MORE ABOUT MISS BURNEY.* IT is one of the misfortunes
of our age to overdo both the praise and censure of the past. An author who manages to touch the imagination of intelligent people cannot escape from a curiosity which, if it were not posthumous, would be impertinent. The idle details of a life that long ago ceased are discovered and conned and described with the ingenious particularity which used to be devoted to classical scholarship, and to that alone. And when the secrets which the passing years have hidden are brought to the light of day, the poor author who died all unknowing what was in store becomes a cult, and in the indiscretion of his (or her) admirers may touch the utmost limits of the ridiculous.
Fanny Burney has gone through all the stages of per-
plexity, and no one could be found better suited to appeal to the curiosity of bookmakers. She was the daughter of an accomplished musician; she was the friend of Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale ; as a Woman of the Bedchamber she observed the events which almost led to a national crisis and the establishment of a Regency; and she was at home in the most cultured society of her time. That she was also the author of Eve/ina is sometimes forgotten in her other attractions. But it is Evelina which gave her renown, and which made her worth writing about. We cannot help thinking, then, that her admirers would be better employed in reading her master- piece than in attempting to make books about her. Her Diary, one of the fullest that exists, tells the story of her life, and is, moreover, accessible to all. It is but a year ago that an erudite edition of that work was given to the world, and Miss Constance Hill's The House in St. .Martin's Street is hard to justify.
It is not Miss Hill's fault that she is driven to the dreary
task of making bricks without straw. It is her fault that she essayed the task of brickmaking with insufficient materials. Her plan was, we imagine, to sketch the life led by the Burneys in St. Martin's Street, and Madame D'Arblay's Diary gives her all the material that she needs. An agreeable article in a magazine might have been the result of her researches. They do not warrant a whole book. She has little to tell us that we do not already know. Her stories have been told a hundred times. She has much to say of Fanny Burney herself, of Charles Burney, of Daddy Crisp ; but she has nothing to say which is new, and though she affects a new setting in her title, she soon abandons it, and carries us off to Bath or Brighthelmstone, or to many another place which does not belong to the purpose of her book.
The Burneys moved into the house in St. Martin's Street
in 1774, and lived there for seven years. The house still stands, and though demolition and encroachment have robbed it of its dignity, it can still give us a clear impression of what it was when .Evelina was written within its walls. It is said that it was built by Isaac Newton, and that the observatory, which was Miss Burney's favourite sitting-place, where she "could retire to read or write any of her private fancies or vagaries," was the philosopher's own. At any rate, it was in good faith that the Burneys "showed it to all their visitors as their principal lyon." They "were very much pleased with the mansion"; and desolate as it looks now, it is easy enough
• The House in St. Martin's Street : being Chronicles of the Burney Family. By Constance Bill. London : John Lane. [218.2
to reconstruct its comfort and elegance in the eye of our mind. Nor can we pass it to-day without an amiable sentiment, for through its narrow portal passed the accomplished musicians, the great ladies, the gallant gentlemen of the time. It was Charles Burney, not his daughter, then retiring and unknown, who attracted the distinguished and august visitors. To grace his parties the brilliant stars of the Opera would consent to shine in St. Martin's Street. There appeared in 1775 the amazing Signora Agujari—the " Bastardella" whose feats of virtuosity were noted down by Mozart—a lady who "had the character of being immensely proud," but who was all civility in Dr. Burney's parlour; and she behaved with a generosity which is unique in the annals of prime donne. " Agujari mine before 7," records Miss Burney, "and stayed till 12, and was singing all the time' She sung in twenty different styles. The greatest was son regina and son =ante, from Didone. Good Heaven! what a song! and how sang! Then she gave us two or three Cantabiles, sung divinely ; then she chanted some Church music, in a style so nobly simple and unadorned, that it stole into one's very soul ! Then she gave us a bravura, with difficulties which seemed only possible for an instrument in the hands of a great master; then she spoke some recitative, so nobly ! In short, whether she most astonished or most delighted us, I cannot say, but she is really a sublime singer."
If the walls of houses could echo to lost melodies, what music might we hear in St. Martin's Street ! If the rooms still resounded to dead voices, what high converse might there be in the small house of mean aspect ! For thither came Garrick and Johnson and Reynolds and all the wits. And the amiable Dr. Burney was imbued with the true spirit of the lion-hunter. While he delighted in noble music and good talk, he did not disdain the human curiosity. Omai, the Otaheitan chief, Cowper's gentle savage, was also a visitor, and surprised them all with his fine manners. Strangeness, no doubt, cast an air of romance about Omai, and we can easily believe that he was less accomplished and amiable than be is represented. But it is certain that for a season he was the lion of lions, and that the Burneys were lucky people to attract so rare a personage. Of course, the admiration was overdone, 811 it was overdone a year or two back when a second-rate West African chieftain visited London ; and it is absurd to bear of wise people gravely comparing Omai and Mr. Stanhope, much to Mr. Stanhope's disadvantage. Miss Burney was no wiser than the rest. She described him, as all the world remembers, with a kind of enthusiasm. She was delighted with his suit of Manchester velvet lined with white satin, his bag, his lace ruffles, and the sword which the King had given him. "At dinner," says she, "I had the pleasure of sitting next to him. The moment he was helped he presented his plate to me, which, when I declined, he had not the overshot politeness to offer all round, as I have seen some people do, but took it quietly again. He eat heartily, and committed not the slightest blunder at table, neither did he do anything awkwardly or ungainly." Upon which the only possible comment is that Miss Burney fell into the sin which Omai escaped. Her enthusiasm is overshot far beyond the mark of good sense.
However, Miss Hill does not linger very long in St. Martin's Street, and the greater part of her book consists of odds and ends of gossip which are to be found in easily accessible works. The most interesting chapter is that in which a scene from Miss Burney's play, The Witlings, is printed. This is of some value, and perhaps a worshipper of the novelist may think it worth while to print the whole comedy. In the meantime it seems prudent that Miss Burney's Diary should be left to tell its own story, and that the author of Evelina should no longer be made an excuse for inapposite book- making.
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