peak of my family, of our house, of the republic, and will in
future detail all that may happen to any or all of us.

I was born in 1743, and am consequently sixteen years old; I received at
my baptism the name of Frances. I am quite tall; I have often been told
that I am handsome, and in truth my mirror reveals the fact that I am by
no means ill looking. My mother says, however, that 'one must give
thanks to God for such a gift, and beware of pride; for it is His
goodness, and not our merit.' My eyes and hair are black, my complexion
fair and well colored; but still I am not satisfied: I would like to be
much taller. It is true that my figure is slight and well formed, but I
have seen women of a loftier stature than myself, and I must envy them a
little, as all tell me I have attained my full height.

I belong to a very noble and ancient family, the Corvini Krasinski. God
grant that I may never sully so glorious a name by any unworthy action;
my desire is to render it still more illustrious, and I am sometimes
sorry that I am not a man, for I should then have been capable of
performing great and brilliant deeds.

My father and mother are so fully persuaded of the excellence of their
origin, that our neighbors, as well as ourselves, all know the genealogy
of our ancestors by heart. I confess, to my shame, that I am much more
conversant with it than with the succession of our kings.

But what will be the final fate of my journal? Will it live or die? Why
should it not survive through many ages, as so many letters and memoirs
written in France have done? Oh, I must pay great attention to my
studies! What a pity I have not the talent of Madame de Sevigne, or of
Madame de Motteville! Perhaps I could write my journal better in French
... But no--that would be unworthy of a Polish girl; a native of Poland,
I must write in my national tongue. It is true that French is generally
used among all our nobility, but then that is a fashion, which, like
all other fashions, may soon pass away, and I should not like to leave
such a blot upon my memory.

If these pages should escape the rats and the rage for curl papers, and
fall into the hands of any one willing to read them through, I hope the
reader will pardon my ignorance, and kindly remember that I write
without method, and am totally uninstructed in all the rules prescribed
for the keeping of a journal. I am but just sixteen, and the great
little matters now occupying so much