Complete Works of Frances Burney

by Frances Burney

  1769

  Saturday, Jan. 7th.

  [Much has been cut from the Diary of this year, and it has many erasures. It appears to have been in two or three cahiers, which all lie now within one quarto sheet of paper, so much are they shrunk in size.]

  O dear! O dear! how melancholy has been to us this last week, the first of this year! Never during my life have I suffer’d more severely in my mind, I do verily believe! — But God be praised! I hope it is now over! The poor Susy, who I told you was disappointed of her Lynn journey by a violent cold, was just put to Bed somewhat better when I wrote to you this day se’night — I soon after went to her, and found her considerably worse. She talk’d to me in a most affecting style, her voice and manner were peculiarly touching.

  “My dear Fanny,” cried she, “I love you dearly — my dear sister! — have I any more sisters?” — O how I was terrified — shock’d — surprised!— “O yes!” continued she, “I have sister Hetty — but I don’t wish her to come to me now, because she’ll want me to drink my barley water, and I can’t — but I will if you want me — and where’s papa?” For my life I could not speak a word, and almost choak’d myself to prevent my sobbing. “O dear! I shall die!”

  “My dear girl.”

  “O but I must though! — But I can’t help it — it is not my fault you know!” — Tho’ I almost suffocated myself with smothering my grief, I believe she perceived it, for she kiss’d me, and again said “How I love you! my dear Fanny! — I love you dearly!”

  “My sweet Girl!” cried I— “you — you can’t love me so much as I do you!”

  “If I was Charly I should love you — indeed I should — Oh! — I shall die!”

  —” But not yet, my dear love — not yet!”

  “Oh yes — I shall! — I should like to see papa first tho’!”

  In short, she talk’d in a manner inconceivably affecting — and how greatly I was shock’d, no words can express. My dear papa out of town too! — We sent immediately for Mr. Heckford, an excellent apothecary, who has attended our family many years. He bled her immediately, and said it would not be safe to omit it — She continued much the same some hours. Between 1 and 2 went to bed, as she was sleeping, and Hetty and the maid sat up all night, for Hetty was very urgent that I should. She had a shocking night. At 7 o’clock Mr. Heckford was again call’d. She had a blister put on her back; he beg’d that a physician might be directly applied to, as she was in a very dangerous way! — O my good God! what did poor Hetty and myself suffer! —

  Dr. Armstrong was sent for — and my good Aunt Nanny who is the best nurse in England, tender, careful, and affectionate, and but too well experienced in illness. We were much inclined to send an express after my dear papa to Lynn, but resolved to wait while we possibly could. Unfortunately Mr., Mrs and Miss Molly Young all came very early to spend the day here — I never went to them, or from Susy, till dinner, and then I could eat none, [nor speak a word]. Never, I believe, shall I forget the shock I received that night. The fever increased — she could not swallow her medicines, and was quite delirious — Mr. Heckford said indeed she had a very poor chance of recovery! He endeavour’d himself to give her her physick, which he said was absolutely necessary, but in vain — she rambled — breathed short, and was terribly suffering — her disorder he pronounced an inflammation of the breast. “I am sorry to say it,” said he, “but indeed at best she stands a very poor chance!” I felt my blood freeze — I ran out of the room in an anguish beyond thought — and all I could do was to almost rave — and pray, in such an agony! O what a night she had! We all sat up — She slept perpetually, without being at all refresh’d, and was so light-headed! I kept behind her pillow, and fed her with barley water in a tea-spoon the whole night, without her knowing of it at all — indeed she was dreadfully bad! On Monday however, the Dr and apothecary thought her somewhat better, tho’ in great danger. We all sat up again. We wrote to papa, not daring to conceal the news, while her life was thus uncertain — On Tuesday, they ventured to pronounce her out of danger — We made Hetty go to bed, and my aunt and I sat up again — and on Wednesday, we two went to bed, the dear girl continuing to mend, which she has, tho’ very slowly, ever since. My beloved papa and mama have both wrote to us quite kindly —

  [Jan., Tuesday.

  My sweet Susette is almost well. I think of nothing else but to thank God Almighty enough, which I am obliged to run out of the room to do twenty times a day, for else I cannot breathe — I feel as if I had an asthma except when I am doing that.

