Mary Browne
The Diary of a Girl in France in 1821
Published by Good Press, 2021
EAN 4064066183080
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
The child who wrote this quaintly-illustrated diary, eighty-three years ago, was the second daughter of William Browne, Esq., of Tallentire Hall, in the County of Cumberland. She was born there, February 15, 1807.
Descended, on her father's side, from a race of sturdy Cumberland yeomen, and on her mother's from the Royal Stuarts and Plantagenets, she grew up, as might be expected from this childish production, an original and uncommon woman.
A keen naturalist and observer of nature, at a time when such pursuits were unusual, she delighted in long solitary country rambles round her beautiful home: an old border watch-tower, dating from 1280 a. d., in full view of the Solway to the north, and of Skiddaw and the Cumbrian mountains to the south.
An exquisite collection of butterflies and moths is still in existence, painted by her clever fingers from specimens reared by herself. Each one is depicted upon its favourite flower, and accompanied by its caterpillar and chrysalis on the food plant. This was, alas! left unfinished at her death, on May 30, 1833, at the early age of twenty-six.
A picture poem, painted on the page of one of the albums of the period, in drawings so minute and so finely finished that, like the butterflies, they can only be adequately seen through a magnifying-glass, still shows her accuracy of observation, and the dainty and patient care of her work.
She loved flowers, and the garden may still be seen where, in the very early mornings, she planted and tended with her own loving care such fragrant, and old-world flowers as rose de meaux, clove pinks, and gillyflowers.
But these were only the pastimes of a busy life of unselfish devotion to others. Shy, retiring, and strangely indifferent to appearance and to worldly advantages, she was little understood by the merry young circle around her. She was, as a child, even considered stupid and slow, her governess declaring that 'friend Mary does as well as she can.' But children loved her, and if there was sickness or sorrow in the village it was always 'Miss Mary' who was wanted, and who was never appealed to in vain.
At a time when rural education was viewed with suspicion, and Mrs. Hannah More was contending for the right of the poor to win knowledge, she and her clever elder sister opened the first Sunday-school in the neighbourhood. They also devoted several hours of every morning to teaching in the village dame school.
The visit to France recorded in this diary extended from April 25th to August 12th, 1821. Mary Browne went abroad when she was fourteen, with her father and mother and five brothers and sisters, all but one being younger than herself, and all being alike in their childish loyalty to their own country, and their whole-hearted conviction that everything un-English must be bad; and that even to admire anything foreign was the blackest treason. Starting in this firm belief, they treasured up everything ugly, eccentric, or uncouth that they came across in their travels, as may be seen in the primitive but forcible illustrations of her diary, with no dawning suspicion that, though different, foreign customs might nevertheless be better than the familiar ways.
They travelled slowly, in two of their own carriages, being a party of thirteen, including the six children, a governess, nurse, cook, manservant, and courier.
The long journey; the brief sojourn at school; Madame Vernier, their cross landlady; and, above all, the children's delight at finding themselves again in their beloved England—these are all recorded with a vivid and naive wealth of detail, which makes the child life of the early days of the nineteenth century live again as we read of it.
The eldest daughter, Catherine, had been in France before with her parents, in the spring of 1815, when Napoleon Buonaparte escaped from Elba. They were then obliged to leave Paris hurriedly, travelling night and day for fear of detention.
To all the other children everything was new and marvellous, and their keen, though unconscious, delight in all that they saw is evident throughout these pages.
E. S. Browne.
JOURNAL
April 1821
April 25th, 1821.—We arrived at London about eleven o'clock: all the hotels we enquired at being full, we drove to the British Hotel, Jermyn Street. We passed through Cavendish Square, which was very pretty, but I was rather disappointed at not seeing London till I was in it. After we had rested, we walked through Burlington Arcade: it was quite cool and pleasant, although the weather was as hot as the middle of summer. There were rows of shops along each side, which had many pretty things in them, particularly artificial flowers; not far from this is the Egyptian Temple, which has sphinxes, etc., carved on it: we saw the Opera House, which is a very fine building. Regent's Street and Waterloo Place are built of white stone. Regent's Street (when finished) is to extend a long way; at the bottom of it is Carlton House, which is very much blackened by the smoke: there is a great contrast between it and St. James's Palace, the latter being built of red brick, and looks like a prison. In the evening we saw the lamps in Regent's Street, which was lighter than any other street I saw; one house was illuminated. We saw Waterloo Bridge.
April 26th.—We went to see the panorama of Naples: it was a beautiful view, there were a number of vessels in the bay; after one had looked long at them, one could fancy they were moving: in one of the boats there were some ladies sitting under a crimson canopy; in another some fruit; in one place there were some men fishing for mullet in a kind of round net, with fishes jumping through it; there was a man swimming with a basket in one hand, and several other figures; the ships were painted very gay colours, the water and the sky were as clear as crystal, and the whole so natural that one could hardly persuade oneself that it was not reality. The next panorama we saw was the battle of Waterloo: it was not near so pretty as Naples, it seemed all confusion; the farmhouse, however, was very natural, also some of the black horses. We next went to the panorama of Lausanne: the Lake of Geneva was very like Keswick Lake, but the lower end not so pretty; the mountains did not look very high. There were a great number of trees; some of them had on kind of covers, which