THE DIARY AND LETTERS
OF
MADAME D’ARBLAY
By Madame D’Arblay (Frances Burney)
With Notes by W. C. Ward
In Three Volumes.
VOL. 2. (1787-1792.)
London: Vizetelly & Co., 16, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden. 1891.
Printed By J. S. Virtue & Company, London, City Road.
10. (1787) COURT DUTIES AT ST. JAMES’S AND WINDSOR—9-48
The Queen’s Birthday Drawing Room—A Serious Dilemma—Counsels of a Court Official—Mr. Turbulent’s Anxiety to Introduce Mr. Wellbred—Colonel Wellbred is received at Tea—Eccentric Mr. Bryant—Mr. Turbulent in a New Character—Bantering a Princess—Mr. Turbulent meets with a Rebuff—A Surprise at the Play—The King’s Birthday—The Equerries: Colonel Manners—The Duchess de Polignac at Windsor—Colonel Manners’ Musical Accomplishments—Mrs. Schwellenberg’s “Lump of Leather”—Mrs. Schwellenberg’s Frogs—Mr. Turbulent’s Antics.
11 (1787-8) COURT DUTIES: SOME VARIATIONS IN THEIR ROUTINE—49-85
Meeting of the two Princes—Bunbury, the Caricaturist—Mrs. Siddons proves disappointing on near acquaintance—Mr. Fairly’s Bereavement—Troublesome Mr. Turbulent—A Conceited Parson—Mr. Turbulent becomes a Nuisance—Dr. Herschel and his Sister—Gay and Entertaining Mr. Bunbury—The Prince of Wales at Windsor again—False Rumours of Miss Burney’s Resignation—Tyrannical Mrs. Schwellenberg—Mrs. Schwellenberg’s Capriciousness—New Year’s Day—Chatty Mr. Bryant again—Dr. Johnson’s Letters to Mrs. Thrale discussed—A Pair of Paragons—Mr. Turbulent’s Self Condemnation—Miss Burney among her Old Friends—Some Trivial Court Incidents.
12 (1788) THE TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS—86-153
Westminster Hall at the opening of the Hastings Trial—Warren Hastings appears at the Bar—The Lord Chancellor’s Speech—The Reading of the Charges commenced—An Old Acquaintance—William Windham, Esq., M.P.—Windham inveighs against Warren Hastings—Miss Burney Battles for the Accused—A Wearied M.P.—Mr. Crutchley reappears—Mr. Windham discusses the Impeachment—Windham affects to commiserate Hastings—Miss Burney is again present at Hastings’s Trial—Burke’s Speech in support of the Charges—Further Conversation with Mr. Windham—Miss Fuzilier likely to become Mrs. Fairly—The Hastings Trial again: Mr. Fox in a Rage—Mrs. Crewe, Mr. Burke and Mr. Windham—Miss Burney’s Unbiassed Sentiments—Burke and Sheridan meet with Cold Receptions—At Windsor again—Death of Mrs. Delany—The page vi Hastings Trial and Mr. Windham again—“The Queen is so kind”— Personal Resemblance between Windham and Hastings—Death of Young Lady Mulgrave—Again at Windsor—Another Meeting with Mr. Crutchley—Mr. Turbulent’s troublesome Pleasantries—Colonel Fairly and Second Attachments.
13. (1788) ROYAL VISIT TO CHELTENHAM—154—219
The Royal Party and their Suite—Loyalty not Damped by the Rain—Arrival at Fauconberg Hall—The Tea-Table Difficulty—A tête-à-tête wit, Colonel Fairly—The King’s Gentlemen and the Queen’s Ladies—Royalty Crowded at Fauconberg Hall—At the wells—Conversation and Flirtation with Colonel Fairly—Miss Burney meets an old Friend—Colonel Fairly again—A Visit to miss Palmer—“Original Love Letters”—The Founder of Sunday Schools criticised—On the Walks—An Unexpected Visitor—Courts and Court Life—The Vindictive Baretti—speculations upon Colonel Fairly’s Re-marrying—Colonel Fairly again presents Himself—The Colonel and the “Original Love Letters”—The Gout and the Love Letters again—A Dinner with Colonel Fairly and Miss Planta—Royal Concern for the Colonel’s Gout—young Republicans Converted—The Princes’ Animal Spirits—The Duke of York: Royal Visit to the Theatre—An uncourtly visitor—Mr. Fairly reads “Akenside” to Miss Burney—The Doctor’s Embarrassment—From Grave to Gay—A Visit to Worcester—The Queen and Mr. Fairly—Mr. Fairly Moralizes—Major Price is tired of Retirement—The Return to Windsor—At Windsor again: The Canon and Mrs. Schwellenberg—Compliments from a famous Foreign Astronomer—The Prince eyes miss Burney curiously—Colonel Manners’s Beating—Mr. Fairly is Discussed by his Brother Equerries—Baron Trenck: Mr. Turbulent’s Raillery—Amiable Mrs. Schwellenberg again—A Royal Joke—Colonel Goldsworthy’s Breach of Etiquette—Illness of Mrs. Schwellenberg—General Grenville’s Regiment at Drill.
14. (1788-9) THE KING’S ILLNESS—220-299
Uncertain State of the King’s Health—The King complains of Want of Sleep—Distress of the Queen—First Outburst of the King’s Delirium—An Anxious Night—The King’s Delirious Condition-The King refuses to see Dr. Warren—The Queen’s anxiety to hear Dr. Warren’s opinion—The Queen removes to more distant Apartments—A Visit from Mr. Fairly—The King’s Night Watchers—A Change in Miss Burney’s Duties—Mr. Fairly Succeeds in Soothing the King—New Arrangements—The Princess Augusta’s Birthday— Strange Behaviour of the First Gentleman in Europe—Stringent New Regulations—Mrs. Schwellenberg is back again—Public Prayers for the King decided upon—Sir Lucas Pepys On the King’s Condition—Further Changes at the Lodge—Mr. Fairly and the Learned Ladies—Reports on the King’s Condition—Mr. Fairly thinks the King needs Stricter Management—Mr. Fairly wants a Change—Removal of the King to Kew determined upon—A Privy Council held—The Removal to Kew—A Mysterious Visitor—The King’s Arrival—The Arrangements at Kew Palace—A Regency hinted at—Mr. Fairly’s Kind Offices—Mrs. Schwellenberg’s Parlour—A new Physician Summoned—Mrs. Schwellenberg’s Opinion of Mr. Fairly—The King’s varying Condition—Dr. Willis and his Son—Learning in Women—The Queen and Mr. Fairly’s Visits-A Melancholy Birthday—Mr. Fairly on Fans—Mr. Fairly continues his Visits: the Queen again Remarks upon them—The Search for Mr. Fairly—Miss Burney’s Alarm on being chased by the King—A Royal Salute and Royal Confidences— Curiosity regarding Miss Burney’s meeting with the King—The Regency Bill—Infinitely Licentious!—Miss Burney is taxed with Visiting Gentlemen—Improvement in the King’s Health—Mr. Fairly and Mr. Windham—The King continues to improve—The King’s Health is completely Restored.
15. (1789) THE KING’S RECOVERY: ROYAL VISIT TO WEYMOUTH—300-333
The King’s Reappearance—An Airing and its Consequences—Illuminations on the King’s Recovery—Mr. Fairly on Miss Burney’s Duties—A Visit from Miss Fuzilier—A Command from Her Majesty—Colonel Manners mystifies Mrs. Schwellenberg—The Sailor Prince—Loyal Reception of the King in the New Forest—The Royal journey to Weymouth—Welcome to Weymouth—The Royal Plunge with Musical honours—“You must Kneel, Sir!”—Royal doings in and about Weymouth—A Patient Audience—A Fatiguing but Pleasant Day—Lulworth Castle—The Royal Party at the Assembly Rooms—A journey to Exeter and Saltram—May “One” come in?—An Excursion to Plymouth Dockyard—A Visit to a Seventy-four—A Day at Mount Edgecumbe—Mr. Fairly on a Court Life—A Brief Sojourn at Longleat—Tottenham Court: Return to Windsor.
16. (1789-90) MR. FAIRLY’S MARRIAGE: THE HASTINGS TRIAL—334-365
Rumours of Mr. Fairly’s impending Marriage—A Royal Visit to the Theatre: jammed in the Crowd—In the Manager’s Box—Mr. Fairly’s Marriage imminent—Court Duties discussed—Mr. Fairly’s Strange Wedding—Renewal of the Hastings Trial: A Political Impromptu—An Illbred Earl of Chesterfield—Miss Burney in a New Capacity—The long-forgotten Tragedy: Miss Burney again as Reader—Colonel Manners in his Senatorial Capacity—A Conversation with Mr. Windham at the Hastings Trial—A Glimpse of Mrs. Piozzi—Captain Burney wants a Ship to go to Court—Captain Burney and Mr. Windham—Mr. Windham speaks on a Legal Point—An Emphatic Peroration-An Aptitude for Logic and for Greek—More Talk with Mr. Windham.
17. (1790-1) MISS BURNEY RESIGNS HER PLACE AT COURT—366-409
A Melancholy Confession—Captain Burney’s Laconic Letter and Interview—Burke’s Speech on the French Revolution—An Awkward Meeting—A New Visit from Mrs. Fairly—One Tragedy Finished and Another Commenced—Miss Burney’s Resignation Memorial—Mr. Windham Intervenes—An Amusing Interview with Mr. Boswell—Ill, Unsettled, and Unhappy—A Medical Opinion on Miss Burney’s Condition—Miss Burney breaks the Matter to the Queen—The Memorial and Explanatory Note—The Keeper of the Robes’ Consternation—Leave of Absence is Suggested—A Royal Gift to the Master of the Horse—Conferences with the Queen—Miss Burney determines on Seclusion—The Hastings Trial Resumed: The Accused makes his Defence—Mr. Windham is Congratulated on his Silence—Miss Burney makes her Report—Prince William insists on the King’s Health being Drunk—The Queen’s Health—The Procession to the Ball-room: Absence of the Princes—Boswell’s Life of johnson—The Close of Miss Burney’s Court Duties—Miss Burney’s Successor: A Pension from the Queen—Leavetakings—Farewell to Kew—The Final Parting.
18. (1791-2) REGAINED LIBERTY—410-468
Released from Duty—A Western journey: Farnham Castle—A Party of French Fugitives—Winchester Cathedral—Stonehenge, Wilton, and Milton Abbey—Lyme and Sidmouth—Sidmouth Loyalty—Powderham Castle and Collumpton Church—Glastonbury Abbey—Wells Cathedral—Bath Revisited—A Visit from Lady Spencer—Bath Sunday Schools—Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire—Bishop Percy—The Duchess of Devonshire again—Dr. Burney’s Conversation with Mr. Burke: Remarks by Miss Burney—Literary Recreation—Sir Joshua Reynolds’s Blindness—Among Old Friends—A Summons from the Queen—Mr. Hastings’s Defence—Diverse Views—Mr. Law’s Speech Discussed—Mr. Windham on the French National Assembly—“A Barbarous Business!”—Death of Sir Joshua Reynolds—Mr. Windham twitted on his Lack of Compassion—A Point of Ceremonial—Mrs. Schwellenberg and Mlle. Jacobi—A Long Talk with the King and Queen—Madame de Genlis: a Woeful Change—The Weeping Beauty Again—Madame de la Fite and Mrs. Hastings—The Impetuous Orator—Mimicry of Dr. Johnson—The King’s Birthday—Mr. Hastings’s Speech—A Well-preserved Beauty—The Burkes—Burke’s Conversational Powers—A Wild Irish Girl—Erskine’s Egotism—Caen-wood—-An Adventure with Mrs. Crewe—An Invitation from Arthur Young.
CONTENTS
[ SECTION 10. (1787) COURT DUTIES AT ST. JAMES’S AND WINDSOR. ]
[ THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY DRAWING ROOM. ]
[ COUNSELS OF A COURT OFFICIAL. ]
[ MR. TURBULENT’s ANXIETY TO INTRODUCE MR. WELLBRED. ]
[ COLONEL WELLBRED IS RECEIVED AT TEA. ]
[ MR TURBULENT IN A NEW CHARACTER. ]
[ MR. TURBULENT MEETS WITH A REBUFF. ]
[ THE EQUERRIES: COLONEL MANNERS. ]
[ COLONEL MANNERS’ MUSICAL ACCOMPLISHMENTS. ]
[ MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’S “LUMP OF LEATHER.” ]
[ MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’s FROGS. ]
[ SECTION 11. (1787-8.) COURT DUTIES: SOME VARIATIONS IN THEIR ROUTINE. ]
[ MEETING OF THE TWO PRINCES. ]
[ BUNBURY, THE CARICATURIST. ]
[ MRS. SIDDONS PROVES DISAPPOINTING ON NEAR ACQUAINTANCE. ]
[ TROUBLESOME MR. TURBULENT. ]
[ MR. TURBULENT BECOMES A NUISANCE. ]
[ DR. HERSCHEL AND HIS SISTER. ]
[ GAY AND ENTERTAINING MR. BUNBURY. ]
[ THE PRINCE OF WALES AT WINDSOR AGAIN. ]
[ FALSE RUMOURS OF MISS BURNEY’S RESIGNATION. ]
[ TYRANNICAL MRS. SCHWELLENBERG. ]
[ MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’S CAPRICIOUSNESS. ]
[ DR. JOHNSON’s LETTERS To MRS. THRALE DISCUSSED. Wednesday, Jan. ]
[ SOME TRIVIAL COURT INCIDENTS. ]
[ SECTION 12. (1788.) THE TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. ]
[ WESTMINSTER HALL AT THE OPENING OF THE HASTINGS TRIAL. ]
[ WARREN HASTINGS APPEARS AT THE BAR. ]
[ THE LORD CHANCELLOR’S SPEECH. ]
[ THE READING OF THE CHARGES COMMENCED. ]
[ WILLIAM WINDHAM ESQ., M.P. ]
[ WINDHAM INVEIGHS AGAINST WARREN HASTINGS. Somewhat sarcastic, this—but ]
[ MISS BURNEY BATTLES FOR THE ACCUSED. ]
[ A WEARIED M.P.—MR. CRUTCHLEY REAPPEARS. ]
[ MR. WINDHAM DISCUSSES THE IMPEACHMENT. ]
[ WINDHAM AFFECTS TO COMMISERATE HASTINGS. ]
[ MISS BURNEY IS AGAIN PRESENT AT HASTINGS’S TRIAL. ]
[ BURKE’.S SPEECH IN SUPPORT OF THE CHARGES. At length the peers’ ]
[ FURTHER CONVERSATION WITH MR. WINDHAM. ]
[ MISS FUZILIER LIKELY TO RECONCILE MRS. FAIRLY. ]
[ THE HASTINGS TRIAL AGAIN: MR. FOX IN A RAGE. And now for my third ]
[ MRS. CREWE, MR. BURKE, AND MR. WINDHAM. ]
[ MISS BURNEY’S UNBIASED SENTIMENTS. ]
[ BURKE AND SHERIDAN MEET WITH COLD RECEPTIONS. ]
[ THE HASTINGS TRIAL AND MR. WINDHAM AGAIN. The part of this month in ]
[ PERSONAL RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN WINDHAM AND HASTINGS. ]
[ ANOTHER MEETING WITH MR. CRUTCHLEY. ]
[ MR. TURBULENT’S TROUBLESOME PLEASANTRIES. ]
[ COLONEL FAIRLY AND SECOND ATTACHMENTS. ]
[ SECTION 13 (1788.) ROYAL VISIT TO CHELTENHAM. ]
[ THE ROYAL PARTY AND THEIR SUITE. ]
[ LOYALTY NOT DAMPED BY THE RAIN. ]
[ ARRIVAL AT FAUCONBERG HALL. ]
[ A TETE-A-TETE WITH COLONEL FAIRLY. ]
[ THE KING’s GENTLEMEN AND THE QUEEN’S LADIES. ]
[ ROYALTY CROWDED AT FAUCONBERG HALL. ]
[ CONVERSATION AND FLIRTATION WITH COLONEL FAIRLY. ]
[ MISS BURNEY MEETS AN OLD FRIEND. ]
[ THE FOUNDER OF SUNDAY SCHOOLS CRITICIZED. ]
[ SPECULATIONS UPON COLONEL FAIRLY’S RE-MARRYING. ]
[ COLONEL FAIRLY AGAIN PRESENTS HIMSELF. ]
[ THE COLONEL AND THE “ORIGINAL LOVE LETTERS.” ]
[ THE GOUT AND THE LOVE LETTERS, AGAIN. ]
[ A DINNER WITH COLONEL FAIRLY AND MISS PLANTA. ]
[ ROYAL CONCERN FOR THE COLONEL’s GOUT. ]
[ YOUNG REPUBLICANS CONVERTED. ]
[ THE PRINCES’ ANIMAL SPIRITS. ]
[ THE DUKE OF YORK: ROYAL VISIT TO THE THEATRE. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY READS “AKENSIDE” TO MISS BURNEY. ]
[ THE DOCTOR’s EMBARRASSMENT. ]
[ MAJOR PRICE IS TIRED OF RETIREMENT. ]
[ AT WINDSOR AGAIN THE CANON AND MRS. SCHWELLENBERG. ]
[ COMPLIMENTS FROM A FAMOUS FOREIGN ASTRONOMER. ]
[ THE PRINCE EYES MISS BURNEY CURIOUSLY. ]
[ COLONEL MANNERS’S BEATING. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY IS DISCUSSED BY HIS BROTHER EQUERRIES. ]
[ BARON TRENCK: MR. TURBULENT’S RAILLERY. ]
[ AMIABLE MRS. SCHWELLENBERG AGAIN. ]
[ COLONEL GOLDSWORTHY’S BREACH OF ETIQUETTE. ]
[ ILLNESS OF MRS. SCHWELLENBERG. ]
[ GENERAL GRENVILLE’S REGIMENT AT DRILL. ]
[ SECTION 14 (1788-9.) THE KING’S ILLNESS. ]
[ UNCERTAIN STATE OF THE KING’S HEALTH. ]
[ THE KING COMPLAINS OF WANT OF SLEEP. ]
[ FIRST OUTBURST OF THE KING’s DELIRIUM. ]
[ THE KING’S DELIRIOUS CONDITION. ]
[ THE KING REFUSES TO SEE DR. WARREN. ]
[ THE QUEEN’S ANXIETY TO HEAR DR. WARREN’S OPINION. ]
[ THE QUEEN REMOVES TO MORE DISTANT APARTMENTS. ]
[ THE KING’S NIGHT WATCHERS. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY SUCCEEDS IN SOOTHING THE KING. ]
[ THE PRINCESS AUGUSTA’S BIRTHDAY. ]
[ STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF THE FIRST GENTLEMAN IN EUROPE. ]
[ STRINGENT NEW REGULATIONS. ]
[ MRS. SCHWELLENBERG IS BACK AGAIN. ]
[ PUBLIC PRAYERS FOR THE KING DECIDED UPON. ]
[ SIR LUCAS PEPYS ON THE KING’S CONDITION. ]
[ FURTHER CHANGES AT THE LODGE. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY AND THE LEARNED LADIES. ]
[ REPORTS ON THE KING’S CONDITION. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY THINKS THE KING NEEDS STRICTER MANAGEMENT. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY WANTS A CHANGE. ]
[ REMOVAL OF THE KING TO KEW DETERMINED UPON. ]
[ THE ARRANGEMENTS AT KEW PALACE. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY’S KIND OFFICES. ]
[ MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’S PARLOUR. ]
[ MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’S OPINION OF MR. FAIRLY. ]
[ THE KING’S VARYING CONDITION. ]
[ THE QUEEN AND MR. FAIRLY’S VISITS. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY CONTINUES HIS VISITS: THE QUEEN AGAIN REMARKS UPON THEM. ]
[ THE SEARCH FOR MR. FAIRLY. ]
[ A ROYAL SALUTE AND ROYAL CONFIDENCES. ]
[ CURIOSITY REGARDING Miss BURNEY’S MEETING WITH THE KING. ]
[ MISS BURNEY IS TAXED WITH VISITING GENTLEMEN. ]
[ IMPROVEMENT IN THE KING’S, HEALTH. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY AND MR. WINDHAM. ]
[ THE KING CONTINUES TO IMPROVE. ]
[ THE KING’S HEALTH IS COMPLETELY RESTORED. ]
[ SECTION 15. (1789-) THE KING’S RECOVERY: ROYAL VISIT TO WEYMOUTH. ]
[ AN AIRING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. ]
[ ILLUMINATIONS ON THE KING’s RECOVERY. ]
[ MR FAIRLY ON MISS BURNEY’S DUTIES. ]
[ A VISIT FROM MISS FUZILIER. ]
[ A COMMAND FROM HER MAJESTY. ]
[ COLONEL MANNERS MYSTIFIES MRS. SCHWELLENBERG. ]
[ LOYAL RECEPTION OF THE KING IN THE NEW FOREST. ]
[ THE ROYAL PLUNGE WITH MUSICAL HONOURS. “YOU MUST KNEEL, SIR!” ]
[ ROYAL DOINGS IN AND ABOUT WEYMOUTH. ]
[ A FATIGUING BUT PLEASANT DAY. ]
[ THE ROYAL PARTY AT THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS. ]
[ A JOURNEY To EXETER AND SALTRAM. ]
[ AN EXCURSION To PLYMOUTH DOCKYARD. ]
[ A VISIT TO A SEVENTY-FOUR. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY ON A COURT LIFE. ]
[ A BRIEF SOJOURN AT LONGLEAT. ]
[ TOTTENHAM COURT: RETURN TO WINDSOR. ]
[ SECTION 16. (1789-90.) MR. FAIRLY’S MARRIAGE: THE HASTINGS TRIAL. ]
[ RUMOURS OF MR. FAIRLY’S IMPENDING MARRIAGE. ]
[ A ROYAL VISIT TO THE THEATRE: JAMMED IN THE CROWD. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY’S MARRIAGE IMMINENT. ]
[ MR. FAIRLY’S STRANGE WEDDING. ]
[ AN ILLBRED EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. ]
[ MISS BURNEY IN A NEW CAPACITY. ]
[ THE LONG-FORGOTTEN TRAGEDY: MISS BURNEY AGAIN AS READER. ]
[ COLONEL MANNERS IN HIS SENATORIAL CAPACITY. ]
[ A CONVERSATION WITH MR. WINDHAM AT THE HASTINGS TRIAL. ]
[ CAPTAIN BURNEY WANTS A SHIP AND TO GO TO COURT. ]
[ CAPTAIN BURNEY AND MR. WINDHAM. ]
[ MR. WINDHAM SPEAKS ON A LEGAL POINT. ]
[ AN APTITUDE FOR LOGIC AND FOR GREEK. ]
[ MORE TALK WITH MR. WINDHAM. ]
[ SECTION 17. (1790-1) MISS BURNEY RESIGNS HER PLACE AT COURT. ]
[ CAPTAIN BURNEY’S LACONIC LETTER AND INTERVIEW. ]
[ BURKE’S SPEECH ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. ]
[ A NEW VISIT FROM MRS. FAIRLY. ]
[ ONE TRAGEDY FINISHED AND ANOTHER COMMENCED. ]
[ MISS BURNEY’s RESIGNATION MEMORIAL. ]
[ AN AMUSING INTERVIEW WITH MR. BOSWELL. ]
[ ILL, UNSETTLED, AND UNHAPPY. ]
