The Queen replied, that she thought Eichenberg had rendered the soliloquies very exactly.
“Aye,” answered the King, “that is because in those serious speeches there are none of those puns, quibbles, and peculiar idioms of Shakspeare and his times, for which there are no equivalents in other languages.”
The remaining part of this conversation we omit, out of tenderness to Madame d’Arblay, who, being a practised writer, surely might have conveyed the sense of the highly flattering compliment paid her by their Majesties in less direct terms than she has here employed.
In 1786, Dr. Burney experienced some disappointment in not being appointed to succeed Mr. Stanley (‘blind Stanley’) as Master of the King’s band. The office was bestowed on Mr., afterwards Sir William, Parsons, by the Marquess of Salisbury, the Lord Chamberlain, at the request of the Marchioness. As Mr. Parsons had even less claims as a composer than Dr. Burney, and—though a most honourable, well-educated, sensible man, of very polished manners—possessed none of those literary talents which the other was then so exclusively and successfully devoting to the service of music, his appointment to the only place in the gift of the crown which offers anything like an adequate reward for musical eminence, was much censured, and, according to the author of these Memoirs, not a little displeasing to the King. It is but just, however, to the memory of Sir W. Parsons, to add, that he very soon conciliated the good will of all the royal family, with whom, ostensibly as singing-master to the Princesses, he passed much time, at both Buckingham House and Windsor, in intercourse as social as the great difference of each in the parties permitted.
About this time, Miss F. Burney, the future wife of General d’Arblay, was made Keeper of the Robes to the Queen, and had apartments assigned to her in the two principal royal residences. At those in Windsor Castle, Dr. Burney was, by royal desire, invited to pass some days with his daughter; and here the King, throwing off all the formalities of royalty, had an opportunity of entering into unrestrained, familiar conversation with the historian of music. The first of the interviews thus agreeably brought about is described in the following extract.
He [the King] opened upon musical matters, with the most animated wish to hear the sentiments of the Doctor, and to communicate his own; and the Doctor, enchanted, was more than ready, was eager, to meet these condescending advances.
No one at all accustomed to court etiquette could have seen him without smiling: he was so totally unimpressed with the modes which, even in private, are observed the royal presence, that he moved, spoke, and walked about the room without constraint; nay, he even debated with the King precisely with the same frankness that he would have used with any other gentleman whom he had accidentally met in society.
Nevertheless, a certain flutter of spirits which always accompanies royal interviews that are infrequent, even with those who are least awed by them, took from him that self-possession which, in new or uncommon cases, teaches us how to get through difficulties of form, by watching the manœuvres of our neighbours. Elated by the openness and benignity of his Majesty, he seemed in a sort of honest enchantment that drove from his mind all thought of ceremonial; though, in his usual commerce with the world, he was scrupulously observant of all customary attentions. But now, on the contrary, he pursued every topic that was started till he had satisfied himself by saying all that belonged to it; and he started any topic that occurred to him, whether the King appeared to be ready for another or not; and while the rest of the party, retreating towards the wainscot, formed a distant and respectful circle, in which the King, approaching separately and individually those whom he meant to address, was alone wont to move, the Doctor, quite unconsciously, came forward into the circle himself; and, wholly bent upon pursuing whatever theme was begun, either followed the King when he turned away, or came onward to meet his steps when he inclined them towards some other person; with an earnestness irrepressible to go on with his own subject, and to retain to himself the attention and the eyes—which never looked adverse to him—of the sweet-tempered monarch.
This vivacity and this nature evidently amused the King, whose candour and good sense always distinguished an ignorance of the routine of forms, from the ill manners or ill will of disrespect.
The Queen, also, with a grace all her own towards those whom she deigned to wish to please, honoured her Robekeeper’s apartment with her presence on the following evening, by accompanying thither the King; with the same sweetness of benevolence of seeking Mrs. Delany, in granting an audience to Dr. Burney.