When these, and some more anecdotes which I do not so clearly remember, were told, the king left us, and went to Mr. Bernard Dewes. A pause ensuing, I, too, drew back, meaning to return to my original station, which, being opposite the fire, was never a bad one. But the moment I began retreating, the queen, bending forward, and speaking in a very low voice, said, “Miss Burney!”—and, upon my coming up to her, almost in a whisper, cried, “But shall we have no more—nothing more?”
I could not but understand her, and only shook my head. The queen then, as if she thought she had said too much, with great sweetness and condescension, drew back herself, and, very delicately, said,
“To be sure it is, I own, a very home question, for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”
I was quite ashamed of this apology, but did not know what to say to it. But how amiable a simplicity in her speaking of herself in such a style,—“for one who has not the pleasure to know you.”
“But, indeed,” continued she, presently, “I would not say it, only that I think from what has been done, there is a power to do so much good—and good to young people, which is so very good a thing—that I cannot help wishing it could be.”
I felt very grateful for this speech, and for the very soft manner in which she said it; and I very much wished to thank her and was trying to mutter something, though not very intelligibly, when the king suddenly coming up to us, inquired what was going forward.
The queen readily repeated her kind speech.
The king eagerly undertook to make my answer for me, crying, “O, but she will write!—she only waits for inclination—she told me so.” Then, speaking to me, he said, “What—is it not so?”
I only laughed a little; and he again said to the queen,
“She will write. She told me, just now, she had made no vow against It.”
“No, no,” cried the queen, “I hope not, indeed.”
“A vow!” cried dear Mrs. Delany, “no, indeed, I hope she would not be so wicked—she who can so do what she does!”
“But she has not,” said the king, earnestly; “she has owned that to me already.”
What excessive condescension, my dear padre!
“I only wish,” cried Mrs. Delany, “it could be as easily done, as it is earnestly and universally desired.”
“I doubt it not to be so desired,” said the queen.
I was quite ashamed of all this, and quite sorry to make no acknowledgment of their great condescension in pressing such subject, and pressing it so much in earnest. But I really could get out nothing, so that's the truth; and I wish I could give a better account of my eloquence, my dear padre and I cannot, however, in justice any more than in inclination, go on, till I stop to admire the sweetness of the queen, and the consideration of the king, in each making me a party in their general conversation, before they made any particular address to me.
They afterwards spoke of Mr. Webb, a Windsor musician, who is master to the young princesses, and who has a nose, from some strange calamity, of so enormous a size that it covers all the middle of his face. I never saw so frightful a deformity. Mrs. Delany told the queen I had met with him, accidentally, when he came to give a lesson to Miss Port, and had been quite startled by him.
“I dare say so,” said her majesty. “I must tell Miss Burney a little trait of Sophia, about Mr. Webb.”
A small table was before the queen, who always has it brought when she is seated, to put her tea or work upon, or, when she has neither, to look comfortable, I believe; for certainly it takes off much formality in a standing circle. And close to this, by the gracious motion of her head, she kept me.
“When first,” continued she, “Mr. Webb was to come to Sophia, I told her he had had some accident to disfigure his whole face, by making him an enormous nose; but I desired her to remember this was a misfortune, for which he ought to be pitied, and that she must be sure not to laugh at it, nor stare at it. And she minded this very well, and behaved always very properly. But, while Lady Cremorne was at the Lodge, she was with Sophia when Mr. Webb came to give her a lesson. As soon as he was named, she coloured very red, and ran up to Lady Cremorne, and said to her in a whisper, 'Lady Cremorne, Mr. Webb has got a very great nose, but that is only to be pitied—so mind you don't laugh.'”
This little princess is just nine years old!
The king joined us while the queen was telling this, and added, “Poor Mr. Webb was very much discountenanced when he first saw me, and tried to hide his nose, by a great nosegay, or I believe only a branch, which he held before it: but really that had so odd a look, that it was worse, and more ridiculous, than his nose. However, I hope he does not mind me, now, for I have seen him four or five times.”
The queen said, “He is a pretty little boy; and when he goes to school, it will do him good.”
“Where will she send him?” said the king.
The queen, looking at me, with a smile answered,
“To the school where Mr. Locke puts his sons. I know that!”