[ A MEDICAL OPINION ON MISS BURNEY’S CONDITION. ]
[ MISS BURNEY BREAKS THE MATTER TO THE QUEEN. ]
[ THE MEMORIAL AND EXPLANATORY NOTE. ]
[ THE KEEPER OF THE ROBES’ CONSTERNATION. ]
[ LEAVE OF ABSENCE IS SUGGESTED. ]
[ A ROYAL GIFT TO THE MASTER OF THE HORSE. ]
[ CONFERENCES WITH THE QUEEN. ]
[ MISS BURNEY DETERMINES ON SECLUSION. ]
[ THE HASTINGS TRIAL RESUMED: ‘THE ACCUSED MAKES HIS DEFENCE. ]
[ MR. WINDHAM IS CONGRATULATED ON HIS SILENCE. ]
[ PRINCE WILLIAM INSISTS ON THE KING’S HEALTH BEING DRUNK. ]
[ THE PROCESSION TO THE BALL-ROOM: ABSENCE OF THE PRINCES. ]
[ BOSWELL’s LIFE OF JOHNSON. ]
[ THE CLOSE OF MISS BURNEY’S COURT DUTIES. ]
[ MISS BURNEY’S SUCCESSOR. A PENSION FROM THE QUEEN. ]
[ SECTION 18. (1791-2.) REGAINED LIBERTY. ]
[ A WESTERN JOURNEY: FARNHAM CASTLE. ]
[ STONEHENGE, WILTON, AND MILTON ABBEY. ]
[ POWDERHAM CASTLE AND COLLUMPTON CHURCH. ]
[ A VISIT FROM LADY SPENCER. ]
[ GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE ]
[ THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE AGAIN. ]
[ DR. BURNEY’S CONVERSATION WITH MR. BURKE: REMARKS BY Miss BURNEY. ]
[ SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDs’s BLINDNESS. ]
[ MR. LAW’S SPEECH DISCUSSED. ]
[ MR. WINDHAM ON THE FRENCH NATIONAL ASSEMBLY. ]
[ DEATH OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. ]
[ MR. WINDHAM TWITTED ON His LACK OF COMPASSION. ]
[ MRS. SCHWELLENBERG AND MLLE. JACOBI. ]
[ A LONG TALK WITH THE KING AND QUEEN. ]
[ MADAME DE GENLIS: A WOEFUL CHANGE. ]
[ MADAME DE LA FITE AND MRS. HASTINGS. ]
[ BOSWELL’S MIMICRY OF DR. JOHNSON. ]
[ BURKE’S CONVERSATIONAL POWERS. ]
[ AN ADVENTURE WITH MRS. CREWE. ]
[ AN INVITATION FROM ARTHUR YOUNG. ]
SECTION 10. (1787) COURT DUTIES AT ST. JAMES’S AND WINDSOR.
THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY DRAWING ROOM.
January. Go back to the 16th, when I went to town, accompanied only by Mr. de Luc. I saw my dear father the next morning, who gave me a poem on the queen’s birthday, to present. It was very pretty; but I felt very awkward in offering it to her, as it was from so near a relation, and without any particular reason or motive. Mr. Smelt came and stayed with me almost all the morning, and soothed and solaced me by his charming converse. The rest of the day was devoted to milliners, mantua-makers, and such artificers, and you may easily conjecture how great must be my fatigue. Nevertheless, when, in the midst of these wasteful toils, the Princess Augusta entered my room, and asked me, from the queen, if I should wish to see the ball the next day, I preferred running the risk of that new fatigue, to declining an honour so offered: especially as the Princess Augusta was herself to open the ball.
A chance question this night from the queen, whom I now again attended as usual, fortunately relieved me from my embarrassment about the poem. She inquired of me if my father was still writing? “A little,” I answered, and the next morning, Thursday, the 18th, when the birth-day was kept, I found her all sweetness and serenity; mumbled out my own little compliment, which she received as graciously as if she had understood and heard it; and then, when she was dressed, I followed her through the great rooms, to get rid of the wardrobe woman, and there taking the poem from my pocket, I said “I told your majesty that my father had written a little!—and here—the little is!”
She took it from me with a smile and a curtsey, and I ran off. She never has named it since; but she has spoken of my father with much sweetness and complacency. The modest dignity of the queen, upon all subjects of panegyric, is truly royal and noble.
I had now, a second time, the ceremony of being entirely new dressed. I then went to St. James’s, where the queen gave a very gracious approbation of my gewgaws, and called upon the king to bestow the same; which his constant goodhumour makes a matter of great ease to him.
The queen’s dress, being for her own birthday, was extremely simple, the style of dress considered. The king was quite superb, and the Princesses Augusta and Elizabeth were ornamented with much brilliancy.
Not only the princess royal was missed at this exhibition, but also the Prince of Wales. He wrote, however, his congratulations to the queen, though the coldness then subsisting between him and his majesty occasioned his absence from Court. I fear it was severely felt by his royal mother, though she appeared composed and content.
The two princesses spoke very kind words, also, about my frippery on this festival; and Princess Augusta laid her positive commands upon me that I should change my gown before I went to the lord chamberlain’s box, where only my head could be seen. The counsel proved as useful as the consideration was amiable.
When the queen was attired, the Duchess of Ancaster was admitted to the dressing room, where she stayed, in conversation with their majesties and the princesses, till it was time to summon the bed-chamber women. During this, I had the office of holding the queen’s train. I knew, for me, it was a great honour, yet it made me feel, once more, so like a mute upon the stage, that I could scarce believe myself only performing my own real character.
Mrs. Stainforth and I had some time to stand upon the stairs before the opening of the doors. We joined Mrs. Fielding and her daughters, and all entered together, but the crowd parted us—they all ran on, and got in as they could, and I remained alone by the door. They soon found me out, and made signs to me, which I saw not, and then they sent me messages that they had kept room for me just by them. I had received orders from the queen to go out at the end of the second country dance; I thought, therefore, that as I now was seated by the door, I had better be content, and stay where I could make my exit in a moment, and without trouble or disturbance. A queer-looking old lady sat next me, and I spoke to her now and then, by way of seeming to belong to somebody. She did not appear to know whether it were advisable for her to answer me or not, seeing me alone, and with high head ornaments; but as I had no plan but to save appearances to the surrounders, I was perfectly satisfied that my very concise propositions should meet with yet more laconic replies.
Before we parted, however, finding me quiet and inoffensive, she became voluntarily sociable, and I felt so much at home, by being still in a part of the palace, that I needed nothing further than just so much notice as not to seem an object to be avoided.
The sight which called me to that spot perfectly answered all my expectations: the air, manner, and countenance of the queen, as she goes round the circle, are truly graceful and engaging: I thought I could understand, by the motion of her lips, and the expression of her face, even at the height and distance of the chamberlain’s box, the gracious and pleasant speeches she made to all whom she approached. With my glass, you know, I can see just as other people see with the naked eye.
The princesses looked extremely lovely, and the whole Court was in the utmost splendour.
A SERIOUS DILEMMA.
At the appointed moment I slipped through the door, leaving my old lady utterly astonished at my sudden departure, and I passed, alone and quietly, to Mr. Rhamus’s apartment, which was appropriated for the company to wait in. Here I desired a servant I met with to call my man: he was not to be found. I went down the stairs, and made them call him aloud, by my name; all to no purpose. Then the chairmen were called, but called also in vain!
What to do I knew not; though I was still in a part of the palace, it was separated by many courts, avenues, passages, and alleys, from the queen’s or my own apartments—and though I had so lately passed them, I could not remember the way, nor at that late hour could I have walked, dressed as I then was, and the ground wet with recent rain, even if I had had a servant: I had therefore ordered the chair allotted me for these days; but chair and chairmen and footmen were alike out of the way.
My fright lest the queen should wait for me was very serious. I believe there are state apartments through which she passes, and therefore I had no chance to know when she retired from the ball-room. Yet could I not stir, and was forced to return to the room whence I came, in order to wait for John, that I might be out of the way of the cold winds which infested the hall.
I now found a young clergyman, standing by the fire. I suppose my anxiety was visible, for he instantly inquired if he could assist me. I declined his offer, but walked up and down, making frequent questions about my chair and John.
He then very civilly said, “You seem distressed, ma’am; would you permit me the honour to see for your chair, or, if it is not come, as you seem hurried, would you trust me to see you home?”
I thanked him, but could not accept his services. He was sorry, he said, that I refused him, but could not wonder, as he was a stranger. I made some apologising answer, and remained in that unpleasant situation till, at length, a hackneychair was procured me. My new acquaintance would take no denial to handing me to the chair. When I got in, I told the men to carry me to the palace.
“We are there now!” cried they; “what part of the palace?”
I was now in a distress the most extraordinary: I really knew not my own direction! I had always gone to my apartment in a chair, and had been carried by chairmen officially appointed; and, except that it was in St. James’s palace, I knew nothing of my own situation.
“Near the park,” I told them, and saw my new esquire look utterly amazed at me.
“Ma’am,” said he, “half the palace is in the park.”
“I don’t know how to direct,” cried I, in the greatest embarrassment, “but it is somewhere between Pall Mall and the park.” “I know where the lady lives well enough,” cried one of the chairmen, “’tis in St. James’s street.”
“No, no,” cried I, “’tis in St. James’s palace.”
“Up with the chair!” cried the other man, “I know best—’tis in South Audley-street; I know the lady well enough.”
Think what a situation at the moment! I found they had both been drinking the queen’s health till they knew not what they said and could with difficulty stand. Yet they lifted me up, and though I called in the most terrible fright to be let out, they carried me down the steps.
I now actually screamed for help, believing they would carry me off to South Audley Street; and now my good genius, who had waited patiently in the crowd, forcibly stopped the chairmen, who abused him violently, and opened the door himself, and I ran back to the hall.
You may imagine how earnestly I returned my thanks for this most seasonable assistance, without which I should almost have died with terror, for where they might have taken or dropped me, or how or where left me, who could say?
He begged me to go again upstairs, but my apprehension about the queen prevented me. I knew she was to have nobody but me, and that her jewels, though few, were to be intrusted back to the queen’s house to no other hands. I must, I said, go, be it in what manner it might. All I could devise was to summon Mr. Rhamus, the page. I had never seen him, but my attendance upon the queen would be an apology for the application, and I determined to put myself under his immediate protection.
Mr. Rhamus was nowhere to be found; he was already supposed to be gone to the queen’s house, to wait the arrival of his majesty. This news redoubled my fear; and now my new acquaintance desired me to employ him in making inquiries for me as to the direction I wanted.
It was almost ridiculous, in the midst of my distress, to be thus at a loss for an address to myself! I felt averse to speaking my name amongst so many listeners, and only told him he would much oblige me by finding out a direction to Mrs. Haggerdorn’s rooms. He went upstairs; and returning, said he could now direct the chairmen, if I did not fear trusting them.
I did fear—I even shook with fear; yet my horror of disappointing the queen upon such a night prevailed over all my reluctance, and I ventured once more into the chair, thanking this excellent Samaritan, and begging him to give the direction very particularly. Imagine, however, my gratitude and my relief, when, instead of hearing the direction, I heard only these words, “Follow me.” And then did this truly benevolent young man himself play the footman, in walking by the side of the chair till we came to an alley, when he bid them turn; but they answered him with an oath, and ran on with me, till the poles ran against a wall, for they had entered a passage in which there was no outlet! I would fain have got out, but they would not hear me; they would only pull the chair back, and go on another way. But my guardian angel told them to follow him, or not, at their peril; and then walked before the chair.
We next came to a court where we were stopped by the sentinels. They said they had orders not to admit any hackney chairs. The chairmen vowed they would make way; I called out aloud to be set down; the sentinels said they would run their bayonets through the first man that attempted to dispute their orders. I then screamed out again to be set down, and my new and good friend peremptorily forced them to stop, and opening the door with violence, offered me his arm, saying, “You had better trust yourself with me, ma’am!”
Most thankfully I now accepted what so fruitlessly I had declined, and I held by his arm, and we walked on together, but neither of us knew whither, nor the right way from the wrong. It was really a terrible situation.
The chairmen followed us, clamorous for money, and full of abuse. They demanded half a crown—my companion refused to listen to such an imposition: my shaking hand could find no purse, and I begged him to pay them what they asked, that they might leave us. He did; and when they were gone, I shook less, and was able to pay that one part of the debt I was now contracting.
We wandered about, heaven knows where, in a way the most alarming and horrible to myself imaginable: for I never knew where I was.—It was midnight. I concluded the queen waiting for me.—It was wet. My head was full dressed. I was under the care of a total stranger; and I knew not which side to take, wherever we came. Inquiries were vain. The sentinels alone were in sight, and they are so continually changed that they knew no more of Mrs. Haggerdorn than if she had never resided here.
At length I spied a door open, and I begged to enter it at a venture, for information. Fortunately a person stood in the passage who instantly spoke to me by my name; I never heard that sound with more glee: to me he was a stranger, but I suppose he had seen me in some of the apartments. I begged him to direct me straight to the queen’s rooms: he did; and I then took leave of my most humane new friend, with a thousand acknowledgments for his benevolence and services.
Was it not a strange business? I can never say what an agony Of fright it cost me at the time, nor ever be sufficiently grateful for the kind assistance, so providentially afforded me.’
COUNSELS OF A COURT OFFICIAL.
The general directions and counsel of Mr. Smelt, which I have scrupulously observed ever since, were, in abridgment, these:—
That I should see nobody at all but by appointment. This, as he well said, would obviate, not only numerous personal inconveniences to myself, but prevent alike surprises from those I had no leave to admit, and repetitions of visits from others who might inadvertently come too often. He advised me to tell this to my father, and beg it might be spread, as a settled part of my situation, among all who inquired for me.
That I should see no fresh person whatsoever without an immediate permission from the queen, nor any party, even amongst those already authorised, without apprising her of such a plan.
That I should never go out without an immediate application to her, so that no possible inquiry for me might occasion surprise or disappointment.
These, and other similar ties, perhaps, had my spirits been better, I might less readily have acceded to: as it was, I would have bound myself to as many more.
At length, however, even then, I was startled when Mr. Smelt, with some earnestness, said, “And, with respect to your parties, such as you may occasionally have here, you have but one rule for keeping all things smooth, and all partisans unoffended, at a distance—which is, to have no men—none!”
I stared a little, and made no answer.
“Yes,” cried he, “Mr. Locke may be admitted; but him only. Your father, you know, is of course.”
Still I was silent: after a pause of some length, he plumply Yet with an evidently affected unmeaningness, said, “Mr. Cambridge—as to Mr. Cambridge—”
I stopped him short at once; I dared not trust to what might follow, and eagerly called Out, “Mr. Cambridge, Sir, I cannot exclude! So much friendship and kindness I owe, and have long owed him, that he would go about howling at my ingratitude, could I seem so suddenly to forget it!”
My impetuosity in uttering this surprised, but silenced him; he said not a word more, nor did I.
MR. TURBULENT’s ANXIETY TO INTRODUCE MR. WELLBRED.
Windsor, Sunday, Jan. 28.—-I was too ill to go to church. I was now, indeed, rarely well enough for anything but absolute and unavoidable duties; and those were still painfully and forcibly performed.
I had only Miss Planta for my guest, and when she went to the princesses I retired for a quiet and solitary evening to my own room. But here, while reading, I was interrupted by a tat-tat at my door. I opened it and saw Mr. Turbulent.... He came forward, and began a gay and animated conversation, with a flow of spirits and good humour which I had never observed in him before.
