This is my fifth or sixth Journal-book; yet will not, I am persuaded, be my last, but it would require very superior talents to write an annual Exordium. I must therefore content myself with plainly and concisely proceeding with My Life and Opinions [ — addressed to Myself.]
And, first, it is my opinion, that the world is very ill used in being called a bad one. If people did but know how to enjoy the blessings they meet, they would learn that our share of misfortunes very often serves but to enhance their value. But grief makes a much deeper impress upon the mind and leaves far more lasting traces than joy. We relate all our afflictions more frequently than we do our pleasures. Every individual’s chagrins are mentioned as proofs of his ill fate, while their more fortunate circumstances are suffered to pass unnoticed by themselves as the meer effect of their own wisdom. Could every man consider his own intrinsic Worth — perhaps he would find that the still small voice of Conscience accords better with his Fortune than the loud and declamatory flow of eloquence. What I mean is, that our happiness is generally equal to our deserts.
Exceptions, Fordyce says, do only confirm a general rule. For my own part, how well should I think of myself, if my deserts equalled my happiness! My father has ever been more deserving than fortunate. This saying could not be reversed in him. The longer I live, and the more I see of the world, the more am I both astonished and delighted at the goodness, the merit, and the sweetness of that best of men. All that is amiable, added to all that is agreeable; every thing that is striking joined to every thing that is pleasing; learning, taste, judgement, wit, and humour, — candour, temperance, patience, benevolence, every virtue under the sun is his!
But now to events, which will otherwise crowd so fast upon me, that I shall not be able to recollect them: what a loss would that be! to my dear — Nobody!
* * * * *
[Tuesday.
Mr and Mrs. Rishton are in town. Yesterday they made me spend the day with them, to accompany them to Covent Garden Theatre.].... Mrs. Bettenson and Sir Richard Bettenson, uncle and aunt of Mr. Rishton, are to make our party at the play. The Baronet has a fortune of 5000 per annum, and Mr. Rishton is his presumtive heir. Though not a declared one, yet he is the nearest relation. They live in our Square, and we went to take them up early, as the Prelude was to be done..... The servant begged us to come in, as his mistress was not ready. The moment the coach stopped Mr. Rishton said to me, “Now, take no notice, but you will see presently one of the oddest women you ever yet have seen — off the stage!” Mrs. Rishton, who was extremely eager to see Barsanti, having never yet seen her on the stage, was very much vexed at this delay. Her husband, more impetuous, exclaimed against her ill-breeding. “How truly vulgar! to make people wait!” But he would not get out. “Let’s sit still,” cried he, “it will save both time and compliments.” In about five minutes Mrs. Bettenson appeared in the passage. She is a fat, squab, ugly, vulgar woman, yet, I am told, extremely fond of her family. However, she was this evening all condescendsion.
“Won’t you come in, Mrs. Rishton? — why, Lord, I have been ready this good while; — we only wait for my brother. But he says he can’t go five in a coach.”
This was a delicate speech for me! I began to say I was sorry, &c., but Mrs. Rishton whispered me “Remember they are the intruders, we made our party first.” Mr. Rish ton was now obliged to get out, and after a decent quantity of speeches and compliments, the Baronet and his amiable sister [at last] came in.
We had... an upper box. Barsanti acted extremely well, and was much admired. “And how do you like this Prelude, madam?” asked Sir Richard, little thinking that I have seen it near a dozen times. I am glad to find it so long lived. The play was again “Elfrida,” with a new entertainment called “Cross Purposes,” in which is introduced a macaroni’s footman who had on exactly the undress livery of Mr. Rishton’s servants. Mrs. Rishton could not forbear laughing as well as myself. She looked up to Mr. Rishton: I did not venture. After all, his foible is certainly dress, and love of being distinguished from the vulgar crew. [I had the pleasure to see Prior’s celebrated fair “Kitty, beautiful and young,” now called Kitty, beautiful and old, in the stage box, the Duchess of Queensberry.]
In going back to the coach, Sir Richard and his sister gave a polite invitation to supper. I desired to be set down at home, but they all joined in asking me, and I was too happy to be anywhere with the Rishtons to refuse.