“And where is that?”
“Indeed I don't know; where is it, Miss Burney?”
“At Cheam, ma'am.”
“Oh, at young Gilpin's?” cried the king. “Is it near Mr. Locke's?”
“Yes, sir; within about six miles, I believe.”
The queen, then, with a little arch smile, that seemed to premise she should make me stare, said,
“It was there, at Mr. Locke's, your sister[196] laid in?”
“O yes, ma'am!” cried I, out of breath with surprise.
The king repeated my “O yes!” and said, “I fancy—by that O—you were frightened a little for her? What?”
I could not but assent to that; and the king, who seemed a good deal diverted at the accident—for he loves little babies too well to look upon it, as most people would, to be a shocking business—questioned me about it.
“How was it?” said he,—“how happened it? Could not she get home?”
“It was so sudden, sir, and so unexpected, there was no time.”
“I dare say,” said the sweet queen, “Mrs. Locke was only very happy to have it at her house.”
“Indeed, ma'am,” cried I, “her kindness, and Mr. Locke's would make anybody think so but they are all kindness and goodness.”
“I have heard indeed,” said the queen, “that they are all sensible, and amiable, and ingenuous, in that family.”
“They are indeed,” cried I, “and as exemplary as they are accomplished.”
“I have never seen Mrs. Locke,” said the king, “since she was that high;”—pointing to little Miss Dewes.
“And I,” said the queen “I have never seen her in my life; but for all that, from what I hear of her, I cannot help feeling interested whenever I only hear her name.”
This, with a good deal of animation, she said directly to me.
“Mr. William Locke, ma'am,” said Mrs. Delany, “I understand from Miss Burney, is now making the same wonderful progress in painting that he had done before in drawing.”
“I have seen some of his drawings,” said the queen, “which were charming.”
“How old is he?” cried the king.
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Eighteen!” repeated the king—“how time flies!”
“Oh! for me,” cried the queen, “I am always quarrelling with time! It is so short to do something, and so long to do nothing.”
She has now and then something foreign to our idiom, that has a very pretty effect.
“Time,” said the king, “always seems long when we are young, and short when we begin to grow old.”
“But nothing makes me so angry,” said the queen, “as to hear people not know what to do! For me, I never have half time enough to do things. But what makes me most angry still, is to see people go up to a window and say, 'what a bad day!—dear, what shall we do such a day as this?' 'What?' I say; 'why, employ yourselves; and then what signifies the bad day?'”
Afterwards, there was some talk upon sermons, and the queen wished the Bishop of Chester would publish another volume.
“No, no,” said the king, “you must not expect a man, while he continues preaching, to go on publishing. Every sermon printed, diminishes his stock for the pulpit.”
“Very true,” said the queen, “but I believe the Bishop of Chester has enough to spare.”
The king then praised Carr's sermons, and said he liked none but what were plain and unadorned.
“Nor I neither,” said the queen; “but for me, it is, I suppose, because the others I don't understand.”
The king then, looking at his watch, said, “It is eight o'clock, and if we don't go now, the children will be sent to the other house.”
“Yes, your majesty,” cried the queen, instantly rising.
Mrs. Delany put on her majesty's cloak, and she took a very kind leave of her. She then curtsied separately to us all, and the king handed her to the carriage.
It is the custom for everybody they speak to to attend them out, but they would not suffer Mrs. Delany to move. Miss Port, Mr. Dewes, and his little daughter, and myself, all accompanied them, and saw them in their coach, and received their last gracious nods.
When they were gone, Mrs. Delany confessed she had heard the king's knock at the door before she came into the drawing-room, but would not avow it, that I might not run away. Well! being over was so good a thing, that I could not but be content.
The queen, indeed, is a most charming woman. She appears to me full of sense and graciousness, mingled with delicacy of mind and liveliness of temper. She speaks English almost perfectly well, with great choice and copiousness of language, though now and then with foreign idiom, and frequently with a foreign accent. Her manners have an easy dignity, with a most engaging simplicity, and she has all that fine high breeding which the mind, not the station, gives, of carefully avoiding to distress those who converse with her, or studiously removing the embarrassment she cannot prevent.
