[All at once, Poland Street is left, and Frances writes from her stepmother’s dowry-house, in the churchyard of St Margaret, Lynn Regis; that fine church of which Dr. Burney had been organist for about ten years.]
From Lynn Regis.
‘ I am reading the “Letters of Henry and Frances” and like them prodigiously. I have just finished Mrs. Rowe’s Letters from the Dead to the Living — and Moral and Entertaining, — I had heard a great deal of them before I saw them, and am sorry to tell you I was much disappointed with them: they are so very enthusiastick, that the religion she preaches rather disgusts and cloys than charms and elevates — and so romantick, that every word betrays improbability, instead of disguising fiction, and displays the author, instead of human nature. For my own part, I cannot be much pleased without an appearance of truth; at least of possibility — I wish the story to be natural tho’ the sentiments are refined; and the characters to be probable tho’ their behaviour is excelling. Well, I am going to bed — Sweet dreams attend me — and may you sympathize with me. Heigh ho! I wonder when I shall return to London! — Not that we are very dull here — no, really — tolerably happy — I wish Kitty Cooke would write to me — I long to hear how my dear, dear, beloved Mr. Crisp does. My papa always mentions him by the name of my Flame. Indeed he is not mistaken — himself is the only man on earth I prefer to him. Well — I must write a word more — only to end my paper — so! — that’s done — and now good night to you —
[Here are erasures, and also misplacements of the original diary, which it is impossible now to remedy. Among these have been found a broken passage or two, worth preserving:
“Saturday.
“Oh my dear I have received the finest letter!............while we were at dinner a packet came from London. Papa opened it, and among other epistles was the following to me—”
Four lines of verse follow the address, “To Miss FRANCES BURNEY.” These words only are quite legible —
“When first I saw thee....
“Incognitus.”
Fanny then appears to tax whosoever wrote the epistle with taking the hint of his verses “from an old song I have often [heard] which runs thus,”
“When first I saw that youthful —
Ah me” —
Only a few detached words of what follows can be read. This fragment is merely given to show that Fanny was not without her share of the current compliments in verse which it was almost the duty of a gentleman to pay, and even a slight for a young lady not to receive. Another mutilated passage shows Hetty and A. (Maria Allen) as, for some time, amusing themselves with railing against Lynn, every thing, every body in it, and praising to adulation — London. “I offered some few words in favour of my poor old abused town — the land of my nativity — of the world’s happiness! We disputed a little time, and Hetty suddenly cried, ‘ Hush, hush — Mama’s in the next room — If she hears us — we two shall be whipt, and Fanny will have a sugar-plumb.” Ay,’ cried A., “tis her defending Lynn which makes mama and my grandmama so fond of her.” Fond of me!’ cried I, ‘ what makes you imagine Mrs. Allen fond of me?” What she said of you—’— ‘I am now writing in the pleasantest place belonging to this house. It is called sometimes ‘ the Look Out’ — as ships are observed from hence, and at other times, the Cabin — It is [at the] end of a long garden that runs along the house.” — ]
I am going to tell you something concerning myself, which, (if I have not chanced to mention it before) will, I believe, a little surprise you — it is, that I scarce wish for anything so truly, really, and greatly, as to be in love — upon my word I am serious — and very gravely and sedately, assure you it is a real and true wish. I cannot help thinking it is a great happiness to have a strong and particular attachment to some one person, independent of duty, interest, relationship or pleasure; but I carry not my wish so far as for a mutual tendresse. No, I should be contented to love Sola — and let Duets be reserved for those who have a proper sense of their superiourity. For my own part, I vow and declare that the mere pleasure of having a great affection for some one person to which I was neither guided by fear, hope of profit, gratitude, respect, or any motive but mere fancy would sufficiently satisfy me, and I should not at all wish a return. Bless me — how I run on! foolish and ill-judged! how despicable a picture have I drawn of an object of Love! mere giddiness, not inclination, I am sure, penn’d it — Love without respect or gratitude! — that could only be felt for a person wholly undeserving — but indeed I write so much at random, that it is much more a chance if I know what I am saying than if I do not.
