The Diary of an Ennuyée

The Diary of an Ennuyée

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Title: The Diary of an Ennuyée
Author: Anna Brownell Jameson
Release Date: March 26, 2006 [EBook #18049]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE ***

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THE DIARY
OF

AN ENNUYÉE.
A NEW EDITION.
BY MRS. JAMESON,
AUTHOR OF "VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND
ABROAD," ETC. ETC.
Sad, solemn, soure, and full of fancies fraile, She woxe: yet wist she
neither how nor why: She wist not, silly Mayd, what she did aile, Yet
wist she was not well at ease, perdie; Yet thought it was not Love, but
some Melancholie.
SPENSER.
PARIS,
BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY,
SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; TRUCHY,
BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS; THEOPHILE BARROIS, JUN., RUE
RICHELIEU; LIBRAIRIE DES ÉTRANGERS, RUE
NEUVE-SAINT-AUGUSTIN; AND HEIDELOFF AND CAMPE,
RUE VIVIENNE.
1836.
* * * * *
DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE.[A]
* * * * *
Calais, June 21.--What young lady, travelling for the first time on the
Continent, does not write a "Diary?" No sooner have we slept on the
shores of France--no sooner are we seated in the gay salon at Dessin's,
than we call, like Biddy Fudge, for "French pens and French ink," and
forth steps from its case the morocco-bound diary, regularly ruled and

paged, with its patent Bramah lock and key, wherein we are to record
and preserve all the striking, profound, and original observations--the
classical reminiscences--the thread-bare raptures--the poetical
effusions--in short, all the never-sufficiently-to-be-exhausted topics of
sentiment and enthusiasm, which must necessarily suggest themselves
while posting from Paris to Naples.
Verbiage, emptiness, and affectation!
Yes--but what must I do, then, with my volume in green morocco?
Very true, I did not think of that.
We have all read the DIARY OF AN INVALID, the best of all diaries
since old Evelyn's.--
Well, then,--Here beginneth the DIARY OF A BLUE DEVIL.
What inconsistent beings are we!--How strange that in such a moment
as this, I can jest in mockery of myself! but I will write on. Some keep
a diary, because it is the fashion--a reason why I should not; some
because it is blue, but I am not blue, only a blue devil; some for their
amusement,--amusement!! alas! alas! and some that they may
remember,--and I that I may forget, O! would it were possible.
When, to-day, for the first time in my life, I saw the shores of England
fade away in the distance--did the conviction that I should never behold
them more, bring with it one additional pang of regret, or one consoling
thought? neither the one nor the other. I leave behind me the scenes, the
objects, so long associated with pain; but from pain itself I cannot fly: it
has become a part of myself. I know not yet whether I ought to rejoice
and be thankful for this opportunity of travelling, while my mind is
thus torn and upset; or rather regret that I must visit scenes of interest,
of splendour, of novelty--scenes over which, years ago, I used to
ponder with many a sigh, and many a vain longing, now that I am lost
to all the pleasure they could once have excited: for what is all the
world to me now?--But I will not weakly yield: though time and I have
not been long acquainted, do I not know what miracles he, "the

all-powerful healer," can perform? Who knows but this dark cloud may
pass away? Continual motion, continual activity, continual novelty, the
absolute necessity for self-command, may do something for me. I
cannot quite forget; but if I can cease to remember for a few minutes, or
even, it may be, for a few hours? O how idle to talk of "indulging
grief:" talk of indulging the rack, the rheumatism! who ever indulged
grief that truly felt it? to endure is hard enough.
It is o'er! with its pains and its pleasures, The dream of affection is o'er!
The feelings I lavish'd so fondly Will never return to me more.
With a faith, O! too blindly believing-- A truth, no unkindness could
move; My prodigal heart hath expended At once, an existence of love.
And now, like the spendthrift forsaken, By those whom his bounty had
blest, All