The king, however he may have power, in the cabinet, to command himself, has, in private, the appearance of a character the most open and sincere. He speaks his opinions without reserve, and seems to trust them intuitively to his hearers, from a belief they will make no ill use of them. His countenance is full of inquiry, to gain information without asking it, probably from believing that to be the nearest road to truth. All I saw of both was the most perfect good humour, good spirits, ease, and pleasantness.
Their behaviour to each other speaks the most cordial confidence and happiness. The king seems to admire as much as he enjoys her conversation, and to covet her participation in everything he either sees or hears. The queen appears to feel the most grateful regard for him, and to make it her chief study to raise his consequence with others, by always marking that she considers herself, though queen to the nation, only to him, the first and most obedient of subjects. Indeed, in their different ways, and allowing for the difference of their characters, they left me equally charmed both with their behaviour to each other and to myself.
Monday, Dec. 19—In the evening, while Mrs. Delany, Miss Port, and I were sitting and working together in the drawing-room, the door was opened, and the king entered.
We all started up; Miss Port flew to her modest post by the door, and I to my more comfortable one opposite the fire, which caused me but a slight and gentle retreat, and Mrs. Delany he immediately commanded to take her own place again.
He was full of joy for the Princess Elizabeth. He had been to the lower Lodge, and found her in a sweet sleep, and she was now, he said, in a course of James's powders, from which he hoped her perfect restoration. I fear, however, it is still but precarious.
Mrs. Delany congratulated him, and then inquired after the whooping-cough. The children, he said, were better, and were going to Kew for some days, to change the air. He and the queen had been themselves, in the morning, to Kew, to see that their rooms were fit for their reception. He could not, he said, be easy to take any account but from his own eyes, when they were sick. He seems, indeed, one of the most tender fathers in the world.
I cannot pretend to write this meeting with the method and minuteness of the first; for that took me so long, that I have not time to spare for such another detail. Besides the novelty is now over, and I have not the same inducement to be so very circumstantial. But the principal parts of the conversation I will write, as I recollect.
Our party being so small, he made all that passed general; for though he principally addressed himself to Mrs. Delany, he always looked round to see that we heard him, and frequently referred to us.
I should mention, though, the etiquette always observed upon his entrance, which, first of all, is to fly off to distant quarters—and next, Miss Port goes out, walking backwards, for more candles, which she brings in, two at a time, and places upon the tables and pianoforte. Next she goes out for tea, which she then carries to his majesty, upon a large salver, containing sugar, cream, and bread and butter, and cake, while she hangs a napkin over her arm for his fingers.
When he has taken his tea, she returns to her station, where she waits till he has done, and then takes away his cup, and fetches more. This, it seems, is a ceremony performed in other places always by the mistress of the house; but here neither of their majesties will permit Mrs. Delany to attempt it.
Well; but to return. The king said he had just been looking over a new pamphlet, of Mr. Cumberland's, upon the character of Lord Sackville,
“I have been asking Sir George Baker,” he said, “if he had read it, and he told me, yes, but that he could not find out why Cumberland had written it. However, that, I think, I found out in the second page. For there he takes an opportunity to give a high character of himself.”
He then enlarged more upon the subject, very frankly declaring in what points he differed from Mr. Cumberland about Lord Sackville; but as I neither knew him, nor had read the pamphlet, I could not at all enter into the subject.
Mrs. Delany then mentioned something of Madame de Genlis,[197] upon which the king eagerly said to me,
“Oh, you saw her while she was here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And—did she speak English?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how?”
“Extremely well, sir; with very great facility.”
“Indeed? that always surprises me in a foreigner that has not lived here.”
Her accent is foreign, however; but her language is remarkably ready.
He then spoke of Voltaire, and talked a little of his works, concluding with this strong condemnation of their tendency:—
“I,” cried he, “think him a monster, I own it fairly.”
Nobody answered. Mrs. Delany did not quite hear him, and I knew too little of his works to have courage to say anything about them.
He next named Rousseau, whom he seemed to think of with more favour, though by no means with approbation, Here, too, I had read too little to talk at all, though his majesty frequently applied to me. Mrs. Delany told several anecdotes which had come to her immediate knowledge of him while he was in England, at which time he had spent some days with her brother, Mr. Granville, at Calwich. The king, too, told others, which had come to his own ears, all charging him with savage pride and insolent ingratitude.
