Sunday, Jan. 18.—The public birthday of my poor royal mistress. How sadly did she pass it; and how was I filled With sorrow for her reflections upon this its first anniversary for these last twenty-eight years in which the king and the nation have not united in its celebration! All now was passed over in silence and obscurity; all observance of the day was prohibited, both abroad and at home.
The poor king whose attention to times and dates is unremittingly exact, knew the day, and insisted upon seeing the queen and three of the princesses; but—it was not a good day.
MR. FAIRLY ON FANS.
Jan. 21.—I came to my room; and there, in my own corner, sat poor Mr. Fairly, looking a little forlorn, and telling me he had been there near an hour. I made every apology that could mark in the strongest manner how little I thought his patience worth such exertion....
He was going to spend the next day at St. Leonard’s, where he was to meet his son; and he portrayed to me the character of Mrs. Harcourt so fairly and favourably, that her flightiness sunk away on the rise of her good qualities. He spoke of his chapel of St. Catherine’s, its emoluments, chaplain, brothers, sisters, and full establishment.
Finding I entered into nothing, he took up a fan which lay on my table, and began playing off various imitative airs with it, exclaiming, “How thoroughly useless a toy!”
“No,” I said; “on the contrary, taken as an ornament, it was the most useful ornament of any belonging to full dress, occupying the hands, giving the eyes something to look at, and taking away stiffness and formality from the figure and deportment.”
“Men have no fans,” cried he, “and how do they do?”