“‘Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti’s mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister.... 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.”
The King asked several other questions about Evelina, and the prospect of anything further appearing from the author’s pen. A change of subject led to the mention of hunting, when, looking round on the party, he said: ‘Did you know that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself, and in a long gown and a great hoop?’ As he spoke, a violent thunder was heard at the door. Fanny again felt herself sinking into the carpet. Miss Port slid out of the room backwards, and lights shone in the hall. Enter the Queen. Her Majesty drops a profound reverence to the King, holds out both hands to her dear Mrs. Delany, and then turns her face on the short-sighted stranger, who, uncertain whether she has received a salute or not, is bewildered what to do. The King comes to her relief, repeats to his consort all that Miss Burney has already told him, and proceeds with a further catechism. The Queen, more curious about the future than the past, has questions of her own to put. ‘Shall we have no more?—nothing more?’ she asks. Fanny can only shake her head in reply, and when gracious phrases of regret and encouragement are uttered, is unable to find a word of acknowledgment. Presently the conversation, becoming general, ranges over a variety of topics, from the exemplary behaviour of the Princess Sophia, aged nearly nine, in guarding her music-master’s great nose from ridicule, to Bishop Porteous’s sermons, which the King thought that admired preacher would do wrong to publish, because every discourse printed would diminish his stock for the pulpit.
Three days later the King made an evening visit. The Diary describes the mode of his reception on these occasions. ‘The etiquette always observed on his entrance is, first of all, to fly off to distant quarters; and next, Miss Port goes out, walking backwards, for more candles, which she brings in, two at a time, and places upon the tables and pianoforte. Next she goes out for tea, which she then carries to his Majesty, upon a large salver, containing sugar, cream, and bread and butter and cake, while she hangs a napkin over her arm for his fingers. This, it seems, is a ceremony performed, in other places, always by the mistress of the house; but here neither of their Majesties will permit Mrs. Delany to attempt it.’ While drinking his tea, the King ran on, in his usual discursive vein, about authors, actors, books, and plays. Concerning the tendency of Voltaire’s works, and the personal character of Rousseau, he expressed the current opinions of English society; calling the former a monster, and telling anecdotes to illustrate ‘the savage pride and insolent ingratitude’ of the latter. He vexed Miss Burney by pronouncing Mrs. Siddons the most excellent player of his time, not even excepting the divine Garrick. From players he went to plays, and having deplored the immorality of the old English comedies, and the poverty of the new ones, he came at length to Shakspeare.
“‘Was there ever,’ cried he, ‘such stuff as great part of Shakspeare? only one must not say so! But what think you? What? Is there not sad stuff? What? What?’
“‘Yes, indeed, I think so, sir, though mixed with such excellences, that——’
“‘Oh!’ cried he, laughing good-humouredly; ‘I know it is not to be said! but it’s true. Only it’s Shakspeare, and nobody dares abuse him.’