Chapter XIII: Part 13

Once, had I been less disturbed, I could have laughed; for she declared with great vehemence, that if she had suspected “the wretch of any intention to marry the man, she would have ordered her own postchaise, and followed her to prevent it!”

Alas, poor Lady F.

She then called upon me, to hear my story; which, most painfully to myself, I related. She expressed herself very sorry for me, till I came to an avowal of my letter after the marriage she then flew out into new choler. “I am amazed you would write to her, Miss Burney! I wonder you could think of it any more.”

I told her, I had thought myself so much indebted to her patience with my opposition to all her views and wishes for the whole tine of her long conflict, that, although I was the first to acknowledge her last action indefensible, I should be the last to forget all that had made me love her before it was committed.

This by no means satisfied her, and she poured forth again a torrent of unrelenting abuse. Some company, at last, came in, and I hastily took my leave. She called after me to fix some day for a longer visit; but I pretended not to hear, and ran down stairs, heartily resolving that necessity alone should ever force me into her presence again.

When I came home--before I could get upstairs--I was summoned to Miss Streatfield, whom I met with as little pleasure as Lady F., since I had never seen her, nor indeed anybody, from the time this cruel transaction has been published. Not that I dreaded her violence, for she is as gentle as a lamb but there were causes enough for dread of another nature. However fortunately and unexpectedly, she never named the subject, but prattled away upon nothing but her own affairs; and so, methinks, have I done too, and just as if I knew you wished to hear them. Do you?--I ask only for decency's sake.

DR. JOHNSON'S FAILING HEALTH.

_Norbury Park, Sunday, Nov. 28._--Last Thursday, my father set me down at Bolt-court, while he went on upon business. I was anxious to again see poor Dr. Johnson, who has had terrible health since his return from Lichfield. He let me in, though very ill. He was alone, which I much rejoiced at; for I had a longer and more satisfactory conversation with him than I have had for many months. He was in rather better spirits, too, than I had lately seen him, but he told me he was going to try what sleeping out of town might do for him.

“I remember,” said he, “that my wife, when she was near her end, poor woman, was also advised to sleep out of town, and when she was carried to the lodgings that had been prepared for her, she complained that the staircase was in very bad condition--for the plaster was beaten off the wall in many places. 'Oh,' said the man of the house, 'that's nothing but by the knocks against it of the coffins of the poor souls that have died in the lodgings.'”

He laughed, though not without apparent secret anguish, in telling me this. I felt extremely shocked, but, willing to confine my words at least to the literal story, I only exclaimed against the unfeeling absurdity of such a confession.

“Such a confession,” cried he, “to a person then coming to try his lodgings for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our account for.”

I had seen Miss Thrale the day before.

“So,” said he, “did I.”

I then said,--“Do you ever, sir, hear from her mother?”

“No,” cried he, “nor write to her. I drive her quite from my mind. If I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly. I have burnt all I can find. I never speak of her, and I desire never to hear of her more. I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind.”

Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the Bristol milk-woman, and told him the tales I had heard of her writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and Milton “though those,” I continued, “could never possibly, I should think, be the first authors with anybody. Would children understand them? and grown people who have not read are children in literature.”

“Doubtless,” said he; “but there is nothing so little comprehended among mankind as what is genius. They give to it all, when it can be but a part. Genius is nothing more than knowing the use of tools--but there must be tools for it to use: a man who has spent all his life in this room will give a very poor account of what is contained in the next.”

“Certainly, sir; yet there is such a thing as invention. Shakspeare could never have seen a Caliban.”

“No; but he had seen a man, and knew, therefore, how to vary him to a monster. A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first know what a cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her an ass's head or an elephant's tusk will make her monstrous. Suppose you show me a man who is a very expert carpenter; another will say he was born to be a carpenter--but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men, one with genius, the other with none, look at an overturned waggon; he who has no genius, will think of the waggon only as he sees it, overturned, and walk on; he who has genius, will paint it to himself before it was overturned--standing still, and moving on, and heavy loaded, and empty; but both must see the waggon, to think of it at all.”

He then animated, and talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a once as famous shoemaker, and upon our immortal Shakspeare, with as much fire, spirit, wit, and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him. How delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor and infirm machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way.

Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and offered to go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did not oppose; but, most kindly pressing both my hands,--

“Be not,” he said, in a voice of even tenderness, “be not longer in coming again for my letting you go now.”

I assured him I would be the sooner, and was running off, but he called me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most energetic, said,--

“Remember me in your prayers!”

I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare. I gave him my promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him. Great, good, and excellent that he is, how short a time will he be our boast! Ah, my dear Susy, I see he is going! This winter will never conduct him to a more genial season here! Elsewhere, who shall hope a fairer? I wish I had bid him pray for me, but it seemed to me presumptuous.

DR. JOHNSON DYING. HIS DEATH.

