador, the Count de Guignes, at whose request the concert was given; the Danish Ambassador, Baron Deiden, and his wife; the Groom of the Stole, Lord Ashburnham, ‘with his gold key dangling from his pocket;’ Lord Barrington from the War Office, and Lord Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty. Of this last, the boon-companion and denouncer[[25]] of Wilkes, Miss Fanny naïvely asks, “I want to know why he is called Jemmy Twitcher in the newspapers? Do pray tell me that.”
Very seldom, in these latter days, does any private carriage, with or without a coronet on its panels, turn into the decayed thoroughfare running down from the bottom of Leicester Square. ‘Vulgarly-peopled,’ according to Madame d’Arblay, even in her father’s time, St. Martin’s Street has since fallen many degrees lower yet. The house to which the fashionable world was drawn by the charms of Burney’s music stands on the east side, immediately above the chapel at the corner of Orange Street. The glass observatory which Dr. Burney repaired, and which he subsequently rebuilt when it was blown away by a gale of wind, has long since disappeared. It was replaced by a wooden[[26]] erection, or what Macaulay calls ‘a square turret,’ which, when the essayist wrote, distinguished the house from all the surrounding buildings. This erection also has been removed, but the house itself cannot be mistaken by any passer-by who cares to see it. A tablet on the front bears the inscription: ‘Sir Isaac Newton, philosopher, lived here.’ The house is at present the quarters of the United Service Warrant Officers’ Club. No great effort is required to imagine the plain, silent Newton passing in and out of that slender doorway. The movements of the man qui genus humanum ingenio superavit were without noise and ostentation. We may let half a century go by in thought, and with equal ease picture to ourselves David Garrick tripping up the steps before breakfast; Samuel Johnson rolling up them for a call, on his way to dine with Mrs. Montagu; pleasant Dr. Burney briskly setting out on his daily round of lessons; and demure Miss Fanny sallying forth to seek an interview incognita with her publisher. But how call up the scene, when the lacqueys of Count Orloff—Orloff the Big, Walpole calls him—thundered at the knocker, or when officers of the Household, displaying the ensigns of their rank, peers with stars and orders, and great ladies arrayed in brocaded silks and immense head-dresses, followed one another up a confined staircase[[27]] into a couple of small and crowded reception-rooms? Standing opposite to the club where our gallant petty officers of to-day congregate, and noticing that to the left of it, on the other side of Long’s Court, there is now a cheap lodging-house for working men, and that a little further to the left, at the entrance from the Square, the roadway narrows, as we learn from the “Memoirs” that it did in Burney’s time, till there is barely room for a single vehicle of moderate size to pass, we recognise the limitations of the human fancy. It is difficult to conceive of a great aristocratic crowd assembling in such a place. We can understand the pride with which Fanny set down the prolonged rat-tat-tat-tat-too that announced the arrival of each titled and decorated visitor. We may observe the pains she took to draw and colour for her country correspondent groups of dazzling figures such as had never been seen in the more spacious area of Queen Square. But they are gone, and in presence of the dirt and squalor which have made St. Martin’s Street little better than an East-End slum, their shadows will not revisit the glimpses of the moon. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Somewhat later, Dr. Burney formed a new connection which had an important influence on the life of his second daughter. He was invited to Streatham by Mr. and Mrs. Thrale to give lessons in music to their eldest daughter, familiarly called Queeny, who afterwards became Viscountess Keith. There, besides winning the regard of the Thrales, he renewed his acquaintance with Dr. Johnson, to whom he had made himself known by letter twenty-two years before. Johnson, who had no ear, despised music, and was wont to speak slightingly of its professors, but he conceived a strong liking for Burney. In bringing out the ‘Tour to the Hebrides,’ the author confessed that he had kept his friend’s Musical Tours in view. At this time, Richard, the youngest son of Dr. Burney, born of his second marriage, was preparing for Winchester School, whither his father proposed conveying him in person. Johnson, who was a friend of Dr. Warton, the headmaster, volunteered to accompany them, and introduce the new pupil. This joint expedition of Johnson and Burney was followed by a similar one to Oxford, and their intercourse became so cordial that Mrs. Thrale and Johnson arranged to meet in St. Martin’s Street, there to make acquaintance with Burney’s family, to look over his library, and to see Newton’s house. Fanny, who had just come up from Chesington, wrote an account of this visit to her daddy:
“My dearest Mr. Crisp,
My father seemed well pleased at my returning to my time; so that is no small consolation and pleasure to me for the pain of quitting you. So now to our Thursday morning and Dr. Johnson, according to my promise.
We were all—by we, I mean Suzette, Charlotte, and I—for my mother had seen him before, as had my sister Burney; but we three were all in a twitter from violent expectation and curiosity for the sight of this monarch of books and authors.
Mrs. and Miss Thrale, Miss Owen, and Mr. Seward,[[28]] came long before Lexiphanes. Mrs. Thrale is a pretty woman still, though she has some defect in the mouth that looks like a cut or scar; but her nose is very handsome, her complexion very fair; she has the embonpoint charmant, and her eyes are blue and lustrous. She is extremely lively and chatty, and showed none of the supercilious or pedantic airs so freely, or rather so scoffingly, attributed by you envious lords of the creation to women of learning or celebrity; on the contrary, she is full of sport, remarkably gay, and excessively agreeable. I liked her in everything except her entrance into the room, which was rather florid and flourishing, as who should say, ‘It’s I!—no less a person than Mrs. Thrale!’ However, all that ostentation wore out in the course of the visit, which lasted the whole morning; and you could not have helped liking her, she is so very entertaining—though not simple enough, I believe, for quite winning your heart....
The conversation was supported with a great deal of vivacity, as usual when il Signor Padrone is at home; but I can write you none of it, as I was still in the same twitter, twitter, twitter, I have acknowledged, to see Dr. Johnson. Nothing could have heightened my impatience—unless Pope could have been brought to life again—or, perhaps, Shakespeare!
This confab was broken up by a duet between your Hettina and, for the first time to company-listeners, Suzette; who, however, escaped much fright, for she soon found she had no musical critics to encounter in Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Seward, or Miss Owen, who know not a flat from a sharp, nor a crotchet from a quaver. But every knowledge is not given to everybody—except to two gentle wights of my acquaintance: the one commonly hight il Padre, and the other il Dadda. Do you know any such sort of people, sir? Well, in the midst of this performance, and before the second movement was come to a close, Dr. Johnson was announced!
Now, my dear Mr. Crisp, if you like a description of emotions and sensations—but I know you treat them all as burlesque; so let’s proceed.