“Papers of yours?” said he— “how should I come by papers of yours?”
“I’m sure — I dont know — but” —
“Why do you leave your papers about the house?” asked he, gravely.
I could not say another word — he went on playing on the piano forte. Well, to be sure, thought I, these same dear Journals are most shocking plaguing things — I’ve a good mind to resolve never to write a word more. However, I stayed still in the room, working, and looking wistfully at him for about an hour and half. At last, he rose to dress — Again I look’d wistfully at him — He laughed— “What, Fanny,” said he, kindly, “are you in sad distress?” I half laugh’d. “Well, — I’ll give it you, now I see you are in such distress — but take care, my dear, of leaving your writings about the house again — suppose any body else had found it — I declare I was going to read it loud — Here, take it — but if ever I find any more of your Journals, I vow I’ll stick them up in the market place.” And then he kiss’d me so kindly — never was parent so properly, so well-judgedly affectionate! I was so frightened that I have not had the heart to write since, till now, I should not but that — in short, but that I cannot help it! As to the paper, I destroy’d it the moment I got it —
We have had several little parties of pleasure since I wrote last, but they are not worth mentioning. My papa went on Thursday to Massingham, to Mr. Bewly’s.....
I have been having a long conversation with Miss Young on journals. She has very seriously and earnestly advised me to give mine up — heigho-ho! Do you think I can bring myself to oblige her? What she says has great weight with me; but, indeed, I should be very loath to quite give my poor friend up. She says that it is the most dangerous employment young persons can have — that it makes them often record things which ought not to be recorded, but instantly forgot. I told her, that as my Journal was solely for my own perusal, nobody could in justice, or even in sense, be angry or displeased at my writing any thing.
“But how can you answer,” said she, “that it is only for your own perusal? That very circumstance of your papa’s finding it, shows you are not so very careful as is necessary for such a work. And if you drop it, and any improper person finds it, you know not the uneasiness it may cost you.”
“Well but, dear ma’am, this is an ‘ if’ that may not happen once in a century.”
“I beg your pardon; I know not how often it may happen; and even once might prove enough to give you more pain than you are aware of.”
“Why, dear ma’am, papa never prohibited my writing, and he knows that I do write, and what I do write.”
“I question that. However, ’tis impossible for you to answer for the curiosity of others. And suppose any body finds a part in which they are extremely censured.”
“Why then, they must take it for their pains. It was not wrote for them, but me, and I cannot see any harm in writing to myself!”
“It was very well whilst there were only your sisters with you to do any thing of this kind; but, depend upon it, when your connections are enlarged, your family increased, your acquaintance multiplied, young and old so apt to be curious — depend upon it, Fanny, ’tis the most dangerous employment you can have. Suppose now, for example, your favourite wish were granted, and you were to fall in love, and then the object of your passion were to get sight of some part which related to himself?”
“Why then, Miss Young, I must take a little trip to Rosamond’s Pond.”
“Why, ay, I doubt it would be all you would have left.”
“Dear Miss Young! — But I’m sure, by your earnestness, that you think worse of my poor Journal than it deserves.”
“I know very well the nature of these things. I know that in journals, thoughts, actions, looks, conversations — all go down; do they not?”
The conclusion of our debate was, that if I would show her some part of what I had wrote she should be a better judge, and would then give me her best advice whether to proceed or not. I believe I shall accept her condition; though I own I shall show it with shame and fear, for such nonsense is so unworthy her perusal.
I’m sure, besides, I know not what part to choose. Shall I take at random?
Wednesday, August the 10th.
... Well, my [Nobody] I have read part of my Journal to Miss Young and what’s more, let her choose the day herself, which was our Journey, the day in which I have mention’d our arrival, &c. I assure you I quite triumph! prejudic’d as she was, she is pleas’d to give it her sanction, — if it is equally harmless every where — nay, says she even approves of it....
For some time past, I have taken a walk in the fields near Lynn of about an hour every morning before breakfast — I have never yet got out before six, and never after seven. The fields are, in my eyes, particularly charming at that time in the morning — the sun is warm and not sultry — and there is scarce a soul to be seen. Near the capital I should not dare indulge myself in this delightful manner, for fear of robbers — but here, every body is known, and one has nothing to apprehend.
I am reading Plutarch’s Lives — his own, wrote by Dryden has charm’d me beyond expression. I have just finish’d Lycurgus — and am as much pleased with all his publick Laws, as pleased with his private ones. There is scarce one of the former which is not noble and praiseworthy, — and as I think very few of the latter which are not the contrary — the custom of only preserving healthy children, and destroying weak ones how barbarous! — besides all his domestick family duties appear strange to me! — but you must consider how very, very, very bad a judge I am, as I read with nobody, and consequently have nobody to correct or guide my opinion: nevertheless, I cannot [forbear, sometimes] writing what it is.... I read Plutarch’s Lives with more pleasure than I can express. I am charmed with them, and rejoice exceedingly that I did not read them ere now; as I every day, certainly, am more able to enjoy them — I have just finished Paulus Aemilius, whom I love and honour most particularly, for his fondness for his children, which instead of blushing at, he owns and glories in; and that in an age when almost all the heroes and great men thought that to make their children and family a secondary concern was the first proof of their superiority and greatness of soul, and when like Brutus they could stand with a countenance firm and unmoved and see their sons execution. At such an age, I say, I think the parental of Paulus Aemilius his first and principle glory. Insensibility, of all kinds, and on all occasions, most moves my imperial displeasure — however, that of the ancient Romans was acquired by the (false) notions they had of true greatness and honour. Well, rest their souls! — and mine — for I am now going to commit it to Morpheus.