Mr. Rishton was in high spirits, and prodigiously agreeable. Mrs. Bettenson, among her other amiable qualities, has to an uncommon degree that of thriftiness, of which her brother, though not so apparently, participates. I had been told before, by Mr. Rishton, that whenever she had company she was always so unlucky as to have just parted with her cook, — so that I had the utmost difficulty to keep my countenance, when, upon my apologizing for my visit, she said—” O dear, ma’am, you do me a great deal of honour, — I am only sorry you will not have better fare — but, indeed, my cook — and an excellent one she was, — went away yesterday.”
In considering the partial dispensation of riches, I think the poor should ever have in remembrance this query:
— which is worse, Want — with a full — or with an empty purse?
The table was covered with half, or less than half, filled dishes. I should not, however, have mentioned this, but to speak of Mr. Rishton, whose behaviour was unmerciful. It is a general custom with him to eat little or no supper — but he affected a voracious appetite, and eat as if he had fasted three days. I own I had malice enough to enjoy this, as I have no pity for grand penury. Riches and Pride without Liberality — how odious! [I touched nothing but an orange; which was not remarked.]
Mr. Rishton raised my admiration by his behaviour to this pair, from whom he has reason to expect so much. Far from flattering, he even trims them for their foibles; and whenever they seem to exact any deference, he treats them most cavalierly. He declares to his wife, that he would not descend to cringe and court them for the surety of all his uncle’s estate. If he humbled himself to them, he is convinced they would trample on him. Such is the insolence of Wealth.
At twelve o’clock Mr. Rishton ordered his carriage — and turning to me, with a very wicked smile, said—” The play will be over late to-night, Miss Burney!” However, I know that my offence was given in going; my staying did not much signify.
* * * * *
Monday, Jan. 25th.
We had yesterday the most heavenly evening! Millico, the divine Millico was here, and with him Sig. Sacchini, and Sig. Celestini, that sweet violinist, whom I have often mentioned. We had no further party, which I greatly rejoiced at, as we were at full liberty to devote every instant to these. Sig. Sacchini is a very elegant man and extremely handsome.... [Millico is of a large or rather... an immense figure, and] not handsome at all, at all; but his countenance is strongly expressive of sweetness of disposition, and his conversation is exceedingly sensible. He was very much surprised at the size of our family. My father has so young a look, that all strangers are astonished to find him such a Patriarch.... They enquired with great curiosity who we all were and if the Signorina, Hetty,... were all my father’s.... declared he had taken us for his sisters! His next enquiry was “If we did not play?” My father came up to us, and told us — and went back with answer that one (Hetty) would play on condition that he should sing.... [Millico’s] conversation was partly Italian and partly French, and Sacchini’s almost all Italian; but they neither of them speak three words of English....
Hetty being called upon to open the concert,.... began a rondeau in the overture to Sacchini’s new opera, which has been performed but twice; but she had been to three rehearsals, and has gotten almost half the opera by ear. Sacchini almost started; he looked at first in the utmost perplexity, as if doubting his own ears, as the music of II Cid has never been published. Millico clapt his hands, and laughed— “Ah! brava! brava!” Sacchini then bowed, and my father explained the manner of her having got this rondeau; at w
hich he seemed much pleased. When she had finished her lesson,... my father applied to Millico..., [who] readily complied, and with the utmost good-nature sang his most favourite air in the new opera, only accompanied by Sacchini on the harpsichord. I have no words to express the delight which his singing gave me, more far away than I have ever received, even at the Opera; for his voice is so sweet, that it wants no instruments to cover it. He was not, however, satisfied with himself; he complained again of his cold; but seeing us all charmed, — with a sweetness that enchanted me in so great a performer, he said, “Eh bien, encore une fois; la voix commence á venir”; and sang it again. Oh! how divinely! I am sure he must then satisfy himself, and he will never find any other person equally difficult. For my own part, the mere recollection fills me with rapture; my terms are strong, and yet they but weakly express my meaning.