His darling colonel[230] was the subject that he still harped upon; but it was only with a civil and amusing raillery, not, as before, with an overpowering vehemence to conquer. Probably, however, the change in myself might be as observable as in him,—since I now ceased to look upon him with that distance and coldness which hitherto he had uniformly found in me.
I must give you a little specimen of him in this new dress.
After some general talk,
“When, ma’am,” he said, “am I to have the honour of introducing Colonel Wellbred to you?”
“Indeed, I have not settled that entirely!”
“Reflect a little, then, ma’am, and tell me. I only wish to know when.”
“Indeed to tell you that is somewhat more than I am able to do; I must find it out myself, first.”
“Well, ma’am, make the inquiry as speedily as possible, I beg. What say you to now? shall I call him up?
“No, no,—pray let him alone.”
“But will you not, at least, tell me your reasons for this conduct?" “Why, frankly, then, if you will hear them and be quiet, I will confess them.”
I then told him, that I had so little time to myself, that to gain even a single evening was to gain a treasure; and that I had no chance but this. “Not,” said I, “that I wish to avoid him, but to break the custom of constantly meeting with the equerries.”
“But it is impossible to break the custom, ma’am; it has been so always: the tea-table has been the time of uniting the company, ever since the king came to Windsor.”
“Well, but everything now is upon a new construction. I am not positively bound to do everything Mrs. Haggerdorn did, and his having drank tea with her will not make him conclude he must also drink tea with me.”
“No, no, that is true, I allow. Nothing that belonged to her can bring conclusions round to you. But still, why begin with Colonel Wellbred? You did not treat Colonel Goldsworthy so?”
“I had not the power of beginning with him. I did what I could, I assure you.”
“Major Price, ma’am?—I never heard you avoided him.”
“No; but I knew him before I came, and he knew much of my family, and indeed I am truly sorry that I shall now see no more of him. But Colonel Wellbred and I are mutually strangers.”
“All people are so at first, every acquaintance must have a beginning.”
“But this, if you are quiet, we are most willing should have none.”
“Not he, ma’am—he is not so willing; he wishes to come. He asked me, to-day, if I had spoke about it.”
I disclaimed believing this; but he persisted in asserting it, adding “For he said if I had spoke he would come.”
“He is very condescending,” cried I, “but I am satisfied he would not think of it at all, if you did not put it in his head.”
“Upon my honour, You are mistaken; we talk just as much of it down there as up here.”
“You would much oblige me if you would not talk of it,—neither there nor here.”
“Let me end it, then, by bringing him at once!”
“No, no, leave us both alone: he has his resources and his engagements as much as I have; we both are best as we now are." “But what can he say, ma’am? Consider his confusion and disgrace! It is well known, in the world, the private life that the royal family live at Windsor, and who are the attendants that belong to them; and when Colonel Wellbred quits his waiting—three months’ waiting and is asked how he likes Miss Burney, he must answer he has never seen her! And what, ma’am, has Colonel Wellbred done to merit such a mortification?”
It was impossible not to laugh at such a statement of the case; and again he requested to bring him directly. “One quarter of an hour will content me; I only wish to introduce him—for the sake of his credit in the world; and when once you have met, you need meet no more; no consequences whatever need be drawn to the detriment of your solitude.”
I begged him to desist, and let us both rest.
“But have you, yourself, ma’am, no curiosity—no desire to see Colonel Wellbred?”
“None in the world.”
“If, then, hereafter you admit any other equerry—”
“No, no, I intend to carry the new construction throughout.”
“Or if you suffer anyone else to bring you Colonel Wellbred.”
“Depend upon it I have no such intention.”
“But if any other more eloquent man prevails—”
“Be assured there is no danger.”
“Will you, at least, promise I shall be present at the meet—?”
“There will be no meeting.”
“You are certainly, then, afraid of him?”
I denied this, and, hearing the king’s supper called, he took his leave; though not before I very seriously told him that, however amusing all this might be as pure badinage, I Should be very earnestly vexed if he took any steps in the matter without my consent.
COLONEL WELLBRED IS RECEIVED AT TEA.
Feb. 2.—-MISS Planta came to tea, and we went together to the eating-parlour, which we found quite empty. Mr. Turbulent’s studious table was all deserted, and his books laid waste; but in a very few minutes he entered again, with his arms spread wide, his face all glee, and his voice all triumph, calling out, “Mr. Smelt and Colonel Wellbred desire leave to wait upon miss Burney to tea!”
A little provoked at this determined victory over my will and my wish, I remained silent,—but Miss Planta broke forth into open upbraidings:
“Upon my word, Mr. Turbulent, this is really abominable it is all your own doing—and if I was Miss Burney I would not bear it!” and much more, till he fairly gave her to understand she had nothing to do with the matter.
Then, turning to me, “What am I to say, ma’am? am I to tell Colonel Wellbred you hesitate?” He protested he came upon the embassy fairly employed.
“Not fairly, I am sure, Mr. Turbulent The whole is a device and contrivance of your own! Colonel Wellbred would have been as quiet as myself, had you left him alone.”
“Don’t throw it all upon me, ma’am; ’tis Mr. Smelt. But what are they to think of this delay? are they to suppose it requires deliberation whether or not you can admit a gentleman to your tea-table?”
I begged him to tell me, at least, how it had passed, and in what manner he had brought his scheme about. But he would give me no satisfaction; he only said “You refuse to receive him, ma’am?—shall I go and tell him you refuse to receive him?”
“O No!”
This was enough—he waited no fuller consent, but ran off. Miss Planta began a good-natured repining for me. I determined to fetch some work before they arrived; and in coming for it to my own room, I saw Mr. Turbulent, not yet gone downstairs. I really believe, by the strong marks of laughter on his countenance, that he had stopped to compose himself before he could venture to appear in the equerryroom!
I looked at him reproachfully, and passed on; he shook his head at me in return, and hied downstairs. I had but just time to rejoin Miss Planta when he led the way to the two Other gentlemen: entering first, with the most earnest curiosity, to watch the scene. Mr. Smelt followed, introducing the colonel.
I could almost have laughed, so ridiculous had the behaviour of Mr. Turbulent, joined to his presence and watchfulness, rendered this meeting; and I saw in Colonel Wellbred the most evident marks of similar sensations: for he coloured violently on his entrance, and seemed in an embarrassment that, to any one who knew not the previous tricks of Mr. Turbulent, must have appeared really distressing. And, in truth, Mr. Smelt himself, little imagining what had preceded the interview, was so much struck with his manner and looks, that he conceived him to be afraid of poor little me, and observed, afterwards, with what “blushing diffidence” he had begun the acquaintance!
I, who saw the true cause through the effect, felt more provoked than ever with Mr. Turbulent, since I was now quite satisfied he had been as busy with the colonel about me, as with me about the colonel.
He is tall, his figure is very elegant, and his face very handsome: he is sensible, well-bred, modest, and intelligent. I had always been told he was very amiable and accomplished, and the whole of his appearance confirmed the report.
The discourse was almost all Mr. Smelt’s, the colonel was silent and reserved, and Mr. Turbulent had resolved to be a mere watchman. The king entered early and stayed late, and took away with him, on retiring, all the gentlemen.
Feb. 3.—-As the tea hour approached, to-day, Mr. Turbulent grew very restless. I saw what was passing in his mind, and therefore forbore ordering tea; but presently, and suddenly, as if from some instant impulse, he gravely came up to me, and said,
“Shall I go and call the colonel, ma’am?”
“No, sir!” was my Johnsonian reply.
“What, ma’am!—won’t you give him a little tea?”
“No, no, no!—I beg you will be at rest!”
He shrugged his shoulders, and walked away; and Mr. Smelt, smiling, said, “Will you give us any?”
“O yes, surely,” cried I, and was going away to ring for the man.
I believe I have already mentioned that I had no bell at all, except in my bedroom, and that only for my maid, whom I was obliged to summon first, like Smart’s monkey—
“Here, Betty!—Nan!—Go, call the maid, to call the man!”
For Mrs. Haggerdorn had done without, twenty-six years, by always keeping her servant in waiting at the door. I could never endure inflicting such a hardship, and therefore had always to run to my bedroom, and wait the progress of the maid’s arrival, and then of her search of the man, ere ever I could give him an order. A mighty tiresome and inconvenient ceremony. Mr Turbulent insisted upon saving me this trouble, and went ‘out himself to speak to John. But you will believe me a little amazed, when, in a very few minutes, he returned again, accompanied by his colonel! My surprise brought the colour both into my own cheeks and those of my guests. Mr. Smelt looked pleased; and Mr. Turbulent, though I saw he was half afraid of what he was doing, could by no means restrain a most exulting smile, which was constantly in play during the whole evening.
Mr. Smelt instantly opened a conversation, with an ease and good breeding which drew every one into sharing it. The colonel was far less reserved and silent, and I found him very pleasing, very unassuming, extremely attentive, and sensible and obliging. The moment, however, that we mutually joined in the discourse, Mr. Turbulent came to my side, and seating himself there, whispered that he begged my pardon for the step he had taken. I made him no answer, but talked on with the colonel and Mr. Smelt. He then whispered me again, “I am now certain of your forgiveness, since I see your approbation!” And when still I said nothing, he interrupted every speech to the colonel with another little whisper, saying that his end was obtained, and he was now quite happy, since he saw he had obliged me!
At length he proceeded so far, with so positive a determination to be answered, that he absolutely compelled me to say I forgave him, lest he should go on till the colonel heard him.
ECCENTRIC MR. BRYANT.
Feb. 9-This morning, soon after my breakfast, the princess royal came to fetch me to the queen. She talked of Mrs. Delany all the way, and in terms of affection that can never fail to raise her in the minds of all who hear her. The queen was alone; and told me she had been so much struck with the Duke of Suffolk’s letter to his son, in the Paston collection,[231] that she wished to hear my opinion of it. She then condescended to read it to me. It is indeed both instructive and interesting. She was so gracious, when she dismissed me, as to lend me the book, desiring me to have it sent back to her apartment when I went to dinner.
I had invited Mr. Bryant to dinner. He came an hour before, and I could not read “Paston,” but rejoiced the more in his living intelligence. We talked upon the “Jew’s Letters,” which he had lent me. Have I mentioned them? They are a mighty well written defence of the Mosaic law and mission, and as orthodox for Christians as for Jews, with regard to their main tenor, which is to refute the infidel doctrine of Voltaire up to the time of our Saviour.
Before our dinner we were joined by ‘Mr. Smelt; and the conversation was then very good. The same subject was continued, except where it was interrupted by Mr. Bryant’s speaking of his own works, which was very frequently, and with a droll sort of simplicity that had a mixture of nature and of humour extremely amusing. He told us, very frankly his manner of writing; he confessed that what he first committed to paper seldom could be printed without variation or correction, even to a single line: he copied everything over, he said, himself, and three transcribings were the fewest he could ever make do; but, generally, nothing went from him to the press under seven.
Mr. Turbulent and Miss Planta came to dinner, and it was very cheerful. Ere it was over John told me somebody wanted me. I desired they might be shewn to my room till the things were removed; but, as these were some time taking away, I called John to let me know who it was. “The princess royal, ma’am,” was his answer, with perfect ease.
Up I started, ashamed and eager, and flew to her royal highness instantly: and I found her calmly and quietly waiting, shut up in my room, without any candles, and almost wholly in the dark, except from the light of the fire! I made all possible apologies, and doubled and trebled them upon her Smilingly saying “I would not let them tell you who it was, nor hurry you, for I know ’tis so disagreeable to be called away in the middle of dinner.” And then, to reconcile me to the little accident, she took hold of both my hands.
She came to me from the queen, about the “Paston Letters,” which John had not carried to the right page.
Very soon after came the king, who entered into a gay disquisition with Mr. Bryant upon his school achievements to which he answered with a readiness and simplicity highly entertaining.
“You are an Etonian, Mr. Bryant,” said the king, “but pray, for what were you most famous at school?”
We all expected, from the celebrity of his scholarship, to hear him answer his Latin Exercises but no such thing.
“Cudgelling, Sir. I was most famous for that.”
While a general laugh followed this speech, he very gravely proceeded to particularize his feats though unless you could see the diminutive figure, the weak, thin, feeble, little frame, whence issued the proclamation of his prowess, you can but very Inadequately judge the comic effect of his big talk.
“Your majesty, sir, knows General Conway? I broke his head for him, sir.”
The shout which ensued did not at all interfere with the steadiness of his further detail.
“And there’s another man, Sir, a great stout fellow, Sir, as ever you saw—Dr. Gibbon, of the Temple: I broke his head too, sir.—I don’t know if he remembers it.”
The king, afterwards, inquired after his present family, meaning his dogs, which he is famed for breeding and preserving.
“Why, sir,” he answered, “I have now only twelve. Once, I recollect, when your majesty was so gracious as to ask me about them, I happened to have twenty-two; and so I told you, sir. Upon my word, Sir, it made me very uneasy afterwards when I came to reflect upon it: I was afraid your majesty might think I presumed to joke!”
The king then asked him for some account of the Marlborough family, with which he is very particularly connected and desired to know which among the young Lady Spencers was his favourite.
“Upon my word, sir, I like them all! Lady Elizabeth is a charming young lady—I believe, Sir, I am most in her favour; I don’t know why, Sir. But I happened to write a letter to the duke, sir, that she took a fancy to; I don’t know the reason, sir, but she begged it. I don’t know what was in the letter, sir-I could never find out; but she took a prodigious fancy to it, sir.”
The king laughed heartily, and supposed there might be some compliments to herself in it.
“Upon my word’ sir,” cried he, “I am afraid your majesty will think I was in love with her! but indeed, sir, I don’t know what was in the letter.”
The converse went on in the same style, and the king was so much entertained by Mr. Bryant, that he stayed almost the whole evening.
MR TURBULENT IN A NEW CHARACTER.
Friday, Feb. 16.—The instant I was left alone with Mr. Turbulent he demanded to know my “project for his happiness;” and he made his claim in a tone so determined, that I saw it would be fruitless to attempt evasion or delay.
“Your captivity, then, sir,” cried I-“for such I must call your regarding your attendance to be indispensable is at an end: the equerry-coach is now wholly in your power. I have spoken myself upon the subject to the queen, as you bid—at least, braved me to do; and I have now her consent to discharging you from all necessity of travelling in our coach."[232]
He looked extremely provoked, and asked if I really meant to inform him I did not choose his company? I laughed the question off, and used a world of civil argument to persuade him I had only done him a good office: but I was fain to make the whole debate as sportive as possible, as I saw him disposed to be seriously affronted.
A long debate ensued. I had been, he protested, excessively ill-natured to him. “What an impression,” cried he, “must this make upon the queen! After travelling, with apparent content, six years With that oyster Mrs. Haggerdorn—now—now that travelling is become really agreeable—in that coach—I am to be turned out of it! How must it disgrace me in her opinion!”
She was too partial, I said, to “that oyster,” to look upon the matter in such a degrading light nor would she think of it at all, but as an accidental matter. I then added, that the reason that he had hitherto been destined to the female coach was, that Mrs. Schwellenberg and Mrs. Haggerdorn were always afraid of travelling by themselves; but that as I had more courage, there was no need of such slavery.
“Slavery!”—repeated he, with an emphasis that almost startled me,—“Slavery is pleasure—is happiness—when directed by our wishes!”
And then, with a sudden motion that made me quite jump, he cast himself at my feet, on both his knees—
“Your slave,” he cried, “I am content to be! your slave I am ready to live and die!”
I begged him to rise, and be a little less rhapsodic. “I have emancipated you,” I cried; “do not, therefore, throw away the freedom you have been six years sighing to obtain. You are now your own agent—a volunteer—”
“If I am,” cried he, impetuously, “I dedicate myself to you!—A volunteer, ma’am, remember that! I dedicate myself to you, therefore, of my own accord, for every journey! You shall not get rid of me these twenty years.”
I tried to get myself away-but he would not let me move and he began, with still increasing violence of manner, a most fervent protestation that he would not be set aside, and that he devoted himself to me entirely. And, to say the simple truth, ridiculous as all this was, I really began to grow a little frightened by his vehemence and his posture—till, at last, in the midst of an almost furious vow, in which he dedicated himself to me for ever, he relieved me, by suddenly calling upon Jupiter, Juno, Mars, and Hercules, and every god, and every goddess, to witness his oath. And then, content with his sublimity, he arose.
Was it not a curious scene? and have I not a curious fellow traveller for my little journeys? Monday, Feb. 19.—This morning I Proposed to my fellow travellers that we should begin our journey on foot. The wonderment with which they heard a proposal so new was diverting: but they all agreed to it; and though they declared that my predecessor, Mrs. Haggerdorn, would have thought the person fit for Bedlam who should have suggested such plan, no one could find any real objection, and off we set, ordering the coach to proceed slowly after us.
The weather was delightful, and the enterprise served to shorten and enliven the expedition, and pleased them all, Mr. Turbulent began, almost immediately, an attack about his colonel: upon quite a new ground, yet as restless and earnest as upon the old one. He now reproached my attention to him, protesting I talked to him continually, and spun out into an hour’s discourse what might have been said in three minutes.
“And was it my spinning?” I could not forbear saying.
“Yes, ma’am: for you might have dropped it.”
“How?—by not answering when spoken to?”
“By not talking to him, ma’am, more than to any one else.”
“And pray, Mr. Turbulent, solve me, then, this difficulty; what choice has a poor female with whom she may converse? Must she not, in company as in dancing, take up with those who choose to take up with her?”
He was staggered by this question, and while he wavered how to answer it, I pursued my little advantage—
“No man, Mr. Turbulent, has any cause to be flattered that a woman talks with him, while it is only in reply; for though he may come, go, address or neglect, and do as he will,—she, let her think and wish what she may, must only follow as he leads.”
He protested, with great warmth, he never heard any thing so proudly said in Ins life. But I would not retract.
“And now, ma’am,” he continued, “how wondrous intimate you are grown! After such averseness to a meeting—such struggles to avoid him; what am I to think of the sincerity of that pretended reluctance?”
“You must think the truth,” said I, “that it was not the colonel, but the equerry, I wished to avoid; that it was not the individual, but the official necessity of receiving company, that I wished to escape.”
BANTERING A PRINCESS.
March 1.—-With all the various humours in which I had already seen Mr. Turbulent, he gave me this evening a surprise, by his behaviour to one of the princesses, nearly the same that I had experienced from him myself. The Princess Augusta came, during coffee, for a knotting shuttle of the queen’s. While she was speaking to me, he stood behind and exclaimed, a demi voix, as if to himself, “Comme elle est jolie ce soir, son Altesse Royale!” And then, seeing her blush extremely, he clasped his hands, in high pretended confusion, and hiding his head, called Out, “Que ferai-je? The princess has heard me!”
“Pray, Mr. Turbulent,” cried she, hastily, “what play are you to read to-night?”
“You shall choose, ma’am; either ‘La Coquette corrigée,’ or—” [he named another I have forgotten.]
“O no!” cried she, “that last is shocking! don’t let me hear that!”
“I understand you, ma’am. You fix, then, upon ‘La Coquette?’ ‘La Coquette’ is your royal highness’s taste?”
“No, indeed, I am sure I did not say that.”
“Yes, ma’am, by implication. And certainly, therefore, I will read it, to please your royal highness!”
“No, pray don’t; for I like none of them.”
“None of them, ma’am?”
“No, none;—no French plays at all!” And away she was running, with a droll air, that acknowledged she had said something to provoke him.