_Wednesday, Dec. 8._--At night my father brought us the most dismal tidings of dear Dr. Johnson. Dr. Warren had seen him, and told him to take what opium he pleased! He had thanked and taken leave of all his physicians. Alas!--I shall lose him, and he will take no leave of me![184] My father was deeply depressed; he has himself tried in vain for admission this week. Yet some people see him--the Hooles, Mr. Sastres, Mr. Langton;--but then they must be in the house, watching for one moment, whole hours. I hear from every one he is now perfectly resigned to his approaching fate, and no longer in terror of death. I am thankfully happy in hearing that he speaks himself now of the change his mind has undergone, from its dark horror--and says--“He feels the irradiation of hope,” Good, and pious, and excellent Christian--who shall feel it if not he?

_Dec. 11._--We had a party to dinner, by long appointment, for which, indeed, none of us were well disposed, the apprehension of hearing news only of death being hard upon us all. The party was, Dr. Rose, Dr. Gillies, Dr. Garthshore, and Charles.

The day could not be well--but mark the night.

My father, in the morning, saw this first of men! I had not his account till bed-time; he feared over-exciting me. He would not, he said, but have seen him for worlds! He happened to be better, and admitted him. He was up, and very composed. He took his hand very kindly, asked after all his family, and then, in particular, how Fanny did? “I hope,” he said, “Fanny did not take it amiss that I did not see her? I was very bad!”

Amiss!--what a Word! Oh that I had been present to have answered it! My father stayed, I suppose, half an hour, and then was coming away. He again took his hand, and encouraged him to come again to him; and when he was taking leave, said--“Tell Fanny to pray for me!”

Ah! dear Dr. Johnson! might I but have your prayers! After which, still grasping his hand, he made a prayer for himself,--the most fervent, pious, humble, eloquent, and touching, my father says, that ever was composed. Oh, would I had heard it! He ended it with Amen! in which my father joined, and was echoed by all present. And again, when my father was leaving him, he brightened up, something of his arch look returned, and he said--“I think I shall throw the ball at Fanny yet!”

Little more passed ere my father came away, decided, most tenderly, not to tell me this till our party was done.

This most earnestly increased my desire to see him; this kind and frequent mention of me melted me into double sorrow and regret. I would give the world I had but gone to him that day! It was, however, impossible, and the day was over before I knew he had said what I look upon as a call to me. This morning,[185] after church time, I went. Frank[186] said he was very ill, and saw nobody; I told him I had understood by my father the day before that he meant to see me. He then let me in. I went into his room up stairs; he was in his bedroom. I saw it crowded, and ran hastily down. Frank told me his master had refused seeing even Mr. Langton. I told him merely to say I had called, but by no means to press my admission. His own feelings were all that should be consulted; his tenderness, I knew, would be equal, whether he was able to see me or not.

I went into the parlour, preferring being alone in the cold, to any company with a fire. Here I waited long, here and upon the stairs, which I ascended and descended to meet again with Frank, and make inquiries; but I met him not. At last, upon Dr. Johnson's ringing his bell, I saw Frank enter his room, and Mr. Langton follow. “Who's that?” I heard him say; they answered, “Mr. Langton,” and I found he did not return.

Soon after, all the rest went away but a Mrs. Davis, a good sort of woman, whom this truly charitable soul had sent for to take a dinner at his house. I then went and waited with her by the fire; it was, however, between three and four o'clock before I got any answer. Mr. Langton then came himself. He could not look at me, and I turned away from him. Mrs. Davis asked how the doctor was? “Going on to death very fast!” was his mournful answer. “Has he taken,” said she, “anything?” “Nothing at all! We carried him some bread and milk--he refused it, and said--'The less the better.'” She asked more questions, by which I found his faculties were perfect, his mind composed, and his dissolution was quick drawing on....

I could not immediately go on, and it is now long since I have written at all; but I will go back to this afflicting theme, which I can now better bear.

Mr. Langton was, I believe, a quarter of an hour in the room before I suspected he meant to speak to me, never looking near me. At last he said--

“This poor man, I understand, ma'am, desired yesterday to see you.”

“My understanding that, sir, brought me here to-day.”

“Poor man! it is a pity he did not know himself better, and that you should have had this trouble.”

“Trouble!” cried I; “I would have come a hundred times to see him the hundredth and first!”

“He hopes, now, you will excuse him; he is very sorry not to see you; but he desired me to come and speak to you myself, and tell you he hopes you will excuse him, for he feels himself too weak for such an interview.”

I hastily got up, left him my most affectionate respects, and every good wish I could half utter, and ran back to the coach. Ah, my Susy! I have never been to Bolt-court since! I then drove to poor Miss Strange,[187] to make inquiries of the maid but Andrew ran out to the coach door, and told me all hope was at an end. In short, the next day was fatal to both!--the same day!

_December 20._--This day was the ever-honoured, ever-lamented Dr. Johnson committed to the earth. Oh, how sad a day to me! My father attended, and so did Charles.[188] I could not keep my eyes dry all day; nor can I now, in the recollecting it; but let me pass over what to mourn is now so vain!