After this, he made Sacchini himself sing (though not without difficulty), saying, “il a une petite voix; mais il chante tres bien.” Sacchini with the utmost merit has the truest modesty; when he found he could not excuse himself, he complied with the most graceful diffidence imaginable. He has very little voice, but great taste. Millico led the applause that was given him. This composer and singer appear to be most affectionate friends. They do indeed seem born to make each others merit conspicuous. Millico has read in my father’s countenance, I suppose, the excellence of his heart, for though their acquaintance is of short date, he reposes great confidence in him, in as much as that he has given him some manuscript music of his own composition, which he intends for his Benefit.... This MS. is for an Ode which he has had written, expressing his gratitude for his reception in England. The verses are pretty, and he has set them with great propriety. He sat down himself to the harpsichord, and played and sung his part through, — as the words are English... he desired... that we would all try, whether we could understand them... which, to say the truth, was not very easy. And he made my father correct his pronunciation.
.. When they moved from the harpsichord, to draw them back, Hetty began another air of Millico’s in “II Cid this had the desired effect. Millico, all good-nature, was prevailed upon to sing it; which he did —
in notes so sweet and clear,
The sound still vibrates on my ravished ear.
Admiration can be no new tribute to the merit of this divine singer; yet he two or three times observed our delight to my father, and repeated that we had “l’alma harmonica”; and, on Sacchini’s singing an air which was quite new to us, but which we were highly pleased with, he said, “[Elies connaissent la bonne] musique; cela les touche á l’instant.”
.. I again repeat, the evening was heavenly! If any thing on earth can be so, ’tis surely perfection of vocal music.... Nothing is more charming than to see great talents without affectation. My father says, that there are hardly in all Italy three such modest men as Millico, Sacchini, and Celestini. They did whatever was asked of them with the most unaffected good-humour. They are wholly free from vanity, yet seemed as much to enjoy giving pleasure, as we did receiving it.
In taking leave, Millico turned to Hetty, Susan, and me, and bowing, said, “Je viendrai une autre fois, et nous passerons la soiree comme il faut.”
Feb 13th.
On the above assurance have I lived ever since. The voice of Millico seems continually sounding in my ear, and harmonizing my soul. Never have I known pleasure so exquisite, so heartfelt, so divinely penetrating, as this sweet singer has given me. He is ever present in my imagination; his singing and his songs are the constant companions of my recollection. Whatever else occurs to me seems obtrusive and impertinent I confess myself in very strong terms, but... almost all terms, all words are unequal and inadequate to speak of the extreme delight which Millico’s singing affords me. If this Journal was not sacred to myself I am not ignorant that any other Reader would immediately give me credit either for affectation or some degree of craziness, but I am too much my own friend ever to express my Raptures to those who cannot sympathize in them. I have never written my feelings with more honesty.
My father dined with this Orfeo last week; who has invited himself to favour us again soon, and promised to bring his harp, on which he sometimes accompanies himself. But our affection to Millico has occasioned our meeting with a very disagreeable incident.... Last Saturday evening mama suddenly proposed going to the Opera, Il Cid, the fame of which had excited our curiosity. Susy and myself joyfully skipt at the proposal, and the coach was instantly ordered.... The opera is the sweetest I ever heard, and Millico sung like an angel.... We stayed very late to avoid the crowd.... very slowly, the pit and boxes being very full. When we went down, we got with difficulty to our coach; but, after the usual perils and dangers, we were drove out of the Haymarket and into Suffolk Street. Here we concluded we were safe; but, as we afterwards found, there had been left a load of gravel in the street, which the shade (being moonlight) hid from the coachman. We found ourselves suddenly mounted on one side. Mama, who is soon alarmed, cried out, “We are going, we are going!” I sat quite quiet, thinking it a false alarm; but presently the coach was entirely overturned, and we came sideways to the ground. Stupefied between surprise and fright, I fell without moving a finger, and lay quite silent. The glass at my side was fortunately down, and the blind up, which saved my temples from the pavement; but the glass above me broke, and the pieces fell on me. Mama and Susan both imagined me to be most in danger, [from being undermost, and my tender Susan] called out to me repeatedly, “Fanny, are you hurt? are you very much hurt, Fanny? [my dear Fanny?]”