[Here occur erasures and passages in disarray, from among which we rescue four lines of halting verse: —
“What beauties have met me!
How often have I, sighing said
Poor Hetty’s charms are now quite dead
Nor dare they vie with Fanny.
“MELIDORUS.”
Fanny adds: “Your servant, Mr. Melidorus, I am much obliged to you. Who would not be proud to have such verses made on them?”]
Wednesday — August.
We had a large party to the Assembly on Monday, which was so-so-so — I danced but one country dance — the room was so hot, ’twas really fatiguing. Don’t you laugh to hear a girl of fifteen complain of the fatigue of dancing? Can’t be helped! if you will laugh, you must, I think. — My partner was a pretty youth enough — and quite a youth — younger than myself — poor dear creature, I really pitied him, for he seem’d to long for another caper — in vain — I was inexorable — not that he quite knelt for my hand — if he had I might have been moved — for I have an uncommonly soft heart — I am interrupted, or else I am in an excellent humour to scribble nonsense.
Evening.
I have this very moment finished the Life of Caius Marius, and being quite alone, cannot for my life forbear writing a word or two to vent my rage at him. Brutal! inhuman! savage! execrable wre
tch! Man I cannot write — Good God! how shocked, how unaffectedly shocked I am to find that such a human brute could ever really exist! I would give the world to be assured the story was fabulous. Of what, let me ask, of what could the heart of that creature be made? From the moment I read his inhumanly cruel and insulting speech to the injured Metellus, after having forced him to put Turpilius to death, viz. “that he had lodged a vengeful fury in Metellus, breast which would be continually tormenting him for having put to death Turpilius, his most intimate friend and hereditary guest” — from that moment I was so warmly irritated against him I had scarce patience to read another line — but there is a something, a Je ne scats quoi, in Plutarch’s Lives that draws one’s attention, and absolutely prevents one’s leaving off — and then when I found how great, how very great a General he was, I was half reconciled to him. But when in his old age he was reduced to wander from place to place, insulted, persecuted, half famished and every way miserable, vilely as he had behaved, and contemptible as he appeared, I could not help shuddering at his dangers, and most earnestly wishing his safety — for there is something in age that ever, even in its own despight, must be venerable, must create respect — and to have it ill treated, is to me worse, more cruel and wicked than any thing on earth — But when he entered Rome — I really trembled — shuddered at the recital of his actions — so old a man to have the heart to be so enormously vicious — indeed I did hope that scenes of such extreme cruelty & inhumanity were confined to fable and romance — But I cannot help taking notice how interesting, how entertaining — sensible — irresistably pleasing this incomparable Plutarch is. You see I am as much engaged in the fate of his heroes as if they were all men of my acquaintance. But you may have perceived before now that I am very earnest and warm in whatever interests me — not of a philosophick or phlegmatick turn — But this is between friends.
* * * * *
Poland Street.
Mr. Greville supped here, and talked of the book fight between Mr. Sharpe and Signor Baretti — concerning Italy, of which country the former has wrote an account; which the latter has absolutely confuted. “I wish,” said Mr. Greville, “men would not pretend to write of what they cannot be masters of, another country — It is impossible they can be judges; and they ought not to aim at it — for they have different sensations, are used to different laws, manners and things, and consequently are habituated to different thoughts and ideas; ’tis the same as if a cow was to write of a horse — or a horse of a cow — why they would proceed on quite different principles, and therefore certainly could be no judge of one another.” He asked papa if he play’d much on piano fortes. “ If I was to be in town this winter,” said he, “I should cultivate my [old] acquaintance with old Crisp.”
“Ah,” said papa, “he’s truly worth it.”
“Ay, indeed is he,” answered Mr. Greville, “he’s a most superiour man.” This one speech has gain’d him my heart for ever. This man is exceeding fond of my father. Before he went to Germany he used to sup with him perpetually, in the most familiar and comfortable style, and now again he resumes this freedom.... His wife and daughter were and are the two greatest beautys in England, and Mrs. Greville is my godmother. Her Ode to Indifference is so excessively pretty that it almost puts me out of conceit with my desire to be favoured with a touch of the power of Cupid, when I happen to recollect it.’ How she would scorn me if she knew it — but I suppose she did not begin with a passion for Indifference herself — I should not like to be Mr. Greville if he converted her to that side.
Sunday Night, Sept. 11.