_December 30._--In the evening I went to Mrs. Chapone. I was late, on account of the coach, and all her party was assembled. This was the first time I had seen any of them, except Mrs. Ord, since last spring. I was received with the utmost kindness by them all, but chiefly by Mrs. Chapone herself, who has really, I believe, a sincere regard for me. I had talk with all of them, except Mrs. Levison, with whom I have merely a courtesying acquaintance. But I was very sad within; the loss of dear Dr. Johnson--the flight of Mrs. Thrale, the death of poor Miss Kitty Cambridge, and of poor, good Miss Strange,--all these home and bosom strokes, which had all struck me since my last meeting this society, were revolving in my mind the whole time I stayed.

Sir Lucas Pepys talked to me a great deal of Mrs. Thrale, and read me a letter from her, which seems to shew her gay and happy. I hope it shews not false colours. No one else named her---but poor Dr. Johnson was discussed repeatedly. How melancholy will all these circumstances render these once so pleasant meetings.

SECT. 6 (1785-6.)

MISS BURNEY IS FAVOURABLY NOTICED BY THE KING AND QUEEN.

[The pleasantest portion of the following section of the
Diary is that which relates to the growing intimacy between
Fanny and Mrs. Delany. It was a friendship, however, which
proved dear to Fanny in every sense of the word. On the one
hand the mutual affection which subsisted between her and a
lady in every way so worthy of her regard, was a source of
continual gratification to both; on the other hand it was
the immediate cause of an event which may be, without
exaggeration, described as the greatest misfortune of
Fanny's life--her ill-starred appointment at Court. We
fully share Macaulay's indignation at this absurd and
singularly unsuitable appointment. Its consequences to
Fanny were almost disastrous; yet the reader will reap the
reward of her suffering in perusing the brilliant pages in
which her humour and penetration have invested with an
interest not its own the frivolous tattle of her commonplace
companions. Her account of the royal family is on the whole
favourable. The princesses appear to have been really
amiable and, so far as etiquette would permit, sensible
young women. Of the king and queen we know few things which
are more to their credit than that they should have been
able to inspire Fanny with a regard so obviously sincere.
But even Fanny, with all her loyal partiality, could make no
more of them than a well-meaning couple, whose conversation
never rose above the commonplace. After all, we can hardly
help feeling that the whole of this Court Diary,
entertaining as it is, would be well exchanged for the
description, in Fanny's animated style, of a few more
dinner-parties at Sir Joshua's, a few more conversations
with Edmund Burke.

The burst of exultation with which Fanny's friends greeted
the unhappy appointment says little for their common sense.
Even Burke, who at least ought to have known better, fell in
with the general infatuation, although he, if no one else
felt that the honour was not all on Fanny's side. He called
in St. Martin's Street, and finding Dr. Burney and his
daughter from home, left a card on which he had written
these words:--“Mr. Burke, to congratulate upon the honour
done by the Queen to Miss Burney,--and to herself.”

The office which Fanny shared with that “old hag,” Mrs.
Schwellenberg, was that of keeper of the robes, and she
entered upon her new duties in the month Of July, 1786.
Dress had always been one of the last subjects about which
she troubled herself, and her want of experience in this
all-important matter was graciously taken into consideration
by the queen. The duties of the place were lightened, or,
at least, altered in her favour. The difficulties with
respect to jewellery, laces, and Court habiliments, and the
other routine business belonging to the dress manufactory
appertained to her colleague, Mrs. Schwellenberg; the manual
labours and cares devolved upon the wardrobewomen; while
from herself all that officially was required was assiduous
attention, unremitting readiness for every summons to the
dressing--room, not unfrequent long readings, and perpetual
sojourn at the palace.[189]--ED.]

ROYAL GENEROSITY to MRS. DELANY.

FANNY BURNEY TO DR. BURNEY

St. James's-place,

Aug. 24.

I must tell you, dearest sir, a tale concerning Mrs. Delany, which I am sure you will hear with true pleasure. Among the many inferior losses which have been included in her great and irreparable calamity,[190] has been that of a country house for the summer, which she had in Bulstrode, and which for the half of every year was her constant home. The Duke of Portland behaved with the utmost propriety and feeling upon this occasion, and was most earnest to accommodate her to the best of his power, with every comfort to which she had been accustomed; but this noblest of women declared she loved the memory of her friend beyond all other things, and would not suffer it to be tainted in the misjudging world by an action that would be construed into a reflection upon her will, as if deficient in consideration to her. She steadily, therefore, refused all offers, though made to her with even painful earnestness, and though solicited till her refusal became a distress to herself

This transaction was related, I believe, to their majesties and Lady Weymouth, the duchess's eldest daughter, was commissioned to wait upon Mrs. Delany with this message, That the queen was extremely anxious about her health, and very apprehensive lest continuing in London during the summer should be prejudicial to it: she entreated her, therefore, to accept a house belonging to the king at Windsor, which she should order to be fitted up for her immediately; and she desired Lady Weymouth to give her time to consider this proposal, and by no means to hurry her; as well as to assure her, that happy as it would make her to have one she so sincerely esteemed as a neighbour, she should remember her situation, and promise not to be troublesome to her. The king, at the same time, desired to be allowed to stand to the additional expenses incurred by the maintenance of two houses, and that Mrs. Delany would accept from him 300 pounds a year.