  Wednesday.

  Papa’s come back, and we are all happier than ever we were id our lives.

  Thursday, Jan. 19th.

  Well, my dear creature, we have great hopes and expectations of happiness to-morrow. Susette is quite recovered. We are going to a great party at Mrs. Pringle’s — When Susette is well enough, she is still to go to Lynn where mama and Charttie and Bessy and Miss Allen will pass the winter. Adieu — pour le present.]

  Saturday, Jan. 21st.

  There was a very great party at Mrs. Pringle’s.... We danced till 2 o’clock this morning. Mr. Crawford with Hetty, and a Mr. Armstrong with me — a young man with a fine person, and a handsome face, but who made me laugh to so immoderate a degree that I was quite ashamed; for he aim’d at being a wit, and yet kept so settled a solemn countenance, with such languishing eyes, that he made himself quite ridiculous —

  [“N.B. — 4 and 5 burnt” is here added in Mdme. D’Arbla’s writing.]

  Dr. Armstrong I see now, at last, with real pleasure, for I have seen him lately with a very contrary feeling. He asked Susette many questions concerning her health— “I can tell you,” said he, “you have had a very narrow escape! you was just gone! the Gates of Heaven were in view—”

  “O,” cried I, “they shut them on her — I fancy she was not good enough to enter!”

  “O yes,” answered he, “they were very ready to receive her there — but I would not let her depart, — I thought she might as well stay here a little while longer.”

  * * * * * *

  Monday, Feb. 13th.

  The ever charming, engaging, beloved Mr. Crisp spent the whole day with us yesterday. I love him more than ever — every time I see him I cannot help saying so — never can there have been a more truly amiable man — he appears to take a parental interest in our affairs, and I do believe [loves] us all with a really fatherly affection. The frankness — the sincerity with which he corrects and reproves us, is more grateful to me, than the most flattering professions could be, because it is far, far more seriously and really kind and friendly. [His very smile is all benevolence as well as playfulness.] He protests he will take no denial from papa for Hetty and me to go to Chesington this summer, and told papa to remember that he had bespoke us: I fancy he is weary of asking almost, and I am sure my dear papa is tired of refusing — for what in the world can be more disagreeable, more painful to a mind generous and good as his? — I declare I am almost ashamed to hear Chesington mention’d before him, and cannot for my life join in intreaties to go, tho’ my heart prompts me most furiously.

  [The proceedings on “Valentine’s” Day — Feb. 14 — have been erased, but the date remains legible.]

  [Poland Street], Feb. 16.

  How delightful, how enviable a tranquility and content do I at present enjoy! I have scarce a wish, and am happy and easy as my heart can desire. [All are at Lynn but us three, Papa, Hetty, and I, so that I am] very much alone, but to that I have no objection. I pass my time in working, reading, and thrumming the harpsichord — I am now reading Stanyan’s Grecian History.... Tho’ the words are not obsolete, the style and expressions are not at all familiar, and many of the latter what at present, I believe, would not be reckoned extremely elegant. But it is, nevertheless, a very clever book, which I need not say, since it is generally approved; but that’s no matter. Susy and I correspond constantly. Her letters would not disgrace a woman of 40 years of age. My dear papa is in
charming health and good humour, tho’ hurried to death — You will perhaps admire the consistency of my expressions, and allow most cordially that I have a right to criticize others — Prithee, my good friend, don’t trouble me with any impertinent remarks, — past twelve o’clock! and I must rise at seven to-morrow! I must to bed immediately — I write now from a pretty neat little closet of mine that is in the bed chamber, where I keep all my affairs — Tell me, my dear, what Heroine ever yet existed without her own closet?

  [Four MS. pages are here missing, and are described in a marginal note as “burnt.”]

  Sunday Night.

