Frances Burney

01Dec08

A Young and Agreeable Infidel – Frances Burney

Miss W – is young and pleasing in her appearance, not pretty but agreeable in her face, and soft, gentle, and well-bred in her manners.  Our conversation, for some time, was upon the common Bath topics; but when Mrs. Lambart left us – called to receive more company – we went insensibly into graver matters.
As I soon found, by the looks and expressions of this young lady, that she was of a peculiar cast, I left all choice of subjects to herself, determined quietly to follow as she led; and very soon, and I am sure I know not how, we had for topics the follies and vices of mankind, and, indeed, she spared not for lashing them.  The women she rather excused than defended, laying to the door of the men their faults and imperfections; but the men, she said, were all bad – all, in one word, and without exception, sensualists!
I stared much at a severity of speech for which her softness of manner had so ill-prapared me; and she, perceiving my surprise, said,
“I am sure I ought to apologize for speaking my opinion to you – you, who have so just and so uncommon a knowledge of human nature.  I have long wished ardently to have the honor of conversing with you; but your party has, altogether,been regarded as so formidable, that I have not had courage to approach it.”
I made – as what could I do else? – disqualifying speeches, and she then led to discoursing of happiness and misery: the latter she held to be the invariable lot of us all; and “one word,” she added, “we have in our language, and in all others, for which there is never any essential necessity, and that is – pleasure!”  And her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.
“How you amaze me!” cried I; “I have met with misanthropes before, but never with so complete a one; and I can hardly think I hear right when I see  how young your are!”
She then, in rather indirect terms, gave me to understand that she was miserable at home, and in very direct terms, that she was wretched abraod; and openly said, that to affliction she was born, and in affliction she must die, for that the world was so vilely formed as to render happiness impossible for its inhabitants.
There was something in this freedom of repining that I could by no means approve, and, as I found by all her manner that she had a disposition to even respect whatever I said, I now grew very serious, and frankly told her that I could not think it consistent with either truth or religion to cherish such notions.
“One thing,” answered she, “there is, which I believe might make me happy, but for that I have no inclination: it is an amorous disposition; but that I do not possess.  I can make myself no happiness by intrigue.”
“I hope not, indeed!” cried I, almost confounded by her extraordinary notions and speeches; “but, surely, there are worthier objects of happiness attainable!”
“No, I believe ther are not, and the reason the men are happier than us, is because they are more sensual!”
“I would not think such thoughts,” cried I, clasping my hands with an involuntary vehemence, “for worlds!”
The Misses C – then interrupted us, and seated themselves next to us; but Miss W – paid them little attention at first, and soon after none at all; but, in a low voice, continued her discourse with me, recurring to the same subject of happiness and misery, upon which, after again asserting the folly of ever hoping for the former, she made this speech:
“There may be, indeed, one moment of happiness, which must be the finding one worthy of exciting a passion which one should dare own to himself.  That would, indeed, be a moment worth living for! but that can never happen – I am sure not to me – the men are so low, so vicious, so worthless!  No, there is not one such to be found!”

 ”Well, you are a most extraordinary character, indeed; I must confess I have seen nothing like you!”
“I hope, however, I shall find something like myself, and, like the magnet rolling in the dust, attract some metal as I go.”
“That you may attract what you please, is of all things the most likely; but if you wait to be happy for a friend resembling yourself, I shall no longer wonder at your despondency.”
“Oh!” cried she, raising her eyes in ecstasy, “could I find such a one!-male or female-for sex would be indifferent to me.  With such a one I would go to live directly.”
I half laughed, but was perplexed in my own mind whether to be sad or merry at such a speech.
“But then,” she continued, “after making, should I lose such a friend, I would not survive.”
“Not survive?” repeated I, “what can you mean?”
She looked down, but said nothing.
“Surely you cannot mean,” said I, very gravely indeed, “to put a violent end to your life.”
“I should not,” said she, again looking up, “hesitate a moment.”
I was quite thunderstruck, and for some time could not say a word; but when I did speak, it was in a style of exhortation so serious and earnest, I am ashamed to write it to you, lest you should think it too much.
She gave me an attention that was even respectful, but when I urged her to tell me by what right she thought herself entitled to rush unlicensed on eternity, she said, “By the right of believing I shall be extinct.” I really felt horror-struck.
“Where, for heaven’s sake,” I cried, “where have you picked up such dreadful reasoning?”
“In Hume,” said she; “I have read his Essays repeatedly.” 
“I am sorry to find they have power to do so much mischief; you should not have read them, at least till a man equal to Hume in abilities had answered him.  Have you read any more infidel writers?”
“Yes, Bolingbroke, the divinest of all writers.”
“And do you read nothing upon the right side?”
“Yes, the Bible, till I was sick to death of it, every Sunday evening to my mother.”
“Have you read Beattie on the Immutability of Truth?”
“No.”
“Give me leave then to recommend it to you.  After Hume’s Essays you ought to read it.  And even for lighter reading, if you were to look at Mason’s ‘Elegy on Lady Coventry’ it might be of no disservice to you.”
This was the chief of our conversation, which indeed made an impression upon me I shall not easily get rid of.  A young and agreeable infidel is even a shocking sight, and with her romantic, flighty, and unguarded turn of mind, what could happen to her that oculd give surprise?
Poor misguided girl! 