It would be needless to tell you how Mrs. Delany was touched by this benevolence. Yet she dreaded accepting what she feared would involve her in a new course of life, and force her into notice and connexions she wished to drop or avoid. She took the time the queen so considerately gave her for deliberation, and she consulted with some of her old friends. They all agreed there must be no refusal, and Lady Weymouth was made the messenger of her majesty's offer being accepted.

The house, therefore, is now fitting up, and the king sees after the workmen himself.

A few days ago, Miss Planta[191] was sent from the queen, with very kind inquiries after Mrs. Delany's health, and information that she would receive a summons very soon. She told her, also, that as the house might still require a longer time in preparation than would suit Mrs. Delany to wait in London, the queen had ordered some apartments in the Castle, which lately belonged to Prince Edward, to be got ready with all speed, that she might reside in them till her own house was finished.

This is the state of her affairs. I am now with her entirely. At first I slept at home; but going after supper, and coming before breakfast, was inconvenient, and she has therefore contrived me a bed-room....

FANNY BURNEY TO MRS. LOCKE.

St. James's-place,

Aug. 29.

All our movements are at present uncertain; Mrs. Delany's Windsor house is still unfinished, but I suppose it will be fit for her reception by the beginning of next week, and I have the happiest reasons for hoping she will then be fit for it herself. Her maid has been to see what forwardness it is in, and this was her report:--She was ordered to wait upon Miss Goldsworthy,[192] by the king's direction, who heard of her being sent to inspect the house; and there she received commands, in the name of both king and queen, to see that Mrs. Delany brought with her nothing but herself and clothes, as they insisted upon fitting up her habitation with everything themselves, including not only plate, china, glass, and linen, but even all sort of stores--wine, sweetmeats, pickles, etc. Their earnestness to save her every care, and give her every gratification in their power, is truly benevolent and amiable. They seem to know and feel her worth as if they had never worn crowns, or, wearing, annexed no value to them.

A VISIT TO MRS. DELANY.

Windsor, Saturday, Nov. 25--I got to Hounslow almost at the same moment with Mrs. Astley, my dear Mrs. Delany's maid, who was sent to meet me. As soon as she had satisfied my inquiries concerning her lady, she was eager to inform me that the queen had drunk tea with Mrs. Delany the day before, and had asked when I should come, and heard the time; and that Mrs. Delany believed she would be with her again that evening, and desire to see me. This was rather fidgetting intelligence. I rather, in my own mind, thought the queen would prefer giving me the first evening alone with my dear old friend. I found that sweet lady not so well as I had hoped, and strongly affected by afflicting recollections at sight of me. With all her gentleness and resignation, bursts of sorrow break from her still whenever we are alone together, for the Duchess of Portland was a boson' friend to her.

Miss Port.[193] who is a truly lovely girl, received me with her usual warmth of joy, and was most impatient to whisper me that “all the princesses intended to come and see me.” She is just at the age to doat upon an ado, and nothing so much delights her as the thought of my presentations.

Mrs. Delany acquainted me that the queen, in their first interview, upon her coming to this house, said to her, “Why did not you bring your friend Miss Burney with you?”

My dear Mrs. Delany was very much gratified by such an attention to whatever could be thought interesting to her, but, with her usual propriety, answered that, in coming to a house of her majesty's, she could not presume to ask anybody without immediate and express permission. “The king, however,” she added, “made the very same inquiry when I saw him next.”

_Sunday, Nov. 26._--So now the royal encounters, for a while at least, are out of all question. Nobody came last night, though Mrs. Delany I saw, and Miss Port. I heard, in continual expectation; but this morning, Mr. Battiscombe, apothecary to the household, called, and said that an express arrived from Germany yesterday afternoon, with an account of the death of the queen's youngest brother.

The queen,--whose domestic virtues rise upon me every hour, is strongly attached to all her family, and in much affliction at this news; for though this brother was quite a boy when she left Germany, he has twice been to visit her in, England. None of the royal family will appear till the mourning takes place; the queen, perhaps, may shut herself up still longer.

At night, quite incog. quite alone, and quite privately, the king came, and was shut up with Mrs. Delany for an hour. It is out of rule for any of the family to be seen till in mourning, but he knew she was anxious for an account of the queen. I had a very narrow escape of being surprised by him, which would have vexed me, as he only meant to see Mrs. Delany by herself, though she says he told her he was very glad to hear I was come.

ROYAL CURIOSITY ABOUT MISS BURNEY.

_Thursday, Dec. 1._--To-day the queen sent Miss Planta to tell Mrs. Delany that if she would not yet venture to the Lodge, she would come to her in the evening. Mrs. Delany accepted the gracious offer, and, at tea-time, she came, as well as the king, and spent two hours here.

Mrs. Delany told me afterwards, that the queen was very low-spirited, and seemed to wish for nothing but the solace of sitting perfectly quiet. She is a sweet woman, and has all the domestic affections warm and strong in her heart.

