“‘And from what, ma’am,’ cried I, astonished, and imagining I had mistaken them, ‘is this taken?’
“‘From my sister’s novel!’ answered the delighted Lady Say and Sele, expecting my raptures to be equal to her own; ‘it’s in the “Mausoleum,”—did not you know that? Well, I can’t think how you can write these sweet novels! And it’s all just like that part. Lord Hawke himself says it’s all poetry. For my part, I’m sure I never could write so. I suppose, Miss Burney, you are producing another—a’n’t you?’
“‘No, ma’am.’
“‘Oh, I dare say you are. I dare say you are writing one at this very minute!’”
Years afterwards, when Miss Burney had entered the royal household, Queen Charlotte lent her a presentation copy of a novel which her Majesty had received from Lady Hawke. The book proved to be the “Mausoleum of Julia,” then at length given to the public. “It is all of a piece,” laughed Fanny, on reading it—“all love, love, love, unmixed and unadulterated with any more worldly materials.”
‘Cecilia’ was now passing slowly through the press, amidst the comments and flattering predictions of the few friends who were permitted to see the manuscript. Mrs. Thrale and Queeny reddened their eyes over the pages; Dr. Burney found them more engrossing even than ‘Evelina;’ but the author’s only real adviser was her ‘other daddy.’ Crisp was a close, but not an overbearing critic; he had great faith in his Fannikin, and he was restrained, besides, by rankling memories of his unfortunate ‘Virginia.’ ‘Whomever you think fit to consult,’ he wrote, ‘let their talents and taste be ever so great, hear what they say, but never give up, or alter a tittle, merely on their authority, nor unless it perfectly accords with your own inward feelings. I can say this to my sorrow and to my cost. But mum!’ And if Crisp was somewhat dogmatic, he was also a sanguine admirer, declaring that he would insure the rapid and complete success of the novel for half a crown. Miss Burney, too, though bashful in a drawing-room, had plenty of self-reliance in her study, and was by no means disposed to be often seeking counsel. Macaulay, always confident in his conjectures, will have it that she received assistance from Johnson. But he had before him, in the Diary, a distinct assertion to the contrary, stated to have been made by the Doctor himself some time after the publication. If we may trust Fanny, Johnson said: ‘Ay, some people want to make out some credit to me from the little rogue’s book. I was told by a gentleman this morning that it was a very fine book if it was all her own. “It is all her own,” said I, “for me, I am sure; for I never saw one word of it before it was printed.”’[[53]] Macaulay did not mean to emulate Croker; he was betrayed by fancied resemblances of style, than which nothing can be more deceptive. The probability is that the manuscript was not submitted to Johnson, lest he should be held to have written what he only corrected.
‘Cecilia; or, The Memoirs of an heiress,’ was published in July, 1782. “We have been informed,” says Macaulay, “by persons who remember those days, that no romance of Sir Walter Scott was more impatiently awaited, or more eagerly snatched from the counters of the booksellers.” The first edition, which was exhausted in the following October, consisted of two thousand copies; and Macaulay was told by someone, not named, that an equal number of pounds was received by the author for her work. There is no producible authority for the latter statement, and we cannot but think that it is an exaggeration, arising out of some confusion between the amount paid for the copyright, and the number of copies first printed. At any rate, the sum mentioned does not seem to square with some expressions used by Burke, who about this time began to take a personal interest in Miss Burney.
The great statesman was introduced to her, a few days before her second novel appeared, at a dinner given by Sir Joshua in his house on Richmond Hill. At the end of July he addressed her in a letter of congratulation: ‘You have crowded,’ he wrote, ‘into a few small volumes an incredible variety of characters; most of them well planned, well supported, and well contrasted with each other. If there be any fault in this respect, it is one in which you are in no great danger of being imitated. Justly as your characters are drawn, perhaps they are too numerous. But I beg pardon; I fear it is quite in vain to preach economy to those who are come young to excessive and sudden opulence. I might trespass on your delicacy if I should fill my letter to you with what I fill my conversation to others. I should be troublesome to you alone if I should tell you all I feel and think on the natural vein of humour, the tender pathetic, the comprehensive and noble moral, and the sagacious observation, that appear quite throughout that extraordinary performance.’ To be addressed in such terms by such a man was enough to turn the head of any young writer; and this letter may be regarded as marking the topmost point in Fanny’s literary[literary] career.
Four months afterwards she encountered Mr. Burke again at Miss Monckton’s[[54]] assembly. The gathering was a brilliant one: most of the ladies present were going to the Duchess of Cumberland’s, and were in full dress, oppressed by the weight of their sacques and ruffles; but as soon as Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds entered, Frances Burney had no eyes for anyone else. When the knight had paid his compliments, Burke sat down beside her, and a conversation ensued, in which the great man used the words to which we have referred. He began by repeating and amplifying the praises of his letter; and then, not to appear fulsome, proceeded to find fault: the famous masquerade he thought too long, and that something might be spared from Harrel’s grand assembly; he did not like Morrice’s part at the Pantheon, and he wished the conclusion either more happy or more miserable; ‘for in a work of imagination,’ said he, ‘there is no medium.’ But, he added, there was one further fault more serious than any he had mentioned, and that was the disposal of the book: why had not Mr. Briggs, the city gentleman of the novel, been sent for? he would have taken care that it should not be parted with so much below par. Had two thousand pounds, or any sum approaching that, been given for the copyright, the price could not have been considered insufficient. We are obliged, therefore, to conclude that the story told to the Edinburgh Reviewer was apocryphal.[[55]]
The list of Miss Burney’s friends continued to enlarge itself. In the winter of 1782-3, besides being made free of certain fashionable houses, such as Miss Monckton’s and Mrs. Walsingham’s,[[56]] she became known to the two ‘old wits,’ Owen Cambridge and Soame Jenyns,[[57]] to Erskine, the Wartons, Benjamin West, Jackson of Exeter, William Windham, Dr. Parr, Mrs. Delany, and a host of others, till she began ‘to grow most heartily sick of this continual round of visiting, and these eternal new acquaintances.’ Soame Jenyns came to meet her at a reception arranged by his special request, and, at seventy-eight, arrayed himself for the occasion in a Court suit of apricot-coloured silk, lined with white satin, making all the slow speed in his power to address her, as she entered, in a studied harangue on the honour, and the pleasure, and the what not, of seeing so celebrated an authoress; while the whole of a large company rose, and stood to listen to his compliments.