I have just finish’d “Henry and Frances” — They have left me in a very serious, very grave mood — almost melancholy — a bell is now tolling, most dreadfully loud and solemn, for the death of some person of this town, which contributes not a little to add to my seriousness — indeed I never heard anything so dismal — this bell is sufficient to lower the highest spirits — and more than sufficient to quite subdue those which are already low.
The greatest part of the last volume of “Henry and Frances,” is wrote by Henry — and on the gravest of grave subjects, and that which is most dreadful to our thoughts — Eternal Misery. Religion in general is the subject to all the latter part of these Letters, and this is particularly treated on. I don’t know that I ever read finer sentiments on piety and Christianity, than the second vol abounds with — indeed, most of the Letters might be call’d with very little alteration — Essays on Religion. I own I differ from him in many of his thoughts, but in far many more I am delighted with him. His sentiments shew him to be a man possessed of all the humanity which dignifies his sex; his observations, of all the penetration and judgement which improves it, and his expressions, of all the ability, capacity and power which adorn it. I cannot express how infinitely more I am charmed with him at the conclusion than beginning. Some of his opinions — I might say many of them — on divine subjects, I think, would be worthy a sermon — and an excellent one too.
It is a sweet, mild evening, I will take a turn in the garden, and re-peruse in my thoughts these genuine, interesting Letters. This garden is very small, but very, very prettily laid out — the greatest part is quite a grove, and three people might be wholly concealed from each other with ease in it. I scarce ever walk in it, without becoming grave, for it has the most private, lonely, shady, melancholy look in the world.
[Let us look into “the Cabin,” with the eyes of Maria Allen, afterwards Mrs. Rishton. In 1778, writing from Lynn, she gives Fanny an account of her own new house in that town, and thus contrasts her Belvedere or “Look Out” (as they said in Lynn), with the “Cabin.”
“Lynn, 3rd Sept. — You are very well acquainted with the house we now Inhabit which is Charles Turner’s — and which is quite a palace in point of conveniences to the one we left. The rooms are large and handsome — and it is quite big enough for us — and Rishton has excellent stables and dog kennel down the yard — but what is most comfortable to us, the yard and premises are quite private, it leads to no granaries etc. — Consequently We are troubled with neither corn-waggons or porters — but we have every thing within ourselves — and a very large Look-out, as they are called here, which overlooks the river that I pass many hours in and which often brings back past scenes to my view when I think of the hours we used to spend in that little cabbin of my mother’s — but this overlooks a much pleasanter part of the river, as we never have any ships laying against our watergate, at least very seldom, to what we had there, by which means we escape the oaths and ribaldry of the sailors and porters which used often to drive us from thence — .”]
Tuesday, Cabin.
I have this very moment finish’d reading a novel call’d the Vicar of Wakefield. It was wrote by Dr. Goldsmith, author of the comedy of the Good-Natured Man, and several essays. His style is rational and sensible and I knew it again immediately. This book is of a very singular kind — I own I began it with distaste and disrelish, having just read t
he elegant Letters of Henry, — the beginning of it, even dis gusted me — he mentions his wife with such indifference — such contempt — the contrast of Henry’s treatment of Frances struck me — the more so, as it is real — while this tale is fictitious — and then the style of the latter is so elegantly natural, so tenderly manly, so unassumingly rational! — I own I was tempted to thro’ (sic) the book aside — but there was something in the situation of his family, which if it did not interest me, at least drew me on — and as I proceeded, I was better pleased. — The description of his rural felicity, his simple, unaffected contentment — and family domestic happiness, gave me much pleasure — but still, I was not satisfied, a something was wanting to make the book satisfy me — to make me feel for the Vicar in every line he writes, nevertheless, before I was half thro’ the first volume, I was, as I may truly express myself, surprised into tears — and in the second volume, I really sobb’d. It appears to me, to be impossible any person could read this book thro’ with a dry eye at the same time the best part of it is that which turns one’s grief out of doors, to open them to laughter. He advances many very bold and singular opinions — for example, he avers that murder is the sole crime for which death ought to be the punishment, he goes even farther, and ventures to affirm that our laws in regard to penalties and punishments are all too severe. This doctrine might be contradicted from the very essence of our religion — Scripture for... in the Bible — in Exodus particularly, death is commanded by God himself, for many crimes besides murder. But this author shews in all his works a love of peculiarity and of making originality of character in others; and therefore I am not surprised he possesses it himself. This Vicar is a very venerable old man — his distresses must move you. There is but very little story, the plot is thin, the incidents very rare, the sentiments uncommon, the vicar is contented, humble, pious, virtuous, [quite a darling character,] but upon the whole how far more was I pleased with the genuine productions of Mr. Griffith’s pen — for that is the real name of Henry, — I hear that more volumes are lately published. I wish I could get them, I have read but two — the elegance and delicacy of the manner — expressions — style of that book are so superiour! — How much I should like to be acquainted with the writers of it! — Those Letters are doubly pleasing, charming to me, for being genuine — they have encreased my relish for minute, heartfelt writing, and encouraged me in my attempt to give an opinion of the books I read....