Nevertheless they talked of me, she says, a good deal--and the king asked many questions about me. There is a new play, he told Mrs. Delany, coming out; “and it is said to be Miss Burney's!” Mrs. Delany immediately answered that she knew the report must be untrue. “But I hope she is not idle?” cried the king. “I hope she is writing something?”

What Mrs. Delany said, I know not; but he afterwards inquired what she thought of my writing a play?

“What,” said he, “do you wish about it, Mrs. Delany?”

Mrs. Delany hesitated, and the queen then said,

“I wish what I know Mrs. Delany does--that she may not; for though her reputation is so high, her character, by all I hear, is too delicate to suit with writing for the stage.”

Sweet queen! I could have kissed the hem of her garment for that speech, and I could not resist writing it.

Mrs. Delany then said,

“Why My opinion is what I believe to be Miss Burney's own; that It is too public and hazardous a style of writing for her quiet and fearful turn of mind.”

I have really the grace to be a little ashamed of scribbling this, but I know I can scribble nothing my dear father will be more curious to hear.

_Saturday, Dec. 3_--This morning we had better news of the princess--and Mrs. Delany went again to the Lodge in the evening, to the queen. When Mrs. Delany returned, she confirmed the good accounts of the Princess Elizabeth's amendment. She had told the queen I was going to-morrow to Thames Ditton, for a week; and was asked many questions about my coming back, which the queen said she was sure I should be glad to do from Mrs. Walsingham to Mrs. Delany. O most penetrating queen!

She gratified Mrs. Delany by many kind speeches, of being sorry I was going, and glad I was returning, and so forth. Mrs. Delany then told her I had been reading “The Clandestine Marriage” to her, which the queen had recommended, and she thanked her majesty for the very great pleasure she had received from it.

“O then,” cried the queen, “if Miss Burney reads to you, what a pleasure you must have to make her read her own works!”

Mrs. Delany laughed, and exclaimed,

“O ma'am! read her own works!--your majesty has no notion of Miss Burney! I believe she would as soon die!”

This, of course, led to a great deal of discussion, in the midst of which the queen said,

“Do you know Dr. Burney, Mrs. Delany?

“Yes, ma'am, extremely well,” answered Mrs. Delany.

“I think him,” said the queen, “a very agreeable and entertaining man.”

There, my dear father! said I not well just now, O most penetrating queen?

So here ends my Windsor journal, part the first. Tomorrow morning I go for my week to Thames Ditton.

AN ANTICIPATED ROYAL INTERVIEW.

_Windsor, Wednesday, Dec. 14_--Yesterday I returned to my dear Mrs. Delany, from Thames Ditton, and had the great concern of finding her very unwell. Mr. Bernard Dewes, one of her nephews, and his little girl, a sweet child of seven years old, were with her, and, of course, Miss Port. She had been hurried, though only with pleasure, and her emotion, first in receiving, and next in entertaining them, had brought on a little fever.

She revived in the afternoon, and I had the pleasure of reading to her a play of Shakspeare's, that she had not heard for forty years, and which I had never read since I was a child,--“The Comedy of Errors;”--and we found in it all the entertainment belonging to an excellent farce, and all the objections belonging to an indifferent play, but the spirit with which she enters into every part of everything she hears, gives a sort of theatric effect to whatever is read to her; and my spirits rise in her presence, with the joy of exciting hers.

But I am now obliged, by what follows, to confess a little discussion I have had with my dear Mrs. Delany, almost all the time I spent with her at first, and now again upon my return, relative to the royal interview, so long in expectation.

Immediately upon my arrival, she had imagined, by what had preceded it, that a visit would instantly ensue here, and I should have a summons to appear; but the death of the queen's brother, which was known the very night I came, confined her majesty and all the family for some days to the Lodge; and the dangerous illness of the Princess Elizabeth next took place, in occupying all their thoughts, greatly to their credit. My dear old friend, however, earnest I should have an honour which her grateful reverence for their majesties makes her regard very highly, had often wished me to stay in the room when they came to see her, assuring me that though they were so circumstanced as not to send for a stranger, she knew they would be much pleased to meet with me. This, however, was more than I could assent to, without infinite pain, and that she was too kind to make a point of my enduring.

Yesterday, upon my return, she began again the same reasoning; the Princess Elizabeth had relapsed, and she knew, during her being worse, there was no chance the queen would take any active step towards a meeting. “But she inquires,” continued Mrs. Delany, “so much about you, and is so earnest that you should be with me, that I am sure she wants to see and converse with you. You will see her, too, with more ease to yourself by being already in the room, than from being summoned. I would not for the world put this request to you, if I were not sure she wishes it.”

There was no withstanding the word “request” from Mrs. Delany, and little as I liked the business, I could not but comply. What next was to be done, was to beg directions for the rencounter.

Now though you, my dear father, have had an audience, and you, my dear Susan, are likely enough to avoid one, yet I think the etiquettes on these occasions will be equally new to you both; for one never inquired into them, and the other has never thought of them. Here, at Windsor, where more than half the people we see are belonging to the Court, and where all the rest are trying to be in the same predicament, the intelligence I have obtained must be looked upon as accurate, and I shall, therefore give it. In full confidence you will both regard it as a valuable addition to your present stock of Court knowledge, and read it with that decent awe the dignity of the topic requires!

