Frances soon began to write little stories that amused her sisters very much, but were not shown to her father, who knew nothing of their existence. Dr. Burney had an intimate friend named Samuel Crisp, a well-educated, literary man, whose advice was of the utmost benefit to Frances, whom he always called his Fannikin, while she in return called him her dear Daddy. Crisp enjoyed Dr. Burney's concerts; but, when he grew old and gouty, and could no longer attend them, Frances would write him a long account of each one, and of the gay people who attended. These letters were answered, and contained so much instruction about what to read and how to write, that they went far towards the development of "Fannikin's" intellect. The result was that Frances Burney wrote a novel which took the literary world by surprise. Her father wept over it for joy. "Daddy" Crisp shook his fist at Fannikin in affectionate anger for not having confided in him, and everybody began to guess what author could have written "Evelina." When they found out that a reserved, inexperienced young woman had produced the best work of fiction that had appeared in many a day, praises were increased. Frances Burney suddenly found herself famous. Then she wrote another novel, which she called "Cecilia." The publishers paid her two thousand pounds for it, and there never was a book more eagerly snatched from the counters of the booksellers. Frances Burney was now thirty years old; she had literary fame, position and money. What, then, could have induced her to take the steps to which we have alluded,—that of entering the queen's service? It is certainly inexplicable; but this is how it happened:—
Mrs. Delany, a lady of noble birth, having been left a widow, was kindly cared for by King George and Queen Charlotte, who fitted up a house for her in Windsor Park, and settled on her an annuity of three hundred pounds a year. Their majesties frequently visited the old lady, and the young princes and princesses often honored her by their company to tea.
Miss Burney was visiting at Mrs. Delany's house, when, one day after dinner, as the old lady was taking her nap, a stout gentleman entered, unannounced. "What? what? what?" he asked, looking about, as the visitors who had been playing a game scampered out of the room, and a cry of "The King!" was set up. Mrs. Delany came forward to receive her royal guest, and introduced Miss Burney, who was questioned as to what she had written and what she was going to write. The queen soon appeared, and his majesty repeated to her all that the young authoress had said. Miss Burney was charmed with the royal pair, and felt quite at her ease when their visit was repeated a few days later. On that occasion the king expressed his opinion about many English and foreign writers. Voltaire he pronounced a monster, Rousseau he liked better. "But was there ever such stuff as a great part of Shakespeare?" he cried, "only one must not say so. But what think you? What? Is there not sad stuff? What? what?"
Well, one of the keepers of the queen's robes retired about this time, and the position was offered to Miss Burney. She consented, with the advice of her father, to give up writing, to leave a happy home and pleasant associates, to become the companion of an old German woman who was the chief-keeper of the robes and waiting-maid to her majesty. We wonder how Dr. Burney could have consented to allow his daughter to enter upon the five years of drudgery to which she bound herself; but he, poor deluded man, seemed to think that going to court was like going to heaven, and so he actually persuaded her to it; and, after escorting her to her dreary prison, for so it was, went home rejoicing at her marvellous prosperity. It is to the diary that Miss Burney kept while she was waiting-maid to her majesty that we are indebted for an account of the domestic life at court.
She felt very timid the first day she entered upon her office, but Queen Charlotte was exceedingly gracious, and soon placed the new maid at her ease by treating her less like a servant than a friend. Nevertheless, she was glad to escape from the royal presence to dine with the ladies and gentlemen-in-waiting. The meals served for these court attendants were much more enjoyable than those at which their majesties presided, because there was less formality and ceremony. The queen was no longer served by gentlemen who kneeled while offering a dish, but they were never permitted to sit in her presence; no matter how high their rank, and it is easy to understand how uncomfortable they must have felt when forced to eat standing. No wonder the lords, bishops, and officers preferred to dine with the maids-of-honor and ladies-in-waiting, with whom they could enjoy themselves, and at whose sides they might sit while partaking of their meal.
Miss Burney found the dressing of the queen a very formidable matter at first, because the ringing of the bell that summoned her always put her in a flurry at the start. No maid was permitted to remain in the room while the queen was dressing, but they assembled in the ante-chamber, where one handed to the other the various articles as they were required. "'T is fortunate for me," says Miss Burney, "that I have not the handing of them. I should never know which to take first, embarrassed as I am, and should run a prodigious risk of giving the gown before the hoop, and the fan before the neckerchief."
The actual toilet for the day was performed at one o'clock, and concluded with the powdering of the hair, a very important matter, always performed by a regular hairdresser. On his arrival her majesty was covered by a large peignoir, and then left alone with the artist, who flung the powder at the royal head causing a light spray to fall gently on every part of the hair,—standing off to view the effect, applying the puff here and there, and so continuing the operation until the desired effect was produced.
One of Miss Burney's duties consisted in preparing her majesty's snuff-boxes, and dampening the contents to suit the royal nose; for Queen Charlotte was a connoisseur of the article, and took it as regularly as did all the gentlemen and most of the ladies of that period. "On court days," says Miss Burney in her diary, "the queen dresses her head at Kew, and puts on her drawing-room apparel at St. James's. I dress all at Kew except my tippet and long ruffles, which I carry in paper to save from dusty roads." The most rigid etiquette was observed when the royal family were at Windsor. Nobody ever knocked at a door for fear of shocking the royal nerves; a shake of the knob was the only signal allowed to a person desiring to enter. When a birthday occurred, the family walked on the terrace, crowded with people of distinction, who gathered to show respect. One of these scenes is thus described:—
"It was really a mighty pretty procession. The little Princess Amelia, just three years old, in a colored robe, covered with fine muslin, a dressed close cap, white gloves and a fan, walked on alone, turning from side to side to see everybody as she passed, for all the people on the terrace stand up against the walls, to make a clear passage for the royal family, as soon as they come in sight. Then followed the king and queen, no less delighted themselves with the joy of their little darling." Little Amelia was a great pet with her parents, and when she observed Miss Burney among the guests, and actually stopped to kiss her, the breach of etiquette was merely smiled at, though the queen was not pleased; for she only addressed a word to those whom she desired especially to distinguish. So rigid was the court etiquette that no person ever passed a room occupied by the royal family if the door chanced to be open, and the children never spoke in the presence of their parents unless called upon to answer an observation directed to them.
A.D. 1786. But everything was different at Kew, where the absence of restraint formed a striking contrast to the life at Windsor. There the king was called "Farmer George," and there were some odd sketches made by the caricaturists of the day, representing his