Fanny Burney - The Wanderer; or, Female Difficulties (Volume 3 of 5)

Upon further observation, nevertheless, her compassion for the milliner and the work-women somewhat diminished; for she found that their notions of probity were as lax as those of their customers were of justice; and saw that their own rudeness to those who had neither rank nor fortune, kept pace with the haughtiness which they were forced to support, from those by whom both were possessed. Every advantage was taken of inexperience and simplicity; every article was charged, not according to its value, but to the skill or ignorance of the purchaser; old goods were sold as if new; cheap goods as if dear; and ancient, or vulgar ornaments, were presented to the unpractised chafferer, as the very pink of the mode.

The rich and grand, who were capricious, difficult, and long in their examinations, because their time was their own; or rather, because it hung upon their hands; and whose utmost exertion, and sole practice of exercise consisted in strolling from a sofa to a carriage, were instantly, and with fulsome adulation, attended; while the meaner, or economical, whose time had its essential appropriations, and was therefore precious, were obliged to wait patiently for being served, till no coach was at the door, and every fine lady had sauntered away. And even then, they were scarcely heard when they spoke; scarcely shewn what they demanded; and scarcely thanked for what they purchased.

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'Oh my loved country! – unhappy, guilty – but for ever loved country! – shall I never see thee more!'

'Sleep on, sleep on, my angel child! May the repose that flies me, the happiness that I have lost, the precious tranquillity of soul that has forsaken me – be thine! for ever thine! my child! my angel! I cease to call thee back. Even were it in my power, I would not call thee back. I prayed for thy preservation, while yet I had the bliss of possessing thee; cruel as were thy sufferings, and impotent as I found myself to relieve them, I prayed, – in the anguish of my soul, – I prayed for thy preservation! Thou art lost to me now! – yet I call thee back no more! I behold thee an angel! I see thee rescued for ever from sorrow, from alarm, from poverty, and from bitter recollections; – and shall I call thee back, to partake again my sufferings? – No! return to me no more! There, only, let me find thee, where thy felicity will be mine! – but thou! O pray for thy unhappy mother! Let thy innocent prayers be united to her humble supplications, that thy mother, thy hapless mother, may become worthy to join thee!'

'Alas, Madam! are you, also, deploring the loss of a child?'

'Ah, my friend! my much loved friend! have I sought thee, have I awaited thee, have I so fervently desired thy restoration – to find thee thus? Weeping over a grave? And thou – dost thou not recollect me? Hast thou forgotten me? – Gabriella! my loved Gabriella!'

'Gracious heaven! what do I behold? My Juliet! my tender friend? Can it be real? – O! can it, indeed, be true, that still any happiness is left on earth for me!'

'Ah! – upon me can you, yet, bestow a thought?'

'True, my dear friend, true! thy history, thy misfortunes, can never be terrible, never be lacerating like mine! Thou hast not yet known the bliss of being a mother; – how, then, canst thou have experienced the most overwhelming of calamities! a suffering that admits of no description! a woe that makes all others seem null – the loss of a being pure, spotless as a cherub – and wholly our own!'

'Here, here let us stay! 'tis here I can best speak to thee! 'tis here, I can best listen; – here, where I pass every moment that I can snatch from penury and labour! Think not that to weep is what is most to be dreaded; oh never mayst thou learn, that to weep – though upon the tomb of all that has been most dear to thee upon earth, is a solace, is a feeling of softness, nay of pleasure, compared with the hard necessity of toiling, when death has seized upon the very heart, merely to breathe, to exist, after life has lost all its charms!'

'See, if I am not still susceptible of pleasure! Thy society has made me forget the sad and painful duties that call me hence, to tasks that snatch me, – with difficulty, – from perishing by famine!'

'Ah, how I know thee by that trait! thy soul so noble! so firm in itself; so soft, so commiserating for every other! what tender, what touching recollections present themselves at this instant to my heart! Dearest Juliet! is it, then, indeed no dream, that I have found – that I behold thee again? and, in thee, all that is most exemplary, most amiable, and most worthy upon earth! How is it I can recover thee, and not recover happiness? I almost feel as if I were criminal, that I can embrace thee, – yet weep on!'

'Alas, my Juliet! sister of my soul! abandon not myself to sorrow for me! but speak to me, my tender friend, speak to me of my mother! where didst thou leave her? And how? And at what time? The most precious of mothers! Alas! separated from us both, – how will she be able to support such accumulation of misfortunes!'

'And why? Hast thou not seen thy relations? – Canst thou be seen, and not loved? – known, and not cherished? No, my Juliet, no! thou hast only to appear!'

'Oh far from me by any such insistence! Know I not well that thy admirable judgment, just counterpart of thy excellent heart, will guide thee to speak when it is right? Shall I not entirely confide in thee? – In thee, whose sole study has been always the good and happiness of others?'

'And my uncle! My so amiable, so pious uncle? Where is he?'

'My lord the Bishop? – Oh yes! yes! – amiable indeed! – pure! – without blemish! – He will soon, I believe, be here; or I shall have some intelligence from him; and then – my fate will be known to me!'

'Ah, should he come hither! – should I be blest again by his sight, I should feel, once more, even in the midst of my desolation, a sensation of joy – such as thou, only, as yet, hast been able to re-awaken!'

''Tis at Brighthelmstone, then, – 'tis here that we must dwell! Here, where I seem not yet, entirely, to have lost my darling boy! Oh my friend! my dearest, best loved friend! 'tis to him – to my child, that I am indebted for seeing thee again! 'tis in visiting his remains that I have met my Juliet! – Oh thou! my child! my angel! 'tis to thee, to thee, I am indebted for my friend! Even thy grave offers me comfort! even thy ashes desire to bless me! Thy remains, thy shadow, would do good, would bring peace to thy unhappy mother!'