DIRECTIONS FOR A PRIVATE ENCOUNTER WITH THE ROYAL FAMILY.

... To come, then, to those particular instructions I received myself, and which must not be regarded as having anything to do with general rules.

“I do beg of you,” said dear Mrs. Delany, “When the queen or the king speak to you, not to answer with mere monosyllables. The queen often complains to me of the difficulty with which she can get any conversation, as she not only always has to start the subjects, but, commonly, entirely to support them: and she says there is nothing she so much loves as conversation, and nothing she finds so hard to get. She is always best pleased to have the answers that are made her lead on to further discourse. Now, as I know she wishes to be acquainted with you, and converse with you, I do really entreat you not to draw back from her, nor to stop conversation with only answering 'Yes,' or 'No.'”

This was a most tremendous injunction; however, I could not but promise her I would do the best I could.

To this, nevertheless, she readily agreed, that if upon entering the room, they should take no notice of me, I might quietly retire. And that, believe me, will not be very slowly! They cannot find me in this house without knowing who I am, and therefore they can be at no loss whether to speak to me or not, from incertitude.

A PANIC.

In the midst of all this, the queen came!

I heard the thunder at the door, and, panic struck, away flew all my resolutions and agreements, and away after them flew I!

Don't be angry, my dear father--I would have stayed if I could, and I meant to stay---but, when the moment came, neither my preparations nor intentions availed, and I arrived at my own room, ere I well knew I had left the drawing-room, and quite breathless between the race I ran with Miss Port and the joy of escaping, Mrs. Delany, though a little vexed at the time, was not afterwards, when she found the queen very much dispirited by a relapse of the poor Princess Elizabeth. She inquired if I was returned, and hoped I now came to make a longer stay.

_Friday, Dec. 16._--Yesterday morning we had a much better account of the Princess Elizabeth; and Mrs. Delany said to me,

“Now you will escape no longer, for if their uneasiness ceases, I am sure they will send for you, when they come next.”

To be sent for, I confessed to her, would really be more formidable than to be surprised; but to pretend to be surprised would answer no purpose in making the meeting easy to me, and therefore I preferred letting the matter take its chance.

“THE KING! AUNT, THE KING!”

After dinner, while Mrs. Delany was left alone, as usual, to take a little rest,--for sleep it but seldom proves,--Mr. B. Dewes, his little daughter, Miss Port, and myself, went into the drawing-room. And here, while, to pass the time, I was amusing the little girl with teaching her some Christmas games, in which her father and cousin joined, Mrs. Delany came in. We were all in the middle of the room, and in some confusion;--but she had but just come up to us to inquire what was going forwards, and I was disentangling myself from Miss Dewes, to be ready to fly off if any one knocked at the street-door, when the door of the drawing-room was again opened, and a large man, in deep mourning, appeared at it, entering, and shutting it himself without speaking.

A ghost could not more have scared me, when I discovered, by its glitter on the black, a star! The general disorder had prevented his being seen, except by myself, who was always on the watch, till Miss Port, turning round, exclaimed, “The king!--aunt, the king!”

O mercy! thought I, that I were but out of the room! which way shall I escape? and how pass him unnoticed? There is but the single door at which he entered, in the room! Every one scampered out of the way: Miss Port, to stand next the door; Mr. Bernard Dewes to a corner opposite it; his little girl clung to me; and Mrs. Delany advanced to meet his majesty, who, after quietly looking on till she saw him, approached, and inquired how she did.

He then spoke to Mr. Bernard, whom he had already met two or three times here.

I had now retreated to the wall, and purposed gliding softly, though speedily, out of the room; but before I had taken a single step, the king, in a loud whisper to Mrs. Delany, said, “Is that Miss Burney?”--and on her answering, “Yes, sir,” he bowed, and with a countenance of the most perfect good humour, came close up to me.

A most profound reverence on my part arrested the progress of my intended retreat.

“How long have you been come back, Miss Burney?”

“Two days, sir.”

Unluckily he did not hear me, and repeated his question and whether the second time he heard me or not, I don't know, but he made a little civil inclination of his head, and went back to Mrs. Delany.

He insisted she should sit down, though he stood himself, and began to give her an account of the Princess Elizabeth, who once again was recovering, and trying, at present, James's powders. She had been blooded, he said, twelve times in this last fortnight, and had lost seventy-five ounces of blood, besides undergoing blistering and other discipline. He spoke of her illness with the strongest emotion, and seemed quite filled with concern for her danger and suffering.

Mrs. Delany next inquired for the younger children. They had all, he said, the whooping-cough, and were soon to be removed to Kew.

“Not,” added he, “for any other reason than change of air for themselves; though I am pretty certain I have never had the distemper myself, and the queen thinks she has not had it either:--we shall take our chance. When the two eldest had it, I sent them away, and would not see them till it was over; but now there are so many of them that there would be no end to separations, so I let it take its course.”