Here, however, I ventured to interfere; for, as I knew he had had a pension from the king, I could not but wish his majesty should be informed he was grateful to him. And as you, my dear father, were my authority, I thought it but common justice to the memory of poor Rousseau to acquaint the king of his personal respect for him.
“Some gratitude, sir,” said I, “he was not without. When my father was in Paris, which was after Rousseau had been in England, he visited him in his garret, and the first thing he showed him was your majesty's portrait over his chimney.”
The king paused a little while upon this; but nothing more was said of Rousseau.
Some time afterwards, the king said he found by the newspapers, that Mrs. Clive[198] was dead.
Do you read the newspapers? thought I. O, king! you must then have the most unvexing temper in the world, not to run wild.
This led on to more players. He was sorry, he said, for Henderson,[199] and the more as Mrs. Siddons had wished to have him play at the same house with herself. Then Mrs. Siddons took her turn, and with the warmest praise.
“I am an enthusiast for her,” cried the king, “quite an enthusiast, I think there was never any player in my time so excellent—not Garrick himself—I own it!”
Then, coming close to me, who was silent, he said,—“What? what?”—meaning, what say you? But I still said nothing; I could not concur where I thought so differently, and to enter into an argument was quite impossible; for every little thing I said, the king listened to with an eagerness that made me always ashamed of its insignificancy. And, indeed, but for that I should have talked to him with much greater fluency, as well as ease.
From players he went to plays, and complained of the great want of good modern comedies, and of the extreme immorality of most of the old ones.
“And they pretend,” cried he, “to mend them; but it is not possible. Do you think it is?—what?”
“No, sir, not often, I believe;—the fault, commonly, lies in the very foundation.”
“Yes, or they might mend the mere speeches—but the characters are all bad from the beginning to the end.”
Then he specified several; but I had read none of them, and consequently could say nothing about the matter—till, at last, he came to Shakspeare.
“Was there ever,” cried he, “such stuff as great part of Shakspeare only one must not say so! But what think you?—What?—Is there not sad stuff? what?—what?”
“Yes, indeed, I think so, sir, though mixed with such excellences, that——”
“O!” cried he, laughing good-humouredly, “I know it is not to be said! but it's true. Only it's Shakspeare, and nobody dare abuse him.”
Then he enumerated many of the characters and parts of plays that he objected to—and when he had run them over, finished with again laughing, and exclaiming,
“But one should be stoned for saying so!”
“Madame de Genlis, sir,” said I, “had taken such an impression of the English theatre, that she told me she thought no woman ought to go to any of our comedies.”
This, which, indeed, is a very overstrained censure of our dramas, made him draw back, and vindicate the stage from a sentence so severe; which, however, she had pronounced to me, as if she looked upon it to be an opinion in which I should join as a thing past dispute.
The king approved such a denunciation no more than his little subject; and he vindicated the stage from so hard an aspersion, with a warmth not wholly free from indignation.
This led on to a good deal more dramatic criticism; but what was said was too little followed up to be remembered for writing. His majesty stayed near two hours, and then wished Mrs. Delany good night, and having given me a bow, shut the door himself, to prevent Mrs. Delany, or even me, from attending him out, and, with only Miss Port to wait upon him, put on his own great coat in the passage, and walked away to the lower Lodge, to see the Princess Elizabeth, without carriage or attendant. He is a pattern of modest, but manly superiority to rank. I should say more of this evening, and of the king, with whose unaffected conversation and unassuming port and manner I was charmed, but that I have another meeting to write,—a long, and, to me, very delightful private conference with the queen. It happened the very next morning.
“Miss Burney, have you heard that Boswell is going to publish a life of your friend Dr. Johnson?”
“No, ma'am.”
“I tell you as I heard. I don't know for the truth of it, and I can't tell what he will do. He is so extraordinary a man, that perhaps he will devise something extraordinary. What do you think of Madame de Genlis' last work?”
“I have not read it, ma'am.”
“Not read it?”
(I believe she knew my copy, which lay on the table.)
I said I had taken it to Norbury, and meant to read it with Mrs. Locke, but things then prevented.
“Oh! (looking pleased) have you read the last edition of her 'Adele?'”[200]
“No, ma'am.”