“This is a declaration, ma’am, I must beg you to explain!” cried he, gliding adroitly between the princess and the door, and shutting it With his back.
“No, no, I can’t explain it;—so pray, Mr. Turbulent, do open the door.”
“Not for the world, ma’am, with such a stain uncleared upon your royal highness’s taste and feeling!”
She told him she positively could not stay, and begged him to let her pass instantly. But he would hear her no more than he has heard me, protesting he was too much shocked for her, to suffer her to depart without clearing her own credit!
He conquered at last, and thus forced to speak, she turned round to us and said, “Well—if I must, then—I will appeal to these ladies, who understand such things far better than I do, and ask them if it is not true about these French plays, that they are all so like to one another, that to hear them in this manner every night is enough to tire one?”
“Pray, then, madam,” cried he, “if French plays have the misfortune to displease you, what national plays have the honour Of your preference?”
I saw he meant something that she understood better than me, for she blushed again, and called out “Pray open the door at once! I can stay no longer; do let me go, Mr. Turbulent!” “Not till you have answered that question, ma’am’ what country has plays to your royal highness’s taste?”
“Miss Burney,” cried she impatiently, yet laughing, “pray do you take him away!—Pull him!”
He bowed to me very invitingly for the office but I frankly answered her, “Indeed, ma’am, I dare not undertake him! I cannot manage him at all.”
“The country! the country! Princess Augusta! name the happy country!” was all she could gain.
“Order him away, Miss Burney,” cried she. “It is your room: order him away from the door.”
“Name it, ma’am, name it!” exclaimed he; “name but the chosen nation!”
And then, fixing her with the most provoking eyes, “Est-ce la Danemarc?” he cried.
She coloured violently, and quite angry with him, called out, “Mr. Turbulent, how can you be such a fool!” And now I found.. . the prince royal of Denmark was in his meaning, and in her understanding!
He bowed to the ground, in gratitude for the term “fool,” but added with pretended Submission to her will, “Very well, ma’am, s’il ne faut lire que les comédies Danoises.”
“Do let me go!” cried she, seriously; and then he made way, with a profound bow as she passed, saying, “Very well, ma’am, ‘La Coquette,’ then? your royal highness chooses ‘La Coquette corrigée?’”
“Corrigée? That never was done!” cried she, with all her sweet good-humour, the moment she got out—and off she ran, like lightning, to the queen’s apartments.
What say you to Mr. Turbulent now?
For my part, I was greatly surprised. I had not imagined any man, but the king or Prince of Wales, had ever ventured at a badinage of this sort with any of the princesses; nor do I suppose any other man ever did. Mr. Turbulent is so great a favourite with all the royal family that he safely ventures upon whatever he pleases, and doubtless they find, in his courage and his rhodomontading, a novelty extremely amusing to them.
MR. TURBULENT MEETS WITH A REBUFF.
March—I must now, rather reluctantly I own, come to recite a quarrel, a very serious quarrel, in which I have been involved with my most extraordinary fellow-traveller. One evening at Windsor Miss Planta left the room, while I was winding some silk. I was content to stay and finish the skein, though my remaining companion was in a humour too flighty to induce me to continue with him a moment longer. Indeed I had avoided pretty successfully all tête-à-têetes with him since the time when his eccentric genius led to such eccentric conduct in our long conference in the last month.
This time, however, when I had done my work, he protested I should stay and chat with him. I pleaded business—letters—hurry—all in vain: he would listen to nothing, and when I tried to move was so tumultuous in his opposition, that I was obliged to re-seat myself to appease him.
A flow of compliments followed, every one of which I liked less and less; but his spirits seemed uncontrollable, and, I suppose, ran away with all that ought to check them. I laughed and rallied as long as I possibly could, and tried to keep him in order, by not seeming to suppose he wanted aid for that purpose: yet still, every time I tried to rise, he stopped me, and uttered at last Such expressions of homage—so like what Shakspeare says of the school-boy, who makes “a sonnet on his mistress’ eyebrow,” which is always his favourite theme—that I told him his real compliment was all to my temper, in imagining it could brook such mockery.
This brought him once more on his knees, with such a volley of asseverations of his sincerity, uttered with such fervour and eloquence, that I really felt uneasy, and used every possible means to get away from him, rallying him however all the time, and disguising the consciousness I felt of my inability to quit him. More and more vehement, however, he grew, till I could be no longer passive, but forcibly rising, protested I would not stay another minute. But you may easily imagine my astonishment and provocation, when, hastily rising himself, he violently seized hold of me, and compelled me to return to my chair, with a force and a freedom that gave me as much surprise as offence.
All now became serious. Raillery, good-humour, and even pretended ease and unconcern, were at an end. The positive displeasure I felt I made positively known; and the voice manner, and looks with which I insisted upon an immediate’ release were so changed from what he had ever heard or observed in me before, that I saw him quite thunderstruck with the alteration; and all his own violence subsiding, he begged my pardon with the mildest humility.
He had made me too angry to grant it, and I only desired him to let me instantly go to my room. He ceased all personal opposition, but going to the door, planted himself before it, and said, “Not in wrath! I cannot let you go away in wrath!”
“You must, sir,” cried I, “for I am in wrath!” He began a thousand apologies, and as many promises of the most submissive behaviour in future; but I stopped them all, with a peremptory declaration that every minute he detained me made me but the more seriously angry. His vehemence now was all changed into strong alarm, and he opened the door, profoundly bowing, but not speaking, as I passed him.
I am sure I need not dwell upon the uncomfortable sensations I felt, in a check so rude and violent to the gaiety and entertainment of an acquaintance which had promised me my best amusement during our winter campaigns. I was now to begin upon quite a new system, and instead of encouraging, as hitherto I had done, everything that could lead to vivacity and spirit, I was fain to determine upon the most distant and even forbidding demeanour with the only life of our parties, that he might not again forget himself.
This disagreeable conduct I put into immediate practice. I stayed in my own room till I heard every one assembled in the next: I was then obliged to prepare for joining them, but before I opened the door a gentle rap at it made me call out “Who’s there?” and Mr. Turbulent looked in.
I hastily said I was coming instantly, but he advanced softly into the room, entreating forgiveness at every step. I made no other answer than desiring he would go, and saying I should follow. He went back to the door, and, dropping on one knee, said, “Miss Burney! surely you cannot be seriously angry?-’tis so impossible you should think I meant to offend you!”
I said nothing, and did not look near him, but opened the door, from which he retreated to make way for me, rising a little mortified, and exclaiming, “Can you then have such real ill-nature? How little I suspected it in you!”
“‘Tis you,” cried I, as I passed on, “that are ill-natured!”
I meant for forcing me into anger; but I left him to make the meaning out, and walked into the next room. He did not immediately follow, and he then appeared so much disconcerted that I saw Miss Planta incessantly eyeing him, to find out what was the matter. I assumed an unconcern I did not feel for I was really both provoked and sorry, foreseeing what a breach this folly must make in the comfort of my Windsor expeditions.
He sat down a little aloof, and entered into no conversation all the evening; but just as tea was over, the hunt of the next being mentioned he suddenly, asked Miss Planta to request leave for him of the queen to ride out with the party.
“I shall not see the queen,” cried she; “you had much better ask Miss Burney.”
This was very awkward. I was in no humour to act for him at this time, nor could he muster courage to desire it; but upon Miss Planta’s looking at each of us with some surprise, and repeating her amendment to his proposal, he faintly said, “Would Miss Burney be so good as to take that trouble?”
An opportunity offering favourably, I spoke at night to the queen, and she gave leave for his attending the chase. I intended to send this permission to Miss Planta, but I had scarce returned to my own room from her majesty, before a rap at my door was followed by his appearance. He stood quite aloof, looking grave and contrite. I Immediately called out “I have spoken, sir, to the queen, and you have her leave to go.” He bowed very profoundly, and thanked me, and was retreating, but came back again, and advancing, assumed an air of less humility, and exclaimed, “Allons donc, Mademoiselle, j’espère que vous n'êtes plus si méchante qu’hier au soir!”
I said nothing; he came nearer, and, bowing upon his own hand, held it out for mine, with a look of most respectful Supplication. I had no intention of cutting the matter so short, yet from shame to sustain resentment, I was compelled to hold out a finger: he took it with a look of great gratitude, and very reverently touching the tip of my glove with his lip, instantly let it go, and very solemnly said, “Soyez sûr que je n’ai jamais eu la moindre idée de vous offenser.” and then he thanked me again for his licence, and went his way.
A SURPRISE AT THE PLAY.
I had the pleasure of two or three visits from Mr. Bryant, whose loyal regard for the king and queen makes him eagerly accept every invitation, from the hope of seeing them in my room; and one of the days they both came in to speak to him, and were accompanied by the two eldest princesses, who stood chatting with me by the door the whole time, and saying comical things upon royal personages in tragedies, particularly Princess Augusta, who has a great deal of sport in her disposition. She very gravely asserted she thought some of those princes on the stage looked really quite as well as some she knew off it.
Once about this time I went to a play myself, which surely I may live long enough and never forget. It was “Seduction,” a very clever piece, but containing a dreadful picture of vice and dissipation in high life, written by Mr. Miles Andrews, with an epilogue—O, such an epilogue! I was listening to it with uncommon attention, from a compliment paid in it to Mrs. Montagu, among other female writers; but imagine what became of my attention when I suddenly was struck with these lines, or something like them:—
“Let sweet Cecilia gain your just applause,
Whose every passion yields to Reason’s laws.”
To hear, wholly unprepared and unsuspicious, such lines in a theatre—seated in a royal box—and with the whole royal family and their suite immediately opposite me—was it not a singular circumstance? To describe my embarrassment would be impossible. My whole head was leaning forward, with my opera glass in my hand, examining Miss Farren, who spoke the epilogue. Instantly I shrank back, so astonished and so ashamed of my public situation, that I was almost ready to take to my heels and run, for it seemed as if I were there purposely in that conspicuous place—
“To list attentive to my own applause.”
The king immediately raised his opera-glass to look at me, laughing heartily—the queen’s presently took the same direction—all the princesses looked up, and all the attendants, and all the maids of honour!
I protest I was never more at a loss what to do with myself: nobody was in the front row with me but Miss Goldsworthy, who instantly seeing how I was disconcerted, prudently and good-naturedly forbore taking any notice of me. I sat as far back as I could, and kept my fan against the exposed profile for the rest of the night, never once leaning forward, nor using my glass.
None of the royal family spoke to me on this matter till a few days after; but I heard from Mrs. Delany they had all declared themselves sorry for the confusion it had caused me. And some time after the queen could not forbear saying, “I hope, Miss Burney, YOU minded the epilogue the other night?”
And the king, very comically, said, “I took a peep at you!—I could not help that. I wanted to see how you looked when your father first discovered your writing—and now I think I know!”
THE KING’S BIRTHDAY.
St. James’s Palace, June 4-Take a little of the humours of this day, with respect to myself, as they have arisen. I quitted my downy pillow at half-past six o’clock, for bad habits in sickness have lost me half an hour of every morning; and then, according to an etiquette I discovered but on Friday night, I was quite new dressed: for I find that, on the king’s birthday, and on the queen’s, both real and nominal, two new attires, one half, the other full dressed, are expected from all attendants that come into the royal presence.
This first labour was happily achieved in such good time, that I was just seated to my breakfast—a delicate bit of roll half-eaten, and a promising dish of tea well stirred—when I received my summons to attend the queen.
She was only with her wardrobe-woman, and accepted most graciously a little murmuring congratulation upon the day, which I ventured to whisper while she looked another way. Fortunately for me, she is always quick in conceiving what is meant, and never wastes time in demanding what is said. She told me she had bespoke Miss Planta to attend at the grand toilette at St. James’s, as she saw my strength still diminished by my late illness. Indeed it still is, though in all other respects I am perfectly well.
The queen wore a very beautiful dress, of a new manufacture, of worked muslin, thin, fine, and clear, as the chambery gauze. I attended her from the blue closet, in which she dresses, through the rooms that lead to the breakfast apartment. In One of these while she stopped for her hair-dresser to finish her head-dress, the king joined her. She spoke to him in German, and he kissed her hand.
The three elder princesses came in soon after: they all went up, with congratulatory smiles and curtsies, to their royal father, who kissed them very affectionately; they then, as usual every Morning, kissed the queen’s hand. The door was thrown open to the breakfast-room, which is a noble apartment, fitted up with some of Vandyke’s best works; and the instant the king, who led the way, entered, I was surprised by a sudden sound of music, and found that a band of musicians were stationed there to welcome him. The princesses followed, but Princess Elizabeth turned round to me to say she could hardly bear the sound: it was the first morning of her coming down to breakfast for many months, as she had had that repast in her own room ever since her dangerous illness. It overcame her, she said, more than the dressing, more than the early rising, more than the whole of the hurry and fatigue of all the rest of a public birthday. She loves the king most tenderly; and there is a something in receiving any person who is loved, by sudden music, that I can easily conceive to be very trying to the nerves.
Princess Augusta came back to cheer and counsel her; she begged her to look out at the window, to divert her thoughts, and said she would place her where the sound might be less affecting to her.
A lively “How d’ye do, Miss Burney? I hope you are quite well now?” from the sweet Princess Mary, who was entering the ante-room, made me turn from her two charming sisters; she passed on to the breakfast, soon followed by Princess Sophia, and then a train of their governesses, Miss Goldsworthy, Mademoiselle Montmoulin, and Miss Gomme, all in full dress, with fans. We reciprocated little civilities, and I had then the pleasure to see little Princess Amelia, with Mrs. Cheveley, who brought up the rear. Never, in tale or fable, were there six sister princesses more lovely.
As I had been extremely distressed upon the queen’s birthday, in January, where to go or how to act, and could obtain no information from my coadjutrix, I now resolved to ask for directions from the queen herself; and she readily gave them, in a manner to make this day far more comfortable to me than the last. She bade me dress as fast as I could, and go to St. James’, by eleven o’clock; but first come into the room to her. Then followed my grand toilette. The hair-dresser was waiting for me, and he went to work first, and I second, with all our might and main. When my adorning tasks were accomplished, I went to the blue closet. No one was there, I then hesitated whether to go back or seek the queen. I have a dislike insuperable to entering a royal presence, except by an immediate Summons: however, the directions I had had prevailed, and I went into the adjoining apartment. There stood Madame de la Fite! she was talking in a low voice with M. de Luc. They told me the queen was in the next room, and on I went.
She was seated at a glass, and the hair-dresser was putting on her jewels, while a clergyman in his canonicals was standing near and talking to her. I imagined him some bishop unknown to me, and stopped; the queen looked round, and called out “it’s Miss Burney!—come in, Miss Burney.” in I came, curtseying respectfully to a bow from the canonicals, but I found not out till he answered something said by the queen, that it was no other than Mr. Turbulent.
Madame de la Fite then presented herself at the door (which was open for air) of the ante-room. The queen bowed to her, and said she would see her presently: she retired, and her majesty, in a significant low voice, said to me, “Do go to her, and keep her there a little!” I obeyed, and being now in no fright nor hurry, entered into conversation with her sociably and comfortably.
I then went to St. James’s. The queen was most brilliant in attire; and when she was arrayed, Mr. West[233] was allowed to enter the dressing-room, in order to give his opinion of the disposition-of her jewels, which indeed were arranged with great taste and effect.
The three princesses, Princess Royal, Augusta, and Elizabeth, were all very splendidly decorated, and looked beautiful. They are indeed uncommonly handsome, each in their different Way-the princess royal for figure, the Princess Augusta for countenance, and the Princess Elizabeth for face.
THE EQUERRIES: COLONEL MANNERS.
Friday, June 8-This day we came to Windsor for the Summer, during which we only go to town for a Drawing-room once a fortnight, and to Kew in the way. Mrs. Schwellenberg remained in town, not well enough to move.
The house now was quite full, the king having ordered a party to it for the Whitsun holidays. This party was Colonel Manners, the equerry in waiting; Colonel Ramsden, a good-humoured and well-bred old officer of the king’s household; Colonels Wellbred and Goldsworthy, and General Budé.
Colonel Ramsden is gentle and pleasing, but very silent; General Budé is always cheerful, but rises not above a second; Colonel Hotham has a shyness that looks haughty, and therefore distances; Colonel Goldsworthy reserves his sport and humour for particular days and particular favourites; and Colonel Wellbred draws back into himself unless the conversation promises either instruction or quiet pleasure; nor would any one of these, during the whole time, speak at all, but to a next neighbour, nor even then, except when that neighbour suited his fancy.
You must not, however, imagine we had no public speakers; M. del Campo harangued aloud to whoever was willing to listen, and Colonel Manners did the same, without even waiting for that proviso. Colonel Manners, however, I must introduce to you by a few specimens: he is so often, in common with all the equerries, to appear on the scene, that I wish you to make a particular acquaintance with him.
One evening, when we were all, as usual, assembled, he began a discourse upon the conclusion of his waiting, which finishes with the end of June:—“Now I don’t think,” cried he, “that it’s well managed: here we’re all in waiting for three months at a time, and then for nine months there’s nothing!”
“Cry your mercy!” cried Colonel Goldsworthy, “if three months—three whole months—are not enough for you, pray take a few more from mine to make up your market!”
“No, no, I don’t mean that;—but why can’t we have our waitings month by month?—would not that be better?”
“I think not!—we should then have no time unbroken.”
“Well, but would not that be better than what it is now? Why, we’re here so long, that when one goes away nobody knows one!—one has quite to make a new acquaintance! Why, when I first come out of waiting, I never know where to find anybody!”
The Ascot races were held at this time; the royal family were to be at them one or two of the days. Colonel Manners earnestly pressed Miss Port to be there. Colonel Goldsworthy said it was quite immaterial to him who was there, for when he was attending royalty he never presumed to think of any private comfort.
“Well, I don’t see that!” cried Colonel Manners,—“for if I was you, and not in my turn for waiting, I should go about just as I liked;—but now, as for me, as it happens to be my own turn, Why I think it right to be civil to the king.”
We all looked round;—but Colonel Goldsworthy broke forth aloud— “Civil, quotha?” cried he; “Ha! ha! civil, forsooth!—You’re mighty condescending!—the first equerry I ever heard talk of his civility to the king!—‘Duty,’ and ‘respect,’ and ‘humble reverence,’—those are words we are used to,—but here come you with Your civility!——Commend me to such affability!”
You see he is not spared; but Colonel Goldsworthy is the wag professed of their community, and privileged to say what he pleases. The other, with the most perfect good-humour, accepted the joke, without dreaming of taking offence at the sarcasm.
Another evening the king sent for Colonel Ramsden to play at backgammon.
“Happy, happy man!” exclaimed Colonel Goldsworthy, exultingly; but scarce had he uttered the words ere he was summoned to follow himself. “What! already!” cried he,—“without even my tea! Why this is worse and worse!—no peace in Israel!—only one half hour allowed for comfort, and now that’s swallowed! Well, I must go;—make my complaints aside, and my bows and smiles in full face!”
Off he went, but presently, in a great rage, came back, and, while he drank a hot dish of tea which I instantly presented him, kept railing at his stars for ever bringing him under a royal roof. “If it had not been for a puppy,” cried he, “I had never got off even to scald my throat in this manner But they’ve just got a dear little new ugly dog: so one puppy gave Way to t’other, and I just left them to kiss and hug it, while I stole off to drink this tea! But this is too much!—no peace for a moment!—no peace in Israel!”