  My Grand-Daddy is here to night, to the very great satisfaction of us all. [He gave us a great deal of excellent general advice, and told us very gravely this — ] “Experience is never good till ’tis bought.” Hetty, in a very gay and flighty manner assented, and added that every body should have experience of their own, [and] not follow advice from other people’s”— “Ay,” returned he, “let them have it! — and it must be paid for too! yes, well paid for!”.... — O, I must tell you that I have [at last] fallen in Love, and with a gentleman whom I have lately become acquainted with: he is about sixty or seventy — has the misfortune to be hump-back’d, crooked legged, and rather deform’d in his face — But, in sober sadness, I am delighted with the Dean of Coleraine, (whose picture this is,) and which I have very lately read. The piety, the zeal, the humanity, goodness and humility of this charming old man have won my heart — Ah! who will not envy him the invaluable treasure?

  Saturday.

  If my dear Susette was here I should want nothing. We are still only us three together. I seldom quit home considering my age and opportunities. But why should I when I am so happy in it? [following my own vagaries, which my papa never controls] I never can [want] employment, nor sigh for amusement. We have a library which is an everlasting resource when attack’d by the spleen — I have always a sufficiency of work to spend, if I pleased, my whole time at it — musick is a feast which can never grow insipid — and, in short, I have all the reason that ever mortal had to be contented with my lot — and I am contented with, I am grateful for it! If few people are more happy, few are more sensible of their happiness. But what of that? — is there any merit in paying the small tribute of gratitude, where blessings such as I have received compel it from me? How strongly, how forcibly do I feel to whom I owe all the [earthly] happiness I enjoy! — it is to my father! to this dearest, most amiable, this best beloved — most worthy of men! — it is his goodness to me which makes all appear so gay, it is his affection which makes my sun shine.

  But if to this parent I owe all my comfort — it is to my God I owe him! and that God who hath given to me this treasure which no earthly one can equal, alone knows the value I set on it. — Yet what value can compare with [its] worth? — the worth of such a treasure? a parent who makes the happiness of his children! I am in a moralising humour. — How truly does this Journal contain my real and undisguised thoughts! — I always write in it according to the humour I am in, and if any stranger was accidentally reading it, how capricious — inconsistent and whimsical I must appear! One moment flighty and half mad, — the next sad and melancholy. No matter! it’s truth and simplicity are it’s sole recommendation, and I doubt not but I shall hereafter receive great pleasure from reviewing and almost renewing my youth, and my former sentiments, unless, indeed, the latter part of my life is doomed to be as miserable as the beginning is the reverse, and then indeed, every line here will rend my heart! — I sigh from the bottom of it at this dreadful idea, I think I am in a humour to write a funeral sermon —— Hetty is gone to Ranelagh, and I fancy does not sympathize with me! that is, not just now.

  [Here, in whose writing is uncertain, are the words: “15 burnt to 21.”]

  * * * * * *

  Our party last [evening] was large and brilliant Mr. Greville, the celebrated Mr. Hawkesworth, Mr. Crisp and my cousin dined with us. In the evening, Mrs and Miss Turner of Lynn, two gentlemen named Vincent, and Mr. Partridge made a very agreeable addition to our company.

  Mr. Hawkesworth does not shine in conversation so much superior to others as from his writings might be expected. Papa calls his talking book language — for I never heard a man speak in a style which so much resembles writing. He has an amazing flow of choice words and expressions. ’Twould be nonsense to say he is extremely clever and sensible; while the Adventurers exist, that must be universally acknowledged, — but his talents seem to consist rather in the solid than the splendid. All he says is just, proper, and better expressed than most written language; but he does not appear to me to be at all what is called a wit, neither is his conversation sprightly or brilliant. He is remarkably well bred and attentive, considering how great an author he is; for without that consideration, he would be reckoned so.

  He has a small tincture of affectation, I believe; — but I have quite forgot the wise resolution I so often make of never judging of people by first sight! Pity! that we have all the power of making resolutions so readily, and so properly, and that few or none are capable of keeping them! But here again am I judging of others want of fortitude by my own weakness! O dear, I am always to be wrong! However, I think I may prevail on myself not to be my own judge rashly. Why should I think I am always to be wrong? I know not I am sure; certain it is I have hitherto never been otherwise; but that ought not to discourage me, since so inconsistent is human nature allowed to be, that for that very reason ’tis impossible I should be the same creature at the conclusion as at the beginning of my life. [So who knows but I may turn out to be a wiseacre?]