“Well, it is much improved; for the passage, you know, Mrs. Delany, of the untruth, is all altered—fifteen pages are quite new; and she has altered it very prettily. She has sent it to me. She always sends me her works; she did it a long while ago, when I did not know there was such a lady as Madame de Genlis. You have not seen 'Adele,' then?”
“No, ma'am.”
“You would like to see it. But I have it not here. Indeed, I think sometimes I have no books at all, for they are at Kew, or they are in town, and they are here; and I don't know which is which. Is Madame de Genlis about any new work?”
“Yes, ma'am—-one which she intends 'pour le peuple.'”
“Ah, that will be a good work. Have you heard of—” (mentioning some German book, of which I forget the name).
“No, ma'am.”
“O, it will be soon translated; very fine language,—very bad book. They translate all our worst! And they are so improved in language; they write so finely now, even for the most silly books, that it makes one read on, and one cannot help it. O, I am very angry sometimes at that! Do you like the 'Sorrows of Werter?'”
“I—I have not read it, ma'am, only in part.”
“No? Well, I don't know how it is translated, but it is very finely writ in German, and I can't bear it.”
“I am very happy to hear that, for what I did look over made me determine never to read it. It seemed only writ as a deliberate defence of suicide.”
“Yes; and what is worse, it is done by a bad man for revenge.”
She then mentioned, with praise, another book, saying,
“I wish I knew the translator.”
“I wish the translator knew that.”
“O—it is not—I should not like to give my name, for fear I have judged ill: I picked it up on a stall. O, it is amazing what good books there are on stalls.”
“It is amazing to me,” said Mrs. Delany, “to hear that.”
“Why, I don't pick them up myself; but I have a servant very clever; and if they are not to be had at the booksellers', they are not for me any more than for another.”
She then spoke of Klopstock's “Messiah,” saying it contained four lines most perfect on religion.
“How I should like to see it. Is it translated?” asked Mrs. Delany, turning to me.
“In it,” said her majesty: “there is a story of Lazarus and the Centurion's daughter; and another young lady, Asyddel, he calls her; and Lazarus is in love;—a very pretty scene—no stopping;—but it is out of place;—I was quite angry to read it. And a long conversation between Christ and Lazarus—very strange!”
“Yet Milton does that.”
“Yes.”
And then she went on discussing Milton; this led to Wickliffe and Cranmer; and she spoke of the Roman Catholic superstitions.
“O, so odd! Can it signify to God Almighty if I eat a piece of fish or a piece of meat? And one of the Queen of France's sisters wears the heel of her shoe before for a penance; as if God Almighty could care for that!”
“It is supposing in Him the caprice of a fine lady.”
“Yes, just so. Yet it is amusing, and pretty too, how sincere the lower people are, of the Catholics. I was with my mother at—a Catholic town, and there was a lady we knew, had a very bad tooth-ache; she suffered night and day, and we were very sorry. But, over the river there was a Virgin Mary of great fame for miracles, and, one morning, when I wanted to get up, our maid did not come, and nobody knew where she was, and she could not be found. At last she came back with a large bouquet, which she had carried over the river in the night and got it blessed, and gave it to the lady to cure her tooth-ache. But we have Protestant nunneries in Germany. I belonged to one which was under the Imperial protection; there is one for royal families—one for the noblesse,—the candidates' coats of arms are put up several weeks to be examined, and if any flaw is found, they are not elected. These nunneries are intended for young ladies of little fortunes and high birth. There is great licence in them. They have balls, not at home, but next door; and there is no restriction but to go to prayers at eight, at nine, and at night,—that is very little, you know,—and wear black or white, The dress consists of three caps, one over the forehead, one for the back, one up high, and one lower, for the veil; very pretty; and the gown is a vest, and the skirt has I don't know how many hundred plaits. I had the cross and order, but I believe I gave it away when I came to England—for you may transfer; so I gave it to the Countess of a friend of mine.”
I could not help saying, how glad we all were that she was no nun!
“Once,” she continued, “I wanted to go to a chapel in that Catholic town, and my mother said I should go if I would be sure not to laugh at anything; and I promised I would not; so, I took care to keep my eyes half shut, half open, thus, for fear I should see something to make me laugh, for my mother told me I should not come out all day if I laughed. But there was nothing ridiculous.”