When this was passed, Colonel Wellbred renewed some of the conversation of the preceding day with me; and, just as he named Dr. Herschel Colonel Manners broke forth with his dissenting opinions. “I don’t give up to Dr. Herschel at all,” cried he; “he is all system; and so they are all: and if they can but make out their systems, they don’t care a pin for anything else. As to Herschel, I liked him well enough till he came to his volcanoes in the moon, and then I gave him up, I saw he was just like the rest. How should he know anything Of the matter? There’s no such thing as pretending to measure, at such a distance as that?" Colonel Wellbred, to whom I looked for an answer, instead of making any, waited in quiet silence till he had exhausted all he had to say upon the subject, and then, turning to me, made some inquiry about the Terrace, and went on to other general matters. But, some time after, when all were engaged, and this topic seemed quite passed, he calmly began, in general terms, to lament that the wisest and best of people were always so little honoured or understood in their own time, and added that he had no doubt but Sir Isaac Newton had been as much scoffed and laughed at formerly as Herschel was now; but concluded, in return, Herschel, hereafter, would be as highly reverenced as Sir Isaac was at present....
We had then some discourse upon dress and fashions. Virtuosos being next named, Colonel Manners inveighed against them quite violently, protesting they all wanted common honour and honesty; and to complete the happy subject, he instanced, in particular, Sir William Hamilton, who, he declared, had absolutely robbed both the king and state of Naples!
After this, somebody related that, upon the heat in the air being mentioned to Dr. Heberden, he had answered that he supposed it proceeded from the last eruption in the volcano in the moon: “Ay,” cried Colonel Manners, “I suppose he knows as much of the matter as the rest of them: if you put a candle at the end of a telescope, and let him look at it, he’ll say, what an eruption there is in the moon! I mean if Dr. Herschel would do it to him; I don’t say he would think so from such a person as me.”
“But Mr. Bryant himself has seen this volcano from the telescope.”
“Why, I don’t mind Mr. Bryant any more than Dr. Heberden: he’s just as credulous as t’other.”
I wanted to ask by what criterion he settled these points in so superior a manner:—but I thought it best to imitate the silence of Colonel Wellbred, who constantly called a new subject, upon every pause, to avoid all argument and discussion while the good-humoured Colonel Manners was just as ready to start forward in the new subject, as he had been in that which had been set aside.
One other evening I invited Madame de la Fite: but it did not prove the same thing; they have all a really most undue dislike of her, and shirk her conversation and fly to one another, to discourse on hunting and horses. THE DUCHESS DE POLIGNAC AT WINDSOR.
The following Sunday, June 17, I was tempted to go on the Terrace, in order to see the celebrated Madame de Polignac,[234] and her daughter, Madame de Guiche. They were to be presented, with the Duke de Polignac, to their majesties, upon the Terrace. Their rank entitled them to this distinction; and the Duchess of Ancaster, to whom they had been extremely courteous abroad, came to Windsor to introduce them. They were accompanied to the Terrace by Mrs. Harcourt and the general ‘with whom they were also well acquainted.
They went to the place of rendezvous at six o’clock; the royal party followed about seven, and was very brilliant upon the occasion. The king and queen led the way, and the Prince of Wales, who came purposely to honour the interview, appeared at it also, in the king’s Windsor uniform. Lady Weymouth was in waiting upon the queen. The Duchess of Ancaster, Lady Charlotte Bertie, and Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, with some other ladies, I think, attended: but the two eldest princesses, to the very great detriment of the scenery, were ill, and remained at home. Princess Elizabeth and Mary were alone in the queen’s suite.
I went with Miss Port and Mrs. and Miss Heberden. The crowd was so great, it was difficult to move. Their majesties and their train occupied a large space, and their attendants had no easy task in keeping them from being incommoded by the pressing of the people. They stopped to converse with these noble travellers for more than an hour. Madame la Duchesse de Polignac is a very well-looking woman, and Madame de Guiche is very pretty. There were other ladies and gentlemen in their party. But I was much amused by their dress, which they meant should be entirely a l’Angloise—for which purpose they had put on plain undress gowns, with close ordinary black silk bonnets! I am sure they must have been quite confused when they saw the queen and princesses, with their ladies, who were all dressed with uncommon care, and very splendidly.
But I was glad, at least, they should all witness, and report, the reconciliation of the king and the Prince of Wales, who frequently spoke together, and were both in good spirits.
COLONEL MANNERS’ MUSICAL ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
Miss Port and myself had, afterwards, an extremely risible evening with Colonels Goldsworthy, Wellbred, and Manners the rest were summoned away to the king, or retired to their own apartments. Colonel Wellbred began the sport, undesignedly, by telling me something new relative to Dr. Herschel’s volcanoes. This was enough for Colonel Manners, who declared aloud his utter contempt for such pretended discoveries. He was deaf to all that could be said in answer, and protested he wondered how any man of common sense could ever listen to such a pack of stuff.
Mr. de Luc’s opinion upon the subject being then mentioned—he exclaimed, very disdainfully, “O, as to Mr. de Luc, he’s another man for a system himself, and I’d no more trust him than anybody: if you was only to make a little bonfire, and put it upon a hill a little way off, you might make him take it for a volcano directly!—And Herschel’s not a bit better. Those sort of philosophers are the easiest taken in in the world.” Our next topic was still more ludicrous. Colonel Manners asked me if I had not heard something, very harmonious at church in the morning? I answered I was too far off, if he meant from himself.
“Yes,” said he; “I was singing with Colonel Wellbred; and he said he was my second.—How did I do that song?”
“Song?—Mercy!” exclaimed Colonel Goldsworthy, “a song at church!—why it was the 104th Psalm!” “But how did I do it, Wellbred; for I never tried at it before?”
“Why—pretty well,” answered Colonel Wellbred, very composedly; “Only now and then you run me a little into ‘God save the king.’”
This dryness discomposed every muscle but of Colonel Manners, who replied, with great simplicity, “Why, that’s because that’s the tune I know best!”
“At least,” cried I, “’twas a happy mistake to make so near their majesties.”
“But, pray, now, Colonel Wellbred, tell me sincerely—could you really make out what I was singing?”
“O yes,” answered Colonel Wellbred; “with the words.”
“Well, but pray, now, what do you call my voice?”
“Why—a—a—a counter-tenor.”
“Well, and is that a good voice?”
There was no resisting,-even the quiet Colonel Wellbred could not resist laughing out here. But Colonel Manners, quite at his ease, continued his self-discussion.
“I do think, now, if I was to have a person to play over a thing to me again and again, and then let me sing it, and stop me every time I was wrong, I do think I should be able to sing ‘God save the king’ as well as some ladies do, that have always people to show them.”
“You have a good chance then here,” cried I, “of singing some pieces of Handel, for I am sure you hear them again and again!”
“Yes, but that is not the thing for though I hear them do it’ so often over, they don’t stop for me to sing it after them, and then to set me right. Now I’ll try if you’ll know what this is.”
He then began humming aloud, “My soul praise,” etc., so very horribly, that I really found all decorum at an end, and laughed, with Miss Port, a qui mieux mieux. Too much engaged to mind this, he very innocently, when he had done, applied to us all round for our opinions.
Miss Port begged him to sing another, and asked for that he had spouted the other day, “Care, thou bane of love and joy.”
He instantly complied; and went on, in such shocking, discordant and unmeaning sounds, that nothing in a farce could be more risible: in defiance however of all interruptions, he Continued till he had finished one stanza; when Colonel Goldsworthy loudly called out,—“There,—there’s enough!—have mercy!” “Well, then, now I’ll try something else.”
“O, no!” cried Colonel Goldsworthy, hastily, “thank you, thank you for this,-but I won’t trouble you for more—I’ll not bear another word.”
Colonel Wellbred then, with an affected seriousness, begged to know, since he took to singing, what he should do for a shake, which was absolutely indispensable.
“A shake?” he repeated, “what do you mean?”
“Why—a shake with the voice, such as singers make.”
“Why, how must I do it?”
“O, really, I cannot tell you.”
“Why, then, I’ll try myself—is it so?”
And he began such a harsh hoarse noise, that Colonel Goldsworthy exclaimed, between every other sound,—“No, no,—no more!” While Colonel Wellbred professed teaching him, and gave such ridiculous lessons and directions,-now to stop short, now to swell,-now to sink the voice, etc., etc., that, between the master and the scholar, we were almost demolished.
MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’S “LUMP OF LEATHER.”
Tuesday, June 19.—We were scarcely all arranged at tea when Colonel Manners eagerly said, “Pray, Mrs. Schwellenberg, have you lost anything?”
“Me?—no, not I
“No?—what, nothing?”
“Not I!”
“Well, then, that’s very odd! for I found something that had your name writ upon it.”
“My name? and where did you find that?”
“Why—it was something I found in my bed.”
“In your bed?—O, very well! that is reelly comeecal?”
“And pray what was it?” cried Miss Port.
“Why—a great large, clumsy lump of leather.”
“Of leadder, sir?—of leadder? What was that for me?”
“Why, ma’am, it was so big and so heavy, it was as much as I could do to lift it!”
“Well, that was nothing from me! when it was so heavy, you might let it alone!”
“But, ma’am, Colonel Wellbred said it was somewhat of yours." “Of mine?—O, ver well! Colonel Wellbred might not say such thing! I know nothing, Sir, from your leadder, nor from your bed, sir,—not I!”
“Well, ma’am, then your maid does. Colonel Wellbred says he supposes it was she.”
“Upon my vord! Colonel Wellbred might not say such things from my maid! I won’t not have it so!”
“O yes, ma’am; Colonel Wellbred says she often does SO. He says she’s a very gay lady.”
She was quite too much amazed to speak: one of her maids, Mrs. Arline, is a poor humble thing, that would not venture to jest, I believe, with the kitchen maid, and the other has never before been at Windsor.
“But what was it?” cried Miss Port.
“Why, I tell you—a great, large lump of leather, with ‘Madame Schwellenberg’ wrote upon it. However, I’ve ordered it to be sold.”
“To be sold? How will you have it sold, Sir? You might tell me that, when you please.”
“Why, by auction, ma’am.”
“By auction, Sir? What, when it had my name upon it? Upon my vord!—how come you to do dat, sir? Will you tell me, once?”
“Why, I did it for the benefit of my man, ma’am, that he might have the money.”
“But for what is your man to have it, when it is mine?”
“Because, ma’am, it frightened him so.”
“Over well! Do you rob, sir? Do you take what is not your own, but others’, sir, because your man is frightened?”
“O yes, ma’am! We military men take all we can get!”
“What! in the king’s house, Sir!”
“Why then, ma’am, what business had it in my bed? My room’s my castle: nobody has a right there. My bed must be my treasury; and here they put me a thing into it big enough to be a bed itself.”——
“O! vell! (much alarmed) it might be my bed-case, then!” (Whenever Mrs. Schwellenberg travels, she carries her bed in a large black leather case, behind her servants’ carriage.) “Very likely, ma’am.”
“Then, sir,” very angrily, “how come you by it?”
“Why, I’ll tell you, ma’am. I was just going to bed; so MY servant took one candle, and I had the other. I had just had my hair done, and my curls were just rolled up, and he was going away; but I turned about, by accident, and I saw a great lump in my bed; so I thought it was my clothes. ‘What do you put them there for?’ says I. ‘Sir,’ says he, ‘it looks as if there was a drunken man in the bed.’ ‘A drunken man?’ says I; ‘Take the poker, then, and knock him on the head!’”
“Knock him on the head?” interrupted Mrs. Schwellenberg, “What! when it might be some innocent person? Fie! Colonel Manners. I thought you had been too good-natured for such thing—to poker the people in the king’s house!”
“Then what business have they to get into my bed, ma’am? So then my man looked nearer, and he said, ‘Sir, why, here’s your night-cap and here’s the pillow!—and here’s a great, large lump of leather!’ ‘Shovel it all out!’ says I. ‘Sir,’ says he, ‘It’s Madame Schwellenberg’s! here’s her name on it.’ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘sell it, to-morrow, to the saddler.’”
“What! when you knew it was mine, sir? Upon my vord, you been ver good!” (bowing very low). “Well, ma’am, it’s all Colonel Wellbred, I dare say; so, suppose you and I were to take the law of him?”
“Not I, sir!” (Scornfully).
“Well, but let’s write him a letter, then, and frighten him: let’s tell him it’s sold, and he must make it good. You and I’ll do it together.”
“No, sir; you might do it yourself. I am not so familiar to write to gentlemens.”
“Why then, you shall only sign it, and I’ll frank it.”
Here the entrance of some new person stopped the discussion.
Happy in his success, he began, the next day, a new device: he made an attack in politics, and said, he did not doubt but Mr. Hastings would come to be hanged; though, he assured us, afterwards, he was firmly his friend, and believed no such thing.[236]
Even with this not satisfied, he next told her that he had just heard Mr. Burke was in Windsor. Mr. Burke is the name in the world most obnoxious, both for his Reform bill,[237] which deeply affected all the household, and for his prosecution of Mr. Hastings; she therefore declaimed against him very warmly.
“Should you like to know him, ma’am?” cried he. “Me?—No; not I.”
“Because, I dare say, ma’am, I have interest enough with him to procure you his acquaintance. Shall I bring him to the Lodge to see you?”
“When you please, sir, you might keep him to yourself!”
“Well, then, he shall come and dine with me, and after it drink tea with you.”
“No, no, not I! You might have him all to yourself.”
“But if he comes, you must make his tea.”
“There is no such ‘must,’ sir! I do it for my pleasure—only when I please, sir!”
At night, when we were separating, he whispered Miss Port that he had something else in store for the next meeting, when he intended to introduce magnetising.
MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’s FROGS.
July 2.—What a stare was drawn from our new equerry[238] by Major Price’s gravely asking Mrs. Schwellenberg, after the health of her frogs? She answered they were very well, and the major said, “You must know, Colonel Gwynn, Mrs. Schwellenberg keeps a pair of frogs.”
“Of frogs?—pray what do they feed upon?”
“Flies, sir,” she answered.
“And pray, ma’am, what food have they in winter?”
“Nothing other.”
The stare was now still wider.
“But I can make them croak when I will,” she added, “when I only go so to my snuff-box, knock, knock, knock, they croak all what I please." “Very pretty, indeed!” exclaimed Colonel Goldsworthy.
“I thought to have some spawn,” she continued; “but then Maria Carlton, what you call Lady Doncaster, came and frightened them; I was never so angry!”
“I am sorry for that,” cried the major, very seriously, “for else I should have begged a pair.”
“So you meant, ma’am, to have had a breed of them,” cried Colonel Goldsworthy; “a breed of young frogs? Vastly clever, indeed!”
Then followed a formal enumeration of their virtues and endearing little qualities, which made all laugh except the new equerry, who sat in perfect amaze.
Then, suddenly, she stopped short, and called out, “There! now I have told you all this, you might tell something to me. I have talked enoff; now you might amuse me.”
July 19.—In the afternoon, while I was working in Mrs. Schwellenberg’s room, Mr. Turbulent entered, to summon Miss Planta to the princesses; and, in the little while of executing that simple commission, he made such use of his very ungovernable and extraordinary eyes, that the moment he was gone, Mrs. Schwellenberg demanded “for what he looked so at me?”
I desired to know what she meant. “Why, like when he was so cordial with you? Been you acquainted?”
“O, yes!” cried I, “I spent three hours twice a-week upon the road with him and Miss Planta, all the winter; and three or four dinners and afternoons besides.”
“O that’s nothing! that’s no acquaintance at all. I have had people to me, to travel and to dine, fourteen and fifteen years, and yet they been never so cordial!”
This was too unanswerable for reply; but it determined me to try at some decided measure for restraining or changing looks and behaviour that excited such comments. And I thought my safest way would be fairly and frankly to tell him this very inquiry. It might put him upon his guard from such foolishness, without any more serious effort.
July 20.—This evening Mrs. Schwellenberg was not well, and sent to desire I would receive the gentlemen to tea, and make her apologies. I immediately summoned my lively, and lovely young companion, Miss Port, who hastens at every call with good-humoured delight. We had really a pleasant evening, though simply from the absence of spleen and jealousy, which seemed to renew and invigorate the spirits of all present: namely, General Budé, Signor del Campo, and Colonel Gwynn. They all stayed very late but when they made their exit, I dismissed my gay assistant and thought it incumbent on me to show myself upstairs; a reception was awaiting me!—so grim! But, what O heaven! how depressing, how cruel, to be fastened thus on an associate so exigeante, so tyrannical, and so ill-disposed!
I feared to blame the equerries for having detained me, as they were already so much out of favour. I only, therefore, mentioned M. del Campo, who, as a foreign minister, might be allowed so much civility as not to be left to himself: for I was openly reproachedthat I had not quitted them to hasten to her! Nothing, however, availed; and after vainly trying to appease her, I was obliged to go to my own room, to be in attendance for my royal summons.
July 21.—I resolved to be very meek and patient, as I do, now and then, when I am good, and to bear this hard trial of causeless offence without resentment; and, therefore, I went this afternoon as soon as I had dined, and sat and worked, and forced conversation, and did my best, but with very indifferent success; when, most perversely, who should be again announced-but Mr. Turbulent. As I believe the visit was not, just after those “cordial” looks, supposed to be solely for the lady of the apartment, his reception was no better than mine had been the preceding days! He did not, however, regard it, but began a talk, in which he made it his business to involve me, by perpetual reference to my opinion. This did not much conciliate matters; and his rebuffs, from time to time, were so little ceremonious, that nothing but the most confirmed contempt could have kept off an angry resentment. I could sometimes scarcely help laughing at his utterly careless returns to an imperious haughtiness, vainly meant to abash and distance him. I took the earliest moment in my power to quit the room and the reproach with which he looked at my exit, for leaving him to such a tête-à-tête, was quite risible. He knew he could not, in decency, run away immediately, to and he seemed ready to commit some desperate act for having drawn himself into such a difficulty. I am always rejoiced when his flights and follies bring their own punishment. MR. TURBULENT’S ANTICS.
July 25—Mr. Turbulent amused himself this morning with giving me yet another panic. He was ordered to attend the queen during her hair-dressing, as was Mr. de Luc. I remained in the room the queen conversed with us all three, as occasions arose, with the utmost complacency; but this person, instead of fixing there his sole attention, contrived, by standing behind her chair, and facing me, to address a language of signs to me the whole time, casting up his eyes, clasping his hands, and placing himself in various fine attitudes, and all with a humour so burlesque, that it was impossible to take it either ill or seriously. Indeed, when I am on the very point of the most alarmed displeasure with him, he always falls upon some such ridiculous devices of affected homage, that I grow ashamed of my anger, and hurry it over, lest he should perceive it, and attribute it to a misunderstanding he might think ridiculous in his turn.
How much should I have been discountenanced had her majesty turned about and perceived him!
SECTION 11. (1787-8.) COURT DUTIES: SOME VARIATIONS IN THEIR ROUTINE.
MEETING OF THE TWO PRINCES.
To-day, after a seven years’ absence, arrived the Duke of York. I saw him alight from his carriage, with an eagerness, a vivacity, that assured me of the affectionate joy with which he returned to his country and family. But the joy of his excellent father!-O, that there is no describing. It was the glee of the first youth—nay, of an ardent and innocent infancy,—so pure it seemed, so warm, so open, so unmixed! Softer joy was the queen’s—mild, equal, and touching while all the princesses were in one universal rapture.
