The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1871-11-25

ing topic OF conversation in all polite cir
Giles.
On this particular morning, he asked his
daughter Charlotte to bring him the last
number of the Monthly Review, one of the
leading periodicals of the day. He opened
it, by chance, at the page where the new
novel was reviewed and highly commended.
Some extracts were given to show the quail
ity of the work, and the tone of the article
was such as to denote the novel was one OF
particular interest to the public. He read
this review with close attention, and then
laid the magazine aside. A few minutes
after he snatched it up again with strange
eagerness, and read the review over again.
Turning to his dughter, he told her to
come close to him, and, putting his finger
on the word Eralina, said to her: /" You
know what that is"
He sent for the book; and when it
arrived, he read upon the first page poet
ical address by the anonymous author to
her father, which, as he read it, produced
in his mind an unwonted emotion:
"Oh, author of my being. far more dear
To me than light, than nourishment or
. rest,
Hygeia's blessings, Rapture's burning tear,
Or the life-blood that mantles in my
breast.
If in my heart the love of virtue glows.
Twas planted there by an unerring rule;
From thy example the pure flame arose.
Thy life, my precept; thy good works,
my school.
= Y +
Oh! of my life at once the source and joy!
If e'er thy eyes these feeble lines survey,
Let not their folly their intent Destroy
Accept the tribute, but forget the lay
The tears gushed from his eyes, and
rolled down his cheeks. He could doubt
no longer.
He remembered that two or three years
before this, his daughter, Fanny, had said
something to him about writing novel for
her amusement, and getting it published
if she could. He had laughed in his usual
gay, indulgent manner, at the notion of
his shy and timorous daughter concerning
so audacious scheme. But the circum-
stance had passed from his mind completely
London had been ringing with the fame
of the new book for several months, with
out his suspecting that the author could be
his own child.
Who, indeed, that knew little fanny Bur-
ney, as she lived at home among her elders,
could have suspected, could have believed,
that girl so quiet, retiring, bashful and
uninformed, was the author of the most sue
cessful novels of that generation? From
early childhood she had been noted for her
backwardness in learning, her extreme diff
fidence, and certain awkwardness which
arose from her being short-sighted. She
had even passed among the friends of the
family, by the name of ''the Little Ounce"
At eight years of age, she did not know
her letters. At ten she could not write
Ashamed of her ignorance, dreading the
censure of others, unable to see clearly at
a little distance, her countenance presented
strange, blank aspect, and there was
such an absence of the usual vivacity of
childhood, that friends who were too good
natured to call her the "Little Ounce
spoke of her as the "Old Lady"
1t was only her parents and sisters who
knew that, under this unpromising exterior
she concealed fund of good sense, and a
habit of closely observing the life that
went ON around her. When alone with
her sisters, she showed some talent in MINI
icing the actors whom she was accustomed
to see at Garrick's theatre. This was
pleasure she often enjoyed, since Garrick
was one of her fathers most intimate
friends.
The loss of her mother, when she was
nine years of age, threw her into grief so
acute that the mistress of the school which
she was attending, declared that she had
never met with child capable of such
intense affection Indeed, she loved both
her parents, but especially her father, with
a kind of romantic passion, which, one
would think, ought to have saved her from
the strange neglect was her portion during
childhood. 1t seems she was only put to
school during her mothers last illness, to
get her out of the way, and she was re-
moved from school after her mothers
death. At ten years of age she had taught
herself to read, but was still so unskliful
with the pen, that her scribbling was illeg-
ible to every one but herself.
But here is the wonder of her childhood.
Before she could read with ease and pleas
ure, before she had formed the habit of
reading at all, before she could write leg
ible hand, she fell into the habit of scrib
bling little poems and tales, which she read
only to one of her sisters, and then hid
them from all eyes, in her private store
No one urged her to this, or encouraged
her, or, indeed, knew anything of it but
her sister; nor does it appear that she ever
had regular instruction of any kind.
For such girl, however-so morbidly
bashful, so sensitive, and so observant-
the best school in the world, perhaps the
best that could have been contrived or
imagined, was the conversation of her
fathers drawing-room and dinner table;
where gathered the elite of the authors.
artists, musicians and actors of the metrop
oils. Few men of London had wider cir
Gle of agreeable friends than DIR. Bnrney,
whose travels in France and Germany had
added to his acquaintance many accom-
plished foreigners.
Her mind thrived under this pleasant
regimen. At twelve, she was devourlns
reader. At fourteen, she was dlligent
student in her fathers excellent library.
where she wrote books of extracts, and
recorded critical observations upon the
many books she read. At sixteen, she was
learning French from a sister who had
acquired the language in France, and she
remained thenceforth a studious thought.
full girl.
DR.. Burney, while she was child, gave
her a step-mother-an intelligent, gifted