My dearest Hetty,
I am sorry I could not more immediately write; but I really have not had a moment since your last.
Now I know what you next want is, to hear accounts of kings, queens, and such royal personages. O ho! do you so? Well.
Shall I tell you a few matters of fact?—or, had you rather a few matters of etiquette? Oh, matters of etiquette, you cry! for matters of fact are short and stupid, and anybody can tell, and everybody is tired with them.
Very well, take your own choice.
To begin, then, with the beginning.
You know I told you, in my last, my various difficulties, what sort of preferment to turn my thoughts to, and concluded with just starting a young budding notion of decision, by suggesting that a handsome pension for nothing at all would be as well as working night and day for a salary.
This blossom of an idea, the more I dwelt upon, the more I liked. Thinking served it for a hothouse, and it came out into full blow as I ruminated upon my pillow. Delighted that thus all my contradictory and wayward fancies were overcome, and my mind was peaceably settled what to wish and to demand, I gave over all further meditation upon choice of elevation, and had nothing more to do but to make my election known.
My next business, therefore, was to be presented. This could be no difficulty; my coming hither had been their own desire, and they had earnestly pressed its execution. I had only to prepare myself for the rencounter.
You would never believe—you, who, distant from Courts and courtiers, know nothing of their ways—the many things to be studied, for appearing with a proper propriety before crowned heads. Heads without crowns are quite other sort of rotundas.
Now, then, to the etiquette. I inquired into every particular, that no error might be committed. And as there is no saying what may happen in this mortal life, I shall give you those instructions I have received myself, that, should you find yourself in the royal presence, you may know how to comport yourself.
In the first place, you must not cough. If you find a cough tickling in your throat, you must arrest it from making any sound; if you find yourself choking with the forbearance, you must choke—but not cough.
In the second place, you must not sneeze. If you have a vehement cold, you must take no notice of it; if your nose membranes feel a great irritation, you must hold your breath; if a sneeze still insists upon making its way, you must oppose it, by keeping your teeth grinding together; if the violence of the repulse breaks some blood-vessel, you must break the blood-vessel—but not sneeze.
In the third place, you must not, upon any account, stir either hand or foot. If, by chance, a black pin runs into your head, you must not take it out. If the pain is very great, you must be sure to bear it without wincing; if it brings the tears into your eyes, you must not wipe them off; if they give you a tingling by running down your cheeks, you must look as if nothing was the matter. If the blood should gush from your head by means of the black pin, you must let it gush; if you are uneasy to think of making such a blurred appearance, you must be uneasy, but you must say nothing about it. If, however, the agony is very great, you may, privately, bite the inside of your cheek, or of your lips, for a little relief; taking care, meanwhile, to do it so cautiously as to make no apparent dent outwardly. And, with that precaution, if you even gnaw a piece out, it will not be minded, only be sure either to swallow it, or commit it to a corner of the inside of your mouth till they are gone—for you must not spit.
I have many other directions but no more paper; I will endeavour, however, to have them ready for you in time. Perhaps, meanwhile, you would be glad to know if I have myself had opportunity to put in practice these receipts?
Sunday, May 21, 1786.—I have now quite a new business to write upon. Late on Saturday night news reached my father of the death of the worthy Mr. Stanley, who has been long in a declining state of health. His place of master of the king's band my dear father had been promised formerly.
Now he was once more to apply for it; and early on Sunday morning he went to Mr. Smelt, to beg his advice what way to proceed.
Just as I was at the door, and going to church, my father returned, and desired me to come back, as he had something to communicate to me. Mr. Smelt, he then told me, had counselled him to go instantly to Windsor, not to address the king, but to be seen by him. “Take your daughter,” he said, “in your hand, and walk upon the Terrace. The king's seeing you at this time he will understand, and he is more likely to be touched by a hint of that delicate sort than by any direct application.”
My father determined implicitly to follow this advice. But let me not omit a singular little circumstance, which much enlivened and encouraged our expedition. While I was changing my dress for the journey, I received a letter from Miss Port, which was sent by a private hand, and ought to have arrived sooner, and which pressed my visit to my dear Mrs. Delany very warmly, and told me it was by the queen's express wish. This gave me great spirits for my dear father's enterprise, and I was able to help him on the road, from so favourable a symptom.