***********

I know I go on about Ravi Zacharias, but it’s because he so accurately defines the human condition.  Today I stumbled across some journal entries by Frances Burney, a late eighteenth and early nineteenth century novelist.  One journal entry truly verifies Ravi’s case against antitheism in “Can Man Live Without God.”  In order to make this post useful, I have to try to sum up what Ravi spends many chapters and books trying to clarify for us.  

Antitheism has one logical outcome: meaninglessness.  Any attempt to associate atheism with morality, purpose or meaning is simply a godless philosophy built on the foundation laid by theism.  The alternative to an intentionally designed creation is an existence bereft of purpose, unity and morality.  You see, if we are truly a product of chance, matter, time, and spontaneity, where is the universal standard for right and wrong?  We would have to submit and say that right and wrong is up to the individual.  If we truly came from nothing where do we find purpose?  Why would life truly be better than death?  

Atheistic philosophers recognize this, but they don’t advertise the consequences.  They have no answer for evil.  They will quickly assert that right and wrong is up to the individual.  I must ask, what is your answer to child abuse, rape, genocide?  To remain consistent, the atheist could not declare these wrong because they may be perfectly acceptable or ‘right’ to those involved.  

I’ve always taken to this way of thinking that is so well elucidated by Ravi, but I was honestly a little surprised to see it spelled out so clearly in the journal of Frances Burney.  To give you a brief background, Frances Burney is writing about her encounter with a young brilliant woman that is struggling to find happiness.  Burney summarizes the young woman’s devastating worldview:

“and [she] openly said, that to affliction she was born, and in affliction she must die, for that the world was so vilely formed as to render happiness impossible for its inhabitants.”

Read for yourself this portion Burney’s account of this interaction in her journal entry titled “A Young and Agreeable Infidel”:

“Well, you are a most extraordinary character, indeed; I must confess I have seen nothing like you!”
“I hope, however, I shall find something like myself, and, like the magnet rolling in the dust, attract some metal as I go.”
“That you may attract what you please, is of all things the most likely; but if you wait to be happy for a friend resembling yourself, I shall no longer wonder at your despondency.”
“Oh!” cried she, raising her eyes in ecstasy, “could I find such a one!-male or female-for sex would be indifferent to me.  With such a one I would go to live directly.”
I half laughed, but was perplexed in my own mind whether to be sad or merry at such a speech.
“But then,” she continued, “after making, should I lose such a friend, I would not survive.”
“Not survive?” repeated I, “what can you mean?”
She looked down, but said nothing.
“Surely you cannot mean,” said I, very gravely indeed, “to put a violent end to your life.”
“I should not,” said she, again looking up, “hesitate a moment.”
I was quite thunderstruck, and for some time could not say a word; but when I did speak, it was in a style of exhortation so serious and earnest, I am ashamed to write it to you, lest you should think it too much.
She gave me an attention that was even respectful, but when I urged her to tell me by what right she thought herself entitled to rush unlicensed on eternity, she said, “By the right of believing I shall be extinct.” I really felt horror-struck.
“Where, for heaven’s sake,” I cried, “where have you picked up such dreadful reasoning?”
“In Hume,” said she; “I have read his Essays repeatedly.” 

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