Mrs. Delany expressed a good deal of concern at his running this risk, but he laughed at it, and said, he was much more afraid of catching the rheumatism, which has been threatening one of his shoulders lately, However, he added, he should hunt, the next morning, in defiance of it.

A good deal of talk then followed about his own health, and the extreme temperance by which he preserved it. The fault of his constitution, he said, was a tendency to excessive fat, which he kept, however, in order, by the most vigorous exercise and the strictest attention to a simple diet.

Mrs. Delany was beginning to praise his forbearance, but he stopped her.

“No, no,” he cried, “'tis no virtue; I only prefer eating plain and little to growing diseased and infirm.”

During this discourse, I stood quietly in the place where he had first spoken to me. His quitting me so soon, and conversing freely and easily with Mrs. Delany, proved so delightful a relief to me, that I no longer wished myself away; and the moment my first panic from the surprise was over, I diverted myself with a thousand ridiculous notions, of my own situation.

The Christmas games we had been showing Miss Dewes, it seemed as if we were still performing, as none of us thought it proper to move, though our manner of standing reminded one of “Puss in the corner.” Close to the door was posted Miss Port; opposite her, close to the wainscot, stood Mr. Dewes; at just an equal distance from him, close to a window, stood myself. Mrs. Delany, though seated, was at the opposite side to Miss Port; and his majesty kept pretty much in the middle of the room. The little girl, who kept close to me, did not break the order, and I could hardly help expecting to be beckoned, with a PUSS! PUSS! PUSS! to change places with one of my neighbours.

This idea, afterwards, gave way to another more pompous. It seemed to me we were acting a play. There is something so little like common and real life, in everybody's standing, while talking, in a room full of chairs, and standing, too, so aloof from each other, that I almost thought myself upon a stage, assisting in the representation of a tragedy,--in which the king played his own part, of the king; Mrs. Delany that of a venerable confidante; Mr. Dewes, his respectful attendant; Miss Port, a suppliant Virgin, waiting encouragement to bring forward some petition; Miss Dewes, a young orphan, intended to move the royal compassion; and myself,--a very solemn, sober, and decent mute.

These fancies, however, only regaled me while I continued a quiet spectator, and without expectation of being called into play. But the king, I have reason to think, meant only to give me time to recover from my first embarrassment; and I feel infinitely obliged to his good breeding and consideration, which perfectly answered, for before he returned to me, I was entirely recruited.

To go back to my narration.

When the discourse upon health and strength was over, the king went up to the table, and looked at a book of prints, from Claude Lorraine, which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs. Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me. He turned over a leaf or two, and then said--

“Pray, does Miss Burney draw, too?”

The too was pronounced very civilly.

“I believe not, Sir,” answered Mrs. Delany “at least, she does not tell.”

“Oh!” cried he, laughing, “that's nothing; she is not apt to tell! she never does tell, you know!--Her father told me that himself. He told me the whole history of her 'Evelina.' And I shall never forget his face when he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book!--he looked quite frightened, just as if he was doing it that moment! I never can forget his face while I live!”

THE KING CATEGORICALLY QUESTIONS Miss BURNEY.

Then coming up close to me, the king said--

“But what?--what?--how was it?”

“Sir”--cried I, not well understanding him.

“How came you--how happened it--what?--what?”

“I--I only wrote, Sir, for my own amusement,--only in some odd, idle hours.”

“But your publishing--your printing,--how was that?

“That was only, sir,--only because--”

I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at these questions;--besides,--to say the truth, his own “what? what?” so reminded me of those vile “Probationary Odes,” that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance.

The What! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced to say something, I stammeringly answered--

“I thought-sir-it would look very well in print!”

I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made! I am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying. He laughed very heartily himself,--well he might--and walked away to enjoy it, crying out,

“Very fair indeed! that's being very fair and honest.”

Then, returning to me again, he said,

“But your father--how came you not to show him what you wrote?”

“I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.”

Literal truth that, I am sure.

“And how did he find it out?

“I don't know myself, sir. He never would tell me.”

Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify.

“But how did you get it printed?”

“I sent it, sir, to a bookseller my father never employed, and that I never had seen myself, Mr. Lowndes, in full hope by that means he never would hear of it.”

“But how could you manage that?”

“By means of a brother, sir.”

“O!--you confided in a brother, then?”

“Yes, sir,--that is, for the publication.”

“What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's conjectures, before you were known! Do you remember any of them?”

“Yes, sir, many.”

“And what?”

“I heard that Mr. Baretti[194] laid a wager it was written by a man for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.”

This diverted him extremely.

“But how was it,” he continued, “you thought most likely for your father to discover you?”

“Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscript; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.”

“O! your sister?--what, not your brother?”

“No, sir; he could not, for--”

I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard, exclaiming,

“Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti's'mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister?”

“Well, but,” cried he presently, “how was it first known to you, you were betrayed?”

“By a letter, sir, from another sister. I was very ill, and in the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a review, in which the book was mentioned, and had put his finger upon its name, and said--'Contrive to get that book for me.'”

“And when he got it,” cried the king, “he told me he was afraid of looking at it! and never can I forget his face when he mentioned his first opening it. But you have not kept your pen unemployed all this time?”