When we got to Windsor, my father saw me safe to Mrs. Delany's, and then went himself to Dr. Lind's. With what joy did I fly into the dear, open arms of this most venerable of women! Her reception had all the warm liveliness of pleasant surprise, added to its unfailing kindness.
Miss Port, with her usual partiality, was in high glee from the surprise. I dined and drank tea with them. Mrs. Delany related to me the most flattering speech made to her by the queen, about my coming to her as “the friend best suited to solace her in her disturbances,” and assured me she had quite interested herself in pressing Mrs. Delany to hasten me.
'Tis very extraordinary what a gracious disposition towards me this sweet queen always manifests, and what peculiar elegance there is in the expressions she makes use of in my favour. They were now particularly well-timed, and gave me most pleasant hopes for my dear father. He came to tea at Mrs. Delany's, and, at the proper hour, went to the Terrace, with the good-natured Dr. Lind, who is always ready to oblige. I waited to go with a female party, which was arranged for me by Mrs. Delany, and soon followed.
All the royal family were already on the Terrace before we arrived. The king and queen, and the Prince of Mecklenburg, and her majesty's mother—walked together. Next them the princesses and their ladies, and the young princesses, making a very gay and pleasing procession, of one of the finest families in the world. Every way they moved, the crowd retired to stand up against the wall as they passed, and then closed in to follow. When they approached towards us, and we were retreating, Lady Louisa Clayton placed me next herself, making her daughters stand below—a politeness and attention without which I had certainly not been seen; for the moment their majesties advanced, I involuntarily looked down, and drew my hat over my face. I could not endure to stare at them, and, full of our real errand, I felt ashamed, even of being seen by them. The very idea of a design, however far from illaudable is always distressing and uncomfortable. Consequently, I should have stood in the herd, and unregarded; but Lady Louisa's kindness and good breeding put me in a place too conspicuous to pass unnoticed. The moment the queen had spoken to her, which she stopped to do as soon as she came up to her, she inquired, in a whisper, who was with her; as I know by hearing my own name given for the answer. The queen then instantly stepped nearer me, and asked me how I did; and then the king came forward, and, as soon as he had repeated the same question, said, “Are you come to stay?”
“No, sir, not now.”
“No; but how long shall you stay?”
“I go to-night, sir.”
“I was sure,” cried the queen, “she was not come to stay, by seeing her father.”
I was glad by this to know my father had been observed.
“And when did you come?” cried the king.
“About two hours ago, sir.”
“And when do you return again to Windsor?”
“Very soon, I hope, sir.”
“And—and—and—” cried he, half laughing, and hesitating, significantly, “pray, how goes on the Muse?”
At first I only laughed, too; but he repeated the inquiry, and then I answered, “Not at all, sir.”
“No? But why?—why not?”
“I—I—I am afraid sir,” stammered I, and true enough, I am sure.
“And why?” repeated he, “of what?”
I spoke something,—I hardly know what myself,—so indistinctly, that he could not hear me, though he had put his head quite under my hat, from the beginning of the little conference and, after another such question or two, and no greater satisfaction in the answer, he smiled very good humouredly, and walked on, his charming queen by his side. His condescension confuses, though it delights me.
We stayed some time longer on the Terrace, and my poor father occasionally joined me; but he looked so conscious and depressed, that it pained me to see him. There is nothing that I know so very dejecting, as solicitation. I am sure I could never, I believe, go through a task of that sort. My dear father was not spoken to, though he had a bow every time the king passed him, and a curtsey from the queen. But it hurt him, and he thought it a very bad prognostic; and all there was at all to build upon was the graciousness shewn to me, which, indeed, in the manner I was accosted, was very flattering, and, except to high rank, I am told, very rare.
We stayed but a very short time with my sweet Mrs. Delany, whose best wishes you are sure were ours. I told her our plan, and our full conviction that she could not assist in it; as the obligations she herself owes are so great and so weighty, that any request from her would be encroaching and improper.
We did not get home till past eleven o'clock. We were then informed that Lord Brudenel had called to say Mr. Parsons had a promise of the place from the lord chamberlain. This was not very exhilarating.