To have the pleasure of seeing the royal family in this happy assemblage, I accompanied Miss Port on the Terrace. It was indeed an affecting sight to view the general content; but that of the king went to my very heart, so delighted he looked-so proud Of his son—so benevolently pleased that every one should witness his satisfaction. The Terrace was very full; all Windsor and its neighbourhood poured in upon it, to see the prince whose whole demeanour seemed promising to merit his flattering reception—gay yet grateful—modest, yet unembarrassed......
Early the next morning arrived the Prince of Wales, who had travelled all night from Brighthelmstone. The day was a day Of complete happiness to the whole of the royal family; the king was in one transport of delight, unceasing, invariable; and though the newly-arrived duke was its source and Support the kindness of his heart extended and expanded to his eldest’ born, whom he seemed ready again to take to his paternal breast; indeed, the whole world seemed endeared to him by the happiness he now felt in it.
Sunday, Aug. 5.—General Grenville brought in the duke this evening to the tea-room. I was very much pleased with his behaviour, which was modest, dignified, and easy. Might he but escape the contagion of surrounding examples, he seems promising of all his fond father expects and merits....
Kew, Aug. 7-The next day the now happy family had the delight of again seeing the two princes in its circle. They dined here; and the Princess Augusta, who came to Mrs. Schwellenberg’s room in the evening, on a message, said, “There never had been so happy a dinner since the world was created,” The king, In the evening, again drove out the queen and princesses. The Prince of Wales, seeing Mr. Smelt in our room (which, at Kew, is in the front of the house, as well as at Windsor), said he would come in and ask him how he did. Accordingly, in he came, and talked to Mr. Smelt for about a quarter of an hour; his subjects almost wholly his horses and his rides. He gave some account of his expedition to town to meet his brother. He was just preparing, at Brighton, to give a supper entertainment to Madame La Princesse de Lamballe,—when he perceived his courier. “I dare say,” he cried, “my brother’s come!” set off instantly to excuse himself to the princess, and arrived at Windsor by the time of early prayers, at eight o’clock the next morning.
“To-day, again,” he said, “I resolved to be in town to meet my brother; we determined to dine somewhere together, but had not settled where; so hither we came. When I went last to Brighton, I rode one hundred and thirty miles, and then danced at the ball. I am going back directly; but I shall ride to Windsor again for the birthday, and shall stay there till my brother’s, and then back on Friday. We are going now over the way: my brother wants to see the old mansion.”
The Prince of Wales’s house is exactly opposite to the Lodge
The duke then came in, and bowed to every one present, very attentively; and presently after, they went over the way, arm in arm; and thence returned to town.
I had a long and painful discourse afterwards with Mr. Smelt, deeply interested in these young princes, upon the many dangers awaiting the newly-arrived, who seemed alike unfitted and unsuspicious for encountering them. Mr. Smelt’s heart ached as if he had been their parent, and the regard springing from his early and long care of them seemed all revived in his hopes and fears of what might ensue from this reunion.
I rejoiced at the public reconciliation with the Prince of Wales, which had taken place during my illness, and which gave the greater reason for hope that there might not now be a division!
BUNBURY, THE CARICATURIST.
Windsor, Aug. 14.—-General Budé came in, with two strangers, whom he introduced to us by the names of Bunbury and Crawfurd. I was very curious to know if this was the Bunbury;[239] and I conjectured it could be no other. When Colonel Gwynn joined us, he proposed anew the introduction; but nothing passed to ascertain my surmise. The conversation was general And good-humoured, but without anything striking, or bespeaking character or genius. Almost the whole consisted of inquiries what to do, whither to go, and how to proceed; which, though natural and sensible for a new man, were undistinguished by any humour, or keenness of expression or manner.
Mr. Crawfurd spoke not a word. He is a very handsome young man, just appointed equerry to the Duke of York.
I whispered my inquiry to Colonel Gwynn as soon as I found an opportunity, and heard, “Yes,—’tis Harry Bunbury, sure enough!”
So now we may all be caricatured at his leisure! He is made another of the equerries to the Duke. A man with such a turn, and with talents so inimitable in displaying it, was rather a dangerous character to be brought within a Court!
Aug. 15.—My sole conversation this evening was with Mr. Bunbury, who drew a chair next mine, and chatted incessantly, with great good humour, and an avidity to discuss the subjects he started, which were all concerning plays and Players.
Presently the voice of the Duke of York was heard, calling aloud for Colonel Goldsworthy. Off he ran. Mr. Bunbury laughed, but declared he would not take the hint: “What,” cried he, “if I lose the beginning?[240]—I think I know it pretty well by heart’-’Why did I marry’ ‘“—And then he began to spout, and act, and rattle away, with all his might,-till the same voice called out “Bunbury!—you’ll be too late!”—And off he flew, leaving his tea untasted—so eager had he been in discourse.
MRS. SIDDONS PROVES DISAPPOINTING ON NEAR ACQUAINTANCE.
Wednesday, Aug. 15.—Mrs. Schwellenberg’s illness occasioned my attending the queen alone; and when my official business was ended, she graciously detained me, to read to me a new paper called “Olla Podrida,” which is now Publishing periodically. Nothing very bright—nothing very deficient.
In the afternoon, while I was drinking coffee with Mrs. Schwellenberg,—or, rather, looking at it, since I rarely, swallow any,—her majesty came Into the room, and soon after a little German discourse with Mrs. Schwellenberg told me Mrs. Siddons had been ordered to the Lodge, to read a play, and desired I would receive her in my room.
I felt a little queer in the office; I had only seen her twice or thrice, in large assemblies, at Miss Monckton’s, and at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, and never had been introduced to her, nor spoken with her. However, in this dead and tame life I now lead, such an interview was by no means undesirable.
I had just got to the bottom of the stairs, when she entered the passage gallery. I took her into the tea-room, and endeavoured to make amends for former distance and taciturnity, by an open and cheerful reception. I had heard from sundry people (in old days) that she wished to make the acquaintance; but I thought it then one of too conspicuous a sort for the quietness I had so much difficulty to preserve in my ever increasing connections. Here all was changed; I received her by the queen’s commands, and was perfectly well inclined to reap some pleasure from the meeting.
But, now that we came so near, I was much disappointed in my expectations. I know not if my dear Fredy has met with her in private, but I fancy approximation is not highly in her favour. I found her the heroine of a tragedy,—sublime, elevated, and solemn. In face and person truly noble and commanding; in manners quiet and stiff; in voice deep and dragging; and in conversation, formal, sententious, calm, and dry. I expected her to have been all that is interesting; the delicacy and sweetness with which she seizes every opportunity to strike and to captivate upon the stage had persuaded me that her mind was formed with that peculiar susceptibility which, in different modes, must give equal powers to attract and to delight in common life. But I was very much mistaken. As a stranger I must have admired her noble appearance and beautiful countenance, and have regretted that nothing in her conversation kept pace with their promise and, as a celebrated actress I had still only to do the same.
Whether fame and success have spoiled her, or whether she only possesses the skill of representing and embellishing materials with which she is furnished by others, I know not but still I remain disappointed.
She was scarcely seated, and a little general discourse begun, before she told me—at once—that “There was no part she had ever so much wished to act as that of Cecilia.”
I made some little acknowledgment, and hurried to ask when she had seen Sir Joshua Reynolds, Miss Palmer, and others with whom I knew her acquainted.
The play she was to read was “The Provoked Husband.” She appeared neither alarmed nor elated by her summons, but calmly to look upon it as a thing of course, from her celebrity.
I should very much have liked to have heard her read the play, but my dearest Mrs. Delany spent the whole evening with me, and I could therefore take no measures for finding out a convenient adjoining room. Mrs. Schwellenberg, I heard afterwards, was so accommodated, though not well enough for the tea-table.
MR. FAIRLY’S BEREAVEMENT.
Aug. 23.—At St. James’s I read in the newspapers a paragraph that touched me much for the very amiable Mr. Fairly: it was the death of his wife, which happened on the Duke of York’s birth-day, the 16th.[242] Mr. Fairly has devoted his whole time, strength, thoughts, and cares solely to nursing and attending her during a long and most painful illness which she sustained. They speak of her here as being amiable, but so cold and reserved, that she was little known, and by no means in equal favour with her husband, who stands, upon the whole the highest in general esteem and regard of any individual of the household. I find every mouth open to praise and pity, love and honour him.
TROUBLESOME MR. TURBULENT.
Upon returning to Kew, I had a scene for which I was little enough, indeed, prepared, though willing, and indeed, earnest to satisfy Mr. Turbulent, I wished him to make an alteration of behaviour. After hastily changing my dress, I went, as usual, to the parlour, to be ready for dinner; but found there no Mrs. Schwellenberg; she was again unwell; Miss Planta was not ready, and Mr. Turbulent was reading by himself.
Away he flung his book in a moment, and hastening to shut the door lest I should retreat, he rather charged than desired me to explain my late “chilling demeanour.”
Almost startled by his apparent entire ignorance of deserving it, I found an awkwardness I had not foreseen in making myself understood. I wished him rather to feel than be told the improprieties I meant to obviate and I did what was possible by half evasive, half expressive answers, to call back his own recollection and consciousness. In vain, however, was the attempt; he protested himself wholly innocent, and that he would rather make an end of his existence than give me offence.
He saw not these very protestations were again doing it, and he grew so vehement in his defence, and so reproachful in his accusation of unjust usage, that I was soon totally in a perplexity how to extricate myself from a difficulty I had regarded simply as his own. The moment he saw I grew embarrassed, he redoubled his challenges to know the cause of my “ill-treatment.” I assured him, then, I could never reckon silence ill-treatment.
“Yes,” he cried, “yes, from you it is ill-treatment, and it has given me the most serious uneasiness.”
“I am sorry,” I said, “for that, and did not mean it.”
“Not mean it?” cried be. “Could you imagine I should miss your conversation, your ease, your pleasantness, your gaiety, and take no notice of the loss?”
Then followed a most violent flow of compliments, ending with a fresh demand for an explanation, made with an energy that, to own the truth, once more quite frightened me. I endeavoured to appease him, by general promises of becoming more voluble and I quite languished to say to him the truth at once; that his sport, his spirit, and his society would all be acceptable to me, would he but divest them of that redundance of gallantry which rendered them offensive: but I could only think how to say this—I could not bring it out.
This promised volubility, though it softened him, he seemed to receive as a sort of acknowledgment that I owed him some reparation for the disturbance I had caused him. I stared enough at such an interpretation, which I could by no means allow; but no sooner did I disclaim it than all his violence was resumed, and he urged me to give in my charge against him with an impetuosity that almost made me tremble.
I made as little answer as possible, finding everything I said seemed but the more to inflame his violent spirit; but his emotion was such, and the cause so inadequate, and my uncertainty so unpleasant what to think of him altogether, that I was seized with sensations so nervous, I Could almost have cried. In the full torrent of his offended justification against my displeasure towards him, he perceived my increasing distress how to proceed, and, suddenly stopping, exclaimed in quite another tone, “Now, then, ma’am, I see your justice returning; you feel that you have used me very ill!”
To my great relief entered Miss Planta. He contrived to say, “Remember, you promise to explain all this.”
I made him no sort of answer, and though he frequently, in the course of the evening, repeated, “I depend upon your promise! I build upon a conference,” I sent his dependence and his building to Coventry, by not seeming to hear him.
I determined, however, to avoid all tête-à-têtes with him whatsoever, as much as was in my power. How very few people are fit for them, nobody living in trios and quartettos can imagine!
A CONCEITED PARSON.
Windsor.-Who should find me out now but Dr. Shepherd.[243] He is here as canon, and was in residence. He told me he had long wished to come, but had never been able to find the way of entrance before. He made me an immense length of visit, and related to me all the exploits of his life,-so far as they were prosperous. In no farce did a man ever more floridly open upon his own perfections. He assured me I should be delighted to know the whole of his life; it was equal to anything; and everything he had was got by his own address and ingenuity.
“I could tell the king,” cried he, “more than all the chapter. I want to talk to him, but he always gets out of my way; he does not know me; he takes me for a mere common person, like the rest of the canons here, and thinks of me no more than if I were only fit for the cassock;—a mere Scotch priest! Bless ‘em!—they know nothing about me. You have no conception what things I have done! And I want to tell ‘em all this;—It’s fitter for them to hear than what comes to their ears. What I want is for somebody to tell them what I am.”
They know it already, thought I.
Then, when he had exhausted this general panegyric, he descended to some few particulars; especially dilating upon his preaching, and applying to me for attesting its excellence.
“I shall make one sermon every year, precisely for you!” he cried; “I think I know what will please you. That on the creation last Sunday was just to your taste. You shall have such another next residence. I think I preach in the right tone—not too slow, like that poor wretch Grape, nor too fast like Davis and the rest of ‘em; but yet fast enough never to tire them. That’s just my idea of good preaching.”
Then he told me what excellent apartments he had here and how much he should like my opinion in fitting them up.
MR. TURBULENT BECOMES A NUISANCE.
Aug.30.—Mrs. Schwellenberg invited Mr. Turbulent to dinner, for she said he had a large correspondence, and might amuse her. He came early; and finding nobody in the eating-parlour, begged to wait in mine till Mrs. Schwellenberg came downstairs. This was the last thing I wished; but he required no answer, and instantly resumed the Kew discussion, entreating me to tell him what he had done. I desired him to desist—in vain, he affirmed I had promised him an explanation, and he had therefore a right to it.
“You fully mistook me, then,” cried I, “for I meant no such thing then; I mean no such thing now; and I never shall mean any such thing in future. Is this explicit? I think it best to tell you so at once, that you may expect nothing more, but give over the subject, and talk of something else. What is the news?”
“I’ll talk of nothing else!—it distracts me;—pray No, no, tell Me!—I call upon your good-nature!”
“I have none—about this!”
“Upon your goodness of heart!”
“‘Tis all hardness here!”
“I will cast myself at your feet,—I will kneel to you!” And he was preparing his immense person for prostration, when Goter[244] opened the door. Such an interruption to his heroics made me laugh heartily; nor could he help joining himself; though the moment she was gone he renewed his importunity with unabated earnestness.
“I remember,” he cried, “it was upon the Terrace you first shewed me this disdain; and there, too, you have shown it me repeatedly since, with public superciliousness.... You well know you have treated me ill,—you know and have acknowledged it!”
“And when?” cried I, amazed and provoked; “when did I do what could never be done?”
“At Kew, ma’am, you were full of concern—full of remorse for the treatment you had given me!—and you owned it!”
“Good heaven, Mr. Turbulent, what can induce you to say this?”
“Is it not true?”
“Not a word of it! You know it is not!”
“Indeed,” cried he, “I really and truly thought so—hoped so;—I believed you looked as if you felt your own ill-usage, and it gave to me a delight inexpressible!”
This was almost enough to bring back the very same supercilious Distance of which he complained; but, in dread of fresh explanations, I forbore to notice this flight, and only told him he might be perfectly satisfied, since I no longer Persevered in the taciturnity to which he objected.
“But how,” cried he, “do you give up, without deigning to assign one reason for It”?
“The greater the compliment!” cried I, laughing; “I give up to your request.”
“Yes, ma’am, upon my speaking,-but why did you keep Me so long in that painful suspense?" “Nay,” cried I, “could I well be quicker? Till you spoke could I know if you heeded it?”
“Ah, ma’am—is there no language but of words? Do you pretend to think there is no other?—Must I teach it you?—teach it to Miss Burney who speaks, who understands it so well?—who is never silent, and never can be silent?”
And then came his heroic old homage to the poor eyebrows vehemently finishing with, “Do you, can you affect to know no language but speech?”
“Not,” cried I, coolly, “without the trouble of more investigation than I had taken here.”
He called this “contempt,” and, exceedingly irritated, de sired me, once more, to explain, from beginning to end, how he had ever offended me.
“Mr. Turbulent,” cried I, “will you be satisfied if I tell you it shall all blow over?”
“Make me a vow, then, you will never more, never while you live, resume that proud taciturnity.”
“No, no,—certainly not; I never make vows; it is a rule with me to avoid them.”
“Give me, then, your promise,—your solemn promise,—at least I may claim that?”
“I have the same peculiarity about promises; I never make them.”
He was again beginning to storm, but again I assured him I would let the acquaintance take its old course, if he would but be appeased, and say no more; and, after difficulties innumerable, he at length gave up the point: but to this he was hastened, if not driven, by a summons to dinner.
DR. HERSCHEL AND HIS SISTER.
Sept.-Dr. Herschel is a delightful man; so unassuming with his great knowledge, so willing to dispense it to the ignorant, and so cheerful and easy in his general manners, that were he no genius it would be impossible not to remark him as a pleasing and sensible man. I was equally pleased with his sister, whom I had wished to see very much, for her great celebrity in her brother’s science. She is very little, very gentle, very modest, and very ingenious; and her manners are those of a person unhackneyed and unawed by the world, yet desirous to meet and to return its smiles. I love not the philosophy that braves it. This brother and sister seem gratified with its favour, at the same time that their own pursuit is all-sufficient to them without it.
I inquired of Miss Herschel if she was still comet-hunting, or content now with the moon? The brother answered that he had the charge of the moon, but he left to his sister to sweep the heavens for comets.
Their manner of working together is most ingenious and curious. While he makes his observations without-doors, he has a method of communicating them to his sister so immediately, that she can instantly commit them to paper, with the precise moment in which they are made. By this means he loses not a minute, when there is anything particularly worth observing, by writing it down, but can still proceed, yet still have his accounts and calculations exact. The methods he has contrived to facilitate this commerce I have not the terms to explain, though his simple manner of showing them made me, fully, at the time, comprehend them.
The night, unfortunately, was dark, and I could not see the moon with the famous new telescope. I mean not the great telescope through which I had taken a walk, for that is still incomplete, but another of uncommon powers. I saw Saturn, however, and his satellites, very distinctly, and their appearance was very beautiful.
GAY AND ENTERTAINING MR. BUNBURY.
Sept.-I saw a great deal of Mr. Bunbury in the course of this month, as he was in waiting upon the Duke of York, who spent great part of it at Windsor, to the inexpressible delight of his almost idolising father. Mr. Bunbury did not open upon me with that mildness and urbanity that might lead me to forget the strokes of his pencil, and power of his caricature: he early avowed a general disposition to laugh at, censure, or despise all around him. He began talking of everybody and everything about us, with the decisive freedom of a confirmed old intimacy.
“I am in disgrace here, already!” he cried almost exultingly.
“In disgrace?” I repeated.
“Yes,—for not riding out this morning!—I was asked—what Could I have better to do?—Ha! ha!”
The next time that I saw him after your departure from Windsor,[245] he talked a great deal of painting and painters, and then said, “The draftsman of whom I think the most highly of any in the world was in this room the other day, and I did not know it, and was not introduced to him!”
I immediately assured him I never held the honours of the room when its right mistress was in it, but that I would certainly have named them to each other had I known he desired it. “O, yes,”’ cried he, “of all things I wished to know him. He draws like the old masters. I have seen fragments in the style of many of the very best and first productions of the greatest artists of former times. He could deceive the most critical judge. I wish greatly for a sight of his works, and for the possession of one of them, to add to my collection, as I have something from almost everybody else and a small sketch of his I should esteem a greater curiosity than all the rest put together."[246]
Moved by the justness of’ this praise, I fetched him the sweet little cadeaux so lately left me by Mr. William’s kindness. He was very much pleased, and perhaps thought I might bestow them. O, no—not one stroke of that pencil could I relinquish!
