fication, pouting and hunching of
the shoulder. I reproduce it with Maria's punctuation, which shows it
to have proceeded, as no doubt she did herself, in gasps:

"I was at the Assembly, forced to go entirely against my own
Inclination. But I always have sacrificed my own Inclinations
to the will of other people--could not resist the pressing
Importunity of--Bet Dickens--to go--tho' it proved Horribly
stupid. I drank tea at the--told old Turner--I was determined
not to dance--he would not believe me--a wager ensued--half
a crown provided I followed my own Inclinations--agreed--Mr.
Audley asked me. I refused--sat still--yet followed my own
Inclinations. But four couple began--Martin (c'etait Lui)
was there--yet stupid--n'importe--quite Indifferent--on both
sides--Who had I--to converse with the whole Evening--not
a female friend--none there--not an acquaintance--All
Dancing--who then--I've forgot--n'importe--I broke my
earring--how--heaven knows--foolishly enough--one can't always
keep on the Mask of Wisdom--well n'importe I danced a Minuet a
quatre the latter end of the Eve--with a stupid Wretch--need
I name him--They danced cotillions almost the whole Night--two
sets--yet I did not join them--Miss Jenny Hawkins danced--with
who--can't you guess--well--n'importe------"

There is more, but my pen is out of breath. Nobody but Mr. Jingle ever
wrote like that; and in so far as Maria Allen may be said to have had
a soul, there in its little spasms is the soul of Maria Allen, with
all the _malentendus_ of the ballroom and all the surgings of a
love-affair at cross-purposes thrown in.

As for Fanny Burney's early diary, its careful and admirable editor
claims that you have in it "the only published, perhaps the only
existing record of the life of an English girl, written of herself in
the eighteenth century." I believe that to be true. It is a record,
and a faithful and very charming record of the externals of such a
life. As such it is, to me, at least, a valuable thing. If it does
not unfold the amiable, brisk, and happy Fanny herself, there are two
simple reasons why it could not. First, she was writing her journal
for the entertainment of old Mr. Crisp of Chessington, the "Daddy
Crisp" of her best pages; secondly, it is not at all likely that she
knew of anything to unfold. Nor, for that matter, was Fanny herself of
the kind that can unfold to