“Indeed I have, sir.”

“But why?”

“I--I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.”

He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany, civilly treating a plain fact as a mere bon mot.

Then, turning to me again, he said, more seriously, “But you have not determined against writing, any more?”

“N-o, sir”

“You have made no vow--no real resolution of that sort?”

“No, sir.”

“You only wait for inclination?”

“No, sir.”

A very civil little bow spoke him pleased with this answer, and he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood, and, addressing us in general, talked upon the different motives of writing, concluding with,

“I believe there is no constraint to be put upon real genius; nothing but inclination can set it to work. Miss Burney, however, knows best.” And then, hastily returning to me, he cried, “What? what?”

“No, sir, I--I-believe not, certainly,” quoth I, very awkwardly, for I seemed taking a violent compliment only as my due; but I knew not how to put him off as I would another person.

He then made some inquiries concerning the pictures with which the room is hung, and which are all Mrs. Delany's own painting and a little discourse followed, upon some of the masters whose pictures she has copied. This was all with her; for nobody ever answers him without being immediately addressed by him.

He then came to me again, and said,

“Is your father about anything at present?”

“Yes, sir, he goes on, when he has time, with his history.”

“Does he write quick?”

“Yes, sir, when he writes from himself; but in his history he has so many books to consult, that sometimes he spends three days in finding authorities for a single passage.”

“Very true; that must be unavoidable.” He pursued these inquiries some time, and then went again to his general station before the fire, and Mrs. Delany inquired if he meant to hunt the next day. “Yes,” he answered; and, a little pointedly, Mrs. Delany said,

“I would the hunted could but feel as much pleasure as the hunter.”

The king understood her, and with some quickness, called out, “Pray what did you hunt?”

Then, looking round at us all,--

“Did you know,” he said, “that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself?--and in a long gown, and a great hoop?”

It seems she had told his majesty an adventure of that sort which had befallen her in her youth, from some accident in which her will had no share.

THE QUEEN APPEARS UPON THE SCENE.

While this was talking over, a violent thunder was made at the door. I was almost certain it was the queen. Once more I would have given anything to escape; but in vain. I had been informed that nobody ever quitted the royal presence, after having been conversed with, till motioned to withdraw.

Miss Port, according to established etiquette on these occasions, opened the door which she stood next, by putting her hand behind her, and slid out, backwards, into the hall, to light the queen in. The door soon opened again, and her majesty entered.

Immediately seeing the king, she made him a low curtsey, and cried,--

“Oh, your majesty is here.”

“Yes,” he cried, “I ran here, without speaking to anybody.”

The queen had been at the lower Lodge, to see the Princess Elizabeth, as the king had before told us.

She then, hastened up to Mrs. Delany, with both her hands held out, saying,

“My dear Mrs. Delany, how are you?”

Instantly after, I felt her eye on my face. I believe, too, she curtsied to me; but though I saw the bend, I was too near-sighted to be sure it was intended for me. I was hardly ever in a situation more embarrassing---I dared not return what I was not certain I had received, yet considered myself as appearing quite a monster, to stand stiff-necked, if really meant.

Almost at the same moment, she spoke to Mr. Bernard Dewes, and then nodded to my little clinging girl.

I was now really ready to sink, with horrid uncertainty of what I was doing, or what I should do,--when his majesty, who I fancy saw my distress, most good-humouredly said to the queen something, but I was too much flurried to remember what, except these words,--“I have been telling Miss Burney--”

Relieved from so painful a dilemma, I immediately dropped a curtsey. She made one to me in the same moment, and, with a very smiling countenance, came up to me; but she could not speak, for the king went on talking, eagerly, and very gaily, repeating to her every word I had said during our conversation upon “Evelina,” its publication, etc. etc.

Then he told her of Baretti's wager, saying,--“But she heard of a great many conjectures about the author, before it was known, and of Baretti, an admirable thing!--he laid a bet it must be a man, as no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel!”

The queen, laughing a little, exclaimed--

“Oh, that is quite too bad an affront to us!--Don't you think so?” addressing herself to me, with great gentleness of voice and manner.

I assented; and the king continued his relation, which she listened to with a look of some interest; but when he told her some particulars of my secrecy, she again spoke to me.

“But! your sister was your confidant, was she not?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

My sisters, I might have said, but I was always glad to have done.

“Oh, yes!” cried the king, laughing, “but I assure you she is of Baretti's opinion herself; for I asked her if she thought it was her sister or her brother that betrayed her to her father?--and she says her sister, she thinks.”

Poor Esther!--but I shall make her amends by what follows; for the queen, again addressing me, said--

“But to betray to a father is no crime-don't you think so?”

I agreed; and plainly saw she thought Esther, if Esther it was, had only done right.

The king then went on, and when he had finished his narration the queen took her seat. She made Mrs. Delany sit next her, and Miss Port brought her some tea.

“MISS BURNEY PLAYS--BUT NOT TO ACKNOWLEDGE IT.”

The king, meanwhile, came to me again, and said,--“Are you musical?”

“Not a performer, sir.”