Another evening he gave us the history, of his way of life at Brighthelmstone. He spoke highly of the duke, but with much satire of all else, and that incautiously, and evidently with an innate defiance of consequences, from a consciousness of secret powers to overawe their hurting him.
Notwithstanding the general reverence I pay to extraordinary talents, which lead me to think it even a species of impertinence to dwell upon small failings in their rare possessors, Mr. Bunbury did not gain my good-will. His serious manner is supercilious and haughty, and his easy conversation wants rectitude in its principles. For the rest, he is entertaining and gay, full of talk, sociable, willing to enjoy what is going forward, and ready to speak his opinion with perfect unreserve.
Plays and players seem his darling theme; he can rave about them from morning to night, and yet be ready to rave again when morning returns, He acts as he talks, spouts as he recollects, and seems to give his whole soul to dramatic feeling and expression. This is not, however, his only subject Love and romance are equally clear to his discourse, though they cannot be introduced with equal frequency. Upon these topics he loses himself wholly—he runs into rhapsodies that discredit him at once as a father, a husband, and a moral man. He asserts that love Is the first principle of life, and should take place of every other; holds all bonds and obligations as nugatory that would claim a preference; and advances such doctrines of exalted sensations in the tender passion as made me tremble while I heard them.
He adores Werter, and would scarce believe I had not read it—still less that I had begun It and left it off, from distaste at its evident tendency. I saw myself sink instantly in his estimation, though till this little avowal I had appeared to Stand in it very honourably.
THE PRINCE OF WALES AT WINDSOR AGAIN.
One evening, while I was sitting with Mrs. Delany, and her fair niece, when tea was over, and the gentlemen all withdrawn, the door was Opened, and a star entered, that I perceived presently to be the Prince of Wales. He was here to hunt with his royal father and brother. With great politeness he made me his first bow, and then advancing to Mrs. Delany, insisted, very considerately, on her sitting still, though he stood himself for half an hour—all the time he stayed. He entered into discourse very good-humouredly, and with much vivacity; described to her his villa at Brighthelmstone, told several anecdotes of adventures there, and seemed desirous to entertain both her and myself.....
NOV. 8.—At near one o’clock in the morning, while the wardrobe woman was pinning up the queen’s hair, there was a sudden rap-tap at the dressing-room door. Extremely surprised, I looked at the queen, to see what should be done; she did not speak. I had never heard such a sound before, for at the royal doors there Is always a peculiar kind of scratch used, instead of tapping. I heard it, however, again,—and the queen called out, “What is that?” I Was really startled, not conceiving who could take so strange a liberty as to come to the queen’s apartment without the announcing of a page and no page, I was very sure, would make such a noise. Again the sound was repeated, and more smartly. I grew quite alarmed, imagining some serious evil at hand—either regarding the king or some of the princesses. The queen, however, bid me open the door. I did—but what was MY surprise to see there a large man, in an immense wrapping great coat, buttoned up round his chin, so that he was almost hid between cape and hat!
I stood quite motionless for a moment—but he, as if also surprised, drew back; I felt quite sick with sudden terror—I really thought some ruffian had broke into the house, or a madman.
“Who is it?” cried the queen.
“I do not know, ma’am,” I answered.
“Who is it?” she called aloud; and then, taking off his hat, entered the Prince of Wales!
The queen laughed very much, so did I too, happy in this unexpected explanation.
He told her, eagerly, he merely came to inform her there were the most beautiful northern lights to be seen that could possibly be imagined, and begged her to come to the gallery windows.
FALSE RUMOURS OF MISS BURNEY’S RESIGNATION.
Wednesday, Sept. 14—We went to town for the drawing-room, and I caught a most severe cold, by being oblige to have the glass down on my side, to suit Mrs. Schwellenberg, though the sharpest wind blew in that ever attacked a poor phiz. However, these are the sort of desagremens I can always best bear; and for the rest, I have now pretty constant civility.
My dear father drank tea with me but told me of a paragraph in “The World,” that gave me some uneasiness; to this effect:—“We hear that Miss Burney has resigned her place about the queen, and is now promoted to attend the princesses, an office far more suited to her character and abilities, which will now be called forth as they merit.”—Or to that purpose. As “The World” is not taken in here, I flattered myself it would not be known; for I knew how little pleasure such a paragraph would give, and was very sorry for it.
The next day, at St. James’s, Miss Planta desired to speak to me, before the queen arrived. She acquainted me Of the same “news,” and said, “Everybody spoke of it;” and the queen might receive twenty letters of recommend, to my place before night. Still I could only be sorry. Another paragraph had now appeared, she told me, contradicting the first, and saying, “The resignation of Miss Burney is premature; it only arose from an idea of the service the education of the princesses might reap from her virtues and accomplishments.”
I was really concerned conscious how little gratified my royal mistress would be by the whole—and, presently, Miss Planta came to me again, and told me that the princesses had mentioned it! They never read any newspapers; but they had heard of it from the Duke of York. I observed the queen was most particularly gracious with me, softer, gentler, more complacent than ever; and, while dressing, she dismissed her wardrobe-woman, and, looking at me very steadfastly, said, “Miss Burney, do you ever read newspapers?”
“Sometimes,” I answered, “but not often: however. I believe I know what your majesty means!”
I could say no less; I was so sure of her meaning.
“Do you?” she cried.
“Yes, ma’am, and I have been very much hurt by it: that is, if your majesty means anything relative to myself?”
“I do!” she answered, still looking at me with earnestness. “My father, ma’am,” cried I, “told me of it last night, with a good deal of indignation.”
“I,” cried she, “did not see it myself: you know how little I read the newspapers.”
“Indeed,” cried I, “as it was in a paper not taken in here, I hoped it would quite have escaped your majesty.”
“.So it did: I only heard of it.”
I looked a little curious, and she kindly explained herself.
“When the Duke of York came yesterday to dinner, he said almost immediately, ‘Pray, ma’am, what has Miss Burney left You for?’ ‘Left me?’ ‘Yes, they say she’s gone; pray what’s the reason?’ ‘Gone?’ ‘Yes, it’s at full length in all the newspapers: is not she gone?’ ‘Not that I know of.’”
“All the newspapers” was undoubtedly a little flourish of the duke; but we jointly censured and lamented the unbridled liberty of the press, in thus inventing, contradicting, and bringing on and putting off, whatever they pleased.
I saw, however, she had really been staggered: she concluded, I fancy, that the paragraph arose from some latent Muse, which might end in matter of fact; for she talked to me of Mrs. Dickenson, and of all that related to her retreat, and dwelt upon the subject with a sort of solicitude that seemed apprehensive—if I may here use such a word-of a similar action. It appeared to me that she rather expected some further assurance on my part that no such view or intention had given rise to this pretended report; and therefore, when I had again the honour of her conversation alone, I renewed the subject, and mentioned that my father had had some thoughts of contradicting the paragraph himself.
“And has he done it?” cried she quite eagerly.
“No, ma’am; for, upon further consideration, he feared it might only excite fresh paragraphs, and that the whole would sooner die, if neglected.”
“So,” said she, “I have been told; for, some years ago, there was a paragraph in the papers I wanted myself to have had contradicted, but they acquainted me it was best to be patient, and it would be forgot the sooner.”
“This, however, ma’am, has been contradicted this morning.”
“By your father?” cried she, again speaking eagerly.
“No, ma’am; I know not by whom.”
She then asked how it was done. This was very distressing but I was forced to repeat It as well as I could, reddening enough, though omitting, you may believe, the worst.
Just then there happened an interruption; which was vexatious, as it prevented a concluding speech, disclaiming all thoughts of resignation, which I saw was really now become necessary for the queen’s satisfaction; and since it was true—why not say it? And, accordingly, the next day, when she was most excessively kind to me, I seized an opportunity, by attending her through the apartments to the breakfast-room, to beg, permission to speak to her. It was smilingly granted me.
“I have now, ma’am, read both the paragraphs.”
“Well?” with a look of much curiosity.
“And indeed I thought them both very impertinent. They say that the idea arose from a notion of my being promoted to a place about the princesses!”
“I have not seen either of the paragraphs,” she answered, “but the Prince of Wales told me of the second yesterday.”
“They little know me, ma’am,” I cried, “who think I should regard any other place as a promotion that removed me from your majesty.” “I did not take it ill, I assure you,” cried she, gently.
“Indeed, ma’am, I am far from having a wish for any such promotion—far from it! your majesty does not bestow a smile upon me that does not secure and confirm my attachment.”
One of her best smiles followed this, with a very condescending little bow, and the words, “You are very good,” uttered in a most gentle Voice; and she went on to her breakfast.
I am most glad this complete explanation passed. Indeed it is most true I would not willingly quit a place about the queen for any place; and I was glad to mark that her smiles were to me the whole estimate of its value.
This little matter has proved, in the end, very gratifying to me for it has made clear beyond all doubt her desire of retaining me, and a considerably increased degree of attention and complacency have most flatteringly shown a wish I should be retained by attachment.
TYRANNICAL MRS. SCHWELLENBERG.
Nov. 27-I had a terrible journey indeed to town, Mrs. Schwellenberg finding it expedient to have the glass down on my side, whence there blew in a sharp wind, which so painfully attacked my eyes that they were inflamed even before we-arrived in town.
Mr. de Luc and Miss Planta both looked uneasy, but no one durst speak; and for me, it was among the evils that I can always best bear yet before the evening I grew so ill that I could not propose going to Chelsea, lest I should be utterly unfitted for Thursday’s drawing-room.
The next day, however, I received a consolation that has been some ease to my mind ever since. My dear father spent the evening with me, and was so incensed at the state of my eyes, which were now as piteous to behold as to feel, and at the relation of their usage, that he charged me, another time, to draw up my ‘glass in defiance of all opposition, and to abide by all consequences, since my place was wholly immaterial when put in competition with my health.
I was truly glad of this permission to rebel, and it has given Me an internal hardiness in all similar assaults, that has at least relieved my mind from the terror of giving mortal offence where most I owe implicit obedience, should provocation overpower my capacity of forbearance.
When we assembled to return to Windsor, Mr. de Luc was in real consternation at sight of my eyes; and I saw an indignant glance at my coadjutrix, that could scarce content itself without being understood. Miss Planta ventured not at such a glance, but a whisper broke out, as we were descending the stairs, expressive of horror against the same poor person—poor person indeed—to exercise a power productive only of abhorrence, to those who view as well as to those who feel it!
Some business of Mrs. Schwellenberg’s occasioned a delay of the journey, and we all retreated back; and when I returned to my room, Miller, the old head housemaid, came to me, with a little neat tin saucepan in her hand, saying, “Pray, ma’am, use this for your eyes; ’tis milk and butter, much as I used to make for Madame Haggerdorn when she travelled in the winter with Mrs. Schwellenberg.”
Good heaven! I really shuddered when she added, that all that poor woman’s misfortunes with her eyes, which, from inflammation after inflammation, grew nearly blind, were attributed by herself to these journeys, in which she was forced to have the glass down at her side in all weathers, and frequently the glasses behind her also! Upon my word this account of my predecessor was the least exhilarating intelligence I could receive! Goter told me, afterwards, that all the servants in the house had remarked I was going just the same way!
Miss Planta presently ran into my room, to say she had hopes we should travel without this amiable being; and she had left me but a moment when Mrs. Stainforth succeeded her, exclaiming, “O, for heaven’s sake, don’t leave her behind; for heaven’s sake, Miss Burney, take her with you!”
‘Twas impossible not to laugh at these opposite’ interests, both, from agony of fear, breaking through all restraint. Soon after, however, we all assembled again, and got into the coach. Mr.’ de Luc, who was my vis-a-vis, instantly pulled up the glass.
“Put down that glass!” was the immediate order.
He affected not to hear her, and began conversing. She enraged quite tremendously, calling aloud to be obeyed without delay. He looked compassionately at me, and shrugged his shoulders, and said, “But, ma’am-”
“Do it, Mr. de Luc, when I tell you! I will have it! When you been too cold, you might bear it!”
“It is not for me, ma’am, but poor Miss Burney.”
“O, poor Miss Burney might bear it the same! put it down, Mr. de Luc! without, I will get out! put it down, when I tell you! It is my coach! I will have it selfs! I might go alone in it, or with one, or with what you call nobody, when I please!”
Frightened for good Mr. de Luc, and the more for being much obliged to him, I now interfered, and begged him to let down the glass. Very reluctantly he complied, and I leant back in the coach, and held up my muff to my eyes. What a journey ensued! To see that face when lighted up with fury is a sight for horror! I was glad to exclude it by my muff.
Miss Planta alone attempted to speak. I did not think it incumbent on me to “make the agreeable,” thus used; I was therefore wholly dumb: for not a word, not an apology, not one expression of being sorry for what I suffered, was uttered. The most horrible ill-humour, violence, and rudeness, were all that were shown. Mr. de Luc was too much provoked to take his usual method of passing all off by constant talk and as I had never seen him venture to appear provoked before, I felt a great obligation to his kindness. When we were about half way, we stopped to water the horses. He then again pulled up the glass, as if from absence. A voice of fury exclaimed, “Let it down! without I won’t go!”
“I am sure,” cried he, “all Mrs. de Luc’s plants will be killed by this frost For the frost was very severe indeed.”
Then he proposed my changing places with Miss Planta, who sat opposite Mrs. Schwellenberg, and consequently on the sheltered side. “Yes!” cried Mrs. Schwellenberg, “MISS Burney might sit there, and so she ought!”
I told her, briefly, I was always sick in riding backwards.
“O, ver well! when you don’t like it, don’t do it. You might bear it when you like it? what did the poor Haggerdorn bear it! when the blood was all running down from her eyes!”
This was too much! “I must take, then,” I cried, “the more warning!” After that I spoke not a word. I ruminated all the rest of the way upon my dear father’s recent charge and permission. I was upon the point continually of availing myself of both, but alas! I felt the deep disappointment I should give him, and I felt the most cruel repugnance to owe a resignation to a quarrel.
These reflections powerfully forbade the rebellion to which this unequalled arrogance and cruelty excited me; and after revolving them again and again, I accepted a bit of cake which she suddenly offered me as we reached Windsor, and determined, since I submitted to my monastic destiny from motives my serious thoughts deemed right, I would not be prompted to oppose it from mere feelings of resentment to one who, strictly, merited only contempt....
I gulped as well as I could at dinner; but all civil fits are again over. Not a word was said to me: yet I was really very ill all the afternoon; the cold had seized my elbows, from holding them up so long, and I was stiff and chilled all over.
In the evening, however, came my soothing Mrs. Delany. Sweet soul! she folded me in her arms, and wept over my shoulder! Too angry to stand upon ceremony she told Mrs. Schwellenberg, after our public tea, she must retire to my room, that she might speak with me alone. This was highly resented, and I was threatened, afterwards, that she would come to tea no more, and we might talk our secrets always.
Mr. de Luc called upon me next morning, and openly avowed his indignation, protesting it was an oppression he could not bear to see used, and reproving me for checking him when he would have run all risks. I thanked him most cordially; but assured him the worst of all inflammations to me was that of a quarrel, and I entreated him, therefore, not to interfere. But we have been cordial friends from that time forward.
Miss Planta also called, kindly bringing me some eye-water, and telling me she had “Never so longed to beat anybody in her life; and yet, I assure you,” she added, “everybody remarks that she behaves, altogether, better to you than to any body!”
O heavens!
MRS. SCHWELLENBERG’S CAPRICIOUSNESS.
Saturday, Dec. 1.—‘Tis strange that two feelings so very opposite as love and resentment should have nearly equal power in inspiring courage for or against the object that excites them yet so it is. In former times I have often, on various occasions, felt it raised to anything possible, by affection, and now I have found it mount to the boldest height, by disdain For, be it known, such gross and harsh usage I experienced at the end of last month, since the inflammation of the eyes which I bore much more composedly than sundry personal indignities that followed, that I resolved upon a new mode of conduct—namely, to go out every evening, in Order to show that I by no means considered myself as bound to stay at home after dinner, if treated very ill; and this most courageous plan I flattered myself must needs either procure me a liberty of absence, always so much wished, or occasion a change of behaviour to more decency and endurability. I had received for to-day an invitation to meet Lady Bute and Lady Louisa Stuart at my dearest Mrs. Delany’s, and I should have wished it at all times, so much I like them both. I had no opportunity to speak first to my royal mistress, but I went to her at noon, rather more dressed than usual, and when I saw her look a little surprised, I explained my reason. She seemed very well satisfied with it, but my coadjutrix appeared in an astonishment unequalled, and at dinner, when we necessarily met again, new testimonies of conduct quite without example were exhibited: for when Mrs. Thackeray and Miss Planta were helped, she helped herself, and appeared publicly to send me to Coventry—though the sole provocation was intending to forego her society this evening!
I sat quiet and unhelped a few minutes, considering what to do: for so little was my appetite, I was almost tempted to go without dinner entirely. However, upon further reflection, I concluded it would but harden her heart still more to have this fresh affront so borne, and so related, as it must have been, through Windsor, and therefore I calmly begged some greens from Miss Planta.
The weakness of my eyes, which still would not bear the light, prevented me from tasting animal food all this time.
A little ashamed, she then anticipated Miss Planta’s assistance, by offering me some French beans. To curb my own displeasure, I obliged myself to accept them. Unfortunately, however, this little softening was presently worn out, by some speeches which it encouraged from Mrs. Thackeray, who seemed to seize the moment of permission to acknowledge that I was in the room, by telling me she had lately met some of my friends in town, among whom Mrs. Chapone and the Burrows family had charged her with a thousand regrets for My Seclusion from their society, and as many kind compliments and good wishes.
This again sent me to Coventry for the rest of the dinner. When it was over, and we were all going upstairs to coffee, I spoke to Columb,[247] in passing, to have a chair for me at seven o’clock. “For what, then,” cried a stern voice behind me, “for what go you upstairs at all, when you don’t drink coffee?”
Did she imagine I should answer “For your society, ma’am”? No—I turned back quick as lightning, and only saying, “Very well, ma’am,” moved towards my own room.
Again a little ashamed of herself, she added, rather more civilly, “For what should you have that trouble?”
I simply repeated my “Very well, ma’am,” in a voice of, I believe, rather pique than calm acquiescence, and entered my own apartment, unable to enjoy this little release, however speedy to obtain it, from the various, the grievous emotions of my mind, that this was the person, use me how she might, with whom I must chiefly pass my time!
So unpleasant were the sensations that filled me, that I could recover no gaiety, even at the house of my beloved friend, though received there by her dear self, her beautiful niece, and Lady Bute and Lady Louisa, in the most flattering manner....
The behaviour of my coadjutrix continued in the same strain—really shocking to endure. I always began, at our first meeting, some little small speech, and constantly received so harsh a rebuff at the second word, that I then regularly seated myself by a table, at work, and remained wholly silent the rest of the day. I tried the experiment of making my escape; but I was fairly conquered from pursuing it. The constant black reception depressed me out of powers to exert for flight; and therefore I relinquished this plan, and only got off, as I could, to my own room, or remained dumb in hers.