I have just finish’d the Life of the great — the unfortunate Pompey. He was certainly an imperfect being; but all in all a most wonderful man. His death, treacherous, cruel, has made me very melancholy. Alas the poor Cornelia! How deserving of pity.
My sweet Baby Charles is come home, he is well, hearty and full of spirits, mirth, and good-humour. My aunt Nanny who went lately to see him at the Charter House, was assured there that he was the sweetest temper’d boy in the schoal.
Papa is gone to supper with Mr. Greville. You must know this gentleman is the author of a book called Characters, Maxims, and Reflections — Serious, Moral, and Entertaining, I never read it thro’, but what I have pleased me extremely.
Sept. 12.
I am prodigiously surprised, immensely astonish’d — indeed absolutely petrified with amazement — and what do you imagion the cause? You can never guess; I shall pity your ignorance and incapacity, and, generous, noble minded as I am, keep you no longer in suspense. Know then — Ha! this frightful old watchman how he has startled me — past eleven o’clock! bless you, friend, don’t bawl so loud, — my nerves can’t possibly bear it — no — I shall expire — this robust, gross creature will be the death of me — yes! I feel myself going — my spirits fail — my blood chills — I am gone! To my eternal astonishment, I am recovered! — I really am alive — I have actually and truly survived this bawling. Well, and now that I have in some measure recollected my scattered spirits, I will endeavour sufficiently to compose myself to relate the cause of wonder the first. Would you believe it — but, now I think of it, you can’t well tell till you hear — well, have patience — all in good time — don’t imagion I intend to cheat you — no — no — now attend. Miss Tilson, a young lady of fashion, fortune, education, birth, accomplishments, and beauty has fallen in love with my cousin Charles Burney. [She is about seventeen, and she wrote her declaration to him on her glove, which she dropt for him to pick up. She is daughter to some Lady Kerry and has a portion in her own hands of several thousands, but this worthy Charles, not liking her, is above the temptation.] Well, I’m so sleepy, I must.... you may hear more anon.
Wednesday, Sept.
I have not wrote you a line this age, my sweet Journal. Indeed I have no wonderful matters to scrawl, now — Is it not very perverse in Dame Fortune to deny me the least share in any of her so much talk’d of tricks? especially as I should, by means of my inimitable pen immortalize every favour she honour’d me with: but so it is, and so it seems likely to be; that I am to pass my days in the dullest of dull things, insipid, calm, uninterrupted quiet. This life is by many desired — so be it — But it surely was design’d to give happiness after (and not one ounce before) twenty full years are past, but till then — no matter what happens — the spirits — the health — the never dying hope are too strong to be much affected by whatever comes to pass — Supper bell, as I live! —
10 o’clock.
I left off with a little account of Miss Tilson — I shall only tell you that I heard of her passion and the amiable object by Hetty, who was told it by Miss Sheffield, and had it afterwards confirmed by the fair one’s own mouth. [An Amorosa so forward in Cupid’s cause makes me almost revolt from my wishes for his darts, and really I think upon the whole, the most dignified thing for an exalted female must be to die an old maid.] Her mother married Mr. Tilson on the death of the Earl of Kerry. She is very short but Hetty says very pretty —
Mr. Smart the poet was here yesterday. He is the author of the “Old Woman’s Magazine”.... and of several poetical productions; some of which are sweetly elegant and pretty — for example: “Harriet’s Birth Day,”
“Care and Generosity,” — and many more. This ingenious writer is one of the most unfortunate of men — he has been twice confined in a mad-house — and but last year sent a most affecting epistle to papa, to entreat him to lend him half-a-guinea! — How great a pity so clever, so ingenious a man should be reduced to such shocking circumstances. He is extremely grave, and has still great wildness in his manner, looks, and voice; but ’tis impossible to see him and to think of his works, without feeling the utmost pity and concern for him....
Well, I shall have to undress in the dark if I scribble any longer, and so I must petition for leave to bid you adieu; Granted.
Certainly I have the most complaisant friend in the world — ever ready to comply with my wishes — never hesita
ting to oblige, never averse to my concluding, yet never wearied with my beginning — charming creature.
And pray, my dear Miss Fanny, who is this?
Nobody.
Alas, alas! what then is to become of Every body?
How should I know? Let every body manage themselves and others as well as I do Nobody, and they will be “much the same as God made them.” And now adieu my charmer.
— Adieu then, my fair friend — that’s one comfort, that I can make you fair or brown at pleasure — just what I will — a creature of my own forming.
I am now reading the Illiad — I cannot help taking notice of one thing in the 3rd Book which has provoked me for the honour of the sex. Venus tempts Hellen with every delusion in favour of her darling, in vain — riches — power — honour — love — all in vain — the enraged Deity threatens to deprive her of her own beauty, and render her to the level of the most common of her sex. Blushing and trembling, Hellen immediately yields her hand. Thus has Homer proved his opinion of our poor sex — that the love of beauty is our most prevailing passion. It really grieves me to think that there certainly must be some reason for this insignificant opinion the greatest men have of women — at least I fear there must. But I don’t in fact believe it.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 452