It was some time, from an unaccountable effect of fear, before I could answer; but the falling of the glass roused me.... Some people immediately gathered about the carriage, and I believe opened the door, which was now at the top of the coach. Mama called out, “Here’s nobody hurt!” but desired them to assist me. With some difficulty I made a shift to stand up, and a gentleman lifted me out [of the carriage.] He had no hat on, being come out of a neighbouring house. He begged me to go with him [to his sisters, who were close by, that I might get out of the mob,] and promised to take care of me; but I was now terrified for mama and Susan, and could not leave the place, for I heard the former call out that her arm was broken! I quite wrung my hands with horror. This gentleman took hold of me, and almost used violence to make me go away. I remember I called out to him, [as he forced me on,] that he would drive me distracted! He assured me that mama would be safe; but, as if he had not had trouble enough with me, I answered all his civilities with, “But, [go!] why can’t you go and help them?” However, he would not leave me, for which I believe I am very much obliged to him, as I was surrounded by a mob, and as there were assistants enough about the coach. When mama and Susan were taken out, we accepted this gentleman’s offer, and went into his house, where we were very hospitably received by some ladies. My poor mother had her arm dreadfully hurt; Susan had only sprained two fingers, to save herself from falling on us; my face was very bloody from two small cuts I had received on my nose. We stayed here near a q’ of an hour, and met with the utmost kindness and civility....
Mamma declared she would walk home; my Deliverer insisted on accompanying us; but John... assured us that the coach was not further injured than by the glasses being broke, and that we might very safely go home in it; which we accordingly did, though in much terror. Mamma has been confined ever since. Mr. Bromfield has examined her arm; but it is so much swelled, that it can only be polticed at present, and he has not said whether it has received any further injury than a most violent sprain. I fear it will be a very tedious affair. Susan, thank God! is very well; and so am I.
The next day, which was Sunday, Dr. Hawkesworth and his lady, by appointment, dined and spent the evening here. I like the Doctor more and more every time I have the pleasure of seeing him; that stiffness and something resembling pedantry, which formerly struck me in him, upon further acquaintance and more intimacy either wear off or disappear. He was extremely natural and agreeable. Hi
s wife is a very well-bred, obliging, and sweet-tempered woman.
* * * * *
We were all of opinion that it was necessary [immediately] to wait on the family in Suffolk Street, to return them thanks for their assistance; but mama was obliged to keep her room, — Susan was engaged, and therefore on Monday I went, John knowing the way to the house. They appear to be an agreeable family, consisting of a brother and three sisters. I felt very awkward, when I got into the street, lest I should... be forgot. However, I determined to venture rather than omit paying thanks so well deserved; however they all immediately recollected me, and seemed very glad to hear of our safety. Their names are Miland.
* * * * *
Feb 19th.
My father’s German Tour is now in the press, and he is hurried and fatigued beyond expression, for this is a time of year when his business is at its height.
[Mrs. Rishton has been ill]... We had yesterday, — I know not whether to say pain or pleasure, — of seeing Mr. Garrick in the part of Lear. He was exquisitely great; every idea which I had formed of his talents, although I have ever idolized him, was exceeded. I am sorry that this play is acted with Cibber’s alterations, as every line of his, is immediately to be distinguished from Shakespeare; who, with all his imperfections, is too superior to any other dramatic writer, for them to bear so near a comparison; and to my ears every line of Cibber’s is feeble and paltry.
Thursday, February 25th.
Mr. Adams and his brother, two gentlemen who my sister and self formerly met with at Captain Debieg’s, had this day exposed to public sale a large and valuable collection of busts, statues, bas-reliefs, pictures, &c., which they purchased many years since in Italy. These gentlemen, with another of their brothers, have, since our acquaintance with Mrs. Debieg has dropt, built the Adelphi, — so called from the three brothers being engaged in it. The undertaking was, I believe, too great for them, and they have suffered much in their fortunes. I cannot but wonder, that so noble and elegant a plan should fail of encouragement. I went yesterday morning with my sister to the view of these things. I could not but greatly pity the collector, who is I fear obliged to part with them. As I have neither knowledge or judgement in these matters, I venture at no further opinion than that to me the sight was a great regale. We saw many of our old friends of the Scotch party, but were not known to [any, probably not seen, as we sate very backward, Hetty wishing to avoid them. I often suspect that Mr. Seton was thunderstruck by Hetty’s marriage.]
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 467