  * * * * * *

  O! I am to go to a wedding to-morrow — the partys — one Mr. John Hatton, glass polisher, and Mrs. Betty Langley, spinster, our [old cook]. Perhaps I may give you, Miss Nobody, an account of this affair to-morrow. I never had the honour of being at a wedding in my life — but tho’ this will be the first, I fancy it will not be the last too.

  I am vastly sorry Mr. Crisp is gone — I shall think of him every Sunday at least, all my life I believe. — I am now going to charm myself for the third time with poor Sterne’s “Sentimental Journey.”

  * * * * *

  Monday Eve, May 15th.

  Well, the wedding is over, the good folks are join’d for better for worse. — A shocking clause that!— ’tis preparing one to lead a long journey, and to know the path is not altogether strew’d with roses. — This same marriage ceremony is so short, I really should have doubted its validity had I been the bride; though perhaps she may not find the road it leads her to very short; be that as it may, she must now trudge on, she can only return with her wishes, be she ever so wearied. We have spent an exceedingly agreeable day, I speak for myself and a few more at least, I will not answer for the bride and the groom’s feelings, at least not for the latter — tho’ they neither of them appeared miserable; but had I been that latter, I fear I could not have said so much for myself. — As to the bride, she is blythe as the month; if one can compare in any degree a weed of December, with the fragrance of May; for a weed in truth it is, and a weed not in its first prime. But I must give some account of the wedding.... To begin with the Company, first, The Bride. A maiden of about fifty — She was dressed in a white linnen gown, and with all the elegance which marks her character and station, having the honour to be cook to Mr. Burney. The Bridegroom. A young man who had the appearance of being her son. A good, modest, sober, and decent youth. He was in blue trim’d with red.... The Father (of the day) Mr. Charles Burney, Junr.... Not merely her husband, but her father too was young enough to own her for a mother. It is generally allowed originality displays genius. The Bride’s maids, three. 1st, Miss Anne Burney, who may count years with the bride herself. 2nd, Miss Esther Burney.... And 3rd, Miss Frances Burney, who is nothing — The rest of the company a Mr.

  Ritson, and a Mr. Somebody, no matter what — [Betty’s friends]. And thus the train closed — We went in papa’s coach, as many as it would hold,
— the gentlemen were obliged to walk — which condescension is not inconsiderable, for Mr. Somebody, and the bridegroom too, have the honour of being footmen to very topping people! The bride supported her spirits amazingly.....

  Sunday night, May 21.

  Papa and my sister have dined and spent the evening at Mrs. Pleydell’s — Tis past one o’clock and papa not come home! so I must run to bed. Yet of what little consequence are late or early hours at night?.... at best I can but prolong a life which must be spent, and which one day will little remember the few years which care [and attention] may give it. My [poor] throat is sore — that one circumstance answers all this pretty stupid commonplace stuff in a moment. That tells me the difference of ease and pain, and that tells me that rest and good hours, by mending the health contribute to the happiness; — and that tells me to leave idle and affected moralising; to leave my journal; to put out my candle — and to hie to bed: — where by reflecting on the folly, stupidity, and inconsistency of what is here written I may so much improve that for the future I shall — not learn to write better, but cease to write at all! — If so adieu, my Journal — my Nobody — adieu — adieu!

  [On or just after] Monday, May 22nd.

  Well, I have slept, and perhaps have reflected, but as the sleep came last, it has drove all reflections away which at all tended to the detriment of this little employment; and therefore once more welcome my Pen! my Nobody! my dear faithful Journal!

  A droll mistake happened to me to day — We live commonly in a parlour which is forwards, and I saw a gentleman walking at the other side of the street who stopt before our house, and looked at the window some time — and then crossed the way and knocked at the door. Papa happened to be at home. “ Who is it?” said he. — I told him I did not know, but I believed some man who had a tolerable assurance by his staring. — The gentleman came immediately into the parlour, and after asking papa how he did, came up to me, and said—” I have called in ma’am, on purpose to pay my respects to you — and — .” I stared, and could not [recollect I had ever seen him before, nor] imagion who it was, but was quite at a loss what to do, but my papa relieved me by saying —