November 18.—­Was introduced by Rogers to Mad.  D’Arblay, the celebrated authoress of Evelina and Cecilia,—­an elderly lady, with no remains of personal beauty, but with a gentle manner and a pleasing expression of countenance.  She told me she had wished to see two persons—­myself, of course, being one; the other George Canning.  This was really a compliment to be pleased with—­a nice little handsome pat of butter made up by a neat-handed Phillis[411] of a dairymaid, instead of the grease, fit only for cart-wheels, which one is dosed with by the pound.  Mad.  D’Arblay told us the common story of Dr. Burney, her father, having brought home her own first work, and recommended it to her perusal, was erroneous.  Her father was in the secret of Evelina being printed.  But the following circumstances may have given rise to the story:—­Dr. Burney was at Streatham soon after the publication, where he found Mrs. Thrale recovering from her confinement, low at the moment, and out of spirits.  While they were talking together, Johnson, who sat beside in a kind of reverie, suddenly broke out, “You should read this new work, madam—­you should read Evelina; every one says it is excellent, and they are right.”  The delighted father obtained a commission from Mrs. Thrale to purchase his daughter’s work, and retired the happiest of men.  Mad.  D’Arblay said she was wild with joy at this decisive evidence of her literary success, and that she could only give vent to her rapture by dancing and skipping round a mulberry-tree in the garden.  She was very young at this time.  I trust I shall see this lady again.  She has simple and apparently amiable manners, with quick feelings.

Dined at Mr. Peel’s with Lord Liverpool, Duke of Wellington, Croker, Bankes, etc.  The conversation very good—­Peel taking the lead in his own house, which he will not do elsewhere.  We canvassed the memorable criminal case of Ashford,[412] Peel almost convinced of the man’s innocence.  Should have been at the play, but sat too late at Mr. Peel’s.

So ends my campaign among these magnificoes and potent signiors,[413] with whom I have found, as usual, the warmest acceptation.  I wish I could turn a little of my popularity amongst them to Lockhart’s advantage, who cannot bustle for himself.  He is out of spirits just now, and views things au noir.  I fear Johnnie’s precarious state is the cause.

I finished my sittings to Lawrence, and am heartily sorry there should be another picture of me except that which he has finished.  The person is remarkably like, and conveys the idea of the stout blunt carle that cares for few things, and fears nothing.  He has represented the author as in the act of composition, yet has effectually discharged all affectation from the manner and attitude.  He seems pleased with it himself.  He dined with us at Peel’s yesterday, where, by the way, we saw the celebrated Chapeau de Paille, which is not a Chapeau de Paille at all.