Cabin, Wednesday Afternoon.
I always spend the evening, sometimes all the afternoon, in this sweet Cabin — except sometimes, when unusually thoughtful, I prefer the garden.... I cannot express the pleasure I have in writing down my thoughts, at the very moment — my opinion of people when I first see them, and how I alter, or how confirm myself in it — and I am much deceived in my fore sight, if I shall not have very great delight in reading this living proof of my manner of passing my time, my sentiments, my thoughts of people I know, and a thousand other things in future — there is something to me very unsatisfactory in passing year after year, without even a memorandum of what you did, &c. And then, all the happy hours I spend with particular friends and favourites would fade from my recollection —
July 17.
Such a set of tittle tattle, prittle prattle visitants! Oh dear! I am so sick of the ceremony and fuss of these fall lall people! So much dressing — chit chat — complimentary nonsense — In short — a Country Town is my detestation — all the conversation is scandal, all the attention, dress, and almost all the heart, folly, envy, and censoriousness. A City or a village are the only places which I think, can be comfortable, for a Country Town, I think has all the bad qualities, without one of the good ones, of both.
We live here, generally speaking, in a very regular way — we breakfast always at 10, and rise as much before as we please — we dine precisely at 2, drink tea about 6 — and sup exactly at 9. I make a kind of rule, never to indulge myself in my two most favourite pursuits, reading and writing, in the morning — no, like a very good girl I give that up wholly, accidental occasions and preventions excepted, to needle work, by which means my reading and writing in the afternoon is a pleasure I cannot be blamed for by my mother, as it does not take up the time I ought to spend otherwise. I never pretend to be so superior a being as to be above having and indulging a Hobby Horse, and while I keep mine within due bounds and limits, nobody, I flatter myself, would wish to deprive me of the poor animal: to be sure, he is not form’d for labour, and is rather lame and weak, but then the dear creature is faithful, constant, and loving, and tho’ he sometimes prances, would not kick anyone into the mire, or hurt a single soul for the world — and I would not part with him for one who could win the greatest prize that ever was won at any Races.
