Who is frances burney?

Frances Burney

Frances Burney (13 June 1752 – 6 January 1840), also known as Fanny Burney and, after her marriage, as Madame d’Arblay, was an English novelist, diarist and playwright. She was born in Lynn Regis, now King’s Lynn, England, on 13 June 1752, to musical historian Dr Charles Burney (1726–1814) and Mrs Esther Sleepe Burney (1725–62). The third of six children, she was self-educated and began writing what she called her “scribblings” at the age of ten. In 1793, aged forty-two, she married a French exile, General Alexandre D'Arblay. Their only son, Alexander, was born in 1794. After a lengthy writing career, and travels that took her to France for more than ten years, she settled in Bath, England, where she died on 6 January 1840.

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Frances Burney (1776–1828) - Family and Life
... Frances Burney was the niece of the novelists Frances Burney and Sarah Burney, and the granddaughter of the musicologist Charles Burney ... One of eight children of the impecunious musicians Esther (Hetty) Burney (1749–1832) and Charles Rousseau Burney (1747–1819), who were cousins, she became a governess at the age of eighteen and worked in ... It has been speculated by the author of her ODNB entry Burney was affected by "the concerns of her grandfather Charles Burney (1726–1814) about the potential impropriety of the stage ...

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    At the milliners, the ladies we met were so much dressed, that I should rather have imagined they were making visits than purchases. But what diverted me most was, that we were more frequently served by men than by women; and such men! so finical, so affected! they seemed to understand every part of a woman’s dress better than we do ourselves; and they recommended caps and ribbons with an air of so much importance, that I wished to ask them how long they had left off wearing them.
    Frances Burney (1752–1840)

    The laws of custom make our [returning a visit] necessary. O how I hate this vile custom which obliges us to make slaves of ourselves! to sell the most precious property we boast, our time;—and to sacrifice it to every prattling impertinent who chooses to demand it!
    —Frances Burney (1752–1840)

    The kiss of the sun for pardon,
    The song of the birds for mirth,—
    One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
    Than anywhere else on earth.
    —Dorothy Frances Gurney (1858–1932)