To detail the circumstances of the tyranny and the grossierete I experienced at this time would be afflicting to my beloved friends, and oppressive to myself, I am fain, however, to confess they vanquished me. I found the restoration of some degree of decency quite necessary to my quiet, since such open and horrible ill-will from one daily in my sight even affrighted me: it pursued me in shocking visions even when I avoided her presence; and therefore I was content to put upon myself the great and cruel force of seeking to conciliate a person who had no complaint against me, but that she had given me an inflammation of the eyes, which had been witnessed and resented by her favourite Mr. de Luc. I rather believe that latter circumstance was what incensed her so inveterately. The next extraordinary step she took was one that promised me amends for all: she told me that there was no occasion we should continue together after coffee, unless by her invitation. I eagerly exclaimed that this seemed a most feasible way of producing some variety in our intercourse, and that I would adopt it most readily. She wanted instantly to call back her words: she had expected I should be alarmed, and solicit her leave to be buried-with her every evening! When she saw me so eager in acceptance, she looked mortified and disappointed; but I would not suffer her to retract, and I began, at once, to retire to my room the moment coffee was over.
This flight of the sublime, which, being her own, she could not resent, brought all round: for as she saw me every evening prepare to depart with the coffee, she constantly began, at that period, some civil discourse to detain me. I always suffered it to succeed, while civil, and when there was a failure, or a pause, I retired.
By this means I recovered such portion of quiet as is compatible with a situation like mine: for she soon returned entirely to such behaviour as preceded the offence of my eyes; and I obtained a little leisure at which she could not repine, as a caprice of her own bestowed it....
To finish, however, with respect to the présidente, I must now acquaint you that, as my eyes entirely grew-well, her incivility entirely wore off, and I became a far greater favourite than I had ever presumed to think myself till that time! I was obliged to give up my short-lived privilege of retirement, and live on as before, making only my two precious little visits to my beloved comforter and supporter, and to devote the rest of my wearisome time to her presence—better satisfied, however, since I now saw that open war made me wretched, even When a victor, beyond what any subjection could do that had peace for its terms.
This was not an unuseful discovery, for it has abated all propensity to experiment in shaking off a yoke which, however hard to bear, is so annexed to my place, that I must take one with the other, and endure them as I can.
My favour, now, was beyond the favour of all others; I was “good Miss Berner,” at every other word, and no one else was listened to if I would speak, and no one else was Accepted for a partner if I would play! I found no cause to Which I could attribute this change. I believe the whole mere Matter of caprice. New YEAR’s DAY.
Queen’s Lodge, Windsor, Tuesday, Jan. 1, 1788-I began the new year, as I ended the old one, by seizing the first moment it presented to my own disposal, for flying to Mrs. Delany, and begging her annual benediction. She bestowed it with the sweetest affection, and I spent, as usual all the time with her I had to spare....
In the evening, by long appointment, I was to receive Mr. Fisher and his bride.[248] Mrs. Schwellenberg, of her own accord desired me to have them in my room, and said she would herself make tea for the equerries in the eating-parlour. Mrs. Delany and Miss Port came to meet them. Mrs. Fisher seems good-natured, cheerful, and obliging, neither well nor ill in appearance, and, I fancy, not strongly marked in any way. But she adores Mr. Fisher, and has brought him a large fortune.
The Princess Amelia was brought by Mrs. Cheveley, to fetch Mrs. Delany to the queen. Mrs. Fisher was much delighted in seeing her royal highness, who, when in a grave humour, does ‘the honours of her rank with a seriousness extremely entertaining. She commands the company to sit down, holds out her little fat hand to be kissed, and makes a distant courtesy, with an air of complacency and encouragement that might suit any princess of five times her age.
I had much discourse, while the rest were engaged, with Mr. Fisher, about my ever-valued, ever-regretted Mrs. Thrale. Can I call her by another name, loving that name so long, so well, for her and her sake? He gave me concern by information that she is now publishing, not only the “Letters” of Dr. Johnson, but her own. How strange!
Jan. 4.—In the morning, Mrs. Schwellenberg presented me, from the queen, with a new year’s gift. It is plate, and very elegant. The queen, I find, makes presents to her whole household every year: more or less, according to some standard of their claims which she sets up, very properly, in her own mind.
CHATTY MR. BRYANT AGAIN.
Jan. 8.—I met Mr. Bryant, who came, by appointment to give me that pleasure. He was in very high spirits, full Of anecdote and amusement. He has as much good-humoured chit-chat and entertaining gossiping as if he had given no time to the classics and his studies, instead of having nearly devoted his life to them. One or two of his little anecdotes I will try to recollect.
In the year thirty-three of this century, and in his own memory, there was a cause brought before a judge, between two highwaymen, who had quarrelled about the division of their booty; and these men had the effrontery to bring their dispute to trial. “In the petition of the plaintiff,” said Mr. Bryant, “he asserted that he had been extremely ill-used by the defendant: that they had carried on a very advantageous trade together, upon Black-heath, Hounslow-heath, Bagshot-heath, and other places; that their business chiefly consisted in watches, wearing apparel, and trinkets of all sorts, as well as large concerns between them in cash; that they had agreed to an equitable partition of all profits, and that this agreement had been violated. So impudent a thing, the judge said, was never before brought out in a court, and so he refused to pass sentence in favour of either of them, and dismissed them from the court.”
Then he told us a great number of comic slip-slops, of the first Lord Baltimore, who made a constant misuse of one word for another: for instance, “I have been,” says he, “upon a little excoriation to see a ship lanced; and there is not a finer going vessel upon the face of God’s earth: you’ve no idiom how well it sailed.”
Having given us this elegant specimen of the language of one lord, he proceeded to give us one equally forcible of the understanding of another. The late Lord Plymouth, meeting in a country town with a puppet-show, was induced to see it; and, from the high entertainment he received through Punch, he determined to buy him, and accordingly asked his price, and paid it, and carried the puppet to his country-house, that he might be diverted with him at any odd hour. Mr. Bryant protests he met the same troop Just as the purchase had been made, and went himself to the puppet-show, which was exhibited senza punch!
Next he spoke upon the Mysteries, or origin of our theatrical entertainments, and repeated the plan and conduct Of several Of these strange compositions, in particular one he remembered which was called “Noah’s Ark,” and in which that patriarch and his sons, just previous to the Deluge, made it all their delight to speed themselves into the ark without Mrs. Noah, whom they wished to escape; but she surprised them just as they had embarked, and made so prodigious a racket against the door that, after a long and violent contention, she forced them to open it, and gained admission, having first content, them by being kept out till she was thoroughly wet to the skin. These most eccentric and unaccountable dramas filled up the chief of our conversation.
DR. JOHNSON’s LETTERS To MRS. THRALE DISCUSSED. Wednesday, Jan.
9.—To-day Mrs. Schwellenberg did me a real favour, and with real good nature; for she sent me the “Letters” of my poor lost friends, Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale,[249] which she knew me to be almost pining to procure. The book belongs to the Bishop of Carlisle, who lent it to Mr. Turbulent, from whom it was again lent to the queen, and so passed on to Mrs. Schwellenberg. It is still unpublished.
With what a sadness have I been reading!—what scenes in it revived!—what regrets renewed! These letters have not been more improperly published in the whole, than they are injudiciously displayed in their several parts. She has all—every word—and thinks that, perhaps, a justice to Dr. Johnson, which, in fact, is the greatest injury to his memory. The few she has selected of her own do her, indeed, much credit; she has discarded all that were trivial and merely local, and given only such as contain something instructive, amusing, or ingenious.
About four of the letters, however, of my ever-revered Dr. Johnson are truly worthy his exalted powers: one is upon death, in considering its approach as we are surrounded, or not by mourners; another, upon the sudden and premature loss of poor Mrs. Thrale’s darling and only son.[250]
Our name once occurs: how I started at its sight It is to mention the party that planned the first visit to our house: Miss Owen, Mr. Seward, Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and Dr. Johnson. How well shall we ever, my Susan, remember that morning!
I have had so many attacks upon her subject, that at last I fairly begged quarter,—and frankly owned to Mrs. Schwellenberg that I could not endure to speak any more upon the matter, endeavouring, at the same time, to explain to her my long and intimate connection with the family. Yet nothing I could say put a stop to “How can you defend her in this?—how can you justify her in that?”
“Alas! that I cannot defend her is precisely the reason I can so ill bear to speak of her.” How differently and how sweetly has the queen conducted herself—upon this occasion! Eager to see the “Letters,” she began reading them with the utmost avidity: a natural curiosity arose to be informed of several names and several particulars, which she knew I could satisfy; yet, when she perceived how tender a string she touched, she soon suppressed her inquiries, or only made them with so much gentleness towards the parties mentioned, that I could not be distressed in my answers; and even In a short time I found her questions made so favourable a disposition, that I began secretly to rejoice in them, as the means by which I reaped opportunity of clearing several points that had been darkened by calumny, and of softening others that had been viewed wholly through false lights.
Jan. 10.—When we were summoned to the tea-room I met Miss de Luc coming out. I asked if she did not stay tea? “O How can I,” cried she, in a voice of distress, “when already, as there is company here without me, Mrs. Schwellenberg has asked me what I came for?” I was quite shocked for her, and could only shrug in dismay and let her pass. When there is no one else she is courted to stay!
Mr. and Mrs. Fisher came soon after; and the Princesses Augusta and Amelia fetched away Mrs. Delany.
Soon after Colonel Wellbred came, ushering in Mr. Fairly and his young son, who is at Eton school. I had seen Mr. F. but once since his great and heavy loss, though now near half a year had elapsed. So great a personal alteration in a few months I have seldom seen: thin, haggard, worn with care, grief, and watching—his hair turned grey—white, rather, and some of his front teeth vanished. He seemed to have suffered, through his feelings, the depredations suffered by Others through age and time. His demeanour, upon this trying occasion, filled me with as much admiration as his countenance did with compassion: calm, composed, and gentle, he seemed bent on appearing not only resigned, but cheerful. I might even have supposed him verging on being happy, had not the havoc of grief on his face, and the tone of deep melancholy in his voice, assured me his Solitude was all sacred to his sorrows. Mr. Fisher was very sad himself, grieving at the death of Dr. Harley, Dean of Windsor and Bishop of Hereford. He began, however, talking to me of these “Letters,” and, with him, I could speak of them, and of their publisher, without reserve: but the moment they were named Mrs. Schwellenberg uttered such hard and harsh things, that I could not keep my seat and the less, because, knowing my strong friendship there in former days, I was sure it was meant I should be hurt, I attempted not to speak, well aware all defence is irritation, where an attack is made from ill-nature, not justice.
The gentle Mr. Fisher, sorry for the cause and the effect of this assault, tried vainly to turn it aside: what began with censure soon proceeded to invective; and at last, being really sick from crowding recollections of past scenes, where the person now thus vilified had been dear and precious to my very heart, I was forced, abruptly, to walk out of the room.
It was indifferent to me whether or not my retreat was noticed. I have never sought to disguise the warm friendship that once subsisted between Mrs. Thrale and myself, for I always hoped that, where it was known, reproach might be spared to a name I can never hear without a secret pang, even when simply mentioned. Oh, then, how severe a one is added, when its sound is accompanied by the hardest aspersions!
I returned when I could, and the subject was over. When all were gone Mrs. Schwellenberg said, “I have told it Mr. Fisher that he drove you out from the room, and he says he won’t not do it no more.”
She told me next—that in the second volume I also was mentioned. Where she may have heard this I cannot gather, but it has given me a sickness at heart inexpressible. It is not that I expect severity: for at the time of that correspondence—at all times, indeed, previous to the marriage with Piozzi, if Mrs. Thrale loved not F. B., where shall we find faith in words, or give credit to actions? But her present resentment, however unjustly incurred, of my constant disapprobation of her conduct, may prompt some note, or other mark, to point out her change of sentiments—but let me try to avoid such painful expectations; at least, not to dwell upon them.
O, little does she know how tenderly at this moment I could run again into her arms, so often opened to receive me with a cordiality I believed inalienable. And it was sincere then, I am satisfied: pride, resentment of disapprobation, and consciousness of unjustifiable proceedings—these have now changed her: but if we met, and she saw and believed my faithful regard, how would she again feel all her own return!
Well, what a dream am I making!
Jan. 11.—Upon this ever-interesting subject, I had to-day a very sweet scene with the queen. While Mrs. Schwellenberg and myself were both in our usual attendance at noon, her majesty inquired of Mrs. Schwellenberg if she had yet read any of the “Letters”?
“No,” she answered, “I have them not to read.”
I then said she had been so obliging as to lend them to me, to whom they were undoubtedly of far greater personal value.
“That is true,” said the queen; “for I think there is but little in them that can be of much consequence or value to the public at large.”
“Your majesty, you will hurt Miss Burney if you speak about that; poor Miss Burney will be quite hurt by that.”
The queen looked much surprised, and I hastily exclaimed, “O, no!—not with the gentleness her majesty names it.”
Mrs. Schwellenberg then spoke in German; and, I fancy, by the names she mentioned, recounted how Mr. Turbulent and Mr. Fisher had “driven me out of the room.”
The queen seemed extremely astonished, and I was truly vexed at this total misunderstanding; and that the goodness she has exerted upon this occasion should seem so little to have succeeded. But I could not explain, lest it should seem to reproach what was meant as kindness in Mrs. Schwellenberg, who had not yet discovered that it was not the subject, but her own manner of treating it, that was so painful to me.
However, the instant Mrs. Schwellenberg left the room, and we remained alone, the queen, approaching me in the softest manner, and looking earnestly in my face, said, “You could not be offended, surely, at what I said.”
“O no, ma’am,” cried I, deeply indeed penetrated by such unexpected condescension. “I have been longing to make a speech to your majesty upon this matter; and it was but yesterday that I entreated Mrs. Delany to make it for me, and to express to your majesty the very deep sense I feel of the lenity with which this Subject has been treated in my hearing.”
“Indeed,” cried she, with eyes strongly expressive of the complacency with which she heard me, “I have always spoke as little as possible upon this affair. I remember but twice that I have named it: once I said to the Bishop of Carlisle, that I thought most of these letters had better have been spared the printing; and once to Mr. Langton, at the Drawing-room, I said, ‘Your friend Dr. Johnson, sir, has had many friends busy to publish his books, and his memoirs, and his meditations, and his thoughts; but I think he wanted one friend more.’ ‘What for? ma’am,’ cried he; ‘A friend to suppress them,’ I answered. And, indeed, this is all I ever said about the business.”
A PAIR OF PARAGONS.
I was amply recompensed in spending an evening the most to my natural taste of any I have spent officially under the royal roof. How high Colonel Wellbred stands with me you know; Mr. Fairly, with equal gentleness, good breeding, and delicacy, adds a far more general turn for conversation, and seemed not only ready, but pleased, to open upon subjects of such serious import as were suited to his state of mind, and could not but be edifying, from a man of such high moral character, to all who heard him.
Life and death were the deep themes to which he led; and the little space between them, and the little value of that space were the subject of his comments. The unhappiness of man at least after the ardour of his first youth, and the near worthlessness of the world, seemed so deeply impressed on his mind, that no reflection appeared to be consolatory to it, save the necessary shortness of our mortal career....
“Indeed,” said he, “there is no time—I know of none—in which life is well worth having. The prospect before us is never such as to make it worth preserving, except from religious motives.”
I felt shocked and sorry. Has he never tasted happiness, who so deeply drinks of sorrow? He surprised me, and filled me, indeed, with equal wonder and pity. At a loss how to make an answer sufficiently general, I made none at all, but referred to Colonel Wellbred: perhaps he felt the same difficulty, for he said nothing; and Mr. Fairly then gathered an answer for himself, by saying, “Yes, it may, indeed, be attainable in the only actual as well as only right way to seek it,—that of doing good!”
“If,” cried Colonel Wellbred, afterwards, “I lived always in London, I should be as tired of life as you are: I always sicken of it there, if detained beyond a certain time." They then joined in a general censure of dissipated life, and a general distaste of dissipated characters, which seemed, however, to comprise almost all their acquaintance; and this presently occasioned Mr. Fairly to say,
“It is, however, but fair for you and me to own, Wellbred, that if people in general, are bad, we live chiefly amongst those who are the worst.”
Whether he meant any particular set to which they belong, or whether his reflection went against people in high life, such ‘as constitute their own relations and connexions in general, I cannot say, as he did not explain himself.
Mr. Fairly, besides the attention due to him from all, in consideration of his late loss, merited from me peculiar deference, in return for a mark I received of his disposition to think favourably of me from our first acquaintance: for not more was I surprised than pleased at his opening frankly upon the character of my coadjutrix, and telling me at once, that when first he saw me here, just before the Oxford expedition, he had sincerely felt for and pitied me....
Sunday, Jan. 13.—There is something in Colonel Wellbred so elegant, so equal, and so pleasing, it is impossible not to see him with approbation, and to speak of him with praise. But I found in Mr. Fairly a much greater depth of understanding, and all his sentiments seem formed upon the most perfect basis of religious morality.
During the evening, in talking over plays and players, we all three united warmly in panegyric of Mrs. Siddons; but when Mrs. Jordan was named, Mr. Fairly and myself were left to make the best of her. Observing the silence of Colonel Wellbred, we called upon him to explain it.
“I have seen her,” he answered, quietly, “but in one part.”
“Whatever it was,” cried Mr. Fairly, “it must have been well done.”
“Yes,” answered the colonel, “and so well that it seemed to be her real character: and I disliked her for that very reason, for it was a character that, off the stage or on, is equally distasteful to me—a hoyden.”
I had had a little of this feeling myself when I saw her in “The Romp,"[251] where she gave me, in the early part, a real disgust; but afterwards she displayed such uncommon humour that it brought me to pardon her assumed vulgarity, in favour of a representation of nature, which, In its particular class, seemed to me quite perfect. MR. TURBULENT’S SELF CONDEMNATION.
At the usual tea-time I sent Columb, to see if anybody had come upstairs. He brought me word the eating-parlour was empty. I determined to go thither at once, with my work, that there might be no pretence to fetch me when the party assembled; but upon opening the door I saw Mr. Turbulent there, and alone!
I entered with readiness into discourse with him, and showed a disposition to placid good-will, for with so irritable a spirit resentment has much less chance to do good than an appearance of not supposing it deserved. Our conversation was in the utmost gravity. He told me he was not happy, though owned he had everything to make him so; but he was firmly persuaded that happiness in this world was a real stranger. I combated this misanthropy in general terms; but he assured me that such was his unconquerable opinion of human life.
How differently did I feel when I heard an almost similar sentiment from Mr. Fairly! In him I imputed it to unhappiness of circumstances, and was filled with compassion for his fate: in this person I impute it to something blameable within, and I tried by all the arguments I could devise to give him better notions. For him, however, I soon felt pity, though not of the same composition: for he frankly said he was good enough to be happy-that he thought human frailty incompatible with happiness, and happiness with human frailty, and that he had no wish so strong as to turn monk!
I asked him if he thought a life of uselessness and of goodness the same thing?
“I need not be useless,” he said; “I might assist by my counsels. I might be good in a monastery—in the world I cannot! I am not master of my feelings: I am run away by passions too potent for control!”
This was a most unwelcome species of confidence, but I affected to treat it as mere talk, and answered it only slightly, telling him he spoke from the gloom of the moment.
“No,” he answered, “I have tried in vain to conquer them. I have made vows—resolutions—all in vain! I cannot keep them!”
“Is not weakness,” cried I, “sometimes fancied, merely to save the pain and trouble of exerting fortitude.”
“No, it is with me inevitable. I am not formed for success in self-conquest. I resolve—I repent—but I fall! I blame— reproach—I even hate myself—I do everything, in short, yet cannot save myself! Yet do not,” he continued, seeing me shrink, “think worse of me than I deserve: nothing of injustice, of ill-nature, of malignancy—I have nothing of these to reproach myself with.”
“I believe you,” I cried, “and surely, therefore, a general circumspection, an immediate watchfulness—-”