Alas, alas! my poor Journal! how dull, unentertaining, uninteresting thou art! — oh what would I give for some Adventure worthy reciting — for something which would surprise — astonish you!.... I have lately read the Prince of Abissinia — I am almost equally charm’d and shocked at it — the style, the sentiments are inimitable — but the subject is dreadful — and handled as it is by Dr. Johnson, might make any young, perhaps old, person tremble. O, how dreadful, how terrible is it to be told by a man of his genius and knowledge, in so affectingly probable a manner, that true, real, happiness is ever unattainable in this world! — Thro’ all the scenes, publick or private, domestick or solitary, that Nekaya or Rasselas pass, real felicity eludes their pursuit and mocks their solicitude. In high life, superiority, envy and haughtiness baffle the power of preferment, favour and greatness — and, with or without them, all is animosity, suspicion, apprehension, and misery! — in private families, disagreement, jealousy and partiality, destroy all domestick felicities and all social cheerfulness, and all is peevishness, contradiction, ill-will, and wretchedness! And in solitude, imagination paints the world in a new light, every bliss which was wanting when in it, appears easily attained when away from it, but the loneliness of retirement seems unsocial, dreary, savouring of misanthropy and melancholy — and all is anxiety, doubt, fear and anguish! In this manner does Mr. Johnson proceed in his melancholy conviction of the impossibility of all human enjoyments and the impossibility of all earthly happiness. One thing during the course of the successless enquiry struck me, which gave me much comfort, which is, that those who wander in the world avowedly and purposely in search of happiness, who view every scene of present joy with an eye to what may succeed, certainly are more liable to disappointment, misfortune and unhappiness, than those who give up their fate to chance and take the goods and evils of fortune as they come, without making happiness their study or misery their foresight.
Wednesday, July, 10 in the morning.
We have just had a wedding — a publick wedding — and very fine it was I assure you. The bride is Miss Case; daughter of an alderman of Lynn, with a great fortune — the bridegroom, Mr. Bagg, — the affair has long been in agitation on account of Mr. Bagg’s inferiority of fortune. Our house is in the Church yard, and exactly opposite the great church door — so that we had a very good view of the procession.
— The walk that leads up to the church was crowded almost incredibly a prodidgious mob indeed! — I’m sure I trembled for the bride. O what a gauntlet for any woman of delicacy to run! — Mr. Bagg handed the bride and her company out of their coach, and then Mr. Case took her hand and led her to the church door, and the bridegroom follow’d handing Mrs. Case. O how short a time does it take to put an eternal end to a woman’s liberty! I don’t think they were a quarter of an hour in the Church altogether. — Lord bless me! it would not be time enough, I should think, for a poor creature to see where she was — I verily believe I should insist on sitting an hour or two to recover my spirits — I declare my heart ach’d to think how terrible the poor Bride’s feelings must be to walk by such crowds of people, the occasion in itself so awful! How little does it need the addition of that frightful mob! In my conscience I fear that if it had been me,
I should never have had courage to get out of the coach — Indeed, I feel I should behave very foolishly. When they had been in the Church about a quarter of an hour, the bells began to ring, so merrily — so loud — and the doors open’d — we saw them walk down the Isle — the bride and bridegroom first, hand in hand.... the bridegroom look’d so gay, so happy! Surely it must be grateful to her heart to see his joy! it would to mine I know. She looked grave, but not sad — and, in short, all was happy and charming. Well of all things in the world, I don’t suppose any thing can be so dreadful as a publick wedding — my stars! I should never be able to support it!....
Mr. Bewly, a great and particular friend of my papa’s, — and a very ingenious, clever man, is now here — At breakfast time, we had, as you may imagion, a long conversation on Matrimony. — Every body spoke against a publick wedding, as the most shocking thing in the world — papa said he would not have gone thro’ those people in such a manner for 5000 a year — and Mr. Bewly said that when he was married, his lady and self stole in to the Church, privately as possible, and ashamed of every step they took —
Cabin, Saturday, July.
And so I suppose you are staring at the torn paper and unconnected sentence — I don’t much wonder — I’ll tell you what happen’d. Last Monday I was in the little parlour, which room my papa generally dresses in — and writing a letter to my grandmama. You must know I always have the last sheet of my Journal in my pocket, and when I have wrote it half full I join it to the rest, and take another sheet — and so on. Now I happen’d unluckily to take the last sheet out of my pocket with my letter — and laid it on the piano forte, and there, negligent fool! — I left it............. — Well, as ill fortune would have it, papa went into the room — took my poor Journal — read, and pocketted it. Mama came up to me and told me of it. O Dear! I was in a sad distress — I could not for the life of me ask for it — and so dawdled and fretted the time away till Tuesday evening. Then, gathering courage “Pray papa,” [I said,] “have you got — any papers of mine?”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 451
